Mârius had been asleep for a while. He had turned on his side facing me, and I could hear him breathing rhythmically. I was suddenly full of regret. I struggled to compose myself, but I couldn’t hold back the tears. I wept silently, the tears gushing out. From time to time I felt one dropping on the pillow. “What’s the matter?” How I wished I could simply have disappeared. Mârius pulled me toward him and held me. “It’s only nerves, only nerves.” He ran his hand through my hair and kissed me on the forehead. I was on the point of confessing what I’d done, telling him how distressed I was, asking him for the love of God to tear up the letters, throw away the briefcase that disturbed my rest. The mere sight of it upset me. He went back to sleep, but I lay awake all night. I finally dozed off in the morning. Mârius had already left when Elvira brought my breakfast. I couldn’t eat a thing. My mouth had a bitter taste, my tongue felt thick. I took one sip of coffee and got dressed. Why couldn’t I read the letters at home? I don’t know. Once I was dressed, I collected them, placed them at the bottom of my purse, and left the house.
Few people were on the street, but I felt like they were all observing me, could see the three stolen letters at the bottom of my purse. Somehow I found myself at a metro station; I don’t remember how I arrived there, but it seemed like a good place to read the letters. Who would take note of me seated on a bench with the hustle and bustle of trains and people? Then I caught sight of Roger approaching. I don’t know what expression of panic my face must have reflected; all I know is that his was filled with anxiety.
“Are you ill?”
“No, but I’ve been terribly nervous for some time now and I can’t sleep.”
He smiled benevolently.
“I can see that I need to pay you a visit.”
“Any time you wish.”
His presence calmed me, and I was sorry for him to leave.
“You’re not getting on the train?”
“No. I’m waiting for a friend.”
He waved to me through the window, and I continued sitting on the bench, not daring to open my purse.
When I emerged from the metro, I had the impression of arriving in a big city for the first time. The houses, the light, the sky, nothing was familiar. I felt the way a convalescent must feel after a long illness. I strolled about like an automaton. Instinctively I entered a café, as I had done in my student days. I sat down, removed the letters from my purse, and began reading them, as if the contents were completely irrelevant to me. The first read:
Dearest,
I can still imagine you at the station, I can hear your voice. You should not have come. I am obsessed by our parting, and a terrible sadness consumes me because we will never again live as we have during this time. Such brief happiness. Write to me, above all, write to me. If I had to be punished, the greatest punishment would be never to receive any news of you. Write to me in care of Eliana Porta, at her address. She is completely trustworthy. (Her address followed). I will never forget the months we have lived together. Remember this always: “I will never forget.” Elisa.
The second letter was longer and sadder.
Amor meu: life is so painful that I do not know when I will ever again find a moment of joy. I have given a lot of thought to what you propose, but it is not possible. I cannot ruin the life of a man who has placed all his trust in me. I cannot. Even yesterday, after a terrible night, I got up, determined to explain the situation. I couldn’t. Perhaps because I am weak, amor meu. It is too complicated to explain why we will be spending time in X. Nothing could hurt me as much. Eliana is coming with us. Write to me under her name as soon as you can. An occasional letter from you will comfort me in a way that no one, perhaps not even you, can imagine.
I realize the risk involved, but if you could come. . Just once. Do you recall the Hotel de Llevant, where we first loved each other, where we met? “Are you staying at the hotel?” “No, I live in a house on Avinguda de les Acàcies. I am meeting a friend, a woman who is staying here, in room number 10.” “Be careful not to speak poorly of me to your friend; I am in number 12.” Do you remember room 10, the balcony over the garden with the climbing jasmine, the sea?
I didn’t finish reading it. I wanted to see the other one, from the end of the packet, which I assumed would provide the most information, the most insight into that morsel of life from which I was barred. It was last letter of the story.
Amor meu, now we will not even have the consolation of writing to each other. Eliana is going away with her family for a while, but she is uncertain for how long. We will be left without even the comfort of seeing the familiar handwriting, only a shared past, fragmentary memories, a few sweet hours that slowly fade. You are free. If you despair, think of me, of my sacrifice, and remember that I suffer as much as you. Above all, remember that you have been, and will be, my only love. Elisa.
It was lunchtime and people had stopped work; the café had gradually filled by the time I left. It was late when I arrived home, and Mârius was waiting for me. He was concerned, had not wanted to eat without me. When he caught sight of me, he asked if I was ill. Could he have realized the three letters were missing? I could not be sure, and if he had realized, he dissimulated so well that he will never know how grateful I was. Yes, I was ill. Roger came that evening.
“I ran into your wife this morning and told her I would stop by to pay a visit.”
He prescribed a tranquilizer and recommended complete rest. I remained at home for a week, moving between my bed and the library. Before he left each day, Mârius would come to ask me how I was feeling. Sometimes he brought me flowers and magazines; his attentiveness was touching. As soon as I heard the front door close, I would remove the letters from my purse. Why had I not sought a different hiding place? I read and reread them. I knew them by heart. I am convinced that the days of “complete rest” were terrible for me. I tortured myself thinking about the woman that Mârius had loved. That he continued to love. That he loved. If he didn’t, why would he keep the letters, never letting them out of his sight? I was ravaged by an unbearable sense of inferiority. I felt as insignificant as a speck of dust. Why had he married me? Out of spite? Why was he lonely? What was I doing there, weary and heavyhearted? What was it that bound me to the four walls that surrounded me? Soon I began to live with a single obsession: meeting that woman, knowing what color her hair was, her eyes. What if it wasn’t over? And if there were more letters? When Elvira entered the room, she seemed like a jailer, and I was sure that from deep within her small, steely eyes she could see my truth and was glad.
The first day I left the house, I felt strong and young. Oh, yes. I would win. But it was essential that I meet her in order to know what weapon to choose. Strolling through the crowds, surrounded by noise, the brightness of the radiant day, I realized that I loved my husband deeply. I hailed a taxi and gave Eliana’s address. During the days I was shut in the house I had planned what I would do. Surely Eliana had not disappeared for good. The letter said she “was going away with her family for a while, but she is uncertain for how long.” As I crossed the threshold of the building, my hands were as icy as the day I read the letters in the café, when I was overwhelmed by a sense of absence, of not being the one in control and making the decisions, feeling that I was someone else obeying orders given by myself. I walked up the stairs to the second floor. My icy hands began to sweat. I rang the bell. A large woman opened the door with a smile. “Senyoreta Eliana?” “Sorry, try ringing the apartment next door, maybe the neighbors who moved in when she left can help you.” If the kindhearted woman, full of consideration, had not stood in the door, waiting for me to ring, I would have rushed down the stairs breathlessly. But I rang. A girl, about eleven, opened the door. She had plaid ribbons around her braids and a vivacious face filled with curiosity. “Senyoreta Eliana?” She didn’t seem to understand. “I mean, the senyoreta who used to live in this apartment. Would you happen to know where she is now? Did she leave her address?” The girl ran inside, calling, “Mamà, Mamà.” A moment passed. The neighbor was still standing at her door. Soon I heard voices from the back of the apartment and steps approaching. A youngish woman appeared, in a bathrobe, a jar of face cream in her hand. As she talked, she continued to plunge two fingers in the cream, spreading it on her face with circular movements. “Looking for Eliana? Yes, she left us her address in case there was a message; you see, the concierge didn’t much care for her. But she moved such a long time ago that I’m afraid I’ve lost it. You know how it is with children. In any event, check with the concierge; maybe she’ll be nice to you. I’m sure she has it.” She closed the door with a “Come along, girl.” The two women and the girl disappeared as if they had been sucked inside.