As we have seen, whatever then happened there — and without doubt it had happened, as we’ll see — the young Bride returned punctually, more or less cleaned up, her hair properly combed, her skin clear, and her walk graceful. She had returned from far away to take what was due her, and, as far as she knew, nothing would prevent her from appearing on time, her heart intact, to collect the joy that she had been promised.
By all accounts, it would happen before the vacation.
Modesto.
Yes?
That business of the books.
Yes?
Can we talk about it for a moment?
If you wish. But not here.
They were in the kitchen and Modesto had a slightly rigid idea of the purpose of every space in that house. In the kitchen you cooked.
If you’d like to come with me, I was just going to pick some herbs in the garden, he said.
The garden, for example, was a proper place for talking.
The day was luminous; it bore no trace of the thick haze that, in that season, generally afflicted eyes and moods. They stopped beside the row of herbs, in the limited shade of a lilac.
I wondered if there might be a dispensation, said the young Bride.
Meaning?
I’d like permission to read. To have books. Not to be forced to read them in the bathroom.
You read them in the bathroom?
Can you suggest other places?
Modesto was silent for a moment.
Is it so important to you?
It is. I grew up in a family of farmers.
A noble occupation.
Maybe, but that’s not the point.
No?
I went to school for a short time at the nuns’ and that was it. You know why I’m not completely ignorant?
Because you read some books.
Exactly. I discovered them in Argentina. There was nothing else to do. A doctor gave them to me. He brought them every month when he traveled to us — maybe it was his way of courting me. I didn’t understand much, since they were in Spanish, but I devoured them just the same. He chose the titles — everything was fine with me. It was the best thing I did there.
I can understand.
Now I miss it.
And yet in the bathroom you manage to read something.
The only book I brought with me. Soon I’ll be able to repeat it by heart.
May I take the liberty of asking what it is?
Don Quixote.
Ah, that.
You know it?
A little slow, don’t you think?
Uneven, let’s say.
I wouldn’t want to go that far.
But the language is beautiful, believe me.
I believe you.
It sings.
I imagine.
Would it really be impossible to find something else, in this house? And to have permission to read it?
Now?
Yes, now, why not?
Soon you’ll be married. When you’re in your own house you can do what you want.
You must have noticed that things are taking a long time.
Yes, it’s an impression I’ve had, too.
Modesto thought for a while. Of course, he could take care of it personally: he knew where to find books and it wouldn’t be difficult, or unpleasant, to get some to the young Bride, but clearly it would represent an infraction that he wasn’t sure he was prepared for. After a long hesitation he cleared his throat. The young Bride couldn’t know this, but it was the laryngeal prefix that introduced communications to which he ascribed a particular character of privacy.
Talk about it with the Mother, he said.
With the Mother?
The Father is very rigid, on this point, but the Mother secretly reads. Poetry.
The young Bride thought again about the inscrutable syllogisms and began to understand where they came from.
And when does she do it?
In the afternoon, in her room.
I thought she received visitors.
Not always.
The Mother reads. Incredible.
Naturally, signorina, I never told you and you don’t know it.
Of course.
But if I were you I would go to the Mother. Venture to ask her for an interview.
Knock on her door, without too many formalities — does that seem to you impossible?
Modesto stiffened.
I beg your pardon?
I mean, I could just go and knock on her door, I imagine.
Modesto was bending over the garden. He straightened.
Signorina, you know who we’re talking about, right?