He, too, said not a word about the land. You’d think he knew nothing about it. Paul went home, his soul lighter, as if bathed in clear light. Such tact! he told himself. How they went out of their way to avoid embarrassing me or hurting my feelings! How I love Anna!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The wall rose a meter above the ground. But when she looked at it the mother felt as if it was higher than the house. A horrible nightmare had just torn her from her slumber and she sat up, breathless and shivering: she had just seen her children chained to a multitude of poor starved souls, walking skeletons, half-naked, feet bleeding. The invalid on Paul’s back was crying, but she could not budge and saw them moving farther and farther away even as the sound of the rattling chains grew more intense. Hand on her heart, she looked at the man sleeping by her side. Was she going to die in this bed helpless? She leaned toward him and called him quietly, but he didn’t move. So she got up and walked to the window. Her keen senses picked up the acrid smell of the stonework and the still-fresh cement, as well as that of the leaves and flowers of the lemon trees that covered the grave. She left the window, cautiously opened the door to the bedroom and felt her way downstairs. She had no trouble finding the bottle of rum in the cupboard. She brought it to her lips and took one gulp after another. She coughed and immediately felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading through her. I want to feel drunk, she told herself. For the first time in my life, I need to feel drunk! She drank again and went upstairs clutching the handrail. From time to time she would burst into a choked laughter, grotesque and loathsome.
She walked into the bedroom and fell on the bed. Everything spun before her and her arm came down clumsily on her husband’s face. Startled, he woke up and saw her with her mouth open, wild-eyed, and he smelled rum on her breath.
“You were drinking?” he asked her, his eyes wide with the surprise, and then shoved her away, overwhelmed with disgust.
She fell back in bed and then got up staggering. She made a clumsy dash for the window and, leaning out, began to throw up in silence. She remained in this position as long as he said nothing.
“You were drinking?” he repeated. “Walking in your father’s footsteps. But what got into you?”
She straightened up slowly and turned around. Without answering, she took a pitcher of water that was on her bedside table and poured herself a glass.
“I’m thirsty,” she finally said.
“What got into you?”
“How should I know?”
She sat on the bed, hand on her heart, which was beating at a wild, irregular rhythm.
“It helps,” she added. “For a moment, I forgot about it all, you, me, the children and everything else. When I’m intoxicated I become my double. In any case, I’ve learned one thing at least: I’m still capable of laughter.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“That’s just it! For a brief moment I was crazy. That must be what people who fall into drink discover. Madness! Madness!”
She erupted in a short-lived cackle that, because this time it was conscious, became atrociously desperate. They were speaking in hushed tones, and in the darkness he saw her as a shadow veiled in a transparent nightgown that traced her nipples.
“Come on, go back to bed,” he ordered. She lay down with her back to him, only to get up again a short while later.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said, “sleep, don’t worry about me.”
He said nothing in response and pretended to sleep. But she knew he was awake this time and that he was tormented because of her, and she felt a dark sense of satisfaction. Standing at the narrow window, she saw the sky gleaming beneath a multitude of stars. Its splendor made the profound darkness of the yard even more sinister by contrast. The flowers are falling from the oak trees already, and so are the lemon flowers, she told herself. And suddenly, in the light of the new moon, the grave appeared, white in the midst of the mass of trees. Something moved a few paces from the stakes and she saw the outlines of a man and of an animal clumsily moving around with strange little hops. A shiver ran through her and she heaved over, hands reaching out, mouth open as if about to cry out.
“How long has this been going on?”
It took her a moment to understand.
“When did you start drinking?”
She got up slowly, her eyes still filled with the spectacle in the yard, and looked over at this man she had forgotten buried under the sheets, his head resting on a pillow.
“I’ll keep doing it,” she said dryly. “I’ll keep doing it.”
“You will die like your father. Wasting away from drink.”
“You have to die from something.”
“Spare your children at least.”
“My children! What children? They are already dead. Don’t you know that? Don’t you see that?”
“Quiet!”
“What’s a drunk mother to them after what they’ve been through? They couldn’t care less. Rose already stinks of death.”
“Quiet!”
He jumped on her and grabbed her by the throat.
“That’s it! Kill me! Kill me!”
He loosened his fingers and noticed their livid faces in the mirror.
“My God!” he whispered, imitating her inadvertently.
They went back to bed, each pulling on the sheets as if they could separate themselves from each other that way. In the distance, the crazed barking of a dog broke and accentuated the horrible silence. A slight gust shook the trees and fresh air flowed into the room along with the strong smell of the soil and the trees.
She heard the stairs creaking, footsteps on the landing whispering and the closing of the grandfather’s door. But she didn’t budge. And if there’s such a thing as fate, she told herself, then what can I do about it? Let things run their course, wait, let others act, then wait a little more. In other words, resign myself. I can’t do anything, nobody can do anything. That’s the really hopeless part about it. Should I fold my arms and wait? Or fly off the handle and end it all? In any case, choosing will resolve nothing. Caught like rats in a trap.
She thought she saw the father’s shoulder tremble, and fixed her eyes with curiosity upon this body so close to hers. What would he do if she suddenly touched him?
With that thought, she could see herself again when she was twenty, in her wedding gown, kneeling before a priest blessing their joined hands. Meaningless gestures but, when they were young, gestures that seemed to guarantee a future full of happiness. Her illusions had faded one by one and in the void carved out by their loss, old age slowly traced its way. The illness that would keep old age from overstaying its welcome made its presence felt, and she watched for it now without dread and even with a certain desperate complicity! Will I die at their hands or will I be good and dead on my own soon enough? she wondered again. Will my eyes be the first to close or will life force me to watch my children go in the ground one after the other, even though I already have one foot in the grave? Would she play such a dirty trick on me? A dying mother outliving her loved ones! My existence hangs by a thread, I know that, and yet I may have to see them all die. Sinking into her sweat-soaked pillow, fingers clutching the left side of her chest, she lay still and listened to her groaning heart and thought: We think we can fight back, but that’s all wrong. Rose and Paul don’t know it yet. They’re too young and don’t know it yet. They convince themselves otherwise out of pride. They tell themselves: we’re fighting back, we’re doing something, we’re making decisions, but they’re just drunk with their own words. There was a time when I too was drunk with my own words. But that’s over. I’m not moved by illusions anymore. I’ve come to be sufficiently acquainted with these criminals to learn that you can’t fight fate. We’ve been delivered over to their hatred, bound hand and foot. Utterly lost. Every last one of us. Rose dishonored! And Paul fixing his own demise!… No, I can’t go on living knowing all this and unable to do anything to save them. My God! My God!… If only I could leave it all in Your hands! To feel Your presence when misfortune strikes, to have the humility to kneel, beat my chest, and accept this as fair punishment! But I can’t, I can’t…