— We’re going to visit his grandmother.
Whereupon to my horror, she snapped in reply:
— No one asked you where you’re going. I never poke my nose into other people’s affairs.
— Well I never, I mumbled in a low voice.
This led me to believe there and then that I was being made to pay for that moment of intimacy on the park bench. This in turn made me think that she was afraid of having confided more than she actually had that day. And in turn made me wonder if she had not told me more, in fact, than either of us had realized. By the time the lift finally reached the ground floor, I had reconstituted that obstinate, languid air of hers on the park bench — and I gazed with new eyes at the proud beauty of Ofélia’s mother. ‘I won’t tell a soul that you want to learn how to decorate cakes’, I thought to myself, giving her a furtive glance.
The father hostile, the mother keeping her distance. A proud family. They treated me as if I were already living in their future hotel and as if I had offended them by not paying my bill. Above all, they treated me as if I did not believe, nor could they prove, who they were. And who were they? I sometimes asked myself that question. Why was that slap imprinted on their faces and why was that dynasty living in exile? Nor could they forgive me for carrying on as if I had been forgiven. If I met them on the street, outside the zone to which I had been confined, it terrified me to be caught out of bounds: I would draw back to let them pass, I gave way as the dusky, well-dressed trio passed as if on their way to Holy Mass — a family that lived under the sign of some proud destiny or hidden martyrdom — purple as the flowers of the Passion. Theirs was an ancient dynasty.
But contact was made through the daughter. She was a most beautiful child with her long hair in plaits. Ofélia with the same dark shadows round her eyes as her mother, the same gums looking a little inflamed, the same thin lips as if someone had inflicted a wound. But how those lips could talk. She started coming to visit me. The door-bell would ring, I would open the spy-hole without seeing anyone, and then I would hear a resolute voice:
— It’s me, Ofélia Maria dos Santos Aguiar.
Disheartened, I would open the door. Ofélia would enter. She had come to visit me, for my two little boys were far too small then to be treated to her phlegmatic wisdom. I was a grown-up and busy, but it was me she had to visit. She would arrive dispensing with any formalities, as if there were a time and place for everything. She would carefully lift her flounced skirt, sit down and arrange the flowers — and only then would she look at me. In the midst of duplicating my files, I carried on working and listening. Ofélia would then proceed to give me advice. She had very decided opinions about everything. Everything I did was not quite right in her opinion. She would say ‘in my opinion’ in a resentful tone, as if I should have asked her advice and, since I had not asked, she was giving it. With her eight proud and well-lived years, she told me that, in her opinion, I did not rear my children properly: for when you give children an inch, they take a mile. Bananas should not be served with milk. It can kill you. But of course, you must do what you think is best: everyone knows their own mind. It was rather late for me to be wearing a dressing-gown: her mother dressed as soon as she got up, but everyone must live as they see fit. If I tried to explain that I still had to take my bath, Ofélia would remain silent and watch me closely. With a hint of tenderness and then patience, she added that it was rather late to be taking a bath. I was never allowed the last word. What last word could I possibly offer when she informed me: vegetable patties should not be covered. One afternoon in the baker’s shop, I found myself unexpectedly confronting the useless truth: there stood a whole row of uncovered vegetable patties. ‘But I told you so’, I could hear her say, as if she were standing there beside me. With her plaits and flounces, with her unyielding delicacy. She would descend like a visitation into my sitting-room, which was still waiting to be tidied up. Fortunately she also talked a lot of nonsense, which made me smile, however low I might be feeling.
The worst part of this visitation was the silence. I would raise my eyes from the typewriter and wonder how long Ofélia had been watching me in silence. What could possibly attract this child to me? Personally, I found myself exasperating. On one occasion, after another of her lengthy silences, she calmly said to me: you are a strange woman. And as if I had been struck on the face without any form of protection — right on the face which is our inner self and therefore extremely sensitive — struck full on the face, I thought to myself in a rage: you are about to see just how strange I can be. She who was so well protected, whose mother was protected, whose father was protected.
THE PRINCESS (III)
However, I still preferred her advice and criticism. Much less tolerable was her habit of using the word therefore as a way of linking sentences into a never-ending chain. She told me that I bought far too many vegetables at the market — therefore — they would not fit into my small fridge and — therefore — they would go bad before the next market day. A few days later I looked at the vegetables, and they had gone bad. Therefore — she was right. On another occasion, she saw fewer vegetables lying on the kitchen table, as I had secretly taken her advice. Ofélia looked and looked. She seemed prepared to say nothing. I waited, standing there fuming but saying nothing. Ofélia said phlegmatically:
— It won’t be long before there’s another market day.
The vegetables had run out towards the middle of the week. How did she know? I asked myself bewildered. Probably she would reply with ‘therefore’. Why did I never, never know? Why did she know everything, why was the earth so familiar to her, and here was I without protection? Therefore? Therefore.
On one occasion, Ofélia actually made a mistake. Geography — she said, sitting before me with her hands clasped on her lap — is a kind of study. It was not exactly a mistake, it was a slight miscalculation — but for me it had the grace of defeat, and before the moment could pass, I said to her mentally: that’s exactly how it’s done! just go on like that and one day it will be easier or more difficult for you, but that’s the way, just go on making mistakes, ever so slowly.
One morning, in the midst of her conversation, she announced peremptorily: ‘I’m going home to get something but I’ll be right back.’ I dared to suggest: ‘If you’ve got something to do, there’s no need to hurry back.’ Ofélia looked at me, silent and questioning. ‘There is a very nasty little girl’, I thought firmly to myself so that she might see the entire sentence written on my face. She kept on looking at me. A look wherein — to my surprise and dismay — I saw loyalty, patient confidence in me, and the silence of someone who never spoke. When had I ever thrown her a bone — that she should follow me in silence for the rest of my life? I averted my eyes. She gave a tranquil sigh. ‘I’ll be right back.’ What does she want? — I became nervous — why do I attract people who do not even like me?