The invention of Morel - Adolfo Bioy Casares [16]
In spite of my nervousness I felt inspired today when I spent the afternoon sharing the undefiled serenity, the magnificence of the woman. I experienced the same sense of well- being again at night, when I dreamed about the bordello of blind women that Ombrellieri and I visited in Calcutta. In the dream I saw the woman of the sunsets and suddenly the bordello changed into an opulent Florentine palace. I was dazzled by it all, and I heard myself exclaim, "How romantic!" as I sobbed with complacent joy.
But I slept fitfully, remembering that I did not measure up to the woman's strict demands. I shall never be able to forget it: she controlled her distaste and pretended, kindly, not to see my horrible little garden. I was miserable, too, hearing "Tea for Two" and "Valencia," which that blatant phonograph repeated until sunrise.
All that I have written about my life—hopefully or with apprehension, in jest or seriously—mortifies me.
I am in a bad state of mind. It seems that for a long time I have known that everything I do is wrong, and yet I have kept on the same way, stupidly, obstinately. I might have acted this way in a dream, or if I were insane— When I slept this afternoon, I had this dream, like a symbolic and premature commentary on my life: as I was playing a game of croquet, I learned that my part in the game was killing a man. Then, suddenly, I knew I was that man.
Now the nightmare continues. I am a failure, and now I even tell my dreams. I want to wake up, but I am confronted with the sort of resistance that keeps us from freeing ourselves from our most atrocious dreams.
Today the woman was trying to show me her indifference, and she succeeded. But why is she so cruel? Even though I am the victim, I can view the situation objectively.
She was with the dreadful tennis player. His appearance should discourage any feelings of jealousy. He is very tall and was wearing a wine-colored tennis jacket, which was much too large for him, white slacks, and huge yellow and white shoes. His beard seemed to be false, his skin effeminate, waxy, mottled on his temples. His eyes are dark; his teeth, ugly. He speaks slowly, opening his small round mouth wide, vocalizing in a childish way, revealing a small round crimson tongue, which is always close to his lower teeth. His hands are long and pallid—I sense that they are slightly moist.
When I saw them approaching I hid at once. The woman must have seen me; at least, I suppose she did for not once did she look in my direction.
I am quite sure that the man did not notice the little garden until later. And, as before, she pretended not to see it.
They were speaking French. They stood, simply watching the sea, as if something had saddened them. The man said a few words I could not hear. Each time a wave broke against the boulders, I took two or three quick steps in their direction. They were French. The woman shook her head. I did not hear what she said, but it was clearly a negative reply. She closed her eyes and smiled sweetly.
"Please believe me, Faustine—" began the bearded man with obvious desperation, and I found out her name, at last! (Of course, it does not matter now.)
"No— Now I know what you really want—"
She smiled again, with no bitterness or ecstasy, with a certain frivolity. I know that I hated her then. She was just playing with us.
"What a pity that we cannot come to an understanding! We have only a short time left—three days, and then it will all be over."
I do not know what he meant. All I know is that he must be my enemy. He seemed to be sad; but I should not be surprised to learn that this was merely a pose. Faustine's behavior is grotesque; it is almost driving me mad!
The man tried to mitigate the gravity of his statement. He said several sentences that had approximately this meaning: "There's nothing to worry about. We are not going to discuss an eternity—"
"Morel," said Faustine stupidly, "do you know that I find you mysterious?"
In spite