The invention of Morel - Adolfo Bioy Casares [37]
Without yielding to my weakness, I can imagine the touching moment when I arrive at Faustine's house, her interest in what I shall tell her, the bond that will be established between us. Perhaps now I am at last on the long and difficult road that leads to Faustine; I know I cannot live without her.
But where does Faustine live? I have been following her for weeks. She speaks of Canada—that is all I know. But
I have another question—and it fills me with horror—is Faustine alive?
Perhaps because the idea of looking for a person whose whereabouts I do not know, a person who may not even be alive, strikes me as being so heartbreaking, so pathetic, Faustine has come to mean more to me than life itself.
How can I go to look for her? The boat is no longer in one piece. The trees are rotten. I am not a good enough carpenter to build a boat out of some other kind of wood, like chairs or doors; in fact, I am not even sure I could have made one from trees. I must wait until I see a ship passing the island. For so long I hoped that one would not come, but now I know I could not return alone. The only ship I have ever seen from this island was Morel's, and that was only the image of a ship.
And if I arrive at my journey's end, if I find Faustine, I shall be in one of the most difficult situations I have ever experienced. Arriving under mysterious circumstances, I shall ask to speak to her alone, and will arouse her suspicions since I shall be a stranger to her. When she discovers that I saw a part of her life, she will think I am trying to gain some dishonest advantage. And when she finds out that I have been sentenced to life imprisonment she will see her worst fears confirmed.
It never occurred to me before that a certain action could bring me good or bad luck. Now, at night, I repeat Faustine's name. Naturally, I like to say it anyway,- and even though I am overcome by fatigue I still keep on repeating it (at times I feel nauseated and uneasy, queasy, when I sleep).
When I am less agitated I shall find a way to get away from here. But, in the meantime, writing down what has happened helps me to organize my thoughts. And if I am to die this diary will leave a record of the agony I suffered.
Yesterday there were no images. Desperate in the face of the secret, quiescent machines, I had a presentiment that I would never see Faustine again. But this morning the tide began to rise. I hurried down to the basement, before the images appeared, to try to understand the working of the machines, so I would not be at the mercy of the tides and would be able to make repairs when necessary. I thought that perhaps I might understand the machines if I could see them start, or at least I would get some hint about their structure. But that hope proved to be groundless.
I gained access to the power plant through the opening I had made in the wall, and—(but I must not let myself be carried away by emotion; I must write all this down carefully) I experienced the same surprise and the same exhilaration I felt when I first entered that room. I had the impression of walking through the azure stillness of a river's depths. I sat down to wait, turning my back on the opening I had made (it pained me to see the interruption in the deep-blue continuity of the tile).
How long I stayed there, basking in that beauty, I do not know, but suddenly the green machines lurched into motion. I compared them with the water pump and the motors that produced the light. I looked at them, I listened to them, I fingered them gingerly, but it was no use. My scrutiny was unnecessary, because I knew at once that I was unable to understand the machines. It was as if someone were looking, as if I were trying to cover up my embarrassment or my shame at having hurried to the basement, at having awaited this moment so eagerly.
In my fatigue I have again felt the rush of excitement. Unless I control it, I shall never find a way to leave this place.
This is exactly how it happened: I turned and walked away, with downcast eyes. But when I looked