The invention of Morel - Adolfo Bioy Casares [42]
Perhaps the heat of the past few days has been so intense because the temperature of the day when the scene was photographed is superimposed on the present temperature.[9]
Trees and other plant life: The vegetation that was recorded by the machine is withered now; the plants that were not recorded—annuals (flowers, grasses) and the new trees—are luxuriant.
The light switch that did not work, the latches that were impossible to open, the stiff, immovable curtains: What I said before, about the doors, can be applied to the light switch and the latches: When the scene is projected, everything appears exactly as it was during the recording process. And the curtains are stiff for the same reason.
The person who turns out the light: The person who turns out the light in the room across from Faustine's is Morel. He comes in and stands by the bed for a moment. The reader will recall that I dreamed Faustine did this. It irks me to have confused Morel with Faustine.
Charlie. Imperfect ghosts: At first I could not find them. Now I believe I have found their records. But I shall not play them. They could easily shatter my equanimity, and might even prove disastrous for my mental outlook.
The Spaniards I saw in the pantry: They are Morel's servants.
The underground room, the screen of mirrors: I heard Morel say that they are for visual and acoustical experiments.
The French poetry that Stoever recited: I jotted it down:
Ame, te souvient-il, au fond du paradis, De la gare d'Auteuil et des trains de jadis.
Stoever tells the old lady that it is by Verlaine.
And now there is nothing in my diary that has not been explained.[10] Almost everything, in fact, does have an explanation. The remaining chapters will hold no surprises.
I should like to try to account for Morel's behavior.
Faustine tried to avoid him; then he planned the week, the death of all his friends, so that he could achieve immortality with Faustine. That was his compensation for having renounced all of life's possibilities. He realized that death would not be such a disaster for the others, because in exchange for a life of uncertain length, he would give them immortality with their best friends. And Faustine's life too was at his disposal.
But my very indignation is what makes me cautious: Perhaps the hell I ascribe to Morel is really my own. I am the
one who is in love with Faustine, who is capable of murder and suicide,- I am the monster. Morel may not have been referring to Faustine in his speech; he may have been in love with Irene, Dora, or the old woman.
But I am raving, I am a fool. Of course Morel had no interest in them. He loved the inaccessible Faustine. That is why he killed her, killed himself and all his friends, and invented immortality!
Faustine's beauty deserves that madness, that tribute, that crime. When I denied that, I was too jealous or too stubborn to admit that I loved her.
And now I see Morel's act as something sublime.
My life is not so atrocious. If I abandon my uneasy hopes of going to find Faustine, I can grow accustomed to the idea of spending my life in seraphic contemplation of her.
That way is open to me: to live, to be the happiest of mortals.
But my happiness, like everything human, is insecure. My contemplation of Faustine could be interrupted, although I cannot tolerate the thought of it:
If the machines should break (I do not know how to repair them);
If some doubt should ruin my paradise (certain conversations between Morel and Faustine, some of their glances, could cause persons of less fortitude than I to lose heart);
If I should die.
The real advantage of my situation is that now death becomes the condition and the pawn for my eternal contemplation of Faustine.
I am saved from the interminable minutes necessary to prepare for my death in a world without Faustine; I am saved from an interminable death