Near to the Wild Heart Read Free Page B

neighbour's backyard and take a look at the chickens because today she had eaten roast chicken.
    — I couldn't forget her, her father was saying. Not that I spent all my time thinking of her. Now and then a thought, like some memory to muse upon much later. Later it came, but I was unable to give it serious consideration. There was only that slight pang, without any pain, an ah! barely outlined, a moment of reflection and then gone from my mind. She was called... he glanced at Joana — she was called Elza. I even remember saying to her: the name Elza makes me think of an empty sack. She was slender, disdainful — you know what I mean don't you? — intimidating. So quick and harsh in making judgements, so independent and embittered that from our very first meeting I accused her of being shrewish. Would you believe it... She burst out laughing, then became solemn. At that time, I found myself imagining what she would do at night. For I didn't believe it possible that she would sleep. No, she was never one to surrender. And even that sallow complexion — fortunately the child has not inherited it — did not look quite right with a nightdress ... She would spend the night in prayer, her eyes fixed on the dark sky, keeping vigil for someone. My memory was bad, I couldn't even remember why I had called her a shrew. But my memory was not so bad that I could forget her. I could still see her striding along the beach, her expression sullen and remote. The oddest thing of all, Alfredo, is that there couldn't have been any beach. Yet that vision persisted and defied any explanation.
    The man was smoking and reclining in his chair. Joana was scoring the red hide on the armchair with her nail.
    — I woke up early one morning with a fever. I can almost still feel my tongue inside my mouth, hot, dry, as rough as a rag. You know how I hate suffering, I'd rather sell my soul. Then I found myself thinking about her. Incredible. I was already thirty-two, unless I'm mistaken. I'd met her briefly at the age of twenty. And in a moment of anguish, from among so many friends — even you, for I didn't know where you were — at that moment I thought of her. She was the devil...
    His friend laughed:
    — Yes, she is the devil...
    — You can't imagine what she was like: I never saw anyone with so much hatred for others, but real hatred and contempt as well. And to be so good at the same time... dry but good. Or am I wrong? I am the one who did not like that kind of goodness: almost as if she were making a fool of me. However I got used to it. She didn't need me. Nor I her, to be honest. But we lived together. What I should still like to know, would give anything to know, is what was on her mind all the time. You would find me, as you now see me and know me, the greatest fool compared to her. So you can imagine the impression she made on the few miserable relatives I possess: it was as if I had brought into their rosy and ample bosom — do you remember, Alfredo? — they both laughed — it was as if I had brought in some contagious virus, a heretic, I don't know what... Who can tell? But even I prefer that this little one shouldn't take after her. Or after me, for God's sake — Fortunately, I have the impression that Joana will go her own way...
    — And then? the man rejoined.
    — Then... nothing. She died as soon as possible.
    Later the man said:
    — Look, your daughter is almost asleep... The kindest thing would be to put her to bed.
    But she was not sleeping. She only had to half-close her eyes, and let her head droop to one side, and it was almost as good as if it were raining, with everything gently merging. So that when she finally got into bed and pulled the sheet over her she would be more accustomed to sleep, wouldn't feel the darkness weighing on her bosom. Especially now that she was frightened of Elza. But one cannot be frightened of one's own mother. A mother was like a father. As her father carried her along the passageway to