Skylight Read Free Page B

necessary, but she said it in a way that made those listening appreciate the value of concision. The words seemed to be born in her mouth at the very moment they were spoken and to emerge replete with meaning, heavy with good sense, virginal. That’s what made them so impressive and convincing. Isaura duly slowed her pace of work.
    A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Cândida went to answer it, was gone for a few seconds, then returned looking anxious and upset, muttering:
    â€œDidn’t I tell you, didn’t I tell you?”
    Amélia looked up:
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œIt’s the downstairs neighbor come to complain about the noise. You go, will you?”
    Amélia stopped doing the washing, dried her hands on a cloth and went to the front door. Their downstairs neighbor was on the landing.
    â€œGood morning, Dona Justina. What can I do for you?”
    At all times and in all circumstances, Amélia was the very soul of politeness, but that politeness could easily turn to ice. Her tiny pupils would fix on the face they were looking at, arousing irrepressible feelings of unease and embarrassment in the other person.
    The neighbor had been getting on fine with Cândida and had almost finished what she had come to say. Now there appeared before her a far less timid face and a far more direct gaze. She said:
    â€œGood morning, Dona Amélia. I’ve come about my husband. As you know, he works nights at the newspaper, and so can only sleep in the morning. If he’s woken up, he gets really angry and I’m the one who has to bear the brunt. If you could perhaps make a little less noise with the sewing machine, I’d be very grateful . . .”
    â€œYes, I understand, but my niece needs to work.”
    â€œOf course, and if it was up to me, I wouldn’t mind, but you know what men are like . . .”
    â€œYes, I do, and I also know that your husband shows very little consideration for
his
neighbors’ sleep when he comes home in the early hours.”
    â€œBut what am I supposed to do about that? I’ve given up trying to persuade him to make less noise on the stairs.”
    Justina’s long, gaunt face grew lively. A faint, malicious gleam appeared in her eyes. Amélia brought the conversation to a close.
    â€œAll right, we’ll wait a while longer. You needn’t worry.”
    â€œThank you very much, Dona Amélia.”
    Amélia muttered a brusque “Now, if you’ll excuse me” and shut the door. Justina went down the stairs. Dressed in heavy mourning, her dark hair parted in the middle, she cut a tall, funereal figure; she resembled a gangling doll, too large to be a woman and without the slightest hint of feminine grace. Only her dark, hollow eyes, the eyes of a diabetic, were, paradoxically, rather beautiful, but so grave and serious that they lacked all charm.
    When she reached the landing, she stopped outside the door opposite hers and pressed her ear to it. Nothing. She pulled a sneering face and moved away. Then, just as she was about to enter her own apartment, she heard voices and the sound of a door opening on the landing above. She busied herself straightening the doormat so as to have an excuse not to go in.
    From upstairs came the following lively dialogue:
    â€œThe only trouble with her is that she doesn’t want to go to work!” said a female voice in harsh, angry tones.
    â€œThat may well be, but we have to treat her with care. She’s at a dangerous age,” said a man’s voice. “You can never be sure how these things might develop.”
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘a dangerous age’? You never change, do you? Is nineteen a dangerous age? If so, you’re the only one who thinks so.”
    Justina thought it best to announce her presence by giving the doormat a good shake. The conversation upstairs stopped abruptly. The man started coming down the stairs, saying as he did