“Twenty eight.”
“You’re really quite young.”
I was puzzled again. Not because she thought my age was unusual, but because, after
all, I ought to be much older than her; because, in any case, she couldn’t have been more
than twenty six.
“You’re quite young,” she said again, perhaps noticing my surprise.
“And what about you, how old are you?” I insisted.
“What does that matter?” she answered seriously.
“Then why did you ask me about my age?” I said, almost irritated.
“This conversation is absurd,” she replied. “All this is foolishness. I am astonished
that you worry about things like this.”
Me worried about things like this? Having a conversation like this? In truth, how was
it possible that we were talking about all this? I was so confused that I had forgotten the
cause of the first question. Only many hours later when I has home was I able to realize
the significance of this apparently trivial conversation.
XVII
For almost a month we saw each other almost every day. I don’t want to think about
all the things that happened then that were both wonderful, and horrible. There were too
many sad things, for me to want to think about them again.
Maria started coming to my studio. The incident of the matches, with a few small
variations, had reoccurred two or three times, and I was obsessed with the idea that her
love was, at best, the love of a mother or a sister. So, physical union seemed to me the
only guarantee of real love.
I will admit now that that was only one of the foolish ideas that must made Maria smile
at me behind my back. Far from calming me down, physical love made me even more
disturbed; it brought more tortuous doubts, painful scenes of incomprehension, and cruel
experiments with Maria. The hours we spent in my studio are hours that I will never
forget. My feelings during those times oscillated between the purest form of love and the
most unbridled form of hate as a result of the contradictions and the inexplicable attitudes
of Maria, and I began to believe that all of this was just a pretense. At times she seemed
like a chaste adolescent, at others just an ordinary woman, and then a long list of doubts
flashed through my mind: where? how? who? when?
At such times I couldn’t escape the idea that Maria was acting out one the most subtle
and most cruel comedies and that, in her hands, I was like an ingenuous child whom she
deceived with superficial stories so he would eat or sleep. Sometimes I was overcome by
a frantic sense of shame and would rush to get dressed and go out in the street to feel the
fresh air and think about my doubts, and my apprehensions. At other times, my reactions
were acerbic and brutal; I would throw myself over her, grab her arms like with pincers
and twist them while I stared her in the eyes, trying to force her to guarantee that she
loved me, with real love.
But none of that is what I really want to say. I must confess that I do not really know
what I mean by saying “with real love.” And the strange thing is that although I often use
that expression in my interrogations, until now I never tried to think what it really meant.
What does it mean? A love that includes physical passion? Perhaps I was longing for it
in my desperation to communicate more deeply with Maria. I was certain that, on some
occasions, we did achieve togetherness, but in a manner so subtle, so fleeting, so tenuous,
that afterwards I felt more desperately alone than before, like the vague dissatisfaction
one feels after trying to recreate the love felt during a dream. I knew that we sometimes
seemed to achieve some moments of communion. And being to together helped to heal
the sadness that always accompanies those feelings, certainly caused by the essential
incompatibility of those elusive moments of loveliness. It was enough for us to look at
each other to know that we were thinking, or better yet feeling, the same thing.
But experiencing those moments cost us dearly, because everything that happened after
that seemed coarse and awkward. Anything we did (talking, having a cup of coffee), was
painful because it demonstrated how fleeting those moments of communion were. And,
what was even worse was that it caused new gaps between us because, while desperately
trying to somehow consolidate this merging, I forced her to to have physical relations.
But this only served to confirm the impossibility of prolonging or finalizing it, with a
physical union. But she made things worse because, perhaps in an effort to make me
forget about trying to solidify things, she acted as thought she felt a real, and almost
unbelievable, pleasure. And then I either rushed to get dressed and run out into the street,
or else I grabbed her brutally by the arms and tried to force her to reveal the truth of her
sentiments and feelings. And it was all so upsetting that when she sensed we were about
to have physical relations, she would try her best to run away. I finally reached the point
of complete skepticism, and I tried to make myself understand that not only was it useless
for our love, but also harmful.
With this attitude I only managed to increase my doubts about the nature of her love,
since I wondered if she was only doing this so she could argue that physical relations had
a negative effect on our love so that she could avoid it in he future, when the truth was
that she hated it from the beginning and, therefore, was only pretending to feel pleasure.
Of course, there were other disagreements too, and it was useless for her to try to
convince me. It only managed to drive me crazy, with new and more subtle doubts, that
resulted in more difficult interrogations.
What bothered me most, thinking of this hypothetical deceit, was that I had handed
myself over to her completely defenseless, as helpless as a baby.
“If I ever suspect that you have deceived me,” I told her, “I will kill you like a dog.”
I would twist her arms and stare into her eyes, trying to see if I could discover anything
suspicious, or some brief glint of irony. But whenever that happened, she looked at me
like a frightened child, or with sad resignation, while she silently got dressed.
One time our discussion was more violent than usual, and I shouted at her, calling her a
whore. Maria became paralyzed and mute. Then, slowly and silently she went to get
dressed behind the folding screen for the models. And after struggling with my hate and
my regret, when I went to tell her I was sorry, I saw that her face was covered with tears.
I didn’t know what to do: I kissed her tenderly, I asked her to forgive me, I also started to
cry, and I accused myself of being a cruel, unjust monster. This happened while she still
showed some sign of sadness but then, just as soon as she calmed down, she began to
smile happily and it seemed unnatural that she didn’t continue being sad. She could calm
down, but it was very suspicious that she would be so happy after what I had called her.
It seemed to me that any woman would feel humiliated after being called something like