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Authors: Lygia Fagundes Telles
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wiped her face on the sheet. Twined together they rolled as one body among the
covers. The glass rolled and fell almost soundlessly onto the rug.
“This depression,” she said disentangling herself. She propped herself up on her elbows
to drink. “And that Dr. Hachibe? The ass.”
It wasn’t yenom he wanted, it was really money. Bastard. Group analysis. Just imagine,
how could I be open with those lousy pricks? she thought rolling her hair around her
finger. Either they complain about their sex life all the time or hash over their
doubts, shall I become a queer? Shan’t I? What the hell, who cares?
She rolled herself up, closed her hands and hid them against her breasts. Very easy
to attribute everything to one’s childhood, he had wide shoulders this one here. How
shitty, that Dr. Batista went on a trip and that crazy doctor had to take his place,
he’s worse off than I am. What was he called that fetus? He looked like a fetus. A
long name but short legs. Legs and all the rest. A sorry excuse for a man. Shit I
got worse with him. A crazy.
“He didn’t charge but then how could he?” she asked massaging the back of her neck.
“After him I started treatment with an old man, so old he was falling apart and the
whole time he talked about his wife who had terminal cancer and was going to die.
What did I have to do with that? I went there to relax a little and I had to listen
to the old man in love with his wife who was dying of cancer. I felt sorry but at
the same time I got mad as hell because even for that he charged. Childhood. In reality
everything becomes simpler when you discover way back there some aunt that wanted
to poke her fingers in your eyes. With me they wanted to poke other things in other
places but didn’t I get out all by myself? So. They all stayed there in the cellar.
Only me.”
She stretched out on her stomach. She was taking things, right. But who could stand
anything without some trips and a shrink to talk to?
“Who?” she asked staring fixedly at the pillow. “Even thoseflowers with the broken stems. Didn’t even they need wire? So. Life is hard to put
up with. Bending under from problems. But next year, my sweetie, a new life. Do you
hear me love? A new life.”
Married to money she wouldn’t need any more help, shit, analysis. No more problems
in sight. Free. She would go back and open her canceled registration, she would be
a brilliant student. The books she would read. The discoveries about herself. About
others.
“Even those things that we … I grew rich from the experience, didn’t I? A bourgeoise
intellectual. Very chic. And that terrorist, still so underdeveloped. Worthless talk,
my sweetie. Freedom is security. If I feel secure, I am free.”
She drank from Max’s glass. He was sleeping with an affable expression, his hand raised
in the gesture of one who invites some visitor to come closer. With a bag of gold,
you could be cured easily. Or could you? Even if she went through one or two crises,
what would it matter if they took place inside a Jaguar? The hard thing was to fall
apart in a public bus. And Lorena saying that it was some minor French authoress who
wrote that. Why minor? Not at all. Shit, you can’t be minor if you discover something
like that. I agree, it’s not very original. But it’s like the story of the egg that
nobody could make stand on end, very easy very easy, but nobody thought of it until
after Galileo. Wasn’t it Galileo?
She shook her friend.
“Max, answer me, isn’t it better to trip out in a fancy car than in a bus on its way
to the outskirts? The hoods pistol-whipping us to death inside?”
So. In December I’ll get myself sewed up and in January. Waldo will make the dress.
I want white. Medieval style, pearls, a string of white pearls. Enormous ones.
“Max, what time is it? Your watch, where’s your watch?”
“I bought a Swiss one that has a little
covers. The glass rolled and fell almost soundlessly onto the rug.
“This depression,” she said disentangling herself. She propped herself up on her elbows
to drink. “And that Dr. Hachibe? The ass.”
It wasn’t yenom he wanted, it was really money. Bastard. Group analysis. Just imagine,
how could I be open with those lousy pricks? she thought rolling her hair around her
finger. Either they complain about their sex life all the time or hash over their
doubts, shall I become a queer? Shan’t I? What the hell, who cares?
She rolled herself up, closed her hands and hid them against her breasts. Very easy
to attribute everything to one’s childhood, he had wide shoulders this one here. How
shitty, that Dr. Batista went on a trip and that crazy doctor had to take his place,
he’s worse off than I am. What was he called that fetus? He looked like a fetus. A
long name but short legs. Legs and all the rest. A sorry excuse for a man. Shit I
got worse with him. A crazy.
“He didn’t charge but then how could he?” she asked massaging the back of her neck.
“After him I started treatment with an old man, so old he was falling apart and the
whole time he talked about his wife who had terminal cancer and was going to die.
What did I have to do with that? I went there to relax a little and I had to listen
to the old man in love with his wife who was dying of cancer. I felt sorry but at
the same time I got mad as hell because even for that he charged. Childhood. In reality
everything becomes simpler when you discover way back there some aunt that wanted
to poke her fingers in your eyes. With me they wanted to poke other things in other
places but didn’t I get out all by myself? So. They all stayed there in the cellar.
Only me.”
She stretched out on her stomach. She was taking things, right. But who could stand
anything without some trips and a shrink to talk to?
“Who?” she asked staring fixedly at the pillow. “Even thoseflowers with the broken stems. Didn’t even they need wire? So. Life is hard to put
up with. Bending under from problems. But next year, my sweetie, a new life. Do you
hear me love? A new life.”
Married to money she wouldn’t need any more help, shit, analysis. No more problems
in sight. Free. She would go back and open her canceled registration, she would be
a brilliant student. The books she would read. The discoveries about herself. About
others.
“Even those things that we … I grew rich from the experience, didn’t I? A bourgeoise
intellectual. Very chic. And that terrorist, still so underdeveloped. Worthless talk,
my sweetie. Freedom is security. If I feel secure, I am free.”
She drank from Max’s glass. He was sleeping with an affable expression, his hand raised
in the gesture of one who invites some visitor to come closer. With a bag of gold,
you could be cured easily. Or could you? Even if she went through one or two crises,
what would it matter if they took place inside a Jaguar? The hard thing was to fall
apart in a public bus. And Lorena saying that it was some minor French authoress who
wrote that. Why minor? Not at all. Shit, you can’t be minor if you discover something
like that. I agree, it’s not very original. But it’s like the story of the egg that
nobody could make stand on end, very easy very easy, but nobody thought of it until
after Galileo. Wasn’t it Galileo?
She shook her friend.
“Max, answer me, isn’t it better to trip out in a fancy car than in a bus on its way
to the outskirts? The hoods pistol-whipping us to death inside?”
So. In December I’ll get myself sewed up and in January. Waldo will make the dress.
I want white. Medieval style, pearls, a string of white pearls. Enormous ones.
“Max, what time is it? Your watch, where’s your watch?”
“I bought a Swiss one that has a little
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