looked at her with curiosity, with a cordial smile. It was then
that their looks met and there was no way to escape : we all
know the same things. The man then became a bit emotional,
and, letting himself go in a kind of generalized love, he said very
suddenly, very young :
"What the hell, life can't be that serious ! "
Vit6ria was a little shocked. For a moment, true, a n almost
shrewd look passed across her face as if she had found in herself
a new way of seeing things, unsuspected opportunities and freedoms that were not dangerous. But it was just a moment, and ( 3 ° 5 )
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
immediately she lost Martim's meaning. There she was with
only his smile.
He was smiling . . . And-and she felt that he understood
her so well she drew back rigidly, as if the man had done something obscene. She was startled. She, who now wanted to be alone with her past, was startled. Any gesture of kindness in her
direction was still dangerous! She did not want his smile! It was
still too soon for her to be tempted; she was still not old enough!
A quick shudder ran through her: "Don't understand me.
Otherwise, if you don't . . . because if you don't, I'll be free
again." And, oh God, never again did she want to have again the
experience that freedom had brought her over and over again,
and never again did she want to shout that all was past. She was
startled, because she knew that she was dangerously ready to
receive charity. "Don't break down my power! " she thoughtbecause she had just built up a whole life behind her-"Don't be polite to me, don't smile at me; it was always dangerous for
someone to be nice to me! " Innocently he was tossing her a
bone. "Don't destroy me with your understanding," she inwardly implored him. She knew that, forgetting fear, she would again go directly to get what belonged to a person, if that
person . . .
The lady looked at that man, that man who was so crudely
today, the present's impossible now. And how can we who are
today touch today immediately? She had a horror of the man,
just as she had had a horror of the great lonely beach shining in
grace and the expectation of happiness. Everything is yours if
you just have the courage-but she only had the courage to look
at something clearly when it was already impossible to see
clearly. Only now had she been able to look at the lost boy by
the bonfire, and the past must have been full of things that she
could finally see without fear. But, but suddenly, from that man
there, time would come from so far away it would destroy
today: today, the urgent instant of now. "Don't understand
me," she thought a little less convulsively now, and fortunately
for herself, a little sadder. "Don't love me, not for a second. I
The Apple in the Dark
don't know how to be loved any more and it's too late. Goodbye." She did not know how to be loved. To be loved was something much more serious than loving. That woman was not
certain of anything. From a mistake in life-and one mistake
was all that was needed in that fragile thing called "aim" for
someone not to arrive-from one mistake in life she had never
used the silent request that people use and that makes other
people love us. And, despoiled, she had become so, so proud.
And now-now she no longer knew how to be loved.
However-however, who could tell it . . .
Then Vit6ria turned her eyes away from the man's smiling,
kind eyes. "No," her soul said again, just as it had said one night
on the island. "No."
And her self-contempt left her bent and small among the
large trees, because again she had said no.
What did she feel, then? What she felt was this : "Oh God,
what shall I do with this happiness around me that is eternal,
eternal, eternal, and which will leave at any moment because the
body only teaches us to be mortal?" That was what she felt
because by saying "no" again, wounded as she was, she had also
seen the trees, and from the simple recognition of beauty, she
had loved the beauty that was not hers; and she had loved the
sadness that was hers, and proud as she was, she had felt very,
very happy for an instant-only from pride, only from insolence.
The impression Martim had of Vit6ria was made up of
superimposed and unclear images. Sometimes it was the image
of a confused woman who was sweating under her arms-and
then he wondered if maybe he had not simply invented danger
in order to stay on the place, because a sweating woman was not
dangerous. Sometimes the image of a face would appear to him
all by itself-and he could no longer say that he knew it.
Coming up against the peculiar mystery of a face, and then the
woman would become dangerously unpredictable with her two
hollow eyes. But then the image he had of the woman would
become in some way as familiar as if he had touched her whole
body, or as if both of them there in the sun had not realized that
( 3 ° 7 )
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
several years of intimacy had passed. But then, as if they really
had been living together for several years in common love, with
familiarity, again he suddenly did not know her.
When, however, he remembered her telling him that she
was a poetess-then something like ridicule covered the memory
of the honey woman, and the poetess was no longer dangerous
any more, she and her four queens. Who, really, had proved that
Vit6ria had reported him? Nobody. What had happened, probably, was that the mistress of the place, fascinated had mentioned his presence to the professor, because the latter apparently had made himself the spiritual guide of those uncertain and menstruous women. Therefore there was no reason to be
afraid.
Chapter 5
AND as if everything had come to an end before its appointed
time, and as if everybody had got whatever it was they had
wanted from the man, they suddenly left him alone. The air was
soft and full, and in the morning the cow gave birth to a calf.
Ermelinda would disappear for hours on end. Martim heard
her tell the mulatto woman that she was going to cut out a new
dress. Francisco was working silently, not in any hurry. As for
Vit6ria, she no longer followed Martim around giving orders;
she no longer seemed to get any pleasure out of laying out chores
for him, or she had suddenly admitted that, left to himself, he
knew what ought to be done. Merely curious, Martim would
watch her pass by, dressed in fe1ninine clothes now-clothes
that seemed even odder to him because, besides being out of
style, their wrinkles showed the mark of the trunk out of which
they must have come. She seemed even less dangerous wearing
those clothes. One day he saw a most extraordinary thing: he
saw her trying on a hat that was so ancient and dusty that only
the unexpectedness of the situation kept him from smiling. And
the woman was paying such deep attention to what she saw in the
living room mirror that she did not even notice the man. He
interpreted the fact that she d
id not even see him-she, who
had always followed him about with her staring eyes-as a sign
that he was finally free. Besides, after the big rain, every peaceful
thing was in its place, and Martim even thought it plausible that
instead of running away, he would simply give Vit6ria notice
that he was leaving. But he no longer even had to leave.
There followed a period of great calm. Life revealed obvious
progress the way one suddenly perceives that a child has grown.
With the heavy rain, nature ripening, headed toward a maximum point that could be sensed in the leafier way the trees were ( 3 ° 9 )
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
swaying. And the few days that followed mounted up without
incident, like one single day.
They were clear and tall days, woven into the air by the
birds. Wings, stones, flowers, and deep shadows formed the new
damp heat. The clouds gathered white in the sky and gracefully
broke up, letting the immaterial depth that surrounded the
house be seen, the work of each one, and the large nights. In the
morning, high up in the sky the first shreds of clouds would serve
as a resting place so that the eyes could reach off into the
distance. In the early morning things were peacefully shining.
And in spite of the distance, the clear air brought the mountain
within the range of a shout.
They had all lost contact with each other; each one had
withdrawn into an individual life that was already preparing
them for the life with which they would be left after the man
had gone. Absorbed, they were already living in the future, the
way one can count on a vacant room as soon as its dying
occupant has gone. Even the woodshed had an air of being clean
and swept out. And in the cowshed, after the birth of the calf,
serenity reigned.
Somewhat disoriented by the peace, Martim tried at times
to plan a flight. But the buzzing of the bees seemed more real
than the future. And the man now had so much work ahead of
him-work no longer interrupted by Vit6ria' s contradictory
orders-that only his chores seemed real. No one had ever told
him that there could be a threat in the sad figure of a primary
school teacher. In a short while Martim was no longer able to
work up even a simple suspicion because of the reality that was
emerging more and more, in the ditches that he was opening
with his own hands, in the golden heat full of short-lived
mosquitoes, in the blade of the plow as it turned up a darker
soil. Perhaps only men should be able to feel a bit of sadness.
But the sky was so high and beautiful that Martim, in spite of
himself, joined in with the light and went over to the side of the
victors.
And taking advantage of the crest of a wave to raise himself
( 3 l 0 )
The Apple in the Dark
up, he let himself be carried along without any worries on the
surge of fullness. Through consideration and docility, he had
transformed himself into an instrument of his own work. Never,
for example, would he dig a ditch where the ground was too
hard. And when the cow refused, he would not milk her. That
called for a dedicated patience on his part; he felt the pleasure of
one who has discovered a more delicate mode of expression.
The farm benefited greatly from that new condition, as if a
long, productive Sunday had been established there. For there
was a Sunday air about the indolence upon which the land was
growing fat. The corn was getting heavy; the apple tree was
breaking out in new shoots, as if its wound had alerted some impulse in it; the wind urged the creek along. That same wind sometimes carried the heavy, fertile smell of ripeness-which
Martim, interrupting his work with surprise, recognized as if he
were now sleeping with wheat and corn, recognized from the
depth of centuries the smell of fertility. The world had never
been so large. Birds, active as children, partook of the soil that
had been turned over for planting; with closed wings they dived
into the waves of the air, and out of the infinite returned with a
flutter of wings to watch over the effort of the seeds. Now that
the drought was over the trees were full and covered the house
with shade, giving its interior the coolness of a siesta. The cows
were lowing in the pasture. The world was doing Martim's thinking for him; and he accepted it.
Moreover, the women of the house seemed paler, calmer,
carrying out their duties. With mating time now over, the dogs
were thin and happy. They barked at the clouds. And the
mulatto woman sang so loud that even by the well an occasional
sharper, single note echoed. The whole farm was buzzing.
( 3 l l )
Chapter
IT wAs A LITTLE WHILE before the detectives arrived with the
professor and the mayor that Vit6ria sent for him.
It was in the afternoon, and Francisco brought the message
to Martim in the cowshed. A little later Martim appeared before
Vit6ria, his face still showing the concentration that he had
been putting into his work, his sleeves rolled up, his boots
muddy.
The woman examined him in silence. She herself was back in
her black slacks and her old blouse. Martim looked at her in
fascination; his image of her was still the one of the past few
days-tranquil, dreamy, dressed like a woman. Now she seemed
chilly to him somehow. And he did not like it. What could have
him, illogically, that the woman had failed somewhere. And he
did not like it : it had been his experience that when a person
failed he became a menace to other people; he feared the
tyranny of those who are in need. And he did not like what he
was seeing at all.
But he was also used to women "not having a thing to wear,"
and he wondered if what had happened was that she had just
ended up not finding anything better to wear than the old slacks;
he even wondered whether the condition of the farm had
reached the point at which the lady could not afford to make any
new clothes, because she had tried on her old ones and they had
not been right for her. Who could tell? Who knows? maybe it
was just a problem of clothes. He remembered the sad face of a
woman who did not have anything to wear. But what he really
did not like was the tired, chilly air of that woman, who looked
as if she had returned from a long and fruitless journey.
"You sent for me," he finally remembered to say.
She was silent for an instant, as if she had not heard. Then
The Apple in the Dark
she gave a sigh that was softer than her breathing. She closed her
eyes, opened them again. And she said :
"Francisco has piled up some branches and leaves in the back
of the yard, near the fence. They have to be burned."
I t was the first order for some days, and he looked at her with
curiosity. He was also feeling a bit of vanity : at any rate, she had
needed him again. Then he looked at her contentedly, with
disdain.
"So?" she said, seeing him standing there.
"When I get through in the cowshed," he retorted with the
soft insolence of a servant.
"No. Right now!"
"What do you mean 'right now'?" the man asked, surprised.
"They have to be burned right now," she said more calmly.
The leaves were thrown on top of the branches in a high pile
which the man felt had been put together too loosely : the force
of the fire when it got going would scatter the little pieces.
Martim shook his head, disagreeing with pleasure. He undid
everything and carefully began to build a tripod with the short,
thick branches. That took some time.
Then he skillfully intermingled the leaves and small pieces;
he put the green branches to one side, they were damp and
would not catch fire. And he lit the fire.
At first a wisp of dirty yellow smoke arose with no visible
sign of a flame. But soon little tongues of flame, quicker than
could be seen, were escaping from the grid of branches, and right
away they came into sight among the leaves. And soon the fire
was finally burning, the branches twisting under the surprise
attack, the hot leaves rapidly shriveling along their edges; and
everything suddenly began to crackle as if branches and leaves
had been reached all at the same time.
And soon with suffocating smoke and charred leaves dancing
in the air the air in the yard was unbreathable; the man was
working surely and precisely with his pitchfork. With mounting
skill and just at the right moment he pushed the things that
were trying to escape the heat back into the fire, removing the
unburned bark. There was an odor of smoked spices, and his
T H E A PPLE
I N T H E D A R K
nostrils could smell cinnamon and pepper; at the same time
there was an intimate smell of something animal that was
burning, something like the smell a bird's feathers have underneath its wing, but what was most distinct was a deep fragrance of hard bark turning into embers. The smoke was so heavy that
it took on the thick form of a spiral, even though the spiral
scattered in confusion six feet above the fire, hesitating, pushed
from one side to the other by the wind, which was also disoriented by the impulse of the smoke.