Last Night of Carnival

A geometry of fragmented suns invades the bedroom. And she is alone, lying indolent and half naked on that bed, two days now. She scarcely moves, so great is the heat, and gets up only now and then to eat something or mix a drink, or to look for a book or magazine to amuse herself and break the boredom. She sleeps late into the morning when the breeze cools the room a little, when the loudspeaker music and the nightlifers' noise have ended, but about eleven she already begins to feel the heat, then gets up, showers, puts on a touch of perfume, and goes back to bed. She eats almost nothing, fruit, a snack, yogurt or a sandwich.

There is nowhere to escape the heat, not even in the kitchen, which faces north, the coolest part of the house. The fans no longer help. But she has no reason to get up, she has been alone for some days. When he returns, she will have to pick up her normal rhythm, but for now she can give herself up to doing nothing and forget the housework. During the siesta she fans herself as she listens to the birds sing in the trees. She is so tired. When she stops fanning herself, her face and chest feel hot and suffocated. She doesn't know what is better, to stir the air or to lie still. She doesn't know. She believes she deserves this kind of "vacation." She's had so many years with Jorge, years at his side, waiting on him and spoiling him, loving only him. Because in her life there's been no man but Jorge, and she wonders if all men are alike, all like Jorge, so sweet and affectionate, so friendly and anxious to please, always dependent on her. Movies and novels can't be trusted, they put what they want in them, a character is one thing and a husband, a man of flesh and blood, is another.

She picks up a fashion magazine and begins to browse, turns the pages distractedly, and chooses models at random, fantasizes in this or that evening dress, checks her hips and finds them firm and rounded, also her breasts she knows are pretty, her breasts are Jorge's, her hips are, she's all Jorge's and nobody else's. And he belongs to her, too, and no other woman will have him, ever. They belong exclusively to each other because they love each other. It's so hot despite the breeze off the sea; worse, it makes the air muggy and briny, and sometimes carries a slight odor of rotting fish.

She covers herself, throws a robe over her shoulders and goes out onto the balcony, she can't sleep because of the noise, Below, groups of men and women, some disguised, are playing around, chasing to pour jars of water over one another. She thinks that small group of foreigners who are curiously watching the spectacle could never understand a carnival on this side of the world, in mid-summer, where being doused is a game. Now and then a boat brings a group of tourists, it's a puzzle what you can find in this part of the world, in this tiny city with no attractions. A young woman runs, chased by a boy disguised as a scarecrow, she's dressed as an old woman, her costume rather tattered after so many carivals and her yarn wig crushed. She never goes disguised, she remembers having done it only on two occasions, when she was a girl, but preferred never to do it again, changing personality for a couple of hours, or days, feeling as if an outside force overcame her, impelling her to live a life that wasn't her own; then, when she married Jorge such an idea never crossed her mind, he's too serious to think of such a thing. She remembers the night a young man followed her, just as they're following girls now on the street under her balcony, to throw water at her until her face and breasts were wet; she remembers, not without blushing, her wet blouse clinging to her breasts and clearly accenting them, white and quivering from running, and the boy stopped beside her staring at her and laughing until he abruptly became serious when he saw her round breasts under the transparent cloth. She remembers his eyes reflecting desire for an instant and then, quickly, joy again. She would like to throw a streamer or confetti from the balcony, join the party with the others. It's not possible, that's not her way, and Jorge would never allow it.

A group of masqueraders go up the street, coming from the port. They are dressed in loud colors of shiny material, their faces hidden under animal masks, singing and dancing to whistles, rattles, and other instruments. She cannot recognize anyone. Surely among the disguises there's some friend, perhaps Flavia, who is crazy about these popular fiestas and always invites her along. Flavia is a young liberal and very lovely, perhaps too liberal, that's Jorge's opinion. She looks at the bare feet of the dancers, as if wanting to recognize someone familiar, then she stares attentively at the bodies and their way of moving, but it is impossible to figure out anybody's identity: the disguises hide them well. A group of sailors passes below, along the sidewalk opposite, all disguised in those white blue-trimmed uniforms with the enormous collar falling over their backs. They're young and their faces are filled with the joy of youth with no care for tomorrow. One, the one who has a bold tattoo on his arm turns his face to the balcony and sees her. She feels caught and too bold, he smiles at her, she draws her robe tight, feeling as if she were naked, and backs quickly into the room. She throws herself on the bed and lights a cigarette. Jorge won't be back for a couple of days. She has long since grown used to his absences, to his job selling hardware. She thinks her husband is like the sailors, always traveling, with a love in every port. She smiles at such a crazy thought: Jorge is incapable of enjoying any other woman, he's different from other men, as she is from other women.

And she fans herself in the burning afternoon, thinking of Jorge, of his return and of the dress she'll put on to greet him. But her thoughts drift toward the street, toward the carnival with its noises and costumes, its bustle of couples and the fleeting joy a little drink brings on. What was Flavia doing at this moment? Perhaps she's flirting with some boy. She mixes a drink and sets it beside the bed, on the night table. She drinks and fans her half-naked body as she distractedly runs through a magazine because she can't concentrate with so much to-do in the street and she can't close the windows because she'd suffocate. For a moment she feels annoyed and lets the magazine fall to the floor, with her glass in hand goes back to the window, notes that it's getting dark and that the first lights go on and light up the masquerades with a yellowish glow which makes the masks even more grotesque. This time she takes no care to throw her robe over her shoulders, the shadows of the balcony and half-closed blinds protect her from possible gazes. She looks out onto the street, bending her body over the railing and looks below; the people seem to have multiplied with the darkness; as if obeying the call of the night they have come out of their houses to join the crowd. Perhaps the heat is not so heavy now that the sun has gone down. She takes a sip and notes that the drink is already warm, goes back inside to leave the glass and passing the mirror sees her slim body, stops an instant and caresses it, loosens her black hair which falls over her bare shoulders, goes back to the balcony. She glances at the place where she saw the sailors and in their place she sees a group of boys and girls who are chatting happily. Her heart feels a pang of disillusion, like a note struck off-key inside her, and she withdraws. She goes to the dresser and takes a small packet from one of the drawers, unwraps it and tosses its content on the bed--a red velvet bow, a pair of blue plastic bracelets, and a silver mask, the only souvenirs of her youth, of those nights also hot and humid when she went in costume with Flavia and her friends and the whole gang went out into the streets to be followed by the boys. Flavia dressed in a Twenties outfit, cut just below the waist, edged in long fringes, with a slit up one side exposing a long shapely leg. She puts the bracelets on, the red ribbon in her disheveled hair, and the mask, and studies herself in the mirror: The feeble light from the only lit lamp tints her figure a soft yellow like the yellow figures on the street, she smiles, adopts affected poses and remembers those long ago nights, she seems to feel the spurt of water over her breasts and face and she makes a big show of covering her breasts with her hands to protect them from their glances, she imagines she sees a vaguely sly smile, like a diagonal wound in the glass itself, she in turn smiles and extends her hands to trap it, that's when the smile dissolves, satisfied seeing his wife dancing before the mirror in that silver mask, he doesn't recognize her, a woman with a mask becomes all women possible to love for a furtive instant. She twirls on tiptoe and very slowly unties the silk knot and removes her mask. Jorge's smile disappears and his face turns sullen, his soft gaze turns harsh, losing its glow. She halts, stops whirling, takes off the hair ribbon, the bracelets, sinks onto the bed, indolent, pained by memory and fantasy, feeling a little guilty. She listens. The music and shouting in the street resound clearly.

Fireworks break in red, green and yellow breaths over the panes and light up the room, the bed quivers slightly like her whole body also tinted with tenuous colors. A thought, a recollection flashes: the image of that sailor who smiled at her from the street, and that smile fuses with another long-ago one: the image of the boy who had doused her at carnivals when she was a girl. Both smiles fuse in her mind and make a tremor run through her body, which vibrates with each explosion outside, with each red lightning jag that tinges her deshabille with hot tones. And the heat's so intense . . . her body is covered with tiny drops of perspiration that make her underwear and the sheets stick to her skin.

She gets up, the room is dark, the fireworks are over now. She goes to the balcony, casts a glance at the street as if to verify that the ruckus really comes from out there, under her window, then decides to shower. After her bath, naked, she slowly begins to dress. She has chosen a soft light dress, ephemeral as clouds. She combs her hair, crowns it with that bow red as the dress, puts on the mask, and gazes long at herself in the mirror. She feels so distant from Jorge, distracted and absent--that doesn't surprise her because the anonymity of the mask gives her a superior power. She checks her purse for money. For an instant she ponders before she goes to bedroom door. Before leaving, she glances at the clock on the night table--it's two in the morning.

Once in the street, feeling all the vertigo of the people around her, she quickly signals a taxi. She tells the driver to take her to the park, then immediately changes her mind: no, to the harbor. She's sure that there, by the ocean, she'll feel more alone since the crowd jams downtown. The driver wants to talk, but, fearful she'll give her voice away, she answers with monosyllables and smiles.

The harbor is deserted. The enormous silhouettes of the cranes are etched against the night like gigantic crouching insects. The enormous merchant ships, dark and rusted, seem like dead animals tied to the wharfs, floating silently. She's not really sure what she's doing here. She's only sure of one thing, that she is another person, she is not Jorge's wife, but that other nimble young girl who ran from the boys to keep them from dousing her with water. She walks along the wharfs, following the water's edge and looking at the ships, reading their names, which evoke far-off lands and desired women. Beyond, she can see the offices and the arched roofs of the shipyard against the night. Above, on the hill, a dome of brightness threatens the carnival. At intervals a petard bursts in the distance.

There you can breathe, you don't feel the heat, in fact a light breeze roams sweetly over her body and sways her dress. Stirred by the breeze she begins to dance, she feels that another girl inside her drives her to do these things, she's so light in this gauzy dress that she feels like a cloud. She runs as if invisible boys pursue her and she laughs letting her laughter resound in the solitude of the port and heads toward the arched roofs. There it is darker and she draws back a bit. She stops dancing and walks under the arches, her naked legs, caressed by the sea breeze, somewhat tremorous. The silence is endless and relaxing . . .

From behind a column a dark silhouette with a dot of red light emerges. She halts, frightened, the smile on her mouth only a second ago vanishes. She knows her mask protects her, the girl within has courage now. Her heart seems to want to leap from her chest and her legs are paralyzed. The silhouette nears to within a few yards, he throws the red light to the ground and steps on it. He speaks to her, but she makes out no words, she knows only that it's a man's voice, a boy's, perhaps Jorge's voice, though she knows that's impossible, he's on a trip to another city, this silhouettes is a man's she doesn't know. She lowers her head when she feels that presence very close to her body, she dares not look into his face until she's sure he's not aware that she has a mask on. Then she remembers that she is not herself but another woman, the youth filled with life who wanders under the fireworks fleeing from the boys. She raises her head and at once recognizes that smile, that blue-bordered collar spread over the back. Confused, she feels a strange smile on her lips and at the same time an arm around her. Is it you, Jorge? she asks herself, but the sailor cannot hear her, he merely smiles as he presses closer and closer against her. She feels other flesh pressed against hers, an unfamiliar anonymous flesh, and perceives a slight smell of salt and iodine. Like lightning, like a burst of fireworks before her eyes, she sees a tattoo with multicolored flowers emerge from the dark, on a dark forearm. Eyes fix on hers and run over her body. She feels naked, with that wet outfit that accents her quivering breasts, she knows she cannot escape because the night detains her with its tattooed arm, she knows that those devouring eyes also protect her from the enormous insects which stand beside the wharf dozing by the sea. Close to her face there is breathing, like a hot fanning which does not bother her now, but causes that shiver like a reverberation of fireworks bursting under her wet skin. Fingers find her hips as a timid hand reaches out and fuses with hers, she can feel skin tough from salt and the harsh sea winds. Close to her ear resound murmurs of hot waves enclosed in the man's mouth, like the sounds of snails, she make out no words, she knows only that they are tender like those hands and arms that clasp her closer and closer to that anonymous body.

And the breeze is so gentle that she fears nothing, not even those who chase her to douse her with water, because little by little the breeze becomes a whirlwind, sucking her down into forgotten and unfamiliar regions, leaving the port and shipyard behind, erasing all memory of that bored woman fanning herself on this apathetic last night of carnival. She can make out only the words accompanying that vertigo, fireworks bursting against her body, spurts of cool water over her breasts, music in her throat, and flowers tattooed on her skin. A burst of lights confirms that she is no longer the girl fused with that stranger's arms. A voice asks her name. "Flavia," she says, slipping easily from him. She is saturated with carnival. "Flavia," she repeats softly as she goes running along the wharf.

 

Translated by H. E. Francis

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