Blue Eyes

An Excerpt from Another Voice

Gabriela Ruivo Trindade
Translated by Andrew McDougall

Fourth Voice (Maria Filomena)
Estremoz, 3 April 1974

Since my Zé went to war, things have been tough for me. A dizziness in my head I can barely stay on my feet with, an unbearable ringing in my ear. And then that agony that never passes: I can’t eat anything but soup and even then I get a bitter taste on my tongue, an anxiety rising from my stomach that almost feels like my guts coming to my mouth.

My Lídia has looked after me. Her and Maria, who is like a sister to me. Without them, I don’t know what would be of me. Lídia sometimes even spends the night here so Maria can rest. It upsets me to be a burden. She has her own life, kids to look after, and life has already given her enough grief. She was widowed four years ago, the poor thing. Such a terrible grief I don’t even want to remember it. Luís was like a son to me. The son of my cousin Lúcia. My Lídia, poor darling, fell apart. Only I know what she went through, only I know. So, for that reason, I don’t want to be a burden. Lídia needs to remake her life. For so long I saw her wilt like a flower. A pitiful sadness. And what could be worse for a mother than the sadness of her child? That’s why, for a while now, I’ve noticed that little glimmer in her eye. I pretended I hadn’t realized so I wouldn’t embarrass her. She’s still a young woman, she needs a man by her side, and Armando is a good fellow. He works with her in the tobacconist, he’s Cravinho’s son, good people. A long time ago I noticed the glances he cast towards my daughter and I didn’t like it. But Lídia was always very serious. Now it’s different, she’s not a married woman anymore. And the most important thing is that she’s happy. He could even be a con artist and, if he made my daughter happy, I’d be grateful to him. But my Lídia would never be infatuated with a con artist.

Sometimes she wants to tell me but doesn’t know how. She’s scared I’ll disapprove. That’s why I pretend I don’t know. It’s better this way: she thinks I don’t even suspect, but really I’m sick of knowing. Our children have no idea how well we know them. And perhaps that’s even a good thing.

I still remember punishing the children. On these occasions, it was only bread and water all afternoon and then straight to bed without dinner. How they suffered, poor things! You see how our hearts soften in our old age. I wouldn’t be capable of such things today, but in those days it was like that. Later Maria would take them bread and butter in bed. They thought I didn’t see. People only don’t see what they don’t want to. I pretended I didn’t see! My heart ached just thinking about how hungry they must have been. So I was relieved when Maria guessed what troubled my soul without me having to tell her anything and took them something or other to eat. She was always like that, was Maria. Sometimes she seemed to read my thoughts. It’s tough raising children alone, without the support of a man. It’s the father’s responsibility to punish the children. But when there’s no father? It had to be me, mother and father at the same time. And God knows with what sacrifice. That urge to hug them and pardon their misbehavior, but the trouble was, the children have to learn how to behave as they should, and who is going to teach them? It had to be me, then.

My Zé gave me all sorts of problems. He was a boy, that’s what he was. He wasn’t interested in his studies, and I didn’t know what to do with him. If it wasn’t for my Uncle Mariano … Here I am saying I never had the support of a man, but it’s a lie. I never had a husband, but my Uncle Mariano was like a father to me. I owe him everything. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know what would have become of me and my children. He even gave them his name. His name.

That boy gave me so much trouble … Then one day he changed and I couldn’t believe it. I still remember when he told me he wanted to be a doctor. I thought he was joking. That little rascal who never went near a book wanted to be a doctor? I later realized I was the one who was mistaken. He’d spent many whole afternoons shut in the library, and reading who knows what. I still blush now when I remember. But I laugh too, on the inside, I do. One day I found him with one of those books of Uncle Mariano’s in his hands. I don’t know where he found them, nor do I want to know. I remember seeing them as a young girl on the shelf in the living room, in the other house. The color of the cover caught my attention, it’s a green that’s not quite green, almost blue. It seems to have its own light, that color. Once, Maria and I opened one of those books secretly. And oh, what we saw! It almost shames me! The worst was when they caught us. My Aunt Vitória was livid. I remember hearing them argue, her and Uncle Mariano, with my ear pressed to the door of my room. Aunt Vitória, uncharacteristically, was speaking so loudly that you could hear her on the floor above.

But what shameful things do you bring to this house? A man of your standing … Where did you get them? At least get them out of here and keep them well hidden! It’s dangerous for the children, can’t you see?

Uncle Mariano grumbled something, but the truth is that the books disappeared. I reckon he hid them in his room. I only happened to see them again when we moved here, in some boxes. It must have been Aunt Vitória who tucked them away up there on one of the shelves near the ceiling. And there they stayed.

Well, one day I went into the library and found my Zé with one of these books on his lap, so absorbed in reading that he didn’t even notice me. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to get out of there, but it was already too late. He lifted his eyes and blushed. He wasn’t a little boy anymore, he would have been fifteen by then. I couldn’t think of anything to say; I knew I had to be angry and punish him, but no sound came from my throat. Those books have some kind of power that left my mind blank. Maybe it was the memory of what I saw as a child and never forgot: a man and a woman completely naked. The color still rushes to my face when I remember it. Zé looked at me and I saw the fear in his eyes. And, for the first time, my son spoke to me as a man:

Sorry, mamã. It’s not what you’re thinking. I … I’ve been looking through these books because I want to become a doctor. And I’ve already learned a lot, names of illnesses, things like that. Punish me if you want, mamã, but that won’t change my desire to be a doctor.

He had closed the book. I reached out my hand and he gave it to me, ashamed. I pulled over the side ladder and climbed two steps to put it back in its place. Then I descended and faced him. That had given me time to think of what to say.

Very good, son. And what are your plans to follow this dream?

I don’t know, mamã. But I can work. To help pay for my studies.

His eyes shimmered with fear and determination. I smiled on the inside. My son, my little boy who had given me so much trouble, was a man, finally.

Very well. I’ll talk to Uncle Carmelo …

Mamã, I’d prefer the tobacconist, or Uncle Eduardo’s shop.

That’s fine. Tomorrow I’ll talk to António to see if they need an assistant. As for the books, when you start your studies, you can consult them. Until then, it’s best they remain where they are. Understood?

There’s no way to free me from this agony. I haven’t gotten out of bed for two months. I’ve never been so ill. Doctor Amaro prescribed me some pills, but he said it wasn’t anything to worry about. My Lídia reckons it’s my nerves. I doubt it. I suspect they want to spare me the truth. Sometimes it’s a pain, sometimes a tightness, as if I had a dagger stuck in my heart. Always, always, thinking of my Zé. Who knows if I’ll see him again. I don’t think I’ll be able to bear this much longer. What torments me is that he might die before me. I shudder just thinking about that. I’m always expecting bad news.

My grandchildren have been looking after me too. They really are my friends, God bless them. João Luís is getting taller all the time, almost a man. Maria da Luz is the spit of her mother, except the color of her eyes. My Lídia’s eyes are blue, beautiful.

Oh, that blue. Those eyes.

I don’t want to remember this now. It’s so hard …

I was still a young girl when I fell for those eyes. A blue like I’d never seen. It seemed they had the entire sky inside them. I dreamed about them. I’d see them in the dark, before falling asleep. I saw them everywhere, all the time.

I didn’t like going to mass one bit. I’d get really bored during the sermons. It made me so sleepy that sometimes my eyes almost shut. So, to see if it’d wake me up, I’d look around at the columns, stone walls, and stained-glass windows. One day my eyes caught his by chance, and they smiled at me. I was enchanted by that blue.

The boy was much older than me, but back then he had a boy’s slender body and the flute-like voice of a young girl. A beautiful voice that sang in the choir. Mass soon stopped being so boring. I would imagine touching his face with the tips of my fingers. Or giving him a sisterly kiss, on the cheek. Or that he kissed me. I didn’t know what I was feeling, I was a child.

At some point that boy’s body became a man’s. It was sudden, almost from one day to the next. His voice changed and lost that angelic tone. He stopped being a choirboy and moved on to assist Father Júlio with the mass. I dared then to look at him, and those eyes burned me. They smiled at me, and the smile was acid.

I was enthralled. I was becoming a young woman, but I never looked at another boy. It was a sickness. A sickness from which I never healed. I never healed …

Those eyes. My Lídia’s eyes.

God forgive me, I don’t even know if they’re his, her eyes. I never knew.

I was so scared. Scared that everyone would see the shout of that love that suffocated me. A love that killed me inside. Every night I dreamed about him. A madness that would be my damnation.

My happiness was hostage to those eyes.

During the years he went to the seminary in Évora, I thought I’d die. I cried like a widow. I swore I’d never give my heart to anyone else, that I’d love him until death.

Oh, the years of youth …

He returned when Father Júlio died, to take his place. At that time, he must have been nearly thirty, and I in my early twenties.

He was different: he left a boy and came back a man. I went crazy. I had suffered so much in his absence. So many things had happened: my aunt’s death, my uncle’s journey, so much sorrow. My heart was in tatters. But now it seemed it would beat again. Breathe again. I wanted to live. I’d had enough of pain and death.

The church was old and in need of repairs, so we had the idea of having an Easter sale to raise money. A few of us young women made embroideries and lace. The sale was a success, and we repeated it at other festive times.

He and I were never alone, but those brief moments when we exchanged half a dozen words about the organization of events, finances, or how the preparations were going, were for me a true paradise. Without witnesses, only during confession: I could hardly raise my eyes, despite the protection of the perforated wood which allowed a glimpse of his sparkling eyes, subtly darkened by the shadows of the crimson curtains. I stammered out half a dozen sins with a knot in my throat and my heart pounding, afraid he could hear the beats. When I stopped talking and it was his turn to speak, giving me a sermon and my penance, he did it in such a tender tone that his voice was a caress, and the Our Fathers and Hail Marys he gave me tasted like kisses.

The floats for the processions were old, the fabrics yellowed and faded. Likewise the shroud of Our Lady. I volunteered myself to repair it. And one day it happened, one time when we were alone in the sacristy: he came up to me and kissed me. I felt his hands grabbing my shoulders, the firmness of his lips unlocking mine and his tongue invading my mouth. I was startled. I had longed many times for the touch of his lips, but never for that. I had dreamed of a kiss that was caring and soft, not of a tongue wriggling around like a reptile inside my mouth. With difficulty I extricated myself from that hug and fled, panic-stricken. I swore it wouldn’t happen again.

That night, however, I couldn’t sleep for remembering the heat of his mouth. It set my whole body tingling. With some distance, his saliva became honey and the force of his hands a gentle hug. A strange, secret shudder within me. That kiss awoke a hurricane in my chest. It didn’t take much for me to be yearning feverishly for another.

After that encounter came others, always stolen in the few minutes we could be alone in the sacristy. I more or less knew when he tended to be by himself and I found myself arranging excuses to go to the church at those times. Still, the unease didn’t pass, rather it increased. An unease that moved in my bowels when he grabbed me with those eagle hands and threw me, almost violently, in the air. My mouth would start hurting. I’d end up leaving, swearing never to return, but later the fear died in my chest and in its place was born a terrible longing. A longing that didn’t let me think, that blinded me, that drove me crazy.

One time, after confession, he whispered a time for me to return that evening. Half past seven. I was terrified. I didn’t want to go. At the same time, I wanted to. I went home as if sleepwalking. Until the last minute I repeated to myself that I wouldn’t go; and then at around twenty-five past seven, with my uncle already sat at the table for dinner, I grabbed my knitting bag and mumbled some excuse or other. That I’d arranged to meet the priest to take the shroud of Our Lady and check it and I’d just realized I’d forgotten. It might well wait until the next day, but the poor priest would be waiting for me. Even so, Uncle Mariano asked if I couldn’t send Maria, which I intercepted by saying that this way I could take the measurements myself and the matter would be settled. And I shot out the door, but not without guaranteeing that I would still be back in time to join him for dessert.

I was twenty-five years old. I remember it as if it were yesterday. The unsteady steps towards the church. I wanted to turn back, but a strange force pushed me onwards. I felt I might faint. Flashes of light blurred my vision. When I arrived at the church, my heart was in my mouth. You could hear the beating in the pillory. Just as well there was no one around at such an hour. It was dinner time.

I pushed the door and it moved slowly. Inside you could grasp the darkness with your hands, everything tangled in a funereal silence. My steps echoed off the high walls. The candlelight threw ghostly shadows on the stone columns. I walked slowly between the wooden benches. The humidity stroked my face like the breath of a scared animal. The smell of wax made me nauseous.