Allende, I made another call to find out. When I spoke with the housemaid, she told me
she didn’t know when Maria would return. So I asked her for the address of the farm.
That same night I wrote a desperate letter, asking her when she would come back from
the farm, and asking her to call me, or write to me, when she returned to Buenos Aires. I
went to the Post Office and I had it certified to make sure she would get it.
As I said, those days were very hectic and, over and over again, those negative ideas
that tormented me after my encounter with Allende kept coming back to upset me. I also
had a dream: one night I visited an isolated old house. It was a house that somehow was
familiar to me and that I had longed for since I was born, and when I entered it some old
memories returned. But at times I felt lost in the darkness, or I was afraid that there were
hidden enemies who might attack me from behind, or people that were whispering and
making fun of my naivety. Who were those people and what did they want? And yet, in
spite of everything, in that house I felt the love I had as a child come back again, with the
same tremors, and that gentle sensation of madness, as well as the feeling of happiness.
When I woke up, I realized that the house in my dream was Maria.
XV
In the days before the her letter arrived my thoughts resembled those of a lost explorer
in a misty landscape; here and there, with great effort, he was able to make out the vague
outlines of people and things, the vague silhouette of dangers and abysses. The arrival of
the letter was like when the sun came out.
But it was a black sun, a nocturnal sun. I don’t know if one can say that but, although I
am not a writer and I am not sure of my precision, I wouldn’t change the word nocturnal.
Among all of the words that are part of our imperfect language, that word was, I think,
the most appropriate one for Maria
This is the letter she sent me:
I have spent three very strange days: the sea, the beach, the roads, were bringing back
memories of others days. Not only images, but also voices, shouts and long silences of
other days. It is strange, but living is constructing future memories. Right now, here in
front of the sea, I know that I am creating small memories that someday will bring me
melancholy and despair.
The ocean out there is permanent and enraged. My former tears, useless; the times I
waited on an isolated beach looking tenaciously at the sea, also useless. Have you ever
felt and painted this memory of mine, or have you painted the memory of many other
people like you and me?
But now your figure steps in between; you are there, between the sea and me. My eyes
meet yours. You are silent, a little disconsolate, and you look at me asking for help.
Maria
How well I understood, and what wonderful feelings this letter awakened in me! Also,
the fact that she used the familiar word “tu,” instead of the more formal “usted,” gave me
the certainty that she was mine. And only mine: “you are there between the sea and me;”
there was no one else, only the two of us, like I had intuited since she looked at the scene
in the window. If fact, how could she not use the familiar form of speech if we had
always known each other since more than a thousand years ago? If she stopped in front
of my painting and looked at that little scene without either seeing or hearing the crowd
of people around us, it had to be because we had always known each other, and I
immediately knew who she was and what she was like, just like I needed her and she also
needed me.
Ah, and however I killed you! It was I who killed you, I who saw your silent and
anxious face, as though through a wall of glass, without being able to touch it. It was I,
so stupid, so blind, so egotistical, so cruel!
But that’s enough outpouring of emotion. I said I would tell this story very concisely,
and that’s what I will do.
XVI
I loved Maria desperately, and nevertheless the word love was never spoken between
us. I anxiously awaited her return from the country so I could say it.
But she didn’t return. While the days were passing, a strange sort of madness began to
grow inside me. Then I wrote a second letter where I told her simply: “I love you, Maria,
I love you, I love you.”
After two more days, I finally received a reply that said only this: “I am afraid of doing
you great harm.” I wrote back right away: “I don’t care what you could do to me. If I
could not love you, I would die. Every second I spend without seeing you is an endless
torture for me.”
More dreadful days passed, but there was no response from Maria. Desperate, I wrote:
“You are trampling on our love.”
The next day on the telephone I finally heard her voice, distant and tremulous. Except
for the word Maria, which I said over and over, I couldn’t say anything else, nor would I
have been able to, since my throat was so choked up I could not say anything distinctly.
She told me:
“I am coming back to Buenos Aires tomorrow. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”
The next day in the afternoon she called me from her house.
“I want to see you right away,” I told her.
“Yes, we can see each right away,” she responded.
“I’ll wait for you at San Martin plaza,” I said.
Maria seemed to hesitate. Then she answered:
“I would prefer Recoleta. I’ll be there at eight o’clock.”
How I had longed for that moment!; and how I wandered around through the streets so
that time would pass more quickly! What tenderness I felt in my heart, how beautiful the
world seemed to me, the summer afternoon, the children playing on the sidewalk! Now I
realize how much love blinds us, and what a magical power of transformation it has. The
great beauty of the world! Yes, it’s enough to make you die of laughter.
It was just a few minutes after eight when I saw Maria approaching, looking for me in
the darkness. It was already too dark to see her face, but I could tell it was her by the
way she walked.