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305 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1964
‘The smell of vanilla was no longer vanilla, it was vibrations.’
‘Gilbert took in her sunken cheeks and thin, trembling hands. “You are very beautiful, Madame Mitre,” he said, convinced that tragedy beautifies its characters. The light enveloping the woman before him was a light that fed off of her. Her whole being burned inside some invisible, luminous flames. He had the impression that soon he would see her no more. He admired the charred bones of her cheeks and translucent fingers. When, and how, and why had she entered that beautiful, suicidal dimension? He felt vulgar beside this peach-dressed lady who was transmuting a little more each day into an incandescent substance that was forbidden to him.’
‘We were always poor, sir, and always unhappy, but not so unhappy as now, when woe runs rampant through my rooms and corrals. I know that evil can arise any time and take any shape—I was crossing the Plaza de los Héroes, it was growing dark, and the ruckus of birds in the laurels was starting to die down. It had gotten late. What might my children be doing now, I wondered as I walked along. I had been traveling to Cuernavaca since dawn. I was in a hurry to get home because my husband, as happens when a woman marries badly, drinks, and when I am away he starts to beat my children. He doesn’t mess with my sons anymore, they’re big now, sir, and God forbid it but they could hit him right back. But he is brutal with the girls. I had just turned off the street that leads down from the market when the rain caught me. It rained so much that rivers swelled along the curb.’
‘Suddenly, in the elevator, I realized it was absurd for me to remember her, because I had never been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, nor even to New York. She must be a gringa, and I must have seen her around here…I thought, smiling to myself. I looked at her again. She kept her eyes fixed on the panel, very serious. Her skin shone like a camellia—she wasn’t wearing makeup. How pretty! I thought, and I felt wretched. A light blue vein ran up her neck like a delicate path and disappeared—I’ve seen that path before, I thought, feeling cold delight waft over the back of my neck. I remembered the balcony: it was narrow, made of stone, and she was there. I approached from behind to kiss the blue vein on her neck, which melded with a sky that barely entered through the narrow opening of the tower. Before my lips could reach her skin, she threw herself over the ledge.’
‘—in the still afternoon, with the giant fly that landed on the giant wound and cleaned its feet. In our sleep, without our noticing, we passed from one day into the other and lost the day we were dogs. “Don’t be scared, we’re dogs…” I said. But Eva knew that was no longer true. We had discovered that man’s heaven was not the same as dog heaven. Dogs didn’t share in our crime and bloodshed.’