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.You eat the cold supper—liver, tomatoes, wine—with your right hand while holding the doll in your left.You eat mechanically, without noticing at first your own hypnotized attitude, but later you glimpse a reason for your oppressive sleep, your nightmare, and finally identify your sleep-walking movements with those of Aura and the old lady.You’re suddenly disgusted by that horrible little doll, in which you begin to suspect a secret illness, a contagion.You let it fall to the floor.You wipe your lips with the napkin, look at your watch, and remember that Aura is waiting for you in her room.You go cautiously up to Señora Consuelo’s door, but there isn’t a sound from within.You look at your watch again: it’s barely nine o’clock.You decide to feel your way down to that dark, roofed patio you haven’t been in since you came through it, without seeing anything, on the day you arrived here.You touch the damp, mossy walls, breathe the perfumed air, and try to isolate the different elements you’re breathing, to recognize the heavy, sumptuous aromas that surround you.The flicker of your match lights up the narrow, empty patio, where various plants are growing on each side in the loose, reddish earth.You can make out the tall, leafy forms that cast their shadows on the walls in the light of the match.But it burns down, singeing your fingers, and you have to light another one to finish seeing the flowers, fruits and plants you remember reading about in old chronicles, the forgotten herbs that are growing here so fragrantly and drowsily: the long, broad, downy leaves of the henbane; the twining stems with flowers that are yellow outside, red inside; the pointed, heart-shaped leaves of the nightshade; the ash-colored down of the grape-mullein with its clustered flowers; the bushy gatheridge with its white blossoms; the belladonna.They come to life in the flare of your match, swaying gently with their shadows, while you recall the uses of these herbs that dilate the pupils, alleviate pain, reduce the pangs of childbirth, bring consolation, weaken the will, induce a voluptuous calm.You’re all alone with the perfumes when the third match burns out.You go up to the hallway slowly, listen again at Señora Consuelo’s door, then tiptoe on to Aura’s.You push it open without knocking and go into that bare room, where a circle of light reveals the bed, the huge Mexican crucifix, and the woman who comes toward you when the door is closed.Aura is dressed in green, in a green taffeta robe from which, as she approaches, her moon-pale thighs reveal themselves.The woman, you repeat as she comes close, the woman, not the girl of yesterday: the girl of yesterday—you touch Aura’s fingers, her waist—couldn’t have been more than twenty; the woman of today—you caress her loose black hair, her pallid cheeks—seems to be forty.Between yesterday and today, something about her green eyes has turned hard; the red of her lips has strayed beyond their former outlines, as if she wanted to fix them in a happy grimace, a troubled smile; as if, like that plant in the patio, her smile combined the taste of honey and the taste of gall.You don’t have time to think of anything more.“Sit down on the bed, Felipe.”“Yes.”“We’re going to play.You don’t have to do anything.Let me do everything myself.”Sitting on the bed, you try to make out the source of that diffuse, opaline light that hardly lets you distinguish the objects in the room, and the presence of Aura, from the golden atmosphere that surrounds them.She sees you looking up, trying to find where it comes from.You can tell from her voice that she’s kneeling down in front of you.“The sky is neither high nor low.It’s over us and under us at the same time.”She takes off your shoes and socks and caresses your bare feet.You feel the warm water that bathes the soles of your feet, while she washes them with a heavy cloth, now and then casting furtive glances at that Christ carved from black wood [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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