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ALL OF A SUDDEN SHE NOTICED that her beauty had fallen all apart onher, that it had begun to pain her physically like a tumor or acancer. She still remembered the weight of the privilege she hadborne over her body during adolescence, which she had droppednow--who knows where?--with the weariness of resignation, with thefinal gesture of a declining creature. It was impossible to bearthat burden any longer. She had to drop that useless attribute ofher personality somewhere; as she turned a corner, somewhere in theoutskirts. Or leave it behind on the coatrack of a second-raterestaurant like some old useless coat. She was tired of being thecenter of attention, of being under siege from men's long looks. Atnight, when insomnia stuck its pins into her eyes, she would haveliked to be an ordinary woman, without any special attraction.Everything was hostile to her within the four walls of her room.Desperate, she could feel her vigil spreading out under her skin,into her head, pushing the fever upward toward the roots of herhair. It was as if her arteries had become peopled with hot, tinyinsects who, with the approach of dawn, awoke each day and ranabout on their moving feet in a rending subcutaneous adventure inthat place of clay made fruit where her anatomical beauty had foundits home. In vain she struggled to chase those terrible creaturesaway. She couldn't. They were part of her own organism. They'd beenthere, alive, since much before her physical existence. They camefrom the heart of her father, who had fed them painfully during hisnights of desperate solitude. Or maybe they had poured into herarteries through the cord that linked her to her mother ever sincethe beginning of the world. There was no doubt that those insectshad not been born spontaneously inside her body. She knew that theycame from back there, that all who bore her surname had to bearthem, had to suffer them as she did when insomnia heldunconquerable sway until dawn. It was those very insects whopainted that bitter expression, that unconsolable sadness on thefaces of her forebears. She had seen them looking out of theirextinguished existence, out of their ancient portraits, victims ofthat same anguish. She still remembered the disquieting face of thegreatgrandmother who, from her aged canvas, begged for a minute ofrest, a second of peace from those insects who there, in thechannels of her blood, kept on martyrizing her, pitilesslybeautifying her. No. Those insects didn't belong to her. They came,transmitted from generation to generation, sustaining with theirtiny armor all the prestige of a select caste, a painfully selectgroup. Those insects had been born in the womb of the first womanwho had had a beautiful daughter. But it was necessary, urgent, toput a stop to that heritage. Someone must renounce the eternaltransmission of that artificial beauty. It was no good for women ofher breed to admire themselves as they came back from their mirrorsif during the night those creatures did their slow, effective,ceaseless work with a constancy of centuries. It was no longerbeauty, it was a sickness that had to be halted, that had to be cutoff in some bold and radical way.

She still remembered the endless hours spent on that bed sown withhot needles. Those nights when she tried to speed time along sothat with the arrival of daylight the beasts would stop hurtingher. What good was beauty like that? Night after night, sunken inher desperation, she thought it would have been better for her tohave been an ordinary woman, or a man. But that useless virtue wasdenied her, fed by insects of remote origin who were hastening theirrevocable arrival of her death. Maybe she would have been happyif she had had the same lack of grace, that same desolate ugliness,as her Czechoslovakian friend who had a dog's name. She would havebeen better off ugly, so that she could sleep peacefully like anyother Christian.

She cursed her ancestors. They were to blame for her insomnia. Theyhad transmitted that exact, invariable beauty, as if after deathmothers shook and renewed their heads in order to graft them ontothe trunks of their daughters. It was as if the same head, a singlehead, had been continuously transmitted, with the same ears, thesame nose, the identical mouth, with its weighty intelligence, toall the women who were to receive it irremediably like a painfulinheritance of beauty. It was there, in the transmission of thehead, that the eternal microbe that came through across generationshad been accentuated, had taken on personality, strength, until itbecame an invincible being, an incurable illness, which uponreaching her, after having passed through a complicated process ofjudgment, could no longer be borne and was bitter and painful . .. just like a tumor or a cancer.

It was during those hours of wakefulness that she remembered thethings disagreeable to her fine sensibility. She remembered theobjects that made up the sentimental universe where, as in achemical stew, those microbes of despair had been cultivated.During those nights, with her big round eves open and frightened,she bore the weight of the darkness that fell upon her temples likemolten lead. Everything was asleep around her. And from her corner,in order to bring on sleep, she tried to go back over her childhoodmemories.

But that remembering always ended with a terror of the unknown.Always, after wandering through the dark corners of the house, herthoughts would find themselves face to face with fear. Then thestruggle would begin. The real struggle against three unmovableenemies. She would never--no, she would never--be able to shake thefear from her head. She would have to bear it as it clutched at herthroat. And all just to live in that ancient mansion, to sleepalone in that corner, away from the rest of the world.

Her thoughts always went down along the damp, dark passageways,shaking the dry cobweb-covered dust off the portraits. Thatdisturbing and fearsome dust that fell from above, from the placewhere the bones of her ancestors were falling apart. Invariably sheremembered the "boy." She imagined him there, sleepwalking underthe grass in the courtyard beside the orange tree, a handful of wetearth in his mouth. She seemed to see him in his clay depths,digging upward with his nails, his teeth, fleeing the cold that bitinto his back, looking for the exit into the courtyard through thatsmall tunnel where they had placed him along with the snails. Inwinter she would hear him weeping with his tiny sob, mud-covered,drenched with rain. She imagined him intact. Just as they had lefthim five years before in that water-filled hole. She couldn't thinkof him as having decomposed. On the contrary, he was probably mosthandsome sailing along in that thick water as on a voyage with noescape. Or she saw him alive but frightened, afraid of feelinghimself alone, buried in such a somber courtyard. She herself hadbeen against their leaving him there, under the orange tree, soclose to the house. She was afraid of him. She knew that on nightswhen insomnia hounded her he would sense it. He would come backalong the wide corridors to ask her to stay with him, ask her todefend him against those other insects, who were eating at theroots of his violets. He would come back to have her let him sleepbeside her as he did when he was alive. She was afraid of feelinghim beside her again after he had leaped over the wall of death.She was afraid of stealing those hands that the "boy" would alwayskeep closed to warm up his little piece of ice. She wished, aftershe saw him turned into cement, like the statue of fear fallen inthe mud, she wished that they would take him far away so that shewouldn't remember him at night. And yet they had left him there,where he was imperturbable now, wretched, feeding his blood withthe mud of earthworms. And she had to resign herself to seeing himreturn from the depths of his shadows. Because always, invariably,when she lay awake she began to think about the "boy," who must becalling her from his piece of earth to help him flee that absurddeath.

But now, in her new life, temporal and spaceless, she was moretranquil. She knew that outside her world there, everything wouldkeep going on with the same rhythm as before; that her room wouldstill be sunken in early-morning darkness, and her things, herfurniture, her thirteen favorite books, all in place. And that onher unoccupied bed, the body aroma that filled the void of what hadbeen a whole woman was only now beginning to evaporate. But howcould "that" happen? How could she, after being a beautiful woman,her blood peopled by insects, pursued by the fear of the totalnight, have the immense, wakeful nightmare now of entering astrange, unknown world where all dimensions had been eliminated?She remembered. That night--the night of her passage--had beencolder than usual and she was alone in the house, martyrized byinsomnia. No one disturbed the silence, and the smell that camefrom the garden was a smell of fear. Sweat broke out on her body asif the blood in her arteries were pouring out its cargo of insects.She wanted someone to pass by on the street, someone who wouldshout, would shatter that halted atmosphere. For something to movein nature, for the earth to move around the sun again. But it wasuseless.

There was no waking up even for those imbecilic men who had fallenasleep under her ear, inside the pillow. She, too, was motionless.The walls gave off a strong smell of fresh paint, that thick, grandsmell that you don't smell with your nose but with your stomach.And on the table the single clock, pounding on the silence with itsmortal machinery. "Time . . . oh, time!" she sighed, rememberingdeath. And there in the courtyard, under the orange tree, the "boy"was still weeping with his tiny sob from the other world.

She took refuge in all her beliefs. Why didn't it dawn right thenand there or why didn't she die once and for all? She had neverthought that beauty would cost her so many sacrifices. At thatmoment--as usual--it still pained her on top of her fear. Andunderneath her fear those implacable insects were still martyrizingher. Death had squeezed her into life like a spider, biting her ina rage, ready to make her succumb. But the final moment was takingits time. Her hands, those hands that men squeezed like imbecileswith manifest animal nervousness, were motionless, paralyzed byfear, by that irrational terror that came from within, with nomotive, just from knowing that she was abandoned in that ancienthouse. She tried to react and couldn't. Fear had absorbed hercompletely and remained there, fixed, tenacious, almost corporeal,as if it were some invisible person who had made up his mind not toleave her room. And the most upsetting part was that the fear hadno justification at all, that it was a unique fear, without anyreason, a fear just because.

The saliva had grown thick on her tongue. That hard gum that stuckto her palate and flowed because she was unable to contain it wasbothersome between her teeth. It was a desire that was quitedifferent from thirst. A superior desire that she was feeling forthe first time in her life. For a moment she forgot about herbeauty, her insomnia, and her irrational fear. She didn't recognizeherself. For an instant she thought that the microbes had left herbody. She felt that they'd come out stuck to her saliva. Yes, thatwas all very fine. It was fine that the insects no longer occupiedher and that she could sleep now, but she had to find a way todissolve that resin that dulled her tongue. If she could only getto the pantry and . . . But what was she thinking about? She gavea start of surprise. She'd never felt "that desire." The urgency ofthe acidity had debilitated her, rendering useless the disciplinethat she had faithfully followed for so many years ever since theday they had buried the "boy." It was foolish, but she feltrevulsion about eating an orange. She knew that the "boy" hadclimbed up to the orange blossoms and that the fruit of next autumnwould be swollen with his flesh, cooled by the coolness of hisdeath. No. She couldn't eat them. She knew that under every orangetree in the world there was a boy buried, sweetening the fruit withthe lime of his bones. Nevertheless, she had to eat an orange now.It was the only thing for that gum that was smothering her. It wasthe foolishness to think that the "boy" was inside a fruit. Shewould take advantage of that moment in which beauty had stoppedpaining her to get to the pantry. But wasn't that strange? It wasthe first time in her life that she'd felt a real urge to eat anorange. She became happy, happy. Oh, what pleasure! Eating anorange. She didn't know why, but she'd never had such a demandingdesire. She would get up, happy to be a normal woman again, singingmerrily until she got to the pantry, singing merrily like a newwoman, newborn. She would,even get to the courtyard and . . .

Her memory was suddenly cut off. She remembered that she had triedto get up and that she was no longer in her bed, that her body haddisappeared, that her thirteen favorite books were no longer there,that she was no longer she, now that she was bodiless, floating,drifting over an absolute nothingness, changed into an amorphousdot, tiny, lacking direction. She was unable to pinpoint what hadhappened. She was confused. She just had the sensation that someonehad pushed her into space from the top of a precipice. She feltchanged into an abstract, imaginary being. She felt changed into anin corporeal woman, something like her suddenly having entered thathigh and unknown world of pure spirits.

She was afraid again. But it was a different fear from what she hadfelt a moment before. It was no longer the fear of the "boy" 'sweeping. It was a terror of the strange, of what was mysterious andunknown in her new world. And to think that all of it had happenedso innocently, with so much naivete on her part. What would shetell her mother when she told her what had happened when she gothome? She began to think about how alarmed the neighbors would bewhen they opened the door to her bedroom and discovered that thebed was empty, that the locks had not been touched, that no one hadbeen able to enter or to leave, and that, nonetheless, she wasn'tthere. She imagined her mother's desperate movements as shesearched through the room, conjecturing, wondering "what could havebecome of that girl?" The scene was clear to her. The neighborswould arrive and begin to weave comments together--some of themmalicious--concerning her disappearance. Each would think accordingto his own and particular way of thinking. Each would try to offerthe most logical explanation, the most acceptable, at least, whileher mother would run along all the corridors in the big house,desperate, calling her by name.

And there she would be. She would contemplate the moment, detail bydetail, from a corner, from the ceiling, from the chinks in thewall, from anywhere; from the best angle, shielded by her bodilessstate, in her spacelessness. It bothered her, thinking about it.Now she realized her mistake. She wouldn't be able to give anyexplanation, clear anything up, console anybody. No living beingcould be informed of her transformation. Now--perhaps the only timethat she needed them--she wouldn't have a mouth, arms, so thateverybody could know that she was there, in her corner, separatedfrom the three-dimensional world by an unbridgeable distance. Inher new life she was isolated, completely prevented from graspingemotions. But at every moment something was vibrating in her, ashudder that ran through her, overwhelming her, making her aware ofthat other physical universe that moved outside her world. Shecouldn't hear, she couldn't see, but she knew about that sound andthat sight. And there, in the heights of her superior world, shebegan to know that an environment of anguish surrounded her.

Just a moment before--according to our temporal world-she had madethe passage, so that only now was she beginning to know thepeculiarities, the characteristics, of her new world. Around her anabsolute, radical darkness spun. How long would that darkness last?Would she have to get used to it for eternity? Her anguish grewfrom her concentration as she saw herself sunken in that thickimpenetrable fog: could she be in limbo? She shuddered. Sheremembered everything she had heard about limbo. If she really wasthere, floating beside her were other pure spirits, those ofchildren who had died without baptism, who had been dying for athousand years. In the darkness she tried to find next to her thosebeings who must have been much purer, ever so much simpler, thanshe. Completely isolated from the physical world, condemned to asleepwalking and eternal life. Maybe the "boy" was there lookingfor an exit that would lead him to his body.

But no. Why should she be in limbo? Had she died, perhaps? No. Itwas simply a change in state, a normal passage from the physicalworld to an easier, uncomplicated world, where all dimensions hadbeen eliminated.

Now she would not have to bear those subterranean insects. Herbeauty had collapsed on her. Now, in that elemental situation, shecould be happy. Although--oh!--not completely happy, because nowher greatest desire, the desire to eat an orange, had becomeimpossible. It was the only thing that might have caused her stillto want to be in her first life. To be able to satisfy the urgencyof the acidity that still persisted after the passage. She tried toorient herself so as to reach the pantry and feel, if nothing else,the cool and sour company of the oranges. It was then that shediscovered a new characteristic of her world: she was everywhere inthe house, in the courtyard, on the roof, even in the "boy" 'sorange tree. She was in the whole physical world there beyond. Andyet she was nowhere. She became upset again. She had lost controlover herself. Now she was under a superior will, she was a uselessbeing, absurd, good for nothing. Without knowing why, she began tofeel sad. She almost began to feel nostalgia for her beauty: forthe beauty that had foolishly ruined her.

But one supreme idea reanimated her. Hadn't she heard, perhaps,that pure spirits can penetrate any body at will? After all, whatharm was there in trying? She attempted to remember what inhabitantof the house could be put to the proof. If she could fulfill heraim she would be satisfied: she could eat the orange. Sheremembered. At that time the servants were usually not there. Hermother still hadn't arrived. But the need to eat an orange, joinednow to the curiosity of seeing herself incarnate in a bodydifferent from her own, obliged her to act at once. And yet therewas no one there in whom she could incarnate herself. It was adesolating bit of reason: there was nobody in the house. She wouldhave to live eternally isolated from the outside world, in herundimensional world, unable to eat the first orange. And allbecause of a foolish thing. It would have been better to go onbearing up for a few more years under that hostile beauty and notwipe herself out forever, making herself useless, like a conqueredbeast. But it was too late.

She was going to withdraw, disappointed, into a distant region ofthe universe, to a place where she could forget all her earthlydesires. But something made her suddenly hold back. The promise ofa better future had opened up in her unknown region. Yes, there wassomeone in the house in whom she could reincarnate herself: thecat! Then she hesitated. It was difficult to resign herself to liveinside an animal. She would have soft, white fur, and a greatenergy for a leap would probably be concentrated in her muscles.And she would feel her eyes glow in the dark like two green coals.And she would have white, sharp teeth to smile at her mother fromher feline heart with a broad and good animal smile. But no! Itcouldn't be. She imagined herself quickly inside the body of thecat, running through the corridors of the house once more, managingfour uncomfortable legs, and that tail would move on its own,without rhythm, alien to her will. What would life look likethrough those green and luminous eyes? At night she would go to mewat the sky so that it would not pour its moonlit cement down on theface of the "boy," who would be on his back drinking in the dew.Maybe in her status as a cat she would also feel fear. And maybe inthe end, she would be unable to eat the orange with thatcarnivorous mouth. A coldness that came from right then and there,born of the very roots of her spirit quivered in her memory. No. Itwas impossible to incarnate herself in the cat. She was afraid ofone day feeling in her palate in her throat in all her quadrupedorganism, the irrevocable desire to eat a mouse. Probably when herspirit began to inhabit the cat s body she would no longer feel anydesire to eat an orange but the repugnant and urgent desire to eata mouse. She shuddered on thinking about it, caught between herteeth after the chase. She felt it struggling in its last attemptsat escape, trying to free itself to get back to its hole again. No.Anything but that. It was preferable to stay there for eternity inthat distant and mysterious world of pure spirits.

But it was difficult to resign herself to live forgotten forever.Why did she have to feel the desire to eat a mouse? Who would rulein that synthesis of woman and cat? Would the primitive animalinstinct of the body rule, or the pure will of the woman? Theanswer was crystal clear. There was no reason to be afraid. Shewould incarnate herself in the cat and would eat her desiredorange. Besides, she would be a strange being, a cat with theintelligence of a beautiful woman. She would be the center of allattention. . . . It was then, for the first time, that sheunderstood that above all her virtues what was in command was thevanity of a metaphysical woman.

Like an insect on the alert which raises its antennae, she put herenergy to work throughout the house in search of the cat. It muststill be on top of the stove at that time, dreaming that it wouldwake up with a sprig of heliotrope between its teeth. But it wasn'tthere. She looked for it again, but she could no longer find thestove. The kitchen wasn't the same. The corners of the house werestrange to her; they were no longer those dark corners full ofcobwebs. The cat was nowhere to be found. She looked on the roof,in the trees, in the drains, under the bed, in the pantry. Shefound everything confused. Where she expected to find the portraitsof her ancestors again, she found only a bottle of arsenic. Fromthere on she found arsenic all through the house, but the cat haddisappeared. The house was no longer the same as before. What hadhappened to her things? Why were her thirteen favorite books nowcovered with a thick coat of arsenic? She remembered the orangetree in the courtyard. She looked for it, and tried to find the"boy" again in his pit of water. But the orange tree wasn't in itsplace and the "boy" was nothing now but a handful of arsenic mixedwith ashes underneath a heavy concrete platform. Now she really wasgoing to sleep. Everything was different. And the house had astrong smell of arsenic that beat on her nostrils as if from thedepths of a pharmacy.

Only then did she understand that three thousand years had passedsince the day she had had a desire to eat the first orange.