The Girl in the Photograph. Lygia Fagundes Telles

room. Vulgarity and beauty were mixed together in the poster shot she had had taken of herself in a skin-tight bikini and black stockings, a pose more aggressive than sensual. I called Sebastiana and gave her the bundle of clothes to wash. While you’re here you could give this floor a sweeping, I said, but the woman couldn’t take her eyes off the poster. Ana’s beauty illuminated her face; her faded countenance was renewed by the impact. “Is she an actress?” she wanted to know. “More or less,” I answered and thought, If I were only half that pretty, M.N. would already have come up these stairs a hundred times. Into my shell, like the pearl in the oyster, isn’t that poetic? “We need to think of another plan,” he answered when I invited him to have some tea with me. Why another plan? Don’t my friends always come up, both boys and girls? We study, listen to music, discuss things, what’s the problem? He smiled his M.N. smile. “That’s different.” On account of this distinction I was somewhat consoled.