The Girl in the Photograph. Lygia Fagundes Telles

as the other times, he will come with a clean skin, inventing or invented down to the last minutiae. If God is in details, the sharpest pleasure, too, is in small things, you hear that, M.N.? Ana Clara told me about a boyfriend she had who would go crazy when she took off her false eyelashes, the bikini scene didn’t have the slightest importance but as soon as she started to remove her eyelashes, it was glory. The naked eye. Verily I say unto you, the day will come when the nakedness of the eyes will be more exciting than that of the sex organs. Pure convention, to think sexual organs are obscene. What about the mouth? Unsettling, the mouth biting, chewing, biting. Biting a peach, remember? If I wrote something, it would be a story entitled “The Peach Man.” I watched it from a streetcorner as I was drinking a glass of milk: a completely ordinary man with a peach in his hand. As I looked on he rolled and squeezed it with his fingers, closing his eyes a little as if he wanted to memorize its contours. He had hard features and his need of a shave accentuated their lines like charcoal shading, but the hardness dissolved when he sniffed the peach. I was fascinated. He stroked the fuzz of its skin with his lips, and with them, too, he went over the whole surface of the fruit as he had done with his fingertips. Nostrils dilated, eyes narrowed. I wanted him to get it over with, but it seemed he was in no hurry; almost angrily, he rubbed the peach against his chin, rolling it between his fingers as he hunted for the nipple-point with the tip of his tongue. Did he find it? I was perched at the café counter but I could see it as if through a telescope: He found the rosy nipple and began to caress it with his tongue tip in an intense circular movement. I could see that the tip of his tongue was the same pink as the nipple of the peach, and that he was already licking it with an expression near suffering. When he opened his mouth wide and bit down to make the juice squirt sharply out, I almost gagged on my milk. I still go tense all over when I remember it, oh Lorena Vaz Leme, have you no shame?

      “No,” says the Seducer Angel out loud. Quickly I light an incense tablet, oh perverse mind. I’d like to be a saint. As pure as this perfume of roses that enfolds me and makes me drowsy, Astronaut used to get sleepy too when I would light the incense. And he would stretch the same way I do; I learned how to stretch from watching him. Worthless cat, what’s become of you? Hmm? He used to give daily lessons in lasciviousness and indolence, but he would never repeat his movements, all ballet dancers should have a cat. The cunning. At the same time, the abandon. The scorn for things that were really to be scorned. And that calculated obsession. Made entirely of dangerous delicacies, my cat. Or was he a demon? During the pauses between lessons, he would stare at me, so much more conscious than I in my unconsciousness, how could I know? I didn’t even know M.N. yet, I didn’t spend hours and hours woolgathering, Lord, how I’ve wool-gathered lately. Only Jesus understands and pardons, only He who went through everything like us, Jesus, Jesus, how I love You! I’m going to play a record in your honor, I offer music just like Abel offered the lamb, of course, a lamb is much more important, but Jesus knows I have a horror of blood, my offerings will have to be musical ones. Jimi Hendrix? Listen, my beloved, listen to this last little tune he composed before he died, he died of drugs, poor thing, they all die of drugs, but hear it and I know you’ll lower Your hand in blessing upon his sweat-stained, dusty Afro hair, dear Jimi!…

      With an elastic leap, Lorena threw herself onto the gilded iron bed, which was the same color as the wallpaper. She practiced a few dance steps, raising her leg until her bare foot touched the iron bar of the bedstead, and jumped down onto the blue stripe of the jute rug. She straightened up, shook her hair back and, looking straight ahead, moved forward by balancing herself on the stripe until she got to the record player.

      “Jimi, Jimi, where are you?” she asked, examining the pile of records on the bookshelf. She was wearing a pair of soft pajamas, white with yellow flowers, and around her neck was a chain with a small gold heart. She held the record by the tips of her fingers. “And you, Romulo? Where are you now?”

      Squeezing her damp eyes shut, she placed the record on the turntable. Softly, she raised the needle and guided it as if it were the beak of a blind bird seeking a dish of water. She let it fall.

      “Lorena!”

      The voice was coming from the garden. Quickly she pulled her hair together, wound it up at the back of her neck, and stood on tiptoe. Opening her arms, she walked on the spiral stripe of the carpet, tense as an acrobat on a highwire.

      “Lorena, come to the window, I want to talk to you!”

      She hesitated dangerously, her right foot planted on the stripe, her left suspended in the air. Only when she managed to put the left one down in front of the other without losing her balance did she relax; she had made it across the wire. She bowed deeply to both sides, her arms arched backwards, her hands touching like the tips of half-opened wings. She waved her thanks to the audience as she moved back slightly, smiling modestly downward. But she thrilled to catch a flower in the air, kissed it threw it triumphantly to the grandstand and went whirling toward the window. She waved to the young woman who was waiting, arms crossed, in the middle of the driveway. Bringing her hands to the left side of her chest, she sighed loudly and said:

      “My dear, welcome! Look what a lovely day! It’s spring, Lião, primavera. Vera, truth, prima, first, naturally, the first truth. Hum? On a morning like this I have to hold onto myself, otherwise I fly right off, look at the daisies, they’ve all opened!” She pointed to the flower box under the window. “How sweet. Good morning, my little daisies!”

      “Lorena, do you think you could listen to me for a minute?”

      “Speak, Lia de Melo Schultz, speak!”

      With a brusque motion, Lia pulled her heavy white socks up to her knees. Her leather tote bag slid to the ground but she kept her eye attentively on the socks, as if she expected to see them slip downwards immediately. She picked up the bag.

      “Do you think your mother could lend me the car? After dinner. Let’s say about nine, understand.”

      Lorena leaned out the window and smiled.

      “Your socks are falling.”

      “Either they strangle my knees or they keep slipping. Look at that. When they were new, this elastic was so tight my legs would get purple.”

      “But what are you thinking, dear, wearing socks in this heat? And mountain-climbing boots, why didn’t you put on your sandals? Those brown ones match your bag.”

      “Today I have to walk all over the place, dammit. And if I don’t wear socks, I get blisters.”

      Probably on the soles of her feet. Super-hick. The only thing worse than blisters is bunions, like Sister Bula’s. Bunions must come from onions, there was once an old lady with bumps on her feet like onions, and her grandchildren inherited the deformity, bumps, onions, bunions. Oh Lord. Spring, I’m in love, and Lião talking about blisters on her feet.

      “I’ve got some great socks, I haven’t even worn them yet, you want them?”

      “Only if they’re French, see?”

      “They’re Swiss.”

      “I don’t like Switzerland, it’s too clean.”

      And they won’t even fit her, imagine, she must wear size twelve. How can she possibly wear socks that make her ankles even thicker, the poor thing has legs like an elephant’s. Even so, she’s thinner, political subversiveness is thinning.

      “Lião, Lião, I’m in love. If M.N. doesn’t phone, I’ll kill myself.”

      I’m much too annoyed to stand here listening to Lorenense sentiments, oh! Miguel, how I need you. I speak softly but I must be breathing fire.

      “Lena, listen, I’m not joking.”

      “Well, am I? What’s the hurry? Come on up and listen to Jimi Hendrix’s last album. I’ll make some tea, I have some marvelous biscuits.”

      “English?” I ask. “I prefer our biscuits and our music. Enough cultural colonialism.”

      “But our music doesn’t move me, dearest. If your Bahians say that they’re desperate, I believe them, I think it’s great, but if John