Free Skylight by José Saramago Page A

she then buried in the depths of her handbag.
    â€œThank you. Are you going out, then?”
    â€œYes, I’m going down to the Baixa. I’m sick of being stuck at home. I’ll probably have a cup of tea somewhere and do a bit of window-shopping.”
    Her mother’s small, beady eyes, like those of a stuffed animal, remained fixed on her.
    â€œFar be it from me to say,” she said, “but do you think you should go out and about quite so much?”
    â€œI don’t. I just go out when I feel like it.”
    â€œYes, but Senhor Morais might not like it.”
    Lídia’s nostrils flared in anger. In a slow, sarcastic voice, she said:
    â€œYou seem to care more about what Senhor Morais might think than I do.”
    â€œIt’s for your own good. Now that you’ve got a . . . position . . .”
    â€œThank you for your concern, but I’m old enough not to need your advice. I go out when I want and I do what I want. Whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing is my affair.”
    â€œI’m only saying it because I’m your mother and I want what’s best for you.”
    Lídia gave a short, jeering laugh.
    â€œWhat’s
best
for me? It’s only in the last few years that you’ve shown the slightest concern for my well-being. Before that, you didn’t much care.”
    â€œThat’s not true,” retorted her mother, once more turning her attention to the crease in her skirt. “I’ve always been concerned about you.”
    â€œPossibly, but you’re much more concerned now. Don’t worry. I haven’t the slightest desire to return to my old life, to the days when you didn’t care about me, or if you like, when you cared even less than you do now.”
    Her mother stood up. She had gotten what she wanted and the conversation was taking a disagreeable turn: best to leave. Lídia did nothing to stop her. She was furious at the minor exploitation of which she had been the victim, furious at her mother for daring to give her advice. She felt like sitting her down in a corner and keeping her there until she had told her exactly what she thought of her. All those concerns and suspicions, her fear of displeasing Senhor Morais, were nothing to do with love for her daughter; all she cared about was the small monthly allowance Lídia gave her.
    Lips still quivering with rage, Lídia went back into the bedroom to get dressed and put on her makeup. She was going for a stroll in the Baixa, just as she had told her mother. What could be more innocent? And yet her mother’s insinuating comments almost made her feel like going back to doing what she had done for years: meeting some man in a furnished room in the city, a room intended for brief assignations, with the inevitable bed, the inevitable screen, the inevitable bits of furniture with empty drawers. While she was applying cream to her face, she remembered what used to happen during those evenings and nights, and the thought depressed her. She didn’t want to go back to that. Not because she loved Paulino Morais; she would have no compunction about deceiving him, and the only reason she didn’t was because she valued her security. She knew men too well to love any of them. Start over again? No! How often had she gone in search of a satisfaction she never received? She did it for the money, of course, and she got that because she deserved it. But how often had she emerged from one of those rooms feeling dissatisfied, offended, deceived! How often had the whole sequence been repeated—room, man, dissatisfaction! Later, it might be a different man, a different room, but the dissatisfaction never disappeared, never diminished.
    On the marble top of the dressing table, among the bottles and jars, next to the photo of Paulino Morais, lay the second volume of
The Maias.
She leafed through it, looking for the passage she had marked with lipstick. She reread