Free Near to the Wild Heart by Clarice Lispector Page A

looking for a house to live in and was glad that she had gone without her husband because, on her own, she could observe her with greater freedom. And there, yes, there she found something she had not anticipated, a pause. But the other woman didn't as much as look at her. Thinking as Otávio might, Joana surmised that he would think of the woman as being simply coarse, with that big nose, pale and calm. The woman explained the conveniences and inconveniences of the house she was offering to rent while casting her eyes over the floor, the window, the view, without haste, without interest. She was clean and tidy and had dark hair. Her body, ample and sturdy. And her voice, her voice was of the earth. Not colliding with any object, soft and distant as if it had travelled lengthy paths beneath the soil before reaching her throat.
    — Married? -Joana asked, leaning over her.
    — Widowed, with one son. — And she went on distilling her song over all the lodgers in the district.
    — No, I don't think I'm interested in the house, it's much too big for two, Joana said briskly, even a little harshly. But added — softening her tone, concealing her eagerness -would you mind if I called from time to time to have a chat?
    The other woman showed no surprise. She ran one hand over her waist, grown thick with pregnancy and the slowness of her movements:
    — That might be difficult.. .Tomorrow, I'm leaving to visit my son. He's married. I'm going away...
    She smiled without happiness, without emotion. Simply: I'm going away... What did interest that woman? -Joana asked herself. Could she have a lover...
    — Do you live alone? — she asked her.
    — My younger sister has gone off to be a nun. I live with my other sister.
    — Don't you find life rather sad without a man around the house? -Joana went on.
    — Do you think so? — the woman retorted.
    — I'm asking you, if you don't find it sad, not me. I'm married, Joana added, trying to bring a note of intimacy into the conversation.
    — Ah, no, I don't find it sad, not in the least — And she gave her a wan smile. — Well, since the house obviously isn't what you're looking for, I must ask you to excuse me. I have to wash a few clothes before having a little rest by the window.
    Joana went on her way feeling nettled. The woman was clearly moronic... But that voice? It haunted her throughout the entire afternoon. She tried to recall the woman's smile, her ample, lethargic body. The woman had no history, Joana slowly realized. For if things happened to her, they were not part of her and did not merge with her true existence. The essential thing — including past, present and future — is that she was alive. That is the nucleus of the narrative. Sometimes this nucleus seemed blurred, as if seen with one's eyes shut, almost non-existent. But it only needed a brief pause, a little silence, for it to become enormous and to loom up with open eyes, a soft and constant murmur like that of water trickling among pebbles. Why elaborate on this description? It is certain that things happened to her which came from outside. She lost her illusions, suffered an attack of pneumonia. Things happened to her. But they only served to consolidate or weaken the murmur of her centre. Why narrate facts and details if no one dominated her in the end? And if she were merely the life that flowed constantly inside her body?
    Her probings never became agitated in their search for an answer—Joana continued to make discoveries. Her questions were still-born, they accumulated without desire or hope. She attempted no movement outside herself.
    Many years of her existence were spent at the window, watching the things that passed and those that stood still. But in fact she didn't so much see the life inside her as hear it. Its sound had fascinated her — like the breathing of a new-born infant — its gentle glow — like that of a new-born plant. She had not yet grown weary of existing and she was so