Maria Ondina Braga
The English Lesson
Translated from Portuguese by David Brookshaw
Just as the phone rang late that afternoon, a gust of air rattled the window, lifted the curtain and caused the door to slam shut. It was already dark and pouring with rain. For a second, I hesitated between answering the phone and rushing to the living room. The flowers in the middle of the table lay strewn across the velvet runner, the armchair in the corner of the room was beginning to get spattered with water, and the curtain was sopping wet.
Instinctively, I ran to close the window. The phone, however, persisted, and then the lights failed.
I only reached the phone by feeling my way, after having closed the window and beaten off the wind. The voice on the end of the line, thick and haughty, was that of a woman.
“I wish to speak to the lady who gives English lessons.”
“That’s me.”
“I want some lessons.”
I shuddered. No one ever spoke in such a demanding tone. And what a harsh voice! Battered by the wind, the shutter, which I had not had time to fasten, echoed the thunderclaps. A cigarette glowed in the darkness. Flustered, wondering where I might have left it, I prayed to God that it wasn’t on the table runner—the cloth had belonged to my grandmother, its curlicue pattern embroidered by her in gold thread.
The voice on the end of the line was persistent:
“I want some lessons. Starting tonight.”
“In this weather?”
“Do you teach in the street?”
A moment of giddiness. Where was I sitting? My feet were dangling over the floor. At that point, a lightning flash lit up the room as if it were daytime, and I saw that I was perched on the writing desk.
“Are you there?”
“I’m sorry, but I think it would be better if we fixed a time tomorrow. The storm—”
“What storm?”
“Isn’t there one there?”
“Where’s there?”
“I don’t know where you’re calling from. But to be honest, in my street, it’s awful. Now the window’s blown open again. Wait a moment while I go and fasten the shutter.”
She let out a guffaw from deep within her chest, as if she were coughing. And as I put the receiver down to go and see to the window, I heard her saying: “Are you speaking from Wuthering Heights?”
I paused for an instant, intrigued. However, it wasn’t a good time to ask questions. And while I busied myself with locks and bolts, I began to liken the howling of the wind to the woman’s laugh over the phone. “Wuthering Heights?” I was gripped by absurd thoughts: who knew whether I wasn’t talking to the ghost of Emily Brontë? I burst out laughing. My laughter made me lose my grip. The shutter escaped me again. It was a flag in the night, smashing against the marble sill. There was a sequence of lightning flashes. And there I was, arms hanging helplessly, my hair soaking and swept back, laughing like a mad woman.
When, at last, I collapsed in the arm chair, exhausted, the thunder roared and the light of the cigarette was no longer visible. Thank God for the velvet cloth! My mother used to say “thank God” for everything good that happened, and even more for all the bad that hadn’t happened. The language of childhood, “thank God,” comforting in the inferno of a storm like this one, with the shutters broken, the house flooded, and a strange woman . . . so strange I had stopped laughing. Suppose I were to leave her waiting there indefinitely, suppose I put the receiver down. I grabbed the phone.
“So you didn’t get blown away by the wind?” Once again, there was the cavernous laugh. “You took such a long time! What time can I come for my lesson?”
“Who are you exactly?”
“A student.” She seemed anxious. “A student who needs to start tonight without fail.”
I didn’t know what to answer. I was always interested in having private students. The school paid badly. But this was all so extraordinary. I overcame my indecision:
“Is nine o’clock all right for you?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be there at nine. See you later.”
The thunder had abated and I heard the neighbor’s clock strike the hour. It was an old pendulum clock on the other side of the party wall, which kept better time than my own watch. I counted out loud: “Eight o’clock?” I needed to talk to myself, to ask questions without having to listen to anyone else’s voice. But as I went into the kitchen to light a candle, the woman’s voice and laughter followed me. Who was she? And why was she in such a hurry? I should have refused. On a winter’s night like this, an unknown woman, and such a strange one at that. All I could do was wander backwards and forwards between the living room and the kitchen with a candle-holder in my hand. I forgot about dinner. I sat down at my work desk, opened a book, read a few lines, typed half a dozen words, and began to prowl around the house again. At a quarter to nine, I felt like making myself a tea. The light hadn’t come back on, the candle was burning down, and it was getting darker and darker. It hampered me when I turned round, when I stretched out an arm, when I glimpsed the mirror.
I had just begun to sip my tea when there were three knocks at the door. What if I sat there without making a noise until she got tired and left? But I was already making my way to the hall. I undid the latch and opened the door. Standing there very upright, in boots and a hooded raincoat, my new student contemplated me with a smile:
“Good evening, teacher!”
“Good evening,” I replied, standing aside to let her pass.
“I’m going to spoil your polished floor . . .”
I took her umbrella and placed it in the stand.
Lowering her hood to reveal a head of silvery hair, she began to take off her raincoat.
“Do you mind if I take off my boots?”
I was astonished at how calm I was as I helped the woman in her movements, holding a light for her, taking her bag or book. All I had seen as she came in was her smile and her vague, colorless eyes (or was that the effect of the candle?). Now I began to observe her: she had long legs, a slim body, and slender hands whose reflections seemed to cast winged figures on the walls.
After a while, she looked up and said, with a smile:
“My God, how quiet!”
“That’s true. We’ll start speaking English in a minute.”
“My name is Noémia,” she said, picking up her boots. “Where shall I put these?”
“Oh, I’ll go and get you a pair of slippers. You mustn’t walk around with bare feet.”
“I won’t,” and she pointed at her feet.
Lowering the candleholder, I saw that she was wearing some beige flannel slipper socks, turned inside out.
It would be best to put her boots in the bathroom. She also gave me her raincoat to avoid it dripping all over the doormat. And as I returned to the hall, by now delighted with the pleasant manner displayed by this stranger from the darkness and the storm, I let out a sudden shriek. In the glare of the lightning, Noémia appeared colossal and harrowing: her steel-gray hair, eyes of glass, and the sparkling circle of gemstones just below her neckline.
“Did I give you a fright?”
“No, of course not.” My pulse was racing in my throat. “I think we’re going to have to cut the lesson short today. I didn’t stock up on candles, and this one is almost finished.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I brought a pocket torch. In these places, when there’s a power cut, it can last for hours.”
In the living room, while I looked through the lesson by the light of her torch, she unclasped her jeweled brooch, and loosening the scarf around her neck, remarked:
“It’s hot. March thunderstorms. Winter itself is over,” and then, in a gentler tone of voice: “Is it true that springtime in England is pretty? And Hyde Park? What’s Hyde Park like?”
“Hyde Park? Sweethearts lying around on the grass . . .”
Noémia was looking at me attentively. Were her eyes blue or green? She had a smooth forehead. A delicate nose.
“How I’d love to go there. I don’t know why, but I’ve always dreamed of Hyde Park.” She showed me a book with a yellowing cover. “This was my textbook in school.”
“So you can speak English?”
“I’ve forgotten just about everything.”
We began with the alphabet. She pronounced the letters correctly, and when she got to ‘r’, she commented on the fact that the nun would write this letter on the blackboard and circle it: very tricky, the English ‘r’.
We read the first lesson. We started a simple conversation. As usual, I was enjoying the act of teaching, by now without any fear or sudden shocks, as if there were no connection between that woman and the mysterious caller on the phone. Noémia, for her part, was relaxed, her legs crossed, smoking.
By the end of the lesson, my student had to avail herself of the pocket torch in order to read. As the hour drew to a close, the light of the candle grew ever weaker, and she turned towards me:
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I insisted on coming today, in spite of the storm?”
“Apparently, there was no storm on the street where you live.”
She laughed her cavernous laugh.
“As if I cared about the wind and rain! I just wanted to start learning as soon as possible!”
“Really? Why?”
“I’m glad you asked. I’d like to tell you. I got a letter from him.” Her voice had lost its hard edge, as if it came from her heart, and was now moistened with tears.
“A friend?”
“More than that,” and she blew out the candle abruptly. “We don’t need any light. He’s English. He lives in London.”
And there, in the gloom, pierced only by the glow of our cigarettes and startled by the occasional distant lightning flash accompanying a rumble of thunder, our knees casually touching, she began to tell me about her life.
She had been married for twenty years, her husband was rich, left her to herself, and was a philanderer, finding his fun with other women.
“And I was faithful. Fifteen years of fidelity! And good looking, you know? Men liked my clear eyes, my legs. Good God, why am I telling you this? You’re going to think I’m being silly.”
“No, of course not. But I’m surprised. A stranger like me in this country . . .”
“Yes, but I think I know you a bit. I’ve read your work. And apart from that, a certain distance helps. On a train, for example, people confide in us: we sometimes tell an unknown fellow traveler what we have concealed all our lives from our next-door neighbor or our childhood friends.”
And as her words created a certain intimacy at this point, I offered her some tea: “Do keep me company.” Afterwards, in the kitchen, she gazed at the red tiled floor while I made a mental note that her feet, clad in brown flannel, resembled two guinea pigs. Did I realize what a slave she was? Raul’s slave, that’s what she had always been. And the rogue two-timing her with his mistresses, away for nights on end. It was true she had imagined herself betraying him, she had even planned to run off with a brother of his who was in love with her. But when the moment came, she had relented. She did nothing. She forgave him. She had spent her life forgiving him.
“Did you love him in spite of everything?”
She took her time answering.
“I think I probably did.”
She had met the Englishman three weeks ago. He had come on a business trip to see Noémia’s husband, who had invited him home. The English appreciated a family environment. It was considered good manners to introduce them to one’s wife, invite them to dinner in one’s own home. The Englishman was young, elegant, a gentleman, very amiable towards Noémia, he spoke French (in which she was fluent) so as to make conversation easier. They were having their dessert when Raul was called to the phone: he described it as an urgent matter, apologized profusely, and explained he had to go. The foreigner immediately got to his feet to take his leave. But the master of the house insisted he stay, have a coffee and liqueur. His wife looked at her husband with a mixture of anger and relief: some amorous encounter, no doubt . . . but it was good to see the back of him. The Englishman was so gentle and considerate compared to that lout.
She sat down by the hearth.
“You’ve lived in England, so you must have loved an Englishman.”
“Look, if I did, I can’t remember.”
She stamped the floor in nervous irritation.
“You talk like someone writing. Are you always like that? Why don’t you give me a straight answer? I read somewhere that writers and peasants express themselves in the same way, by beating around the bush.”
I smiled.
“Well then, just pretend you’re talking to a peasant.”
Noémia began to mutter, as if talking to herself.
“It’s true I didn’t come here to ask questions, but to open my heart to you. . . It’s true that everything seemed more important before than it does at this precise moment. I don’t think there’s any point in going on . . .” And a minute later: “I’m going to England, you know?”
There was a bitter smell of scalded tea leaves.
“I’m going to get divorced. Raul doesn’t want me to. He’s gotten used to me being submissive. He thinks it’s useful to keep up appearances, the façade of having a wife, a home. But Peter loves me. And as for me, I’m sure he’s the love of my life.”
“Let’s go and have our tea in the living room,” and I ushered her down the hall, her leading the way with her torch.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“What am I supposed to say? If you no longer love your husband, I think it would be better if you left him. And if you love the Englishman . . .”
We were next to the sofa, and as I stood up straight after bending to put the tray on the coffee table, I was blinded by a ray of light. Standing there stiffly, Noémia was pointing her torch at me.
“Help me! That’s why I came!” Her tone was at once dogged and exhausted. I studied her features in the shadows, the shape of her nose, her hairline. And overcome by a sudden feeling of camaraderie, I took her hand. She’s a woman. We are both women. Different, but bound together here in the darkness. A fragile, useless alliance nevertheless. If she has come for advice over which way to go, what use is my compass? What about my own journey? I returned to my initial reserve. Who’s to say this Noémia isn’t some madwoman?
“Look, each one of us has to resolve problems like these in our own way. Sit down and tell me what made you mention Wuthering Heights over the phone.”
She shrugged forlornly:
“I’m reading it at the moment. It was Peter who gave me a copy of the French translation. It was lying in front of me when I phoned. And when you spoke of wind and rain . . . it was just me trying to be funny.”
“Well, it affected me, you know? Your way of speaking, our talking at cross purposes, the water coming into the room, the thunder, the doors slamming and, what’s more, your reference to the book from another world. Sugar?”
“No, just lemon.” And she sat back, her eyes half closed.
I grabbed the torch. I needed the light for the ritual of pouring the tea. I put a slice of lemon in her cup. Milk in mine. Afterwards, I switched it off. We didn’t need it to see what we were drinking.
“All right, so you don’t want to say anything,” she felt for her cup, “but you can be sure of this: he’s a beautiful man. Yes indeed, a god!”
“Are you sure it isn’t beauty you’re in love with?”
There was the clink of her cup on the saucer.
“You’re right. It’s his beauty I love, just as I loved Raul,” she drew closer.
“Ah, Raul, what a physique!” She sat back again. I could picture the dramatic look on her face. “He’s horrible, now. He got uglier and uglier every time he be trayed me. Every wrinkle in his face is one of the blows he rained down on me. How I love watching him grow old! It’s my revenge,” she fumbled for the torch, opened her bag, pulled out a mirror and looked at herself. “Ah, I still look good! I’m ten years younger than him, but he looks twenty years older than me. His mistresses love him for his money, of course.”
We drank our tea in silence for a while. I ruminated on the perfidy of beauty. I felt like telling her I had been betrayed as well, not like her, and not just by a man, but by circumstances, by life itself. And what a betrayal! I didn’t even have recourse to retribution. A high priestess of beauty, I had died when I kissed it. She interrupted my thoughts.
“Do you pity me? I’m not surprised. But the fact is I came here more for that than for the lesson. I felt a need to open myself up to someone. And I chose you.”
Deep within me, I felt an urge to tell her about my experience. I understood her better than anyone. For having fallen in love with beauty, I had never truly loved. And I too had fantasized about taking revenge. And I too had remained faithful. Faithful to what? I felt Noémia’s feverish hand. Noémia was alive, full of life. And I said out loud:
“You’re a strong woman!”
She got to her feet.
“What do you mean? Do you think I should go ahead?” She clutched my fingers. “I’m strong, aren’t I?” And then, after a pause, as if trying to get her bearings: “But love? What is love?”
This was a somber moment: what is love? Her nervous hand in mine.
If I were to tell her . . . but what would be the use if I told her? Withdrawing her hand, Noémia spoke calmly:
“In the end, maybe all love is . . . is a sudden rush of faith. And I preserved the seed of that faith in spite of the desert in which I’ve been vegetating. You know, I tend to compare myself to those plants that are full of life, while clinging to the soil.”
Then, all of a sudden, the light came on, illuminating the scene.
Shaking her glittering, steely hair, Noémia jumped to her feet and glanced at her watch.
“My boots? I’ve got to go. Where are my boots?” She hurried down the hall. “I must go!”
And we said goodbye as if she had not confided her secrets to me in the darkness. She was a student like any other, the only difference being that she wouldn’t come back.