Skylight by José Saramago Read Free Book Online

the room. Adriana got up too, but her mother made her sit down again.
    â€œPay no attention, child. She’s the one who has to do the shopping, and she really has to struggle to make ends meet, and very often they don’t. You’re both earning, you’re both working, but she, poor thing, is the one who does all the worrying, and I’m the only one who knows just how much she worries.”
    Aunt Amélia appeared in the doorway. She seemed upset, but her voice was no less brusque, or perhaps she had to be brusque in order not to reveal how upset she was.
    â€œWould anyone like a cup of coffee?”
    (Just like in the good old days! A cup of coffee! Yes, why not, Aunt Amélia! Sit down here with us, that’s right, with your face of stone and your heart of wax. Drink a cup of coffee and tomorrow you can redo your accounts, invent recipes, eliminate expenses, even eliminate this cup of coffee, this pointless cup of coffee!)
    The evening resumed, slower and quieter now. Two old women and two who had already turned their backs on youth. They had their past to remember, the present to live in and the future to fear.
    Around midnight, sleep slipped into the room. There were a few yawns. Cândida suggested (she was always the first to make the suggestion):
    â€œShall we go to bed?”
    They stood up, their chairs scraping the floor. As usual, Adriana hung back to give the others time to get ready for bed. Then she put away her sewing and went into the bedroom. Her sister was reading her novel. Adriana took a bunch of keys from her bag and opened a drawer. With another, smaller key she opened a box and took out a thick exercise book. Isaura peered up at her over the top of her book and smiled:
    â€œAh, the diary! One day I’ll find out what it is you write in that book.”
    â€œOh no, you won’t!” answered her sister angrily.
    â€œThere’s no need to get nasty with me.”
    â€œSometimes I feel like showing it to you just to shut you up!”
    â€œDo I annoy you?”
    â€œNo, but you could keep your thoughts to yourself. I simply don’t see why you have to say those things. It’s so rude. Don’t I have a right to some privacy?”
    Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, Adriana’s eyes glinted with annoyance. Clutching the exercise book to her chest, she confronted her sister’s ironic smile.
    â€œOf course you do,” said Isaura. “Go on, then, scribble away. But the day will come when you yourself will give me that notebook to read.”
    â€œWell, you’re in for a long wait,” retorted Adriana.
    And with that she stormed out of the room. Isaura made herself more comfortable beneath the bedclothes, positioned the book at the best angle for reading and forgot all about her sister. Having walked through the now dark bedroom where her mother and aunt were sleeping, Adriana locked herself in the bathroom. Only there, away from her family’s prying eyes, did she feel safe enough to write down her impressions of the day. She had started writing the diary shortly after she got her job. She had now written dozens of pages. She gave her pen a shake and began:
    Â 
Wednesday, 3/19/52, five minutes to midnight. Aunt Amélia is very grumpy today. I hate it when they mention how little I earn. It’s insulting. I almost answered back, saying that at least I earned more than she did, but, fortunately, I bit my tongue. Poor Aunt Amélia. Mama says she wears herself out trying to keep the books straight, and I can believe that. After all, that’s how I spend my days. Tonight we listened to Beethoven’s Third Symphony. Mama said it was pretty, and I said it was beautiful, and Aunt Amélia agreed. I love my aunt. I love my mother. I love Isaura. But what they don’t know is that I wasn’t thinking about the symphony or about Beethoven, I mean, I wasn’t only thinking about that . . . I was thinking