Skylight by José Saramago Read Free Book Online Page A

. . . and then I remembered that mask of Beethoven and how much I wanted it. But I was also thinking about “him.” I’m feeling happy today. He spoke to me so nicely. When he gave me the invoices to check, he put his right hand on my shoulder. Oh, it was lovely! I trembled inside and went bright red. I had to pretend to be concentrating on my work so that no one would notice. Then came the bad bit. Thinking I couldn’t hear, he started talking to Sarmento about some blond girl. The only reason I didn’t burst into tears was because it would have looked bad and I wouldn’t want him to know how I feel. He “toyed” with the girl, he said, for a few months, then dumped her. Good heavens, would it be the same with me? At least he doesn’t know how I feel about him. He might make fun of me. If he did, I would kill myself!
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    She paused and chewed the end of her pen. She had begun by saying that she was happy, and now there she was talking about killing herself. This didn’t seem right. She thought for a moment and closed with:
Still, it was so lovely when he touched me on the shoulder!
    That was better, as it should be, closing that day’s entry with a hope, a small joy. Whenever the events of the day left her feeling discouraged or sad, she made a point in her diary of not being entirely honest. She reread what she had written and closed the exercise book.
    She had brought her nightdress with her from the bedroom, a white nightdress, buttoned up to the neck and with long sleeves because the nights were still chilly. She quickly got undressed. Her inelegant body, freed from the constraints of her clothes, looked heavier, baggier, lumpier. Her bra cut into her back. When she took it off, a red weal encircled her body like the mark left by a beating. She put on her nightdress and, after performing her usual ablutions, went back to the bedroom.
    Isaura was still reading. She had her free arm bent back behind her neck, a position that revealed one dark armpit and the curve of her breasts. Absorbed in her reading, she didn’t look up when her sister got into bed.
    â€œIt’s late, Isaura. Time to stop reading,” Adriana murmured.
    â€œOK, OK!” Isaura said impatiently. “It’s not my fault you don’t like reading.”
    Adriana shrugged, as she so often did. She turned her back on her sister, pulled the bedclothes up so that the light wasn’t in her eyes and, moments later, she was asleep.
    Isaura continued to read. She had to finish the book that night because it was due back at the library the next day. It was nearly one o’clock when she reached the final page. Her eyes were sore and her brain overexcited. She put the book down on the bedside table and turned out the light. Her sister was sleeping. She could hear her regular, rhythmic breathing and felt a twinge of irritation. In her view, Adriana was as cold as ice, and that diary of hers was merely a childish way of making people think she had some mysterious secret to hide. A faint glow from the streetlamp lit the room. In the darkness she could hear the gnawing of a woodworm. From the room next door came a muffled voice: Aunt Amélia talking in her sleep.
    The whole building was sleeping. With eyes wide open to the dark, her hands folded behind her head, Isaura was thinking.

4
    â€œDon’t make too much noise, you know I hate to disturb the neighbors,” whispered Anselmo.
    He was going up the stairs, with his wife and daughter behind him, using matches to light their way. However, distracted by his own words of advice, he burned his fingers. He let out an involuntary yelp and lit another match. Maria Cláudia had a fit of the giggles. Her mother muttered a reproof:
    â€œWhatever’s got into you, girl?”
    They reached their apartment and entered furtively, like burglars. As soon as they went into the kitchen, Rosália sat down on a stool:
    â€œOh, I’m