The Case of Lisandra P. by Hélène Grémillon Read Free Book Online

you.”
    Eva Maria follows him out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, Estéban reappears. Alone. He sits down at the table. Pours himself a glass of orange juice. Opens the newspaper. He listens. He can’t hear anything. Just the faint clacking of the typewriter keys. Estéban turns to the window. The shadow of the bus passes over the curtains. Estéban smiles. His expression is calm. His hands, too. He can imagine Eva Maria’s face encircled by his headphones. He wonders what kind of music she might be listening to. She hasn’t listened to music for such a long time.

ALICIA

VITTORIO
    Good morning, Alicia.
    ALICIA
    Good morning.
    VITTORIO
    So, how are you feeling today?
    ALICIA
    I’m all right. It’s just this boredom. It’s always there. I’m sorry I have nothing new, I just can’t get over this boredom.
    VITTORIO
    You needn’t apologize.
    ALICIA
    You know that to get here I go past the Plaza de Mayo; it’s on my way. And of course they were all there, like every Thursday afternoon; I slowed down and you know what I thought as I watched them walk past? There they were, so plain and unpretentious, wearing their horrible white head scarves—you have to admit that white headscarf is horrible, it being for a good cause doesn’t make it any better—and I began to feel sorry that I hadn’t lost a child, too. To wish I were a mother who had lost a child—do you realize how far gone I must be? I feel like I’m going crazy.
    VITTORIO
    You’re not going crazy, I assure you, but why did you have a thought like that? Can you be more precise?
    ALICIA
    Why? So that I could put all my remaining energy into loss, into mourning. I tell myself that if I could walk around the Plaza de Mayo every Thursday afternoon along with those women, and demand in the eyes of the entire world the return of the child the junta took from me, my mourning and my desire for justice would be so extreme that I would no longer be aware of all the rest.
    VITTORIO
    What do you mean by “all the rest”?
    ALICIA
    How alone I am. You see, those women, when they look in the mirror, they search their features for what reminds them of their lost child, but me, every morning I just look for yet another wrinkle, yet another sign that my flesh is sagging, another obvious and chilling sign of age, and I figure maybe I wouldn’t be so bored if I were in mourning. In any case I wouldn’t be looking at myself so much and maybe even—this is my dream—I wouldn’t see myself at all. The loss of a child—like that, tragically—is greater than any other tragedy. You must find me vile to be thinking this way, don’t you? And you must be telling yourself that it would teach me a lesson if it did happen to me.
    VITTORIO
    No, I’m not telling myself that at all. I wonder if you aren’t simply experiencing the feeling of having “lost a child” since your son got married? He’s your only son and it’s very recent, so it’s only normal for you to be upset. When a child leaves home, it changes a mother’s life. Perhaps that’s why you have made this unconscious connection with the mothers on the Plaza de Mayo. It’s your way of dealing with the fact that your boy has left home. To me personally, this seems the most likely explanation. What do you think?
    ALICIA
    When a child leaves home, it doesn’t “change a mother’s life,” it destroys it. Ever since Juan left, everything has been ten times worse. Before, it still felt as if there was some life in the house; he wasn’t always there, but it was enough to know he was coming and going. It hid the worst. Excuse me, may I use your telephone? I have to call him.
    VITTORIO
    Actually, my phone isn’t working; the repairman has come three times and it’s still out of order.
    ALICIA
    Don’t you have another line? In the house? I’m sorry but I really