The Girl in the Photograph Read Online Free PDF Page B

And bees? Anyway she asked me and if I didn’t answer with absoluteclarity it was because I could never exactly describe that afternoon so long ago.
     Masturbation? That? Thirteen years old, piano lessons. The Happy Farmer . I participated so fully in the happiness that the bench wobbled back and forth,
     the rhythm getting faster and faster. My chest bursting, my genitalia rubbing against
     the cushion with the same vehemence as my hands hammering the keyboard without hesitation,
     without error. I never played as well as I did that afternoon, something which seems
     completely extraordinary to me today. I dismounted the bench as one would a horse.
     At dinnertime, Mama kissed me, quite moved: “I heard you practicing the piano while
     I was stirring the guava jam; you played divinely!” I smiled down at my plate: my
     first secret. Romulo threw a ball of soft bread at me and Remo put a wasp in my hair,
     but when we went out on the veranda I felt as luminous as a star. And if Romulo hadn’t
     frightened me with a sheet, I could have walked on air for over two minutes. The second
     time was on the farm, too, when I was taking a bath. Also accidental. I got into the
     empty bathtub, lay down in the bottom and opened the faucet. The hot jet pelted onto
     my chest with such violence that I slipped, exposing my belly. From there, the water
     passed to my abdomen; when I opened my legs and it hit me right on, I felt, stunned,
     the old artistic exaltation, stronger this time although I wasn’t playing a piano.
     I closed my eyes when Felipe crossed and recrossed my body with his red motorcycle,
     Felipe, the one with the black jacket and motorcycle. I hid my face in my hands, wanting
     to run away and at the same time glued to the bottom of the bathtub with the hot water
     rising higher, it was already covering me, the bubbles breaking on my chin, why didn’t
     I open the drain? Satiated or unsatiated, my mouth (I?) asked for more. It penetrated
     me in waterfalls, it filled my nose, there, I’m going to drown! I thought with a jump.
     I leaped up and fled. Was it love? Was it death? All one single thing, I replied in
     a verse. I used to write verses then.
    Cat came up to the bag that Lia had left in the middle of the driveway. She sniffed
     the leather, distrustful, sat down somewhat sideways, because of her pregnancy, and
     stared at Lorena who was perched on the bedroom windowsill. This room and bath—Lorena
     was certain of this—had belonged to the chauffeur of the family who had owned the
     big house. Underneath,the garage with a car which was probably antiquated. Above, absolute master, the untidy
     and sensual chauffeur, lover of the housemaid whose name was Neusa, a name spelled
     out many times with a shaving brush or white deodorant stick on the bluetinted wall.
     Of her, there remained only a few hairpins pointing out from between the cracks in
     the floor. And the jasmine perfume in a broken bottle on the bathroom floor. “With
     a few small repairs, your daughter could be very comfortable here,” said Sister Priscilla
     with an optimism that spread to Lorena, who was hanging onto her mother’s arm. Her
     mother, in turn, was hanging onto Mieux’s. She turned to him with a perplexed face,
     at that time she used to consult him even to find out if she should take an aspirin
     or not. “Give me your opinion, dear. Won’t I spend too much? This is awful,” she complained,
     repulsed by the scent of jasmine mingled with that of urine. Mieux winked at Lorena.
     He became euphoric when he had an opportunity to show off his prestige: “It will be
     the most darling thing in the world, I already have some ideas. I want this bathroom
     pink, it’s important for her to feel as though she’s in a nest when she undresses
     for her bath,” he said throwing his cigarette butt into the cracked toilet bowl. He
     slammed the door behind him and sniffed his handkerchief. “I visualize this room in
     pale yellow; I