"Yes," Martim said, the way a doctor would to a patient.
( 2 2 l )
TH E
APPLE
I N THE
D A R K
"The student cried so hard," the exhausted woman said
"that they had to give him a drink of water. He became a regular
slave to the professor. The professor is quite well-educated. The
boy became a regular slave; he's quite well-educated."
For the first time, Vit6ria did not seem to get impatient with
Martim's silence. And standing there, with her features
puckered up from fatigue, as if she had nothing else to do and
did not want to leave, she kept on reciting; "Just today the
professor used the boy as an example. The boy now has an
angelic look; he's become paler, he looks like a saint. The
professor was so pleased with what he had accomplished-such a
moral victory-that he even put on some weight," she said,
exhausted.
"He put on some weight," Martim repeated cautiously, as if
he were afraid to wake her up.
"He put on some weight," she said, waking up a little
surprised. "But he did suffer! " she added quickly, as if Martim
had made an accusation against the professor. "He's a good man.
He suffers just like anyone in a position of command! " she said
in reaction. "He has a heart of gold! " she said, looking at him
with a kind of anger. "He suffers other people's sufferings, the
suffering that other people have in their hearts l" she added with
sudden ardor.
And as if she knew that Martim had not understood anything, she looked at him with rancor.
The professor was occupying the best easy-chair in the living
room, and from the way the table was set Martim understood
with a glance what role the man played within the small group.
Ermelinda had just sat down at the piano with her very curly
hair, with a tense and absentminded air. The mahogany furniture had been dusted. Martim stopped in the doorway and no one seemed to have noticed him. Perhaps only the professor,
who with a signal of finger to mouth asking for silence, seemed
to address himself especially to the newcomer. The son was
chewing on his fingernails and looking down. Vit6ria had her
( 2 2 2 )
The Apple in the Dark
attention fixed on some embroidery in a hunched-over and
feminine position-Martim could not see her face and he looked
for it, searching in it the severity that was what he loved about
her eyes. Martim sat down near the door.
Ermelinda was playing without looking at the keyboard.
"I managed to make some variations," she said very softly.
"Sentiments," she then added, for herself.
The sentiments flowed from her fingers easily, and she
seemed to draw some pride from that, thinking that perhaps it
was a sign of perfection.
"I can already play without even paying attention," she
announced again, turning her head around a bit.
"Don't talk!" the professor said suddenly, as if he were in
pain. "Music should not be interrupted with words! " he said,
suffering from the fact that he himself had been obliged to speak.
Martim was surprised at his rudeness.
"The professor is a spiritualist," Vit6ria said suddenly to
Martim, as if that explained it all.
Without looking at the keyboard and without having to pay
any more attention, Ermelinda's music emerged mechanically
and lightly into the Sunday truce. The piano was just enough
out of tune to have the crystal sound of a clavichord, and the
notes seemed to be played singly, with the precise impersonality
of a player-piano. The sound in some way seemed to come out
pure, as when one hears something and does not know who is
playing. Even Ermelinda finally seemed to have become enraptured; the music had apparently begun to tell her so many and such confused things-perhaps of love, judging by the expression of anxiety and sad desire on her face-that she stopped playing and abruptly spun around on the stool with a surprised
air that said nothing to the rest of them.
"Music is spirit itself," the professor said with great assurance.
"I," the son suddenly said-"I like opera. As far as I'm
concerned, that's the best there is."
T H E A P P L E
IN
T H E D ARK
The professor flushed and looked down at the floor.
"I've explained to you already," he said in a very low and soft
voice, "that you're wrong."
"Opera's what counts," the boy repeated with courageous
obstinacy; his face was pale and ugly.
"You're wrong! " the professor exploded. "I've already told
you that you're wrong! " The professor shouted, his eyes closed
with tolerance and rage. "I've already told you that nowadays
opera is considered second-rate music! You're the only one who
won't pay any attention ! I explained it to you already ! "
"Maybe," the boy said with painful pride-"but a s far as I'm
concerned, opera is the thing."
The professor looked at him with bulging eyes. The vein in
his neck was throbbing. The boy lost his strength then; he
lowered his head and went back to biting his fingernails.
"The professor is very high-strung," Vit6ria said simply, for
Martim's benefit.
With those words of Vit6ria's, the professor seemed suddenly to calm down; the paleness returned to his fat face, and as if he had suddenly decided to forget about the problem of his
son, he turned resolutely and tranquilly toward Martim :
"Well," he said with extreme attention, "what do you think
about our Vit6ria?"
Vit6ria lowered her head toward her embroidery and a flush
came over her face.
"So much dryness," the professor said-"covers up-if you'll
excuse the beauty of the words-a heart that is bursting for
love."
Vit6ria tried to protest weakly, blushing :
"The professor," she said with a confused and imploring
voice, and Martim did not know whether what she was saying
was praise or an excuse, "the professor ought to write a novel ! "
"I couldn't!" the teacher burst out. "It's a s simple a s that! I
couldn't," he exclaimed wearily. "I couldn't, because I have all
the answers ! I already know how everything will come out! I've
never been able to get out of this impasse! I have an answer," he
( 2 2 4)
The Apple in the Dark
said, spreading out his arms in perplexity. "I have an answer for
everything! "
No one seemed to understand very well what he had meant
to say, or what it had to do with the fact that he could not write
novels. As if he himself had perceived that nobody understood,
he seemed to abandon the problem again, leaving it unfinished;
and he turned toward Martim, calmer now, cooled off.
Feeling the professor's intent eyes upon him Martim lowered
his own, and in an attempt to control himself he reached for the
piece of half-cured cowhide in the corner of the room. When he
had calmed down he noticed that he had also picked up the
mallet and was now pounding the hide to cure it. Vit6ria looked
at him startled, as if he h
ad gone too far, and restlessly scrutinized the teacher. Swallowing the challenge with difficulty, he closed his eyes for an instant and his face seemed to be asking
God to give him humility. When he opened them he had a real
smile on his face, understanding and ironical, and he was able to
look impassively upon that man, himself, who without saying a
word was pounding on a piece of leather.
"Ever since this morning," Ermelinda said, unable to bear
the silence any more-"ever since this morning I've been so
thirsty! Thirsty as a bear, as they say."
"I don't think that's quite what they say, if you'll permit
me," the professor said smoothly, but with the swiftness of an
eagle. "Hungry as a bear is what they say, if you'll permit me,"
he repeated with dignity, somewhere between ceremonious and
displeased.
"But what I am is thirsty . . .
" she dared to say very timidly.
Vit6ria destroyed her with her eyes. The other one averted
her eyes and crossed her hands.
Vit6ria had gone back to her embroidery. Martim was softly
pounding. The afternoon had softly spread itself about; it came
into the room and imposed silence. Nothing could have made
the afternoon more evident than the rhythmical beating of the
mallet. With each thump the distance became greater, the
branches more leafy; what had been lost more lost; a chicken
( 2 2 5 )
T H E A PPLE
I N T H E D A R K
cackled in the shadows. And a vague desire seemed to have been
born, as when one is dreaming. The son, immersed in himself,
was chewing on his nails with a melancholy voracity. Vit6ria
kept her darkened face over the embroidery. Ermelinda, sitting
on the stool with her back to the open piano, faced them all
with an intense and immobile smile, as if her face were glowing
on its own, without the aid of thought. Martim, head lowered,
was applying himself in cadence to the cowhide. The smell of
the leather and the mallet-beats drew the total immobility away
from the scene and gave it a progressive march. Little by little
the stronger smell and the mallet-beats brought the situation to
an end. Vit6ria lifted up her widened eyes from the embroidery;
the professor's son coughed and, startled at himself, looked at
his father, Ermelinda let her smile fade a little, her dry lip
lightly held by a tooth. Martim, the unconscious author of the
destiny of moments, kept on pounding. The teacher kept his
eyes half-closed, a little dark, where a subtle point was being
thought. With restlessness Vit6ria noticed him and took the
lead :
"I had a dream," she said aloud-"that I was surrounded by
boats."
"Lighted up or dark?" Ermelinda immediately asked, waking
up.
"What difference does it make?" Vit6ria exploded.
Ermelinda lowered her head.
"It would be prettier if they were lighted up," Martim said,
looking softly at Ermelinda.
Quickly Vit6ria turned towards him, offended. The professor
immediately examined him, squinting his eyes even more; it was
the first time Martim had spoken.
After a second of surprise had passed, Ermelinda laughed
heartily. "Prettier if they were lighted up, that's right! It's happier
when things are lighted up," she repeated with pleasure.
"On the outside, my dear girl," the professor said very coldly.
"On the outside a ship is much more whole than on the inside,"
he said with a bitter smile that he was testing.
( 2 2 6 )
The Apple in the Dark
Again nobody understood, and nobody seemed to be
changed by not understanding. Noticing that, the professor
blinked his eyes several times. Night had fallen. Vit6ria got up
slowly and lit the lamps.
The professor was speaking calmly now, sunk back into the
easy-chair, which made his fat belly stick out all the more.
Martim did not know whether they were waiting for him to
leave or to stay.
"Let us divide the path of humanity into periods," the
professor was saying.
The hammering had stopped, the frogs were croaking. The
professor was talking and playing with his key-ring; he threw it
into the air and bit at it with his hand without catching it. That
was when the keys fell.
Martim automatically leaned over to pick them up. But the
professor, with no apparent hurry, was more agile than Martim,
and he picked them up. And as if he had calmly showed what he
was capable of doing, he laughed at the other one. With the
motion still outlined in his hands, Martim looked at him with
surprise. He could not have imagined that this small fat man
could be capable of such a nimble motion. Then the professor,
understanding, laughed even more and began to twirl the keys
.
again.
The man was showing something off-Martim's mouth was
dry, he could not take his eyes off the keys. Vit6ria, with
fascinated eyes, was also watching the twirling motion of the
teacher's little hand.
"Dividing the path of humanity into periods, we can come to
the conclusion that today we are in the period of perplexity. We
might say that modern man is a man who no longer finds
anything to learn in the age-old lesson of the ancients. I would
say, therefore . . ."
Vit6ria was listening, upright, somnambulist, looking at the
keys. Finally the professor stopped, looked at the clock. He held
"My game is the human charade," he said, clearing his
( 2 2 7 )
THE A P P LE
IN
T H E D A R K
throat. "You don't answer me?" he suddenly asked. "You, an
engineer?"
As if something had finally happened, Vit6ria, startled,
moved in her chair. Dulled by his long immobility, Martim
changed the position of his legs.
"Yes, yes," he said.
"Everything that is human interests me, you won't give me
an answer?"
"No . . .
"
"I," the professor said with pleasure, "am a born mystifier."
Vit6ria became agitated. Martin passed his glance from the
professor to Vit6ria and from her back to the professor, remotely
trying to grasp what was going on. An incomprehensible web
was closing in on him, he was upset without knowing why.
"Precisely because the human charade-which with an English kind of humor I like to call the human mystery-precisely because the human charade, as I was saying, interests me is why
I am curious about the following fact : What is an engineer, a
man, let us say, such a high calling, doing here?"
Swell ! So that's why they had called for him.
"Let us ask what it is that makes a man leave a place like Sao
Paulo-because your accent shows, sir, that your place of origin
is not Rio de Janeiro as you have affirmed. As I was saying, what
is it that makes a man abandon his exalted calling, which might
be the building of a city, which, par excellence, is that of an
engineer? What makes him, as we were saying, end up in the
neighborhood of Vila Baixa, where the only resources are those
of the spirit? And furthermore : you, sir, did not even know
where you were, as was stated by a man as ignorant and unlettered as Francisco, who does not have the gifts of acumen that spiritual evolution endows a man with, but, quand meme, he
did have enough instinct to probe. As we were saying, what has a
man done, or what has he been thinking, to bring him to these
parts? What did he do, I ask with all reason, now that you, sir,
have agreed that my game is the human charade?"
( 2 2 8 )
The Apple in the Dark
"Try to guess," Martim said, trying to smile through his dry
lips.
The professor had no doubts. He opened his eyes and looked
at him nakedly. Martim gave a pale smile.
"I will try to guess," the professor said abruptly.
He got up as he looked at the clock.
Behind a candle, while the others were saying good-bye on
the porch, Martim tried in vain to make out everybody's face in
the dark, but all he got was a general spirit of good-bye. He
quickly tried to analyze each dark face and perceive some further
indication, even though the very haste with which he was trying
made such a search difficult. The yellowish light that trickled
weakly out from inside the house was not sufficient for him to
distinguish anything more than shapes, and the throbbing of the
blood in his own ears prevented him from making out words. At
the same time, his inner disorder had left him acute and lost, as
if alert in a vacuum. Nothing seemed very real to him, and he
was upset by the very strange fact that the professor, even
though he had not been the German, had still . . .
The car finally left, the two women slowly went up onto the
porch and disappeared inside the house.
Chapter
THE DOOR of the main house closed and left him isolated
outside. Shortly after, a light went on on the second floor. And
Martim was all alone, pitching about in the dark.
"All right," he said suddenly with false assurance and a
pleasant disposition to which he added a little irony. "And
now," he went on pleasantly and sensibly- "let's go to bed."
He felt that in some way he was acting stronger than he was, and
self-pity took over. "Well, all right," he repeated with sarcasm.
At the same time that he was deciding to shut himself up in