A Story
Merita glanced at her daughter, watching her movements closely. She watched her arrange her hair in waves and let it spill over her slender, delicate shoulders. The girl had grown up, and Merita herself could scarcely understand how the river of life had flowed so swiftly. Her daughter had grown taller; the young shoot of her body had first lengthened and was now beginning to fill out. Her breasts had sprung forward, her cheeks and lips had grown fuller and taken on a soft, honey-coloured glow. Her hips had broadened and filled out. As a mother, she felt both joy and fear at this sudden growth before her eyes. Even she could not understand where this uneasiness came from. Whenever she saw her daughter brushing her hair in the mirror or getting dressed, Merita’s attention was drawn to her… It was as though she were saying, “I’ve grown up, Mama, I’ve grown up, can’t you see?” And Merita could not take her eyes off her. She watched the dresses flowing over her curved body and wanted to muse, to dream, but within those dreams there was fear too… a fear whose source she herself could not understand. She tried every way she could to shut its doors and windows, but fear slipped in beneath the door… Sometimes it came like the rumblings of winter, sometimes like the wind, and sometimes like thunder that would later pour down rain… A rain of uneasiness she herself did not want, yet her daughter’s age and the beauty painting itself over her body, the features of that beauty, frightened her.
The little angel let her gaze wander and carefully smoothed her delicate eyebrows… They had a lovely curve, like a line of horizon above a small mountain lake at a beautiful sunset. Her lovely eyelashes resembled long-needled pines whose movements sent a gentle ripple over the blue surface of the lake of her eye. Anyone who looked at her found their gaze lingering. First she put on her sweater, without putting on a bra at all, and lifted her two shapely, rounded breasts a little with her hand. In truth, they had no need of such a gesture: round as two spheres, they nestled close, forming an integral part of her chest. The top was a little short on her, leaving the lovely star of her navel exposed, along with the sweet curve of her bikini briefs. Below, her short, tight shorts made her look healthier and fuller.
Her mother watched her in stolen glances, so as not to be noticed. The curve of the girl’s thigh sloped like the curve of a lovely hill, its green surface showing the blossoms of her youth and the scents of her joys. She wanted to tell her not to wear those shorts, or that top, which was now too small for her. She was grown up, and her bearing, movements and conversation should reflect that. A mother of Merita’s age understood that clothes like those were an open invitation to the bees of boys’ gazes, and those of older men too. She wanted to stop her, but at the last moment she caught her tongue between her teeth to keep from speaking. It hurt, but she did not let it show. “Here,” she commanded her thoughts, “here! You must be clear about what you mean to say, otherwise you’ll only create resentment, a rift, a gulf between yourself and the girl, who has indeed grown tall and is blossoming, but is still a child.” She lowered her head so as not to look at her any more, to drive away the thoughts and the great struggle within her against those thoughts that struck her without mercy… Two armies had now formed inside her, each opposing the other. Each demanded that its own decision be carried out, regardless of persuasion or reason. Should she speak? Stay silent? She thought either choice was wrong. Speaking would create conflict; staying silent meant knowingly allowing the river of her daughter’s beauty to pour through the streets of Paris. And what if someone appeared and built a little dam of love, gathering her beauty and the river of her feelings behind it? What would happen then? Could the current be held back, could anyone foresee the consequences of a disappointed soul’s flooding? She never wanted this to happen… She glanced once more at those long, straight legs and shuddered! She shuddered and lost herself in deep reverie, in a sea of distant memories, some beautiful and some sad… She went back to when she was her daughter’s age. To the time when she eagerly awaited PE lessons, her gaze turned towards the high school’s outer wall… There, where her gaze met Arditi’s. He appeared like a newly risen sun as the girls ran around the schoolyard in their gym shorts. And while the teacher shouted and gave commands, her mind was there, beyond, far away, beside the wall, with those two eyes. She too awaited PE lessons with an ardent longing, but Arditi never failed to appear in his viewing box, to watch his ballerina waltz across the beautiful carpet of grass in the schoolyard. He had fixed the two days and times of this performance, this ballet, in his mind for good; he had bought a permanent ticket to the box reserved for the chosen spectators. Playful by nature, she stood out, but during those lessons she put even more delight into those movements and caresses. Something she herself did not understand poured from the depths of her soul through her body, making her blossom throughout her being… in her body, her arms, her branches and leaves, in the rustle her long hair left in the fresh air of the day… Like a violin bow, her hair brushed against the dense air and turned into sounds and scents, carrying it deep into the schoolyard, there, there where her love lay hidden from other people’s eyes, but not from hers. She felt like running, flying, crying out that she loved spring and its blossoming… loved the tenderness of life’s young shoot… She wanted to be watered with caresses, with kisses! She shuddered at all these dreams and came back to herself… She reached out and touched the chest of her husband, Arditi. She needed somewhere to rest her head and her thoughts; she felt weary from the battle in her soul. She wanted peace! She had been lying there for hours, unable to sleep. The wind of uneasiness brought her cloud after cloud, shaking her and keeping the stillness of night from settling in her soul and taking her into its lap so she could find herself again. At last she turned towards the wall and looked at her daughter’s photograph. The little angel had gone off with girls her own age to follow their beautiful dreams. “I was right not to say anything,” she thought, and closed her eyes like the two little covers of a book concealing the unwritten pages of a new story that her daughter was preparing in her life for her mother. Night descended, carrying her worries away and dissolving them far away… beyond the years of her childhood…
