Neither of us was tired. We went into the living room, he put on a record and did exactly as I had hoped: he lit the fire and poured me some wine. Then he opened a book and read:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and
a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace.
This sounded like a farewell, but it was the loveliest farewell I would ever experience in my life.
I embraced him and he embraced me, and we lay down on the carpet beside the fire. I was still filled by a sense of plenitude, as if I had always been a wise, happy, fulfilled woman.
"What made you fall in love with a prostitute?"
"I didn't understand it myself at the time. But I've thought about it since, and I think it was because, knowing that your body would never be mine alone, I had to concentrate on conquering your soul."
"Weren't you jealous?"
"You can't say to the spring: 'Come now and last as long as possible.' You can only say: 'Come and bless me with your hope, and stay as long as you can.'"
Words lost on the wind. But I needed to hear them, and he needed to say them. I fell asleep, although I don't know when. I dreamed, not of a situation or of a person, but of a perfume that flooded the air.
When Maria opened her eyes, a few rays of sun were coming in through the open blinds.
"I've made love with him twice," she thought, looking at the man asleep by her side. "And yet it's as if we had always been together, and he had always known my life, my soul, my body, my light, my pain."
She got up to go to the kitchen and make some coffee. That was when she saw the two suitcases in the hall and she remembered everything: her promise, the prayer she had said in the church, her life, the dream that insisted on becoming reality and losing its charm, the perfect man, the love in which body and soul were one and the same and in which pleasure and orgasm were different things.
She could stay; she had nothing more to lose, only an illusion. She remembered the poem: a time to weep, and a time to laugh.
But there was another line too: "a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing." She made the coffee, shut the kitchen door and phoned for a taxi. She summoned all her willpower, which had carried her so far, and which was the source of energy for her "light," which had told her the exact time to leave, which was protecting her and making her treasure forever the memory of that night. She got dressed, picked up her suitcases and left, hoping against hope that he would wake up and ask her to stay.
But he didn't wake up. While she was waiting for the taxi outside, a gypsy was passing, carrying bouquets of flowers.
"Would you like to buy one?"