all my ambition is to be useful. wait for me i said, and sat on the edge of a sofa, my eyes closed. when i opened them later, i realized it was already dark. i realized the house was already closed. i raised up my arms and measured the distance. the ceilings are too high. i went toward the window and watched some birds flying over the water. i kissed the windowpane all trembling, shouted go animal! fat barrel i hate you! i would like to take the shape of a monster and follow them. at that moment the sea almost swept up the terrace and took my breath, surged until the salt drew a little blood. i picked a rose from his formal garden and ate half of it. my head was filled with a roaring of extraordinary volume; it could have been the sound of waves thwacking against rock. i made an effort to avoid looking. there was very little light left but i didn't feel much like shining. i felt the crumbled edge of my ticket in my pocket and recalled how she had wrapped the oranges in butcher paper that morning, how she had not wanted to say anything. there was milk welling in her flesh and a restlessness that i read as an eagerness to be on time. i can survive outdoors but she needed a house to keep her from blushing. when i woke up in the entryway the tourguides were escorting light from the room, sweeping the last dusty ladies out the hall. all day they had been translating the wind, describing how sea water was pumped in from the ocean to fill this alabaster tub, how she had learned to swim in the city and how when she came here she could still hear a scrambling within the walls. they said she could shoot a gun from a hundred yards away, that she could scalp a pumpkin. her trophies and souvenirs shoved between candlesticks, marble effigies of girls gesticulating, legs spread open, yelling mouths.

it is a shame that the house has deteriorated like this; i doubt it will last much longer. they said that the relatives still live on the third floor; i don't know how they can stand all this bustle. i would be dejected and miserable to see so many humans infected with sunlight, sucking on sugar and pushing their lovers through the rooms, scattering orange rinds and paper towels on the travertine floors. she went ahead; i became exhausted and had to sit down. the last birds were still lingering in the trees; there is a spot worn in the carpet where she used to stand by the window, the flower of her mouth pressed flush against the window. while i am waiting i suck on the ends of my hair; i begin to see that i do this all the time. if i look for her, i will set off an alarm. they said he wanted to collect all this stuff as a way to mark the absence of a thing he lost. i wonder what it was; every interpretation is a form of panic. she succumbed, unfamiliar with this dark wood; she rushed through, open-eyed and looking up, as though she didn't know. within the house carpets shudder into rollicking waves, rooms overlap and exceed each other; the coldest places are without light. i long to look through each room, impatiently. moving will still my longing, soak it in the sweet drowsiness of unused chaise lounges and choir stalls. the house sailing through faithful clouds, short of breath, but full of expectation. i try to follow the busy lives of girls, like a beginner, looking as far as the bounds of water allow. she was always at home, entertaining. there were big parties, little parties, fantastic parties, and spectacular parties. parties that began before the light went down, and lasted until chaos, her cheek flushed. still, the walls are cold and speechless.

she roamed through the halls, unfamiliar with all this beauty, her blood quickening with shame, with rapture. sharing her shame, i hear the echo; everyone wants to go home. now that i have got hold of my longing i am reluctant to go. she was dwarfed by her surroundings, engulfed by the bedroom suite, a forest of pillars blossoming from the floor; the parlor draped in glass, the vessel drenched in salt. she was looking for something, nothing the sea or the land could offer. she raised her eyes in silence. i do not belong here. coming here, moving between the rooms, is a journey i don't know the ending of. i have gone as far as i can and have little to show for it besides a postcard and a spoon. what to do with these things? the last time someone sat on this sofa, someone still lived here. it was a long time ago, and since then, she has been thrusting her emotion into the sea. she still hasn't recovered from the loss, the useless trouble of having too much. the perpetual stimulus of tourists passing her vestibule isn't enough to lift up her eyes. the house rises majestically amid chaparral and zebras, towers over the sea. wondrously shaped hills roll down to the beach, prod somnolent seals back into the water; seals noble and tender. the house is contented to gaze upon herds of tourists circling the esplanade, the elephants hidden by dense groves of scrub oak. nothing recalls the defects of civilization. the austerity of the land reminded her of her misery. she was plagued by fear, the perfidious smile of a woman who glanced into a bedroom. i finally leave the house behind. i want to know less; to move around freely without recollection, without feeling the attraction of a lamp, spending all my time turning the switch on and off.