Accompanied by Serafina and the baritone, Mochi entered the room just as a local amateur was finishing his rendition of an Italian romanza; the amateur was a clockmaker by trade, and the town wits called him “the celestial one,” because whenever he attempted the very highest notes, his voice would vanish, as if it had been carried up in a balloon to Heaven, and yet while he remained inaudible, he continued to mouth the words as if he were speaking from some far distant place, where he could be seen but not heard. The audience was still discreetly tittering at the celestial tenor’s performance when everyone’s attention was suddenly drawn to the lovely Serafina, who arrived, eyes downcast, exuding modesty as well as certain very fine and delicate perfumes; she wore a black dress with a long train, a dress that showed off her white shoulders and the exquisite curve of her breasts; when she reached the stage, the president of the club was waiting to give her his arm, lead her up the two steps that separated her from the piano, and, after bowing deeply, leave her alongside Minghetti, who, in white tie and tails, was, with prodigious skill and elegance, running his white fingers with their pink nails over the yellowing keys.
Bonifacio had momentarily disappeared. Shortly afterward, he was to be seen talking to Mochi in a nearby room. Nepomuceno and Körner were sitting with Emma and Marta in one of the first rows, which were always left empty on these occasions for any ladies who arrived late, because those who, much to their embarrassment, arrived early, would sit as far away as possible from the spectacle, as if it were the Devil himself and as if sitting any closer would be tantamount to taking part in it. One lady had come expecting to see the magicians who had performed there once before and was anxious lest they should burn her handkerchief, even if only in jest, or guess the card she was thinking of.
Emma had never before seen Serafina, who had occupied her thoughts for some time now, at such close quarters. She admired her, rather grudgingly, and considered her to be a fallen woman of the highest order, a quality that both attracted her and inspired in her the occasional flicker of envy. Now Serafina was just a few feet away and Emma could see, in the candlelight, Serafina’s bare arms and small waist; and now that she could observe her features and her gestures and even hear her voice, which seemed to sing even when she was talking, Emma began mentally removing more of her clothes, assessing her body and scrutinizing her soul; she wondered about the size and shape of those extremities and other invisible parts. Serafina had extremely white skin and would, presumably, be the same all over; it wasn’t just rice powder either but a healthy white English skin of an implacable freshness and beauty. People said that her voice was beginning to decline, but her body was still full of vigor and brio, and strong too; there wasn’t so much as a hint of decline there. “What pleasure that woman must have known! I wonder what she says to her lovers?” Emma thought about her own recent strange, secret matrimonial pleasures, about the physical love that kept her poor foolish Bonifacio caught between dream and nightmare deep into the night (she was too ashamed to tell even Marta about this). Would that naughty woman Serafina say to her lovers what she said to Bonifacio? It suddenly occurred to Emma—for the first time—that she had not known those lewd expressions until Bonifacio himself had taught them to her during the mad moments of which neither of them spoke once morning came. Was that, in fact, what the singer said to her lovers? Was Bonifacio one of her many lovers? Was it true what she had heard and even conjectured? No, it was impossible! Given that Bonifacio was such a fool and had not a penny to his name, what would that magnificent woman, that queenly whore, what would she want with him, even as a joke? And yet it was possible . . . there were clues. And oddly enough, she didn’t feel jealous; she felt a rare pride swelling inside her, as if the Emperor of China had awarded Bonifacio a blue or green ribbon; or as if Bonifacio were her brother and had married a Russian princess; no, that wasn’t it, it was something else, something very special. She suddenly recalled her German friend’s theories about how marriage and jealousy and honor were mere conventions, things invented by men to organize what they called society and the state. If she wanted to be a superior woman, which she did, because it was tremendous fun, she had to give up the vulgar ideas of the ladies who lived in her town. In Madrid, in Paris, and in Berlin, all society ladies knew that their respective husbands had mistresses and yet they didn’t hurl plates at their husbands’ heads, no, they themselves took lovers. But what if that nincompoop Bonifacio dared to do the same, without her permission, even, it would seem, sneaking out of the house late at night? Well, whether it was true or not, that was something he would have to pay for; that was quite a different matter and had nothing do with superior souls; besides, Bonifacio wasn’t a superior soul and would have to pay the price for his treachery . . . which would be most amusing. Then again, why wouldn’t that fallen woman love Bonifacio? After all, he was handsome and devoted, healthy and helpful. Had she not loved him too—once? Could a singer be better than her, she who aspired to being a superior woman, very superior, as she had been all her life, only without being aware of it? Even before Marta had started coming to her house, she had made a point of not getting angry about the things other people got angry about, and had deliberately not become excited or annoyed when others wanted or expected her to; and she had already come up with the excellent idea of having her revenge on that thief Nepomuceno and on her fool of a husband—little by little, in her own fashion, and at her own pace—and giving them a very nasty shock. Yes, she had always been a special woman, a superior woman!