The Blind Woman and the Black Woman

The Blind Woman and the Black Woman:A Fable Miriam Alves (bio) Translated by Felipe Fanuel Xavier Rodrigues and Sarah Soanirina Ohmer A gaze observed the spider and its perilous acrobatics. With a rare balancing act, it hung from the ceiling. Its supporting thread was tenuous, invisible. The hypnotized gaze followed the comings and goings of the insect, up and down. At times, as if to provoke her, the little spider came down to her head when, with quick and graceful movements, it went right back up, brushing the ceiling. She could stay there staring for hours, days, months on end. She and the spider would weave threads infinitely, playing cards, gravitationally. Cecília with her invisible web, the spider with her real web. Eyes closed, focused, she could feel the spider's silent movements. It was a typical tropical winter's morning. The sun, shrouded in clouds, did not feel warm. A morning breeze cut through the room, beating against the window, like someone knocking on the door asking to come in. To come in! Therein lay the mystery of all things. Coming in is a simple act. To leave, another act. Acts that are unknown to the spider in its ups and downs, it would never come in, or leave ... it would weave in acrobatics. Acrobatics determined by the magic of acts, not of life. She and Flora performed the acrobatics of living, hanging from a seemingly tenuous thread of life. Invisible, resistant, fragile thread. She opened her eyes; the spider was weaving. A white thread coming out of its entrails joined other threads. Cecília felt like an equal to that creature. A strange destiny united them in that space. She thought about Flora. She called her that because she never understood why her name was Floresta Brasileiro, Brazilian Forest. When they met, she smiled with mockery and curiosity and stopped herself from asking: why? Floresta intrigued her with the way she saw the world. Or did she? No, Floresta couldn't see; she was blind. She moved in the spaces as if she knew them by heart. Flora [End Page 416] and Cecília, a coincidence had them meet each other one day, face to face. Cecília looked at the spider on the ceiling, shooing away her scattered thoughts. Tired of the acrobatics that day, she refused the destined path to weave the web. She delighted in the spider's balance. A balance that she thought she had lost. She hadn't seen Flora for a week. They met on an ordinary day. Cecília was running late to pay a bill at the bank. Presumably, she would find the damn revolving door locked once again. Through the loudspeaker, she would hear the metallic voice, "Do you have any metal objects? Cellphone? Keys? Coins?" No, she didn't have any of those things. But she would have to go through the embarrassing gesture of opening her bag and looking for something. Or even better, pretend to be looking for what she never lost. Then, looking at the apprehensive security guard, give him a look of something that would translate to "Nothin'—I'm clean!" She did not get why the revolving doors did not rotate when it was her turn to enter the premises. She stopped bringing a purse with her and would have in her pockets only what was necessary. Even so, the voice would insist, "Do you have a key? An umbrella? Do you have a cellphone? Coins? Metal objects?" That day she rebelled, with no patience to succumb to, once again, the embarrassment of being barred. She had been barred almost all her life. That day, she said, "To hell with everything!!!" Standing at the door of the bank, she took a deep breath, in a "bring it on" attitude. She went in with enough strength to break through walls, carrying it all in the chest, like a badass, as her mother used to say. The door didn't lock; it turned with violence. She was thrown into the room. Her body, accustomed to the obstacle, after not finding it, projected itself into space, stumbled over Flora's cane as she walked

Art · Art history · Spider · Visual arts · Latin American and Latino Studies