The Fate of Lisa Sperling A storyby Merce Rodoreda . . .HERE COME THE LOVERS . . .WHERE ARE THE LOVERS? Madame Letard picked up two saccharin tablets,put one inher cup, and was about toput theother inher subtenant Lisa Sperling's. "No!" She stopped thehand with an abrupt gesture. "Do you still have some sugar?" "There's a bit left." "Then I'll take sugar this evening." She picked up the steaming cup, said goodnight, and went intoher room. Closed thedoor and slowly turned the key. She set the cup on the littletable in frontof the window and stood awhile, not surewhere tostart all thework shewanted todo but perhaps wouldn't. I'll begin with the suitcase. She took itout fromunder thebed and put iton top. Letters, pictures. It's allmine, but itseems like italready belongs to someone else. She had thin,bitter lips. The corners of hermouth were pale, slightly purple in the center, and her teethwere yellow, with large spaces between them. It looks like themouth of a corpse, a friendof hers had once said. She picked up the letterfromher son and started reading it for the hundredth time. "Dearest mother, today we leave. Once we're settled inMinsk, you can come. I hope the trainswill soon be running properly. Idon't want you tohave to make such a long journey ifit'sgoing Barcelona-born Merce Rodoreda (1909-83) went into exile in 1939, when the Spanish CivilWar ended. She lived first in France and then inSwitzerland, returning to Spain in 1972. A prolificwriter of stories, she also published several novels, including La placa delDiamant (1962; Eng.The Time of the Doves, 1981), Mirall trencat (1974; Eng. A Broken Mirror, 2006), and La mort i la primavera, (1986; Eng. Deaf/7 in Spring, 2009; see review on page 66 of this issue). She is regarded as the most important Catalan fictionwriter of the twentieth century (see WLT, May 2007, 12-15). Martha Tennent isthe translator, most recently, of Merce Rodoreda's gothic fable Deaf/?inSpring(2009) and Emili Rosales's historical novelThe Invisible City (2009). tobe difficult foryou. Trustme." She folded the letterslowly and kissed it.But then thewar with Russia had begun, and she had stayed on alone, isolated, inLimoges, where she had settled after fleeingParis. She took out threephotos. One was her sister: "To my dear Lisa. Souvenir fromAnna Sperling. Odessa, 1916." One was her when she was eigh teen. She was wearing a gauze dress, white, with awide velvet belt. The white gauze dress with the red velvet belt. The bow, tied behind her, hung down over her skirt. Iwas blonder; shewas the one who was going to succeed. How far away that girl isnow, how very far!She put the two photos together.Anna had died young, TB. She'd lefta diary and a collection of verses. She, at least, hasn't suffered somuch. The thirdphoto was ofher as a bride. So many dreams then.The only thing I've got leftis my son's love.My husband, no, not him. If only the kisses he offered other women had been given tome. She put thephotos back in the suitcase and shut it. She stood in themiddle of the room. Now, what do I do? Ah, yes, the books. On the table layhalf a dozen. She picked themup one by one, looked at the spines, slowly running her hand across the covers.Where did I put thepaper and string?She found them in thedrawer of the little table and began packing. From thenext room she could hear the sound ofplates.Madame Letard was washing thedishes. A cat was meowing. On a piece ofpaper shewrote: Monsieur Jean Schuster, 148, Avenue Carnot, Limoges. This past winter I thought that... he was so attentive tome. He's alone too. Itwas just friend ship. I'm getting old. She put her hands on her cheeks; the skin was loose, full of pores, earth colored. Skin thathas lived. Clothes. She opened thewardrobe wide and began to remove piles of clothes. She selected themand put themon the chairs. The nightgowns forMaria: she needs them. These blouses for . . .and the dresses? She took out a fox furand looked at itforawhile. The coat Iwore how...