Clarice Lispector, A Legido Estrangeira, Rio de Janeiro: Editéra do Autor, 19€ Translation and copyright © 1986 by Giovanni Pontiero All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, maga zine, radio, or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced i any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopyin and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, witho permission in writing from the Publisher. This translation of The Foreign Legion was originally published in Great Britai in 1986 by Carcanet Press Limited. First published as New Direction Paperbook 732 in 1992. Published simultaneously in Canada by Pengui Books Canada Limited. Manufactured in the United States of America New Directions Books are printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lispector, Clarice. [Legito Estrangeira. English] The Foreign Legion : stories and chronicles / Clarice Lispector ; translated with an afterword by Giovanni Pontiero. p. cm.—(New Directions paperbook ; 732) Translation of: Legiao Es ISBN-13: 978-0-8112-1189-5 ISBN- 10: O-8112-1189-4. 1. Title. PQ9697.L585L413 1992 869.3—de20 91-29992 CIP New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin by New Directions Publishing Corporation, 80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011 SECOND PRINTINGTemptation She was sobbing. And as if the bright glare of the afternoon were not enough, she had red hair. In the empty street, the stones vibrated with heat — the little es head was aflame. Seated on the steps in front of the jouse, she was bearing up. The street was deserted except fora solitary figure waiting in vain at the tram stop. As if her submissive and patient gaze were not enough, her sobs kept interrupting her and caused her chin to tremble as it rested dejectedly on one hand. What was to be done with a sobbing child with red hair? We looked at each other in silence, dismay confronting dismay. In the deserted street there was no sign of the tram. In a land of brunettes, to have red hair was an involuntary act of rebellion. What did it matter if one day this characteristic would cause her to raise a woman’s head with an air of defiance? For the present, she was seated on a sparkling doorstep, at two o'clock in the afternoon. What saved her was a womans discarded handbag, with a broken strap. She held it as if experienced in conjugal love, clutching it to her knees. Acthat moment she was approached by her other half in this world, a soul-mate in Grajau. The possibility of communi- cation emerged on a street-corner in a haze of sweltering heat; sconmpanyees woman and embodied in the form of a dog. It was a beautiful and pitiful basset-hound, sweet beneath its destiny. It was a red-haired basset. There he came trotting, ahead of his owner, dragging his long body. Off-guard, accustomed, a dog. The little girl opened her eyes in astonishment. Gently warned, the dog halted before her. His tongue quivered. They eyed each other. Among so many creatures who are ready to become the owners of another creature, there was the little girl who had come into this world to possess that dog. He trembled gently, without barking. She looked at him from under her hair, fascinated and solemn. How much time had passed? A greatTemptation 57 discordant sob shook her whole body. The basset did not even tremble. She, too, overcame her sob and continued to stare at him. Both of them had short, red hair. What did they say to each other? No one knows. We only know that they communicated rapidly with each other, for there was no time to lose. We also know that, without speaking, they invoked each other. They invoked each other with urgency, embarrassment and surprise. In the midst of so much vague impossibility and so much sun, there was the solution for the red-haired girl. And in the midst of so many streets to be trotted, of so many bigger dogs, ofso many dry sewers — there was a little girl as if she were the flesh of his own red flesh. They stared at each other, absorbed, forgetful of Grajai. Another second and the hovering dream would shatter, yielding perhaps to the solemnity with which they invoked each other. But they were both pledged. She to her impossible child- hood, the centre of that innocence which could only open out when she became a woman. He, to his imprisoned nature. The dog’s owner waited impatiently beneath her parasol. The red-haired basset finally detached himself from the little pil and trotted off as if in a dream. She remained terrified, olding the event in her hands with a muteness which neither a father nor a mother could understand. She accompanied the basset with black eyes, watching him in disbelief, slumped over the handbag pressed against her knees, until she saw him disappear round the next corner. But he was stronger than she was. He did not look back even once.