Lesbian Desire and Related Matters in Carmen Laforet`s Nada

LESBIAN DESIRE AND RELATED MATTERS IN
CARMEN LAFORET’S NADA
SAMUEL AMAGO
Department of Spanish, Italian and Portuguese, University of Virginia,
P.O. Box 400777, 115 Wilson Hall, Charlottesvillle, VA 22904-4777, USA
Abstract
Sexual repression is a constant theme in Nada (1945), and in the absence of any sort of
traditional plot, Carmen Laforet’s characters seem to be searching to define themselves
socially and sexually in an atmosphere characterized by disorder. While scholars have
emphasized both Laforet’s use of an ambiguously constructed discourse and the overall
tone of sexual repression in the novel’s characters, aside from the obvious heterosexual
tensions of the novel, there exists in Nada a series of exceptionally suggestive homoerotic undercurrents that have remained largely unexamined. An important question has
remained unanswered: What is the function of the undeniably homoerotic undercurrents
of the novel, particularly insofar as Andrea’s physical obsession with Gloria and her
complex, deeply affectionate relationship with her friend Ena? Through an analysis of both
the highly charged female relationships and episodes of homoerotic desire and the contrasting instances of Andrea’s indifference, repulsion, and fear of heterosexual relationships
with men, it is the purpose of the present study to attempt to show that homosocial
desire is encoded in the social structures detailed in the novel, and that same-sex friendship serves as a socially acceptable device through which Andrea can derive emotional
fulfillment independent of traditional heterosexual social constructs.
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Mirrors are a recurring thematic element in Carmen Laforet’s Nada
(1945) and frequently provide the novel’s characters with opportunities
for self-examination and revelation. At the end of the novel, Andrea’s
uncle Román slits his throat while shaving, presumably in front of a
mirror, while some of the young narrator’s most important realizations
come from her accidental looks in the mirror. At Pons’s party, a glance
in the mirror reveals exactly how out-of-place she is, and another similar
self-reflection appears near the novel’s conclusion: “En el espejo me
encontré reflejada, miserablemente flaca y con los dientes chocándome
como si me muriera de frío” (278). The mirror represents the novel’s
overarching metaphor: Nada functions as a mirror in which an older,
more mature narrator views herself when she was eighteen years old.
Andrea’s experiences at Aribau years ago (it is impossible to determine
how many) are what Illanes Adaro calls “un tramo muy breve en la
vida de una persona, pero en este caso, de especial intensidad” (22).
This important year in the life of the narrator reflects larger, more impor-
Neophilologus 86: 65–86, 2002.
 2002 Kluwer Academic Publishers. Printed in the Netherlands.
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tant aspects not only of her own personality, but also of her sexual
identity. Sexual repression is a constant theme in the novel, and in the
absence of any sort of traditional plot, Laforet’s characters instead seem
to be searching to define themselves socially and sexually in an atmosphere characterized by disorder and chaos. Aside from the obvious
heterosexual tensions of the novel, Barry Jordan has pointed to a homoerotic subtext exemplified in Juan’s relationship with his brother Román
(Laforet. Nada 44). Jordan further asserts that confessions play an important role in the novel as the female characters reveal through these
confessions “a sexuality which has largely been repressed, which is
curiously infantile and sadistic and which has its darker side: compulsive voyeurism, hints of lesbianism, sadomasochism, etc.” (96). Jordan
suggests that such elements are unleashed by the seductive nature of
the male characters. In spite of these brief mentions of homoeroticism,
scholars have tended to gloss over the homoerotic elements of the novel
in favor of more traditional heterosexist readings. Largely unexamined,
there exists in Nada a series of exceptionally suggestive homoerotic
currents that lie just below the surface, reflected in the textual mirror that
is the novel. Through the analysis of both the highly charged female relationships and episodes of homoerotic desire and the contrasting instances
of Andrea’s indifference, repulsion, and fear of heterosexual relationships
with men, we will attempt to show that homosocial desire is encoded
in the social structures detailed in the novel, and that same-sex friendship serves as a socially acceptable device through which Andrea can
derive emotional fulfillment independent of traditional heterosexual social
constructs.
Regardless of their critical or ideological stances, critics agree that
Nada is an ambiguous text at best. The paradoxical nature of the very
title is a commonly discussed theme, as the reader is immediately
impressed by the almost three hundred pages of a novel titled “Nothing.”
Both Robert Spires and John W. Kronik conclude that indeed the work
must be “something,” a conclusion supported by the fact that the novel
continues to receive much critical attention. Perhaps it is the novel’s
ambiguity that makes it such a rich ground for interpretation. Critics such
as Christopher Soufas and Sandra Clevenger emphasize the novel’s protofeminist underpinnings, while Ellen Mayock and Marcela del Río Reyes
have drawn salient parallels between Laforet’s fictive space and postCivil War Spain. More recently there has been a sustained debate as to
the novel’s pertinence to the bildungsroman. Marsha Collins and Alicia
Andreu argue that Nada is indeed a novel of education, while Jordan
has made convincing arguments to the contrary, pointing to the fact
that Andrea-as-protagonist does not develop independently, but rather
benefits from external forces upon her character and that ultimately,
“Nada is the story of the nonfulfillment of Andrea’s dreams” (“Laforet’s
Homoerotic Undercurrents in “Nada”
67
Nada . . . 108”). Even the novel’s overall tone is highly disputed, as Ruth
El Saffar reads the novel negatively, suggesting that Andrea’s time at
the house on Aribau is marked by failure, and that the narrator’s return
to the past through remembering those events is only a futile delayingtactic against death, while other critics such as Collins argue that “Laforet
sets good against evil with the representative of good winning out and
generating a more sympathetic and charitable attitude towards her fellow
man on the part of the heroine” (309).
Some of the most astute critical analyses of Laforet’s novel have
been authored by Barry Jordan, most notably in his articles “Looks that
Kill: Power, Gender and Vision in Laforet’s Nada” and “Shifting Generic
Boundaries: The Role of Confession and Desire in Laforet’s Nada.” In
the former, he makes use of new feminist theories of the gaze and its
relation to desire in film to “link the operation of looking to the construction of gendered identities in the novel and tease out the power
relations involved” (82). In the latter study, Jordan connects the novel
to the literature of desire and confession, which has to do with “illicit
passions, disruptive desire, guilt at bodily longings, hunger for human
contact” (414), and he asserts that the dark side of female sexuality is
shown to be unlocked and activated by the seductive charms of the
male.1 Jordan emphasizes both Laforet’s use of an ambiguously constructed discourse and the overall tone of sexual repression in the novel’s
characters, more specifically in the protagonist Andrea. However, he
leaves tantalizingly unanswered an important question that we will
discuss here: What is the function of the undeniably homoerotic undercurrents of the novel, particularly insofar as Andrea’s physical obsession
with Gloria and her complex, deeply affectionate relationship with Ena?
Scholars agree that the novel represents one pivotal year in the life
of the mysterious narrator in which she learns important lessons about
life and through her experiences discovers key aspects of her own personality. Andrea seems to exhibit heterosexual tendencies at the outset
– as exemplified by her initial attraction to her uncle Román – yet these
are curiously mild and are soon replaced by fear and disgust. If we regard
Andrea as heterosexual, she remains suspiciously asexual – particularly
when we examine her reactions to Gerardo and Pons. But if this is indeed
a pivotal year in which a young girl struggles for identity, the text
allows – and indeed requires – a reading that takes into account the young
protagonist’s struggle to discover and come to terms with her sexuality.
By looking first at Andrea’s relationships with the principal male
characters of the novel (Román, Gerardo and Pons) and later at her
highly affective relationships with Gloria and Ena, it should become clear
that her sexual preference is not as clearly heterosexual as most critics
have heretofore taken for granted. The contrast between Andrea’s
negative reactions to the men who surround her and her exceptionally
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caring, sometimes erotically charged relationships with women reveals
not just her rejection of adult heterosexual relations in favor of “female
friendship and the innocence of pre-adolescent sexuality” (Jordan,
Laforet. Nada 11) but also a conflicted and ever-present repressed lesbian
identity.
Readers of Laforet’s novel have frequently expressed frustration at
Andrea’s excessive passivity and the ambiguous distance between
Andrea-narrator and Andrea-protagonist. It is apparent, as Jordan
suggests, that “the narrator knows far more than she is willing to reveal,
and the enigma lingers on beyond the apparently happy ending” (Jordan,
“Laforet’s Nada . . .” 111). The narrator leaves out much commentary
in favor of a more passive discursive voice. She largely observes and
reports events, leaving their interpretation to the reader, and the space
between their narration and their occurrence leaves many questions unanswered. Pérez Firmat has gone so far as to state that the narrator makes
a conscious choice to dissemble the narrative act (28), preferring to
distance herself from Andrea-the-protagonist. Therefore, the reader must
draw his or her own conclusions based upon the information provided,
as Andrea’s repressed sexual identity lies partially hidden beneath the
text’s surface.
From the beginning, Andrea is impressed by her uncle Román, whose
extreme phallic energy is emphasized symbolically in the second chapter,
which describes events during Andrea’s first day at Aribau: “Un hombre
con el pelo rizado y la cara agradable e inteligente se ocupaba de engrasar
una pistola al otro lado de la mesa” (28). The pistol that he cleans and
oils at the dinner table overtly symbolizes Román’s menacing, masculine
power over the family. Andrea finds him remarkable, but it becomes
apparent in chapter three that her fascination with him is based not
upon sexual attraction, but rather on a sort of power differential, perhaps
based on gender: “No me gustaba desilusionarle, porque vagamente yo
me sentía inferior; un poco insulsa” (39). She is profoundly affected
by Román’s music – “Román me parecía un artista maravilloso y único”
(41) – but does not allow herself to express her feelings to him. The word
that gives the novel its title appears for the first time when he asks her
what she is feeling as a result of the beautiful music he has played for
her. Andrea seems to find meaningful communication with her uncle
repugnant and prefers instead to close her soul to him, responding, “Nada,
no sé, sólo me gusta . . .” (41). Later, her ambiguous feelings toward
him become clearer as she begins to discover his role as aggressor in
the family. She describes him repeatedly with diabolic imagery:
Román frotó una cerilla para encender el cigarrillo; vi un instante, entre las sombras, su
cara iluminada por un resplandor rojizo y su singular sonrisa, luego las doradas hebras
ardiendo. En seguida un punto rojo y alrededor otra vez la luz gris violeta del crepúsculo. (86)
Homoerotic Undercurrents in “Nada”
69
She calls him a “diablo” no less than three times in the next fifteen pages
(89, 92, 100). Critics agree that Román is an insidious character, but it
seems that for Andrea, his menacing nature is derived from his masculinity. She is morbidly curious at first, but later this curiosity gives way
to repulsion, fear and disgust. The climax of the novel is a false one
caused by Andrea’s misinterpretation of her uncle’s intentions, but
nonetheless it gives the reader an important view of Andrea’s feelings
towards him. The fact that he is alone with Ena in his room represents
a possibility for violence and perhaps the sexual penetration of Ena by
Román. This fear of heterosexual violence against Ena is again symbolically represented by Andrea’s fixation on the phallic image of the
pistol that he keeps in his room. Yet here, the rebellious Ena, who has
instead exacted an emotional violence upon Román that ultimately results
in his suicide, has reversed the power relation. His gun is absent (he
has been unmanned by Ena) but Andrea is still unaware of this development and in a fit of romantic idealism she attempts to save her friend.
She is ridiculed by both Ena and Román for her youthful romanticism,
but the symbolic import of the episode is not lost upon the reader.
Andrea’s attitude toward her uncle Román is characterized by a simultaneous curiosity and repulsion, but her reactions to the other men with
whom she comes into contact are milder and nearly free of any erotic
undertones. Indeed, it is Andrea’s relationships with men such as Gerardo
and Pons that supply much of the disquieting ambiguity of the novel.
Gerardo is seen not just as unattractive, but as someone who represents
the danger of an utter loss of independence and happiness. Throughout
the novel, Andrea seems most happy when she is outside, free of the
confines of Aribau. When Gerardo tracks her down one evening, she
responds negatively, but the acerbity of her tone is surprising: “ ‘¡Maldito!
– pensé –; me has quitado toda la felicidad que me iba a llevar de
aquí’ ” (116). She tells him that she prefers to be alone, calling him an
imbecile. Much later, only when she has been snubbed by Ena, Andrea
telephones him, thinking, “tal vez esto podría distraerme de mis ideas”
(141). Gerardo only serves as a negative alternate to Ena – feeling both
resentful and loving towards Ena, Andrea decides to seek an alternative source of attention – but very quickly she is put off by him. She
is first “un poco intimidada” (142) by his brusque, chauvinistic manner,
and when she learns that he shares Schopenhauer’s belief in the intellectual inferiority of women, her opinion of him sinks even lower. She
finds him pleasant for only a second when he cleans the lips of a statue
of Venus, but he soon becomes “fastidioso” (143) and even “aborrecible”
(144). The touch of his hand makes her want to cry – perhaps because
she does not share his intimate feelings – and their kiss is met with her
emotional and physical rigidity. She even relates the experience to a
macabre sort of darkness: “Tuve la sensación absurda de que me corrían
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sombras por la cara como en un crepúsculo” (145). A second kiss
confirms her negative feelings toward him: “Sobresaltada le di un
empujón, y me subió una oleada de asco por la saliva y el calor de sus
labios gordos” (145). She flees him, naively telling him that she does
not love him, while inwardly regretting the circumstances of this, her
first kiss from a man. He catches her and again his face becomes “grosera
y despectiva” (146) in her eyes. Perhaps Andrea is put off by Gerardo’s
brusque manner, but the extremity of her negativity is notable. And her
reaction during their first encounter alone at night in chapter ten seems
to be based upon nothing, as she still has had little contact with him.
The reader will recall a similar reaction in the young protagonist when
she meets Angustias’s lover, Jerónimo Sanz, for the first time. A more
immediate negative response to a man cannot be found in the novel: “Sus
ojos oscuros, casi sin blanco, me recordaban a los de los cerdos que criaba
Isabel en el pueblo” (81).
Andrea’s feelings for Pons are more affectionate, but always rather
mild. Regarding the question of Pons, Jordan offers the following solution
in “Shifting Generic Boundaries: The Role of Confession and Desire
in Laforet’s Nada”:
Andrea does not find a man. Why not? The answer seems to be that she is not in a position,
as yet, to make that step. She genuinely desired a romance with Pons, but showed fear
of making a commitment and of having to give up the fantasies of childhood romance
. . . She thus breaks the marriage cycle and settles for female friendship . . . Andrea is
thus unable to break into adulthood and this is arguably because she is still a victim of
literary fantasies, still a casualty of the genre of romance. (421)
Yet if we examine Andrea’s experiences with Pons more closely, it
becomes apparent that her romantic impulses toward him are always curiously weak, and in few instances does she seem to genuinely desire a
relationship with him. The reader notes the ambiguity of her feelings
for him when she goes to his party: “Tan nervioso e infantil como era
me cansaba un poco y al mismo tiempo yo le tenía mucho cariño”
(200). But this “cariño” she feels for Pons is not enough to allow Andrea
to fall in love with him, and will never match the overwhelming feelings
she has for Ena, as we shall discuss later. Rather than feeling smitten,
fascinated or grateful for Pons’s attentions, she feels a “sensación
molesta.” And to his offer to spend the summer at the beach with his
family she thinks, “Creía yo que una contestación afirmativa a su
ofrecimiento me ligaba a él por otros lazos que me inquietaban, porque
me parecían falsos” (202). Andrea does seem to make a half-hearted
attempt to fall in love with Pons – “Deseé con todas mis fuerzas poder
llegar a enamorarme de él” (202) – but she is ultimately unsuccessful.
Only in Ena’s absence does Andrea think that perhaps Pons might be
an option, but he is only useful as a vehicle to flee Aribau: “Casi me
Homoerotic Undercurrents in “Nada”
71
parecía querer a mi amigo al pensar que él me iba a ayudar a realizar
este anhelo desesperado” (211).
In the absence of romance, the party at Pons’s house becomes a parodic
inversion of the Cinderella story. Andrea is unable to return his affections, and the Ball becomes not an opportunity for salvation from a
life of misery and poverty, but an instance of brutal disillusionment
with her surroundings and a return to her squalid origins. The narrator
poignantly describes her desire to be loved – “ser alabada, admirada,
de sentirme como la Cenicienta del cuento” (214). She even has dreams
of seeing herself in a mirror as a “rubia princesa – precisamente rubia,
como describían los cuentos –, inmediatamente dotada, por gracia de
la belleza, con los atributos de dulzura, encanto y bondad, y el maravilloso de esparcir generosamente mis sonrisas” (215). In a key moment,
another propiciously placed mirror – this time at Pons’s party – provides
a sobering opportunity for self-recognition: “Me vi en un espejo blanca
y gris, deslucida entre los alegres trajes de verano que me rodeaban.
Absolutamente seria entre la animación de todos y me sentí un poco
ridícula” (219). She imagines briefly that perhaps the correct gaze from
a handsome man might transform her indifference into love. Ultimately,
however, she cannot imagine herself in a relationship with this man,
and is profoundly embarrassed when she finds herself in an archetypical “riña sentimental” with Pons. It would seem that she does not just
have difficulty accepting Gerardo or Pons, but also the very social
construction of heterosexual relationships themselves. She is unable to
imagine herself in a relationship with either of these men, and the reader
is tempted to imagine whether she could find emotional comfort with any
man, however ideal he might be. Perhaps her indifference toward men
could be explained as emotional immaturity, but it seems likely that
Andrea might be awaiting an alternative to such heterosexual relationships. Suggestions of such an alternative in the novel might be arrived
at through the careful examination of Andrea’s relationships with Ena
and Gloria.
If there is a critical consensus as to Andrea’s sexual identity, it must
be that she is heterosexual. Yet the most affective and sensual of her relationships are shared with Gloria and Ena. Andrea feels an unexplainable
attraction towards her uncle Román, but these feelings are quickly
replaced by fear and dread of his menacing phallic power. She is also
immediately attracted to Gloria, her aunt by marriage, an attraction that
goes much further than that brief infatuation with her uncle. Chapter three
chronicles the origins of this frequently homoerotic attraction: “Yo la veía
charlar con agrado inexplicable . . . No me parecía inteligente, ni su
encanto personal provenía de su espíritu. Creo que mi simpatía por ella
tuvo origen el día en que la vi desnuda sirviendo de modelo a Juan” (35).
Andrea is not attracted to Gloria’s mind or even personality, but it is
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her overwhelming physical sensuality that draws her. In this surprising
episode, Andrea finds herself fascinated by the beautiful naked body
of her aunt. She all but ignores Juan, who is attempting to paint his
wife “sin talento” (36). Andrea places the object of her attention at the
center of the chaotic space that is Juan’s studio; books, papers and plaster
casts litter the room.
Vi todo este conjunto en derredor de Gloria, que estaba sentada sobre un taburete recubierto con tela de cortina, desnuda y en una postura incómoda . . . Gloria, enfrente de
nosotros, sin su desastrado vestido, aparecía increíblemente bella y blanca entre la fealdad
de todas la cosas, como un milagro del Señor. Un espíritu dulce y maligno a la vez palpitaba en la grácil forma de sus piernas, de sus brazos, de sus finos pechos. Una inteligencia
sutil y diluida en la cálida superficie de la piel perfecta. Algo que en sus ojos no lucía
nunca. Esta llamarada del espíritu que atrae en las personas excepcionales, en las obras
de arte. (36)
Andrea’s vision of Gloria reaches almost transcendental proportions, and
her gaze lingers on her beautiful body parts – the graceful form of her
legs and arms and her finely sculpted breasts. This vision of her naked
aunt recumbent in the studio is described in careful detail using almost
divine terminology – “como un milagro del Señor.” To behold Gloria
is to contemplate ideal female beauty. No male character is subject to
descriptions such as this. The narrator later confesses that she almost
unconsciously follows Gloria to her bedroom for the first time later
that night – perhaps as a result of the afternoon’s painting session –,
where she allows herself to be simultaneously comforted and soothed
by her aunt’s continuous conversation: “Su charla insubstancial me
parecía el rumor de la lluvia que se escuchaba con gusto y con pereza”
(37). The comfort, languor and loss of energy she experiences in the
presence of Gloria will be repeated later in the novel, and seem to be a
constant in Andrea’s descriptions of her feelings for her.
When Andrea falls ill and recounts her fevered dreams, it is Gloria
more than any other member of the family that she sees in her visions:
“sobre todo a Gloria, llorando contra el hombro de Juan; y las grandes
manos de él acariciando sus cabellos” (55). This suggestively voyeuristic
statement seems to suggest a need to take Juan’s place in her arms. His
large hands appear threatening, and Andrea centers her gaze on their
contact with Gloria’s hair. Later, Andrea is allowed more visual access
to her aunt’s naked body when Gloria shows her the bruises caused by
her husband’s frequent beatings (104). These initial scenes only hint at
homoerotic undertones, but in chapter eleven Andrea’s desire is expressed
overtly. After her aunt suffers another particularly brutal beating by
Juan while in the bathtub, Andrea comes to Gloria’s rescue. She attempts
to warm her aunt’s shivering naked body: “Frotando su cuerpo lo mejor
que pude, entré yo en calor. Luego me sobrevino un cansancio tan espantoso que me temblaban las rodillas. – Ven a mi cuarto, si quieres – le
Homoerotic Undercurrents in “Nada”
73
dije, pareciéndome imposible volver a dejarla en manos de Juan” (130).
The women get into bed, where the narrator finds it impossible to escape
Gloria’s freezing body and her wet hair reminds Andrea of dark, viscous
blood upon the pillow (130). Gloria’s physicality is difficult to ignore.
While Gloria chatters incessantly, Andrea languidly drifts in and out of
sleep, only awaking completely at the mention of food. The vampiric
suggestion of this episode represents one of the most shocking images
of the novel:
Me sentí hambrienta como nunca lo he estado. Allí, en la cama, estaba unida a Gloria
por el feroz deseo de mi organismo que sus palabras habían despertado, con los mismos
vínculos que me unían a Román cuando evocaba en su música los deseos impotentes de
mi alma.
Algo así como una locura se posesionó de mi bestialidad al sentir tan cerca el latido
de aquel cuello de Gloria, que hablaba y hablaba. Ganas de morder en la carne palpitante, masticar. Tragar la buena sangre tibia. (132)
Andrea then laughs at her impulse, but the initial effect of this highly
suggestive imagery is not lost upon the reader. The languor she repeatedly experiences – “me sobrevino un cansancio tan espantoso que me
temblaban las rodillas” (130) – is perhaps as a result of malnutrition,
but it is often an important characteristic of the female vampire.
Exemplified in the canonical Dracula by Bram Stoker, the vampire in
literature has traditionally represented heterosexual fear of uncontrollable
sexual desire, and more recently, the vampire has also been linked to
homoerotic themes by critics such as Craft, Stephenson, Zschokke and
others. The vampiric act is connected to both nourishment and to reproduction, as the transfer of blood converts the victim to vampire status
while simultaneously nourishing the vampire. The vampire is an ambiguously gendered figure, possessing both female and male characteristics,
as the sharp, pointed (masculine) teeth of the vampire, which function
as a sort of phallic device which penetrates the victim in order to reproduce, are usually set in an inviting, voluptuous, red (feminine) mouth.
John Allen Stephenson synthesizes the vampiric process, describing it
as a “condensed procedure in which penetration, intercourse, conception,
gestation, and parturition represent, not discrete stages, but one undifferentiated action” (143). In “ ‘Kiss me with Those Red Lips’: Gender
and Inversion in Bram Stoker’s Dracula,” Christopher Craft indicates
that Stoker inverts traditional patterns of sexuality, as the virile protagonist Jonathan Harker “enjoys a ‘feminine’ passivity and awaits a
delicious penetration from a woman whose demonism is figured as the
power to penetrate . . . A swooning desire for an overwhelming penetration . . .” (109). Thus, “an implicitly homoerotic desire achieves
representation as a monstrous heterosexuality, as a demonic inversion
of normal gender relations. Dracula’s daughters offer Harker a feminine
form but a masculine penetration” (110). Stephenson points out that the
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vampire is frequently an outsider – like our protagonist Andrea – although
the results of the true vampire’s presence are typically much more threatening to the social order. It is his status as “other” that makes the vampire
truly terrifying. Most relevant to our discussion here, however, is
Stephenson’s brief exposition on the characteristics of the female
vampire. He states:
Female vampires are not angels turned into whores but human women who have become
something very strange, beings in whom traditional distinctions between male and female
have been lost and traditional roles confusingly mixed . . . the bisexuality of the vampire
is not monstrously strange, it is also a very human impulse. (146)
This certainly seems to be the case with the young protagonist of Nada,
as her imagination is filled at times with heterosexual fantasies such as
the Cinderella fable, while she simultaneously expresses her homoerotic
attraction to some of the women who surround her. It is important to
emphasize the naturality of Andrea’s sexual impulses. Although the
gothic episode in which she fantasizes about biting Gloria and drinking
her warm, red blood is superficially explained by her extreme hunger,
it is also possible that this impulse also belies Andrea’s repressed sexual
attraction to her aunt. Her desire to bite Gloria’s neck can be read as a
sublimation of same-sex desire as it would represent both a sensual
penetration and the sharing of vital fluids.
Unlike the dreaded female vampires of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Andrea
is not a menacing threat to the patriarchal, heterosexual order, but
represents instead a more mild and sympathetic figure. Indeed, Magdalena
Zschokke has asserted that in more recent female-authored novels with
female vampire protagonists, “the vampire becomes the figure which
encapsulates autonomous lesbian desire, self-determination and subjectivity” (6). Zschokke concludes her study on the lesbian figure in
literature with a chapter devoted to the analysis of the female vampire
in recent American fiction. Her observations serve to illuminate our study
of Laforet’s novel:
Sympathetic vampires have mostly been written by women . . . as long as the vampire
is seen in terms of its power, it is not surprising that an uncanny predator who cruelly
takes from man what is rightfully his becomes ideal subject matter for a horror story. In
feminist rethinking, power can be allocated differently, and the focus is on cooperation
and endurance so that vampires become “super-survivors” instead of “super-killers.” (213)
This seems an apt diagnosis of Andrea’s character. She is a sympathetic
person in most cases, and the vampire scene that she shares with Gloria
is closer to a parody of the genre than a serious gothic element.
Nevertheless, the effect is to place the protagonist within the gothic
tradition of vampire fiction.2 Andrea’s desire for Gloria which begins
with a voyeuristic gaze in Juan’s studio becomes manifest in this episode
Homoerotic Undercurrents in “Nada”
75
in which Andrea’s chaste gaze is replaced by a highly charged physicality. Andrea never acts on this urge (she does not bite Gloria), but
her struggle throughout the novel is to survive – socially and physically – in the altogether harsh environment that is post-Civil War
Barcelona. The vampiric act would represent not only a reprieve from
overwhelming hunger, but also the sublimation of her homoerotic tendencies through the possibility of engaging in the non-phallic sex
symbolized by the vampiric act.3 As suggested in this episode, Andrea’s
same-sex desire is a constant in the novel, as we will attempt to show
through the analysis of her relationship with another important female
character, Ena.
Andrea’s obsession with Gloria is based largely upon physical factors.
It is her aunt’s attractive body and to a lesser degree, her frivolous character that attract the young protagonist. Andrea’s relationship with her
friend Ena, however, is much more complex, and although it does
evidence a physical facet, it is based upon more profound and complex
elements. From the outset, Andrea is tremendously fascinated by Ena.
Her friend appears for the first time in chapter five, in which the narrator
details her first days at the university. Even while Pons speaks to her,
Andrea ponders the mysterious Ena while including little of her male
friend’s conversation in the narration. When describing her friend, the
narrator’s rhetoric is frequently of a romantic nature: “. . . de toda la
juventud que yo conocía Ena era mi preferida. Aun en los tiempos en
que no pensaba ser su amiga, yo le tenía simpatía a aquella muchacha
y estaba segura de ser correspondida” (60). Almost a love at first sight,
Andrea never describes such sentiments when referring to Pons, Gerardo
or Román. Although it is possible that cultural factors might have made
the expression of affection towards other women more allowable for
women than similar expressions towards men, the autobiographical,
confessional nature of the novel allows the narrator much freedom for
such expressions. In other words, cultural restrictions on Andrea’s expression of heterosexual desire would not necessarily hold true in a
confessional discursive space such as this. Andrea could never express
affectionate emotions for men overtly, but she could certainly include
them in the text.
Andrea is fascinated immediately by Ena’s “agradable y sensual cara,
en la que relucían unos ojos terribles” (60). Indeed, as in the case with
her uncle Román, it is the mixture of physical beauty and menacing character that draws Andrea to Ena. Barry Jordan has pointed to the masculine
nature of Ena’s gaze, stating that “Ena as spectator occupies a position
already codified as masculine, given her role as counterpart and female
double to Román” (“Looks that Kill” 93). Perhaps it is partly this overpowering, sometimes masculine strength that draws Andrea to Ena. The
narrator is further attracted to her friend’s grace and well-manicured good
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looks, which are described in delicious detail. She admires Ena’s “bien
cortado traje” and the “suave perfume de su cabello” (62). Ena’s charms
push Andrea to almost foolish extremes: “Mi deseo de hablar de la música
de Román, de la rojiza cabellera de Gloria, de mi pueril abuela vagando
por la noche como un fantasma, me pareció idiota” (63). It is obvious
that some of Andrea’s desire to connect with her friend stems from her
isolation and solitude as an orphan and the unpleasantness of her living
situation, but the minute detail of her physical descriptions of Ena suggest
a more sensual intention. She notices and describes everything from
the scent of her hair and the color of her eyes to her playful demeanor
and personal idiosyncrasies. She is even the object of Andrea’s dreams.
The young protagonist’s relationship with Ena is on the one hand a
profound platonic relationship, as the narrator suggests in the opening
paragraphs of chapter six – “Mi amistad con Ena había seguido el curso
normal de unas relaciones entre dos compañeras de clase que simpatizan extraordinariamente” (68) – while simultaneously exhibiting many
of the characteristics of a romantic relationship – “Todas mis alegrías
de aquella temporada aparecieron un poco limadas por la obsesión de
corresponder a sus delicadezas” (69). The narrator feels so blessed by
Ena’s attentions that she rifles through her few material possessions in
order to give something in return. Andrea’s solution to this desire to
reciprocate is to give her the embroidered handkerchief given by her
grandmother for her first communion, perhaps her most valued item.
After giving the handkerchief to her friend, Andrea confesses that she
was unable to ever forget her happiness on that day. Indeed, the handkerchief episode suggests a romantic subtext. Given the importance of
such gifts in the chivalric tradition, in ceremonies in which the lady gives
to her chosen knight a handkerchief representing her (chaste) romantic
devotion, this gift takes on a symbolic charge. Erotic tension is mediated
and displaced by the significant piece of cloth, thereby sublimating
romantic desire.
Such idealistic tendencies are not isolated to this episode, however,
as Andrea has already shown her inward romantic impulses at Pons’s
party, where she wishes she were Cinderella, prepared to be swept off
her feet. Ena becomes another important part of Andrea’s romantic
fantasy life in the climactic chapter twenty, in which she imagines Ena
as a damsel in distress needing salvation from the villain Román. Her
apparently impulsive behavior in this episode is not without precedent,
however, as she has already fantasized about such a moment on the
evening of the day of San Juan:
Desperté soñando con Ena. Insensiblemente la había encadenado mi fantasía a las palabras,
mezquindades y traiciones de Román. La amargura que siempre me venía aquellos días
al pensar en ella, me invadió enteramente. Corrí a su casa, impulsiva, sin saber lo que
iba a decirle, deseando solamente protegerla contra mi tío. (209)
Homoerotic Undercurrents in “Nada”
77
Here, it is Andrea who would save her friend from the threatening enemy,
a romantic impulse to protect her from harm that is once again based
largely upon her overactive imagination.4 Even considering cultural
constructions of female friendship, her feelings for Ena seem much
stronger than one might expect.
When Andrea is invited to Pons’s house for a party, she is ashamed
of her shabby appearance, thinking that “Quizás lo había estropeado
todo la mirada primera que dirigió su madre a mis zapatos” (221). From
the outset, she is convinced that she could never belong in such an
upper-class social context, and makes little effort to fit in. Yet if one
compares this later instance with Andrea’s first visit to Ena’s house, it
begins to seem that perhaps she never sincerely desired a relationship
with Pons.
Había cobrado aquel día mi paga de febrero y poseída de las delicias de poderla gastar,
me lancé a la calle y adquirí en seguida aquellas fruslerías que tanto deseaba . . . jabón
bueno, perfume y también una blusa nueva para presentarme en casa de Ena, que me había
invitado a comer. Además, unas rosas para su madre. (119)
The reader might ask why Andrea spends so much time and money on
her first visit to Ena’s house, bringing flowers for her mother, buying
perfume and a new blouse for herself, while she appears at Pons’s house
dressed shabbily with no gift for her hosts. While it is true that she has
little money, and she does spend some time ironing her dress for Pons’s
party, Andrea’s efforts to please her hosts are quite different, as are the
receptions she receives from them. Both Pons’s and Ena’s families belong
to the upper middle class, but her efforts to fit in are painfully unbalanced. Barry Jordan has stated that Andrea “genuinely desired romance
with Pons, but showed fear of making a commitment and of having to
give up the fantasies of childhood romance” (“Shifting Generic
Boundaries” 421), but it seems more likely that perhaps the protagonist would prefer instead a romance with Ena, however chaste it may
be, to a relationship with Pons (or any man for that matter). It does not
seem the case that Andrea fears commitment, as we have seen that Andrea
is not afraid of committing to Ena. She spends all of her meager funds
to please her and continually frets about the relationship, while she makes
almost no effort to ingratiate herself with Pons.
For Andrea, Ena represents all light and goodness, in spite of her occasional malicious tendencies. Placed almost at the center of the novel’s
twenty-five chapters, chapter twelve explicitly details Andrea’s homoerotic infatuation with Ena.
Estos chorros de luz que recibía mi vida gracias a Ena, estaban amargados por el sombrío
tinte con que se teñía mi espíritu otros días de la semana . . . A veces me enfadaba con
Ena por una nadería. Salía de su casa desesperada. Luego regresaba sin decirle una palabra
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y me ponía a estudiar junto a ella. Ena se hacía la desentendida y seguíamos como si
tal cosa. El recuerdo de estas escenas me hacía llorar de terror algunas veces . . . Pensaba
en Juan y me encontraba semejante a él en muchas cosas. (140)
Obviously, Ena’s presence in Andrea’s life represents a welcome reprieve
from her melancholy existence at Aribau, but the narrator takes the
description of their relation much further. As we see above, Andrea
manufactures excuses to be angry with her friend – “me enfadaba con
Ena por una nadería” – and soon forgets why, returning to her side. It
is difficult to ascertain whether Ena is aware of Andrea’s infatuation,
although her personality would indicate that she enjoys the sycophantic
attentions of others, as seems to be the case with Jaime and Román.
Nevertheless, Andrea’s behavior resembles that of someone experiencing
her first crush. She even goes so far as to imagine paranoically that
Ena is toying with her emotions as she does with so many others: “Juega
conmigo como con todo el mundo hace – pensé injustamente –, como
con sus padres, con sus hermanos, como con los pobres muchachos que
le hacen el amor” (141). Andrea and Jaime have more in common than
has commonly been acknowledged.
While Jaime and Ena are still dating, Andrea participates vicariously
in their love affair – “El amor de ellos me había iluminado el sentido
de la existencia, sólo por el hecho de existir” (196), she says wistfully.
Perhaps having Andrea as spectator makes the relation more exciting
for its active participants. Ena tells Andrea that she loves her too,
although she explains that she loves her as a sister. “Ya ves . . . ¡He
besado a Jaime delante de ti!” (138) It is a variation on the love triangle
in which Andrea is content to enjoy a secondary role as observer and
sometimes intermediary, as after their breakup when Jaime asks,
“¿Quieres mucho a Ena?” She responds, “Muchísimo. No hay otra
persona a quien yo quiera más” (189). She agrees to transmit his message
to her friend. Andrea is highly affected by her friend’s absence, going
so far as to say, “A veces tenía ganas de llorar como si fuese a mí y
no a Jaime a quien ella hubiese burlado y traicionado. Me era imposible
creer en la belleza y la verdad de los sentimientos humanos . . .” (196).
Of course, such feelings of jealousy and devotion could be directed to
a friend without homosexual attraction, but given Andrea’s natural predisposition towards other women such as Gloria, sentiments such as these
seem to hint at something more profound than mere friendship.
Thoughts of Ena pervade every waking moment, and when the two
reconcile themselves after Ena has triumphantly humiliated Román,
Andrea describes her feelings of happiness in a profound manner: “Las
cosas que decíamos no me importaban. Me importaba la confortadora
sensación de compañía, de consuelo, que estaba sintiendo como un baño
de aceite sobre mi alma” (262). As a result of their reconciliation, Andrea
is finally able to see her friend as she truly is. She likes what she sees:
Homoerotic Undercurrents in “Nada”
79
Empecé a mirar a mi amiga, viéndola por primera vez tal como realmente era. Tenía
los ojos sombreados bajo aquellas grises luces cambiantes que venían del cielo. Yo
sentí que nunca podría juzgarla. Pasé mi mano por su brazo y apoyé mi cabeza en su
hombro. Estaba yo muy cansada. Multitud de pensamientos se aclaraban en mi cerebro.
(267–268)
Ena is again linked to the light of the heavens, and Andrea languidly
places her head on Ena’s shoulder while her confusion gradually vanishes.
Ena’s departure from Barcelona towards the end of the novel is described
by the narrator with a highly charged, almost romantic, language:
El día en que fui a despedir a Ena me sentí terriblemente deprimida. Ena aparecía, entre
el bullicio de la Estación, rodeada de hermanos rubios, apremiada por su madre, que parecía
poseída por una prisa febril de marcharse. Ella se colgó de mi cuello y me besó muchas
veces. Sentí que se me humedecían los ojos. Que aquello era cruel. (272)
That Ena and Andrea are good friends is undeniable, but her previous
erotic reactions to Gloria and her overall negative responses to almost all
male characters facilitates the reading of episodes such as this as homoerotically suggestive. Ena is seen here as a stable central figure amidst
the “bullicio” of the train station, and her departure seems to represent
a return to chaos. Andrea has clung to her friend as a savior from the
tumultuous events of her home, and she experiences an extreme emotional reaction to her leaving. She is “terribly” depressed by such a
“cruel” turn of events. The many kisses of her friend seem to exacerbate the dejection caused by her departure.
In contrast to the highly affective relationships she shares with Gloria
and Ena, the only positive reaction Andrea has to the company of men,
aside from her brief visit to Román’s room in the second chapter, comes
with her visits to Guíxols’s house, where she feels completely comfortable among Pons’s bohemian friends: “Me encontraba muy bien allí; la
inconsciencia absoluta, la descuidada felicidad de aquel ambiente me
acariciaban el espíritu” (159). Perhaps she feels as if she were among
equals, although a close reading of these episodes indicates the subordinate position she occupies there. She prepares and serves the coffee
while her male friends discuss art. Given her homosocial tendencies,
perhaps a more plausible explanation of her feelings of comfort at
Guíxols’s house is the one offered by Jordan: “Andrea is happy because
these ‘hijos de papá’ make absolutely no demands on her as a sexual
being” (Laforet. Nada 23). Regardless, as she had already noted in chapter
five, Andrea finds the men that surround her to be on the whole emotionally insufficient: “Comprendí en seguida que con los muchachos
era imposible el tono misterioso y reticente de las confidencias, al que
las chicas suelen ser aficionadas, el encanto de desmenuzar el alma, el
roce de la sensibilidad almacenada durante años” (59). The sentiments
reflected here are only reinforced throughout the novel, and it becomes
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clear that Andrea’s overall feelings towards the men with whom she
comes in contact tend to be characterized by indifference, boredom,
disgust and fear, while her relationships with women are most frequently
fascinating and fulfilling. This is not to say that women represent a
mere alternative to threatening males, but rather seems to point to an
innate tendency on her part to seek comfort, solace and emotional fulfillment in women.
In order to better understand the suggestive homosocial tensions we
have outlined above, it might be helpful to mention briefly some recent
critical theories articulated by lesbian cultural critics. The emergence and
development of feminism paved the way for several subsequent fields
of gender studies, and among these lesbian cultural criticism has enjoyed
a growing popularity. Approximately ten years after the appearance of
feminism, lesbian critics began to articulate their own discourse, marking
their difference from the previous movement while at the same time
taking advantage of the linguistic and philosophical advances, new critical
methodologies and bodies of work pioneered by feminist theorists and
critics. One important coincidence between the feminist and lesbian
movements is that it is now generally agreed upon that sexuality and
gender are not natural or inherent qualities, but rather that they are the
product of a complex combination of social, economic and political
factors that work together to form a variety of possible identities. As
Judith Butler suggested in her now well-known Gender Trouble (1990),
sex and gender are not biological givens, but should be viewed as the
discursive products of cultural construction.
Most lesbian theorists have found it necessary to break with traditional
feminisms because of implicit assumptions the latter movement has had
about gender. Most notable is the problematic reliance on a binary system
of conceptualization – black-white, good-bad, man-woman – since
lesbianism finds itself outside of such oppositions, particularly that
comprised of binary conceptions of gender. This is an issue discussed
by Anne Charles in chapter two of Sexual Practice/Textual Theory, “Two
Feminist Criticisms: A Necessary Conflict?” in which she concludes
that before lesbian studies can be taken up by traditional feminists,
“Non lesbian feminists must be particularly rigorous in identifying and
resisting heterosexist notions in themselves” (65). For biological and
social reasons, current trends in male “gay” criticism, although helpful,
are often deemed inadequate by lesbian critics. Indeed, the lesbian has
historically found herself excluded from the masculine power structures
to which gay men might have had access, and has been simultaneously
and consistently excluded by the feminist (but heterosexual) sphere of
inquiry and influence.
Adrienne Rich, in her classic “Compulsory Heterosexuality and
Lesbian Existence,” has articulated the concept of an elastic lesbian
Homoerotic Undercurrents in “Nada”
81
continuum which shows a “woman-identification untarnished by romanticism” (164). She downplays lesbianism’s link to genital sexuality which
only sometimes coincides with a lesbian consciousness. Instead she offers
a more general and inclusive concept of feminine social integration,
seeking an identification with women in general, including straight
women. To consider this lesbian continuum, whether one considers
herself lesbian or not, allows one to look at lesbian desire as a less threatening enterprise. Rich bases some of her analyses upon Freud’s studies
of sexuality, but takes serious issue with his treatment of supposedly
aberrant forms of female sexuality such as lesbianism:
If we consider the possibility that all women – from the infant suckling her mother’s breast,
to the grown woman experiencing orgasmic sensations while suckling her own child,
perhaps recalling her mother’s milk-smell in her own; to two women, like Virginia Woolf’s
Chloe and Olivia, who share a laboratory . . . to exist on a lesbian continuum, we can
see ourselves as moving in and out of this continuum, whether we consider ourselves as
lesbians or not. It allows us to connect aspects of woman-identification as diverse as
the impudent, intimate girl-friendships of eight- or nine-year olds and the banding together
of . . . the Beguines . . . to live independent both of marriage and of conventual restrictions. (158–159)
Rich places on this elastic, admittedly all-inclusive continuum such wellknown authors as Zora Neale Hurston and Emily Dickinson, who
regardless of whether or not they identified with a lesbian sexual identity,
in their own ways resisted marriage and compulsory heterosexuality.
Indeed, is this not what Andrea accomplishes at the end of Nada by
shunning traditional heterosexual relationships in favor of a life in Madrid
with Ena and her family? She avoids Román, Gerardo and Pons – each
very different from the last, but all men.
In their introduction to one of the first serious discussions of the
ramifications of modern conceptions of homosexuality in Hispanic
literatures, Emilie Bergman and Paul Smith have pointed out that
Sexual preference, once felt to be the essence or “kernel” of personal identity, is now
held to be a cultural or historical category, called into being by the medical and legal
discourses of the late nineteenth century. Scholars may debate the exact moment of appearance of the “modern homosexual,” but they agree that in this disciplinary model . . .
homosexuality is not repressed but is rather called into being by those social structures
which cause it to be ever of the margins of visibility: neither completely hidden (and therefore impossible to control) nor wholly apparent (and thus socially sanctioned). (Entiendes?
9)
Sexual preference is not an all-inclusive cultural category, nor does it
correspond to a neat sociological or psychological definition. Such seems
to be the case with Laforet’s novel, in which the protagonist moves about
in a social system not entirely hostile to homoerotic tensions; nor is it
overtly accepting. Andrea’s repressed sexual identity – homosexual or
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otherwise – is never completely hidden, nor is it ever wholly apparent.
The reader has no indication as to what awaits Andrea after her departure from Aribau, but it would not be inaccurate to read the novel as
the articulation of a problematic stage of a young woman’s search for
identity; perhaps pointing to her identification with a lesbian individuality. Indeed, the scientific research synthesized by Phyllis Elliot in
“Theory and Research on Lesbian Identity Formation” examines the
“average age” data utilized by some researchers in the examination of
the identity formation process. Elliot states,
Working with data from lesbian psychologists, Riddle and Morin (1977) report the mean
ages at which women reached various points in the process: awareness of homosexual
feelings, 13.8; understanding of word “homosexual,” 15.6; first same-sex experience, 19.9;
first homosexual relationship, 22.8; considered self “homosexual,” 23.2; acquisition of
positive “gay” identity, 29.7. (96)
Elliot explains that such statistics do not necessarily indicate anything
about the idiosyncratic experiences of each individual, and one should
not be surprised to find a substantial portion of the lesbian population
that does not follow the above pattern. Our examination of Nada in
light of these studies is further complicated by cultural differences, as
the above data reflects a primarily North American population.
Nevertheless, such statistics can shed light upon our analysis of Andrea’s
process of identity formation. Her age of eighteen places her somewhere in the middle of the above data. Andrea has not experienced a
lesbian sexual encounter, but her age and the information she has
provided in her discourse indicate that she is at a highly conflicted
stage in the process of personality formation. Nada details a step in
this process of self-knowledge, although the protagonist has yet to take
a decisive turn.
Even though the novel’s conclusion is open-ended, Andrea seems to
have chosen a female companion. Borrowing from Rich, we might read
Andrea’s actions in the novel as a subversive feminism of action and a
resistance to compulsory heterosexual preference. I would agree with
Jordan’s assertion that “the image of Andrea as a resolute, purposeful,
radical female subject arguably speaks more to the desires and projections of certain feminist critics than to the novel’s textual and cultural
effects” (“Looks that Kill” 99). Andrea is never the willful subversive
feminine hero, and she is more frequently confused than possessed of
confident self-assurance and self-knowledge. But Jordan’s conclusion that
the novel ends with an affirmation of the status quo, in which a romantic
ending in which Jaime and Ena marry reaffirms “the importance of family
value and unity” (100), does not take into account those homosocial
tensions we have discussed above. Nor is it apparent whether Jaime
and Ena marry after all. Like the participants in many of the illicit
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83
heterosexual relationships that surround her do with their heterosexual
desires, Andrea seems prone to the repression of her own same-sex desire.
Her move to Madrid is at least a release from confinement at Aribau,
but not necessarily a reconstruction of a traditional family as Jordan
suggests.
Nada is imbued with an intentional ambiguity caused by Laforet’s
use of a weaker, less reliable narratorial voice. It is obvious that the
realities of Franco’s Spain would make an overt lesbian relationship –
or even the fictional expression of such a relationship – impossible.
Further, as Carmen Martín Gaite reminds us in Usos amorosos de la
postguerra española, the period following the Spanish Civil War was
characterized by the all-encompassing repression of sexual relations of
any kind, from the state to the family level. Laforet’s use of a nebulous,
apparently incomplete discourse functions to dissemble the homoerotic
tensions lying under its surface. So at first glance, it would appear that
Andrea adopts a surrogate family as an alternative to her abusive and
inadequate natural one. But given her overwhelming homoerotic attraction – first physically to Gloria and later emotionally to Ena – Andrea’s
move to Madrid seems instead to represent the only romantic option available to her. Andrea rejects a neat heterosexual union in favor of a more
ambiguous but decidedly lesbian alternative, where she might live close
to the person whom she loves more than any other, in spite of Ena’s
impending marriage to Jaime. Wayne Dynes and Stephen Donaldson state
in their introduction to Lesbianism that “Intense, socially approved
‘romantic friendships’ characterized many female-female relationships
from the eighteenth century to the second decade of the twentieth; often
they seemed preferable to loveless heterosexual marriages” (xii). Perhaps
this is Andrea’s final solution.
The purpose of this study has not been to theorize upon Carmen
Laforet’s sexual identity, nor to draw historical conclusions as to the
fortunes of homosexuality in post-Civil War Spain, although the historical moment of the novel’s conception and appearance undoubtedly
affected Laforet’s depiction of her young protagonist’s search for emotional maturity and sexual identity. Indeed, the realities of Franco’s Spain
would have made an overtly lesbian autobiographical novel impossible
to publish. But as Andrea’s grandmother warns her in chapter seven,
“no todas las cosas que se ven son lo que parecen” (83). The reader might
interpret this passage as an early warning as to how the novel should
be read, for in Nada, many things are not what they seem. Carmen
Laforet’s narrative strategy is based upon a carefully constructed textual
ambiguity that disquiets and sometimes frustrates the reader. The narrator
is summarily unreliable, and the novel is full of gaps, the largest of which
separates the actual narration of events from their (supposedly historical)
occurrence. As a result, several questions remain unanswered at the
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conclusion of the work. Does Andrea remain in Madrid with Ena’s
family? Will Ena ultimately marry Jaime? What becomes of the family
Andrea leaves behind at Aribau? It is impossible to tell whether the
narrator has come to terms with the sexual tensions – heterosexual, homosexual, or otherwise – that characterize the emblematic year she spent
at Aribau.
As Paul Julian Smith reminds us in Laws of Desire, quoting Dollimore
and Sedgwick, homosexuality cannot be confined to a narrow libidinal
sphere and “coming out” does not represent a single event, but rather
an interminable process (10–11). Identity, sexuality, and gender are difficult concepts to define decisively in themselves, so any discussion of
them will necessarily contain certain ambiguities. In Epistemology of
the Closet, Eve Sedgwick acknowledges the problematic nature of the
study of the structure, function and historical status of same-sex love
in literature. In her discussion of the relation of gay-studies to the literary
canon, she writes that
no one can know in advance where the limits of gay-centered inquiry are to be drawn,
or where a gay theorizing of and through even the hegemonic high culture of the EuroAmerican tradition may need or be able to lead. (53)
Further, she points out that
the differences between the homosexuality “we know today” and previous arrangements
of same-sex relations may be so profound and so integrally rooted in other cultural differences that there may be no continuous, defining essence of “homosexuality” to be
known. (44)
In the same vain, Paul Julian Smith paraphrases Diana Fuss, stating
that identity “may be multiple and contradictory; and . . . identity need
not be collapsed into essence” (17). Indeed, there will always be a tension
between the identity that has been repressed and the identity that is still
to be developed; a struggle that plays an important role in Nada.
Regardless of the problematic nature of such inquiries, and whether or
not Andrea ultimately identifies herself as lesbian, we can certainly
conclude that the novel’s depiction of the narrator’s sexuality is much
more complicated than scholars have traditionally allowed. Andrea’s
highly affective same-sex relationship with Ena – and to a lesser degree
with Gloria – plays an important discursive role, as it functions as a
counterbalance to the destructive nature of the heterosexual relationships that surround her at Aribau. In the absence of positive models of
acceptable heterosexual love, the protagonist often finds in women a
fulfilling emotional alternative.
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85
Notes
1. Some of Jordan’s observations on this theme are also found in his critical guide
to the novel, published in the same year.
2. This is not the only gothic aspect of the novel. Darkness, degeneration and decay
characterize the atmosphere throughout, and Andrea is not the only character with
vampiristic tendencies. Jordan notes that Román repeatedly compares his victims – among
them Antonia and Juan – to dogs. Thus, we can see that his vampiric urges find a
release in Trueno, the family dog, who receives the physical attentions that Román only
symbolically affords his human victims, whom he sucks dry with his domineering,
overwhelming nature. Andrea is shocked to see the poor dog who “traía en la oreja la
marca roja de un mordisco . . . por los dientes de Román” (210–211).
3. Jordan offers an alternate reading of the episode, suggesting that Andrea’s desire
to bite Gloria, aside from echoing gothic vampirism, might be “suggestive of a fantasy
in which Andrea wishes to penetrate and merge with a protective figure” (Laforet. Nada
43). In other words, he offers that the impulse comes from Andrea’s desire to regress to
infancy and seek maternal protection.
4. In light of later turns of events, Andrea’s impulse does not seem quite so foolish.
Román kills himself, but he could just as well have killed someone else.
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