The novel takes us through Ana María’s memories, which resurface as certain key figures from her life enter the room where her body lies. Each presence unlocks a different part of her memories with that person. Because she speaks from death, there’s a new honesty to the way she looks at herself and others, which makes her feel less like a traditional heroine and more like a real person to me.
I find her relationship with three key men in her life particularly interesting.
“You are the most charming woman I have ever known; it’s too bad you are my wife, Ana María.” (pg. 226)
Antonio, her husband, admires her, even finds her charming, and yet resents her in the role of “wife.” Despite this, she remains emotionally invested in him long after he has withdrawn from her, which points out how one-sided their relationship has become. Ricardo feels like the central figure who represents her youth. With him, everything is raw and natural. He represents freedom, desire, and also a kind of naivety that only comes with being young and free. That early relationship is less about who he is as a person and more about what he opens up in her, which is why I think he was the first important male character we are introduced to. Fernando, in contrast, belongs to a much later stage in her life, when she is more withdrawn and aware of social expectations. He represents a quieter, more resigned kind of attachment.
Although her part in the novel was quite short, Sofía is another important character in Ana María’s story. Their rivalry is subtle, but it lingers underneath all their interactions, and I think it shows a lot about how women in the novel are often put against each other. Likewise, if Sofía and Ana María are defined by their inner lives and emotions, María Griselda is defined first by how others see her. Honestly, we never really get to see her side of anything. With Ana María, Sofía, and Silvia, we at least understand what they are feeling, or why they react the way they do. Their choices are tied to emotions we can see. With María Griselda, it’s the opposite. We mostly see what her presence does to other people, but we never really know what any of this feels like for her. She isn’t given the same chance to think for herself. That silence turns her into some sort of “trapped dove” (which is really ironic since later on, her own husband kills her pet doves)—a woman whose beauty makes her visible but also strips her of any kind of depth, as if being that beautiful disqualifies her from being seen as a full person with thoughts of her own.
This was probably my favourite read so far! Mostly because, compared to Proust and Breton, I feel that this novel was much more my style. My discussion question for the week would be: How does telling her story from her deathbed change the way we judge her relationships and choices, compared to if the same events were told while she was still alive?
2 replies on “‘The Shrouded Woman’: She’s just being real”
“Because she speaks from death, there’s a new honesty to the way she looks at herself and others…” It’s interesting to compare what you’re saying with what others have mentioned, where it seems that, due to the traumatic nature of the events, we question the accuracy of the narrative. What can we see in the novel regarding this ambiguity?
Hi! I love what you mentioned about Ricardo being important for what he opens up in her: it’s interesting to think about relationships in terms of what they brought out in the individual. I think that’s probably one of the most important parts of how we feel about a relationship, but it’s not something we often consciously reflect on. I think telling the story from her deathbed feels more meaningful than if I’d heard those stories when she was alive because from death, to me it feels like these moments and relationships that built up a life, where if it was when she was alive I might have felt more judgemental towards the individual stories. It’s interesting to think about!