Читать книгу Chronicle of the Murdered House - Lúcio Cardoso - Страница 15
Оглавление19th – The mistress (I think that’s what I’m expected to call her . . .) was supposed to get here today, but, at the last moment, we received a telegram saying she would only arrive tomorrow. It didn’t really matter to me, after all, a few hours here or there makes no difference, but I could see how badly the news affected Senhor Valdo. I saw the sad look on his face as he stared out of the window, the telegram still in his hands. Despite the persistent fine rain, he had gone out into the garden himself to pick some of the loveliest dahlias. While we were tidying the house—moving furniture, plumping cushions, discovering old objects dismissed as redundant, but which somehow gave the house an air of discreet luxury—he seemed extraordinarily lively and happy. He told me not to worry if Dona Nina did not at first understand my position in the family, because it wasn’t necessarily easy for someone new to realize that I wasn’t just one of the servants, but had occupied the rather different position of housekeeper since before his mother’s death. When I remarked that, with the arrival of Dona Nina, there would perhaps be less need for a housekeeper, he mentioned Dona Ana and asked if her arrival had lightened my load at all. I laughed and said, no, it hadn’t, and he assured me that it would be just the same if not worse with his wife: she hadn’t the slightest notion of how to run a house, especially one as large and complicated as this. And then he was so jolly, so full of joshing and jokes, that old Anastácia, who never normally leaves the kitchen, said, her eyes full of tears: “It’s a real treat to see the master so cheerful . . .” When the telegram arrived, the atmosphere changed, just like that; Senhor Valdo didn’t say another word, but simply folded up the telegram, put it in his pocket, and went to his room. I felt so sorry for him, because Senhor Demétrio had been making fun of him, saying that he had already been to fetch his bride once and come back alone, and that now he might have to resort to violence to drag that “beauty” away from Rio de Janeiro. But then that’s what this family is like, always going into a sulk and hiding away in their rooms when things don’t go to plan. A great silence descended on the house and, finding myself alone again, I was just getting started on another task when I heard a very insistent “psst” and a voice calling me: “Betty! Betty!” At first, I thought it was Senhor Valdo with some further piece of advice, but soon realized that it was only Senhor Timóteo. I still did not move, for I had been given strict instructions to ignore him, but then from the hallway came another cry of “Betty,” this time sounding so urgent and anxious that I could not simply turn my back on him. Ever since the rift between Senhor Timóteo and the rest of the family, one famous evening when he smashed half the family’s glass and china, I had only rarely entered his room, firstly, because I had been made to promise not to help him in any way as long as he persisted in his eccentric ways, secondly, because I found his sad obsession so upsetting. Personally, I think people should be allowed to do what they like, as long as they don’t offend others. Senhor Timóteo’s behavior seemed to me more of an oddity than a perversion—or whatever other term the others chose to use.
That occasion was further proof of the bizarre habits that had essentially become the norm in his world: when I turned, I saw that Senhor Timóteo, fat and sweating, was wearing a fringed and sequined dress that had belonged to his mother. The bodice was far too tight around the waist and here and there a little imprisoned flesh was bursting out of the seams, tearing the fabric and making any pleasure he might take in dressing up seem like a real torment. He moved very slowly, setting the fringes swaying and, all the time, fanning himself vigorously with a sandalwood fan, which wrapped him in a cloud of sickly perfume. I couldn’t quite say what he had on his head, it looked like a turban or a brimless hat, from beneath which emerged lush blond curls. He was, as usual, wearing make-up—taken, like his clothes, from his mother’s room after she died, for she, in her day, had also been famous for her extravagant way of dressing—and make-up only highlighted his enormous nose, so characteristic of the Meneses family. His nose, however, was his only markedly masculine feature, because although he wasn’t yet as plump as he later became, the excess fat smoothed and softened his features, reducing any lumps or bumps and creating new dimples and indentations in his rose-pink flesh, so that he rather resembled a vast, splendid china doll, shaped by the hands of a rather incompetent potter.
“Sit down, Betty, sit down,” he said, pointing at a chair with his fan. “Do sit down—if, that is, you still care about me.”
“Why wouldn’t I care about you, Senhor Timóteo? As far as I know, you have never done me any harm.”
He shrugged and his whole heavy body shuddered:
“No, I haven’t, but oh, I don’t know . . .” he said with a touch of nostalgia.
And coming over to where I was sitting, this time pointing his fan at me, he said:
“When I decided to be independent . . . Betty, do you believe that one should listen to the voices in one’s blood?”
“What do you mean, Senhor Timóteo?” and there was not a hint of pretense or false surprise in my voice.
His eyes grew suddenly very serious.
“I am ruled by the spirit of Maria Sinhá. Have you never heard anyone speak of Maria Sinhá, Betty?”
“Never, Senhor Timóteo. Don’t forget, I’ve only been employed here for a few years. Besides, talking isn’t exactly one of the family’s strong points.”
“Yes, Betty, you’re right, you’re always right. That’s the good thing about you simple folk.”
“Who was Maria Sinhá?”
“Oh,” he began, and his voice was filled with genuine emotion, “she was the purest, most noble, most misunderstood of our forebears. She was my mother’s aunt and the marvel of her age.”
He fell silent for a moment, as if trying to damp down the enthusiasm provoked by the thought of Maria Sinhá—and then, in a calmer voice, he went on:
“Maria Sinhá used to dress like a man and go for long rides on horseback—why, she could ride from Fundão to Queimados faster than any of the best riders on the estate. They say she used a gold-handled whip to beat any slaves she encountered on the way. No one in the family ever really understood her, and she died alone in a dark room in the old Fazenda Santa Eulália up in the Serra do Baú.”
“Well, I’ve never heard anyone speak of her,” I said, convinced that this was all pure invention.
“Well,” he said with a laugh, “who but I would dare to speak of her? For many years, when I was a child, there was a portrait of her in the drawing room, immediately above the large sideboard, with a black crepe ribbon tied around the frame. The times I would stop and imagine her swift horse galloping through the streets of Vila Velha and envy her outrageous behavior, her freedom and her whip . . . When I began to reveal what the others so delicately term my ‘tendencies,’ Demétrio ordered that the painting be hidden away in the basement. I, however, feel that Maria Sinhá would have been the pride of the family, a famous warrior, an Anita Garibaldi, had she not been born in this dusty backwater in Minas Gerais . . .”
His voice shook with anger, as if he were not quite in control of it—and since the whole story seemed very strange to me, I remained silent, thinking of the family’s long history of failures. He noticed my silence and went back to fanning himself, saying in a different tone:
“What do they say about me, Betty, what do they accuse me of?”
And with a touch of childish pride, he added:
“I’m in the right, though, as you’ll see!”
I looked at him, as if expecting some explanation. He sat down heavily beside me:
“Yes, one day you’ll see, Betty. The truth will out.”
And he laughed again, for longer this time and with a certain relish, his head back.
“After all, what does it matter how I dress? How can that possibly change the essence of things?”
I couldn’t help but admire him in a way: there he was, complete with plump, padded bosom and glittering sequins. The sequins were like a symbol of him: rather splendid and completely useless. What could have brought him to his present state, what contradictory, disparate elements had shaped his personality, only for it to explode, unexpectedly and forcefully, under the pressure of the inherited prejudices of the entire Meneses tribe? Because that strange sexless being was a true Meneses—and who knows, one day, as he was predicting, I might well see the old family spirit resurface, in its profoundest, most rustic form, the same eternal wind that had driven the fate of Maria Sinhá.
Senhor Timóteo got up and, as he did, his dress unfurled about him in majestic folds.
“There was a time,” he said, almost with his back to me, “there was a time when I believed I should follow the same path as other people. It seemed criminal, almost foolish to obey my own law. The law was a shared domain from which none of us could escape. I wore throttlingly tight ties, mastered the art of banal conversations, imagined I was the same as everyone else. Until, one day, I felt I couldn’t possibly go on like that: why follow ordinary laws when I was far from ordinary, why pretend I was like everyone else when I was totally different? Ah, Betty, don’t look at me, dressed as I am, as a mere allegorical figure: I want to present others with an image of the courage I lack. I wear what I like and go where I like, except, alas, I do so in a cage of my own making. That is the only freedom that is entirely ours: to be monsters to ourselves.”
He fell silent, overcome by emotion. Then, more quietly, as if talking to himself:
“That is what they have done with my gesture, Betty. They have turned it into a prisoner’s maniacal obsession, and these clothes, which should constitute my triumph, merely adorn the dream of a condemned man. But one day, do you hear, one day, I will break free from the fear holding me back, and I will show them and the world who I really am. That will only happen when the last of the Meneses lets fall his arm in cowardly surrender. Only then will I have the strength to cry: ‘Do you see? Everything that they despise in me is the blood of the Meneses.’”
He spoke these last words rather more loudly than usual, but he quickly recovered, fixed me with an intense gaze and, doubtless overcome by a sudden wave of embarrassment, hid his face behind the fan.
“But, my dear Betty, what mad things I’m telling you, eh? How could you possibly understand what I mean?”
“I don’t understand everything,” I said, “but some of those things seem very real.”
“Real!” and he went back to pacing the room, and as he fanned himself, the scent of sandalwood grew still stronger. “Betty, don’t tell me that the only real things are those that exist in my blood. Shall I tell you something? I believe I was born with my soul in a ball gown. When I used to wear those throttling neckties, when I wore the same clothes as other men, my mind was full of sumptuous dresses, jewels, and fans. When my mother died—she, who in her youth, was famous for her extravagant clothes—my first act was to take over her entire wardrobe. And not just her wardrobe, but her jewelry too. Locked away in that chest of drawers I have a box containing the most beautiful jewels in the world: amethysts, diamonds, and topaz. When I’m alone, I take them out of their hiding place and, on sleepless nights, I play with them on the bed, I roll them around in my hands, jewels that would be the salvation of the whole family, but which will never leave this room, not at least as long as I live. That’s why I said to you that the spirit of Maria Sinhá is in my blood: she was always dreaming of the different outfits she would wear. They say that on moonless nights, she would go out into the streets dressed as a man, smoking a cigarette and with a dark cape over her shoulders.”
I confess that I was finding this whole conversation deeply troubling, especially since I did not believe what he was telling me and could see that it was leading nowhere. I sighed and stood up.
“This is all a bit over my head, Senhor Timóteo. But if it makes you happy . . .”
He turned around almost violently, and his face grew dark:
“No, Betty, it has nothing to do with happiness. I wouldn’t bother to defy anyone if it was merely a matter of my personal happiness. This is about the truth—and the truth is what matters.”
“I believe so too, Senhor Timóteo.”
Then something like a long tremor of pleasure ran through his voice:
“Well then. Truth cannot be invented, it cannot be distorted or replaced—it is simply that, the truth. However grotesque, absurd or fatal, it is the truth. You may not understand what I mean, Betty, but that is what is there at the heart of all things.”
He again fell silent and stood next to me, breathing hard. Then, as if he had revived old, possibly painful memories, he went on in a voice full of an insinuating nostalgia:
“As a man—or, rather, as a shadow of a man—nothing aroused any passion in me. It was as if I didn’t exist. And what is this world without passion, Betty? We must concentrate, we must squeeze every drop of interest and passion that we can out of things. But if there’s nothing inside me, if I am merely a ghost of others . . .”
I wasn’t following his reasoning at all now and felt slightly bewildered by these vague ideas. I saw only the sequins that glittered as his chest rose and fell with emotion. And he must have noticed my distraction, because he placed one hand on my shoulder.
“Whereas now,” and his voice lit up, “my free spirit embraces everything. I love and suffer just like anyone else, I hate, I laugh, and, for better or worse I stand among the others as a truth, not as a mere fantasy. Now do you understand me, Betty?”
I nodded, fearful that he would get even more carried away. What was the point of all those justifications, where did they get us? If it was the truth he was after, and if he had, as one of God’s creatures, managed to find a place within the mechanism of the universe, why then boast about what he considered to be his victory? And how could I, a poor housekeeper, used only to running a household, how could I comprehend such paradoxes? As he stood before me, breathing hard, he must have followed the arc of my thoughts, for, like someone coming down to earth again after some transcendent vision, he shook his head and said:
“No, you don’t understand. No one understands. The truth is a solitary science.”
He shrugged and laughed:
“And how absurd it would be, Betty, if they did understand, not everything, but at least what I represent. The fact is, my reasons are secret reasons.”
His laughter, like a fragment of brief, inconsequential music, hung in the air—I felt that the last word had been spoken. Slowly, still fanning himself, he went over to the window, which was permanently covered by thick curtains. What would he see, what landscape would he unveil behind those eternally closed curtains? He merely held up one finger, as if repeating an automatic gesture made dozens and dozens of times, before, as if mortally tired, he lowered it again. Then he turned and started slightly, as if surprised to see me there:
“But we’re friends, aren’t we, Betty?”
“Of course, Senhor Timóteo, we’ll always be friends.”
His whole face lit up with a look of great pleasure—no ordinary pleasure either, but a great, dense exhalation of pleasure, a kind of belated, silent flash of lightning that dissipated the continual gloom of his isolation—and he came closer and leaned over me, saying:
“For those words I will be eternally grateful,” and he kissed my forehead, a soft, warm, prolonged kiss. And while his lips were touching my skin, I could hear the beating of his heart, like the murmur of an ocean kept under lock and key.
“Senhor Timóteo . . .” I began to say, unable to hide the tears filling my eyes.
Then he stood up, took two steps back and said almost gruffly:
“But that isn’t why I asked you here, Betty.”
If I had hurt him, that had certainly not been my intention. I wanted to say something that would show him I had understood, but the words stuck in my throat. I felt like taking him in my arms and murmuring tender words, the words one says to children. But with his back to me, he had become a silent, impenetrable block of ice.
“Senhor Timóteo . . .” I began again.
He turned and said with extraordinary calm:
“Betty, I wanted to know if ‘she’ had arrived.”
He was clearly referring to the new mistress. I told him that a telegram had come and that everything had been postponed until the following day.
“Again!” he murmured in a voice as desolate as if something crucial, vital even, to his life hung on that one fact. “Again!” he repeated.
Then, in one of those impulses so peculiar to him, he rushed over to me, clutched my hands and said:
“Betty, I wanted to ask you a favor.”
“Of course, if I can help . . .”
I could see Senhor Demétrio’s implacable orders before me, as if engraved in stone.
“Yes, you can, you can help,” he said. And before I could respond, he explained: “I want to see her, Betty, I need to see her as soon as she arrives. Will you promise to give her a message from me?”
I hesitated, but his eyes remained fixed on mine, and so I said:
“Yes, I promise.”
“Thank you, Betty, thank you,” and he gave a sigh of relief. “I just want you to go to her and say: ‘A person wishes to see you as soon as possible, about a matter of extreme importance.’”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. You swear you won’t forget my words.”
I held out my hand:
“I swear.”
And with that oath we parted company.
21st– I think I was the first person to see her when she got out of the car and—oh!—I will never forget the impression she made on me. It wasn’t just admiration I felt, because I had seen other beautiful women in my time. But never before had my initial feeling of amazement been edged with anxiety, that slight breathlessness, it was not only the certainty that there before me stood an extraordinarily beautiful woman, it was my awareness that she was also a presence—a definite, self-assured being who appeared to give off her own light and her own warmth, like a landscape. (Note written in the margin: Even today, after all this time, I don’t think any one thing has ever impressed me so much as that first encounter with Dona Nina. She was not only graceful, she was subtle, generous, even majestic. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was intensely, violently seductive. She emerged from the car as if nothing else existed outside the aura of her fascination—this was not mere charm, it was magic. Later, as she deteriorated, I watched as the fatal illness left its marks upon her face, and I can honestly say that her features never became coarse or anything less than noble. There was a metamorphosis, a shift perhaps, but the essence was there, and even when I saw her dead, wrapped in the sad winding sheet of the despised outsider, I could see the same splendor as on that first day, flickering, sleepless, rootless, like moonlight glinting on the wreckage of a ship.)
She paused for a moment, one hand resting on the car door. We were lined up before her, with Senhor Demétrio, Dona Ana, and Senhor Valdo slightly ahead, followed, as befitted my station, by me, then old Anastácia, who had been Senhor Valdo’s nursemaid and was in charge of the black servants in the kitchen, then Pedro and the other servants. Such ceremony, such solemn faces, slightly embarrassed her.
“Valdo! Valdo!” she cried. “Help me unload the luggage.”
Senhor Valdo beckoned to me and I stepped forward, closely followed by old Anastácia. I began the task of unloading suitcases of varying sizes, endless hat boxes—why so many?—and an infinite number of smaller items. Even while I was engaged in doing this, I still had time to observe the welcoming party. The mistress went over to Senhor Valdo, and I noticed their slightly awkward embrace, even though they were newlyweds. He was doubtless wounded by her continual postponements and wanted to make his feelings clear. As for Senhor Demétrio, he gave her a far warmer reception than I would have expected—as if he were both surprised and excited by Dona Nina’s beauty. As soon as she had extricated herself from her husband’s arms, Senhor Demétrio immediately stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek, saying how delighted he was to welcome her to the Chácara. At the same time, he pushed poor Dona Ana forward, but she showed not the slightest glimmer of pleasure at meeting the new arrival. That was the most difficult moment for all those present: the newcomer merely offered Dona Ana the tips of her fingers, as if she had no great interest in meeting this new acquaintance either. Dona Ana turned even paler than usual and murmured a few words that no one understood. Finally, they all went into the house. At the very foot of the steps, I saw the new mistress crouch down and pick a violet that was growing among the clover. “My favorite flower,” she said.
Helped by Pedro and Anastácia, I took the luggage to the newlyweds’ room, which was right next to Senhor Timóteo’s room—so close that, outside, the windows almost touched. This meant that, for some time, I lost track of events. When I returned to the drawing room, Senhor Demétrio and Dona Ana had already withdrawn. Standing at the window, looking out onto the verandah—although what was there to look at in that sea of mango trees?—were Senhor Valdo and the mistress. They must have been quarrelling, because they both seemed very ill at ease. Not noticing my presence, he turned to her and said:
“You are never right, Nina, and the worst of it is that you don’t seem to realize it.”
I saw her spin around, aflame with indignation:
“Is that why you wanted me to come here, Valdo? So that you could pester and threaten me with your jealousy? I’ve already explained the reason for my delay, that I had to say goodbye to various friends. As for the Colonel, I’ve haven’t seen him since. Now, if you think . . .”
“You don’t understand, Nina,” he said, interrupting her.
Those words seemed to raise her anger to a new pitch. She began pacing furiously up and down, and I withdrew discreetly into Senhor Demétrio’s study, intending to tidy some of the bookshelves. Since his study immediately adjoined the drawing room and I had left the door open, I could still hear fragments of their argument. As far as I could make out, it was about some money that Senhor Valdo had failed to send to her in Rio de Janeiro, with, according to her, the “base” intention of forcing her to start out for Minas earlier than expected. (Ah, Minas Gerais, she roared, the ugly, silent people she had seen from the train, people who had seemed to her both sad and mean, qualities she loathed.) Standing at the window, doubtless pointing at the dense host of mango trees outside, she declared in her most eloquent tones: “You cannot imagine how I hate all this!” She was doubtless sincere in this, for she had never lived in the countryside, and that low, flat landscape, with its bare expanses parched by the summer sun, did not speak to her at all and aroused in her only a genuine feeling of anxiety. I think it may well have been that aversion, expressed on innumerable occasions, in every possible tone of voice, that laid the foundations for the hostility between her and Senhor Demétrio, who was so deeply rooted in Minas Gerais. More than anything, though, he loved the Chácara, which, in his eyes, represented the tradition and dignity of the local customs—which were, according to him, the only authentic customs in all Brazil. “People may speak ill of me,” he used to say, “but not of this house. It dates back to the days of the Empire, and represents several generations of the Meneses family, who have lived here proudly and with dignity.”
The fact is that, once the argument between Dona Nina and Senhor Valdo was over—it was early days for them to have any truly bitter disputes—they both went out into the garden while they waited for lunch to be served. I have no idea what they did or talked about as they walked up and down the sandy paths—I saw only that when the mistress returned, she was holding a small bunch of violets. “Alberto the gardener gave them to me,” she said, as if not wanting us to think they had been a gift from Senhor Valdo. Senhor Demétrio and Dona Ana were already seated at the table, and perhaps because they had been kept waiting, the ensuing conversation was not exactly animated. When Dona Nina praised the flowers in the garden, Senhor Demétrio commented vaguely that Alberto was, indeed, a good gardener, but rather too young for the job. He lacked the necessary experience for dealing with certain more difficult plants. Dona Nina mounted a rather lively defense, saying that precisely because he was so young, he was more likely to be open to adopting new methods. Talk turned to the Pavilion, and for some reason, Senhor Valdo suddenly began to list some of the Chácara’s shortcomings.
“The facilities here are far from perfect, Demétrio, and have long been in need of renovation.”
I saw Senhor Demétrio first stare at him in some amazement, then slowly put down his knife and fork.
“You astonish me, Valdo. Since when have you taken any interest in ‘the facilities’?”
“I was looking around with Nina today and . . .” Senhor Valdo began tentatively.
“Today!” and Senhor Demétrio’s voice was ripe with irony. “Only today, and yet the house has been falling to pieces for a very long time! I congratulate you, Nina, on your miraculous powers. Really, only someone totally irresponsible . . .”
Quickly and as if wanting to prevent his brother from going any further down that route, Senhor Valdo broke in with:
“We need to do some work on the house, Demétrio. For example, as I mentioned, the Pavilion . . .”
Senhor Demétrio glanced first at Dona Ana, as if to make sure that she, too, was aware of the absurdity of what they were hearing, then at Senhor Valdo, who was trying to look as unruffled as possible, and lastly at Dona Nina, who was the only one following the conversation with visible interest—then he gave a soft, delicious gurgle of laughter:
“Work! On the Pavilion in the garden . . . That’s ridiculous, Valdo!”
It was Senhor Valdo’s turn to put down his knife and fork.
“I don’t see why.”
“Don’t you?” and Senhor Demétrio’s laugh, which continued to light up his face, suddenly stopped. “You really don’t see why? You know perfectly well what we are: a bankrupt family living in the south of Minas Gerais, a family that no longer has any cattle to graze, that lives from renting out the pastures it owns, although only when they’re not parched dry, a family that produces nothing, absolutely nothing, to replace sources of income that long ago dried up. Our one hope is that we simply disappear very quietly here under this roof, unless, of course, some generous soul”—and he shot a quick glance at the mistress—“comes to our rescue.”
“You’re joking, Demétrio,” murmured Senhor Valdo, turning pale.
“No, I’m not,” retorted his brother. “I assume that in order to carry out such work, repairs on the Pavilion in the garden and who knows what else, you’re counting on a loan from your dear wife.”
Dona Nina remained utterly impassive—she merely raised her eyebrows and said coolly:
“I married a wealthy man.”
“Wealthy? Is that what he told you?” cried Senhor Demétrio.
“Yes.”
He had been leaning forward across the table, but he fell back now, so violently that I feared he might take the chair with him.
“He doesn’t have a penny to his name! We owe money to the servants, to the pharmacist, to the local bank . . . No, really, this is too much . . .”
Only then did the mistress appear to lose her composure. Throwing down her napkin on the table, her lips trembling, she said:
“Valdo, this is too humiliating!”
I thought for a moment that she was going to get up and leave the room, but after a few seconds, with the atmosphere still just as tense, I heard Senhor Valdo say:
“Don’t worry, Nina, my brother always exaggerates.”
I had my back to them, pretending to be preparing the plates for dessert—this was a special day and on such occasions, among my other tasks, I would serve at the table. And so while I couldn’t see the look on Senhor Demétrio’s face, I heard him laugh again, his laughter muffled this time by the napkin pressed to his lips.
“So I exaggerate, do I?” he said. “It should be easy enough then to explain why you didn’t send Nina the money she was expecting, and why you didn’t order the room she’ll be occupying to be painted, a room that is, by the way, merely a cubbyhole at the far end of the hallway.” He stopped, almost hesitated. Then he added more quietly, but very firmly: “And where will you find the money to pay for all the dresses and hats she’s brought with her?”
“Oh, Valdo!” I heard Dona Nina exclaim.
I turned and began serving dessert, not that anyone noticed me. Something was clearly about to explode—a struggle, a misunderstanding that could last a lifetime—and only Dona Ana was indifferently stirring the cream sauce I had set before her.
“Oh, Valdo,” Dona Nina said again, and suddenly hid her face in her napkin.
“Don’t you meddle in my affairs,” roared Senhor Valdo, almost out of control. “I’m perfectly capable of paying my own bills, and it won’t be with my wife’s money.”
Then, more softly, and emphasizing every syllable, as if to savor the pleasure of what he was about to reveal, Senhor Demétrio murmured:
“That’s just as well, Valdo, because then I won’t have to dip into my wife’s savings, as I have on other occasions.”
I heard a stifled cry, and Dona Nina sprang to her feet, trembling. A few tears glittered on her eyelashes—the easily provoked tears I would often see later on—and in a gesture of impotent rage, she was still clutching her crumpled napkin. I realized then that we had reached the critical moment and that, whatever followed, nothing would be as potent or as far-reaching as what was happening at that very minute, because it was the kernel from which everything else would subsequently emerge. With a bold movement, which appeared to be a declaration that she would never submit to the economic strictures of the Meneses family, she pushed back her chair and was about to leave the room when Senhor Demétrio stopped her:
“I’m sorry, Nina, but all those hats and dresses of yours will be of no use to you in the country. Because this is the countryside, you know. Here,” and he pointed casually at his wife, “women dress like Ana.”
The mistress had no option but to look at the person indicated, and the enmity that sprang up between them had its beginnings there and then, I think, in the haughty, horribly scornful look that Nina bestowed on Ana. As she stood there, a few steps away from the table, a venomous smile appeared on her lips. Dona Ana, still seated, endured that examination with head bowed: she was wearing a faded black dress, entirely unadorned and entirely out of fashion. This rapid examination must have been enough to satisfy Dona Nina, because, without responding, without even turning to look at Senhor Demétrio, she stalked out of the room, her chin defiantly lifted. Senhor Valdo shot a glance at his brother—a glance of pure hatred—and followed his wife. Alone at the table, Senhor Demétrio and Dona Ana drank their coffee and, in that shared silence, I realized there was a new and tacit understanding between them.
Hours later, when I went out onto the verandah to shake the table cloth, I found the mistress there, lying in a hammock. She looked completely exhausted. She appeared to have been crying too, for her eyes were still red.
“Come here, Betty,” she said.
I went over to her, and she took my hands in hers.
“Dear God, what a dreadful start. Did you see how they treated me today?”
“Senhor Demétrio is always like that,” I said, trying to offer her a small crumb of comfort.
She let go of my hand and set the hammock swinging slightly.
“And yet Valdo really did tell me that he was a wealthy man and that here, in this house, I would want for nothing. Why did he do that, why did he deceive me like that?”
“Perhaps he didn’t want to lose you, Dona Nina. And Senhor Demétrio does tend to exaggerate . . .”
She again took one of my hands and said:
“I’m surrounded by enemies here, Betty, but I don’t want you to be one of them.”
“Of course not, Dona Nina,” I protested warmly, thinking how beautiful she looked, lying there in the hammock. (Note written in the margin: Such an odd impression. There was still a remnant of warm, golden evening light on the verandah. Her pale skin and her almost auburn hair emphasized her shining, liquid eyes, and yet everything about her spoke of a certain strength. I would never have said that she was, overall, a real beauty: no, she was beautiful in every detail, every line, almost exasperatingly perfect in every respect.) “I would never be your enemy,” I concluded after a brief pause. “But aren’t you yourself perhaps exaggerating too?”
She gave me a sharp, enquiring look.
“No, I’m not exaggerating.”
Perplexed, I asked:
“But then why, Senhora, why?”
She let go of my hand and once more set the hammock gently swinging. When she leaned her head back, the branch of an acacia tree cast a shadow over her face.
“I don’t know, I really don’t,” she murmured. “These old families always have a kind of canker at their heart. I don’t think they can bear what I represent: a new life, a different landscape.”
And as if on a sudden inspiration, she added:
“And maybe they’re afraid too.”
I said nothing, doubtless hoping she would explain what she meant. The shadow came and went on her face, and a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes.
“The family may be bankrupt, but this house must be worth a lot, Betty. I noticed that around back there’s open pasture as far as the mountains.”
“It’s the grazing land that belonged to the old Fazenda Santa Eulália,” I said.
And half sitting up in the hammock, Dona Nina asked:
“And what would they say, these ancient Meneses folk, if I were to give birth to an heir to all this?”
I nodded silently, because I felt she was quite right. Senhor Demétrio, who was older than Senhor Valdo, and who, because of the latter’s incompetence and indifference, had always been in charge of the business side of things, would lose all rights to the Chácara, since he had no heir. Yes, it was quite possible; and beneath the pressure of that inquisitorial gaze, I forgot about the wear and tear inflicted by time and suddenly saw the garden and the Pavilion, and even the surrounding mountains, as a great hope of wealth and resurrection. Dona Nina read my thoughts and, leaning toward me, she clasped my hands in hers, saying:
“Don’t leave me, Betty, be my friend, I need your friendship. At least as long as I’m living here.”
Those were almost the very words I had heard in Senhor Timóteo’s room. I remembered my visit there on the previous day and the favor he had asked me. Then, seizing the opportunity, I said:
“A person wishes to see you as soon as possible, about a matter of extreme importance.”
Those, I believed, had been his exact words.
