Читать книгу Chronicle of the Murdered House - Lúcio Cardoso - Страница 16
ОглавлениеI don’t remember exactly what day it was, and I couldn’t even say what time, but I can say that the call came as no surprise to me, for it had been evident for some time, even to outsiders, that all was not well at the Chácara. Perhaps I should rather say that our little town, and even other towns in the district, were full of gossip, ranging from the naïve to the scurrilous, about what scandals might conceivably be engulfing the house of the Meneses. For example, Donana de Lara, who had come to consult me about her son and, in the last few days, had been even more agitated than usual, had even suggested that Father Justino should be summoned to ask for God’s blessing for the Chácara: according to her, the evil was deeply ingrained in the misdeeds of all those past Meneses, who had poisoned the whole atmosphere of the house. But to return to the incident in question, I assumed, and soon found out how wrong I was, that the call was to attend Dona Nina, whose more or less recent arrival had aroused everyone’s interest. While I was getting dressed, I kept imagining what might have happened. People said she was dangerous, fascinating, capricious and imperious, and having seen our little circle come to the boil and then cool off over so many other different people, I asked myself what it was about her that made her such a lasting topic of conversation. “Perhaps it’s just because she’s an outsider, and a beautiful woman at that,” I thought. And as I prepared my medical bag, I sensed deep down a certain pleasure, because I was, at the time, extremely curious to find out what went on at the Chácara.
It was not, however, Dona Nina who needed my attention—and this was the first of my disappointments. The second, which followed immediately afterward, was that there was no scandalous scene for me to witness, for what I found was a fait accompli. I shrugged and tried to hide my dismay. As I climbed the steps from the garden, I was immediately informed that Senhor Valdo had injured himself while cleaning an old gun. I was accompanied by an old negro woman by the name of Anastácia, one of the long-time servants at the Chácara, and I had great difficulty in understanding her half-African, half-country dialect. In any event, I soon found myself in a room plunged in darkness, where the wounded man was lying on a couch. The first thing I noticed was the strange atmosphere; the second was that the man seemed more gravely wounded than I had been led to believe. The only person with him was Senhor Demétrio, and, perhaps in order to feign indifference and thus inspire me with a confidence I did not share, he was sitting on a low chair, his legs crossed, pretending to read a newspaper. I saw at once that he was extremely irritated; indeed, that sense of irritation was the most noticeable thing about his attitude, which one would normally have expected to be one of concern and anxiety. He stood up as soon as I entered, greeted me with the customary reserve of the Meneses, and asked if I wanted him to turn on the light. “Naturally,” I replied, and he went over to turn the switch. As in almost all country districts, our town lacked a reliable electricity supply, but at the Chácara, which had its own generator, things were even worse: the yellowish, flickering light brightened and dimmed according to the strength of the current. I saw instantly that the room was not exactly a bedroom, but one of those storerooms they have in large houses, and which get used for all sorts of things. So quickly had Senhor Valdo been carried to this cubbyhole—for that was what it was—that there had been no time to prepare anything: he had been thrown in among the furniture like just another useless object. He was lying on a tattered couch that they had covered with a faded red shawl. One of his shoes was missing and he was wearing a rather worn linen dressing gown. Beneath that loosely fastened gown I could see his white, blood-soaked shirt. The wound itself wasn’t immediately visible because they had covered it with ice, from which the water, mingled with blood, was trickling from the couch onto the floor. He showed no signs of life and his eyes were closed. I asked if that was the only place he had been wounded, and Senhor Demétrio said “Yes,” although he did not believe that the bullet had affected any vital organ. He spoke quickly, as if to dismiss the matter as one of little importance. I started by removing the ice and cleaning the surrounding area, which was covered in thick, coagulated blood. It did not take me long to find the wound itself: it was just beneath the heart, and the bullet must have grazed his ribs. It had clearly missed its target but, despite this, he must have lost a lot of blood, which is probably why he had fainted. I asked if anyone had heard the shot, and how they had found him. Senhor Demétrio appeared somewhat annoyed by these questions, which seemed perhaps more appropriate to a police investigation than a medical inquiry, but he nevertheless told me that his brother had been cleaning the revolver since early that morning; that he, Demétrio, had several times voiced his fears that something untoward might happen with a rusty old gun like that; that he didn’t know who the gun belonged to; that he hadn’t heard the shot nor indeed had anyone else; and that, shortly before my arrival, puzzled by Senhor Valdo’s prolonged silence, he had found him, in his dressing gown, stretched out on the drawing room floor. He also told me that there had been a pool of blood on the floor, which he had told the housekeeper to clean up, while he carried the wounded man to this, the nearest bedroom. Senhor Valdo had not opened his eyes since then, and he, Demétrio, who found such recklessness inexcusable, was waiting for his brother to regain consciousness so that he could explain himself. I asked whether he really had been cleaning the gun since early that morning and, barely containing his irritation, Senhor Demétrio repeated: “Yes, since early this morning,” while I thought how very odd it was for a man to spend an entire day cleaning a rusty gun. But then the Meneses are capable of anything. Seeing me hesitate, Senhor Demétrio declared:
“Everything points to it being an accident plain and simple. Any other explanation would, frankly, be a betrayal of the facts,” and he shot me a furtive glance to see if his words had convinced me.
At that precise moment—and it was as if he were doing so deliberately to annoy his brother—Senhor Valdo opened his eyes—and I confess that I have never seen so absolute an expression of revulsion, anger, and discord as in that first exchange of glances between the two brothers. There was no doubt about it: the accident, or whatever it was, had enraged Senhor Demétrio. This troubled me and, while the wounded man groaned softly (for I was probing his wound), I found myself staring at Senhor Demétrio somewhat unguardedly. He must have realized what was going through my mind, for he placed one hand on my shoulder, in a gesture at once amicable and commanding:
“My brother is not yet able to speak about the incident,” he said. “He has lost a lot of blood in this silly stunt of his, and is probably still not capable of thinking very clearly. But soon . . .”
I watched the wounded man make a great effort to draw himself up into a sitting position, sweat pouring from his brow:
“Yes I am,” he murmured. “And you know very well, Demétrio, what I have to say.”
Although spoken with difficulty, his words were entirely audible.
“What? Speaking already? Well, I’m delighted,” Senhor Demétrio said with feigned pleasure, as if he had not heard what the wounded man had said. And he added somewhat scornfully: “Do you really mean to say it wasn’t just a reckless joke?”
Senhor Valdo gave him another long look as if formulating an accusation, but, overcome by weariness, he groaned and let his head fall back on the couch, at the same time clawing at the blanket in a gesture of rage and impotence. I waited for his temper to cool and his strength to return, but he merely turned his face to the wall in a gesture of utter exhaustion. I then began the medical treatment proper, applying gauze and bandages, even though I was not entirely sure how effective they would be, since, in emotional crises such as these, the mood of the patient often counts for more than any form of palliative care. When I had finished, I saw that there was nothing more for me to do: the patient, his chest now swathed in bandages, appeared to be sleeping. Much as I may have wanted to, I could not justifiably prolong my presence there. So I covered the wounded man with a sheet and was about to leave when I felt him grasp one of my hands. It was an unexpected and extraordinarily significant gesture: I leaned over and saw his pleading eyes, in which I saw an evident cry for help, insisting that I stay. Not knowing what to do, I stared first at the wounded man and then at Senhor Demétrio, until the latter decided for me what path I should take:
“Come,” he said, “I think that more than anything else the patient needs rest. There will be plenty of time for talk later.”
He slightly tightened his grip on my shoulder as he said this. After making a few further recommendations, I left the room, ignoring the supplicant look in Senhor Valdo’s eyes. I confess I found the calm, silent atmosphere in the house very strange. No one would have thought that such a serious incident had occurred only a short time before, one that could so easily have turned into tragedy. I met no one else as I passed through the various rooms, and since I could think of no rational explanation for this—other than its being a very large house with spacious rooms in which each inhabitant could be alone—I imagined that it was probably due to orders issued by Senhor Demétrio himself. He felt under no obligation to show me to the front door and, after asking a few banal questions about the patient’s general state of health, he bade me farewell and, unprompted by me, declared that he felt entirely at ease regarding his brother. “It’s no more than a minor disaster brought on by his own recklessness,” he concluded, and as he spoke, it was clear that he was utterly incensed by this incident, which he insisted on describing as “reckless.” What he said next was further proof of this: “He shouldn’t have gone poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.” Alone, I passed through the drawing room and walked across the verandah as far as the steps down into the garden. It was only there, when I turned to take a last look back at the house, so crammed with secrets, that I noticed a few lights coming on; then a door slammed, a voice rang out, probably from the kitchen, as if normal life were returning to the house, leaving me, a curious onlooker, standing on its forbidden threshold. Once again I shrugged—what else could I do?—and went down the steps, which seemed about to be overwhelmed on either side by the encroaching greenery.
Just when I thought my visit was at an end, I noticed a figure appear from behind the shrubbery, as if whoever it was had been waiting for me. Straining my eyes—for my sight never was very good—I saw that it was a woman and, I confess, I couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction at the thought that I might perhaps leave the Chácara knowing a little more about the mystery than I had expected. For, right from the start, I had been in little doubt that there was a mystery to be unveiled, and that behind what appeared to be a simple accident lurked the kind of grave and painful feelings that churn away in the hearts of all families. The woman drew closer, and I saw that she was dressed for a journey. (Let me be more precise: she was wearing a black woolen cape, gloves, a green scarf around her neck, and one of those berets women used to wear when traveling.)
“Doctor,” she said, stopping a few feet away from me, “I need to speak to you urgently.”
Her voice was calm and somewhat imperious.
“Of course, Senhora. How can I help?”
And I bowed, quite certain that before me stood Senhor Valdo’s wife, whose beauty was already legendary. Even in the darkness, I knew that I was in the presence of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my whole life.
“I was just about to leave,” she said, “when all this happened. My suitcases are over there, by the steps.”
She stopped for a moment. Then, without betraying any of the emotion she must certainly have been feeling, she asked:
“Is it serious his condition? Is it very serious? How is he now? Is there any hope?”
She asked all these questions one after the other, without giving me time to answer her first question. I was still more struck by the fact that she had no doubt whatsoever as to the gravity of what had taken place, despite her apparent calm and even coolness. There may have been one or two tremors in her voice, but I put this down to a certain degree of suppressed irritation at events that had doubtless disrupted her carefully-laid plans. It was easy enough to tell what those plans were: she was on the point of leaving the Chácara, probably hoping to say goodbye to it forever, and that “reckless” incident had prevented her from doing so at the very moment of her departure.
“Please,” she continued, without giving me time to say anything, “I heard that it was nothing, merely carelessness . . . but I have to say that the person who told me that is not to be trusted. When he said it was merely a reckless accident, I immediately thought Valdo might die this very night. Is there such a danger, Doctor?”
This time she sounded almost anxious. When she stopped speaking, I noticed that she was breathing hard as if she had just returned from a long walk. What a strange woman, I thought, and wondered what peculiar feelings stirred in the depths of her soul. I shook my head and, sensing that she was hanging on my every word, said:
“No, there’s absolutely no danger of that. It’s only a superficial wound.”
“Superficial!” she cried. “Do you mean he isn’t fatally wounded, Doctor? Betty told me she had to clean up a large pool of blood from the drawing room floor. When I heard that, I imagined he must already be at death’s door.”
“No, he is very far from that.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “so it’s true then. Demétrio was right. It was merely a foolish gesture, an act of . . .”
She stopped and bowed her head. For a few moments, she remained silent, lost in thought. The wind caught a few strands of hair that had escaped from beneath her beret. But when she looked up again, she suddenly gave a laugh that echoed through the shadowy garden. I shuddered, sensing the repressed malice my words had unleashed.
“So,” she said, “that’s how they want to play it. Well, they don’t fool me. They clearly do not know me or what I’m capable of. Tell me, Doctor, now that we’re alone, what did he say, what lies did he invent about me? Did he mention anything about a gardener . . .”
She clapped her hand over her mouth as if wanting to catch those words spoken seemingly involuntarily.
“Who do you mean?” I asked.
“Valdo. Who else?”
I explained that Senhor Valdo was not yet able to speak, due to the shock he had suffered and the large quantity of blood he had lost. She murmured: “So he lost a lot of blood, then,” and continued rather absently to listen to what I was saying, as if the subject no longer interested her very much. As soon as I finished speaking, and seeing that she had not moved, I wasn’t sure whether I should stay or go, and I had just decided it would be best to leave when her apparent indifference abruptly turned into a state of great agitation, stopping me in my tracks. As if suddenly waking up, she hid her face in her hands, crying and laughing at the same time. Then, overcome by emotion, she leaned against a tree letting her arms droop despondently by her sides, and repeated over and over: “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I tried to intervene, and went as far as to reach out my arm to comfort her, but nothing seemed capable of drawing her out of that agitated state and so I decided to do nothing, like someone waiting patiently for a tornado to pass. Eventually, she calmed down, resting her head against the trunk. The moonlight fell directly on her face, and I could see the tears streaming down it. I suspected that such distress had no ordinary cause, and realized from her slightly swollen body that she must be pregnant. Ah, how beautiful she was! A hundred thousand times more beautiful than before, more beautiful than all the women I had ever seen.
“I think you would be better . . .” I mumbled.
She gave me a look that seemed to contain all the feelings ravaging her soul:
“Don’t give me any advice, Doctor. I don’t need advice, and I don’t want anyone to concern themselves with my life.”
At the same time, she silently contradicted these words by linking arms with me and drawing me along with her toward the end of the avenue, where the fence separated the garden from the road. The sand crunched beneath our feet, and great pools of moonlight alternated with great pools of darkness. I don’t know why (perhaps I was already under the influence of the restless atmosphere in the Chácara), but I was afraid someone might see me in such close proximity to that woman; for there was no doubt that she was someone who paid little heed to convention. But there was in her beauty (for, from time to time, I was able to cast a furtive glance at her), a hint of tragedy. As we walked, she told me her story, although her words were so garbled, so jumbled by emotion, that I could scarcely grasp their meaning.
After an argument with Valdo, she had that very day decided to leave the Chácara forever. Or rather, she had already decided this some time before, when she found out she was pregnant. However, she had not taken this decision lightly; on the contrary, she had thought about it long and hard, for it would indeed be the end of a period of relative tranquility in her life, “relative” because she was sure she could never be entirely happy living with the Meneses, although she had done her best to cope, by moving away from the house and into the Pavilion. She sensed, however, that her presence was displeasing to Demétrio, and he had been the cause of her last argument with Valdo. Because Demétrio had invented the most fantastical stories about her. Oh, she knew very well that he only wanted to get rid of her: he was afraid of the soon-to-be-born future heir of the Chácara. At least that’s what she thought, since she could find no other reason for her brother-in-law’s peculiar attitude toward her. They had, at times, even argued about whether or not the child should be born at the Chácara. Valdo was opposed to her leaving and implored, even threatened her, but Demétrio, claiming that there were no adequate medical facilities in either Vila Velha or the surrounding area, insisted that she should leave and wait in Rio for the child to be born. She had hesitated because of her husband, but had then suddenly felt so very weary of it all that she had decided to leave. When he saw her mind was made up, Valdo had turned very pale: “Is there no other way, Nina? Are you really leaving?” No, there was no other way; she was leaving. Then he had compounded his brother’s insults with one great, definitive insult of his own: “I don’t know why God punished me by making me fall in love with and choose a prostitute to be the mother of my son. Because that’s what you are, Nina. It’s written all over your face, branded on your forehead: you’re one of those sluts who follow men in the streets . . .” She had sprung angrily to her feet, and it was there and then that she had decided to pack her bags and leave the Pavilion where she had, albeit briefly, been so happy. Now she was determined to put an end to this charade, once and for all. There was no love between them; there was nothing at all. He had met her at a time of great difficulty for her, when her father was ill, and as soon as her father had died, Valdo had showered her with love and attention and convinced her she should accompany him to the Chácara. That was all. Since she’d arrived, however, she had realized that she would not be able to live there for very long. She was from Rio and used to life in a big city. Here, everything displeased her: the silence, the local customs, even the landscape. She missed the restaurants, the hustle and bustle, the cars, the closeness to the sea. Taking advantage of a brief pause—we had almost reached the fence by then—I asked what kind of feeling it was that bound her to Senhor Valdo if it was not love? It was my only question. The reply she gave was characteristically confused, as if she had never before given the matter serious consideration. It was, she said, a difficult feeling to describe: irritation mingled with fear and a touch of fascination. To her, Senhor Valdo represented many things she had not had: a family, a house, the kind of upbringing she had never known. But she was perfectly aware that she needed to leave and return to the little room where she had lived before she was married, to the friends she had left behind, before she and Valdo became mortal enemies—which was sure to happen sometime soon. While she was dressing, her cases already packed and waiting on the bed, Betty, who had been told to order a cart to transport her luggage, heard a shot ring out. And it was Betty who had burst into her room, crying: “Senhora! Senhor Valdo has shot himself!” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t imagine him capable of such an act. So much so that she did not even unpack her suitcases. Ah, she was still very far from imagining what mad lengths her husband would go to in order to keep up their little charade. She was still too stunned even to leave her room, imagining Valdo dying or perhaps already dead in a pool of blood. She paced up and down, unable to decide what to do. It was then that Senhor Demétrio had appeared, even stiffer and more formal than usual. “Nina, it is my duty to inform you of what has happened. My brother has committed a reckless act, but from what I can see, it’s of no great consequence. A mere graze. If you still wish to leave, please do not feel you have to stay.” She could see that he was extremely angry, and that he would never forgive Valdo for something he considered to be utter foolishness. She knew very well what he wanted, and what those words uttered with such calculated slowness meant. Everything about that man was studied and false. And turning to face him, she was about to apologize and say she wasn’t going to leave after all, when she caught in his eyes a gleam so fixed, so cold, that the words died on her lips. She was sure, beyond any doubt, that Demétrio was concealing some criminal intent. For some moments they stood in silence, he accusing her with all the force of his hostile presence, she doing her best to defend her helpless self, ready to grasp at any straw. Steeling herself, however, she asked: “Suicide? Did he try to . . .” Senhor Demétrio grew even more distant, even stiffer and colder: “Yes, he did, but, as I say, there were no serious consequences.” There was a faint note of irony in his voice. When she did not move, he opened the door and left. From that point on, she had felt unable to stay in that room a moment longer and leaving her bags packed and ready on the bed, she went down into the garden, looking for a servant from whom she could obtain more information. Finding no one, she had summoned up all her courage and gone to the small room where Senhor Valdo was lying. Her hands were trembling, her whole body was trembling. What if Demétrio had lied and Valdo was gravely wounded, how could she possibly face him? She found Senhor Valdo on the couch, his shirt stained with blood. Unable to bear the sight for more than a second, she ran from the room, certain that she had indeed been the cause of that absurd tragedy.
For a while, she remained absorbed in her thoughts, not speaking, her hand resting on my arm. We had reached the fence, beyond which lay the road leading to Vila Velha. Fireflies glowed in the darkness, and not far off, an invisible stream sang and babbled.
“Tell me, Doctor,” and she turned to me again, her voice noticeably softer, as if she were about to give voice to the heavy matter weighing on her heart, “is he really not in any danger?”
“None,” I confirmed.
“Is it possible,” and by now she was almost whispering in my ear, “is it possible that it was . . . an attempted murder?”
I have to say that her question, far from surprising me, found an echo in my own thoughts. I remembered the look the brothers had exchanged when Senhor Valdo came around, his threat to reveal all that he knew and, as there seemed to be no proof that it really was an “accident,” I had no qualms in affirming that the possibility of a crime could not be entirely dismissed.
“In that case, everything changes,” she said. “If this isn’t some new charade of Valdo’s, then I won’t leave. I shall stay, and I shan’t rest until . . .”
A bright, decisive light appeared in her eyes—I saw that she had finally reached a decision. The mimosa-covered fence blocked our path and we could go no farther. What’s more, we were bathed in moonlight and thus easily visible from the windows of the Chácara. It was then that Dona Nina seemed to remember that this was the first time we had met and that, with her customary impetuosity, she had just entrusted her secret to a man whom her family did not even consider to be a friend of the household.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, taking my hands for the last time. “Forgive me for everything I’ve said.”
I declared with a certain warmth that there was absolutely no need to apologize, and said goodbye. The moon was shining brightly, the stream was singing close by. I took a detour to reach the gate. I was feeling somewhat uneasy, sensing a new element in my life. Well, perhaps only for an instant, but it had been like a poetic ray of light. A remarkable woman and a remarkable story. From a distance, I turned again and saw her walking resolutely through the darkness toward the Chácara.
