The black girl came into the dining room and over to the crowded table, to whisper in her mistress’s ear. It must have been something urgent, because her mistress got up straight away.
‘Shall we wait, Dona Adelaide?’
‘Don’t wait for me, Senhor Rangel; you carry on, I’ll take my turn later.’
Rangel was the reader of the fortune-book. He turned the page, and read out a question: ‘Does someone love you secretly?’ General excitement; the girls and the young men smiled at each other. It is St John’s Night, 1854; the house is in the Rua das Mangueiras. João is the host’s name, João Viegas, and he has a daughter, Joaninha. This same party takes place every year, with relatives and friends; there’s a bonfire in the garden, they roast potatoes as usual, and tell fortunes. There’s a dinner too, dancing sometimes, and a game of forfeits, just a family affair. João Viegas is a clerk in a public notary’s office in Rio.
‘Off we go. Who’s going to start?’ he said. ‘Come on, Dona Felismina. Let’s see if anyone secretly loves you.’
Dona Felismina gave a forced smile. She was a good lady, in her forties, neither rich nor gifted, but still looking for a husband out of the corner of her eye as she kneeled to pray. It was a cruel joke, but understandable. Dona Felismina was a perfect example of those indulgent, gentle creatures who seem to be born to amuse others. She picked the dice up and threw them with a look of incredulous compliance. Number ten, two voices cried out. Rangel’s eyes went to the bottom of the page, looked at the item with that number, and read what it said: yes, it said, there was someone, and she should look for him next Sunday at Mass. Everyone round the table congratulated Dona Felismina, who smiled disdainfully, though secretly hopeful.
Others picked up the dice, and Rangel went on reading everyone’s fortunes. He read in an affected voice. From time to time, he took his glasses off and wiped them very slowly with the corner of his cambric handkerchief – either because it was cambric, or because it gave off a delicate jasmine scent. He put on airs, and the others called him ‘the diplomat’.
‘Come on, Mr Diplomat, on you go.’
Rangel woke up with a start; engrossed in perusing the line of girls on the other side of the table, he’d forgotten to read one of the fortunes. Was he courting one of them? Let’s take this step by step.
He was a bachelor, but not because he wanted to be. As a young man, he’d had a few passing dalliances, but time brought with it an obsession with rank and status, and it was this that prolonged his bachelorhood till the age of forty-one, which is where we are now. He wanted a wife superior to him and his social circle, and he spent his time waiting for her. He even went to dances given by a rich, famous lawyer for whom he copied papers, and who favoured him with his protection. At the dances, he occupied the same subordinate position as he did at the office; he spent the evening wandering around the corridors, peeping into the ballroom, watching the ladies pass, devouring a multitude of magnificent shoulders and shapely figures with his eyes. He envied the men, and copied them. He would come out full of excitement and determination. When there were no balls, he went to church festivals where he could see some of the most eligible girls in the city. He was a regular too in the courtyard of the imperial palace on gala days, in order to watch the great ladies and gentlemen of the court, ministers, generals, diplo-mats, high court judges, and he could identify them all, the people themselves and their carriages. He came back, from church or palace, just as he came back from the ball, impetuous and impassioned, ready to pluck fortune’s laurels at a single stroke.
The worst of it is that between the hand and the fruit there’s often a wall, and Rangel was not the sort to jump over walls. In his imagination he did everything, carrying off women and pillaging cities. More than once, in his own mind, he was a minister of state, and got his fill of bowing and scraping and issuing decrees. He even went as far as proclaiming himself Emperor, one day on 2 December,1 as he was coming back from the parade in the palace square; to this end, he imagined a revolution, in which he spilled some blood, not very much, and a benevolent dictatorship, in which he did no more than avenge a few minor contretemps he’d suffered at work. Here outside, however, all these feats were mere fables. In reality, he was good-natured and discreet.
At the age of forty, he’d given up on his ambitions; but his nature remained the same, and in spite of his vocation for marriage, he’d still not found a bride. More than one would have accepted him with pleasure; his circumspection made him lose them all. One day, he noticed Joaninha, who would soon be nineteen and had a lovely tranquil pair of eyes – a virgin, what’s more, of all commerce with men. Rangel had known her since she was a child, had carried her in his arms to the Passeio Publico2 or to see the fireworks at Lapa; how could he speak to her of love? But, on the other hand, he was so well accepted in the household that it would ease his way to marriage; anyway, it was this or nothing.
This time the wall wasn’t high, and the fruit hung low; all he needed to do was stretch his arm out with a bit of effort, and pick it from the branch. For some months, Rangel had been engaged in this enterprise. He wouldn’t stretch his arm out without looking all around to see if anyone was coming, and, if there was, he pretended nothing was happening and went on his way. When he did stretch it out, a gust of wind moved the branch, or a bird rustled in the fallen leaves, and that was all it took to make him withdraw his hand. Time went by and this passion got into his system, bringing with it many hours of anguish, always followed by greater hopes. At this very moment, he’s brought his first love letter with him, and is ready to hand it over. He’s already had two or three good opportunities, but still he puts it off; there’s a long night ahead! Meanwhile, he continues reading out the fortunes, solemn as a high priest.
There’s happiness all around. They whisper, laughing and talking at the same time. Uncle Rufino, who’s the family joker, goes round the table with a feather, tickling the girls behind the ears. João Viegas is anxiously awaiting Calisto, a friend who’s late. Where can Calisto have got to?
‘Out of the way! I need the table; let’s go into the drawing room.’
Dona Adelaide was back; they were going to lay the table for dinner. Everyone moved away and, as she walked, you could see how delightful the notary’s daughter was. Rangel followed her, his eyes wide with passion. She went to the window for a few moments, while a game of forfeits was being set up, and he went too; it was an opportunity to slip her the letter.
On the other side of the street, in a grand house, there was a ball, and people were dancing. She was looking, and he looked too. In the windows they could see the partners pass, swaying to the rhythm, the ladies with their silks and lace, the gentlemen refined and elegant, some with medals on their chests. From time to time, there was a flash of diamonds, swift and fleeting, in the whirl of the dance. Couples talking, gleaming epaulettes, the men leaning towards the women, fluttering fans, all this in brief glimpses through the windows, which didn’t reveal the whole of the ballroom; but the rest could be imagined. He, at least, knew it all, and conveyed it all to the notary’s daughter. The obsession with rank, which had seemed dormant, began to perform cartwheels in our friend’s heart, and here he was trying to seduce the girl’s heart too.
‘I know someone who’d be in their element in there,’ murmured Rangel.
‘You,’ said Joaninha, naïvely.
Rangel smiled, flattered, and could find nothing to say. He looked at the lackeys and the coachmen in livery in the street, chatting in groups or leaning over the roofs of the coaches. He began to point some of them out: this is Olinda’s, that’s Maranguape; but another wheels in from the Rua da Lapa into the Rua das Mangueiras. It stops opposite; the lackey jumps down, opens the carriage door, takes his hat off and stands to attention. There comes out a bald pate, a head, a man, a couple of medals, then a richly dressed lady; they go into the foyer, and up the stairs, carpeted and flanked at the bottom by two large vases.
‘Joaninha, Senhor Rangel …’
Damn the game of forfeits! Just as he was putting a suggestive phrase together in his head about the couple going up the stairs, intending to pass naturally on to handing over the letter … Rangel obeyed, and sat down opposite the girl. Dona Adelaide, who was presiding over the game of forfeits, was collecting names; each person was to take the name of a flower. Uncle Rufino, of course, always the clown, chose the pumpkin flower. As for Rangel – trying to avoid being common, he mentally compared flowers, and when the lady of the house asked him for his, he answered, gently and slowly:
‘The forget-me-not, madam.’
‘What a pity Calisto isn’t here!’ the notary sighed.
‘Did he really say he’d come?’
‘He did; only yesterday he came by the office, on purpose to tell me he’d come late, but he’d be here; he had to go to a do in the Rua da Carioca …’
‘Room for two more?!’ shouted a voice in the corridor.
‘Thank goodness for that! Here he comes!’
João Viegas went to open the door; it was Calisto, accompanied by an unknown young man, whom he introduced to everybody in general: ‘This is Queiroz, he works in the Santa Casa hospital; he’s not a relative, though he looks a lot like me: two peas in a pod …’ Everyone laughed; it was Calisto’s joke, for he was ugly as sin – whereas Queiroz was a handsome lad of twenty-six or twenty-seven, with black hair, black eyes, and extraordinarily slim. The girls drew back a little; Dona Felismina put on full sail.
‘We were playing forfeits; d’you want to join in?’ said the lady of the house. ‘Will you play, Senhor Queiroz?’
Queiroz said he would and started to survey the other guests. He knew some, and exchanged two or three words with them. He told João Viegas that he’d wanted to meet him for a long time, because of a favour he’d done his father a while back, in a court case. João Viegas didn’t remember a thing about it, even after he told him what the favour was; but he was pleased to hear of it, and in public too; he looked round at everyone, and took a few minutes for silent gratification.
Queiroz entered the game with a will. After half an hour, he was at home. He was lively and voluble; his manners were spontaneous and natural. He had a huge repertory of penalties for the game of forfeits, which delighted everyone, and no one could impose them better. He was so vivacious and animated, going hither and thither, putting groups together, moving chairs, talking to the girls as if he’d been their playmate when they were children.
‘Dona Joaninha here, in this chair; Dona Cesária, over here, standing, and Senhor Camilo comes in by that door … No, no: look, like this, so as to …’
Stiff in his chair, Rangel was dumbfounded. Where had this hurricane come from? And on the hurricane went, lifting the hats off the men and shaking the girls’ hair loose, as they laughed happily: Queiroz here, Queiroz there, Queiroz everywhere. Rangel was stupefied, then mortified. His sceptre was falling from his hands. He didn’t look at the intruder, laughed at nothing he said, and answered him curtly. Inside, he was riddled with envy, wished him to the devil, called him a halfwit, good for amusing people and making them laugh – that’s parties for you. But, as he repeated these things and worse, he couldn’t get back his peace of mind. He was really suffering, in the heart of his self-esteem; worse, Queiroz could see all this agitation, and worst of all, Rangel saw that he was seen.
Just as he dreamed of glory, so Rangel imagined revenge. In his head, he smashed Queiroz to smithereens; then he thought of some disaster or other, an ache would do, but something really painful that would remove the intruder from the scene. But nothing happened; the devil was more and more sprightly, and the whole room was spellbound, fascinated. Even Joaninha, timid as she was, came to life in Queiroz’s hands, as did the other girls; everyone, men and women, seemed eager to obey him. He mentioned dancing, and the girls went over to Uncle Rufino, to ask him to play a quadrille on the flute – just one, that was all they wanted.
‘I can’t, I’ve got a corn.’
‘Flute?’ shouted Calisto. ‘Ask Queiroz to play something for us, and you’ll see what flute-playing is … Go and get the flute, Rufino. Listen to Queiroz. You’ve no idea how tenderly he plays!’
Queiroz played ‘Casta Diva’. How ridiculous! Rangel said to himself – a tune even the kids in the street can whistle. He looked at him askance, asking himself if a serious person would be seen dead doing that; and came to the conclusion that the flute was a grotesque instrument. He looked at Joaninha too, and saw that, like everyone else, she was watching Queiroz, enthralled, enamoured of the sound of the music, and he shuddered, uncertain why. The other faces had the same expression, but even so, he felt something which complicated his aversion for the intruder. When the flute finished, Joaninha applauded less than the others, and Rangel began to wonder if it was her usual shyness, or if something else was affecting her … He must give her the letter without delay.
Dinner was served. Everyone went into the dining room, and happily for Rangel, he was placed opposite Joaninha, whose eyes were more beautiful than ever, and so liquid they looked changed. Rangel savoured them in silence, and reconstructed the entire dream that Queiroz had demolished with a flick of his fingers. Thus it was that he saw himself by her side, in the house he’d rent – a love-nest he gilded with his imagination. He even won a lottery prize and spent it all on silks and jewels for his wife, lovely Joaninha – Joaninha Rangel – Dona Joaninha Rangel – Dona Joana Viegas Rangel – or Dona Joana Cândida Viegas Rangel … He couldn’t leave the Cândida out …
‘Come on, Mr Diplomat; give us one of those toasts of yours …’
Rangel woke up; the whole table was seconding Uncle Rufino’s suggestion; Joaninha herself was asking him to propose a toast, like last year’s. Rangel said he would obey; he was just finishing this chicken wing. Nudges, winks and flattering whispers; Dona Adelaide, when a girl said she’d never heard Rangel speak:
‘Haven’t you?’ she asked in astonishment. ‘You’ve no idea; he speaks so well, very clearly, such well-chosen words, and so beautifully expressed …’
As he was eating, he summoned up some memories, shreds of ideas, for use in putting his sentences and metaphors together. He finished and got to his feet. He looked happy and full of himself. At last, they were knocking at his door. The round robin of silly stories and empty jokes was over, and they’d come to him to hear something correct and serious. He looked around, and saw all eyes lifted up in expectation. Not all; Joaninha’s sloped off in Queiroz’s direction, and his came to meet hers halfway, in a regular cavalcade of promises. Rangel went pale. The words died in his mouth, but he had to speak; they were waiting for him, in approving silence.
He didn’t come up to expectations. It was just a toast to the host and his daughter. He called her one of God’s thoughts, borne from the immortal realms into reality, a phrase he’d used three years ago, but which should have been forgotten by now. He also mentioned the sanctuary of the family, the altar of friendship, and of gratitude, which is the flower of pure hearts. The more nonsensical the words, the more grandiose and resonant they were. All in all, a toast that should have lasted a good ten minutes he disposed of in five, and sat down.
Nor was that all. Queiroz soon got up, two or three minutes later, for another toast, and the silence was even more sudden and complete. Joaninha stared into her lap, embarrassed by what he might say; Rangel shivered.
‘The illustrious friend of this house, Senhor Rangel,’ said Queiroz, ‘drank the health of the two people who share the name of the saint whose day we are celebrating; I drink to the one who is a saint every day, to Dona Adelaide.’
Great applause greeted this compliment, and Dona Adelaide, flattered, was congratulated by each and every guest. Her daughter didn’t stop there. ‘Mama! Mama!’ she exclaimed, getting up. She went to embrace her and kiss her three or four times; a sort of letter to be read by two people.
Rangel went from anger to despondency, and when the dinner was over he thought of leaving. But hope, a devil with green eyes, begged him to stay, and he stayed. Who knows? It was all a passing whim, one night only, a flirtation for St John’s Night; he, after all, was a friend of the family, and was esteemed by them; he only needed to ask for the girl’s hand, and he’d be given it. And anyway, Queiroz might not have the means to marry. What did he do at the Santa Casa? Maybe it was some inferior job … At this, he looked sideways at Queiroz’s clothes, carefully inspected his seams, scrutinised the embroidery on his shirt, examined his trouser knees to see if they were worn, and his shoes, and concluded that he took pains with the way he dressed, but probably spent everything on himself – marriage, however, is a serious matter. Maybe he had a widowed mother, unmarried sisters … Rangel lived on his own.
‘Uncle Rufino, play a quadrille.’
‘I can’t; after a meal the flute gives you indigestion. Let’s play lotto.’
Rangel declared he couldn’t play, he had a headache; but Joaninha came over and asked him to partner her. ‘Half the winnings for you, half for me,’ she said smiling; he smiled too and accepted. They sat next to one another. Joaninha was talking to him, laughing, lifting her beautiful eyes to him, restless, moving her head to one side and another. Rangel felt better, and in no time he was completely happy. He marked the numbers at random, missing some, which she pointed out with her finger – a nymph-like finger, he said to himself; and he began making mistakes deliberately so as to see her finger, and hear her scolding him: ‘You’re very forgetful; if you carry on like this, we’ll lose our money …’
Rangel thought of giving her the letter under the table; but since nothing had been said, she’d be bound to be shocked and spoil everything; she must be forewarned. He looked around the table: all the faces were bent over their cards, attentively following the numbers. Then he leaned over to the right, and looked down over Joaninha’s cards, as if to check something.
‘You’ve got two lines,’ he whispered.
‘I haven’t, I’ve got three.’
‘Three, yes, three, you’re right. Listen …’
‘And you?’
‘I’ve got two.’
‘What d’you mean, two? You’ve got four.’
There were four; she leaned over to show him them, almost brushing her ear against his lips; then she looked at him, laughing and shaking her head: ‘Tut, tut, Senhor Rangel!’ Rangel heard this with singular delight; her voice was so sweet, her expression so friendly, that he forgot everything, grabbed her by the waist, and threw himself into an eternal, chimerical waltz. House, table, guests, all disappeared, vain products of the imagination, all of them. Nothing was left but a single reality, the two of them whirling in space under a million stars purposely shining to light up their way.
No letter, nothing. When morning was near, they all went to the window to see the guests leaving from the ball opposite. Rangel recoiled in horror. He saw Queiroz gently squeeze the lovely Joaninha’s hand. He tried to explain it away, it was just an illusion, but no sooner had he destroyed one than others appeared, like waves breaking over him, one after another. He could barely understand that one single night, a few hours could be enough to join two creatures in this way; but it was the living truth, evident from their gestures, their eyes, their words, their laughter, even from the sadness with which they separated in the early morning.
He left in a state of shock. A single night, just a few hours! When, some time later, he got home, he lay down on the bed, not to sleep, but to burst out sobbing. When he was alone, all his affectation disappeared, no longer was he the diplomat, he was a maniac rolling around on the bed, shouting, crying like a child, truly unhappy, all because of this sad, autumnal passion. This poor soul, this mixture of daydreaming, indolence and affectation, was, in substance, as unhappy as Othello, and his end was even crueller.
Othello kills Desdemona; our lover, whose hidden passion had been suspected by no one, acted as Queiroz’s witness when he and Joaninha were married six months later.
The years passed by, and nothing happened to change his nature. When the Paraguayan war broke out3 he often thought of enlisting as an officer in the volunteer force; he never did; all the same, he won a few battles and ended up as a brigadier.