On Sunday nights there was always a small gathering at Jorge’s house‚ an ‘at-home’‚ in the drawing room‚ around the old pink porcelain oil lamp. Only close friends were invited. ‘The Engineer’‚ as he was known to the neighbours‚ kept himself very much to himself and did not normally have visitors. It was an occasion for tea and talk. There was a student air about it all. Luiza did her crocheting‚ and Jorge puffed away on his pipe.
The first to arrive was always Julião Zuzarte‚ a distant relative of Jorge and a fellow student during their first years at the Politécnica. He was a thin‚ nervous man‚ who wore blue- tinted spectacles and hair so long that it brushed his collar. He had qualified as a surgeon. He was extremely intelligent and studied constantly‚ but he was‚ as he said‚ ‘jinxed’. At thirty‚ poor and in debt and with no clientele‚ he was beginning to grow weary of his fourth-floor room in the Baixa‚ of cheap suppers and of his old-fashioned‚ threadbare overcoat; trapped in his narrow life‚ he watched as others‚ the mediocre and the superficial‚ ‘forged ahead‚’ ‘climbed the ladder’ and settled into a life of prosperity. ‘Lack of opportunity‚’ he used to say. He could have accepted a municipal post in a provincial town‚ with the possibility of taking on private patients‚ with a house of his own and even some livestock. But he was proud and stubborn and had complete faith in his own abilities and knowledge‚ and he did not want to go and bury himself in some sleepy‚ gloomy backwater where pigs rootled in its three streets. Everything about the provinces terrified him; he imagined himself living an obscure life‚ playing cards at the local club and dying of sheer tedium. That was why he did not budge; and with the tenacity of the ambitious plebeian he waited for a wealthy clientele‚ a chair at the School of Medicine‚ a coupé in which to make his calls‚ and a blonde wife with a dowry. He was convinced of his right to such good fortune‚ but since it was taking some time to arrive‚ he was becoming sour and resentful; he was at odds with life; each day his angry‚ nail-biting silences grew longer; and even on his better days‚ he was always coming out with sharp remarks and bitter tirades‚ during which his unpleasant voice cut through the air like an icy blade.
Luiza did not like him; she thought he looked provincial; she hated his pedagogical tone‚ the dark glint of his spectacles‚ the too-short trousers that revealed the frayed elastic of his boots. But she disguised these feelings behind a smile because Jorge admired him. ‘He’s got great spirit‚’ he would say‚ ‘great talent! An excellent fellow!’
Since Julião always arrived early‚ he used to go into the dining room to drink his coffee‚ looking askance at the silver on the sideboard and at Luiza’s new outfits. The fact that Jorge‚ his relative – another ‘mediocrity’ with a comfortable life and a nice wife‚ with all his fleshly desires satisfied – should be respected by everyone at the Ministry and own a few contos de réis’ worth of government bonds‚ seemed to him an injustice and weighed on him like a humiliation. He nevertheless pretended to admire him and went to his house every Sunday evening; he concealed his anxieties and chatted and made jokes‚ constantly running his fingers through his long‚ dry‚ scurf-ridden hair.
Dona Felicidade de Noronha would normally arrive at nine o’clock. She would come in‚ arms outstretched‚ smiling her broad‚ kindly smile. She was fifty years old and very plump‚ and since she suffered from dyspepsia and wind‚ she could not‚ at that hour‚ wear corsets and so her opulent figure remained unconstrained. There were a few grey threads in her slightly curly hair‚ but she had a smooth‚ round‚ full face and the soft‚ dull white complexion of a nun; beneath her fleshy eyelids‚ the skin around which was already lined‚ shone two dark‚ moist‚ very mobile pupils; and the few soft hairs at the corners of her mouth looked like two faint circumflexes drawn with the finest of quills. She had been Luiza’s mother’s closest friend and had got into the habit of visiting ‘little Luiza’ on Sundays. Born into a noble family – the Noronhas of Redondela – and with influential relatives in Lisbon‚ she was rather devout and often to be seen at the convent church of the Incarnation.
As soon she arrived‚ she would plant a loud kiss on Luiza’s cheek and ask in a soft‚ anxious voice:
‘Is he coming?’
‘The Councillor? Yes‚ he is.’
Luiza knew this because the Councillor‚ Councillor Acácio‚ never came to ‘Dona Luiza’s teas’‚ as he called them‚ without first going to the Ministry of Public Works the day before in order to seek out Jorge and declare gravely‚ with a slight inclination of his tall figure:
‘Jorge‚ my friend‚ I will be coming tomorrow to demand from your good wife my cup of tea.’
He would normally add:
‘And how is your valuable work progressing? So glad. If you see the Minister‚ give him my respects. Yes‚ give my respects to that formidable talent!’
And with that he would leave‚ stepping solemnly away down the grimy corridors.
Dona Felicidade had been in love with the Councillor for five years. In Jorge’s house‚ they laughed about this ‘grand passion’. Luiza would say: ‘It’s just a silly fancy of hers!’ They saw only her plump‚ pink exterior and never suspected the intensity of her feelings‚ which were inflamed once a week and which burned unspoken‚ eating away at her like an illness‚ as corrupting as a vice. All her previous passions had come to nothing. She had loved an officer in the lancers‚ but he had died‚ and all she retained of him now was his daguerrotype. Subsequently‚ although she had never said a word to anyone‚ she had fallen in love with a local baker‚ only to see him marry someone else. Then she had lavished all her love on a dog‚ Bilro‚ upon whom a dismissed maid took her revenge by feeding him boiled cork; Bilro burst‚ and his stuffed remains now graced the dining room. One day‚ the Councillor had appeared in her life and ignited those desires‚ piled one on top of the other like so much firewood. Acácio had become her obsession: she admired his figure and his grave manner‚ she listened wide-eyed to his eloquence‚ he had‚ she thought‚ ‘a splendid position in society’. The Councillor was both her ambition and her vice! There was one particular aspect of his beauty – his bald head – prolonged contemplation of which went to her head like strong wine. She had always shared the perverse liking some women have for bald men‚ and that desire‚ unslaked‚ had only grown with age. When she gazed on the Councillor’s bald pate‚ broad‚ round‚ polished and glinting in the light‚ her back became damp with nervous perspiration‚ her eyes glittered‚ and she felt an absurd‚ desperate impulse to place her hands on it‚ to touch it‚ feel it‚ knead it‚ penetrate it! However‚ she managed to disguise this longing by talking loudly‚ with a foolish smile on her face‚ fanning herself furiously‚ while the sweat ran over the rolls of fat around her neck. She would go home and say her rosary‚ impose a penance on herself to say ten Our Fathers and seventy Hail Marys; but as soon as her prayers were ended‚ those lubricious feelings would resurface. And poor‚ good Dona Felicidade was now tormented by lewd nightmares and the melancholic moods of the ageing hysteric! The Councillor’s indifference only made matters worse: no glance‚ no sigh‚ no amorous confession could move him. With her‚ he was glacial and polite. They had occasionally found themselves alone in the safe haven of a window seat‚ in the ill-lit solitude of one corner of a sofa‚ but as soon as she made the slightest attempt to reveal her feelings‚ he would start to his feet and move away‚ stern and very proper. One day‚ she thought she could see the Councillor casting an appreciative eye‚ from behind his tinted glasses‚ over her abundant bosom; she had spoken then more openly‚ more urgently‚ she had mentioned the word ‘passion’‚ had softly pronounced his name: ‘Acácio!’ But he had frozen her with a gesture and‚ getting up‚ had said gravely:
‘My dear lady‚
The snows that gather on the brow
Fall‚ at last‚ upon the heart …
It is pointless‚ dear lady!’
Dona Felicidade’s suffering was kept hidden and carefully disguised; no one knew about it; they knew of her unrequited feelings‚ but they knew nothing of the torments of her desire. One day‚ Luiza was taken aback when Dona Felicidade suddenly grabbed her wrist with one moist hand and said in a low voice‚ her eyes fixed on the Councillor:
‘What a man!’
That night‚ they were talking about the Alentejo‚ about the treasures to be found in Évora‚ about the Chapel of Bones‚ when the Councillor came in with his coat over his arm. He placed it carefully on a chair in one corner and then made his prim‚ officious way over to Luiza‚ took both her hands in his and said in lofty‚ sonorous tones:
‘I hope I find my dear‚ good Senhora Dona Luiza in perfect health. Jorge told me as much. So glad! So very glad!’
He was tall‚ thin and dressed all in black‚ with a high collar tight around his neck. His face‚ with its pointed chin‚ grew wider and wider until it reached his vast‚ gleaming bald pate‚ which had a slight dent on top; the fringe of hair‚ that formed a kind of collar around the back of his head‚ from ear to ear‚ was dyed a lustrous black‚ and this only made his bald head‚ by contrast‚ appear even glossier; he did not‚ however‚ dye his abundant‚ greying moustache‚ which grew down around the corners of his mouth. He was extremely pale and never removed his dark glasses. He had a cleft in his chin and large‚ protruding ears.
He had once been director-general of what was known at the time as the King’s Ministry‚ in charge of political and civil administration and public education‚ and whenever he mentioned the king‚ he would sit more erectly in his chair. His every gesture was measured‚ even when taking a pinch of snuff. He never used trivial words; he would never say ‘vomit’‚ for example‚ but would instead make an appropriate gesture and use the word ‘regurgitate’ instead. If he mentioned a Portuguese writer‚ he would speak of ‘our Garrett’ or ‘our Herculano’. He was always quoting writers. Indeed‚ he was himself an author. He had no family‚ and lived in concubinage with his maidservant in a third-floor apartment in Rua do Ferregial‚ and devoted his time to political economy: he had compiled a book entitled: Generic Elements of the Science of Wealth and its Distribution according to the Best Authorities‚ subtitled ’Fireside Reading’. Only a few months before‚ he had published A List of all the Ministers of State from the Great Marquês de Pombal to the Present Day‚ with the Dates of their Birth and their Passing Scrupulously Verified.
‘Have you ever been to the Alentejo‚ Councillor?’ asked Luiza.
‘Never‚ my dear lady.’ And he bowed. ‘Never! And I deeply regret it. I have always wanted to go there‚ for they tell me that its curiosities are of the very first order.’
From a gold box‚ he delicately took a pinch of snuff between his fingers and added grandly:
‘It is also‚ of course‚ an area of great porcine wealth!’
‘Jorge‚ find out how much the post of municipal doctor in Évora pays‚’ said Julião from one end of the sofa.
The Councillor‚ bursting with information‚ his pinch of snuff still poised in the air‚ said:
‘It must be about six hundred mil réis‚ Senhor Zuzarte‚ plus the option to take on private patients. I have it in my notes somewhere. But why do you want to know‚ Senhor Zuzarte? Do you wish to leave Lisbon?’
‘Possibly.’
Everyone voiced their disapproval.
‘Ah‚ there’s nowhere like Lisbon‚’ sighed Dona Felicidade.
‘City of marble and of granite‚ to quote the sublime words of our great historian!’ intoned the Councillor solemnly.
And he finally took his pinch of snuff‚ fanning out three lean‚ manicured fingers as he did so.
Then Dona Felicidade said:
‘One person who could never leave Lisbon‚ not even if God our Father led him by the hand‚ is the Councillor!’
The Councillor turned to her languidly‚ bowing slightly‚ and replied.
‘I was born in Lisbon‚ Dona Felicidade. I am a Lisbonite to my soul!’
‘You were born in Rua de São José‚ weren’t you?’ said Jorge.
‘Number seventy-five‚ Jorge. Right next door to the house where my poor‚ dear Geraldo lived until his marriage.’
Geraldo‚ his poor‚ dear Geraldo‚ was Jorge’s father. Acácio had been his best friend. They were neighbours. In those days‚ Acácio used to play the violin‚ and since Geraldo played the flute‚ they would perform duets together‚ and even belonged to the local music society in Rua de São José. When Acácio began working in government departments‚ he decided‚ out of a sense of delicacy and dignity‚ to bid farewell not only to the violin‚ but also to all tender feelings and to those jolly evenings spent at the music society. He devoted himself entirely to statistics. But he remained very loyal to Geraldo and extended that same vigilant friendship to Jorge; he had been best man at his wedding‚ he visited him every Sunday‚ and‚ on his birthday‚ as well as a congratulatory card‚ he always sent him a large cake.
‘I was born here‚’ he said again‚ unfurling his beautiful Indian silk handkerchief‚ ‘and here I will die.’
And he blew his nose discreetly.
‘But that’s a long way off yet‚ Councillor!’
With grave melancholy‚ he replied:
‘I do not fear death‚ my dear Jorge. I have even gone so far as to have my last dwelling place built in the cemetery of Alto de São João. A modest affair‚ but decent enough. It’s on the right as you go in‚ a nice‚ sheltered spot‚ near the humble abode of my friends the Veríssimos.’
‘And have you already composed your epitaph‚ Councillor?’ asked Julião ironically from the sofa.
‘I do not want one‚ Senhor Zuzarte. I want no words of praise on my tomb. If my friends and my fellow countrymen feel that I have been of some service‚ then there are other means of commemorating this; there is the press‚ official despatches‚ the obituary column‚ even poetry! For myself‚ all I want to have engraved – in black letters on the otherwise bare stone – is my name‚ with the title of Councillor‚ the date of my birth and the date of my passing.’
And then slowly and thoughtfully‚ he added:
‘I would have no objection‚ however‚ if the words‚ “Pray for him” were to be engraved underneath in smaller letters.’
There was an emotional silence‚ then‚ at the door‚ a shrill voice said:
‘May I?’
‘Ernestinho!’ cried Jorge.
Ernestinho entered the room‚ taking short‚ rapid steps‚ and flung his arms around Jorge.
‘I heard that you were leaving‚ cousin Jorge. How are you‚ cousin Luiza?’
He was Jorge’s cousin. A slight‚ listless figure‚ whose slender limbs‚ still barely formed‚ gave him the fragile appearance of a schoolboy; his sparse moustache‚ thick with wax‚ stood up at either end with points sharp as needles; and in his gaunt face‚ beneath fleshy lids‚ his eyes looked dull and lethargic. He was wearing patent leather shoes with large bows on them; and dangling from his watch chain over his white waistcoat was a huge gold medallion bearing a bas relief of enamelled fruits and flowers. He lived with an actress from the Ginásio – a scrawny‚ sallow-skinned woman with very curly hair and a tubercular look about her – and he wrote for the theatre. He had done translations‚ written two original one-act plays and a comedy full of puns. Lately he had been rehearsing a longer work at the Teatro das Variedades‚ a drama in five acts‚ entitled Honour and Passion. It was his first serious play. With his pockets stuffed with manuscripts‚ he was now constantly having to deal with journalists and actors‚ buying coffees and cognacs for everyone‚ his hat awry‚ his face pale‚ telling all and sundry: ‘This life will be the death of me!’ He wrote out of a deep love of Art‚ for he was an employee in the Customs Office‚ with a good salary and five hundred mil réis in government bonds. It was Art‚ he said‚ that was obliging him to spend money: for the ball scene in Honour and Passion‚ he had‚ at his own expense‚ ordered patent leather boots for the leading man and for the actor playing the father. His family name was Ledesma.
They made room for him‚ and Luiza‚ putting down her embroidery‚ immediately remarked on how tired he looked! He listed his complaints: the rehearsals were destroying him‚ he was in dispute with the impresario. The night before‚ he had been forced to rewrite the final scene of one act‚ the whole scene!
‘And all because‚’ he added in a state of great excitement‚ ‘the man is a jumped-up little fool. He wants the scene to take place in a drawing room rather than in an abyss!’
‘In a what?’ asked Dona Felicidade‚ surprised.
The Councillor very courteously explained:
‘In an abyss‚ Dona Felicidade‚ a gorge. Another excellent word for it is “vortex”.’ And he recited: ‘He hurls himself into the churning vortex…’
‘In an abyss?’ everyone asked. ‘But why?’
The Councillor too wanted to know the precise situation.
A jubilant Ernestinho launched into a long description of the plot. The heroine was a married woman. In Sintra‚ she has met an homme fatal‚ the Count of Monte Redondo. Her ruined husband has gambling debts amounting to one hundred contos de réis. He has been dishonoured and is on the point of being arrested. The woman‚ mad with worry‚ runs to the ruined castle where the count lives‚ tears off her veil and tells him of the impending disaster. The count throws his cloak over his shoulders and sets off‚ arriving just as the police are about to take the man away. ‘It’s a terribly moving scene‚’ he said. ‘It is a moonlit night. The count reveals himself and throws a bag of gold at the feet of the police‚ crying: “Sate yourselves on that‚ you vultures!”’
‘A fine ending!’ murmured the Councillor.
‘Anyway‚’ said Ernesto‚ summing up‚ ‘the plot thickens: the Count of Monte Redondo and the wife have an affair; the husband finds out‚ hurls the gold at the count’s feet and kills his wife.’
‘How?’ they all asked.
‘He throws her into the abyss. That’s in the fifth act. The count sees this and hurls himself in after her. The husband folds his arms over his chest and gives a diabolical laugh. That‚ at least‚ is how I had imagined it.’
He fell silent‚ his chest heaving; then‚ fanning himself with his handkerchief‚ he looked around him with languorous eyes that had the silvery sheen of the eyes of a dead fish.
‘It’s clearly a pioneering work‚ full of grand passions!’ said the Councillor‚ stroking his bald head. ‘My congratulations‚ Senhor Ledesma!’
‘But what does the impresario want you to do?’ asked Julião‚ who had been standing‚ listening in astonishment. ‘What does he want? Does he expect you to put the abyss in a first-floor apartment‚ furnished by Gardé?’
Ernestinho turned and said fondly:
‘No‚ Senhor Zuzarte‚’ his voice was almost tender now‚ ‘he wants the scene to take place in a drawing room. And so I …’ and he made a resigned gesture‚ ‘well‚ sometimes one has to give in‚ and so I had to rewrite the ending. I sat up all night. I drank three cups of coffee!’
The Councillor held up one hand and said:
‘Be careful‚ Senhor Ledesma‚ be very careful! Use such stimulants with great caution‚ oh yes‚ my dear fellow‚ with great caution.’
‘Well‚ they certainly did me no harm‚ Councillor‚’ said Ernestinho‚ smiling. ‘I wrote it in three hours! I’ve just been to see him with it now. I’ve got it here with me.’
‘Oh‚ read it‚ Senhor Ernesto‚ read it!’ Dona Felicidade exclaimed.
Yes‚ they all cried‚ read it‚ read it! Why didn’t he read it?
No‚ he mustn’t bore them with it! It was just a draft! Oh‚ all right‚ if they insisted! And‚ smiling radiantly in the ensuing silence‚ he unfolded a large sheet of lined blue paper.
‘I ask your forgiveness in advance. This is just a rough draft. I haven’t yet dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s.’ Then in a theatrical voice‚ he said: ‘Agatha! She’s the wife‚ this is the scene with the husband‚ who now knows everything …
AGATHA: (falling on her knees at Júlio’s feet)
Kill me‚ kill me‚ for pity’s sake‚ kill me. Rather death than have my heart torn apart fibre by fibre by your scornful words!
JÚLIO:
And did you not tear my heart apart too? Did you show any pity? No.You cut it into pieces. Dear God‚ and to think I thought you a pure woman‚ when you were‚ in fact…’
The door curtain was drawn aside. There was the faint tinkle of cups. It was Juliana‚ in a white apron‚ bringing the tea.
‘Oh‚ what a shame!’ exclaimed Luiza. ‘Read it after tea‚ yes‚ after tea.’
Ernestinho folded up the piece of paper and‚ casting a rancorous eye in Juliana’s direction‚ said:
‘No‚ it’s not worth it‚ cousin Luiza.’
‘Not at all. It was lovely‚’ said Dona Felicidade.
Juliana was placing on the table a plate of toast‚ biscuits from Oeira and cakes from Cocó’s.
‘A cup of weak tea for you‚ Councillor‚’ Luiza was saying. ‘Help yourself‚ Julião. Toast for Senhor Julião! More sugar? Who wants some? Some toast‚ Councillor?’
‘I am amply provided for‚ my dear lady‚’ he replied‚ bowing.
And then‚ turning to Ernestinho‚ he declared that he had found the dialogue magnificent.
But‚ they all burned to know‚ what more did the impresario want‚ now that he had his drawing room?
Ernestinho‚ standing up‚ very excited‚ a small cake clasped between his finger tips‚ explained:
‘What the impresario wants is for the husband to forgive her.’
There were various shocked cries:
‘Really! How extraordinary! But why?’
‘Exactly!’ exclaimed Ernestinho‚ with a shrug. ‘He says that audiences don’t like that kind of thing. That it’s not right for Portugal.’
‘To be perfectly honest‚ Senhor Ledesma‚’ said the Councillor‚ ‘audiences here are not great lovers of bloodthirsty scenes.’
‘But there is no blood‚ Councillor!’ protested Ernestinho‚ rising up onto the tips of his toes. ‘There is no blood! There’s just a gunshot. He shoots her in the back‚ Councillor.’
Luiza hissed at Dona Felicidade:
‘Have one of these cakes. They’re fresh today!’
Dona Felicidade replied in mournful tones:
‘No‚ my dear‚ really‚ I mustn’t!’
And she glumly patted her stomach.
Meanwhile‚ the Councillor was urging clemency on Ernestinho; he had placed one paternal hand on his shoulder and was saying in persuasive tones:
‘It brings a cheerful note to the play‚ Senhor Ledesma. The audience leaves with a light heart. Why not allow them that?’
‘Another cake‚ Councillor?’
‘I am quite replete‚ dear lady.’
And then he asked for Jorge’s views on the subject. Did he not think that good Ernesto should forgive the wife?
‘Me‚ Councillor? Certainly not. I’m all in favour of her dying. Oh‚ absolutely. I demand that you kill her‚ Ernestinho!’
Dona Felicidade said in kindly fashion:
‘Take no notice of him‚ Senhor Ledesma. He’s only joking. He’s got the heart of an angel.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong‚ Dona Felicidade‚’ said Jorge‚ standing before her. ‘I’m perfectly serious. I mean it. If she deceived her husband‚ then I think she should die. In the abyss‚ in the drawing room‚ in the street‚ wherever‚ but she deserves to be killed. I can’t allow a cousin of mine‚ someone from my own family‚ of my own blood‚ to take the namby- pamby decision to forgive such a thing. No‚ kill her! It’s a matter of family principle. Kill her and be done with it!’
‘Here’s a pencil‚ Senhor Ledesma‚’ cried Julião‚ holding out a pencil box.
The Councillor intervened gravely:
‘No‚’ he said‚ ‘I cannot believe that our Jorge is serious. He’s too educated to have ideas which are so…’
He hesitated‚ searching for the right adjective. Juliana appeared in front of him bearing a tray on which a silver monkey was crouched in comical fashion beneath a vast sunshade bristling with toothpicks. He took one‚ bowed and concluded:
‘… so uncivilised.’
‘Well‚ that’s where you’re wrong‚ Councillor‚ I do‚’ affirmed Jorge. ‘Those are my ideas. And if‚ instead of the final act of a play‚ this were a real-life case‚ if Ernesto came to tell me: “Do you know‚ I found my wife …”’
‘Jorge!’ everyone cried in disapproval.
‘All right‚ but just suppose he said that to me‚ I would respond in the same way. I give you my word of honour that I would respond in exactly the same way: “Kill her!”’
Everyone protested. They called him ‘Barbarian’‚ ‘Othello’‚ ‘Bluebeard’. He laughed and calmly filled his pipe.
Luiza carried on with her embroidery‚ and said nothing: the light from the oil lamp‚ dimmed by the lampshade‚ lent a warm golden light to her fair hair and slipped over her pale forehead as if over highly polished ivory.
‘What do you say to that?’ asked Dona Felicidade.
Luiza looked up‚ smiling‚ and shrugged.
And the Councillor said:
‘Dona Luiza is merely saying with pride what any true wife would say:
The impurities of the world do not touch me‚
They do not touch so much as the hem of my garment.’
‘Good evening‚’ said a deep voice from the door.
Everyone turned round.
‘Sebastião! Senhor Sebastião!’
It was Sebastião‚ the great Sebastião‚ strong-as-a-tree- Sebastião – Jorge’s best friend and inseparable companion ever since they attended Father Libório’s Latin classes at the Paulist school.
He was a short‚ thickset man‚ all dressed in black‚ carrying a soft‚ broad-brimmed hat in his hand. His fine‚ brown hair was thinning slightly at the temples. He had very white skin and a short‚ fair beard.
He went over and sat down next to Luiza‚ who asked:
‘So‚ and where have you come from?’
He had come straight from the circus. How he had laughed at the clowns. They had performed that trick with the pipe.
In the light‚ his face had an honest‚ straightforward‚ open expression; his small‚ very pale blue eyes were grave and gentle‚ and softened when he smiled; and his firm‚ smooth‚ red lips and shining teeth were evidence of healthy living and chaste habits. He spoke slowly and softly‚ as if afraid of revealing himself or of becoming wearisome. Juliana brought him his cup of tea‚ and Sebastião sat stirring the sugar in with a teaspoon‚ his eyes still laughing and a kindly smile on his lips:
‘It really is very funny that trick with the pipe‚ very funny indeed!’
He took a sip of tea and said to Jorge:
‘So‚ you rascal‚ you’re still off tomorrow‚ are you? And you‚ my dear friend‚ are you not the slightest bit tempted to go with him?’
Luiza smiled. She would love to! If only she could. But it was such an awkward journey. And she couldn’t possibly leave the house alone‚ one couldn’t necessarily trust the servants …
‘Of course‚ of course‚’ he said.
Then Jorge‚ who had opened the door to his study‚ called him:
‘Sebastião‚ would you mind coming in here a moment?’
Sebastião ambled heavily over‚ his broad back slightly bent; his ill-cut jacket was almost ecclesiastical in length.
They went into the study.
It was a small room with a tall display case‚ on top of which was perched an old‚ dusty plaster statue of an enraptured bacchante. By the window was a desk‚ on which there was a silver inkwell that had belonged to his grandfather; in one corner of the room‚ stood pristine white piles of government gazettes; above a dark morocco armchair‚ in a black frame‚ hung a large photograph of Jorge himself; and above that glinted two crossed swords. A door‚ on the far wall‚ covered by a heavy scarlet curtain opened onto the landing.
‘Do you know who was here this afternoon?’ Jorge said‚ lighting his pipe. ‘That slut Leopoldina! What do you think of that‚ eh?’
‘Did she actually come in?’ asked Sebastião quietly‚ drawing the curtain to behind him.
‘She came in‚ sat down and stayed! She did just as she wanted to! Leopoldina – the Ever-Open Door!’
And violently throwing down his match‚ he went on:
‘When I think of that hussy coming into my house. A woman with more lovers than she has chemises‚ who mingles with the hoi polloi‚ and who appeared at dances this year in fancy dress‚ accompanied by a tenor! The wife of that libertine who falsified a bill of exchange!’
And then almost in Sebastião’s ear:
‘A woman who slept with Mendonça‚ you know‚ the one with the corns! Yes‚ grimy‚ corn-ridden Mendonça!’
He made an angry gesture and exclaimed:
‘And she comes here‚ sits in my chairs‚ embraces my wife‚ breathes my air … I swear to you‚ Sebastião‚ if I ever catch her here‚’ eyes glinting‚ he groped for an appropriate punishment‚ ‘I’ll have her whipped!’
Sebastião said slowly:
‘And‚ of course‚ in this neighbourhood…’
‘Precisely!’ cried Jorge. ‘Everyone in the street knows who she is! They know all her lovers‚ they know where she goes. She’s “the Ever-Open Door”! Everyone knows her!’
‘Yes‚ it is a bad neighbourhood‚’ said Sebastião.
‘Terrible!’
But then he was used to the house‚ it was his home‚ he had decorated it himself‚ it was cheap …
‘Otherwise‚ I wouldn’t stay here another day!’
It was a ghastly street! Small‚ narrow‚ all crammed in together! A place where people were always on the look out‚ greedy for gossip! At the slightest noise‚ a cab trotting by‚ for example‚ a pair of prying eyes would appear at every window! And then‚ all down the street‚ there would immediately be a clamour of tongues‚ confabulations‚ opinions! So-and-so’s no better than she should be‚ so-and-so’s a drunk!
‘It’s a devilish place!’ said Sebastião.
‘Luiza is an absolute angel‚ poor love‚’ said Jorge‚ pacing up and down the room‚ ‘but she’s such a child about some things! She doesn’t see the bad in people. She’s very kind and easily led. Leopoldina’s a case in point; they were brought up together‚ they were friends‚ and she doesn’t have the courage now to send her packing. It’s shyness on her part‚ kindness. It’s understandable really. But the laws of life make certain demands…’
And after a pause:
‘That’s why‚ Sebastião‚ if‚ while I’m away‚ you find out that Leopoldina has been coming here‚ then I want you to talk to Luiza. Because that’s the way she is‚ she forgets‚ she doesn’t think. She needs someone to warn her‚ to say to her: “Now‚ stop right there‚ you can’t do that!” Then she immediately sees sense; she’s the first one to admit it. Come and see her‚ keep her company‚ play some music with her‚ and if you see Leopoldina appearing round the corner‚ all you have to say is: “My dear lady‚ be careful‚ this simply isn’t on!” Because‚ with someone else’s backing‚ she can stand firm. Otherwise‚ she’ll simply cave in and let her visit the house. It’s difficult for her‚ but she doesn’t have the courage to say to her: “I don’t want to see you‚ go away!” She doesn’t have it in her: her hands start to shake‚ her mouth goes all dry … She’s a woman‚ very much a woman. You won’t forget‚ will you‚ Sebastião?’
‘Of course I won’t.’
They heard the piano in the drawing room and Luiza’s voice rising up‚ clear and fresh‚ singing the ‘Mandolinata’:
Amici‚ la notte é bella‚
La luna va spontari …
‘She’ll be so alone‚ poor love‚’ said Jorge.
He took a few steps about the room‚ smoking‚ his head bowed:
‘Every well-organised couple‚ Sebastião‚ should have two children! Or at least one!’
Sebastião scratched his beard in silence‚ and Luiza’s voice‚ straining slightly on the high notes‚ sang:
Di cà‚ di là‚ per la città
Andiami a transnottari …
It was Jorge’s secret sorrow – not having a child! He so wanted one! Even when he was still single‚ on the eve of his marriage‚ he used to dream of the joy of having a child! He imagined such a child in all kinds of situations: crawling about with his chubby little red legs‚ his curly hair‚ fine as silk; or a strapping lad‚ eyes shining‚ arriving gaily back from school with his books and showing him the good marks his teachers had given him; or‚ even better‚ a young girl‚ all radiant and pink‚ in a white dress‚ her two plaits hanging loose‚ coming and resting her hands on his greying locks.
He had sometimes been assailed by a fear of dying without ever having experienced that culminating happiness.
Now‚ from the drawing room‚ came Ernestinho’s shrill‚ pontificating tones; then‚ at the piano‚ Luiza began singing the ‘Mandolinata’ again‚ with great jollity and brio.
The study door opened and Julião came in:
‘What are you two plotting in here? I’ve got to be off now‚ it’s getting late. See you when you get back‚ old man. I wish I could go with you to breathe some fresh air and see the countryside‚ but…’
He gave a bitter smile. ‘Addio! Addio!’
Jorge lit his way out to the landing and embraced him again. If he needed anything from the Alentejo …
Julião pulled on his hat.
‘Give me another cigar‚ as a farewell gift. No‚ give me two!’
‘Take the whole box! I only smoke a pipe when I’m travelling. Take the box‚ man!’
He wrapped it in a sheet of newspaper. Julião put it under his arm and as he was going down the stairs‚ he called back:
‘Mind you don’t catch a fever‚ and make sure you find that gold mine!’
Jorge and Sebastião went into the drawing room. Ernestinho was leaning on the piano‚ twirling the ends of his moustache‚ and Luiza had started playing a Strauss waltz‚ ‘The Blue Danube’.
Laughing and holding out his arms‚ Jorge said:
‘Would you care for a waltz‚ Dona Felicidade?’
She turned to him‚ smiling. Why not? As a young girl‚ she had been noted for her dancing. She described a waltz she had danced with Don Fernando‚ in the time of the Regency‚ in the Palácio das Necessidades. It was a charming waltz of the time: ‘The Pearl of Ophir’.
She was sitting next to the Councillor on the sofa. And as if returning to a topic closer to her heart‚ she went on‚ in a low‚ tender voice:
‘You know‚ you’re looking in excellent health. You have a very good colour.’
The Councillor was languidly rolling up his Indian silk handkerchief.
‘I always feel better in the warmer weather. And what about you‚ Dona Felicidade?’
‘Oh‚ I’m a new woman‚ Councillor. Excellent digestion and very little wind. Yes‚ I’m a new woman!’
‘I certainly hope so‚ dear lady‚ I certainly hope so‚’ said the Councillor‚ slowly rubbing his hands.
He coughed and was about to get up‚ but Dona Felicidade said:
‘I hope your interest in me is genuine.’
She blushed. The loose bodice of her black silk dress filled as her chest rose.
The Councillor lowered himself slowly back onto the sofa‚ and with his hands on his knees‚ he said:
‘You know you have in me a sincere friend‚ Dona Felicidade.’
She raised weary eyes to him‚ eyes that blazed with passion and pleaded for happiness:
‘As you have in me‚ Councillor!’
She gave a great sigh and covered her face with her fan.
The Councillor got abruptly to his feet‚ and with head held high‚ his hands behind his back‚ he went over to the piano and‚ bowing‚ asked Luiza:
‘Is that a song from the Tyrol‚ Dona Luiza?’
‘It’s a waltz by Strauss‚’ Ernestinho murmured in his ear‚ standing on tiptoe.
‘Oh‚ yes‚ he’s very famous‚ isn’t he? A great composer!’
He then took out his watch. It was time‚ he said‚ for him to go home and sort out some notes. He went solemnly over to Jorge.
‘Jorge‚ my dear good Jorge‚ farewell! Be careful in the Alentejo! The climate is injurious‚ the season treacherous.’
And he clasped Jorge to him‚ greatly moved.
Dona Felicidade had put on her black lace shawl.
‘Are you leaving already‚ Dona Felicidade?’ asked Luiza.
Dona Felicidade whispered in her ear:
‘Yes‚ my dear‚ I’ve been feeling so terribly bloated‚ I ate some green beans and they disagreed with me. And that man‚ that block of ice! Senhor Ernesto‚ you’re going my way‚ aren’t you?’
‘I’ll be with you in a flash‚ dear lady!’
He had donned his light alpaca overcoat and was inhaling deeply‚ cheeks sucked in‚ from an enormous cigarette holder‚ on which a Venus was writhing about on the back of a tame lion.
‘Goodbye‚ cousin Jorge‚ good health and plenty of money‚ eh? Goodbye. When Honour and Passion opens‚ I’ll be sure to send cousin Luiza tickets for a box at the theatre. Goodbye. Take care!’
They were about to leave‚ but the Councillor‚ having hurried back up the stairs‚ was at the door‚ the tails of his overcoat pushed back‚ one hand resting ostentatiously on the silver Moor’s head that formed the handle of his walking stick. He said gravely:
‘There was something I forgot to say‚ Jorge. Make a point‚ in both Évora and Beja‚ of visiting the civil governors! I say this because you owe it to them as the principal functionaries in the district‚ and they could be of great use to you in your scientific pilgrimages.’
Then bowing low:
‘Al rivedere‚ as they say in Italy.’
Sebastião had stayed behind. To get rid of the smell of tobacco‚ Luiza went and opened the windows; it was a hot‚ still‚ moonlit night.
Sebastião sat down at the piano and‚ with head bent‚ ran his fingers slowly over the keys.
He played admirably‚ with a very fine understanding of the music. Once‚ he had even composed a ‘meditation’‚ two waltzes and a ballad‚ but they were overwritten‚ derivative and with no real style. He used to say good-naturedly‚ tapping his head: ‘I can’t get anything out of the old grey matter‚ but my fingers‚ now that’s another thing entirely!’
He started playing one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. Jorge joined Luiza on the sofa.
‘The food for your journey is all ready!’ she said.
‘All I need are a few biscuits‚ my love. What I really want is a flask of cognac.’
‘And don’t forget to send me a telegram as soon as you arrive!’
‘Of course‚ I won’t forget.’
‘And I want you back here within a fortnight!’
‘Possibly…’
She looked put out.
‘Well‚ if you don’t come back‚ I’ll come and get you! It’s your choice.’
Then looking around:
‘I’m going to be so lonely!’
She bit her lip and stared at the carpet. Then‚ suddenly‚ in a still melancholy voice‚ she said:
‘Sebastião‚ play the malagueña‚ will you?’
Sebastião began playing the malagueña. She loved that warm‚ languid melody. It made her feel as if she were in Málaga‚ or perhaps Granada: she is walking through the orange groves‚ and a thousand tiny stars are shining; it is a hot night‚ and the air smells good; beneath a lamp suspended from a branch‚ a singer sitting on a three-legged Moorish stool is strumming a guitar; around him women wearing scarlet velvet bodices are clapping rhythmically; and in the distance sleeps the Andalusia of romances and operettas‚ warm and sensual‚ filled with white arms opening wide for love‚ romantic cloaks brushing past walls‚ dark alleyways where the candles in little shrines flicker and where a guitar thrums softly‚ and where nightwatchmen invoke Our Lady as they call out the hours …
‘That was wonderful‚ Sebastião. Gracias!’
He smiled‚ got to his feet‚ carefully closed the piano lid and went in search of his broad-brimmed hat.
‘I’ll be here tomorrow at seven‚ then‚ and I’ll go with you to Barreiro.’
Good old Sebastião!
They went out and leaned over the balcony to watch him leave. The night was filled by a lofty silence‚ a placid melancholy; the gas in the streetlamps seemed about to sputter out; the sharp‚ intense shadows in the street looked warm and soft; there were brilliant pools of light on the white façades of the houses‚ and the cobbles glittered like glass; a skylight in the distance glinted like a dull sheet of silver; nothing was moving; and instinctively they lifted their eyes up to the sky‚ looking for the grave‚ white moon.
‘What a lovely night!’
The street door closed‚ and from down below in the shadows‚ Sebastião said:
‘A nice night for a walk‚ eh?’
‘Lovely!’
They lingered lazily on the balcony‚ captivated by the quiet and by the moonlight. They started talking softly about the journey. Where would he be this time tomorrow? In Évora‚ in a room in some inn‚ pacing monotonously up and down its tiled floor. But he would soon be back; he was hoping to do a good deal with Paco‚ the Spaniard who owned the mines at Portel‚ perhaps bring back a few hundred mil réis‚ and then they would have the whole sweet month of September; they could go north‚ visit Buçaco‚ climb the hills‚ drink cool water from rocky streams‚ beneath the dense‚ damp leaves of trees; they could go to Espinho and sit on the beach‚ in the good‚ nitrogen-rich air‚ watching the shimmering‚ metallic blue sea‚ the summer sea‚ with a few steamships heading south towards the slender‚ distant horizon. Leaning together‚ shoulders touching‚ they made other plans; a delicious sense of abundant happiness filled them. And Jorge said:
‘You wouldn’t be so lonely if we had a baby!’
She sighed. She too so wanted a baby! He would be called Carlos Eduardo. And she could see him asleep in his crib‚ or lying naked in her lap‚ grasping his toes with his little hand‚ sucking at her rosy nipple … A tremor of infinite delight ran through her body. She put her arm around Jorge’s waist. One day‚ yes‚ one day‚ they would have a child! And she did not for a moment imagine her son a grown man or Jorge old: she saw them both exactly the same: one eternally young‚ strong‚ loving; the other always suckling at her breast‚ or crawling and babbling‚ fair and pink. And life seemed to her then unending and uniformly sweet‚ imbued with the same loving tenderness‚ as warm‚ calm and bright as the night that wrapped around them.
‘What time would you like me to wake you‚ madam?’ said Juliana’s harsh voice.
Luiza turned round:
‘I told you just now‚ at seven o’clock.’
They closed the window. A white moth was fluttering around the candles. It was a good omen.
Jorge took her in his arms.
‘So you’re going to be left without your little husband‚ eh?’ he said sadly.
She leaned back against his entwining arms and gazed at him with eyes that grew misty and dark‚ then‚ putting her arms around his neck in one slow‚ harmonious‚ solemn gesture‚ she placed a long‚ grave kiss upon his lips. Her breast rose with a slight sob.
‘Oh‚ Jorge‚ my love!’ she murmured.