About three o’clock one afternoon‚ Juliana went into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair‚ exhausted. She felt so weak she could barely stand. She had been cleaning the drawing room since two o’clock! It was filthy! That dandified fellow who had visited the previous day had dropped ash on the tables. And‚ of course‚ she was the one who had to clear it up. And the heat! It was sweltering!
‘Is the soup ready yet?’ she said‚ softening her voice. ‘Pour me some out‚ will you‚ Senhora Joana?’
‘You look different today‚’ said the cook.
‘Oh‚ I feel a new woman‚ Senhora Joana! But you know I didn’t sleep a wink all night. When I finally managed to drop off‚ it was getting light!’
‘Same here!’ said Joana‚ and she had had such strange dreams. Heavens! A fiery ghost was striding about over her body and stamping on her stomach like someone treading grapes!
‘Indigestion‚’ remarked Juliana gravely‚ then said again: ‘Yes‚ I feel a new woman. I haven’t felt so well in months!’
She was smiling‚ showing her yellow teeth. The delicious smell emanating from the thick vegetable soup that Joana was pouring into the white bowl filled Juliana with greedy joy. She stretched out her legs and leaned back‚ revelling in the bright‚ afternoon warmth pouring in through the two open windows.
The sun had left the balcony‚ and on the stone slabs‚ a few pathetic plants drew in their parched leaves; on a table in the corner‚ in an old‚ potbellied saucepan‚ was the brilliant green of a well-watered parsley plant; the cat was asleep on a large mat; floorcloths were drying on the line; and beyond‚ stretched the blue sky‚ glowing like some incandescent metal; the trees in the gardens glittered in the sun; the tawny roofs and the tall weeds growing on them baked in the heat; and here and there‚ patches of whitewashed walls gave off a harsh‚ dazzling light.
‘It’s delicious‚ Senhora Joana‚ absolutely delicious!’ said Juliana‚ slowly‚ greedily stirring the soup. The cook‚ standing up‚ arms folded over her ample bosom‚ said proudly:
‘We aim to please.’
‘It’s perfect.’
They smiled‚ enjoying the camaraderie and the kind words. And the doorbell‚ which had already rung once‚ rang again discreetly.
Juliana did not move. Gusts of warm air blew in; there was the sound of a saucepan boiling on the hob and‚ outside‚ the incessant hammering from the forge; occasionally the sad cooing of the two doves who lived in a wicker cage on the balcony lent a sudden sweetness to the scorching afternoon.
The bell rang again‚ this time impatiently.
‘Try knocking with your head‚ you idiot!’ said Juliana.
They laughed. Joana went over and sat by the window‚ in a low chair; she stretched out her large‚ slippered feet and scratched her armpits in a slow‚ leisurely fashion.
The bell rang violently this time.
‘Oh‚ go away!’ growled Juliana calmly.
But Luiza’s angry voice rose up from below:
‘Juliana!’
‘Honestly‚ what a place! A person can’t even eat her food in peace!’
‘Juliana!’ called Luiza.
The cook turned to her‚ worried now.
‘The mistress is getting annoyed‚ Senhora Juliana.’
‘Oh‚ devil take the creature.’
She wiped her greasy lips on her apron and stormed downstairs.
‘Didn’t you hear‚ woman? They’ve been ringing for ages!’
Juliana opened wide‚ astonished eyes: Luiza was wearing her new brown foulard peignoir‚ with yellow polka dots.
‘Something’s going on here‚ something big!’ thought Juliana as she walked down the corridor.
The bell was still clattering. And on the landing‚ dressed in a light-coloured suit‚ with a rose in his buttonhole and a package under his arm‚ was ‘the man from the mines’!
‘It’s that man again‚ the one who came yesterday‚’ she told Luiza in amazed tones.
‘Tell him to come in.’
‘Well!’ Juliana thought.
She ran upstairs to the kitchen and announced from the door‚ her voice shrill with excitement:
‘It’s the dandified fellow who was here yesterday. He’s here again! He’s brought a package with him! What do you think‚ Senhora Joana‚ what do you think?’
‘A visitor‚ I suppose‚’ said the cook.
Juliana gave a wry laugh. She sat down and hurriedly finished her soup.
Joana‚ oblivious‚ walked about the kitchen‚ singing; outside‚ the doves kept up their faint‚ languorous cooing.
‘There’s something fishy going on here‚’ said Juliana.
She sat for a moment‚ running her tongue over her teeth‚ staring into space‚ thinking. She smoothed her apron and went down to Luiza’s bedroom: her probing eye immediately spotted the pantry keys abandoned on the dressing table; she could go upstairs‚ have a drink of good wine and eat some quince jelly … but she was gripped by an urgent curiosity and so‚ instead‚ she tiptoed over to the drawing- room door where she crouched and listened. The door curtain was drawn inside: she could hear only the man’s deep‚ jovial voice. She walked round via the corridor to the other door‚ next to the stairs; she put her eye to the keyhole‚ then pressed her ear to the crack. There too the door curtain was drawn.
‘They’ve sealed themselves in‚ the devils!’
She thought she could hear a chair being dragged across the floor‚ then a window being closed. Her eyes glittered. There was a burst of laughter from Luiza‚ followed by a silence‚ then the voices began talking again in a calm‚ continuous tone. Suddenly‚ the man spoke more loudly‚ and amongst the words he said‚ doubtless as he paced about‚ Juliana clearly heard: ‘No‚ Luiza‚ it was you!’
‘The hussy!’
The bell beside her rang timidly‚ startling her. She went to open the front door. It was Sebastião‚ his face red from the heat‚ his boots covered in dust.
‘Is your mistress in?’ he asked‚ mopping the sweat from his brow.
‘She’s got a visitor‚ Senhor Sebastião!’
And closing the door behind her‚ she said in a low voice:
‘A young man who was here yesterday‚ a real dandy! Shall I tell her you’re here?’
‘No‚ no‚ it’s all right. Goodbye!’
He went discreetly back down the stairs. Juliana immediately resumed her post at the door‚ her ear pressed against the wood‚ her hands behind her back: but the conversation was just a vague‚ tranquil murmur now‚ with no loud outbursts. She went upstairs to the kitchen.
‘He calls her “Luiza”!’ she exclaimed. ‘He calls her “Luiza”‚ Senhora Joana!’ And she added excitedly:
‘Goodness‚ things are moving fast! That’s what I like to see!’
The man left at five o’clock. As soon as Juliana heard the front door open‚ she ran to see. There was Luiza on the landing‚ leaning over the banister‚ calling down‚ in very friendly tones:
‘All right‚ I’ll be there. Goodbye.’
Juliana was gripped then by a curiosity that burned her like a fever. All afternoon – in the dining room and in the bedroom – she kept shooting Luiza searching sideways glances. But Luiza‚ wearing an old linen robe now‚ seemed calm and indifferent.
‘She’s a sly one!’
Such nonchalance provoked Juliana’s need for intrigue.
‘I’ll catch you out yet‚ you shameless creature!’ she thought.
It seemed to her that Luiza had faint shadows under her eyes! She studied the way she stood‚ the way she spoke. She noticed that she asked for a second helping of the roast and Juliana immediately thought: ‘It’s given her an appetite!’
And when‚ after supper‚ Luiza sat down in the wing chair‚ looking tired‚ Juliana said to herself: ‘She’s exhausted!’
That evening‚ Luiza‚ who never drank coffee‚ asked for ‘half a cup‚ but strong‚ very strong’.
‘She wants coffee!’ she told the cook‚ all excited. ‘No stinting either. She wants it strong! Who would think it!’
She was furious.
‘They’re all the same. Bitches on heat‚ the lot of them!’
The next day was Sunday. Early in the morning‚ as Juliana was going out to mass‚ Luiza called to her from the bedroom door and gave her a letter to take to Dona Felicidade. Usually she sent a verbal message‚ and Juliana’s curiosity was immediately aroused by that envelope bearing Luiza’s own seal‚ a gothic L surrounded by a garland of roses.
‘Do you need an answer?’
‘I do.’
When Juliana returned at ten o’clock with a note from Dona Felicidade‚ Luiza asked if it was still very hot‚ if there was a lot of dust about. On the table was a dark straw hat‚ which she was decorating with two musk roses.
There was a bit of a breeze‚ but it would probably die down by the evening. And she thought: ‘So she’s going for a stroll‚ is she? She’s going to meet that man.’
But during the day‚ Luiza‚ still in her robe‚ stayed in her bedroom or in the drawing room‚ and either lounged for a while on the chaise longue‚ reading‚ or distractedly played fragments of waltzes on the piano. She dined at four o’clock. The cook went out‚ and Juliana settled down to spend her afternoon at the dining-room window. She was wearing her new dress‚ its petticoats stiff with starch‚ and her best hairpiece‚ and she solemnly rested her elbows on a handkerchief spread out on the balcony balustrade. Opposite‚ the birds were chirruping in the fig tree. On either side of the fence surrounding the empty plot crouched the dark roofs of the houses in the two narrow streets that ran parallel: they were poor houses inhabited by women with oiled hair who sat at their windows in the evenings‚ wearing a peignoir or a loose blouse‚ knitting‚ talking to men‚ or singing to themselves in sad‚ bored voices. The leafy gardens and the white walls on the other side of the plot gave the place a sleepy‚ village air. Almost no one walked past. There was a weary silence; very occasionally‚ the distant sound of a hurdy-gurdy‚ playing tunes from Norma or Lucia di Lammermoor‚ lent a melancholy note to the evening. And Juliana sat on‚ unmoving‚ until the hot sounds of the afternoon were beginning to fade and the bats were beginning to fly.
At about eight o’clock‚ she went into Luiza’s room and was astonished to find her dressed entirely in black and with her hat on! She had lit the lamps on the wall and the candles on her dressing table‚ and she was sitting on the edge of the chaise longue‚ slowly drawing on her gloves‚ her eyes bright‚ a very serious look on her soft‚ lightly powdered face.
‘Has the breeze died down?’ she asked.
‘Oh‚ yes‚ it’s a lovely night‚ madam.’
Shortly before nine o’clock‚ a carriage stopped at the door. It contained a very hot Dona Felicidade. She had been positively suffocating all day! And there wasn’t a breath of air tonight. She had even ordered them to find her an open carriage‚ because‚ goodness‚ one would just die inside a coupé!
Juliana bustled about the room putting things in their place‚ consumed by curiosity. Where were they going? Dona Felicidade‚ amply seated‚ still with her hat on‚ was chattering away about a terrible bout of indigestion she had had the night before because of some beans; about the cook who had tried to ‘diddle’ her out of four vinténs; about a visit she had received from the Countess de Arruela …
Finally‚ Luiza lowered her white veil and said:
‘Come along‚ my dear. It’s getting late.’
A furious Juliana lit the way. The idea of it‚ two women going out alone in an open carriage! And the fuss that would be made if a maidservant spent so much as half an hour in the street! The great hussies!
She went into the kitchen to vent her spleen on Joana. But the girl was dozing‚ sprawled in a chair.
She had been to the cemetery of Alto de São João with her Pedro. And they had spent the whole afternoon together there‚ admiring the tombs‚ clumsily reading out the epitaphs‚ exchanging loving kisses in the shady nooks afforded by the weeping willows‚ and enjoying the breeze from the cypresses and the lawns of the dead. They had returned by way of Serena’s house and stopped for a sip of wine at Espregeuira’s … A full afternoon! And she was worn out from the midday sun‚ from the dust‚ from admiring so many wealthy tombs‚ from being with her man and from that drop of wine.
She was just about ready to fall into bed!
‘Honestly‚ Senhora Joana‚ you’re becoming a real sleepyhead! Heavens‚ it doesn’t take much to wear you out!’
She went down to Luiza’s room‚ put out the lights‚ opened the windows‚ and dragged the armchair over to the balcony; then she folded her arms‚ made herself comfortable and prepared to spend the rest of the evening there.
The tobacconist’s had not yet closed‚ and the faint light from the shop‚ as dreary as its owner‚ fell sadly onto the cobbles in the street; the windows nearby were open; some‚ dimly lit‚ revealed melancholy gatherings; in others‚ full of static shapes‚ there would be the occasional glow of a cigarette end; now and then someone coughed; and the baker’s boy‚ in the hot silence of the night‚ strummed softly on his guitar.
Juliana was wearing a dress of pale cotton; two men standing at the door of the tobacconist’s were laughing and kept looking up at the window‚ at that white‚ female figure. Juliana was thrilled. They doubtless took her for her mistress‚ for the engineer’s wife; they made eyes at her‚ made suggestive remarks … One of the men was wearing white trousers and a tall hat‚ both were dandies. And Juliana‚ her feet outstretched‚ her arms folded‚ her head on one side‚ revelled in that attention.
Heavy footsteps came up the street and stopped at the door; the bell jingled faintly.
‘Who is it?’ she called impatiently.
‘Is your mistress there?’ said Sebastião’s deep voice.
‘She’s gone out with Dona Felicidade‚ in a carriage.’
‘Ah!’ he said.
And added:
‘It’s a lovely night!’
‘Wonderful‚ Senhor Sebastião‚ wonderful!’ she exclaimed loudly.
And when she saw him heading off down the street‚ she called after him in an affected way‚ as if they were close friends and she were the mistress‚ and all the while making eyes at the two men: ‘Give my regards to Tia Joana! Don’t forget‚ now!’
At that hour‚ Dona Felicidade and Luiza were just arriving at the Passeio Público.
A charity event was being held that night; from outside‚ one could already hear the slow‚ monotonous hubbub of voices and see a high cloud of yellowish‚ luminous dust.
They went in. By the pool‚ they met Bazilio. Feigning great surprise‚ he exclaimed:
‘Well‚ this is a happy coincidence!’
Luiza blushed and introduced him to Dona Felicidade.
The excellent lady was all smiles. She remembered him‚ but if they hadn’t been introduced‚ she would never have recognised him! How he had changed!
‘The effects of hard work‚ madam‚’ said Bazilio‚ bowing.
And then he added‚ laughing and striking the stone edge of the pool with his stick:
‘It’s old age‚ really‚ old age!’
The shifting reflections from the gaslights penetrated down into the depths of the dark‚ murky water. In the still air‚ the leaves around them were motionless and of a livid‚ artificial green. Between the long‚ parallel ranks of mean little trees‚ interspersed with gaslights‚ a dark‚ compact crush of people were crammed together on the dusty macadam path; and above the deep hum of conversation‚ the metallic notes of the music sent the lively rhythms of a waltz floating off through the heavy air.
They had stopped to talk.
Wasn’t it hot? But such a lovely evening! Not a breath of wind! And what a crowd!
And they looked at the people arriving: young men with carefully curled hair and wearing mauve trousers‚ ceremoniously smoking their Sunday cigars; an officer cadet with corseted waist and padded chest; two young women with ringlets and a swaying gait that revealed the line of their shoulder blades beneath the fabric of their hastily made dresses; a sallow-skinned cleric with a languid air‚ a cigarette in his mouth and wearing tinted glasses; a Spanish woman with vast starched white petticoats rustling through the dust; sad Xavier‚ the poet; a nobleman with a double-breasted overcoat and a stout walking stick‚ hat pushed back on his head and a vinous look in his eyes; and Bazilio roared with laughter at the sight of two small children being led along by their proud‚ joyful father – the foolish‚ dazed creatures were dressed in pale blue‚ with scarlet sashes‚ lancer’s helmets and Hungarian-style boots.
A tall man passed close by them and‚ turning‚ looked Luiza up and down with large‚ languorous‚ silver-grey eyes: he had a long‚ pointed goatee beard; he was wearing a waistcoat cut low to reveal his fine shirt front‚ and he brandished a huge cigarette holder in the shape of a zouave.
Luiza wanted to sit down.
A lad in a filthy smock ran off to find them some chairs‚ and they sat down near a dour‚ taciturn family group.
‘What did you do today‚ Bazilio?’ asked Luiza.
He had been to see a bullfight.
‘And how was it? Was it fun?’
‘No‚ very insipid stuff. If it hadn’t been for Peixinho falling over‚ one would have died of boredom. Useless bulls‚ terrible horsemen‚ a complete waste of time. Now Spain‚ that’s the place for bullfighting!’
Dona Felicidade protested‚ horrified. She had been to a bullfight in Badajoz‚ when she was visiting her Aunt Francisca in Elvas‚ and she had almost fainted. The blood‚ the poor disembowelled horses! Ugh! It was so cruel!
Bazilio said with a smile:
‘Whatever would you do if you saw a cockfight‚ madam?’
Dona Felicidade had heard of such things‚ but she found all such entertainments both barbarous and irreligious.
Then‚ recollecting a pleasure that put a smile on her plump face‚ she said:
‘In my opinion‚ there is nothing like a good night at the theatre! Nothing!’
‘But the standard of acting here is appalling!’ replied Bazilio desolately. ‘Absolutely awful‚ my dear lady!’
Dona Felicidade did not respond; she had half raised herself up from her chair‚ waving desperately‚ her eyes shining.
‘Gone‚’ she said disconsolately.
‘Who was it? The Councillor?’ asked Luiza.
‘No‚ it was the Countess de Alviela. She didn’t see me. She often goes to the convent church of the Incarnation. I’m a close acquaintance of hers. She’s an absolute angel. She didn’t see me‚ though. She’s with her father-in-law.’
Bazilio did not take his eyes off Luiza. Beneath her white veil‚ in the false glow of the gaslights‚ in the dusty air‚ her face was a smooth‚ white shape to which her eyes‚ made darker by the night‚ lent passion; her blonde curls made her head appear smaller and gave her a sweet‚ childish grace; and her pearl-grey gloves against the black of her dress emphasised the elegant shape of her hands‚ which lay in her lap holding her fan‚ her slender wrists adorned by a ruff of soft white lace.
‘And what did you do today?’ Bazilio asked.
She had been mortally bored. She had spent the whole day reading.
He had spent the morning reading too‚ a book entitled Woman of Fire by Belot. Had she read it?
‘No‚ what is it?’
‘It’s a novel‚ just out.’
Then he added‚ smiling:
‘It’s perhaps a bit risqué for you. I wouldn’t really recommend it!’
Dona Felicidade was reading Rocambole. So many people had told her how wonderful it was! But it was so convoluted! She got lost‚ she forgot the plot … In fact‚ she was going to abandon it altogether‚ having noticed that reading seemed to exacerbate her indigestion.
‘Do you suffer much from indigestion?’ asked Bazilio out of polite interest.
Dona Felicidade launched into an account of her dyspepsia. Bazilio recommended using ice. And he congratulated her‚ because‚ lately‚ illnesses of the stomach had become positively chic. He asked after hers and requested more details.
Dona Felicidade provided them in abundance‚ and‚ as she spoke‚ her growing fondness for Bazilio was evident in her voice and eyes. She would definitely try ice!
‘With wine‚ I assume?’
‘With wine‚ dear lady!’
‘It’s certainly worth a try‚’ exclaimed Dona Felicidade‚ tapping Luiza’s arm with her fan‚ suddenly filled with hope.
Luiza smiled and was about to respond‚ when she saw the pale man with the long goatee staring obstinately at her again with his languorous eyes. She turned away‚ annoyed. The man moved off‚ tugging at his beard.
She felt strangely indolent; the monotonous murmur and bustle of people‚ the hot night‚ the crowds‚ the sense of being surrounded by greenery‚ all filled her homely self with a pleasant torpor; an inert sense of well-being wrapped her in the emollient sweetness of a warm bath. She gazed around her with a vague smile on her lips‚ her eyes languid; she felt almost too lazy to move her hands‚ to open her fan.
Bazilio noticed her silence. Was she sleepy?
Dona Felicidade smiled slyly.
‘She hasn’t got her husband with her‚ you see! She’s been in a bad mood ever since he left.’
Glancing instinctively at Bazilio‚ Luiza retorted:
‘What nonsense! I’ve actually been feeling rather cheerful these last few days!’
But Dona Felicidade insisted:
‘Don’t you believe her! That little heart of hers is in the Alentejo!’
Luiza said tartly:
‘Well‚ you can hardly expect me to go skipping through the park‚ guffawing.’
‘Now‚ now‚ don’t get angry!’ exclaimed Dona Felicidade. And to Bazilio: ‘What a temper‚ eh?’
Bazilio burst out laughing.
‘Cousin Luiza always used to have a sharp tongue on her. Nowadays‚ I don’t know…’
Dona Felicidade was quick to say:
‘Oh‚ she’s a lamb‚ poor thing‚ an absolute lamb. No‚ really.’
And she enfolded Luiza in a maternal gaze.
The taciturn family rose noiselessly to their feet at this point‚ and‚ with the little girls first and the parents following‚ they moved off in dreary‚ sullen silence.
Bazilio immediately moved to the chair next to Luiza and‚ when Dona Felicidade was looking in the other direction‚ said softly:
‘I nearly came to see you this morning.’
She said in a normal‚ almost indifferent tone of voice:
‘Why didn’t you‚ then? We could have played some music together. It was wrong of you not to come. You should have.’
Dona Felicidade asked what time it was. She was beginning to grow bored. She had hoped to see the Councillor; indeed‚ in order to look her best‚ she had sacrificed herself for his sake and worn her corset; Acácio had not appeared‚ and she was beginning to be troubled by wind; and the disappointment caused by his absence was only exacerbating her digestive torments. Sitting limply in her chair‚ she watched as the crowd moved ceaselessly about in a fog of dust.
Then with a great blare of brass‚ the music on the bandstand suddenly struck up loudly‚ the compelling opening notes of the march from Faust. This revived her. It was a medley of music from the opera‚ and there was no music she enjoyed more. Would Senhor Bazilio be there for the opening night at the Teatro de São Carlos?
Turning to Luiza‚ Bazilio said meaningfully:
‘I don’t know‚ madam‚ that depends…’
Luiza looked at him and said nothing. The crowds were growing. Only the shy‚ the bereaved and those with threadbare clothes strolled along the cooler‚ more spacious paths off to the side‚ beneath the shadows of the trees. The whole Sunday bourgeoisie had crammed themselves into the main avenue‚ along the corridor formed by the closed ranks of chairs: and there they moved along‚ wedged together‚ with the thick slowness of a barely molten mass‚ dragging their feet‚ scuffing the macadam surface‚ looking crumpled and plebeian‚ throats dry‚ arms hanging loose by their sides‚ barely speaking. They came and went incessantly‚ shuffling gracelessly along‚ accompanied by a deep murmur of voices‚ devoid of joy and bonhomie‚ caught up in the kind of passive excitement favoured by indolent races; in the midst of that abundance of light and the gaiety of the music‚ there was an air of tedium‚ penetrating as mist; a fine dust enfolded the figures‚ reducing them all to the same neutral tones; and in the most brightly lit areas‚ on the faces that passed beneath the street lamps‚ one saw the discontent of the weary and the monotonous gloom of Sundays.
Opposite‚ the façades of the houses in Rua Occidental were bathed in the reflected glow from the Passeio; a few windows were open; the dark curtains stood out against the bright‚ lamp-lit interiors. Luiza felt a kind of nostalgia for other summer nights and for intimate evenings. But where? She could not remember. Her eyes were drawn back to the crowd‚ and she found herself face to face again with the man with the long goatee beard‚ who was staring at her moodily. Beneath her veil‚ she felt the dust burning her eyes; all around her‚ people were yawning.
Dona Felicidade proposed that they should go for a stroll. They got up and slowly pushed their way through the crowd; the rows of chairs were packed tightly together‚ and an infinity of bored faces‚ bathed by the gaslight in the same uniformly yellowish tone‚ stared fixedly ahead‚ plunged in torpid gloom. The sight irritated Bazilio‚ and since it was difficult even to walk‚ he suggested ‘leaving the wretched place’.
They left. While he went off to buy some tickets‚ Dona Felicidade‚ collapsing onto a bench beneath the shade of a weeping willow‚ cried plaintively:
‘Oh‚ my dear‚ I’m almost bursting!’
She stroked her stomach‚ her face suddenly older.
‘And then there’s the Councillor! What bad luck! The one day when I come to the Passeio Público…’
She sighed‚ fanning herself. Then with her kindly smile‚ she said:
‘Your cousin’s awfully nice. Such lovely manners. A real gentleman. One can always tell‚ my dear.’
As soon as they had gone out through the gates‚ she declared herself greatly fatigued. It would be best to get a carriage.
Bazilio thought it preferable to walk as far as Largo do Loreto. It was such a pleasant evening! And the walk would do Dona Felicidade good!
Outside the Café Martinho‚ he suggested they stop and have a sorbet; but Dona Felicidade was afraid of the effects of the cold on her stomach‚ and Luiza felt too embarrassed. Through the open doors of the café could be seen much- thumbed newspapers lying on tabletops‚ and the odd individual‚ in white trousers‚ placidly eating a strawberry ice.
People were walking about under the trees in the Rossio; on the benches‚ motionless figures appeared to be sleeping; here and there a lighted cigarette glowed; men walked by‚ waistcoat undone‚ hat in hand‚ fanning themselves; and on every corner someone was selling cool water ‘from the Arsenal’; open carriages drove slowly round the square. The sky hung heavy‚ and in the dark night‚ the column bearing the statue of Dom Pedro had the dull pallor of a vast‚ extinguished candle.
At Luiza’s side‚ Bazilio was silent. ‘What a ghastly city‚’ he was thinking. ‘What a grim place!’ And he thought of Paris in the summer‚ and how he used to ride slowly up the Champs- Elysées in his phaeton: there‚ hundreds of victorias trot discreetly and blithely up and down; and the carriage lamps fill the whole avenue with a jolly to-and-fro of little points of light; the charming white figures of women recline on sprung‚ cushioned seats; the air round about has a velvety softness‚ and the chestnut trees give off a subtle perfume. On either side‚ between the trees‚ one is regaled with the brash lights of cafés- concerts‚ full of the happy buzz of multitudes and the musical verve of orchestras; the restaurants glow; there is a sense of loving‚ happy life being intensely lived; and beyond‚ from behind the silk blinds of mansion windows comes the discreet‚ veiled light of opulent lives. Ah‚ if only he was there now! But as he passed beneath the street lamps‚ he glanced sideways at Luiza: beneath her white veil‚ her delicate profile looked so sweet; her dress neatly highlighted the curve of her breast; and there was a lassitude in her gait that gave a languid‚ alluring sway to her hips.
An idea struck him and he began to say: ‘What a shame there is nowhere in the whole of Lisbon where one can dine on partridge washed down by a bottle of champagne frappée!’
Luiza did not reply. She merely thought: ‘How delicious!’ But Dona Felicidade exclaimed:
‘Partridge at this hour!’
‘Yes‚ partridge or something else.’
‘Heavens! Whatever it was‚ I would simply explode!’
They walked up Rua Nova do Carmo. The street lamps gave off a dim light; the tall‚ darkened houses pressed in on either side‚ making the shadows still darker; and the heavily armed night patrol walked slowly and silently down the street‚ sinister and subtle.
In the Chiado‚ a boy in a blue beret pursued them‚ trying to sell them lottery tickets; his shrill‚ mournful voice promised them a fortune‚ many contos de réis. Dona Felicidade stopped‚ almost tempted … But at that point‚ the two ladies were much alarmed by the sight of a band of drunken youths coming unsteadily down the hill‚ their hats pushed back on their heads‚ and talking loudly. Luiza moved closer to Bazilio‚ Dona Felicidade anxiously grabbed his arm and wanted to find a carriage immediately; and all the way to Largo do Loreto‚ without once letting go of Bazilio’s arm‚ she was anxiously explaining her great fear of drunks and retailing various violent incidents and knifings. From out of the line of old carriages beside the railings in Praça de Camões‚ an excitable coachman driving an open caleche suddenly emerged‚ standing up on the seat‚ hurriedly catching up the reins‚ wildly whipping the horses‚ and shouting:
‘Here‚ sir‚ here!’
Bazilio and the two ladies stood for a moment talking. A man passed by and looked at them‚ and Luiza‚ in despair‚ recognised the ogling eyes of the man with the goatee beard.
They got into the caleche. Luiza turned round once to see Bazilio standing motionless in the square‚ his hat in his hand; then she settled back in her seat‚ placed her small feet on the seat opposite and‚ lulled by the easy trotting of the horses‚ she watched in silence as they passed the dark houses in Rua de São Roque‚ the trees in São Pedro de Alcântara‚ the narrow façades of Rua do Moinho do Vento‚ the sleeping gardens in Rua da Patriarcal. The soft‚ warm night was utterly still: and though she did not quite know why‚ she would have liked to have driven endlessly on like this along the streets‚ past railings revealing the leafy grounds of splendid houses‚ with no aim‚ no worries‚ towards some happy thing she could not quite discern! A group of young men outside the Politécnica were playing a fado‚ and the sound wafted into her soul like a soft breeze‚ gently stirring up all kinds of long-lost feelings; she sighed softly.
‘A little sigh winging its way to the Alentejo‚’ said Dona Felicidade‚ patting her arm.
Luiza felt the blood rush to her face. The clocks were chiming eleven when she went into the house.
Juliana came to light her way. The tea was ready whenever madam wished.
Luiza went upstairs shortly afterwards wearing a loose‚ white robe‚ and sat down wearily in the wing chair; she felt sleepy‚ her head kept nodding‚ her eyes closing … And Juliana was taking so long with that tea. She called her. Where was she? Honestly!
Juliana had tiptoed downstairs to Luiza’s room. And picking up the dress and the starched petticoats that Luiza had removed and thrown down on the chaise longue‚ she smoothed‚ scrutinised‚ examined them‚ and‚ with a particular idea in mind‚ she even sniffed them! There was a vague smell of warm‚ freshly washed skin‚ with just a hint of sweat and eau-de-cologne. When she heard her mistress’s impatient calls‚ she raced upstairs to her. She had just gone downstairs to tidy up a little. Was it her tea she wanted? It was ready now.
And bringing in the toast‚ she said:
‘Senhor Sebastião called‚ it must have been about nine o’clock.’
‘What did you tell him?
‘That madam had gone out with Senhora Dona Felicidade. I couldn’t tell him where because I didn’t know.’
And she added:
‘Senhor Sebastião stayed here chatting to me. He was chatting to me for more than half an hour!’
The following morning‚ Luiza received a bouquet of magnificent‚ dark magenta roses from Sebastião. He grew them on his estate in Almada‚ and they were known as ‘Dom Sebastião’s roses’. She ordered them to be put in vases in the drawing room‚ and since‚ although the day was overcast‚ it was still suffocatingly hot‚ she said to Juliana:
‘Open the windows‚ will you?’
‘Aha‚’ thought Juliana‚ ‘so Mr Slyboots is coming.’
‘Mr Slyboots’ duly arrived at three o’clock. Luiza was in the drawing room‚ playing the piano.
‘It’s that man again‚’ said Juliana.
Luiza turned round‚ blushing‚ shocked by the expression.
‘Oh‚ you mean my cousin Bazilio. Ask him to come in.’
And she called after her:
‘And if Senhor Sebastião comes or anyone else‚ be sure to send them in.’
So it was her cousin! The ‘man’ and his visits suddenly lost all their piquant interest. Her full-blown‚ fully inflated malice‚ crumpled like a sail when the wind drops. That was that‚ then. It was her cousin.
She went slowly up to the kitchen‚ a disappointed woman.
‘Well‚ the big news‚ Senhora Joana‚ is that the fop turns out to be her cousin. She says it’s her cousin Bazilio.’
And with a giggle‚ she added:
‘Bazilio.Yes‚ it turns out that Bazilio is her cousin! Who’d have thought it!’
‘Well‚ he was bound to be a relative of hers‚ wasn’t he?’ remarked Joana.
Juliana did not respond. She wanted to know if the iron was ready because she had a mound of ironing to do. And she sat down at the window‚ waiting. The low‚ grey sky was heavy with electricity; an occasional sharp‚ sudden breeze sent a tremor through the trees in the gardens.
‘Her cousin‚ huh!’ she was thinking. ‘And of course he just happens to visit when her husband’s away. And she’s all head- in-the-clouds when he leaves‚ and she’s always demanding fresh underwear‚ here‚ there and everywhere‚ and then there’s a new peignoir and a carriage to go out in‚ and the sighing and those dark shadows under her eyes! The slut! And it’s all in the family!’
Her eyes glinted. She no longer felt quite so disappointed. There was still much to see and listen out for. Was the iron ready?
But the doorbell rang downstairs.
‘Good grief‚ it never stops around here. And we’re expected to do everything!’
She went downstairs and‚ seeing Julião standing there with a book under his arm‚ she exclaimed:
‘Come in‚ Senhor Julião! Madam is with her cousin at the moment‚ but she said to show anyone else who called straight in!’
She flung open the drawing room door‚ without warning.
‘Senhor Julião is here‚’ she said with satisfaction.
Luiza introduced the two men.
Bazilio rose languidly from the sofa and gazed in near horror at Julião‚ taking in at a glance everything from his unruly hair to his scuffed boots.
‘What a sloven!’ he thought.
Luiza was acute enough to notice and she blushed‚ feeling ashamed of Julião‚ of this man with the grimy collar and the ancient‚ ill-made‚ black cloth jacket. What would Bazilio think of the people she knew‚ of the friends who visited the house! She felt her own chic drastically diminished. And instinctively‚ her face took on a reserved expression‚ as if she were surprised by this visit and appalled by the visitor’s clothes!
Julião saw her embarrassment and said‚ awkwardly‚ adjusting his glasses:
‘I was just passing and I dropped in to ask if you’d heard from Jorge.’
‘Thank you. Yes‚ he says in his letters that he’s fine.’
Bazilio lounged on the sofa with all the nonchalance of a close relative; he examined his own silk socks embroidered with small scarlet stars‚ and indolently smoothed his moustache‚ slightly cocking one little finger‚ on which glittered two thick gold rings‚ each set respectively with a sapphire and a ruby.
His affected pose and the flashing jewels irritated Julião.
Wanting to establish that he too was a close friend with his own rights‚ he said:
‘I haven’t been to see you before because I’ve been so busy.’
Luiza hurriedly tried to undermine this attempt at familiarity.
‘I haven’t been well myself. In fact‚ I haven’t been receiving visitors at all‚ apart from my cousin‚ of course!’
Julião felt rejected and betrayed. He said nothing‚ but sat bouncing one leg up and down‚ the book still resting on his knee‚ his face bright red with surprise and indignation; his trousers were too short and revealed the fraying elastic on his old boots.
There was a constrained silence.
‘Lovely roses!’ Bazilio drawled.
‘Yes‚ aren’t they?’ replied Luiza.
She felt sorry for Julião now and struggled to find something to say; at last she blurted out:
‘And it’s been so hot! Unbearable! Has there been a lot of illness?’
‘A bit of nausea and diarrhoea‚’ said Julião. ‘Mostly from eating too much fruit. Stomach upsets.’
Luiza lowered her eyes. Bazilio then started talking about the Viscountess de Azeias: she had aged terribly‚ he thought; and what had become of her older sister?
This conversation about aristocrats whom he did not know made Julião feel even more excluded; he felt the sweat trickling down his neck; he tried to come up with some aphorism‚ some ironic remark‚ some witty saying‚ and meanwhile kept mechanically opening and closing the fat book with its yellow covers.
‘Is that a novel?’ Luiza asked him.
‘No‚ it’s a treatise by Dr Lee on diseases of the womb.’
Luiza turned scarlet‚ as did Julião‚ furious with himself for uttering that word. Bazilio smiled and then asked after one Dona Rafaela Grijó who used to be a regular visitor to Rua da Madalena; she wore glasses and had a brother-in-law who stuttered …
‘Oh‚ her husband died and she married her brother-in-law.’
‘The one with the stutter?’
‘Yes‚ they’ve got a little boy now‚ and he stutters too.’
‘Their family conversations must be something to behold! And what about Dona Eugénia‚ the one from Braga?’
Exasperated‚ Julião got up and in a hoarse‚ nervous voice said:
‘I’m in a hurry‚ I’m afraid‚ I can’t stop. Give Jorge my regards when you next write to him‚ won’t you?’
He nodded briefly to Bazilio‚ but couldn’t find his hat‚ which had rolled underneath the chair. He then got caught up in the door curtain‚ bumped into the door itself and finally flounced out‚ feeling desperate and vengeful‚ hating Luiza‚ Jorge‚ luxury‚ life‚ and brimming now with ironic remarks‚ aphorisms and witty ripostes. He should have crushed them‚ the ass and the ninny … But absolutely nothing had occurred to him!
As soon as Julião had closed the door‚ Bazilio stood up and‚ folding his arms‚ asked:
‘Who is that slovenly individual?’
Luiza flushed and stammered:
‘He’s a young doctor…’
‘How ridiculous‚ you mean he’s a student!’
‘Poor thing‚ he doesn’t have much money.’
But you didn’t need money to brush your jacket and rid yourself of dandruff! She should not receive such a man! It brought shame on the house. If her husband was so very fond of him‚ then he should receive him in his study!
He was striding agitatedly about the room‚ his hands in his pockets‚ jingling his money and his keys.
‘You certainly have some rather louche friends!’ he went on. ‘Damn it‚ this isn’t how you were brought up! You never had people like that visiting Rua da Madalena.’
It was true‚ they had not‚ and it seemed to her that‚ since her marriage‚ her circle of acquaintances had become more plebeian. But respect for Jorge’s opinions and tastes prompted her to say:
‘They say he has great talent…’
‘He’d be better off with a new pair of boots.’
Luiza‚ out of cowardice‚ agreed.
‘I must admit I do find him a bit odd‚’ she said.
‘He’s absolutely ghastly‚ my dear!’
Those last two words made her heart beat faster. That is what he used to call her‚ before. There was a moment’s silence‚ then the door bell rang loudly.
Luiza was terrified. Oh no‚ what if it was Sebastião? Bazilio would find him even more vulgar. But Juliana announced:
‘It’s Councillor Acácio‚ madam. Shall I ask him to come in?’
‘Yes‚ of course‚’ Luiza exclaimed.
And the tall figure of Acácio entered‚ with the lapels of his alpaca jacket thrown back and his stiff white trousers neatly covering the tops of his lace-up shoes.
As soon as Luiza introduced cousin Bazilio to him‚ Acácio said respectfully:
‘I knew of your arrival already‚ sir‚ I read about it in one of the many interesting news items furnished by our society columns. But tell me‚ madam‚ how is Jorge?’
Jorge was in Beja. Terribly bored.
Bazilio‚ in more friendly mode‚ remarked:
‘I really have no idea what one could possibly do in Beja. It must be horrendous!’
The Councillor‚ smoothing his moustache with one white hand‚ the hand that bore his signet ring‚ replied:
‘It is‚ nevertheless‚ the district capital!’
But there was nothing to do even in Lisbon‚ and that was the national capital! Bazilio‚ leaning back‚ tugged at the cuffs of his shirt. One could die of boredom here.
Pleased to find Bazilio so affable‚ Luiza laughed:
‘Don’t say that in front of the Councillor. He’s a great admirer of Lisbon.’
Acácio bowed.
‘Yes‚ dear lady‚ I was born in Lisbon and have a deep regard for the city.’
Then he went on with great bonhomie:
‘I recognise‚ however‚ that it cannot compare with the Parises‚ Londons and Madrids of this world…’
‘Naturally‚’ said Luiza.
And the Councillor continued grandly:
‘Lisbon‚ however‚ enjoys certain unrivalled beauties! The entrance from the sea‚ they say (although I myself have never entered the city from that direction) offers a magnificent panorama to rival that of the Constantinoples and the Naples of this world. Worthy of the pen of a Garrett or a Lamartine! Enough to inspire a great genius!’
Fearing a flood of literary quotations and opinions‚ Luiza interrupted him and asked what he had been up to. She and Dona Felicidade had been to the Passeio Público on Sunday‚ hoping to see him‚ but not a sign.
He never went there on a Sunday‚ he said. It was‚ he agreed‚ most pleasant‚ but the crowd made him positively dizzy. He had noticed – and he spoke in the measured tones of one about to make some astonishing revelation – he had noticed that being in the presence of a great many people all in one place often provoked feelings of dizziness in men of a studious bent. He complained too of his health and of pressure of work. He was compiling a book and taking Vichy water.
‘You can smoke‚ if you like‚’ Luiza said suddenly‚ smiling at Bazilio. ‘Do you need a match?’
She herself sprang lightly and gaily to her feet to fetch him one. She was wearing a pale-coloured dress‚ slightly transparent and very cool. Her hair looked fairer and her skin softer.
Bazilio exhaled the smoke from his cigar‚ leaned back and declared:
‘The Passeio Público on a Sunday is quite simply idiotic!’
The Councillor pondered and replied:
‘I would not put it in quite such severe terms‚ Senhor Brito!’ However‚ it did seem to him that it had once been a more pleasant experience. In the first place – he exclaimed with great conviction‚ drawing himself up – because nothing‚ absolutely nothing‚ could beat the Navy band! Then there was the question of prices … Oh‚ he had studied the matter closely! Low prices were bound to encourage the subaltern classes to gather together. Not that he would dream of casting aspersions on that section of the population. He was known for his liberal views on the matter. ‘You have only to ask Senhora Dona Luiza‚’ he said. But it was‚ after all‚ always so much more agreeable to find oneself amongst a select group! As for himself‚ he never went to the Passeio now. No‚ hard though it was to believe‚ not even when there were fireworks! Although he did go and stand outside the railings to watch. Not for financial reasons. Oh‚ no. He might not be rich‚ but he could afford that small expense. It was simply that he feared accidents. He feared them greatly. He told the story of a man‚ whose name escaped him now‚ whose skull had been pierced by a rocket. And nothing could be easier than for a spark to fall on one’s face‚ or on one’s new overcoat. ‘It is always best to be prudent‚’ he concluded decisively‚ wiping his lips with a very crumpled Indian silk handkerchief.
They went on to discuss Lisbon in the summer; a lot of people had gone to Sintra; and‚ besides‚ Lisbon at that time of year was such a bore! And the Councillor affirmed that Lisbon only came into its true magnificent self when the government was sitting and the Teatro de São Carlos was open!
‘What were you playing when I came in‚ Luiza?’ Bazilio asked.
The Councillor immediately said:
‘Oh‚ if you were playing music‚ then pray continue. I have been a subscriber to the Teatro de São Carlos for eighteen years…’
‘Do you play yourself?’
‘Oh‚ I used to. I certainly don’t conceal the fact. Yes‚ as a young man‚ I played the flute.’
And he added with a benevolent gesture:
‘Boyish larks! Were you playing something new‚ Dona Luiza?’
‘No! It’s an old favourite: “The Fisherman’s Daughter” by Meyerbeer! I’ve got the translation of the words.’
She had closed the windows and sat down at the piano.
‘Sebastião plays this beautifully‚ doesn’t he‚ Councillor?’
‘Our Sebastião‚’ said the Councillor authoritatively‚ ‘is a rival to all your Thalbergs and Liszts. Do you know our Sebastião?’ he asked Bazilio.
‘No‚ I don’t.’
‘A pearl amongst men!’
Bazilio had gone slowly over to the piano‚ twirling his moustache.
‘Do you still sing?’ Luiza asked him‚ smiling.
‘Only when I’m on my own.’
But the Councillor immediately asked him to sing something. Bazilio laughed. He was afraid he might scandalise an old subscriber to the Teatro de São Carlos.
The Councillor urged him‚ adding paternally:
‘Courage‚ Senhor Brito‚ courage!’
Luiza played the opening notes.
And Bazilio began singing in a full‚ rich‚ baritone voice‚ and the room rang with the top notes. The Councillor‚ sitting upright in his armchair‚ was listening with great attention; his forehead‚ creased into a frown‚ seemed bowed beneath the responsibilities of a judge; and the tinted lenses of his spectacles stood out darkly against his bald physiognomy‚ made paler by the heat.
Bazilio sang the song’s long first phrase with a melancholy gravity:
Just like the dark‚ dark sea
My heart too has its deeps …
A poet‚ out of some obscure sense of devotion‚ had translated the words for the Women’s Journal. Luiza had added them to the music in her own hand. Bazilio‚ bent over the pages‚ still twirling the ends of his moustaches‚ sang:
It has its storms and rages
And tears like pearls it weeps!
Luiza kept her large eyes firmly on the music‚ occasionally glancing up at Bazilio. When it came to the long‚ final note‚ like the complaint of a supplicant lover‚ Bazilio sang pleadingly:
Come‚ come‚
O my best beloved‚
Press thy breast to mine …
and his eyes fixed on her with such a look of desire that Luiza’s breast rose and fell very fast‚ and her fingers fumbled over the keys.
The Councillor applauded.
‘Admirable!’ he cried. ‘Admirable!’
Bazilio modestly demurred.
‘No‚ sir!’ protested Acácio‚ getting up. ‘You have a very fine organ there; indeed‚ I would go so far as to say that you have the finest organ in Lisbon society.’
Bazilio laughed. Since he had made such a good impression‚ he would sing them a Brazilian modinha from Bahia. He sat down at the piano‚ and after playing the opening notes of a swaying‚ rhythmic‚ tropical melody‚ he began:
My skin may be black‚ but my black heart
feels more than any white heart can …
Breaking off‚ he said:
‘This was all the rage at parties in Bahia when I left.’
It told the story of a young black woman born in the countryside and who‚ in rather clichéd lyrical terms‚ recounts her passion for a white farm manager.
Bazilio parodied the sentimental tones of a young Bahian woman‚ and his voice took on a wonderfully comic note when he sang the tearful refrain:
And the black girl’s eyes
Gaze out at the waves so strong;
While in a tall palm tree
The bellbird sings its song.
The Councillor found it ‘delicious’; but the song set him off‚ as he stood there in the drawing room‚ on the lamentable condition of slaves in Brazil. Brazilian friends assured him that the blacks were treated very well‚ but civilisation was civilisation‚ and slavery was a blot on any civilised society. He had‚ nevertheless‚ every confidence in the emperor.
‘A monarch of rare enlightenment‚’ he added respectfully.
He went to get his hat and pressing it to his chest‚ he bowed‚ declaring that it had been a long time since he had spent such a satisfying afternoon. There was nothing like good conversation and good music.
‘Where are you staying‚ Senhor Brito?’
Oh‚ please‚ he mustn’t worry about him. He was staying at the Hotel Central.
Nothing would prevent him from fulfilling his social duties‚ declared Acácio. Nothing! He was a man of little account‚ as Senhora Dona Luiza well knew. ‘But if you need anything‚ information‚ an introduction to some regional official‚ permission to visit a public amenity‚ I am at your service!’
And still holding Bazilio’s hand in his‚ he added.
‘Rua do Ferregial de Cima‚ number 3‚ third floor. A hermit’s modest refuge.’
He bowed once more to Luiza.
‘And when you next write to our traveller‚ do please send him my sincerest wishes for the success of his enterprise. Your servant!’
And‚ very erect and very serious‚ he left.
‘Well‚ at least he’s clean‚’ muttered Bazilio‚ a cigar in the corner of his mouth.
He had sat down again at the piano and was running his fingers up and down the keys. Luiza went over to him.
‘Sing something‚ Bazilio!’
Bazilio gave her a long look.
Luiza blushed and smiled; the soft‚ milky skin of her throat and arms was visible through the pale‚ sheer fabric of her dress; and there was a vibrancy and a kind of amorous excitement in her eyes and in the warm colour of her cheeks.
Bazilio said to her softly:
‘You look very happy today‚ Luiza.’
His eager gaze troubled her; she said again:
‘Sing something.’
Her chest rose and fell.
‘No‚ you sing something.’
Very slowly‚ he took her hand. Their two slightly damp‚ slightly tremulous palms met.
Outside‚ the bell rang. Luiza quickly withdrew her hand.
‘There’s someone at the door‚’ she said anxiously.
Low voices could be heard on the landing.
Bazilio gave an irritated shrug and picked up his hat.
‘You’re not going‚ are you?’ she cried desolately.
‘I certainly am! I can’t get a moment alone with you!’
The door banged shut.
‘It wasn’t anyone important‚’ said Luiza‚ ‘they’ve gone.’
They were standing up in the middle of the drawing room.
‘Don’t go‚ Bazilio!’
Her deep eyes looked at him sweetly‚ imploringly.
Bazilio put his hat down on the piano; he was nervously biting his moustache.
‘And why do you want to be alone with me?’ asked Luiza. ‘What does it matter if there are other people here?’ But she immediately regretted her words.
Bazilio‚ in one brusque movement‚ put his arm about her shoulders‚ took her face in his hands and covered her forehead‚ eyes‚ hair with voracious kisses.
She pulled away‚ trembling‚ her cheeks scarlet.
‘Forgive me‚’ he cried passionately. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to‚ but I adore you‚ Luiza!’
He took her hands masterfully‚ almost proprietorially in his.
‘No‚ you must hear me out. From that first day when I saw you again‚ I’ve been mad about you‚ just as I used to be‚ exactly the same. I’ve never stopped loving you. But‚ as you well know‚ I had no money‚ and I wanted you to be rich and happy. I couldn’t take you with me to Brazil. It would have killed you‚ my love! You can’t imagine what it’s like out there. That’s why I wrote you that letter‚ but how I’ve suffered‚ the tears I’ve shed!’
Luiza was listening to him‚ motionless‚ her head bowed‚ looking at nothing in particular; that warm‚ strong voice‚ which touched her with its loving breath‚ was controlling her‚ subduing her; and Bazilio’s hands filled hers with their feverish heat; she was overwhelmed by a sense of lassitude‚ almost as if she were about to fall asleep.
‘Speak! Answer!’ he said urgently‚ shaking her hands‚ eagerly seeking her eyes.
‘What do you want me to say?’ she murmured.
Her voice had the abstract sound of one barely awake.
And slowly detaching herself from him‚ she turned away:
‘Let’s talk about something else!’
Reaching out his arms to her‚ he stammered:
‘Luiza! Luiza!’
‘No‚ Bazilio‚ no!’
And in her voice there was just the slightest trace of a lament‚ the softness of a caress.
He did not hesitate; he took her in his arms.
Luiza remained inert‚ her lips white‚ her eyes closed‚ and Bazilio‚ placing one hand on her forehead‚ leaned her head back and slowly kissed her eyelids‚ her cheek‚ then kissed her long and deep upon her lips; her lips half-opened‚ her knees gave beneath her.
Then suddenly her whole body stiffened indignantly‚ and she turned away‚ gasping:
‘Stop it‚ stop it!’
She was filled by nervous energy; she extricated herself from his embrace‚ pushing him away; passing her hands over her head and her hair‚ she muttered:
‘Oh my God‚ how awful! Leave me alone! It’s too awful!’
He walked towards her‚ teeth gritted‚ but Luiza drew back‚ saying:
‘Go away! What do you want? Go away! What are you doing here? Leave me alone!’
He tried to calm her‚ his voice suddenly serene and humble. He didn’t understand. Why was she so angry? What did a kiss matter? He asked for nothing more. Whatever was she thinking? He adored her‚ it was true‚ but he adored her with a pure heart.
‘I swear it!’ he said vehemently‚ striking his chest.
He made her sit on the sofa and sat down next to her. He spoke very rationally. He saw how things were and he was resigned to it. They would be like brother and sister‚ nothing more.
She was listening to him as if in a daze.
His passion for her was a terrible torment to him‚ but he was strong‚ he would learn to bear it. All he wanted was to come and see her and talk to her. His would be an ideal love. And his eyes devoured her.
He turned her hand palm uppermost‚ bent over and kissed it hard. She shivered and sprang to her feet:
‘No! Go away!’
‘All right. I’ll say goodbye‚ then.’
He got up sadly‚ reluctantly. Then‚ unhurriedly brushing the silk of his hat‚ he said again‚ in melancholy tones:
‘Goodbye‚ then.’
‘Goodbye.’
Bazilio said very tenderly:
‘You’re not angry with me‚ are you?’
‘No!’
‘Listen‚’ he murmured‚ approaching her once more.
Luiza stamped her foot.
‘Please‚ leave me now and come back tomorrow. Goodbye. Go away! Tomorrow!’
‘Tomorrow!’ he said softly.
And with that he left.
Luiza went into her bedroom in a state of great agitation. However‚ as she walked past the mirror‚ she was surprised at what she saw: she had never seen herself looking so lovely! She took a few more steps in silence.
Juliana was sorting out underwear in one of the wardrobe drawers.
‘Who was it who rang just now?’ asked Luiza.
‘It was Senhor Sebastião. He didn’t want to come in; he said he would come back.’
He had indeed said that he would come back. But he was beginning to feel almost embarrassed by the fact that he had been to see her every day and found each time that she had ‘a visitor’.
He had been surprised the first time when Juliana said: ‘She’s with a man‚ a young man. He was here yesterday too.’ Who could he be? He knew all the friends of the house. Perhaps it was some clerk from the Ministry or the owner of a mine‚ Alonso’s son perhaps‚ doubtless something to do with Jorge …
Then on Sunday night‚ he had brought her the score of Gounod’s Romeo and Juliet that she had so wanted to hear‚ and when Juliana told him from the balcony that ’she had gone out with Dona Felicidade in a carriage’‚ he had felt very foolish standing there‚ slowly scratching his beard‚ with the large score clasped beneath his arm. Where could they have gone? He remembered Dona Felicidade’s enthusiasm for the Teatro de Dona Maria. But they would hardly go to the theatre alone‚ in this July heat! But it was possible. He went there just in case.
The half-deserted theatre presented a gloomy picture; there was the occasional ugly family occupying one of the boxes‚ the women with their very black hair bulked out with false topknots‚ taking grim pleasure in their Sunday night out; in the stalls‚ along the largely empty benches‚ prematurely aged people with inexpressive faces sat looking hot and bored‚ occasionally wiping the sweat from their necks with silk handkerchiefs; in the gallery sat swarthy‚ oily-skinned workers with wide‚ dark eyes; even the light seemed half-asleep; there was much yawning. The scene on stage was a yellow ballroom where a bemedalled old man was addressing a thin young girl with curly hair‚ talking on and on in the dilute tones of warm‚ greasy water being poured out of a jug.
Sebastião left. Where could they be? He found out the following day. He was walking down Rua do Moinho do Vento just as one of his neighbours‚ Neto‚ was walking up‚ hunched beneath his sunshade‚ and with a cigar protruding from one corner of his greying moustache. Neto stopped him to say:
‘Do you know‚ last night I saw Dona Luiza with a young man I’m sure I know‚ but I can’t for the life of me think where I know his face from.’
Sebastião shrugged.
‘A tall‚ handsome young man‚ with a foreign look about him. I know him from somewhere. I saw him going into the house the other day. Have you any idea who he is?’
Sebastião did not.
‘I know that face. I’ve been racking my brain to remember.’ He stroked his head with one hand. ‘I know that face! He’s from Lisbon. He’s definitely from Lisbon!’
And after a silence‚ he twirled his parasol and asked:
‘So‚ have you any other news‚ Sebastião?’
Sebastião did not.
‘No‚ nor me!’
He yawned loudly:
‘God‚ this is a boring place!’
That afternoon‚ at four o’clock‚ Sebastião had gone back to Luiza’s house. The ‘man’ was there again! Sebastião was genuinely worried now. It must be something to do with Jorge’s work; for Sebastião could not imagine that Luiza could talk about‚ feel or experience anything that was not in the interests of the house and of Jorge’s greater happiness. But it must be very serious indeed to require so many visits‚ meetings and reports. Jorge must have important deals about which he knew nothing. This struck him as ungrateful on Jorge’s part and as a diminution of their friendship.
His housekeeper Tia Joana found him sunk in gloom.
The next day he learned that ‘the man’ was cousin Bazilio‚ Bazilio de Brito. His vague displeasure vanished‚ but a more clearly defined fear took its place.
Sebastião did not know Bazilio personally‚ but he was familiar with the chronicle of his youth. It did not‚ it is true‚ involve any great scandal or poignant romance. Bazilio had merely been something of a hellraiser and‚ as such‚ had worked his way methodically through all the usual episodes of Lisbon debauchery: games of monte until dawn with some nabobs from the Alentejo; a horse-drawn cab wrecked one Saturday at the bullfight; frequent suppers with an ancient Spanish Lola and an equally ancient lobster salad; a bit of derring-do in the bullring in Salvaterra or in Alhandra for which he won applause; nights spent in rough taverns‚ eating salt cod and drinking Colares wine; much playing of the guitar; a couple of well-placed blows delivered to the astonished face of a police officer; and plenty of raw eggs thrown during the height of carnival. The only actual women who appeared in this saga‚ apart from the usual aforesaid Lolas and Carmens‚ were Pistelli‚ a German dancer who had the muscled legs of an athlete‚ and the mad Countess de Alvim‚ a great horsewoman‚ who had left her husband‚ after first whipping him soundly‚ and who had dressed up as a man so that she could herself drive a carriage from Rossio to Dafundo. This was quite enough for Sebastião to consider Bazilio a debauchee and a roué; he had heard that Bazilio had gone to Brazil in order to flee his creditors‚ that he had got rich purely by chance‚ in some speculative deal in Paraguay‚ and that‚ even in Bahia‚ when he was on his uppers‚ he had never been a hard worker; and he imagined that‚ for a man like Bazilio‚ the possession of a fortune would mean only a proliferation of his vices. And this same man was now going to visit Luiza every day and spending hours and hours there and following her to the Passeio Público.
But why? Obviously in order to lead her astray.
He was walking down the street‚ bent beneath the heavy weight of these ideas‚ when a voice husky with catarrh said respectfully:
It was Senhor Paula from the junk shop.
‘Greetings‚ Senhor João.’
Senhor Paula spat out a dark stream of saliva onto the cobbles and‚ with his hands clasped behind him‚ beneath the tails of his long cotton jacket‚ he said gravely:
‘Is someone ill at the Engineer’s house‚ Senhor Sebastião?’
Much surprised‚ Sebastião said:
‘No. Why?’
Paula snorted and spat again.
‘It’s just that I’ve seen a man going in there every day. And I assumed he was a doctor.’
Clearing his throat once more‚ he went on:
‘You know‚ one of those new homeopathic ones.’
Sebastião had coloured.
‘No‚’ he said. ‘He’s Dona Luiza’s cousin.’
‘Oh‚’ said Paula. ‘I thought … Forgive me‚ Senhor Sebastião.’
And he bowed respectfully.
‘So‚ the gossip has started already!’ Sebastião was thinking.
He went into his own house‚ feeling most unhappy.
He lived at the bottom of the street‚ in an old house with a garden.
Sebastião was all alone in the world. He had a modest fortune in government bonds‚ some agricultural land near Seixal and the Rosegal estate in Almada. His two maidservants had worked for the family for years. Vicência‚ the cook‚ was a black woman from São Tomé and had originally worked for his mother. Tia Joana‚ his old nanny‚ had served him for thirty-five years; she still referred to him as Master Sebastião; she could sometimes be as giddy as a girl‚ but he always treated her with as much respect as if she were his grandmother. She was from Oporto‚ or Opooartoo‚ as she pronounced it‚ for she had never lost her Minho accent. Sebastião’s friends said she was like a character out of a play. She was short and stout‚ and had a very kindly smile; her hair‚ white as flax‚ was caught up in a bun on top of her head and held in place with an old tortoiseshell comb; she always wore a large‚ spotlessly clean shawl tied across her chest. And she spent all day shuffling about the house‚ rattling her bunch of keys‚ muttering proverbs and taking snuff from a round box on which was carved a tiny image of the suspension bridge in Oporto.
The house itself had a gentle‚ old-fashioned air: in the visiting room‚ which was only rarely used‚ the vast sofa and armchairs had the stiff appearance of the days of Dom José I‚ and the faded red damask upholstery was reminiscent of the grandeur of a decadent court; the dining room walls were hung with engravings depicting Napoleon’s first battles‚ all of which included a white horse standing on a hill towards which a hussar was galloping at breakneck speed‚ brandishing a sabre. Sebastião slept his dreamless seven hours’ sleep in an ancient bed made from carved blackwood; and in a dark little room‚ beneath the subtle sounds of mice scrabbling in the rafters‚ on a chest of drawers with gold metal handles‚ there stood‚ as he had for years‚ the patron saint of the house‚ St Sebastian‚ bristling with arrows and struggling against the cords that bound him to the tree trunk‚ and lit by an oil lamp carefully tended by Tia Joana.
House and owner were perfectly suited. Sebastião was an old-fashioned fellow. He was solitary and shy. In Latin classes they used to call him ‘the Mouse’; they pinned tails on him and brazenly stole his food at mealtimes. Though possessed of a gymnast’s strength‚ Sebastião had the resigned nature of a martyr.
In secondary school‚ he failed all his exams. He was an intelligent enough boy‚ but a single question‚ the glitter of the teacher’s spectacles‚ the great expanse of blackboard‚ made him freeze; he would remain stubbornly silent‚ scratching his knees‚ his face swollen and red‚ his eyes vacant.
His mother‚ who came from a village where she had worked as a baker‚ and was very proud of her government bonds‚ her garden‚ her damask furniture‚ her silk dresses and her beringed fingers‚ used to say:
‘He’s got enough to eat and drink‚ so why torment the child with studying! Leave him be!’
Sebastião was very drawn to music. On the advice of Jorge’s mother – her neighbour and close friend – Sebastião’s mother found him a piano teacher; from the very first lessons‚ which she attended‚ adorned in red velvet and jewels‚ the old teacher Aquiles Bentes‚ with his owl-like face and round spectacles‚ had exclaimed excitedly‚ in his nasal voice:
‘My dear lady‚ your child is a genius! A genius! He’ll be another Rossini! He must be encouraged! We must urge him on!’
But that was precisely what she did not want; she did not want to urge him on to do anything‚ poor love. And that is why he did not become another Rossini; still‚ out of habit‚ old Bentes continued to say:
‘He’ll be another Rossini! He’ll be another Rossini!’
Except that‚ instead of shouting it out and brandishing his sheet music‚ he would mutter it to himself‚ meanwhile yawning widely like a bored lion.
Even then‚ the two young neighbours‚ Jorge and Sebastião‚ were the best of friends. Jorge was the livelier and more inventive of the two‚ and he it was who dominated Sebastião. When they played in the garden‚ Sebastião was always the horse to Jorge’s driver and carriage‚ and‚ in any wars‚ he was always the side that lost. Sebastião it was who carried any heavy weights‚ offered his back for Jorge to climb on and‚ at picnics‚ he ate all the bread‚ while Jorge ate all the fruit. They grew up‚ and that unchanging friendship‚ with never a falling- out‚ became an essential‚ permanent feature in the lives of both men.
When Jorge’s mother died‚ they even thought of moving in together; they would live in Sebastião’s house‚ which was more spacious and had a garden; Jorge had even planned to buy a horse; but then he met Luiza in the Passeio Público and‚ two months later‚ he was spending nearly all his time at her house in Rua da Madalena.
The whole jolly ‘Sebastião and Jorge Society’‚ as they laughingly used to call it‚ collapsed‚ like a house of cards. Sebastião was deeply saddened.
And yet he was the one who‚ later on‚ provided the bouquets of roses for Jorge to take to Luiza‚ lovingly wrapped in tissue paper and with the thorns carefully removed. He was the one who took charge of decorating their ‘nest’‚ who chivvied the upholsterers‚ discussed the price of bedlinen‚ oversaw the work of the carpet-fitters‚ found servants‚ and sorted out all the paperwork for the wedding.
And at night‚ like a weary‚ devoted procurator‚ he would then have to listen with a smile on his face to Jorge’s happy outpourings‚ as he paced about the room in his shirtsleeves until two o’clock in the morning‚ lovesick‚ loquacious and flourishing his pipe!
After the marriage‚ Sebastião felt very alone. He went to Portel to visit an uncle‚ an eccentric old man with wild eyes‚ who spent all his time grafting fruit trees and reading and re-reading Alexandre Herculano’s novel Eurico the Priest. When he returned a month later‚ Jorge declared joyfully:
‘This is your home now‚ you know. This is where you live.’
But he never managed to convince Sebastião that it truly was his home. Sebastião would knock timidly at the door. He would blush in Luiza’s presence; the old Mouse of the Latin classes resurfaced. Jorge had to struggle to make him relax enough to cross his legs and smoke his pipe in front of her‚ and not to be constantly half getting up from his seat and addressing her as ‘madam’.
He had to be coerced into coming to supper. When Jorge was not there‚ his visits were brief and full of silences. He felt clumsy and ill-dressed and was afraid he might bore her.
That afternoon‚ when he went into the dining room‚ Tia Joana came to ask after Luiza.
She adored her and thought her an ‘angel’‚ a ‘lily’.
‘How is she? Did you see her?’
Sebastião blushed‚ he did not want to say‚ as he had on the previous night‚ that he had not gone in because she had a visitor; instead‚ bending down and stroking the ears of his old pointer ‘Trajan’‚ he said:
‘She’s fine‚Tia Joana‚ fine. Why shouldn’t she be? She’s in excellent form.’
*
At that same hour‚ Luiza had received a letter from Jorge. It was from Portel‚ full of complaints about the heat‚ about the bad inns he was obliged to stay at‚ and tales about Sebastião’s eccentric uncle‚ and it closed with much love and many kisses.
She had not expected the letter‚ and that sheet of paper covered in tiny‚ neat writing‚ which brought Jorge so vividly to life before her – the way he stood‚ the way he looked at her‚ his tenderness towards her – filled her with a sensation akin to pain. The shame of her cowardly‚ swooning acquiescence to Bazilio’s kisses welled up in her and made her cheeks flame! How could she have allowed herself to be embraced and held like that! The things he had said to her on the sofa‚ his eyes almost devouring her! She remembered it all: how he had sat‚ the warmth of his hands‚ the tremor in his voice … And‚ mechanically‚ gradually‚ her eyes languid‚ her arms limp by her sides‚ she allowed herself to become immersed in those memories‚ abandoning herself to the delicious lassitude they provoked in her. But then the idea of Jorge returned like the crack of a whip. She sat up suddenly and paced nervously around the room‚ feeling a vague desire to cry.
‘No‚ this is awful‚ awful!’ she was saying to herself out loud. ‘It must end now!’
She decided not to receive Bazilio again‚ to write to him and ask him not to come back‚ to leave! She even pondered the words she would use; she would be brief and cold‚ she would not call him ‘My dear cousin‚’ simply ‘Cousin Bazilio’.
And what would he do when he got the letter? He would weep‚ poor love!
She imagined him alone in his hotel room‚ pale and unhappy; and from there‚ sliding down the slopes of sentiment‚ she went on to thinking about his actual person‚ his persuasive voice‚ his disquieting‚ dominating eyes‚ and her mind lingered on those memories with a feeling of happiness‚ like a hand absent-mindedly stroking the soft plumage of some rare bird. She shook her head impatiently‚ as if those imaginings were the stings of importunate insects; she forced herself to think only of Jorge‚ but the bad ideas kept biting her; and she felt very sorry for herself‚ not knowing what she wanted‚ torn between confused desires to be with Jorge‚ to consult Leopoldina‚ to run away somewhere‚ anywhere‚ far away. Oh‚ she was so unhappy! And from the depths of her lazy nature came an obscure sense of resentment against Jorge‚ against Bazilio‚ against feelings‚ against duties‚ against everything that upset her and made her suffer. If only they would leave her alone!
Sitting at the window after supper‚ she started re-reading Jorge’s letter. She deliberately made herself remember all the things she loved about him‚ about his body‚ about his many qualities. And she piled up random reasons‚ some based on honour‚ others on sentiment‚ as to why she should love and respect him. This was all happening because he was away in the provinces! If he were there with her … But to go so far away and take so long to come back! And yet‚ at the same time‚ against her will‚ the certain knowledge of his absence gave her a sense of freedom; the idea of being able to move freely about amongst her desires and interests filled her breast with a great sense of contentment‚ like a gust of independence.
But then what use was it to her being free and alone? And suddenly everything that she could do‚ feel and possess appeared to her in the form of a broad‚ glowing prospect; it was like a door‚ suddenly opened and then closed‚ that allowed her a glimpse of something vague and marvellous that pulsated and glittered. Oh‚ she must be mad!
It had grown dark. She went into the drawing room and opened the window; outside‚ the night was hot and thick‚ the air electric with the promise of thunder and lightning. She found it hard to breathe‚ she looked up at the sky‚ wanting something intensely‚ but not knowing what that something was.
The baker’s boy in the street down below was‚ as always‚ playing a fado; those banal sounds penetrated her soul with the softness of a warm breeze and the melancholy of a mournful cry.
She listlessly rested her head on her hand. A thousand tiny thoughts rushed into her mind like the dancing‚ fading points of light on a burning piece of paper; she remembered her mother‚ the new hat Madame François had sent her‚ wondered what the weather would be like now in Sintra‚ and imagined the sweetness of those warm nights beneath the thickly leaved trees.
She closed the window and stretched; and then‚ in her bedroom‚ on the chaise longue‚ she sat utterly still‚ thinking about Jorge‚ about writing to him and asking him to come home. Very soon‚ however‚ this absorption began to fray like a piece of cloth being ripped slowly apart‚ and behind it‚ intensely bright and strong‚ appeared the idea of cousin Bazilio.
His travels and all the seas he had crossed had made his skin darker; the melancholy of separation had given him a few white hairs. He had suffered for her‚ he said. And where was the harm in it anyway? He had sworn to her that his love was chaste‚ that it resided entirely in his heart. He had come all the way from Paris‚ the poor boy‚ in order to see her for a week or two weeks; he had sworn that this was so. Was she to tell him: ‘Don’t come back‚ go away’?
‘Whenever you’re ready for your tea‚ madam …’ Juliana said from the door.
Luiza gave a loud sigh as if just waking up. No tea‚ but Juliana should bring her the lamp later on.
It was ten o’clock. Juliana went to drink her tea in the kitchen. The fire was burning out‚ and the oil lamp cast a reddish light on the copper pots.
‘Something happened today‚ Senhora Joana‚’ said Juliana‚ sitting down. ‘She’s all up in the air! And she keeps sighing! Oh‚ yes‚ something definitely happened‚ something big!’
Joana‚ sitting opposite‚ elbows on the table and her cheeks resting on her fists‚ was blinking sleepily.
‘You always look for the bad in things‚ Senhora Juliana‚’ she said.
‘But you’d have to be a fool not to see it‚ Senhora Joana!’
She stopped talking and sniffed the sugar; this was one of her many gripes; she like refined sugar and hated this coarse muscovado stuff‚ which made the tea taste of ants.
‘This sugar is even worse than last month’s! But then‚ I suppose‚ poor wretches like me can expect no better!’ she muttered bitterly.
And after a brief pause‚ she said again:
‘You’d have to be a fool not to see it‚ Senhora Joana!’
The cook said lazily:
‘Each person knows himself…’
‘… and God knows all‚’ sighed Juliana.
And with that they fell silent.
Luiza rang the bell from downstairs.
‘Now what? God‚ she’s impatient!’
She went down and came back‚ greatly annoyed‚ carrying the watering can:
‘She wants more water! What does she want to go splashing around at midnight for! Honestly‚ it has to be seen to be believed.’
She went to fill up the watering can‚ and while the water from the tap drummed on the tin bottom‚ she said:
‘And tomorrow for breakfast she wants some fried ham‚ the salted kind. She fancies something savoury!’
She added scornfully:
‘The things they come out with! She fancies something savoury!’
By midnight the house was asleep and in darkness. Outside‚ the sky had grown still blacker; there was a flash of lightning and an echoing crack of thunder.
Luiza started awake; a loud‚ pounding rain had begun to fall; the thunder was still rumbling somewhere off in the distance. She lay for a moment listening to the raindrops falling on the paving stones; it was so stiflingly hot in the bedroom that she pushed back the sheet; sleep had fled and she lay on her back with her eyes fixed on the faint light emanating from outside and from the nightlight‚ listening to the tick-tock of the clock. She yawned and stretched‚ and an idea‚ a vision‚ began to form inside her brain‚ an idea that took such clear‚ almost visible shape that she turned slowly over in bed‚ reached out her arms and put them around the pillow‚ her dry lips open … to kiss a dark head of hair in which shone a few white strands.
Sebastião had slept badly. He woke at six and went out into the garden in his slippers. The French windows in the dining room opened onto a small terrace‚ just big enough for three painted‚ wrought-iron chairs and a few pots of carnations; from there‚ four stone steps led down into the garden; it was a vegetable-plot-cum-flower garden‚ packed with flower beds and carefully watered lettuces‚ with climbing roses on the walls‚ a well‚ a pond beneath a vine trellis and some trees; at the far end was another terrace‚ shaded by a lime tree‚ with a balustrade that looked down onto a quiet street below; opposite was another whitewashed garden wall. It was a secluded place‚ which had about it an almost rustic peace. Sebastião would often go there early in the morning to smoke a cigarette.
It was a delightful day. The air was crisp and transparent; up above‚ the sky formed a dome – of a blue only to be found in certain old porcelain – dotted here and there with the occasional small‚ milk-white‚ cottony cloud‚ vaguely cylindrical in shape; the leaves were of a bright‚ newly-washed green; the water in the tank was cold and crystalline; birds chirruped and called as they flew swiftly about.
Sebastião was standing looking down at the street‚ when‚ cutting through the cool silence‚ came the regular sound of a walking stick and slow‚ hesitant steps. It was a neighbour of Jorge’s‚ Cunha Rosado‚ the one with digestive problems; he was shuffling along‚ all hunched and bundled up in a scarf and a dark red overcoat‚ his greying beard uncombed and badly in need of a trim.
‘Up already‚ my friend!’ said Sebastião.
Cunha Rosado stopped and slowly raised his head.
‘Oh‚ it’s you Sebastião‚’ he said in a mournful voice. ‘I’m just out for my constitutional.’
‘On foot?’
‘I used to ride on my donkey as far as the outskirts of the city‚ but apparently a little walk is better for me.’
He shrugged sadly‚ a look of doubt and dejection on his face.
‘How are you?’ asked Sebastião kindly‚ leaning further out over the balustrade.
A desolate smile appeared on Cunha’s pale lips:
‘Oh‚ on the downward slope.’
Sebastião coughed‚ embarrassed‚ unable to think of any consoling words.
But there was a sudden glimmer of interest in the ailing man’s dull eyes‚ as he stood‚ both hands resting on his walking stick.
‘By the way‚ Sebastião‚ that tall young man I’ve seen going into Jorge’s house every day‚ isn’t he Bazilio de Brito? Dona Luiza’s cousin? João de Brito’s son?’
‘Yes‚ he is‚ why?’
Cunha gave a satisfied ‘Aha!’
‘That’s what I said!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s what I said. But that stubborn woman just wouldn’t have it‚ oh no!’
And then he went on to explain in a sudden torrent of words‚ pausing every now and then to catch his breath:
‘My room looks out onto the street and every day‚ since I’m almost always at my window‚ just passing the time … I’ve seen this rather foreign-looking young man going in there … every day! “That’s Bazilio de Brito!” I said. But my wife said no‚ it wasn’t! “Don’t be so stupid‚ man!” I was almost sure … And I should know! He was all set to marry Dona Luiza. I know the whole story … She used to live in Rua da Madalena!’
Sebastião said non-committally:
‘Yes‚ it’s Brito all right.’
‘That’s just what I said!’
He stood for a moment motionless‚ staring at the ground; then‚ resuming his usual mournful tones‚ he said:
‘Oh‚ well‚ I’d better stagger back home‚ I suppose.’
He sighed and opened wide his eyes:
‘I wish I had your health‚ Sebastião!’
And waving goodbye with a hand gloved in dark wool‚ he moved off‚ still hunched‚ keeping close to the wall‚ clutching his voluminous overcoat to his stomach with his free arm.
Sebastião went back into the house feeling very worried. Everyone was beginning to notice! Naturally! A young dandy turning up every day in a carriage and spending two or three hours there! And in a malicious neighbourhood like this‚ where everyone lived practically on top of each other!
He went out in the early afternoon. He wanted to go and see Luiza‚ but‚ for reasons he did not know‚ he felt overwhelmed by shyness‚ as if he were afraid he would find her different and with a changed look on her face. And so he walked slowly up the street‚ beneath his parasol‚ hesitating when a carriage came trotting by and stopped outside Luiza’s door.
A man jumped down‚ discarded his cigar and went inside. He was tall‚ with waxed moustaches‚ and he wore a flower in his buttonhole; it must be cousin Bazilio‚ he thought. The coachman wiped the sweat from his brow‚ crossed his legs and began rolling himself a cigarette.
At the noise of the carriage drawing up‚ Senhor Paula immediately came to his door‚ his peaked cap pulled down low‚ his hands in his pockets‚ and all the time watching out of the corner of his eye; looking her usual grimy self‚ her body deformed by obesity and pregnancy‚ the coal merchant’s wife opposite came outside to gawp‚ a look of imbecilic amazement on her oily face; the doctor’s maid flung open her window. Then Senhor Paula walked quickly across the shining‚ sunlit street and‚ shortly afterwards‚ appeared at the shop door with the sour-faced tobacconist’s wife; they exchanged whispered comments‚ their treacherous eyes fixed on Luiza’s balcony windows and on the carriage. Senhor Paula then shuffled over in his carpet slippers to mutter something to the coal merchant’s wife‚ provoking a laugh that shook her massive bosom; and finally‚ he returned to his own door where he stood between a portrait of Dom João VI and two old leather chairs‚ whistling joyfully. In the silent street‚ someone could be heard clumsily picking out on the piano the tune of Prayer to a Virgin.
Sebastião glanced mechanically up at Luiza’s windows.
‘Hot enough for you‚ Senhor Sebastião?’ remarked Senhor Paula‚ bowing. ‘It’s certainly nice to be in the cool.’
Luiza and Bazilio were sitting calmly and contentedly in the drawing room‚ with the shutters pulled to‚ in the pleasant half-darkness. Luiza was wearing a very cool white peignoir and smelled of lavender water.
‘You must take me as you find me‚’ she said. ‘I’m not going to stand on ceremony.’
But she looked lovely like that! That is how he always wanted her to look! exclaimed Bazilio‚ greatly pleased‚ as if her peignoir were a promise of a nakedness to come.
He was perfectly at ease and spoke in the familiar tones of a close relative. He did not trouble her today with words of passion or gestures of desire; he spoke instead about the heat‚ about a comic opera he had seen the night before‚ about old friends he had met up with‚ only mentioning in passing that he had dreamed of her.
What had he dreamed? That they were in a far distant land‚ which must have been Italy‚ given the number of statues in squares and melodious fountains singing in marble basins; it took place in an old garden on a classical terrace; rare flowers spilled out of Florentine pots; on the carved balustrades‚ peacocks spread their tails; and she was walking slowly across the square flagstones‚ dragging behind her the long train of her blue velvet dress. In fact‚ it was a terrace very like that in San Donato‚ Prince Demidoff’s villa – Bazilio never missed an opportunity to mention his illustrious friendships or to flaunt the glory of his many journeys.
And what had she dreamed about?
Luiza blushed. She had been frightened by the thunder. Had he heard the thunder?
‘I was having a late supper at the Literary Club when the storm broke.’
‘Do you usually dine so late?’
He smiled wryly. Dine! If one could call it dining‚ going to the club to chew on a leathery steak and drink a positively poisonous bottle of Colares wine!
Fixing her with his gaze‚ he said:
‘And all because of you‚ you ungrateful woman!’
Her?
‘Who else? Why else did I come to Lisbon? Why else did I leave Paris?’
‘Because of your business dealings.’
He gave her a harsh look and‚ bowing low‚ said:
‘Thank you!’
And he paced about the room‚ violently exhaling the smoke from his cigar.
Then he came over and sat down beside her. She really was most unfair. She was the reason he was in Lisbon‚ she alone!
He affected a sweet voice and asked if she didn’t feel even the teeny tiniest bit of love for him‚ even this much … and he indicated the length of his fingernail.
They both laughed.
‘Perhaps that much.’
Luiza’s breast rose and fell.
He then admiringly examined her nails‚ advising her to use the kind of nail polish used by French cocottes to give their nails lustre; he gradually took hold of her whole hand‚ kissing the tip of each finger; he sucked her little finger and declared it very sweet; he shyly smoothed a few threads of hair that had worked their way loose from her coiffure and said he had a favour to ask her.
He was looking at her pleadingly.
‘What is it?
‘Will you come for a drive in the country with me? It must be lovely in the countryside just now!’
She said nothing; she was lightly tapping the soft folds of her gown.
‘Nothing could be simpler‚’ he went on. ‘You meet me somewhere‚ somewhere far from here of course. I wait for you in a carriage‚ you jump inside‚ and it’s “Driver‚ don’t spare the horses!”’
Luiza hesitated.
‘Please‚ don’t say no.’
‘But where in the countryside?’
‘Wherever you like. To Paço de Arcos‚ to Loures‚ to Queluz. Say yes.’
There was an urgency in his voice now‚ he was almost kneeling before her.
‘What’s wrong with it? We’re friends aren’t we? Almost brother and sister.’
‘No! Absolutely not!’
Bazilio got angry and accused her of being a prude. He made as if to leave. She took his hat out of his hand and very sweetly‚ almost submissively‚ said:
‘Perhaps. We’ll see.’
‘Say yes!’ he insisted. ‘Be a good girl!’
‘All right‚ we’ll see‚ we’ll talk about it again tomorrow.’
But the following day‚ Bazilio very cleverly did not mention going out for the day‚ or going into the country. Nor did he speak of his love or his desires. He seemed in excellent spirits and in frivolous mood; he had brought her The Woman of Fire‚ the novel by Belot. And sitting down at the piano‚ he sang her some of the saucy songs he had heard in cafés-concerts in Paris; he imitated the singers’ harsh‚ coarse‚ rough voices; he made her laugh.
Then he talked at length about Paris‚ he recounted anecdotes‚ told her about the latest amorous gossip‚ the fashionable love affairs. These always involved duchesses and princesses and were dramatic and moving‚ occasionally funny‚ but always full of piquant pleasures. And of every woman he described‚ he would lean back and say: ‘… an extremely distinguished woman‚ who‚ naturally enough‚ had a lover…’
Adultery thus appeared almost an aristocratic duty. Virtue‚ on the other hand‚ according to him‚ was a defect of the small- minded or the despicable concern of a bourgeois temperament.
And when he left‚ he said‚ as if suddenly remembering something:
‘You know I’m thinking of leaving‚ don’t you?’
She turned slightly pale and asked:
‘Why?’
Bazilio said dully:
‘Well‚ what’s the point of my being here?’
He did not speak for a moment‚ but stared down at the carpet‚ then sighed deeply‚ as if struggling to master his emotions.
‘Goodbye‚ my love.’
And with that‚ he left.
When Luiza entered the dining room that afternoon‚ her eyes were red.
The next day‚ she was the one who spoke of the countryside. She complained of the continual heat‚ said how tedious Lisbon was. It must be so lovely in Sintra!
‘You’re the one who doesn’t want to go‚’ he said. ‘We could have a lovely little trip out.’
She was afraid; they might be seen.
‘How? In a closed carriage? With the blinds down?’
But sweltering inside a carriage would be worse than being in a drawing room!
It wouldn’t be like that! They would go to a country estate. They could go to Alegrias‚ the estate of a friend of his who was currently living in London. The only people there were the caretakers; it was a delightful place‚ near Olivais! Lovely avenues of laurel bushes‚ delicious shade! They could take ice and champagne with them.
‘Say you’ll come!’ he said‚ clasping her hands.
She coloured. Perhaps. She would see on Sunday.
Bazilio kept hold of her hands. Their eyes met and grew bright with tears. Greatly troubled‚ she withdrew her hands; she went over and opened both windows‚ letting in the bright‚ public light of day; she sat down on a chair by the piano‚ fearing the shadows‚ the sofa‚ their complicity; and she asked him to sing something‚ because now she feared words as much as she feared silences! Bazilio sang that sensual‚ disquieting melody by Gounod‚ ‘Medjé’. The passionate notes blew through her soul like gusts of wind on a stormy night. And when Bazilio left‚ she remained where she was‚ exhausted‚ as after an excess of feeling.
Sebastião had spent the last three days in Almada‚ at the Rosegal estate‚ where he was having some work done. He had come back early on Monday morning and‚ at around ten o’clock‚ sitting on the seat by the window in the dining room that looked out over the terrace‚ he was whiling away the time until lunch by playing with his cat‚ Rolim‚ sleek as a prelate and ungrateful as a tyrant‚ and friend and confidant to the illustrious Vicência.
It was beginning to grow hot; the garden was already full of sun; the water in the pool beneath the vine trellis glittered with tremulous‚ reflected lights. In their two cages‚ the canaries were in strident voice.
Tia Joana‚ who was quietly setting the lunch table‚ began saying in her slow‚ Minho accent:
‘Gertrudes was here yesterday‚ you know‚ the doctor’s housekeeper‚ and she was telling me some tittle-tattle‚ some nonsense…’
‘What about‚ Tia Joana?’ asked Sebastião.
‘About a young man who she says goes to Luiza’s house every day.’
Sebastião immediately stood up.
‘What did she say‚ Tia Joana?’
Tia Joana was slowly smoothing the table cloth with her plump hand.
‘Oh‚ she talked on and on. Who could it be‚ who couldn’t it be? She says he’s very handsome. He visits every day. In a carriage too. On Saturday‚ he was there until nearly dark. And he was heard singing in the drawing room‚ too‚ and he’s got a voice the like of which you wouldn’t even hear in the theatre.’
Sebastião broke in impatiently:
‘It’s her cousin‚ Tia Joana. Who else would it be? It’s her cousin just back from Brazil.’
Tia Joana smiled broadly.
‘I knew he must be a relative. Because she says he’s very handsome‚ and quite the dandy too!’
And shuffling out to the kitchen‚ she added:
‘I knew he must be a relative‚ I told her so.’
Sebastião ate his breakfast feeling most uneasy. The neighbours had started gossiping good and proper now. It was causing a scandal. And‚ much alarmed‚ he decided to consult Julião about the matter.
He was walking down Rua de São Roque‚ when he saw Julião labouring up the hill towards him in the shade‚ looking hot and sweaty‚ carrying a roll of paper under his arm‚ and with his white trousers all begrimed.
‘I was just coming to see you!’ cried Sebastião.
Julião noticed the unusual note of excitement in his voice.
Had something happened? What was it?
‘A devilishly difficult situation!’ exclaimed Sebastião softly.
They were standing outside a cakeshop. On the shelves in the window behind them stood bottles of malmsey wine with brightly coloured labels‚ transparent red jellies‚ the sickly egg- yolk yellow of doces de ovos‚ and dark brown fruit cake stuck with pathetic pink and white paper carnations. Stale‚ lurid custard tarts grew soft in their puff pastry cases; thick slabs of quince jelly sat melting in the heat; and the dried-up shells of seafood pasties were slowly melding into one. In the centre‚ prominently displayed‚ was a hideous‚ plump lampreia de ovos‚ a cake shaped like an eel‚ with a gaping mouth‚ a disgustingly yellow belly and a back blotched with arabesques of sugar; in its great head bulged two horrible chocolate eyes‚ and its almond teeth were sunk into a tangerine; and all around this rearing monster flies flitted.
‘Let’s go into the café‚’ said Julião. ‘It’s too hot to stand around in the street!’
‘I’ve been really worried‚’ Sebastião was saying‚ ‘very worried indeed. I need to talk to you.’
In the café‚ the dark blue wallpaper and the half-doors reduced the harsh glare of the light and afforded a sense of quiet coolness.
They went and sat at the rear of the café. On the other side of the street‚ the whitewashed façades of the houses shone with a glittering intensity. Behind the counter‚ where glass bottles glinted‚ a sleepy‚ tousled waiter in a double-breasted jacket was nodding off to sleep. A bird was twittering somewhere inside; from behind a green baize door came the leisurely knock of billiard balls; from outside‚ they could hear the occasional loud cry of a muleteer‚ and then‚ for a few moments‚ all these noises would be drowned out by the loud rumble of a carriage coming down the street.
Opposite them‚ a dissolute-looking man was sitting reading a newspaper; his grizzled locks clung to his yellowing skull; his moustache bore the marks of cigarette burns; and his red-rimmed eyes spoke of many late nights. Occasionally he would glance languidly up‚ launch a dark gob of spit onto the sand-strewn floor‚ give the paper a sad little shake and then fix it once more with mournful eyes. When they had entered the café and ordered two iced fruit drinks‚ he had nodded gravely at them.
‘What’s the problem‚ then?’ asked Julião.
Sebastião moved closer to him.
‘It’s about our friends‚ about that cousin‚’ he said in a low voice.
Then he added:
‘You’ve met him‚ haven’t you?’
The sudden memory of his humiliation in Luiza’s drawing room brought the colour to Julião’s face. Proudly and succinctly‚ he said only:
‘Yes‚ I have.’
‘And?’
‘He struck me as a complete and utter ass!’ he exclaimed‚ unable to contain himself.
‘He’s a philanderer‚ isn’t he?’ said Sebastião in horror. ‘Didn’t you think so?’
‘He just struck me as a complete ass!’ Julião said again. ‘So mannered and affected and pretentious‚ always looking at his socks‚ ridiculous socks‚ too‚ that would have looked better on a woman.’
And with a rather sour smile‚ he added:
‘I gave him a good view of my boots. These‚’ he said‚ pointing to his scuffed shoes. ‘I’m very proud of them‚ they’re the boots of a worker.’
For in public he took pride in a poverty which‚ in private‚ was a constant source of humiliation.
Slowly stirring his fruit juice‚ he summed up by saying:
‘Did you know that he was Luiza’s childhood sweetheart?’ asked Sebastião softly‚ as if frightened by the gravity of this confidence.
And then‚ responding immediately to the look of surprise in Julião’s eyes:
‘Well‚ he was. No one knows about it. Not even Jorge. I only found out a short while ago. They were going to be married. When his father went bankrupt‚ he set sail for Brazil and wrote to her from there breaking off their engagement.’
Julião smiled and leaned his head back against the wall.
‘This is like something out of Eugénie Grandet‚ Sebastião! What you’re telling me is straight out of a Balzac novel. It is‚ it’s Eugénie Grandet!’
Sebastião looked at him‚ horrified.
‘It’s impossible to have a serious conversation with you! I give you my word of honour that it’s true!’ he said angrily.
‘Go on‚ Sebastião‚ go on!’
There was a silence. The bald man was now studying the ceiling‚ which was stained with cigarette smoke and the feet of many flies; and with one stubby‚ sticky hand he lovingly smoothed his sparse locks. From the billiard room came the sound of raised voices.
Then‚ as if he had taken a decision‚ Sebastião said brusquely:
‘Well‚ now he goes there every day; he’s there all the time!’
Julião moved further away from him on the bench and looked at him:
‘What are you suggesting‚ Sebastião?’
And with almost jovial vivacity‚ he added:
‘Do you mean this cousin is setting his cap at our Luiza?’
This expression scandalised Sebastião.
‘Julião!’ Then severely: ‘This is no joking matter.’
Julião shrugged.
‘But it’s obvious that he is!’ he exclaimed. ‘Don’t be so naïve! Of course he is. He courted her when she was single‚ and now she’s married‚ he wants her back!’
‘Keep your voice down!’ said Sebastião.
But the waiter was dozing‚ and the bald man had resumed his gloomy reading.
Julião lowered his voice.
‘That’s the way it is‚ Sebastião. Cousin Bazilio is quite right to want pleasure without responsibility!’
And almost whispering in Sebastião’s ear‚ he said:
‘It’s free‚ you see‚ Sebastião! It’s free! You cannot imagine the influence this can have on affairs of the heart!’
He laughed. He was aglow; words and witticisms poured out of him:
‘The husband keeps her clothed‚ shod and fed and makes sure she’s well turned out; he’s the one who watches over her when she’s ill and puts up with her when she’s in a bad mood; he’s the one who takes on all the responsibilities‚ all the boring bits‚ all the children‚ however many happen to come along‚ you know the law. So all the cousin has to do is turn up‚ knock on the door and find her in a clean‚ fresh‚ appetising condition‚ all thanks to the husband‚ and…’
He giggled and leaned back with great satisfaction‚ gleefully rolling himself a cigarette‚ relishing the scandal.
‘It’s wonderful!’ he went on. ‘That’s how all cousins think. Bazilio is a cousin therefore … You know the syllogism‚ Sebastião! You know the syllogism‚ my friend!’ he cried‚ patting Sebastião’s thigh.
‘It’s terrible‚’ muttered Sebastião‚ his head bowed.
Then rebelling against the suspicion gradually taking hold of him:
‘But do you suppose that a decent woman…’
‘I don’t suppose anything!’ replied Julião.
‘Lower your voice‚ man!’
‘I don’t suppose anything‚’ repeated Julião more quietly. ‘I’m simply stating what he’s up to. Now she…’
And he added drily:
‘… if she is a decent woman…’
‘What do you mean “if”!’ cried Sebastião‚ banging his fist down on the stone table top.
‘Coming!’ the waiter sang out sleepily.
The bald man immediately rose to his feet‚ but seeing that the waiter was once more slouching back to the counter‚ yawning‚ and that the other two men were still stirring their fruit juice‚ he leaned his elbows on the table‚ spat‚ picked up his newspaper and stared at it with a desolate eye.
Sebastião said sadly:
‘She’s not the problem. The problem is the neighbours.’
They sat in silence for a moment. The altercation in the billiards room was growing louder.
‘But‚’ Julião began‚ as if emerging from a long period of reflection‚ ‘what’s this about the neighbours? What have they got to do with it?’
‘They see him going into the house. They see the carriage‚ it provokes a great uproar in the street. They’re already talking about it. They’ve even been to Tia Joana with their gossip. I met Neto a few days ago and he had noticed too. Cunha as well. And the man who owns the junk shop downstairs doesn’t miss a thing: there are some very vicious tongues about. Only a matter of days ago‚ I happened to be passing when this cousin of hers got out of his carriage and went into the house‚ and there were immediate confabulations in the street and inquisitive glances up at the window‚ it was terrible! He goes there every day. They know Jorge is away in the Alentejo. This cousin stays there for two or three hours at a time. It’s very serious‚ very serious indeed.’
‘She’s a fool to carry on like that!’
‘She probably doesn’t see the wrong in it.’
Julião shrugged doubtfully.
The baize door to the billiards room opened‚ and a herculean man with a black moustache and a very red face came bursting into the café‚ then stopped and‚ holding the door open‚ shouted back to those inside:
‘Just think yourself lucky I’m not a fighting man!’
A deep voice from the billiards room responded with an obscene remark.
The herculean man furiously slammed the door‚ and strode‚ apoplectic‚ through the café‚ breathing hard; a gaunt young man‚ wearing a winter jacket and white trousers‚ minced after him.
‘What I ought to do‚’ exclaimed the giant‚ brandishing a fist‚ ‘is to smash that scoundrel’s face in!’
The gaunt young man swayed on his feet‚ then said in sweet‚ servile tones:
‘Now fighting won’t solve anything‚ Senhor Correia!’
‘I’m too sensible‚ that’s my trouble!’ roared the Hercules. ‘If I wasn’t always thinking of my wife and children‚ I’d drink that man’s blood!’
And with that‚ he left‚ and his thunderous voice was lost in the noise of the street.
The waiter had turned very pale and and was standing trembling behind the counter; and the bald man‚ who had looked up‚ merely gave a bored smile and returned sadly to his newspaper.
Then Sebastião said thoughtfully:
‘Don’t you think she should be warned?’
Julião shrugged and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
‘Say something!’ implored Sebastião. ‘Would you go and speak to her?’
‘Me?’ cried Julião‚ with a look on his face that dismissed the idea. ‘Me? You must be mad!’
‘But what do you think I should do?’
There was real distress in Sebastião’s voice.
Julião hesitated.
‘Well‚ go if you want to. Tell her that people have begun to notice. Oh‚ I don’t know.’
And he took a long pull on his cigarette.
His silence unsettled Sebastião‚ who said disconsolately:
‘Look‚ I came to you for your advice.’
‘What the devil do you want me to say?’ Julião was getting angry now. ‘It’s her fault and hers alone!’ he insisted‚ seeing the look in Sebastião’s eye. ‘She’s twenty-five years old and has been married for nearly four‚ she should know that you don’t invite a peacock like that into your house every day‚ in a small street‚ with the whole neighbourhood watching. If she does‚ it’s because she likes him.’
‘Julião!’ said Sebastião sternly.
Then‚ controlling his feelings‚ he said urgently:
He fell into a wounded silence.
Julião got up.
‘Look‚ my friend‚ I can only say what I think‚ and you have to do what you think best.’
He called the waiter.
‘No‚ it’s all right‚’ said Sebastião quickly‚ paying the bill.
They were just about to leave when the bald man flung down his newspaper‚ raced over to the door‚ opened it‚ bowed‚ and held out to Sebastião a grubby piece of paper.
Taken by surprise‚ Sebastião mechanically read it out:
‘I‚ the undersigned‚ a former servant of the nation‚ finding myself in reduced circumstances…’
‘I was a close friend of the noble Duke of Saldanha!’ the bald man muttered in a hoarse‚ tearful voice.
Sebastião blushed‚ nodded and discreetly placed two five- tostão coins in his hand.
The man bowed deeply and declared in cavernous tones:
‘A thousand thanks to Your Excellency‚ thank you‚ Count!’