It was gone eight o’clock when the carriage stopped outside the Teatro de São Carlos. A young lad with a hacking cough‚ his jacket fastened over his chest with a pin‚ ran to open the carriage door; and Dona Felicidade smiled contentedly at the sound of her silk train as it swished along the worn carpet in the corridor leading to the boxes.
The curtain was already up. On the dimly lit stage was the classic scene of the alchemist’s cell; wrapped in a monastic robe sat Faust‚ a palsied old man with a superabundance of grizzled beard‚ singing of his disillusion with the sciences and‚ as he did so‚ placing on his heart a hand on which glittered a diamond ring. A vague smell of gas wafted through the theatre. Here and there people coughed and loudly cleared their throat. There were few people as yet. Most were just arriving.
In order to make themselves comfortable in the box‚ Dona Felicidade and Luiza were whispering and exchanging pleading glances and small indignant gestures of refusal.
‘Oh‚ please‚ Dona Felicidade!’
‘No‚ no‚ I’m fine where I am…’
‘No‚ really‚ I can’t allow you to sit there…’
In the end‚ Dona Felicidade sat at the front of the box‚ pushing out her chest. Luiza sat behind her‚ drawing on her gloves‚ while Jorge was trying to sort out the various coats and capes‚ and was infuriated because the same hat had already fallen onto the floor twice in succession.
‘Have you got a foot stool‚ Dona Felicidade?’
‘Yes‚ thank you‚ it’s here somewhere.’ And she felt around with her feet. ‘What a shame we can’t see the royal family!’
The subscribers’ boxes were filling up with gleaming white shirtfronts and hideously tall coiffures bulked out with false topknots. Men were slowly taking their seats with weary nonchalance‚ carefully smoothing their hair. People were talking quietly to each other. There were restless murmurings amongst the young men in double-breasted jackets at the back of the auditorium; and at the entrance to the stalls‚ beneath the gallery‚ some pseudo-military splendour was provided by the lustrous braid on the uniforms of the municipal guards‚ the elaborate helmets of the police and the glinting hilts of sabres.
However‚ the orchestra brass was now blasting out harsh‚ metallic chords‚ suggestive of some supernatural horror; Faust was trembling like a bush in the breeze; there was the sudden clamour of tin sheets being shaken; the scarlet figure of Mephistopheles appeared at the back‚ stepping out with the air of a mountebank‚ eyebrows raised‚ a neat‚ insolent little beard‚ altogether un bel cavalier; and while he greeted the doctor in his powerful voice‚ the two red feathers on his hat waggled mockingly.
Luiza shifted her chair forwards‚ and‚ at this noise‚ heads below turned languidly to look; since she was clearly very pretty‚ various pairs of eyes examined her closely; embarrassed‚ she fixed her eyes gravely on the stage‚ where‚ behind wafting layers of veils‚ intended to give the impression of a vision‚ Marguerite appeared‚ dressed all in white and spinning flax; in the crude glare of the electric light‚ she looked white as plaster‚ and Dona Felicidade thought her as lovely as a saint!
The vision disappeared to the sound of quivering violins. And after singing an aria‚ Faust‚ who had remained motionless at the back of the stage‚ grappled for a moment with his monk’s habit and his beard‚ and emerged as a plump young man‚ all dressed in lilac‚ his face heavily caked with powder‚ and primping his curly hair. The lights went up; the music grew jolly and expansive; Mephistopheles grabbed hold of Faust and eagerly dragged him across the stage. The curtain fell rapidly.
There was a slow rumble as the audience got to its feet. Dona Felicidade‚ slightly troubled by indigestion‚ was fanning herself. She and Luiza studied the families present and the costumes of various ladies‚ and‚ smiling‚ agreed that it was all ‘terribly grand’.
The people in the boxes were talking soberly; here and there‚ a jewel glittered‚ or the light lent a crow-black sheen to the dark heads of hair‚ which were adorned‚ perhaps‚ with a white camellia or the metal glint of a comb; the round lenses of opera glasses moved slowly back and forth‚ pricked with points of light.
In the stalls‚ men leaned back languidly on the now empty benches‚ eyeing the ladies; others stood in silence‚ stroking their gloves; ageing dilettanti with silk handkerchiefs were taking snuff and arguing; Dona Felicidade was particularly intrigued by two Spanish women in green‚ who sat stiffly in the balcony‚ their bordello bodies fixed in exaggeratedly chaste poses.
A skinny‚ dandified colleague of Jorge’s came into their box; he seemed very excited about something and asked if they had heard the latest great scandal. No‚ they hadn’t! And the man‚ gesturing animatedly with small hands sheathed in greenish gloves‚ told them that the wife of Palma‚ the member of parliament‚ had run away!
‘Gone abroad you mean?’
‘Oh‚ no!’ And the man’s voice gave a triumphant squeak. That was the best part! She had moved in with a Spaniard who lived opposite! Wasn’t it divine? That aside‚ however‚ and his voice grew serious now‚ he thought the bass was really excellent!
Then having smiled and peered through his opera glasses‚ he fell silent‚ exhausted by his own gossip‚ occasionally patting Jorge’s knee and now and then uttering a familiar ‘Yes‚ indeed!’ or a friendly ‘So‚ what have you been up to?’
The interval bell was softly ringing. The man tiptoed out. And the curtain slowly rose to reveal a fair in full swing‚ lit by a harsh‚ white light. On the backcloth were the white walls of battlemented houses‚ perched on some wine-growing slope of the Rhine valley. On an inn sign‚ sitting astride a barrel‚ a lazy‚ potbellied King Cambrinus was roaring with laughter and raising a vast‚ German beer mug. And students‚ Jews‚ soldiers‚ and maidens in brightly coloured clothes moved about in automaton fashion to the steady beat of a festive tune.
The waltz developed languidly – a thread of a melody‚ in gentle‚ swaying‚ fleeting spirals; Luiza followed the dancers’ small feet‚ the muscular legs spinning around the stage; and the full‚ short skirts looked like an ever-quickening blur of revolving chambray discs.
‘How lovely!’ Luiza murmured‚ a look of pleasure on her face.
‘Gorgeous‚’ agreed Dona Felicidade‚ rolling her eyes.
Luiza found certain delicate high notes on the piccolo particularly enchanting; and everything – her home‚ Juliana and her vile behaviour – seemed to recede into the depths of a long-forgotten night.
However‚ the jovial Devil came threading his way through the various groups‚ and then‚ with sweeping‚ rapacious gestures‚ he launched into the aria‚ ‘The Golden Calf’. His forthright voice coolly affirmed the power of money; the music was full of the bright‚ tinkling sounds of someone frenziedly sifting through treasures; and the high‚ final notes were as short and sharp as triumphant hammerblows minting the divine gold!
Then Luiza noticed that Dona Felicidade seemed agitated; and following her dark‚ suddenly eager gaze‚ she spotted in the cheaper seats the polished pate of Councillor Acácio‚ who bowed and indicated with a generous wave of his open hand that he would come up and see them soon.
He did so as soon as the curtain went down and immediately congratulated them on choosing this particular night; it was one of the better operas and absolutely all the best people were there. He regretted having missed the first act‚ not that he cared much for the music‚ but he did appreciate its philosophical qualities. And taking Luiza’s opera glasses from her‚ he went on to tell them who was who in the various boxes‚ he listed titles‚ identified heiresses‚ named members of parliament‚ pointed out the literati. Oh‚ he knew the theatre well! He had been a regular visitor for eighteen years!
Dona Felicidade‚ pink-cheeked‚ gazed at him admiringly. The Councillor only regretted that they could not see the royal box from there: the queen‚ as always‚ was looking adorable.
She was in velvet. He wasn’t sure whether purple or dark blue. He would find out and come back and tell her.
But when the curtain rose‚ he remained seated behind Luiza and immediately began explaining how that woman there (Siebel‚ picking flowers in Marguerite’s garden)‚ even though she was only playing a supporting role‚ earned five hundred mil réis a month …
‘But despite such salaries‚ they nearly always die in poverty‚’ he said reprovingly. ‘Well‚ it’s the life of vice they lead‚ the late-night suppers‚ the orgies‚ the risky business ventures…’
The garden gate opened and Marguerite‚ dressed like a virgin‚ her hair in two long blonde plaits‚ walked slowly onto the stage‚ pulling the petals off a daisy as she did so. She was deep in thought‚ talking to herself‚ musing on her love: the sweet creature feels about her the heavy atmosphere and wishes that her mother might come back to her.
As Marguerite sang the melancholy ballad of the King of Thule‚ Luiza’s eyes filled with melancholy; the melody evoked for her a pale country bathed in cold moonlight‚ beside a mournful sea‚ somewhere in the far north‚ a land of spiritual loves or of aristocratic sadnesses brooded over on a terrace‚ in a shady garden …
The Councillor‚ however‚ urged them to pay attention:
‘This is it! Listen.This is the high point.’
The girl swayed as she knelt before the casket of jewels‚ her voice quavering; she clutched the necklace ecstatically to her; she put on the earrings with an exaggerated show of coquetry; and from her wide open mouth – to a murmur of bourgeois approval – came a series of shrill‚ crystalline trills.
The Councillor said discreetly:
‘Oh‚ bravo! Bravo!’
He declared excitedly that this was the finest part of the opera‚ the one that really put the sopranos to the test.
Dona Felicidade was almost afraid that the singer might burst something in her throat. She was concerned too about the jewels. Were they false? Were they hers?
‘It’s to tempt her‚ isn’t it?’
‘It’s a German play‚’ the Councillor told her in a low voice.
But Mephistopheles was luring the good Dame Martha away; Faust and Marguerite disappeared into the conspiring shadows of the aphrodisiac garden‚ and the Councillor remarked that‚ if truth be told‚ the whole of that act really was a touch lewd.
Dona Felicidade murmured‚ half-censorious‚ half-ecstatic:
‘I bet you’ve had your fair share of such scenes‚ you rascal!’
The Councillor stared at her indignantly:
‘Certainly not‚ madam! What‚ bring dishonour to the very bosom of a family!’
Luiza smiled and said ‘Sh!’ She was interested now. It had grown dark; a beam of electric light filled the garden with vague‚ bluish moonlight‚ beneath which the rounded shapes of trees stood out against an inky blackness; and Faust and Marguerite‚ faint with passion‚ their arms about each other‚ sang their duet in dying tones; a mournful music rose up from the orchestra‚ music of a delicate‚ modern sensuality‚ but tinged with an almost religious devotion; the tenor launched into his song with a languid sway of his hips‚ his hand pressed to his chest‚ his eyes clouded with tears; soaring away from the languorous bowing of the cellos‚ his song rose up to the stars:
Beneath the pale moonlight
Let me gaze upon your face …
Luiza’s heart beat faster‚ for she had suddenly had a vision of herself sitting on the sofa in her drawing room‚ still breathless and sobbing after the act of adultery‚ and of Bazilio‚ cigar in mouth‚ distractedly picking out the tune of that aria on the piano. ‘Beneath the pale moonlight‚ let me gaze upon your face …’ All her misery flowed from that night. And suddenly‚ like long‚ muffling‚ funereal veils‚ memories of Juliana‚ the house and Sebastião came to darken her soul.
She looked at the clock. It was ten. What would be happening there now?
‘Are you feeling unwell?’ asked Jorge.
‘A little.’
Marguerite‚ in a state of voluptuous languor‚ was leaning on her windowsill. Faust ran to her. They embraced. And amidst the Devil’s guffaws and the sawing violins‚ the curtain fell‚ providing a modest ellipsis.
Dona Felicidade‚ face ablaze‚ asked for some water. Jorge hurried to her aid; would she like a cake‚ a sorbet perhaps? The excellent lady hesitated: she liked the very chic idea of eating a sorbet‚ but was constrained by her terror of getting the colic. She joined Luiza at the rear of the box and sat looking at the audience‚ feeling vaguely weary; there was a slow‚ low whispering; people yawned discreetly; and the cigarette smoke‚ wafting in from outside‚ created a barely perceptible mist that filled the room and drifted up to the chandelier‚ slightly dimming the lights. When Jorge left the box‚ the Councillor went with him; he was going upstairs to have a dish of jelly.
‘That’s my supper on the nights when I come to the theatre‚’ he said.
He returned shortly afterwards‚ dabbing his lips with a silk handkerchief‚ to rejoin Jorge‚ who was waiting on the landing near the entrance to the stalls‚ smoking a cigarette.
‘Look at that‚ Councillor‚’ he said indignantly‚ indicating the wall‚ ‘isn’t it shocking!’
Someone had drawn huge obscene figures on the whitewashed wall with the blackened butt of a cigar; and some other prudent person‚ a stickler for clarity‚ had written underneath‚ in a fine italic hand‚ the correct sexual terminology.
Disgusted‚ Jorge said:
‘But ladies walk past here! They might see this and read what’s written! It’s the kind of thing one only gets in Portugal!’
The Councillor said:
‘The authorities should definitely intervene …’ Then he added cheerfully: ‘But it was probably some young lads who managed to get hold of a cigar. It’s a bit of fun really.’ And he recalled smilingly: ‘On one occasion‚ the Count de Vila Rica‚ who really is a most amusing fellow‚ most amusing‚ insisted on giving me a cigar butt so that I could do just such a drawing …’ Lowering his voice‚ he said: ‘I taught him a severe lesson‚ though. I took the cigar…’
‘And smoked it?’
‘No‚ I used it to write with.’
‘What‚ an obscenity?’
The Councillor drew back and said sternly:
‘You know my character‚ Jorge! Surely you don’t imagine that I …’ He calmed himself. ‘No‚ no‚ I took the cigar and I wrote in a firm hand: VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD!’
The interval bell was ringing and they returned to their box. Luiza‚ who was still feeling unwell‚ preferred not to sit near the front. And so the Councillor gravely took her place‚ next to Dona Felicidade. It was a moment of exquisite pleasure for that plump lady. They were there together‚ like bride and groom! Her abundant bosom rose and fell: she could see them leaving afterwards‚ arm in arm‚ getting into a small coupé‚ drawing up outside the marital home‚ walking across the bedroom carpet. Beads of sweat appeared on her temples‚ and seeing the Councillor smiling amiably at her‚ his bald head gleaming in the gaslight‚ she felt a profound sense of gratitude for the healer‚ who‚ at that very moment‚ in deepest Galicia‚ would be sticking pins into a heart of wax!
Then‚ suddenly‚ the Councillor clapped his hand to his head‚ picked up his hat and hurried out. They all exchanged worried looks. Dona Felicidade turned pale. Could he have been taken ill! Dear God! She was already mumbling a prayer.
But he returned at once and said in a triumphant voice:
‘It’s dark blue!’
They stared at him with wide‚ uncomprehending eyes.
‘Her Majesty’s dress! I promised to find out for you and I did!’
And he solemnly resumed his seat‚ saying to Luiza:
‘You really shouldn’t hide yourself away in a corner like that‚ Dona Luiza! At your age! In the flower of your youth‚ when one sees everything in life through rose-tinted spectacles!’
She smiled. She was feeling very uneasy now. She kept glancing at the clock. She felt ill; her feet were icy cold and a slight fever was making her head feel heavy. Her thoughts were fixed on the house‚ on Juliana‚ on Sebastião‚ thoughts shot through with premonitions‚ hopes‚ fears … And she watched‚ without understanding‚ as a crowd of soldiers dressed in parti-coloured uniforms and bearing obsolete weapons proceeded across the stage‚ then stopped‚ marching enthusiastically on the spot‚ their feet kicking up a faint cloud of dust from the unswept boards. A vigorous chorus of voices rang out: it was the proud‚ festive march of the German soldiers‚ celebrating the joy of their victorious forays throughout the lands of wine‚ their mercenaries’ purses clinking with gold coins! And her eyes followed a burly‚ bearded fellow who‚ above the square hats of the crossbowmen‚ was monotonously waving a large square piece of cloth: the flag of the Holy Empire‚ black‚ red and gold!
Then a noise erupted from the rear stalls. Loud voices were arguing. ‘Quiet‚ there! Quiet!’ someone cried. Journalists sitting in the balcony stood on tiptoe on their straw seats. Four policeman and two municipal guards appeared at the rear door; and then‚ after a joke and some laughter‚ they led away a tottering‚ ashen-faced youth‚ the left side of his plush jacket all stained with vomit.
Silence fell once more: the backcloth was shaken slightly by the departing elbows of the festive soldiers and populace; and on the deserted stage‚ with‚ to the right‚ the swaying door of a cathedral and‚ to the left‚ the sad‚ low door of a bourgeois house‚ Valentin‚ wearing a long goatee‚ was standing near one side of the stage‚ passionately kissing a medal. But Luiza was not listening to him. She was thinking with aching heart: ‘What will Sebastião be doing now?’
At nine o’clock‚ in a piercing northeast wind that made the gaslights flicker‚ Sebastião was making his slow way to the house of a police commissioner‚ a distant cousin of his‚ Vicente Azurara. An old servant woman‚ as wrinkled as a pippin‚ led him into the study‚ where the commissioner was nursing a bad cold: he found him with a large cape around his shoulders‚ his feet wrapped in a blanket‚ and sipping some hot grog while he read Paul de Kock’s L’Homme aux trois culottes. As soon as Sebastião came in‚ he removed his spectacles from his hooked nose and‚ looking up at him with small‚ watery eyes‚ cried:
‘I’ve had this damnable cold for three days now‚ and I can’t seem to shake it off …’ And he mumbled a few curses‚ drawing his thin‚ gnarled hand across his dark‚ gaunt face made fierce by a large‚ grizzled moustache.
Sebastião commiserated; he wasn’t surprised‚ given the weather they’d been having! He recommended sulphur water and boiled milk.
‘If the cold doesn’t go away by tomorrow‚’ said the commissioner despondently‚ ‘I’ll try drinking half a bottle of gin. It’ll be a case of kill or cure! Anyway‚ what’s new?’
Sebastião coughed and said that he too had been ill‚ then‚ dragging his chair over to his cousin and patting his knee‚ he said:
‘Vicente‚ if I were to ask you for a policeman to accompany me to a house‚ just to put the fear of God into someone‚ to make them give back something they stole‚ you’d give the order‚ wouldn’t you?’
‘What order?’ Vicente asked slowly‚ his head down‚ his bloodshot eyes trained on Sebastião.
‘To come with me and just be there. That’s all. It’s a bit of a strange case … Just to put the fear of God into them … You know I’d be useless at that. It’s a matter of getting someone to return something they stole … without causing too much of a fuss…’
‘What was it? Clothes? Money?’
The commissioner pensively combed his moustache with long‚ thin‚ nicotine-stained fingers.
Sebastião hesitated.
‘Yes. Clothes‚ that kind of thing … I simply want to avoid any scandal. You understand…’
Vicente muttered gravely‚ and again fixed him with his eyes:
‘You just want the policeman to be there.’ He cleared his throat loudly. Then‚ frowning‚ he asked: ‘It’s nothing political‚ is it?’
The commissioner tucked the blanket more tightly around his feet and rolled his eyes fiercely:
‘And it doesn’t involve anyone influential?’
‘Of course not!’
‘You just want a policeman to be there with you‚’ Vicente repeated thoughtfully. ‘Yes‚ why not‚ you’re a decent sort of chap. Hand me that file from on top of the chest of drawers.’
He took out a sheet of lined paper and studied it‚ positioning his spectacles on his nose‚ and pondered‚ with one hand clasping his head:
‘What about Mendes … will he do?’
Sebastião‚ who did not know who Mendes was‚ said at once:
‘Yes‚ whoever you like. It’s purely for show.’
‘Mendes it is then. He’s a great big fellow. You can trust him‚ he used to be in the Municipal Guard.’
He asked Sebastião to hand him the inkstand and he slowly wrote out the order‚ re-read it twice‚ crossed the t’s‚ held it to the glass of the oil lamp to dry‚ then solemnly folded it up:
‘You’ll find him in the second division!’
‘Thank you‚ Vicente! You’re doing me an enormous favour. Thank you. And keep warm‚ man. And don’t forget‚ sulphur water from the pharmacist in Rua de São Roque‚ in half a cup of boiled milk. And thank you again. Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘No. Just slip Mendes a tip. You can trust him‚ he used to be in the Municipal Guard‚ you know.’
And replacing his spectacles‚ he resumed his reading of L’Homme aux trois culottes.
Half an hour later‚ Sebastião‚ followed by the strapping figure of Mendes‚ who marched along in military fashion‚ arms slightly bent‚ was heading for Jorge’s house. He had no definite plan. He assumed that Juliana‚ coming face to face‚ at that time of night‚ with a policeman and his sabre‚ would be terrified and‚ assailed by thoughts of the courtroom and prison and exile to the coast of Africa‚ would hand over the letters at once‚ begging for mercy! And what then? He was thinking vaguely of paying her passage to Brazil or giving her five hundred mil réis to set herself up somewhere far away‚ in the provinces … He would see. The main thing was to frighten her!
When Juliana opened the door and saw the policeman coming up the stairs behind Sebastião‚ she did indeed turn pale and exclaim:
‘Heavens! Whatever’s wrong?’
She was wrapped in a black shawl‚ and in the shadow cast on the wall by the oil lamp she was holding‚ it was her monstrous head of false hair that seemed most prominent.
‘Senhora Juliana‚ would you mind bringing a lamp into the drawing room?’ Sebastião said calmly.
She looked at the policeman with a troubled‚ glittering eye.
‘What’s happened‚ sir? Heavens! The master and mistress are out. If I’d known‚ I wouldn’t even have opened the door … Has something happened? What’s all this nonsense about?’
‘It’s nothing‚’ said Sebastião‚ opening the drawing-room door‚ ‘everything’s fine.’
He himself struck a match to light one of the candles in the three-branched candlestick‚ conjuring out of the darkness glimmers of gold from the frames around the engravings‚ the pale painted face of Jorge’s mother‚ the glancing surface of the mirror …
‘Do sit down‚ Senhor Mendes!’
Mendes perched soberly on the edge of the chair‚ with his hand on his waist‚ the sabre hanging between his knees.
‘This is the person‚’ said Sebastião‚ pointing to Juliana‚ who was standing‚ stunned‚ in the doorway.
She drew back‚ deathly pale.
‘Is this some kind of prank‚ Senhor Sebastião?’
‘No‚ not at all.’
He took the oil lamp from her and‚ touching her lightly on the arm‚ said:
‘Let’s go into the dining room.’
‘But what is it? Is it something to do with me? This is ridiculous!’
Sebastião closed the door of the dining room‚ put the oil lamp down on the table‚ on which there were still a few crumbs of cheese on a plate and a little wine in a glass‚ took a few steps‚ all the while nervously clicking his fingers‚ then stopped suddenly in front of Juliana:
‘Give me the letters you stole from your mistress.’
Juliana made as if to run to the window to call for help.
Sebastião seized her by the arm and forced her to sit down on a chair.
‘There’s no point calling for help‚ the police are already here. Now give me those letters or it’s prison for you!’
Juliana had a sudden vision of a dark prison cell‚ a bowl of gruel‚ a mattress on the cold flagstones …
‘But what have I done?’ she stammered. ‘W-what have I done?’
‘You stole those letters. Now give them to me‚ hurry up.’
Juliana was sitting on the edge of the chair‚ desperately clasping and unclasping her hands‚ and muttering through clenched teeth:
‘The cow! The cow!’
Sebastião‚ growing impatient‚ took hold of the doorhandle.
‘Wait‚ you wretch!’ she shouted‚ leaping to her feet. She fixed him with rancorous eyes‚ undid her bodice‚ plunged her hand into her bosom and pulled out a wallet. Then‚ stamping hard on the floor with her foot‚ she screamed:
‘No‚ no‚ no!’
‘Right‚ that’s it‚ you’ll be sleeping in a prison cell tonight.’ He half-opened the door. ‘Senhor Mendes!’
‘Oh‚ take them‚ then!’ she shouted‚ hurling the wallet at him. And shaking her fist‚ she added: ‘And may you rot in hell‚ you scoundrel!’
Sebastião picked up the wallet. It contained three letters; one‚ very crumpled‚ was from Luiza; he read the first line: ‘My beloved Bazilio’‚ and‚ his face very pale‚ he immediately put all the letters away in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he opened the door: Mendes’ imposing bulk was there in the shadows.
‘It’s all sorted out‚ Senhor Mendes‚’ Sebastião said‚ his voice trembling slightly. ‘I won’t need to take up any more of your time.’
The man bowed silently‚ and when‚ on the landing‚ Sebastião slipped a one libra coin into his hand‚ Mendes again bowed respectfully and said in unctuous tones:
‘If you ever require me again‚ sir‚ ask for number 64‚ Mendes‚ formerly of the Municipal Guard. Don’t bother to see me out‚ sir. At your service‚ sir. My wife and children are most grateful. No‚ there’s no need for thanks‚ sir. Just remember‚ number 64‚ Mendes‚ formerly of the Municipal Guard.’
Sebastião closed the door and went back into the dining room. Juliana was still sitting on the chair‚ a defeated figure; but as soon as she saw him‚ she sprang up.
‘The strumpet went and told you everything‚ didn’t she? You were the one who set this little trap. I suppose you’ve slept with her too‚ have you!’
Sebastião‚ white-faced‚ struggled to control himself.
‘Go and get your hat‚ woman. Senhor Jorge dismissed you from your post. You can send for your trunks tomorrow.’
‘I’ll tell him everything!’ she screamed. ‘May the roof fall in on me if I don’t tell him every little detail. Everything! The letters she received‚ where she went to meet the man. She lay with him right there in the drawing room‚ I found one of her hair combs there; it must have fallen out in the tussle. Even the cook heard them moaning and groaning!’
‘Be quiet!’ bawled Sebastião‚ bringing his fist down so hard on the table that he set the china on the sideboard trembling and the canaries fluttering. Then‚ white-lipped‚ his voice quavering‚ he said: ‘The police have your name‚ you thief. You say one word‚ and you’ll go straight to prison and be on the next boat to Africa! You didn’t just steal the letters; you stole clothes‚ chemises‚ sheets‚ dresses …’ He could see that Juliana was about to speak‚ to cry out. ‘I know‚ I know‚’ he said loudly‚ ‘she gave them to you‚ but only because you forced her to‚ because you threatened her. You took everything from her. That’s theft! That deserves transportation to Africa! And as for telling Senhor Jorge everything‚ go ahead. Go on. See if he believes you! He’ll beat you black and blue‚ you thief!’
She was grinding her teeth. She was trapped! They had everything on their side – the police‚ the courthouse‚ the prison‚ Africa! She‚ on the other hand‚ had nothing!
All her loathing for ‘the dumpling’ exploded. She called her every obscene name under the sun. She invented infamies.
‘She’s worse than the prostitutes in the Bairro Alto! Whereas I‚’ she was shouting now‚ ‘I’m a decent woman‚ and no man can boast of ever having touched my body. No scoundrel ever so much as saw the colour of my skin. But that slut …’ She had thrown off her shawl and was desperately tugging at the neck of her dress. ‘It was shameful what went on in this house! And after what I went through with that old witch of an aunt! And this is how they repay me! I’ve a good mind to go to the newspapers. I saw her myself with the dandy; she was all over him‚ like the bitch on heat she is!’
Sebastião was listening to her reluctantly‚ feeling a kind of painful curiosity in these details; he felt an intense desire to strangle her‚ and yet he devoured every word she said. When she stopped talking‚ her chest was heaving.
‘Go on‚ put your hat on and get out of here!’
Juliana‚ by then half-crazed with rage‚ eyes bulging‚ went over to him and spat in his face!
Then‚ suddenly‚ her mouth gaped open‚ she bent backwards‚ clutching both hands to her heart‚ and collapsed‚ with a soft‚ crumpling sound‚ like a bundle of clothes.
Sebastião bent down and shook her; she was rigid‚ and a reddish foam appeared at the corners of her mouth.
He grabbed his hat‚ hurtled down the stairs and ran down to Rua da Patriarcal. An empty coupé was passing; he jumped in and told the driver to take him ‘as fast as he could’ to Julião’s house; and he forced Julião‚ still in his slippers and with no shirt collar on‚ to come with him back to the house.
‘It’s Juliana‚ she’s dead‚’ he stammered‚ deathly pale.
And on the way‚ amidst the rumble of wheels and the rattle of windows‚ he gave a garbled account of why he had gone to Luiza’s house and how he had found Juliana in high dudgeon over her dismissal‚ and how she had been talking agitatedly and waving her arms about‚ when she had suddenly collapsed.
‘It must have been her heart. It could have happened at any time‚’ said Julião‚ drawing on his cigar.
The carriage stopped. However‚ Sebastião‚ in his confusion‚ had locked the door as he left. The only person in was the dead woman! The coachman offered them his skeleton key. It worked.
‘Don’t you fancy a little ride down to Dafundo‚ gentlemen?’ he said‚ putting the tip in his pocket.
But seeing them flinging open the door‚ he muttered scornfully‚ whipping his horses:
‘Obviously not.’
They went in.
In the small courtyard‚ the silence in the house struck Sebastião as truly terrifying. He went fearfully up the stairs‚ which seemed endless; heart pounding‚ he was hoping that she might merely be sleeping after a simple fainting fit or already up and on her feet‚ pale‚ but breathing.
No. She was just as he had left her‚ stretched out on the rug‚ her arms flung wide‚ her fingers like claws. The convulsive movement of her legs had made her skirts ride up‚ revealing her bony shins‚ her pink-striped stockings and her carpet slippers; the oil lamp‚ which Sebastião had left on a chair nearby‚ shed a livid light on her head and rigid cheeks; her twisted mouth cast a shadow; and her horribly wide eyes‚ fixed by sudden death‚ were covered by a kind of mist‚ as if by a diaphanous spider’s web. All around‚ everything seemed even more motionless than usual‚ filled by a deathly stillness. The silver gleamed dully on the sideboard; the cuckoo clock ticked uninterruptedly on.
Julião felt her pulses‚ then got up‚ brushing off his hands.
‘Dead as a doornail‚’ he said. ‘We’ll have to get her out of here. Where’s her room?’
Sebastião‚ looking very pale‚ pointed up the stairs.
Julião said:
‘All right. You drag her‚ and I’ll carry the lamp.’ And seeing that Sebastião did not move‚ he asked‚ laughing: ‘You’re not afraid‚ are you?’
He said mockingly that it was just inert matter‚ like picking up a doll! Sebastião‚ with beads of sweat standing out on his temples‚ got hold of the corpse beneath the armpits and began‚ slowly‚ to drag it along. Julião went ahead‚ lighting the way; as a joke‚ he hummed the opening bars of the march from Faust. Sebastião was shocked and said in an unsteady voice:
‘If you’re not careful‚ I’ll just drop everything and leave…’
‘All right‚ all right‚ I’ll respect your girlish nerves!’ said Julião‚ bowing.
They continued on in silence. That scrawny body was like a lead weight. He was breathing hard. On the stairs‚ one of the corpse’s slippers fell off and rolled down to the bottom. Then‚ with horror‚ Sebastião felt something bumping against his knees: it was the dead woman’s false hair‚ hanging by a thread.
They lay her down on the bed; Julião‚ saying that they should keep up traditions‚ folded her arms over her chest and closed her eyes.
He stood looking at her for a moment:
‘Ugly creature!’ he murmured‚ placing a grubby towel over her face.
As he was leaving‚ he looked around at the room in wonderment.
‘The useless wretch was better provided for than me.’
He closed the door and locked it.
‘Requiescat in pace‚’ he said.
And in silence they went back down the stairs.
As they went into the drawing room‚ Sebastião‚ still very pale‚ put a hand on Julião’s shoulder:
‘So you think it was an aneurism?’
‘Oh‚ yes. She fell into a fit of rage and quite simply exploded. It’s a textbook case.’
‘And if she hadn’t got angry today…’
‘It would have happened tomorrow. She was on her last legs. Leave the creature in peace. She’s beginning to rot even as we speak‚ let’s not bother her.’
Then‚ rubbing his hands together to warm them‚ he declared that he could do with ‘a bite to eat’. In the cupboard he found a piece of cold veal and half a bottle of Colares wine. He sat down at the table and with his mouth full and holding the bottle high above his glass to pour the wine‚ he said:
‘I suppose you’ve heard the news‚ Sebastião.’
‘No‚ what news?’
‘My rival got the job.’
Sebastião murmured:
‘Oh‚ no‚ that’s dreadful!’
‘Oh‚ I could see it coming‚’ said Julião‚ making a careless gesture. ‘I was going to kick up a fuss about it‚ but …’ he giggled‚ ‘they won me over! I’ve been given a post as a doctor! They tossed me a bone!’
‘Really?’ said Sebastião. ‘Why‚ that’s good news‚ man‚ congratulations. So what now?’
‘I’ll just have to gnaw the bone‚ I suppose.’
They had also promised him the first vacancy that occurred. And the post as a doctor wasn’t bad. Things were definitely improving …
‘But only very slightly. I’m still not out of the mire yet.’
After a silence‚ he said that he was tired of medicine. It was a dead end. He should have been a lawyer‚ a politician‚ an intriguer. That’s what he was born for!
He got up and‚ taking long strides about the room‚ cigar in hand‚ stridently set out his ambitious plan: ‘The country is ripe for some willing Machiavelli! The current lot are all old and ailing‚ afflicted by bladder conditions and ancient cases of syphilis! The whole thing is rotten inside and out! The old constitutional world is about to fall to pieces. They need men!’
And planting himself before Sebastião‚ he went on:
‘This country‚ my friend‚ has‚ until now‚ got by with governments who have been living on their wits. Come the revolution‚ all that will be swept away‚ and the country will have to find people with principles. But are there any people with principles? Has anyone around here got any principles at all? No one: they might have debts‚ secret vices‚ false teeth‚ but they haven’t got so much as half a principle between them. Consequently‚ if three jokers were to go to the trouble of concocting half a dozen serious‚ rational‚ modern‚ positive principles‚ the country would go down on its knees and beg them: Gentlemen‚ do me the great honour of saddling me up!’ Now I should‚ by rights‚ be one of those jokers. That was what I was born for! And it infuriates me that while other idiots‚ more astute and more far-sighted‚ will be there at the top of the tree‚ shining in the sun‚ ‘in the beautiful Portuguese sun’‚ as the Spanish operettas put it‚ I will be prescribing poultices for devout old ladies or binding up the rupture of some decrepit High Court judge.’
Sebastião did not reply; his thoughts were with the woman lying dead upstairs.
‘Stupid country‚ stupid life!’ growled Julião.
At that moment‚ a carriage drove up the street and stopped at the door.
‘The prince and princess have arrived!’ said Julião. They went downstairs at once.
Jorge was helping Luiza out of the carriage when Sebastião flung open the door and announced bluntly:
‘There’s been an accident.’
‘Not a fire?’ shouted Jorge‚ turning around in great alarm.
‘No‚ it’s Juliana‚ she’s died of an aneurism‚’ said Julião from the darkness of the doorway.
‘Good God!’ Jorge‚ greatly shaken‚ was feeling in his pocket for change to give to the coachman.
‘Well‚ I’m not going in there!’ exclaimed Dona Felicidade‚ appearing at the carriage door‚ her broad face framed in a white shawl.
‘Nor me!’ said Luiza‚ trembling.
‘But where else can we go‚ my dear?’ cried Jorge.
Sebastião suggested they stay at his house. There was always his mother’s room; it would only be a matter of putting some sheets on the bed.
‘Oh‚ yes‚ let’s go there‚ Jorge. Please‚ it would be for the best!’ said Luiza pleadingly.
Jorge was unsure. The street patrol were passing by further up the street and paused when they saw a group of people standing in the light from the carriage lantern. Much to his chagrin‚ Jorge was forced to agree.
‘Bloody woman‚ fancy dying at this hour! The carriage will take you home‚ Dona Felicidade.’
‘And me‚’ said Julião‚ ‘I’m still in my slippers.’
Dona Felicidade then recalled‚ as a Christian‚ that there really should be someone to watch over the dead woman.
‘Oh‚ for heaven’s sake‚ Dona Felicidade‚’ exclaimed Julião‚ getting into the carriage and banging the door.
But Dona Felicidade insisted; it would show a lack of religion to do otherwise! At least put a couple of candles next to her and call a priest.
‘Drive on‚ coachman!’ bawled Julião impatiently.
The carriage turned around. And Dona Felicidade‚ leaning out of the window‚ with Julião tugging at her clothes‚ was still shouting:
‘It’s a mortal sin! It shows a lack of reverence! At least a couple of candles!’
The carriage set off at a trot.
Luiza was also beset by scruples‚ they really should send for someone.
But Jorge became angry. Who could they possibly call at that hour? It was all a lot of devout nonsense! She was dead and that was that! They would see that she was buried‚ but as to watching over the wretch! Should they perhaps organise a lying-in-state? Did Luiza want to watch over her?
‘Jorge‚ please!’ murmured Sebastião.
‘No‚ really‚ it’s too much! You’re just trying to make matters even more complicated than they already are!’
Luiza lowered her head‚ and while Jorge‚ still cursing‚ stayed behind to lock up the house‚ she walked down the street‚ on Sebastião’s arm.
‘She had a fit of rage and died‚’ he said quietly.
Jorge continued to complain all the way down the street. Why couldn’t they sleep in their own house? It really was taking these womanish fancies too far!
Finally‚ Luiza said to him‚ almost in tears:
‘Do you want to torment me still more and make me even more ill‚ Jorge?’
He said nothing‚ furiously chewing on his cigar. Sebastião‚ in order to calm Luiza‚ suggested sending his black servant‚ Tia Vicência‚ to watch over Juliana.
‘Perhaps that would be best‚’ murmured Luiza.
They reached Sebastião’s door.The rustle of Luiza’s silk dress in his house at this late hour troubled him; his hand shook as he lit the candles in the drawing room. He went to wake Tia Vicência so that she could make them some tea; he himself hurriedly got the sheets out of the trunks‚ happy to play the host. When he came back into the drawing room‚ Luiza was alone and looking very pale‚ sitting at one end of the sofa.
‘Where’s Jorge?’ he asked.
‘He went to your study‚ Sebastião‚ to write to the priest about the funeral.’ Then with shining eyes‚ she said in a low‚ frightened voice: ‘Did you manage…’
Sebastião took Juliana’s wallet containing the letters out of his pocket. She grasped it eagerly and‚ with a sudden movement‚ took his hand and kissed it.
Jorge came in just then‚ smiling.
‘So‚ is the young lady feeling better now?’
‘Oh‚ much better‚’ she said‚ with a sigh of relief.
They went to have some tea. Sebastião‚ blushing slightly‚ recounted to Jorge how he had gone to the house and how Juliana had told him of her dismissal‚ growing more and more worked up as she talked‚ until suddenly‚ just like that‚ she had dropped down dead.
He added:
‘Poor woman!’
Luiza watched him telling these lies and gazed at him adoringly.
‘But where was Joana?’ asked Jorge.
Luiza‚ without batting an eyelid‚ replied:
‘Oh‚ I forgot to tell you … She asked permission to go and see an aunt of hers who’s very ill and who lives near Belas. She said she would be back tomorrow. Another drop of tea‚ Sebastião?’
They subsequently forgot about sending Vicência‚ and so no one watched over the dead woman.