Out in the yard, where Félix Ventura buried the narrow body of Edmundo Barata dos Reis, now flowers the ruddy glory of a bougainvillea. It grew fast. It’s already covering a good part of the wall. It hangs down over the passageway, out there, in a cry of praise – or perhaps of accusation – to which no one pays any heed. A few days ago I summoned up the courage to go out into the yard for the first time. I scaled the wall, my heart pounding. The sun was shining on the shards of glass. I slipped carefully between them, and looked out over the world. I saw a big, wide road, muddy red, with tired old houses cluttering up the other side. People passed by, impervious to the bougainvillea’s cries. I was overwhelmed by the vast, cloudless sky, the heavy silence of the light, a flock of birds circling. I hurried back to the safety of the house. Maybe I’ll go back out sometime if the weather clouds a bit. The sun dazes me, hurts my skin, but I would like to take a more leisurely look at those people passing…
Félix has been sad. He’s hardly been talking to me. But today he broke his silence. He came into the house, took off his dark glasses, put them away in the inside pocket of his jacket, then took the jacket off and hung it on the back of a chair. Then he opened a folder and took out a small square yellow envelope.
‘Another photo has arrived – you see, my friend? She still hasn’t forgotten us.’
He opened the envelope with great care, trying not to tear it. A Polaroid. A river lit up by a rainbow. In the top right-hand corner, you could make out the silhouette of a naked youth diving into the water. In the margin, Ângela Lúcia had written in blue ink: Plácidas Águs, Pará, and the date. Félix went to get a little box of pins, those little ones with coloured round heads. He chose one, a bright, ludicrous green, and fixed the photograph to the wall. Then he took three steps back to consider the effect. The living room wall facing the window is now almost completely covered in photographs. All together they make up a kind of stained-glass window; it reminds me of David Hockney’s experiments with Polaroids. Shades of blue predominate.
Félix Ventura turned the big wicker chair towards the wall and sat down. He spent some time there, motionless, silent, watching the fine evening light dying as it met the immortal light of the Polaroids. His eyes filled with tears. With a handkerchief he wiped them away. Then he said:
‘I know. You want me to forgive her. I’m so sorry my friend, but I can’t. I don’t think I can do it.’