The next day, at around eleven o’clock, Vítor was at work, in the office of Dr Caminha, who was in court that morning. Vítor, his files open before him, his legs outstretched, was sitting at his desk smoking and staring up at the ceiling. He was filled by an enervating sense of tedium and emptiness. The certainty that Genoveva loved Dâmaso had almost made him hate her; he despised her, found her banal, simple, stupid. Fancy falling in love with that dolt! Even consoling himself with the thought that a woman of such inferior mind could not possibly deserve someone with his beauty of soul did not prevent him from desiring her with a constant and growing intensity. He despised her mind, but he adored her body, and since he was not permitted to adore it, he did his best to hate her.
He had also lost touch with his lover, Aninhas, and so, abandoning all hope of happiness in love, he had attempted to lose himself in the joys of literature. He had tried to pour all his scorn for society and life into writing odes, but, after nights spent cudgelling his brains and smoking cigarette after cigarette, despairing of finding rhymes or ideas, he had decided that in order to be an artist, he must first be happy; and since happiness did not come and art did not inspire him, he was vaguely considering a career as a libertine, getting drunk and drowning his sense of tedium in orgies. But to do that he needed money, and thus, disappointed in love, artistically sterile, with nothing but fluff in his pockets, he felt like a wanderer who finds all doors closed to him.
Suddenly, outside in the waiting room, he heard Dâmaso’s voice saying urgently:
‘Is Senhor Vítor da Silva in? I need to speak to him.’
The clerk lifted the curtain at the door and, thrusting in the upper half of his large body, said in a gru? voice:
‘There’s a posh gent here asking for you, sir.’
‘Ah, you’re alone,’ said Dâmaso, putting on his hat again. Then, without pausing and evidently upset, he said:
‘Your uncle’s really done it this time!’
Vítor looked at him astonished, eyes wide.
‘He met Madame de Molineux and insulted her!’
Dâmaso plumped himself down in Dr Caminha’s special chair, only to leap up again with a terrible yell. He had sat on the point of a squat, yellow nail. Dr Caminha hated anyone else sitting on his green velvet cushion when he was out, and to avoid such a crime occurring, he always left the chair primed for revenge; whenever that powerful legal orator – as some described him – was out of the office, he would leave a small nail on the seat of the chair; it was his favourite prank.
On Vítor’s advice, Dâmaso had run to the kitchen where there was a fragment of mirror near the basin. He returned feeling calmer. It was just a scratch. He was very pale, though, and described Dr Caminha as ‘a vile man’ and thought the prank ‘worthy of an utter bounder’.
The clerk at the door, holding back the curtain with his paw of a hand, was peering at them over his spectacles, his quill behind one ear, and saying maliciously:
‘You found the nail, then.’
He was pleased to see a gentleman discomfited.
Dâmaso’s initial agitation had dissipated, and he recounted the previous day’s ‘incident’ quite calmly.
‘Can you imagine, he stands there on the stairs calling her names and all because of a child … When she told me it was a man with a wooden leg, a shock of white hair, an old-fashioned carriage, a big walking stick and a long overcoat, I knew it had to be your uncle. Didn’t he say anything to you about it?’
‘He did mention something at supper, but, to be honest, I didn’t pay much attention. Not a day passes without him having an argument with someone over something.’
Dâmaso was now wandering about the office, embarrassed, occasionally rubbing the injured spot.
‘I know, but the problem is Madame de Molineux wants me to demand satisfaction from him. Can you imagine?’
Vítor laughed out loud.
‘Yes, man, satisfaction, that’s what I said. She says she was insulted and that she has no husband here, no brother, no son, no one but me …’ And he added rather pompously: ‘So I must avenge her.’
Vítor was serious now.
‘Well, it’s certainly an odd situation.’
‘And if I don’t bring her Uncle Timóteo’s apologies, she says she’ll refuse to see me ever again. She was absolutely furious; she smashed two vases, snapped her whip in two and nearly killed the Englishwoman. She was in a terrible state. She wanted to challenge him herself, to shoot him. To calm her down, I swore I would talk to him. And even then she called me an imbecile. That’s how I got into this situation. I’ve got to challenge Uncle Timóteo. Not that I’m afraid,’ he added, ‘I’m not, but challenging an old man, a respectable gentleman. Oh, this could only happen to me.’
Vítor was listening to him thoughtfully, watching Dâmaso pacing up and down – his plump, tremulous body, his fat cheeks, his narrow head, his lustrous hair. He could hear the dull thwack of Uncle Timóteo’s stick as it struck that flesh, the way a cook might pound pork to flatten it.
But Dâmaso was genuinely upset. And Vítor could see that this business might, in some tortuous way, bring him closer to Madame de Molineux, and that hope made all his spite vanish like mist before the sun.
He spoke of intervening, of putting the case to Uncle Timóteo. Dâmaso squeezed both his hands and stammered out some almost gushing words of friendship. He was his saviour! He was extricating him from the most terrible mess!
‘But you must speak to him today,’ he said. ‘All he has to do is write her a note, that’s all. It’s not much to ask.’
They decided to go and speak to him immediately. At that time of day, he would be reading The Times. Dâmaso had his coupé downstairs. He left the room, and the clerk, one elbow on the desk, his quill in his hand, said as he passed:
‘You all right then? It’s just Dr Caminha’s little joke.’
Dâmaso smiled. He felt vaguely frightened of the clerk’s gruff voice and large body. He had dreamed all night of dangers, riots and duels. And the clerk, continuing his slow writing, muttered:
‘Rich scum!’
Uncle Timóteo was, indeed, reading The Times. Vítor left Dâmaso in the parlour looking at an album of views of Calcutta, while he went to explain Dâmaso’s position to his uncle, to placate him and convince him.
‘But what the devil has that idiot got to do with her? Is he her husband, her brother, an acquaintance, her lover?’
‘I believe he’s her lover, Uncle.’
Uncle Timóteo rolled his eyes.
‘The sly dog!’ And he slapped his thigh. ‘Well, he’s on to a good thing there, because she’s quite a woman, oh yes, all woman!’ he said, patting his own chest.
Then, standing up:
‘Well, this business about “demanding satisfaction” is obviously ridiculous and it would be cruel to make him lose her, so I suppose I’d better give in.’ Making a grand gesture, he declared: ‘I do it for Venus’ sake!’ And he laughed. ‘Tell the fool to come in here.’
However, Dâmaso’s appearance – his plump, smug face, his yellow gloves, his fat legs, his trim little moustache – so irritated Uncle Timóteo that, without getting up, he asked abruptly:
‘So you were thinking of demanding satisfaction from me, were you?’
Dâmaso turned pale and bowed his head.
‘Me, sir, how could you think such a … please …’
The sheer servility of this tub of lard disgusted Uncle Timóteo. He asked him to sit down, offered him a cognac and water, and set his own glass down on the table.
‘I’ve already told Vítor that I’m quite prepared to apologise. I don’t want to spoil your little arrangement.’ Then turning to Vítor: ‘Go there tomorrow and leave your card and mine, and write at the bottom “With my compliments”. But, as I said, I’m not doing it for her sake, because I don’t like the look of her, and I’m not doing it for you, sir, either, because I don’t do favours for friends. I’m doing it for Venus and for Venus alone. Anyway, you lucky so-and-so, you’ve certainly got yourself quite a woman!’
Dâmaso, perched on the edge of his chair, bowed, looking prosperous and proud, smoothing his moustache. Uncle Timóteo took another sip of cognac and, leaning his elbow on his knee, said:
‘Do you have to pay?’
Dâmaso turned scarlet: ‘Please! She’s a lady, the widow of a senator …’
‘Oh, they’re the worst kind. In India, it’s the colonel’s widow you have to watch. There’s nothing more dangerous than a colonel’s widow. The only bill of exchange I ever signed in my life, at nearly three or four per cent interest a month, was because of a colonel’s widow. She was the only one, though, because in my day, dammit, there was something called disinterest; people flirted, had fun, fell in love. Young women nowadays are such cold, feeble, rachitic creatures, with their secret diseases; you have to untie your purse strings just to get a little kiss. Wholesale bloodsucking it is! I’ve sometimes heard people say that women have changed, that they’re just out for what they can get and that they make money out of what God gave them. But it’s not women who have changed, it’s men. In my day, men were brave, hard, bold, always ready for a fight or to play the guitar or go to a bullfight; it was a gift to a young woman then to open her door at night to a strong lad like that. But nowdays … What pleasure could a woman find in one of these pale, spindly, gawping milksops, with no backbone, no wit and no muscle. The women are quite right; they should be paid to put up with pipsqueaks … pipsqueaks should pay! I’m on the side of the ladies, poor things!’
And he laughed, his lively face bright with memories.
‘Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Is she French this woman?’
‘No, she’s Portuguese, sir, but she’s always lived in France. She’s lived there for more than twenty-five years.’
Timóteo slowly took his cigar out of his mouth and, frowning, looked hard at Dâmaso.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Genoveva.’
And after a silence, Timóteo asked again:
‘And where was she born?’
‘Madeira.’
Timóteo shrugged and said:
‘Well, enjoy yourself. That’s what I’m always telling this goody-goody here,’ and he indicated Vítor, who was sitting on the desk, gloomily tugging at his moustache. ‘Some fathers and uncles preach morality. They’re fools. I preach immorality. A young man should be lively and enterprising, with two or three bastard children and a couple of girls fled into convents because he broke their hearts. That’s how it was in my day. It doesn’t matter who it is, maid, seamstress, marchioness, it’s all grist to the mill. A man’s a man. But then, of course, there aren’t any convents to speak of now. Have a drop more cognac and forget about it.’
Picking up The Times again, he said:
‘What’s done is done. The visiting cards will be there tomorrow.’
Dâmaso got up and thanked him.
‘There’s no need to thank me. I’m doing it for Venus remember.’
And he laughed and vigorously rubbed his leg.
The following Saturday, Dâmaso bustled into Vítor’s office, and sitting down next to him, almost whispered:
‘Just a quick word. Madame de Molineux got the visiting cards and she’s asked me to invite you to go there tomorrow night … Nothing too formal.’
Vítor felt his heart pounding and, to disguise his agitation, said:
‘Who else is going?’
Dâmaso pulled a tragic face.
‘It’s all her idea! Can you imagine, she says that for this first soirée she wants people there of all classes. She gave me a list: military men, journalists, poets, members of the Academy, diplomats, singers … I’ve had the devil’s own job trying to round these people up. And she says she doesn’t want society people, she wants people who are amusing. She wanted an actor, but I haven’t found one yet. Anyway, I’ve done my best … but what an idea, eh? Anyway, that’s all I had to say. I’ll drop in on Carvalhosa and see if he’ll come, because she wants a politician there too.’
And he was just about to rush out again, when Dr Caminha emerged from his contemplation of his own moustache to say:
‘Is this the gentleman who sat on the nail?’
Dâmaso spun round, furious.
‘I’m terribly sorry about that,’ said Dr Caminha, raising his long, thin body up a little, then sinking back again on the green velvet cushion. ‘I really am terribly sorry. It’s the boss’ little joke. Terribly sorry, though. It’s to put off intruders. My wife embroidered the cushion and here’s the nail. Terribly sorry.’
He bowed and, settling back again, sticking out his lower lip, he continued his examination of his moustache, hair by hair.
Vítor pondered for a long while whether to go to Madame de Molineux’s soirée in frock coat or tails. But remembering how often Uncle Timóteo had praised the English custom of wearing tails at night, even if you were just staying at home, smoking, he decided that was what he would wear.
It was a foreign custom which he felt sure would please Madame de Molineux. Should his tie be white or black? He opted for the white tie and a camellia in his buttonhole. And in the hired coupé, feeling very nervous, he experienced a similar feeling to what students describe as ‘the collywobbles’, a vague fear that contracts the stomach and relaxes the intestines.
What would he say to her? What delicate, spiritual things could they talk about? Would a lot of people be there? Would there be dancing? And he was shaking so much he could barely button his gloves. He imagined conversations, rehearsed maxims and compliments, and as the coupé rolled towards the house, he felt uneasy, worried lest the petals might fall from his camellia.
The carriage stopped. Vítor saw all the windows on the third floor lit up, brilliant in the dark, slighty dank night: the soirée.
A thrill ran through him as he rang the bell. A manservant with black sideburns and wearing tails and white cotton gloves, bowed nearly low enough to touch the floor and discreetly asked his name. Then, lifting a curtain, he announced in a loud voice:
‘Senhor Vítor da Silva.’
In the room used as a cloakroom, there were piles of overcoats, hats on chairs, a woman’s woollen shawl, and, beside them, on a table, candles burned; he heard a murmur of voices in the drawing room.
Vítor spotted her at once at the far end of the room, wearing a dress of white silk and half reclining on a sofa; her large, dark eyes, her blonde hair, her décolletage, her beautiful, pale hands glittering with jewels, made such a powerful impression on him that he felt his shoulders bow beneath the impact.
He noticed nothing around him, only that there were candles burning and reflections in the mirrors.
Dâmaso hurriedly took him over to introduce him to Madame de Molineux and said, with a bow:
‘My friend, Vítor da Silva, the nephew of …’
He completed the sentence with a nod and a wink. She sat up slightly, smiled and elegantly bent her head, then continued talking to a bald man with a neat, black beard and gold-rimmed pince-nez. Next to her was a table on which stood a golden goblet from which she drank occasionally, sitting up to do so with a gently undulating movement and a rustle of silk.
Vítor remained awkwardly on his feet and looked about him. He knew everyone there; sitting in an armchair was an old man whose bald head, with a few sparse hairs carefully combed forward over the temples, seemed almost buried in the high velvet collar of his vast dark tailcoat; his wrinkled, closely shaven cheeks formed deep folds, and his chin was almost submerged beneath a large black silk cravat.
What was he doing here? Vítor felt almost alarmed at his presence. He was an old gentleman of nearly seventy, who had once published a translation of Aesop’s fables, a book of madrigals and a few original works, and who lived off the State. He belonged to the Royal Academy of Sciences, had no teeth and was a ruin of a man.
‘Delighted to see you here, Senhor Couto.’
The old man looked up, drew his hand across his face, and sniffing slightly, said:
‘Hello there, how are you?
He spoke in a slurred, somewhat nasal voice, then fell silent.
‘It’s such a long time since I last had the pleasure of meeting you,’ said Vítor, speaking loudly, because the old man was a little deaf.
The man turned to him and said softly:
‘What time is tea?’
He had a very sweet tooth and was hoping there would be some foreign cakes to be had in that house. Vítor did not know and, feeling bored, was about to move on, when Dâmaso came over to him. He was studying him, and Vítor noticed a barely suppressed flicker of envy cross his face.
‘You decided to wear tails I see,’ Dâmaso blurted out, and then, after a pause, standing very close to Vítor. ‘I very nearly did too, but I was afraid people might think I was putting on airs. It’s a problem, isn’t it?’
He anxiously pressed one nostril. Vítor looked round the room.
A group of people were standing by the card table, on which candles were lit: two women and two men. One of the women was known as Pia de’ Tolomei, and although he had no idea where the nickname came from, he knew her by sight. She affected a haughty demeanour and was very tall, her curly, erect coiffure making her seem even taller. Her clothes looked somewhat rumpled and grubby; the skin on the back of her neck was the dark, grimy brown of the neglected. She was separated from her husband, a second lieutenant. She had dark circles under her eyes and her whole person spoke of barrack life and the regiment.
He did not know the other woman. She was in her forties and had a spinsterish look about her; she was large, square and swarthy, with a moustache, a very hairy mole on her chin, and was wearing a strange kind of turban on her head, made out of a lot of red velvet. She spoke little and her eyes, which exuded envy, bitterness and great sensuality, never left Genoveva, except to shoot a malevolent glance at one of the other guests, like the fulgent flicker of a flame.
The effeminate, stooping figure of Senhor Reinaldo could be seen sitting down near Pia de’ Tolomei, his pale fingers endlessly twirling his moustaches as he talked.
Vítor wandered into the smoking room from which the sound of voices emanated. The three men who were in there talking and smoking stared curiously at his white tie. It was a small room with curtains, a cretonne sofa, and a lamp placed on a round table covered by a scarlet velvet cloth.
One of the men held out his hand. It was Carvalhosa, a contemporary of his at University, where Carvalhosa had been known for his lack of hygiene and famous for his vices. He used to spend entire days in bed, and his room stank. Now he was a deputy and the newspapers praised his eloquence and quoted from his speeches. He had an air of superiority and spoke in mellifluous, arrogant tones.
‘Ah,’ he said, removing his cigar from his lips, ‘here’s someone who can enlighten us. Who the devil is this woman, Silva? Some kind of Venus?’
His tone of voice shocked Vítor.
‘I would imagine you know better than I. This is the first time I’ve ever been to her house.’
‘Me too.’
‘And me,’ exclaimed the other two men.
One of them was very gaunt and hunched; he had dull, dun-coloured hair; his face was pocked with angry spots, and he kept scratching his chin with his nails; he was a journalist. The other man was a young, handsome, vain-looking chap, wearing the uniform of the lancers.
‘I’m here because Dâmaso invited me,’ said Carvalhosa.
‘Us too.’
‘Three days ago, he told me I was invited to come to the house of a lady from the very best Parisian society.’
‘He says she’s the widow of a senator,’ said Carvalhosa, who grew suddenly declamatory: ‘But then during the Second Empire, senators were nothing but a bunch of cantankerous old debauchees.’
‘With respect,’ broke in the journalist, ‘there were some illustrious exceptions: Sainte-Beuve and Mérimee …’
‘Who led France into the abyss,’ Carvalhosa roared. ‘Please let’s not talk about the Empire, my dear friend. The Empire means corruption, the law trampled underfoot, liberty in chains, orgies in the Tuileries.’
A loud voice interrupted them:
‘But ahead of us stalked the dread monster, foretelling all our fates …’
Carvalhosa turned round, outraged, but, seeing a short, ill-shaven man in tinted glasses entering the room, he smiled and held out his hand:
‘Why, here’s our poet.’
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, bowing, then addressing Carvalhosa: ‘Forgive me, I couldn’t resist quoting those lines from our own dear Camões when I came in, but,’ in a voice husky with emotion, ‘you know that no one appreciates your enormous talent more than I do …’
Then, noticing the journalist, he fell silent, twitched his head slightly and, embarrassed, took out his cigarette case. Carvalhosa went on in the same sad vein:
‘No, my friend, the disasters of the Empire were purely providential.’
‘Oh, so you believe in Providence, do you?’ said the journalist in a low, mocking voice, still furiously scratching his chin.
Carvalhosa drew himself up:
‘Now don’t start on religion!’
According to him, God was in everything, in the greatest historical figure and in the smallest grain of corn which, to quote Victor Hugo, the ant etc. etc …
But the journalist declared:
‘Victor Hugo is an ass!’
He added scornfully that Victor Hugo was an old man who no longer knew what he was saying. Carvalhosa lost control; he defended Victor Hugo with wild gestures and thunderous words; he called him the prophet of the nineteenth century, the muse of Hauteville House.
‘Quite, quite,’ said the poet, getting to his feet and retreating.
‘Victor Hugo’s most recent books,’ said the journalist coldly, reaching between his waistcoat and his trousers to scratch his back, ‘quite frankly made me laugh.’ He was smiling.
‘Sir,’ bellowed Carvalhosa. ‘You mock the press, you mock poetry, you mock the sublime.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ said someone at his elbow.
It was Dâmaso, who was clearly upset. Silence fell. Dâmaso explained that everyone in the other room was afraid that some altercation had broken out, and Madame de Molineux had asked him if it was a gambling dispute, and besides, they could be heard downstairs.
‘Well, if one can’t have a discussion …’
‘You do have rather a loud voice,’ said the journalist, still scratching.
Provoked by the remark, Carvalhosa said haughtily:
‘So loud that the whole country listens!’
‘As I said, you do have rather a loud voice,’ said the journalist again.
Carvalhosa stared at him, furious:
‘And what do you mean by that?’
The journalist responded, feverishly scratching his chin:
‘This isn’t really the place …’
Dâmaso intervened:
‘Gentlemen, please …’ And he tried to drag Carvalhosa away. Carvalhosa was deathly pale.
‘Enough of this nonsense,’ said the lancer, twirling his moustache. ‘It’s not worth quarrelling over literature … and you’re not at home now …’
Vítor left them still talking, made an excuse and sloped back into the drawing room. Madame de Molineux was standing up now, talking to Pia de’ Tolomei, but when she saw him, she turned, her silk train coiling about her feet, and came over to him.
‘I so wanted to meet you,’ she said.
Vítor bowed and muttered a few unintelligible words; he could feel her very close to him, and something so powerful emanated from her eyes, body and hair that he instinctively drew back, as if from a blazing fire, and stood there in a slightly stooped, defeated pose.
‘You uncle is certainly very quick to anger,’ she said, smiling, looking down at her fan, which she was slowly opening and closing.
It was a large black fan on which two white figures were depicted in a blurred, blue forest. Vítor finally overcame the shyness that prevented him from speaking.
‘He can be a bit impetuous, but …’
‘Oh, I forgave him at once,’ she said. ‘Besides, I rather like people like him; he’s a kind of Don Quixote riding to the rescue of widows and orphans.’ And she laughed softly. ‘He’s a fine-looking man too. What’s his name?’
‘Timóteo.’
‘He looks a bit like Crémier, not the one who wrote the comic operas, but the one who created the Republic,’ and she laughed again.
Vítor stared at her, enchanted. The proximity of her flesh drew him the way a magnet draws iron; he felt like touching the splendid flesh of her breast, to trace its curve with one fingertip, just to know how it felt.
She was brightly lit by two lamps placed on a nearby table, which revealed the pure, soft lines of her chin and her nose, which the light caressed with adorable delicacy.
Vítor was very conscious of the slight traces of powder on her skin, of her full, red lips, delicate and soft as a rose petal; she had a warm, languid way of smiling, her smile opening slowly as if in response to a surge of warmth in her blood, and her breast rose and fell to a gentle rhythm.
‘How old is your uncle?’
‘Sixty, Madam.’
‘Look, we can’t stand here like a couple of storks …’
And she moved off slowly and calmly, her arms by her side, holding her half-open fan in her two hands, like someone posing for a painting or a photograph.
She sat down on the sofa, almost reclining, and indicated a nearby armchair. In that position, her close-fitting dress revealed the general lines of her body and it was very easy to imagine her naked.
‘I know you’re a close friend of Dâmaso’s,’ she said.
‘Well, fairly …’
Vítor considered Dâmaso an imbecile and wanted to make it clear that he was far superior and only knew Dâmaso socially.
‘Well, we’ve known each other for a while …’
Then, in a slightly drawling voice, and giving certain words a sing-song Parisian intonation, she spoke in praise of Dâmaso: he was a delightful companion; he had been so helpful; they went riding together; he was the one who had got her this apartment and who had brought all these people along. And lowering her voice, she said gravely:
‘I’m so pleased to have a member of the Academy here.’
She looked deferentially at old Couto, who was dozing off in his armchair.
‘Of course, I had hoped that … but then I’ll be spending the whole of the winter in Lisbon.’
She spoke slowly, studying her fan; occasionally, for a lingering moment, she would look across at Vítor. Then she asked:
‘Do you write poetry?’
Vítor, astonished, almost embarrassed, did not reply.
‘Oh, I thought …,’ she said, ‘well, it was Dâmaso who told me.’
She uttered the name ‘Dâmaso’ with such familiarity.
Then she told him her views: she adored poets and other literary men. Monsieur de Molineux had always had one or two to supper; those one could receive, of course, because some you simply couldn’t, because they were just too, too … She fumbled for the right word.
‘Too grubby,’ she said at last. Then, laughing: ‘I don’t know if that’s the most elegant way of putting it. I’ve forgotten so much of my Portuguese.’
Vítor, on the contrary, was amazed she had forgotten so little.
‘Ah, now you’re flattering me.’
Her eyes wrapped Vítor in a slow, languid look.
Vítor declared that if he were to live abroad, his prime concern would be to forget all about Portugal and the Portuguese language and people; he even blushed slightly when he said ‘Portuguese’.
‘Not all of them, surely,’ said Madame de Molineux. And smiling, she added: ‘What if she were to hear you say that?’
‘What “she”?’
‘Well, I’m sure there is a “she”, possibly more than one.’
Dâmaso came over at that point, rubbing his hands. He bent to whisper in Madame de Molineux’s ear, but she drew back slightly, saying:
‘Goodness, people will think you’re whispering sweet nothings to me. What is it, my dear?’
‘It’s ready. It’s orange and strawberry and it’s delicious, the best sorbet I’ve tasted all year.’
‘He’d make a very good butler, don’t you think?’ said Madame de Molineux to Vítor, indicating Dâmaso with her fan.
Dâmaso declared that he would happily serve as her lackey, and, preparing his features to make some more subtle joke: ‘Even as lord of the bedchamber …’
Then, putting on a grave face and speaking in a low voice:
‘I’m so embarrassed. I was going to wear tails like Vítor here, but I was afraid people might think I was putting on airs … Tricky, eh?’
‘Well, you were quite wrong. Men should always wear tails in the evening. And another thing, my friend, your boots need polishing.’
Dâmaso glanced down at his town boots and at Vítor’s gleaming patent leather shoes; he blushed scarlet and said angrily:
‘I’ve got patent leather shoes too, you know. We do have them here.’
He was growing redder by the minute, but she tapped him on the arm with her fan.
‘Behave,’ she said with a look that quelled him. ‘Have them bring in the sorbet; it’s nearly eleven o’clock.’
‘Right, right.’ And Dâmaso scuttled off.
Turning to Vítor, she smiled and said:
‘As I was saying, she …’
‘But, Madam,’ cried Vítor, who was losing his shyness and now had no difficulty in finding the words: ‘I swear there is no “she”; I only wish there were; but more sublime than …’
He hesitated, he had been about to make some very literary comment about love and was afraid of appearing pedantic.
‘Go on. I’m very interested in what you find sublime.’
Her voice had grown softer; she was sitting up on the sofa now, leaning towards him. Vítor was aware of her warmth, of the smell of her skin.
‘Well, there are a lot of things I find sublime,’ he said, adding boldly: ‘Beauty, for one.’
‘Beauty is relative. It’s possible, for example, that many people might consider that lady in the scarlet turban … I can’t remember her name offhand … to be far prettier than me.’
‘Impossible,’ exclaimed Vítor.
‘Well, you might not think so, but …’
‘I certainly wouldn’t!’
And their eyes met. At that moment, however, Carvalhosa was coming across the room, one hand in his waistcoat pocket, looking at Madame de Molineux. Addressing her, he said:
‘You are doubtless tired after your journey.’
‘I arrived a month and a half ago,’ she replied, laughing.
‘Ah, then, you will have had time to recover,’ he said, running his fingers through his hair. He drew up a chair, sat down and crossed his legs, revealing the worn elastic on his boots.
‘So how are politics in Paris, then?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ said Madame de Molineux, feeling awkward and constrained.
‘The republicans have been magnificent. That last speech of Gambetta’s was pretty good … not to my taste though; he lacks imagery, brilliance, eloquence, flourishes. But a new dawn has come at last.’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said with a smile. And getting up, with a swish of her train, she walked lightly over to sit down by the second lieutenant’s wife, who blushed, pushed back her chair, very slowly drew herself up and pursed her lips disdainfully.
Carvalhosa merely followed her with his eyes, then muttered to Vítor:
‘Stupid woman, she’s got no small talk.’
Raising his eyebrows and running his fingers once more through his hair, he crossed the room again and joined the pianist.
‘The man’s late,’ said the illustrious Fonseca.
‘What man?’ asked Carvalhosa.
‘For the surprise!’
And with a desolate air, he rolled his eyes and shrugged, saying:
‘It’s a secret; orders from above.’
But Dâmaso came over and linked arms with Carvalhosa.
‘Carvalhosa, be a good chap, will you, and go and talk to Pascoal Pimenta.’
‘Me talk to that swine?’ said Carvalhosa proudly.
‘He’s a good enough lad, poor thing.’
‘He’s a brute.’
And Senhor Reinaldo – who, ever since Madame de Molineux had gone and sat next to Pia de’ Tolomei, had been wandering disconsolately about the room looking for someone to talk to, incapable of being alone, always dependent on others – immediately asked:
‘Who’s a brute, who?’
Carvalhosa stared at Reinaldo. Dâmaso realised that they did not know each other and immediately, and with great ceremony, introduced them.
‘I’m most honoured,’ said Reinaldo, bowing. ‘I had the pleasure of hearing you speak in the Chamber. I often go. I was there yesterday in fact.’
‘Ah, so you’re interested in …’ began Carvalhosa, playing with the trinkets on his watch chain.
‘No, I took a Spanish girl, she wanted to see what went on there. You probably know her. She’s from …’ and he whispered something in his ear. ‘Lola,’ he said out loud, ‘La Magrita.’
‘Of course,’ said Carvalhosa, and they went off together, arm-in-arm, chattering.
Vítor had returned to the room of blue cretonne; alone on the sofa was Pascoal Pimenta; he was chewing his nails and bouncing his legs up and down.
Vítor did not know him, but he sat down beside him and, blowing out a cloud of smoke, said:
‘Things were getting a bit heated earlier on.’
‘The man’s an ass,’ said Pimenta bluntly.
But then the lyric poet came in, lit a cigarette and sat in another corner of the room; with legs crossed and arms folded, he kept casting viperish looks at the journalist. And all three sat there, like three smoking chimneys, still and silent as idols. Then the figure of Madame de Molineux appeared at the door.
‘I was afraid you’d run away!’ And her eyes went straight to Vítor, but then turning back to the poet, she said: ‘Your turn has come. The ladies are longing to hear you recite.’
The poet bowed low and, at a gesture from Madame de Molineux, he stubbed out his cigarette and went over to offer her his arm.
‘Another ass,’ muttered the journalist.
The piano began to play. Vítor returned to the drawing room.
The illustrious Fonseca, head up, gazing into space, his glasses glinting, was lightly touching the keys with his plump mercer’s fingers. A slow, vague melody emerged; the two candles on the piano were burning red, and, beside them, the lyric poet was rather tremulously stroking his beard. He looked around him, adjusted his pince-nez, and coughed.
He was standing by the piano; his long, collar-length hair looked almost brown in the candlelight; and against the light, his beard seemed grubby and thin as cotton down; the smoked lenses of his pince-nez glinted black on his pale face. Then he announced:
‘The title of the poem is Contemplation-Vision.’
He cleared his throat and began:
All is calm and still.
The horizon is wearing black.
The water that flows down the hill
Moans in the depths of the valley.
The birds are leaving now
For the sweet heat of the south.
Drunk on light and azure blue
They flee the coming storm.
Why do you flee so far away
Oh, sweet birds of the sky? …
And the poet addressed the birds, asking them the reason for their flight. What made them flee? Was it the injustices committed by those in power? Was it the sight of talent crushed? The poem was taking on a bitter, socialist turn. The voice of the poet grew cavernous, and the illustrious Fonseca, feeling anxiously for the pedal, played the deepest chords the keys could offer. Things were looking grim. But then, suddenly, the poet smiled, and, as when the sky clears in winter, his nasal voice intoned instead a cheerful verse. The season had changed; the snow had melted; the flowers were blooming.
It is spring and all is green.
All things smile, earth and sky,
Weary of infernal war.
The thick woods sing,
As do the daisies in the field;
And the flower bends
To whisper a secret to the lake.
‘Lovely,’ commented various guests.
But then the poet grew gloomy again; his voice darkened. The illustrious Fonseca resorted once more to the pedal; an accompaniment rather like a death knell echoed about the room; the eyes of the second lieutenant’s wife widened and glittered sympathetically. The poet spoke of his sorrows; in the midst of festive nature, he alone was sad; he despised the world and saw in it only bitterness; he despised potentates, armies, bronze cannon; he preferred the simple violet.
The poem again filled with joy; happiness was in every word and flowed from every line, as if from a brimming cup. What consoled him? What?
Why do I feel this my breast
Which once was parched and dry
Turn into a flowering meadow …
And they all waited, with bated breath, to learn the reason for that happiness. Then the door opened and two men came in. Dâmaso uttered a nervous ‘Sh!’, his finger on his lips, and the two men froze. The one in evening dress, with a decoration pinned to his lapel, was Marinho, who leaned against the wall; the other was a tall, burly man, with skin pale as marble and a mane of glossy hair, which he kept pushing back. He was wearing a hat trimmed with satin and had a waxed moustache; everything about him bespoke a singer and a showman.
Everyone looked at him. There was a lot of whispering. The poet sensed that, with each line, he was losing his grip on their attention, like water slipping through his fingers. He tried to regain their interest. What had consoled him? SHE had!
I saw her one sweet night,
When the nightingale was singing,
And all the sky was filled with stars,
A brightly lit pavilion:
Ah, Sintra! I still can hear
The sweet babbling of your fountains,
Feel the shadows cast on our faces
By the trees of Ramalhão.
The poetry was becoming indiscreet. Roma described compromising walks, he called upon the stars, upon the balconies:
Do not reveal our secret,
O sweet meadow grasses!
However, things turned sour. The illustrious Fonseca once more felt for the pedal; Roma reverted to lines of disdain:
All is over. Upon the earth
I wander, a fugitive shadow.
I hate all things; the loveliest flower
Is for me a flower of Avernus.
Let the fountains babble,
Let the earth turn green,
Let the breeze play upon the air,
For me, all is winter!
‘Bravíssimo poeta!’ cried the burly man. João Marinho immediately stepped forward, bowed to Madame de Molineux and introduced his friend as Sarrotini, the baritone from the Teatro de São Carlos. People clustered round, chattering. The butler came in bearing the bowl of sorbet.
Roma circulated, garnering praise; Pia de’ Tolomei asked him for a copy of the poem; Senhor Reinaldo thought it lovely enough to be sung as a fado. They all agreed he was far better than Senhor Vidal. And Roma was still savouring his triumph as he went into the smoking room, where Pimenta was saying to the lancer:
‘It’s just a string of clichés like everything else Roma does.’ Roma was about to leap on him, but he restrained himself.
Dâmaso found him in the corridor, desperately pulling on a cloak.
‘You’re not leaving, are you? What happened?’
‘No, I don’t want to lose control of myself. If I stay, I’ll punch that insolent lout!’
Dâmaso tried to calm him down:
‘Come now,’ he said, removing Roma’s cloak and adding:
‘We haven’t had supper yet.’
With that assurance, Roma decided to stay and went back into the drawing room.
By this time, Sarrotini was standing in the middle of the room performing magic tricks. With the sleeves of his tailcoat rolled up, he produced first an egg and then a lemon. An admiring circle had formed around him. Dâmaso rushed to join them; he was smiling, radiant, and he kept muttering to Vítor:
‘It’s such a splendid soirée … if only I’d worn tails.’
Sarrotini was now imitating a fly buzzing; he pretended he was being pursued by the fly; he swatted his neck, crept round the room on tiptoe, his cupped hand outstretched, intending to catch it in mid-flight. And in the silence, the monotonous buzzing continued, now just a faint whistle, now a growl; it buzzed about, paused for a moment, then resumed its impertinent noise on the other side of the room. There was great applause. Sarrotini returned to the centre of the group. He became the showman again, speaking a mixture of Italian and Spanish, making extravagant gestures and clowning around, his tails flying out behind him; with a cheeky look in his eye, he imitated various animal noises, bent a coin with his bare hands, recounted anecdotes of the Sicilian campaign; he mimicked famous people and, since he was a supporter of Garibaldi, he improvised a dialogue between the Pope and Cardinal Antonelli in which one defended fat women and the other thin. He ended by declaring himself a republican.
Everyone was astonished.
Carvalhosa broke the silence:
‘The papacy is, of course, Italy’s tragedy. The Pope equates with ignorance and darkness.’
Sarrotini looked at him, asked for a translation, and recognising in Carvalhosa the soul of a patriot, went over and embraced him, clapping him on the back and confiding in a whisper that he himself was one of the Carbonari.
Then he wanted to sing the Marseillaise. He started: ‘Allons enfants de la Patrie!’
Enthusiasm spread, Roma, the poet, joined in, shouting:
‘The Marseillaise, the Marseillaise!’
But Madame de Molineux intervened. Not the Marseillaise, she hated it.
A silence fell.
‘Not the Marseillaise. It’s a song I particularly dislike. It reminds me of the masses. Please, sing something else.’
She seemed quite alarmed, as if she had heard insurrectionary rifles being fired. She took Vítor’s arm.
‘Well, they’ve certainly livened up!’
And with her arm still linked in Vítor’s, she went over to old Couto and, bestowing on him a deferential, respectful smile, she said:
‘It was out of consideration for you as well that I didn’t want them to sing the Marseillaise. It must bring it all back.’
‘Not too bad really,’ replied Couto, who had only caught the last word. ‘It’s much better today actually, though I’ve still got a touch of lumbago.’
She said nothing for a moment.
‘Have you been ill, then?’ asked Vítor very loudly.
‘Yes, sciatica.’
Genoveva leaned towards him again:
‘It’s all that literary work you do, I expect.’
‘Huh?’ and the old man pulled a face.
‘Literary work,’ said Genoveva.
‘Oh, he’s not going to recite again, is he? What time is tea?’
Genoveva smiled and led Vítor away.
‘He’s a great writer, I understand. A member of the Academy.’
Vítor was about to explain to her that the Academy in Lisbon was not quite the same as the Academy in Paris, but she was leading him into the smoking room where the journalist was sitting alone. When he saw them, he stubbed out his cigarette in a candleholder and left, bowing.
‘We didn’t mean to frighten you off,’ said Genoveva.
He mumbled something, blushed and concluded his bow.
‘I’ve asked Senhor Dâmaso to subscribe to the newspaper you write for. It’s called The People, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He bowed again, his face even redder, and left, breathing hard.
Laughing, Genoveva said:
‘Entertaining is so exhausting. Not here so much, where there’s just a handful of people, but in Paris … oh, you can’t imagine.’ And striking a melancholy pose, she added: ‘Society life is such a bore.’
Vítor said that surely in Paris …
‘Oh, Paris, Paris! It probably looks alluring from a distance, but when you have to live in the midst of that whirlwind …’
And after a pause, she added:
‘I’m thinking of burying myself here in Portugal, in some little village.’ She glanced at Vítor out of the corner of her eye.
‘Well, there are some lovely villages,’ said Vítor, ‘and if you’ve got a nice house …’
‘And especially when there are two of you,’ she said.
João Marinho suddenly appeared, all smiles, beating his top hat against his legs, his head bobbing:
‘Sarrotini’s about to sing.’
And he held out his arm to Genoveva. Vítor followed them into the next room.
Sarrotini was standing by the piano, very tall and erect, and after the illustrious Fonseca had played a few opening chords, Sarrotini’s large, powerful baritone filled the room with vibrant sound. It was an aria from Lucretia Borgia. The guests had instinctively arranged their chairs into a semicircle, and Sarrotini, raising his arms and rolling his eyes, sang out boldly, leaning back a little to reveal his strong, white throat, which was eyed vehemently by the second lieutenant’s wife and leered at by the woman in the red turban.
Everyone applauded loudly, and he immediately plunged into the aria from Dinorah. He was definitely ‘on form’. Now he struck a serious, romantic pose; the showman had become the hero and, whenever there was a pause, he would dab at the corners of his mouth with an embroidered chambray handkerchief.
Another ovation followed, and, greatly moved, he thanked them, bowing as he did at the theatre. Then he asked Genoveva to sing. She refused: ‘No, no.’
Sarrotini went down on his knees, and everyone laughed. Still on his knees, Sarrotini shuffled across the floor towards Genoveva, who was smiling and shaking her head. Sarrotini sang an old Neapolitan tune: Preguiami la Madonna.
To general merriment, João Marinho added his harsh, cracked voice to that musical plea.
And Dâmaso, gleefully rubbing his hands, whispered to Vítor:
‘This is turning into a positive orgy!’
Genoveva finally acquiesced and went over to the piano. Dâmaso clapped and everyone followed suit. João Marinho waved his handkerchief, as people do during public ovations.
‘Right,’ she said.
There was an expectant silence.
‘The only song I know by heart is “Ophelia” from Ambroise Thomas’ opera Hamlet. Will that do?’
‘Bravo, bravo,’ they all cried.
Carvalhosa leaned towards Vítor:
‘Ah, Hamlet! Such a profound work. “To be or not to be…”,’ he recited, closing his eyes.
Genoveva’s voice rose up loud, vehement, clear as crystal, and just a little shaky on the lower notes; she sang:
Pâle et blonde
Dort sous l’onde profonde
La willis au regard du feu
Que Dieu garde
Celui qui s’attarde
La nuit, autour du lac bleu!
Vítor had never heard anything more delicious; that subtle music, so full of poetic tenderness, of mythical melancholy and resignation, gave him a distant vision of a legendary land. A misty Scandinavian country, a flat land of many trees; there sleeps a lake and, caught up in that mystical exaltation, the vague shapes of water nymphs sway. The stone walls of an old Scandinavian castle can be glimpsed through the mist, and the sound of a mournful song can be heard.
It made him long to be far away in one of those Northern lands, where the women are tall and blue-eyed, or in some sad, noble park, where the fir trees cast dank shadows, a salty breeze hangs in the air and the Baltic Sea grows blue. And on the long terrace built by some old fisherman, a princess of the Swedish race, the daughter of a king, an Ophelia, hovers, light as down, silent, thoughtful, wrapped in the cold air.
In the pause before the second verse, Genoveva’s eyes rested on him, and suddenly, for no reason, he felt immensely proud, glad to be alive, renewed; he almost felt like crying.
Genoveva was warmly applauded; there was near uproar; appreciative comments were heard: ‘Divine!’ ‘Marvellous!’
‘She could make her fortune with that voice!’ said Marinho.
And Carvalhosa remarked with great authority:
‘She’s got a definite feeling for it.’
The second lieutenant agreed that she was certainly a woman to turn men’s heads.
She, meanwhile, trembling slightly, as if tired, had sat down.
Dâmaso came over to her and said softly:
‘You sang like an angel, my love.’
‘I’ve told you before, don’t address me as “tu”.’
Dâmaso was piqued.
‘Well, it strikes me that …’
‘That I sleep with you, is that it? Well, that still doesn’t give you the right,’ she said with a shrug.
The butler came in to announce supper was served. There was a great scraping of chairs, and Genoveva majestically went over to take the arm of Senhor Couto. The old man was asleep and they had to wake him up. Being still half-asleep, he didn’t quite understand what was happening, and everyone stood around for a moment, not speaking.
Dâmaso pulled him by the arm and, after much moaning, mumbling, coughing and nodding, the old man managed to stand up on his great bunioned feet, and, grasping Genoveva’s arm, he proceeded slowly and tremulously to the supper table.
The others followed. The journalist was the last; his bile had grown, he was humiliated and furious, but he did not want to miss supper; he spat on the floor and swaggered in, his hands behind his back.
By two in the morning, the supper was over, and Genoveva was immersed in a long exchange of confidences with Vítor. Vítor was telling her his worries, his interests, his opinions.
‘I’m a republican,’ he said.
She gently reprimanded him: he should support his king and his religion. The first duty of a well-educated man was to his religion; you could not belong to the best society, you could not be considered chic without religion. Then their talk turned to the other guests, and they analysed certain particularly ridiculous figures: the journalist, who was eating silently, stiffly and bad-temperedly, putting his knife in his mouth; the poet, who was eagerly gobbling down his food, reaching across the table and cutting his bread rather than breaking it; Senhor Reinaldo, who was chatting to the second lieutenant’s wife and cleaning his nails with a toothpick. They laughed, whispered, drank. Marinho had ended up next to the woman in the turban, and he was furious; he kept casting desperate glances in Genoveva’s direction. The woman did not speak so much as grunt; she had come with the second lieutenant’s wife and said only four intelligible words during the whole evening. In response to Genoveva asking her if she had dined well, she declared loudly: ‘I’m fit to burst.’
Couto was still eating, slumped in his chair, one arm on the table, making bread balls which turned black in contact with the grubby tips of his old, bony fingers, which emerged from capacious cuffs. And Dâmaso, always busy, getting up from the table, issuing discreet orders to the butler, went into the kitchen and returned bearing bottles under his arm. It had been established that it was he, as the second lieutenant’s wife put it, who ‘footed the bill’. She then engaged in a long discussion with Senhor Reinaldo about ‘how much he must give her a month’.
The illustrious Fonseca was the most exuberantly happy of all the guests; Sarrotini addressed him as ‘maestro’, and soon everyone was calling him ‘maestro’. He was quite pink with triumph. On one occasion, he said to Sarrotini:
‘You with your great genius …’
Sarrotini replied:
‘Well, speaking of genius, you have more of it than anyone here.’
The illustrious Fonseca bowed gravely. And from one side of the table to the other, they exchanged nothing but ‘My genius, your genius, our genius …’
Someone had the idea of singing a song, accompanying themselves by banging on their plates, and Sarrotini, already in his cups, immediately launched into a solidly Garibaldian number:
Onwards to Holy Rome,
We’ll climb up to the Capitol …
‘No, no,’ everyone cried, ‘we don’t want anything political.’
They wanted something light.
‘Besides,’ shouted Vítor, who was distinctly merry, ‘the song’s got it wrong. It was the Italians who marched into Rome.’
That remark inflamed Sarrotini. He got up, knocking over his chair as he did so, and went over to Vítor, his eyes ablaze. Grabbing Vítor’s head in his powerful hands, he planted a kiss on his forehead, and everyone roared their approval.
‘I propose that only the ladies should be kissed,’ bawled Marinho. ‘Although the gentleman certainly is pretty enough to kiss.’
Everyone looked for a moment at Vítor; his face was flushed and there was a voluptuous smile on his lips, his eyes shining from his proximity to Genoveva and from the quantity of Veuve Clicquot he had drunk. As Senhor Reinaldo remarked quietly:
‘He’ll drive the ladies wild that one!’
Genoveva looked at him too, and her eyes grew larger and darker. Her breast filled, and her eyelids flickered nervously with fleeting, piercing desire.
She said nothing, but she was smiling, a slightly crooked smile that revealed small white teeth.
Marinho was still bawling:
‘I propose that only the ladies should be kissed.’
‘He’s afraid he might be set upon,’ yelled Reinaldo, creased up with laughter.
‘He should start with his neighbour,’ said Dâmaso, bowing. At these words, the woman in the red turban sprang angrily to her feet and left the room. Dâmaso ran after her; Genoveva, the second lieutenant’s wife and everyone around her were saying:
‘Silly woman, it was only a joke!’
‘I’m a decent woman, I’m a decent woman,’ the woman in the red turban kept repeating breathlessly.
They finally coaxed her back to the table and sat her down. She was apoplectic, her eyes bloodshot.
Then Dâmaso got to his feet and said something to Carvalhosa. Carvalhosa smiled his agreement. Dâmaso returned to his seat and banging his fork loudly on his plate, said:
‘May I have silence, ladies and gentlemen.’
Carvalhosa rose majestically with his glass in his hand.
Everyone fell silent. The honourable member ran his fingers through his hair and wiped them carefully on his napkin, which he then threw down on the table; he fiddled with his plate and his knife, like someone shuffling through his notes at the lectern. Then he said:
‘I wasn’t going to make a speech, but my illustrious friend, Senhor Dâmaso, has asked me to give voice to the gratitude we all feel on this festive night to our gracious hostess.’
He paused, looked about him and raised his champagne glass to his lips. Some listened, chewing on a toothpick, their elbows on the table; others sat with eyes downcast as if listening to a sermon; Sarrotini was looking about him, wild-eyed; Genoveva was sitting absolutely still, smiling.
‘You have come to us from Paris,’ he went on. ‘Obviously you will not find here the splendours of the boulevards, the luxury of the Grand Hotel, the hurly-burly of the Bois de Boulogne.’
When Genoveva heard him speak of the luxury of the Grand Hotel, she had to fix her features in a look of amazement in order to suppress her laughter.
‘We are poor, but glorious …’
‘Seconded,’ muttered Fonseca.
‘We may not be able to compete with such lavish displays of wealth, but what we can show the rest of Europe is a lasting and continuing peace and hard, honest toil. Our glories are not small ones … oh, no, madam …’
Genoveva, finding herself referred to so directly, blushed. But Carvalhosa had not finished:
‘They may not shine like beacons, but they warm like flames.’
‘Oh, exquisite,’ said the poet. ‘Such richness of language!’
Carvalhosa, scarlet with pleasure at having conceived the phrase, repeated it:
‘They may not shine like beacons, but they warm like flames.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Vítor, ‘but I think the lady is feeling unwell.’
All eyes turned on the woman in the red turban. She seemed to be in some distress; she was breathing hard, her eyes rolled back, and she fell, head lolling, into Marinho’s arms. The ladies sprang to their feet, the men rushed towards her, and Carvalhosa, pale-faced, champagne glass in hand, stood looking desolately about him, his left hand still raised and waiting.
But the room had emptied. Almost everyone had gone out into the larger salon where the piano was already playing. Only the lyric poet, slightly drunk, was still devouring a large serving of pudding. Glancing up at Carvalhosa, he said:
‘What’s wrong, illustrious orator, has the cat got your tongue?’
Carvalhosa, furious, cursed him roundly, put on his jacket and left.
The butler, who lit the way, remarked:
‘The coffee’s just about to be served, sir.’
‘Well, I hope they enjoy it!’ Carvalhosa said and flounced off angrily down the stairs.
Meanwhile, the woman in the red turban was busy being sick in Genoveva’s boudoir. They had made her some green tea, but her unruly intestines had had enough and their contents erupted from her mouth in great spurts. In the other room, Fonseca was playing a waltz, and Sarrotini and Dâmaso were dancing together.
At last, they managed to quell the troubled viscera of the woman in the turban. Mélanie took her to Miss Sarah’s room so that she could rest a little and loosen her stays. Genoveva was sitting in front of the mirror, tidying her hair, when Vítor appeared at the door; seeing her alone, he withdrew.
‘I just came to find out if the lady was better …’
‘Come in, come in,’ said Genoveva. ‘You’re not afraid of my bedroom, are you? It’s not the cave of the Bandit King!’
Vítor went slowly into the room, as if entering a church, and was immediately paralysed by the sight of the curtains round the bed, the blue satin nightdress case, the glittering bottles, the silk dressing gown and the flickering candles; they formed part of the very fabric of a life. He was so troubled that all he could say was:
‘You’ve got a very nice room here …’
She laughed her musical laugh.
‘Do you think so? It’s just a rented room, terribly banal. I don’t really know how I can bring myself to sleep in here. I had to buy new quilts and a sprung mattress, otherwise, I just couldn’t sleep at all.’
These details fell upon Vítor’s soul like an intoxicating draught of fine wine. He avidly studied every detail, as if hoping to discover in the furniture, in the dressing table, in a nightdress, some hint of her naked beauty or of her thoughts.
Genoveva remained at the mirror, smoothing her hair, applying more face powder, jingling her bracelets; her breast rose and fell very fast; her dark eyes shone, and her profile, lit by the light over the mirror, gleamed softly, revealing in the exquisite paleness of her skin a vivid splendour.
‘If you’d care to sit down, please do,’ she said. ‘There are cigarettes over there. You can smoke if you like. I don’t mind cigarette smoke in here. They’re from Paris.’
Vítor took a cigarette and went to light it on the candle burning by the dressing table. He was very close to Genoveva; he almost brushed her with his elbow; neither of them said a word. Outside, in the other room, could be heard the noise of the piano, laughter and a driving waltz that made the old floorboards tremble.
There were some beautiful camellias in a vase. Vítor remarked on their beauty. She put down her comb, picked a red camellia from the vase and, turning round, placed it in his buttonhole.
Vítor’s eyes met Genoveva’s for a second, and as she adjusted the flower, her eyelids flickered slightly and, in a slightly uncertain voice, she said:
‘You won’t lose it, will you?’
Tremulously, weighing every word, Vítor said passionately, boldly:
‘I’ll keep it for ever!’
She laughed.
‘Don’t be silly! Ah, but I was forgetting that you’re a poet.’
And having pinned the flower in his buttonhole, she stood back a little, still touching the petals of the flower.
‘There you are, your decoration! My Order, the Order of the Red Camellia. You’re my knight now. Voilà!’
A wave of passion rushed through Vítor; his head was whirling, he reached out desperate arms to her, exclaiming:
‘Listen!’
She drew back, rapped him lightly over the knuckles with her fan and, as if surprised, said:
‘Whatever are you doing?’
He froze, his face flushed. Then she drew nearer again.
‘Let’s waltz,’ she said and took his arm.
At that moment, the door opened and Dâmaso’s voice boomed out:
‘What’s all this, then?’
Genoveva, standing very erect, asked in a proud, chilly tone:
‘What do you mean “all this”?’
‘You talking in here … in private,’ he stammered.
He was standing in the doorway, in front of her.
‘Oh, get out of the way!’ she said scornfully in English, waving her fan impatiently at him, as if shooing away a dog.
He left, his lips trembling.
‘Do you speak English?’ Genoveva asked Vítor calmly.
He found the perfect answer:
‘I only know one phrase.’
‘And what’s that?’ she asked, her head on one side.
‘I love you.’
Genoveva walked back into the main room, fanning herself, and did not reply. She shouted:
‘Maestro! The Madame Angot waltz!’
And they began to dance; they moved so quickly that Vítor, who was not used to dancing, felt as if the whole apartment were whirling about him; he felt her strong body bend in his arms, her hand pressing on his shoulder; she was looking down slightly, her fan in her hand, and she turned supply and gracefully, the long train of her dress sweeping behind her, and when they stopped, it wrapped around Vítor’s legs, carried along by the impetus of the dance. He stood there panting, while she smiled, flushed and radiant.
Then the lancer, ramrod straight, whisked past them, turning and turning, with Pia de’ Tolomei in his arms. Next, dancing or, rather, leaping by, came Sarrotini with Senhor Reinaldo.
Fonseca stepped up the tempo, and the poet Roma, propped drunkenly against the piano, was improvising lyrics to the waltz:
Keep waltzing waltzes
And in the smoking room, old Couto was slumped in one corner, snoring.
Dâmaso, meanwhile, was watching Vítor and Genoveva with furious eyes. Genoveva paused for a moment next to him.
‘Don’t look so gloomy! Dance! Have fun! Sulking’s very ageing, you know!’
He sprang angrily to his feet.
‘Oh, very funny!’ he muttered and, giving her a rancorous look, stalked off.
‘Idiot!’ muttered Genoveva in turn.
Vítor heard the exchange and drew great hope and extraordinary pleasure from it. He dragged her back to the waltz, but she stopped and, instead, again took his arm and walked quickly over to Dâmaso, who was leaning in a doorway, seething. She said:
‘Look, you’re being ridiculous. If you’re going to put on these tragic airs, then you’d better get your coat and leave.’
‘But, why were you …?’
‘I’ve told you before, don’t address me as “tu”.’
‘Right, good night, then,’ he said furiously and was about to go.
‘Listen, take the gentleman from the Academy with you, will you, the old chap over there snoring. Go on, off you go!’
Dâmaso, who had promised to take Couto home, went over, shook him awake and pulled him, half-asleep and protesting, to his feet, linked arms with him and led him to the landing. He and the butler wrapped Couto in his velvet-collared cloak, and Dâmaso then bundled him into the coupé, slammed the door and bawled at the coachman:
‘Come on, don’t hang around!’
Up above, the windows glowed. He could hear the piano playing and people laughing. Hunched in the dark of the coupé, Dâmaso pondered his wrath. The hussy! Flirting with another man! And her manner, her tone of voice, as if she were a real lady, when she was nothing but a vulgar prostitute, a bloodsucker. And he was fool enough to feed her money!
‘Lovely party,’ mumbled Couto.