At the beginning of the last chapter Ezequiel had not yet been conceived, and by the end he was a Christian and a Catholic. This one is destined to bring my Ezequiel to the age of five, a fine, sturdy lad with his pale eyes darting here and there as if wanting to flirt with all the girls in the neighbourhood or nearly all.
Now, if you take into consideration that he was an only child, that no other came, certain or uncertain, dead or alive, one single, only child, you can imagine the worries he gave us, the sleep he took from us and the frights we suffered with teething and other problems, slight fevers, the whole range of childhood experiences. We had resort to every remedy, according to whether it seemed advisable or needful, something which it is unnecessary to mention, but there are some readers so obtuse that they don’t understand a thing unless you tell them everything and the rest. Let’s come to the rest.
The rest will take up many chapters; whole lives could be told in less and even so emerge finished and complete.
At five or six years old Ezequiel gave no signs that he would fall short of my dreams on Glória beach; on the contrary, he seemed suited to all possible vocations from that of idler to that of apostle. Idler is used here in its good sense: a man who thinks much but says little. At times he seemed introspective, and in this he took after his mother when she was a girl. At other times he would get excited and insist on going to convince the neighbours’ children that the sweets I gave him were really sweets; if he did not do so before eating his fill, it is equally true that the Apostles did not spread the good word until their hearts were full of it. Escobar, a keen businessman, was of the opinion that the principal reason for this was an implicit invitation to his companions to adopt the same policy whenever their fathers brought them sweets. He laughed at his own joke and declared that he would take him into partnership.
Ezequiel liked music no less than sweets, and I told Capitu to play for him on the piano the jingle of the black man who sold cocadas in Matacavalos.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Don’t say that. You mean you don’t remember the man who used to sell cocadas in the afternoon?’
‘I remember a black man who sold sweetmeats but not any jingle.’
‘Not even the words?’
‘Not even the words.’
The lady reader who remembers the words, having read me with attention, will be amazed that anyone could be so forgetful, especially of something that will bring back memories of her own childhood and adolescence; something she may forget, for no one can keep everything in his head. That is what Capitu said, and I didn’t know how to reply. However, I did something she didn’t expect – I looked through some old papers of mine. In São Paulo, when I was a student, I asked a music teacher to transcribe the jingle for me, which he did with pleasure (I only needed to repeat it from memory), and I had kept the paper, which is what I went to look for. A little later, with the paper in my hand, I interrupted a romance she was playing and explained what it was. She played the sixteen notes.
Capitu said the music had a special appeal, it was quite delightful, and she explained the words to her son, singing and accompanying herself on the piano. Ezequiel took advantage of the music, suggesting I give the lie to the lyrics by giving him some money.
He played at being a doctor, a soldier, an actor and a dancer. I never gave him oratories but, rather, wooden horses and swords, which were more to his taste. I needn’t mention the battalions that marched past in the street and that he ran to see like all children do. But not all watch them with his eager eyes. No others displayed the sheer joy his did as he gazed at the troops marching by and listened to the beat of the drums.
‘Look, Papa! Look!’
‘I can see it, my boy.’
‘Look at the captain! Look at the captain’s horse! Look at the soldiers!’
One morning I found him playing an imaginary bugle, so I gave him a toy one. I bought him tin soldiers and engravings of battles, which he would gaze at for a long time, wanting to know about a particular gun or a fallen soldier or another with his sword raised, which drew all his admiration.
One day (ingenuous age!) he asked me impatiently, ‘But, Papa, why doesn’t he bring his sword down?’
‘Because he’s painted, my son.’
‘Well, why did he paint himself?’
I laughed at his confusion and explained that it wasn’t the soldier who had painted himself on paper but the engraver, after which I had to explain what an engraver was and what was an engraving. A curiosity just like Capitu’s, in fact.
Such were the principal exploits of his childhood; one more and I shall finish this chapter. One day, at Escobar’s, he found a cat with a rat in its mouth. The cat would neither abandon its prey, nor did it try to escape. Ezequiel said nothing but stopped, crouched down and stayed there gazing. Seeing him so intent we called out, asking what it was, but he signed to us to be quiet.
‘I expect the cat’s caught a rat,’ Escobar said. ‘The house is still infested with rats. It’s the very devil. Let’s go and see.’
Capitu, anxious to see what her son was doing, came with us. It was indeed a cat and a rat, a commonplace occurrence, of no interest whatever. The only circumstance of any note was that the rat was alive and struggling, while my little boy looked on fascinated. This didn’t last long. The cat, sensing the presence of more people, prepared to run away, and the boy, without taking his eyes from it, signalled again to us to remain silent. The silence was complete; I was going to add religious, but I crossed it out. However, I now choose to employ the word not just to give an idea of the completeness of the silence but because the drama of the cat and the rat held one as if it were a ritual. The only sound was the last feeble squeaks of the rat, whose legs by this time gave no more than an occasional spasmodic jerk. Somewhat disgusted I clapped my hands to make the cat run off, which it promptly did. The others had no chance to stop me, and Ezequiel was disappointed.
‘Oh, Papa!’
‘What’s the matter? By now he’ll have eaten the rat anyway.’
‘I know, but I wanted to watch.’
The other two laughed, and I, too, found it funny.
I found it funny; I don’t deny it now after so much time has passed and so much happened, and I even admit to feeling a certain sympathy for the rat – yes, it was funny. I admit it freely. Those who love nature as she wishes to be loved, with neither partial repugnance nor unwarranted exceptions, find nothing unworthy in her. I like the rat and don’t dislike the cat. I thought once of having them live together but realized that they are incompatible. In fact one eats my books and the other my cheese. This is little enough to forgive them for, considering I forgave a dog that destroyed my sleep in worse circumstances. I’ll tell the story quickly.
It was when Ezequiel was born. His mother was feverish, Sancha was looking after her, and three dogs in the street barked all night long. I complained to the watchman, but it was the same as complaining to the reader, who has only now learned of it. So I decided to kill them. I bought poison, had three meatballs prepared and mixed the poison in myself. That night I went outside; it was one o’clock, and neither the invalid nor her nurse had been able to sleep with the racket made by the dogs. They ran off when they saw me, two going down towards Flamengo Beach, while the third stopped a short way off as if waiting for something. I walked towards him, whistling and snapping my fingers. The devil was still barking, but trusting in my show of friendship he barked less and finally stopped altogether. As I continued to approach he came towards me slowly, wagging his tail, which is their way of laughing. I had the poisoned meatballs in my hand and was about to throw him one when that peculiar laugh of his, his confidence, affection or whatever it was, held me back. I stood there, I don’t know why, moved with pity and put the meatballs back in my pocket. The reader may think it was the smell of meat that reduced the dog to silence. Without denying this, I believe he couldn’t bring himself to suspect me of perfidy and surrendered to me. The result was that he escaped.
Ezequiel wouldn’t behave like that. I don’t imagine he would make poisoned meatballs, but he wouldn’t refuse to use them either. What he would certainly do would be to chase the dogs off with stones as far as his legs would carry him. And if he had a stick he would use a stick. The future warrior was the apple of his mother’s eye.
‘He doesn’t take after us. We’re peace-loving,’ she said to me one day. ‘But Papa was like that, too, as a boy, according to Mamma.’
‘He’ll certainly be no milksop,’ I agreed. ‘The only small fault I can find with him is that he likes to imitate others.’
‘What do you mean, imitate others?’
‘Imitate their mannerisms, their gestures, the way they walk. He imitates Cousin Justina, he imitates José Dias, and I’ve even noticed that his feet are like Escobar’s, his eyes, too …’
Capitu gazed at me thoughtfully, saying finally that we should correct him. She realized that it was a habit of his, but thought it was just imitating for the sake of imitating as many adults do, adopting the manners of others. But so that it shouldn’t go any further …
‘But we mustn’t be too hard on him,’ I said. ‘There’s plenty of time to correct him.’
‘Yes, there is. We’ll see. Weren’t you like that when you were angry with someone?’
‘When I was angry, yes. A child’s way of getting his own back.’
‘Yes, but I don’t like imitations in the house.’
‘But you used to love it when I did that, didn’t you?’ I said, tapping her lightly on the cheek.
For answer Capitu gave a sweet ironic smile, one of those smiles that cannot be described, only painted. Then she stretched out her arms and placed them over my shoulders, looking so graceful that they seemed – a hackneyed image – a necklace of flowers. I did the same with mine, regretting that there was no sculptor there to reproduce the image in marble. No doubt only the artist would be admired. When a person or a group turns out well no one wants to know about the models, only the work; it is the work that counts. No matter; we would know that it was us.
Speaking of this, it is natural that you should ask me whether, despite our having had a child and the passage of the years, I was not as jealous of her as before. Yes, sir, I was. So much so that her slightest gesture, a casual word, any provocation whatever, tormented me; frequently mere indifference was enough. I was jealous of everything and everyone. A neighbour, a partner in the waltz, any man young or old, filled me with terror or mistrust. What is certain is that Capitu liked to be seen, and the best means to do that (a lady once told me) is to go out and see, too; and you can’t see without revealing yourself.
I think the lady who told me that was fond of me, and naturally it was because I didn’t return her affections that she gave me the explanation she did, with her appealing eyes. I have been the focus of other eyes, too, not many, and I shall say no more about them. At that time, no matter how many pretty women I came across, none would receive a fraction of the love I felt for Capitu. My own mother wanted no more than half. Capitu was everything, more than everything to me: she was never out of my thoughts, at work or elsewhere. We went to the theatre together; I only remember going twice without her – once to a benefit for an actor and once to the first night of an opera, which she couldn’t go to because she was unwell but insisted that I attend. It was too late to give our box to Escobar, so I went but came home after the first act. I found Escobar at the front door.
‘I came to see you,’ he said.
I explained that I had gone to the theatre but had returned, being anxious about Capitu, who was unwell.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked Escobar.
‘She complained of pains in her head and stomach.’
‘In that case I’ll be off. I came about that matter of the embargoes.’
It was a case of third-party embargoes. An incident of some importance had arisen, and since he had dined in town he didn’t want to go home without telling me about it, but now it would keep till later …
‘No, we’ll talk of it now. Come in, she might be better. If she’s worse you can leave.’
Capitu was better, even feeling quite well. She confessed that it had only been a trifling headache, which she had exaggerated in order to convince me to go out and enjoy myself. She did not sound cheerful, which made me suspect she was lying so as not to worry me, but she swore it was the absolute truth.
Escobar smiled and said, ‘My sister-in-law is no more poorly than you or I. Now, what about those embargoes?’
Before turning to the embargoes let me explain something that has already been explained but not very well. You read in Chapter 110 that I asked a music teacher in São Paulo to write down the music of the cocada-seller’s jingle in Matacavalos. The subject in itself is trivial and not worth a chapter, let alone two. But there are subjects that inspire interesting reflections, if not agreeable ones. Let me explain my explanation.
Capitu and I had vowed never to forget that jingle. It was a moment of great tenderness, and the divine notary is aware of vows made at such moments, for he registers them in his eternal books.
‘You swear?’
‘I swear,’ she said, extending her arm in a tragic gesture. I took advantage of this to kiss her hand; I was still at the seminary. When I went to São Paulo I thought at first that I had forgotten the jingle completely, but I managed to remember it and the teacher was kind enough to write it down on a piece of paper. I did this so as not to go back on my vow. But, believe it or not, when I looked through my old papers that night in Glória I could remember neither the tune nor the words. I claimed to be faithful to my vow; that was the extent of my sin. As for forgetting, anyone can forget.
No one knows for sure whether vows should be kept or not. Things of the future! However, our political constitution, by replacing an oath with a simple affirmation, has shown profound moral sense. It did away with a mortal sin. To go back on one’s word is always dishonest, but the man who fears God more than he does his fellow men will have no qualms about lying once or twice provided he does not condemn his soul to purgatory. Purgatory is not to be confused with hell, which is an eternal shipwreck. Purgatory is a pawnshop which lends out against all virtues on short terms and at high interest. However, the terms can be renewed till, one day, one or two medium-sized virtues can pay off all our sins, both great and small.
Let’s come now to those embargoes. And what about the embargoes? God alone knows what it costs me to write about them, let alone talk about them. Of the information that Escobar brought me I shall say no more than I said to him then, which is that it was worthless.
‘Worthless?’
‘Almost worthless.’
‘Then it is worth something?’
‘Added the information that we already have, it is worth less than the tea you are going to have with me.’
‘It’s too late for tea.’
‘We’ll have a quick cup.’
We did so, and while we were drinking it Escobar looked at me as though he thought I rejected his information to save myself the trouble of noting it down, but we were too close friends for him to have such a suspicion.
After he had left I mentioned my doubts to Capitu, who brushed them aside in that delightful, charming way she has, which would soothe all the sorrows of Olympus.
‘It must be that business of the embargoes,’ she concluded. ‘And for him to come here at this time of night shows he is worried about it.’
‘I think you’re right.’
We fell to chatting, and I mentioned other doubts. I was full of them at that time; they croaked inside me like a swarm of frogs, sometimes even keeping me awake at night. I said that I was beginning to think my mother was a little cool and distant towards her.
As usual, Capitu had a ready explanation. ‘I’ve already told you what it is – the usual thing with mothers-in-law. Your little mamma is jealous of you. But it soon passes; she begins to miss you and returns to her old self.
‘Then, not having her grandson …’
‘But I’ve noticed she’s cool, too, towards Ezequiel. When he goes with me she doesn’t make such a fuss of him.’
‘Do you think she could be ill?’
‘Shall we go there tomorrow for dinner?’
‘Yes, let’s … No … Well, all right.’
We went to have dinner with the old lady. I can use this term even though her hair was not yet completely white and her face comparatively unlined. It was a kind of elderly youthfulness or youthful old age; you can take your choice. But let’s have no long faces; I don’t want to talk about the moist eyes when we arrived and when we left. As on other occasions there was little to talk about. José Dias spoke of the delights of marriage, politics, Europe and homoeopathy, Uncle Cosme of his complaints and Cousin Justina of the neighbours and José Dias, as soon as the latter left the room.
Walking home that night we again discussed my doubts, and Capitu again advised patience. All mothers-in-law were like that; then came a day and everything was changed. As she spoke she became increasingly tender. From that time on she was ever more loving towards me; she did not wait for me at the window so as not to arouse my jealousy, but whenever I came in, there at the top of the steps, between the rails of the gate, I would see the sweet face of my friend and wife, as radiant as during our childhood. Sometimes Ezequiel would be with her; we had accustomed him to our welcoming and farewell kisses, and he, too, would smother my face with his own.
I sounded out José Dias about my mother’s changed attitude, and he was astonished. There was nothing the matter; there couldn’t be. He heard nothing but praise for the ‘beautiful and virtuous Capitu’.
‘Now, whenever I hear her I join in, though to begin with I felt most embarrassed. For someone who at first opposed the marriage, like I did, it wasn’t easy to admit that it was a veritable blessing from heaven. That that mischievous girl from Matacavalos would turn into such a fine lady! Before we really got to know each other it was her father who caused the difficulty, but it all turned out well in the end. But, believe me, when your mother starts praising her daughter-in-law …’
‘So my mother …’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why hasn’t she been to see us for such a long time?’
‘I think it’s her rheumatism playing her up. It’s been very cold this year. Imagine how she must feel, she who used to bustle about all day long and now has to sit quietly beside her brother, who has his own troubles …
I felt like pointing out that that might explain her not visiting us but not her coldness when we came to Matacavalos but decided that his intimacy did not extend so far. José Dias asked to see our ‘little prophet’ (as he called Ezequiel) and played with him as usual. This time he spoke in the biblical manner (I learned later that he had been glancing through the Book of Ezekiel), asking him, ‘What’s that, son of man? Where are your toys, son of man? Would you like a sweet, son of man?’
‘What’s all this “son of man”?’ asked Capitu in annoyance.
‘It’s a way of speaking in the Bible.’
‘Well, I don’t like it,’ she replied tetchily.
‘You’re right, Capitu,’ replied José Dias. ‘You’d never believe how many coarse, indecent expressions there are in the Bible. I spoke like that just for a change … And how are you, my little angel? My angel, show me how I walk.’
‘No,’ put in Capitu. ‘I’m trying to get him out of that habit of imitating others.’
‘But he does it so well. When he imitates my movements I seem to see myself as I was when a child. The other day he imitated Dona Glória so well that she gave him a kiss for it. Come on, show me how I walk.’
‘No, Ezequiel,’ I said. ‘Your mother doesn’t like it.’
I, too, didn’t like that habit of his. Some of his gestures were becoming mannerisms, like Escobar’s way of moving his hands and feet, and just lately he had picked up the latter’s habit of looking back when he spoke or dropping his head when he laughed. Capitu scolded him for it. But he was a mischievous little devil, and no sooner had we begun to speak of something else than he jumped into the middle of the room, saying to José Dias, ‘This is how you walk.’
We could not help laughing and I more than anyone. The first to be cross and tell him off was Capitu. ‘I want no more of that, do you hear?’
By then Escobar had left Andaraí and bought a house in Flamengo; I saw it there the other day when I took it into my head to find out whether all my former feelings were dead or merely sleeping. I can’t say for sure, because in deep sleep the living and the dead are indistinguishable except for their breathing. I was breathing – a little – but it may have been the effect of the choppy sea. However that may be, I passed by, lit a cigar, and when I came to I discovered I was in Catete. I had walked up the Rua da Princesa, an old street … Old streets! Old houses! Old legs! We were all old and, needless to add, old in the bad sense of old and done with.
It is an old house, but nothing has been changed. I don’t even know whether it still has the same number, and I shan’t say what it is so that people won’t go there to dig up the story. Not that Escobar still lives there or is even still alive; he died shortly afterwards in a manner I shall describe. While he was alive, being so close, it was as though we had a single house: I lived in his, he in mine, and the stretch of beach between Glória and Flamengo was like a private footpath for our own exclusive use. It reminded me of the two houses in Matacavalos and their dividing wall.
One of our historians, I think it was João de Barros, put some wise words into the mouth of a barbarian king when the Portuguese asked permission to build a fortress in his territory. The king declared that good friends should live apart from each other, not close by, so as not to become enraged like the waves of the sea, which were beating furiously on the cliff they could see from where they were. May the ghost of the writer forgive me if I express my doubts that the king said any such thing or that it is true anyway. Most likely the writer himself invented the phrase to embellish his text, because it sounds fine, it really does sound fine. I accept that the waves were beating on the rocks, which has been their habit since the days of Ulysses and before. But that the comparison is admissible, oh no. Of course there are enemies who live near to each other but so do the closest of friends. And the writer forgot the saying (unless it came after his time): out of sight, out of mind. We could not have been closer to each other. Our wives lived in each other’s houses, and we spent our evenings here or there, talking, playing cards or gazing at the sea. The two children spent their days either in Glória or in Flamengo.
When I mentioned that the same thing could happen to them as happened to Capitu and me, everyone agreed, and Sancha added that they even looked alike.
‘No, it’s because Ezequiel likes to imitate other people,’ I explained.
Escobar agreed with me and suggested that children who are much together end up looking like each other. I gave a nod, as I do in matters where I am not sure one way or the other. It could be. What was certain was that they were fond of each other and might well end up getting married. But they didn’t end up getting married.
Everything comes to an end, reader; it’s an old truism, to which one can add that not everything that lasts does so for long. This addition is not so readily believed; on the contrary, we like to think that a castle in the air lasts longer than the air with which it is built, which is a good thing since in this way we do not lose the habit of building structures that are almost eternal.
Our castle was solidly built, but one Sunday … The day before, we had spent the evening at Flamengo, not just the two inseparable couples but also José Dias and Cousin Justina. It was then that Escobar spoke to me by the window, inviting us to have dinner with them next day to discuss a family project; a project for the four of us.
‘The four of us? A quadrille.’
‘No. You can’t guess what it is, and I’m not saying. Come tomorrow.’
Sancha never took her eyes off us during our conversation in a corner of the window. When her husband left she came to speak to me and asked what we had been talking about. I told her it was some project, but I didn’t know what it was. Begging me to keep it secret, she told me – none other than a trip to Europe in two years’ time. She spoke almost with a sigh, her back to the room. Outside it was stormy, with waves thundering on the beach.
‘Are we all going?’
‘Yes, all of us.’
Sancha raised her head and looked at me with such a pleased expression that on account of her friendship with Capitu I might well have given her a kiss on the brow. But instead of arousing brotherly instincts her eyes appeared warm and appealing, saying something quite different before they drifted away from the window, where I was still deep in thought, gazing at the sea. It was a clear night.
It was from there that I sought Sancha’s eyes – she was by the piano – and met them halfway. All four halted in front of each other as if waiting for the others to pass on; but none passed on. It was like two stubborn people meeting in the street. Caution made us separate, and I turned my gaze outside once more. Standing there I searched my memory to discover whether I had ever before looked at her with the same expression and could not be sure. The only thing I was sure of was that one day I had thought of her as one does of a pretty girl, a stranger one sees in the street. But could she have guessed … Perhaps my thoughts made themselves obvious, and at the time she had avoided me, either angry or shy, and now, by some irresistible force … Irresistible! The word was like the blessing a priest gives at mass and which people receive and repeat to themselves.
‘It’ll be a brave man who ventures in the sea tomorrow,’ said the voice of Escobar at my shoulder.
‘Are you going in the sea tomorrow?’
‘I’ve been in worse, much worse than this. You have no idea what it’s like swimming in a rough sea. You have to be a good swimmer like me, have lungs like these’, he said, patting his chest, ‘and arms like these. Feel them.’
I felt his arms as if they had been Sancha’s. It is not easy to make this confession, but I won’t suppress it; it would be to detract from the truth. Not only did I feel them with this idea in mind, but there was something else, too: I found them thicker and stronger than mine and felt envious. Added to which they could swim.
When we left I again spoke with my eyes to the lady of the house. Her hand squeezed mine tightly and held on to it for longer than usual.
Modesty required then, as now, that I should see in Sancha’s gesture no more than assent to her husband’s project and an expression of thanks. That is how it should have been, but a strange sensation in my whole body rejected the conclusion I have just written. I still felt Sancha’s fingers pressing themselves into mine. A moment of madness and sin. By the clock it was gone in a flash: when I held the clock to my ear the only ticks I heard were those of reason and virtue.
‘… a most charming lady,’ said José Dias, concluding a speech he had been making.
‘Most charming,’ I repeated warmly. Then, moderating my language, ‘Really a beautiful night.’
‘Like every night in that house,’ went on José Dias. ‘But not out here. Out here the sea is wild. Listen.’
We could hear the heavy sea, as we had heard it from the house; a storm was blowing, and in the distance we could see the waves building up. Capitu and Cousin Justina, who had gone on ahead, waited for us at one of the curves of the beach, and the four of us walked on together, talking. I said little; I could not entirely forget Sancha’s hand, nor the looks we had exchanged. First I interpreted them one way, then another. Moments with the Devil alternated with minutes with God, and the clock moved on showing now my damnation, now my salvation. José Dias left us at our door. Cousin Justina was spending the night with us and would go home next day after lunch and mass. I withdrew to my study, where I stayed longer than usual.
Escobar’s portrait, which I had hung next to that of my mother, spoke to me as if it were he himself. I made an honest effort to combat the feelings I had brought with me from Flamengo, thrusting aside the vision of my friend’s wife and calling myself disloyal. Besides, who could be sure there was any intention of that nature in her farewell gesture or in those previous ones? It might just have been excitement at the thought of our trip. Sancha and Capitu were such close friends that it would be an additional pleasure for them to travel together. If there had been some sexual element in it, who could prove that it wasn’t some flash-in-the-pan feeling destined to die that very night in her sleep? Remorse can spring from sins no greater than this, and its duration is equally short. I clung to this hypothesis, which reconciled me to the touch of Sancha’s hand, which I still remembered within my own, warm and lingering, pressing and being pressed …
Frankly I was far from happy, caught between friendship and the attraction I felt. Timidity may have been another reason for my distress. Heaven is not the only source of our virtues; there is timidity, too, not to mention chance, but chance is merely accidental – their finest source is still heaven. However, since timidity comes from heaven, which gives us this disposition, the virtue it engenders is genealogically of the same celestial blood. That, had I been able, is how I would have reasoned; but at first my thoughts were confused. It was not passion, neither was it inclination. It could be a whim – what else? After twenty minutes it was nothing, nothing whatever. Escobar’s portrait seemed to speak to me, and seeing his frank, simple manner I shook my head and went to bed.
My friendly lady reader, who has opened this book as a means of relaxation between yesterday’s aria and today’s waltz, is now about to close it hastily on seeing that we are on the brink of an abyss. Don’t do that, my dear. I’ll change course.
Next morning I woke up free from the disturbing thoughts of the day before. I dismissed these as hallucinations, had my coffee, skimmed through the papers and went to study some lawsuits. Capitu and Cousin Justina had gone to the nine o’clock mass at Lapa. Sancha’s image disappeared amid the allegations of the opposing party, allegations that were false, inadmissible and with no authority in law or usage. I saw it was an easy matter to win the case and consulted Dalloz, Pereira and Souza …
Only once did I look at Escobar’s portrait. It was a fine photograph, taken a year previously. He was standing, his frock-coat buttoned up, his left hand on the back of a chair, his right at his breast, and he was gazing into the distance to the left of the onlooker. As a pose it was both natural and elegant. The frame I had had made did not cover the dedication, which was written underneath, not on the back. ‘To my dear friend, Bentinho, affectionately, Escobar. 20–4–70.’ Those words strengthened my resolve of the morning and effectively dissipated my memories of the day before. In those days my sight was good; I could read the words from where I was sitting. I returned to my lawsuits.
I was still intent on them when I heard hurried steps on the stairs. The bell rang, there were hand-claps, bangs on the gate and voices shouting. Everyone ran out, including myself.
It was a slave from Sancha’s house calling for me, ‘You go there … Master went swimming … Master dying.’
He said nothing more, or else I didn’t hear the rest. I got dressed, left a message for Capitu and ran to Flamengo.
On the way I guessed what had happened. Escobar had gone out swimming, as was his custom; despite the rough sea he had ventured out a little further than he normally did, had been swept away and drowned. The boats that went to his aid had difficulty in bringing back the corpse.
The widow … I shall spare you the tears of the widow, my own and those of the others. I left there about eleven o’clock. Capitu and Cousin Justina were waiting for me, one numbed with shock, the other merely bored.
‘Go and keep poor Sanchinha company. I’ll make arrangements for the funeral.’
That was what we did. I wanted the funeral to be impressive, and crowds of friends attended. The beach, the streets, the Praça da Glória, were all thronged with carriages, many of them private ones. The house was not large enough to hold them all, so many stayed on the beach, talking about the disaster, pointing out the place where Escobar had died and listening to the account of how his body was brought in. José Dias heard talk of his financial situation, there being some difference of opinion concerning the value of his estate, though all agreed that his liabilities did not amount to much. He was well spoken of. Someone discussed Rio Branco’s new cabinet: it was March 1871. I have never forgotten the month nor the year.
As I had decided to speak at the cemetery, I wrote down a few lines and showed them at home to José Dias, who declared them highly creditable both to the deceased and to me. He asked me for the paper, recited my speech slowly, weighing the words and confirmed the opinion he had just given.
The news spread in Flamengo, and some acquaintances came to enquire, ‘So, you’re going to say something?’
‘Just two or three words.’
There would be a few more than that. I had written them down for fear that my emotion would prevent me improvising. In the tilbury I spent one or two hours doing nothing but remembering our time at the seminary, my meeting with Escobar, our liking for each other and how our friendship had begun, continued and never been interrupted until a stroke of fate separated two creatures who seemed destined to remain for ever united. From time to time I dried my eyes. The coachman asked once or twice how I was feeling but, receiving no reply, concentrated again on his job. When I arrived home I jotted down some of those thoughts on a piece of paper. That would be my speech.
At last it was time for the final prayer and our departure. Sancha wanted to take a last farewell of her husband, and her anguish affected everyone. Many of the men were weeping and all the women, too. Only Capitu, who was supporting the widow, seemed able to keep a hold on herself. In a consoling voice she urged her to leave the room. There was general confusion, amid which Capitu gazed at the body for a few moments so intently, with such passionate intensity, that it was no surprise to see her shed a few hot tears …
My own ceased immediately. I remained watching hers. Capitu dried them quickly, stealing a rapid glance at the people in the room. She redoubled her attentions to her friend, wanting her to withdraw, but it seemed that the body held her back, too. There was a moment when Capitu’s eyes gazed at it like those of the widow but without her cries and lamentations, huge, wide open like the waves of the sea outside, as if they, too, sought to suck down the swimmer of the morning.
‘It’s time we left.’
It was José Dias inviting me to close the coffin. We closed it, and I took hold of one of the handles. There was a final outburst of weeping. I swear that when I arrived at the door and saw the bright sunshine, all those carriages and the people with their heads uncovered, I felt one of those impulses of mine that never get put into practice: it was to hurl coffin, body and everything into the street. In the carriage I told José Dias not to speak. In the cemetery I had to repeat the same procedure as in the house – undo the straps and help carry the coffin to the grave. You can imagine what that cost me. After they lowered the body into the grave they brought lime and a spade. You know all about this – you will have been to more than one funeral; but what you don’t know, nor can any of your friends know, dear reader, nor any other stranger, is what I went through when I saw all eyes turned on me, feet still, ears pricked up; after some moments of total silence I was aware of a vague murmur, interrogatory voices, gesticulations and someone, José Dias, whispering in my ear, ‘Why don’t you speak?’
It was the speech. They wanted the speech. They had a right to hear the speech, which had been announced. Automatically I put my hand in my pocket, took out the paper and read it in fits and starts, not all of it, nor in the right order, nor clearly. I seemed to swallow my voice instead of speaking, and my hands were trembling. It was not just newly awakened emotion that caused this; it was the text itself, the references to my friend, my memories of him, my tribute to his person and his merits. This is what I had to say, and I said it badly. At the same time, fearful that they might guess the truth, I did my best to keep it well concealed. I think only a few heard what I said, but the general reaction was of understanding and approval. The handshakes I received were congratulatory. Some said, ‘Fine! Very good! Magnificent!’ José Dias thought that my words were suited to the sadness of the occasion. A man, who seemed to be a journalist, asked permission to take the manuscript and have it printed. Only my extreme agitation could explain my refusal of so simple a request.
Priam judged himself the most wretched of men for kissing the hand of the man who killed his son. It is Homer who tells us this, and Homer is a great author, despite writing in verse – there are exact narrations in verse, even in bad verse. Compare Priam’s situation with mine. I had just praised the virtues of the man who, in death, had won that look … It is impossible that some Homer should fail to produce a much stronger or at least an equal effect from my situation. Don’t say that we lack Homers for the reason given by Camões; no, senhor, we lack them for sure, but only because our Priams seek the shade and silence. Their tears, if they shed any, are dried behind doors so that their faces may appear fresh and serene; their speech is rather gay than melancholic, and everything is as if Achilles had never killed Hector.
Shortly after leaving the cemetery, despite all José Dias’s efforts to stop me, I tore up my speech and dropped the pieces out of the window.
‘It’s no good,’ I told him. ‘And as I may be tempted to have it printed it is better to destroy it once and for all. It’s no good – utterly worthless.’
José Dias argued the contrary at great length, then he praised the funeral and made a final panegyric on the dead man, great-hearted, high-spirited, upright, a friend, a firm friend, worthy of the loving wife God had given him …
At this point in his speech I left him talking to himself and fell to brooding. What I brooded over was so dark and confused that my mind was in a whirl. In Catete I stopped the carriage and told José Dias to fetch the ladies from Flamengo and take them home. I was going to walk.
‘But …’
‘I’m going to pay a visit.’
My reason was to carry on brooding and come to a decision appropriate at that moment. The carriage would move faster than my legs, which could choose their own pace, slow down, stop, turn back and allow the head to go on brooding. So I walked on, still brooding. I had already compared Sancha’s behaviour the day before with her present anguish; they were irreconcilable. The widow really was loving. My vain illusions vanished into thin air. Might it not be the same with Capitu? I strove to remember her eyes, her position when I saw her, the press of people, which would naturally recommend dissimulation, if there were anything to dissemble. What I now examined in an orderly, logical manner had until then been a confused hotchpotch of ideas and impressions thanks to the jolting of the carriage and José Dias’s interruptions. Now, however, I was able to think straight and see things clearly. I told myself that I had been blinded by my former passion, which as always had left me slightly unhinged.
I arrived at this last conclusion at the same time as I arrived at the front door of my house, but I retraced my steps and went up the Rua do Catete again. Was it my doubts that distressed me or the need to distress Capitu by my long absence? Perhaps the two together. I wandered about for a long time until I felt calmer and then headed for home. In a baker’s shop it was striking eight o’clock.
Near the house there was a barber who knew me by sight; he loved the violin and didn’t play too badly. As I passed by he was playing some piece or other. I stopped on the pavement to listen (any pretext will do for the grieving heart); he saw me and went on playing. He neglected to attend a client and then a second, who despite the late hour and it being a Sunday had gone there to entrust their faces to his razor. He lost them without missing a single note but went on playing for me. This attitude made me walk boldly to the door of his shop and stand facing him. At the back of the shop a dark-skinned girl raised the chintz curtain separating it from the house and came through; she wore a light dress and had a flower in her hair. She was his wife; having apparently noticed me from within she was now honouring me with her presence in return for the favour I rendered her husband. If I am not mistaken she said as much with her eyes. As for her husband, he now played with more feeling, seeing neither his wife nor his clients, his face glued to the instrument; he put his soul into his bow and played on, played on …
Oh, divine art! A group was gathering, so I left the shop door and walked home, let myself into the corridor and crept up the stairs. I never forgot that incident with the barber, either because it took place at a critical point in my life or because of this maxim, which compilers, if they so wish, may take from here and include in their school compendiums. The maxim is this: that people are slow to forget the good deeds they practise and in fact never forget them ever. That poor barber! He lost two shaves that night, his daily bread for the next day, just to play to a passer-by. Now suppose that the latter, instead of going away like I did, had remained at the door to hear him and make love to his wife. Then he, giving himself heart and soul to his bow and his violin, would really have cause to fiddle away in desperation. Oh, divine art!
As I was saying, I crept up the stairs, pushed open the gate, which was only closed to, and found Cousin Justina and José Dias playing cards in the sitting-room. Capitu got up from the sofa and came to greet me. Her face was relaxed and calm. The other two abandoned their game and we all talked about the tragedy and the widow. Capitu condemned Escobar’s imprudence and made no attempt to hide her sympathy for her friend in her loss. I asked her why she hadn’t stayed with Sancha for the night.
‘There were many people there. Even so I offered to stay, but she refused. I also suggested it would be better for her to come here and spend a few days with us.’
‘Yes.’
‘Remember, the sight of the sea every morning might be painful for her,’ said José Dias. ‘I don’t know how …’
‘But it will pass. What doesn’t pass in time?’ put in Cousin Justina.
That set us off talking, and Capitu left us to see if her son was sleeping. As she passed in front of the mirror she spent so long adjusting her hair that it would have seemed affectation had we not known that she was always proud of her appearance. When she returned her eyes were red; she said that when she looked at her son asleep she couldn’t help thinking of Sancha’s little daughter and her mother’s misery. And taking no notice of our visitors or bothering to see if there was a servant present, she took me in her arms and declared that if I really cared for her I should first take care of my own life. José Dias thought her words ‘most beautiful’ and asked Capitu why she did not write poetry. I tried to turn this into a discussion, and so we passed the evening.
Next day I regretted having torn up my speech, not because I wanted to have it printed but because it would have been a remembrance of my dead friend. I thought of rewriting it but could remember only odd phrases which made no sense when joined together. I also thought of writing out a new one, but that would have been difficult and the discrepancy detected by those who had heard me at the cemetery. As for collecting the pieces of paper thrown into the street, it was too late – they had already been swept up.
I made a list of my mementoes of Escobar – books, a bronze inkwell, an ivory walking-stick, a bird, Capitu’s album, two landscapes of Parana and other things. He also had things of mine. We had always been like that, exchanging keepsakes and presents at birthdays or for no particular reason. My eyes misted over. The newspapers arrived; they gave accounts of the tragedy, Escobar’s death, his studies and business affairs, his personal qualities, the sympathy of his colleagues, and they also mentioned the estate he had left and his wife and daughter. That was on the Monday. On Tuesday his will was opened, and I found myself nominated second executor, the first being his wife. He left me nothing, but the words he wrote in a separate letter were a monument of affection and respect. This time Capitu shed copious tears, but she soon recovered.
Will, inventory, events moved as fast as it takes to write them here. After a little while Sancha left for her relatives’ house in Parana.
Dona Sancha, I beg you not to read this book; or, if you have read it as far as here, give up the rest. You only need to close it, though it would be better to burn it so as not to be tempted to open it again. If, despite my warning, you decide to read on to the end, the blame is yours, and I shall not answer for what you may suffer. What you may have suffered already, through my account of what happened that Saturday, is finished and done with, since events and I myself dispelled my illusion. But what touches you now will be indelible. No, my friend, read no more. Grow old with neither husband nor daughter; I, too, do the same thing, which is all that remains to be done once youth is gone. One day we shall go from here to the gates of heaven, where we shall meet again, our new selves, like fresh plants,
… comepiante novelle,
Rinovellate di novellefronde …
The rest is in Dante.
Meanwhile Capitu wanted to know one day why I was so silent and bad-tempered. She suggested Europe, Minas, Petropolis, a series of balls, a thousand and one of those remedies recommended to people under a cloud. I did not know what to answer and refused all her suggestions. As she insisted I replied that my affairs were going badly. She gave an encouraging smile. What did it matter if they were going badly? Later they would improve, and until then we could sell her jewels and other objects of value and go and live in a back alley. We would live quietly, forgotten by everyone until we got our heads above water again. The tenderness with which she said this would have moved a heart of stone. But to no effect. I replied curtly that we wouldn’t have to sell anything and continued as quiet and bad-tempered as before. She suggested playing cards or draughts, going for a walk, paying a visit to Matacavalos, and as I would agree to nothing she went to the sitting-room, opened the piano and began to play. Taking advantage of her absence, I picked up my hat and left …
Forgive me, but this chapter should have been preceded by another, in which I told of an incident that occurred some weeks earlier, two months after Sancha’s departure. I’m going to write it and may place it before this one before sending the book to press, but it’s not easy to alter the numbers of the pages. I’ll send it as it is, then the story goes straight on to the end. In any case it’s short.
It happened that my life once again became calm and pleasant: my lawyer’s office was doing well, Capitu was ever more beautiful, and Ezequiel was growing. It was the beginning of 1872.
‘Have you noticed how Ezequiel has a funny expression in his eyes?’ asked Capitu. ‘I’ve only seen two people like that – a friend of Papa’s and poor Escobar. Look, Ezequiel. Look straight at me. That’s right. Now look towards Papa. You don’t need to roll your eyes. That’s it. That’s it.’
It was after dinner. We were still at table and Capitu was playing with her son, or he with her, or one with the other, because they loved each other very much, though it is a fact that he loved me best of all. I looked closely at Ezequiel and saw that Capitu was right: he had Escobar’s eyes, though I didn’t find them funny on account of that. After all, there aren’t more than half-a-dozen expressions in the world, and many likenesses can have a perfectly natural cause.
Ezequiel, who understood nothing, looked at each of us in surprise, then jumped on my lap. ‘Shall we go for a walk, Papa?’
‘In a little while, my son.’
Capitu, who was no longer attending to us, was looking across the table, but when I told her that as for beauty Ezequiel’s eyes were those of his mother she smiled and shook her head in that way of hers that I have never seen in any other woman, probably because I have never loved any other so much. A person’s worth is gauged by the affection he inspires in others, hence the popular adage that the ugliest lovers are beautiful to each other. Capitu had half-a-dozen such gestures that were peculiar to her. This one was one of her most endearing. Which explains why I ran to my wife and friend and smothered her with kisses. But the incident is not absolutely essential for an understanding of the previous chapter or of those to follow. Let’s keep to Ezequiel’s eyes.
Not only his eyes but all his other features, his face, his body, his whole person, became more defined as time passed. It was like a rough sketch which the artist fills in and colours little by little: the figure starts to emerge, to breathe, almost to speak, and the family hang the portrait on the wall in memory of what once was and could never be again. Here it could be and was. Everyday intercourse disguised the effects of change, but change there was, not as in the theatre but like a day slowly dawning and growing lighter: at first you cannot read a letter, then you can read it in the street, in the house, in your study without opening the windows, the light filtering through the shutters being sufficient to make out the words. I read the letter, with difficulty at first and not all of it; then I read it more easily. It is true that I tore myself from it; put the paper in my pocket, ran through the house, locked myself in, left the windows closed and even closed my eyes. When I again opened my eyes and the letter, the words stood out and the message was all too evident.
In this way Escobar emerged from the grave, from the seminary, from Flamengo, to sit with me at the table, to greet me on the stairs, to kiss me in the morning in my study or ask the customary blessing at night. All this was repulsive to me, but I bore with it so as not to reveal myself to myself and to the world. But what I could conceal from the world I could not conceal from myself, detached as I was from all else. When neither mother nor son was present my despair was unbearable, and I swore to kill them both, either at a blow or else slowly, dragging out their death to compensate for all my hours of anguish and suffering. But when I arrived home and found that loving little creature waiting for me at the top of the stairs my resolve weakened, and I deferred his punishment until another day.
I shall not record what passed between Capitu and myself during those sombre days; it was petty and repetitive, and now so remote that to attempt to do so would be wearisome and involve omissions. But the main thing can be stated. And the main thing is that our storms were now continual and violent. Before making landfall on that evil coast of truth, we had experienced others of short duration; but the sky soon became blue, the sun bright and the sea calm wherever we unfurled the sails that carried us to the loveliest shores and islands in the world, until another gust of wind overturned everything and, with mainsails lowered, we waited for the next period of calm, which was neither uncertain nor long delayed but rather assured, close at hand and long lasting.
These metaphors have their significance. They recall the sea and the tide that took the life of my friend, my wife’s lover, Escobar. They recall, too, those whirlpool eyes of Capitu. And in this way, although I have always been a landsman, I can relate that part of my life as a sailor might his own shipwreck.
All that was lacking between us now was to say the final word, but we read it in each other’s eyes, clear and unequivocal, and Ezequiel’s presence only served to drive us further apart. Capitu suggested that we send him to boarding-school, from where he would only come home at weekends. The boy was not easily convinced.
‘I want to go with Papa! Papa must come with me!’ he shouted.
I took him there myself one Monday morning. It was in the former Largo da Lapa, not far from home. I walked, securing him by the hand, just as I had secured the coffin of the other. The boy was crying and asking questions at every step – would he come back home, when, and would I go to see him?
‘I will.’
‘No you won’t, Papa.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Will you promise?’
‘Of course.’
‘You didn’t say you promise, Papa.’
‘Well, I promise.’
I took him there and left him. His temporary absence did not lessen the tension, and all Capitu’s artifices to do so came to nothing. I felt worse than ever, and this new situation actually served to make things worse. Though Ezequiel was now out of my sight, whenever he came home at weekends, either through not having him always around or because time was passing and completing the likeness, it was Escobar who returned, more alive and active than ever. After a while even his voice seemed to me the same. On Saturdays I dined out and only came home when he was asleep, but I could not escape him on Sundays, in my office, surrounded by papers and documents. Ezequiel would burst in to talk to me, full of love and laughter, for the devil of a child grew daily more attached to me. To be honest, he aroused in me such aversion that I could barely conceal it from his mother and others. Not being able entirely to disguise my feelings, I took to avoiding him as much as possible; sometimes I had work that obliged me to lock my study; at others I would go for a walk on the Sunday into the city and suburbs, nursing my secret.
One day – it was a Friday – I could endure it no longer. A certain dark thought opened its wings and buzzed around in my head as ideas do when they want to get out. I had been brought up in terror of that day, and at home I heard them sing ballads from the interior and the former metropolis in which Friday was regarded as a day of ill omen. However, since we have no almanacs in our brain it is probable that the idea took flight only from the desire for air and life. Life is so beautiful that the idea of death itself must arise first before it can be fulfilled. You will soon understand what I mean. Now read the next chapter.
The idea finally emerged from my brain. It was night, and no matter how hard I tried to shake it off it would not let me sleep. Nevertheless, no other night passed so quickly; dawn broke when I thought it was still one or two o’clock. I went out, hoping to leave the idea at home, but it came with me. Outside it remained as sinister as ever, with the same fluttering wings, and though it could fly it was as if rooted to the spot. It settled before my eyes, not obscuring external things but making them less vivid, less substantial.
I do not remember the rest of the day. I know that I wrote some letters and bought a substance, which I shall not name so as not to arouse the desire to try it. The pharmacy went out of business, it is true, but the owner became a banker and the bank is thriving. When I found myself with death in my pocket I felt as happy as if I had just won first prize in the lottery, or more so because prize money gets spent whereas death never gets spent. I went to my mother’s house, ostensibly on a visit, in fact to say goodbye. Whether it was true or an illusion, everything seemed to be better that day: my mother less unhappy, Uncle Cosme forgetful of his heart and Cousin Justina of her tongue. I spent an hour at peace. I decided to give up the idea. What did I need to live? Never again to leave that house or to stretch that hour to eternity.
I dined out and in the evening went to the theatre. As it happened they were playing Othello, which I had neither read nor seen before; I just knew the theme and was struck by the coincidence. I saw the Moor’s anguish, all caused by a handkerchief – a mere handkerchief – and here I provide matter for psychologists of this and other continents to meditate on, for I could not escape the observation that it only took a handkerchief to arouse Othello’s jealousy and to compose the most sublime tragedy that has ever been written. Handkerchiefs have become outdated; nowadays we need the very sheets themselves, and when these are not forthcoming only nightgowns will serve. Such were the vague, distorted ideas that passed through my mind as the Moor rolled on the ground in convulsions and Iago distilled his poison. During the intervals I did not leave my seat, not wishing to risk meeting some acquaintance. Nearly all the ladies stayed in their boxes, while the men went out to smoke. I wondered whether any of them had once loved someone now lying in the cemetery; similar incoherent thoughts came to me until the curtain rose on the next act. It was during the last act that I realized that it was not I but Capitu who ought to die. I heard Desdemona pleading with words of purest love and saw the fury of the Moor as he did her to death and then the frantic applause of the audience.
And she was innocent, I said to myself as I walked home. What would the audience do if she had been guilty, as guilty as Capitu? And how would the Moor kill her? A pillow would not serve; it would need blood and fire, a huge roaring fire to consume her entirely, reduce her to dust – a dust that the wind would whirl away to everlasting extinction …
I wandered the streets for the rest of the night. True, I ate supper, though hardly anything, just sufficient to tide me over till morning. I saw the last hours of the night and the first of the day; I saw the last nocturnal strollers and the first roadsweepers, the first carts, the first morning bustle, the first gleams of the dawn of one day that followed on another and which would see me depart, never to return. The very streets I trod seemed to flee of their own accord. Never again would I see the sea from Glória, the Orgãos Mountains, the Santa Cruz Fortress and all the rest. There were not so many people about as on working days, but they were already quite numerous, on their way to some job or other which they would go to again. I would never go to mine again.
I arrived home, opened the door slowly, tiptoed inside and went to my study; it was almost six o’clock. I took the poison from my pocket, sat in my shirt-sleeves and wrote yet another letter, the last, addressed to Capitu. None of the others was for her; I felt the urge to say something that would arouse remorse for my death. I wrote two versions. The first I burned as being too long and diffuse. The second said just what was necessary, clearly and concisely. I did not recall the past, neither our quarrels nor our good times; I mentioned only Escobar and my wish to die.
My plan was to wait for my coffee, dissolve the poison in it and swallow it. Until then, not having entirely forgotten my Roman history, I remembered that before killing himself Cato read and reread one of Plato’s books. I had no Plato with me, but an abridged volume of Plutarch containing the life of the celebrated Roman was sufficient to entertain me for that short time, and in order to imitate him in everything I lay down on the sofa. It was not mere imitation; I needed to summon up some of his courage, just as he had needed the reflections of the philosopher to die bravely. One of the misfortunes of being ignorant is not to have this last-minute facility. Many people kill themselves without it and make a noble end; but I feel that many more would shorten their days if they only had the moral cocaine of a good book. However, to avoid any suspicion of imitation, I remember deciding to replace my Plutarch on the shelf so that it should not be found beside me and be included in the newspaper reports together with the colour of the trousers I was wearing at the time.
The servant brought me my coffee. I got up, put away the book and went to the table where he had left the cup. The house was already awake; it was time to make an end. My hand shook as I unwrapped the paper containing the poison. Even so I managed to pour it into the cup and began to stir the coffee; my eyes were dim, and I thought of the innocent Desdemona; the spectacle of the evening intruded into the reality of the morning. But Escobar’s photograph gave me the courage I needed; there he was, his hand on the back of a chair, gazing into the distance …
Let’s get it over with, I thought.
When I was about to drink it I wondered whether it might not be better to wait until Capitu and her son had gone to mass and then do so; yes, that would be better. Having made up my mind I began pacing up and down the study.
I heard Ezequiel’s voice in the corridor, then he came in and rushed up to me, shouting, ‘Papa! Papa!’
Reader, at this point something happened that I shall not describe since I have completely forgotten it, though it must have been both beautiful and tragic. At the boy’s entrance I retreated until my back was against the bookcase. Ezequiel hugged my knees and stretched up on his toes as if wanting to climb up and give me his customary kiss. He went on tugging at me and repeating, ‘Papa! Papa!’
If I hadn’t looked at Ezequiel it is probable that I should not now be here writing this book, because my first impulse was to rush to the coffee and drink it.
I even picked up the cup, but the boy kissed my hand, as was his custom, and the sight of him and his gesture brought second thoughts – thoughts that I am ashamed to confess to; but what does it matter, the truth can be told. I may even be branded murderer; who am I to protest or deny it? My second impulse was criminal. I leaned down and asked Ezequiel if he had had coffee.
‘Yes, Papa. I’m going to mass with Mamma.’
‘Have another cup. Half a cup.’
‘What about you, Papa?’
‘I’ll send for another. Come on, drink up.’
Ezequiel opened his mouth. I put the cup to his lips, trembling so much that I almost spilt it but determined to pour it down his throat should he complain of the taste or the temperature, for the coffee was now cold. But something, I don’t know what, held me back. I put the cup on the table and fell to kissing the child’s head madly.
‘Papa! Papa!’ cried Ezequiel.
‘No, no, I’m not your father.’
When I looked up I saw Capitu standing facing me. It was another entrance like that on the stage and as easily explicable as the first since mother and son were going to mass, and Capitu never left without speaking to me. Just a few dry words, and most times I never bothered to look up at her, though she always looked at me and waited.
This time – I don’t know whether it was my eyes – she seemed livid. There followed one of those silences which, at such critical moments, seem to last ages. Finally, pulling herself together, Capitu sent her son away and asked me to explain myself.
‘There’s nothing to explain,’ I said.
‘There’s everything to explain. I don’t understand what you and Ezequiel were crying about. What happened between you?’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said to him?’
Capitu replied that she had heard the sound of weeping and some muttered words. I think she heard it all clearly, but to admit it would be to lose any hope of remaining silent and of reconciliation. For this reason she denied hearing anything, confirming only what she had seen. Without reference to the coffee, I repeated the words at the end of the chapter.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, as if she had not fully heard me.
‘That he is not my son.’
Capitu’s stupefaction and later indignation were so convincing as to have called into question the reliability of the principal witnesses at our tribunal. I have heard that witnesses can be arranged for certain cases – it is a question of price, though I find it hard to believe, especially since the man who told me this had just lost a case. But whether or not there are hired witnesses, mine was honest; nature herself testified for me, and I could not doubt her evidence. So, paying no heed to Capitu’s language, her gestures, the pain that contorted her features or to anything else, I repeated my words twice over, with such conviction as to silence her.
After a few moments, she said, ‘Such an insult can only be explained by your own sincere conviction. Yet you, who were always so suspicious of my every action, never gave the slightest hint of mistrust. What was it put such an idea into your head? Tell me,’ she went on, seeing that I said nothing in reply. ‘Tell me everything. After what I’ve just heard I have a right to hear the rest, which can’t be much. What can have made you believe such a thing? Come, Bentinho, say something. Tell me. Expel me from your house, but explain everything first.’
‘Some things can’t be explained.’
‘Or rather can’t be left half explained. And since you’ve told me half, tell me the rest.’
She had sat down on a chair by the table. Though she appeared upset, her attitude was not that of a defendant. I asked her once more not to insist.
‘No, Bentinho, either you tell me the rest so that I can defend myself, if you think I have any defence, or I ask for a separation. I can’t go on like this any longer.’
‘Our separation is something already decided on,’ I retorted, seizing upon her proposal. ‘It would have been better to have arranged it without recriminations, in silence, each one bearing his own wounds. However, since you insist, this is what I have to say, and it is all I have to say.’
I didn’t say everything. I could scarcely refer to her love for Escobar without mentioning his name. At this Capitu could not help laughing, such a laugh that I cannot describe here. Then, in a tone both sad and ironical, she said, ‘Even the dead! Not even the dead are safe from your jealousy!’
She adjusted her shawl and stood up. She sighed, at least I think she sighed, while I, who wanted nothing other than a full acquittal, muttered some words to this effect. Capitu gave me a look of contempt and murmured, ‘I know the reason. It’s the coincidence of the resemblance. The will of God alone can explain everything … You’re laughing? Yes, it’s only natural: in spite of the seminary you don’t believe in God. I do … But let’s not talk of that. We’d do better to say nothing more.’
It is a fact that I was on the point of believing myself the victim of a crass illusion, the phantasmagoria of one hallucinated, when the sudden entrance of Ezequiel, shouting ‘Mamma, Mamma, it’s time to go to mass’ brought me back to reality. Involuntarily Capitu and I both looked at Escobar’s photograph, then at each other. Her confusion served as a complete confession. The one was the other. Had there been a photograph of Escobar as a child, it would have been none other than our little son, Ezequiel. But she admitted nothing; she repeated her last words, took her son by the hand and they went off to mass.
Left on my own the natural thing to have done would have been to pick up the coffee and drink it. But no, my friend; I had lost my taste for death. Death was one solution, but I had just found another, all the better for not being final and leaving the door open for reparation if need be. I did not say pardon, I said reparation, in other words justice. For whatever reason I rejected the idea of death and waited for Capitu’s return. She took longer than usual, and I began to fear she had gone to my mother’s house, but she hadn’t.
‘I have confided all my sorrows to God,’ said Capitu, on her return from church. ‘Deep inside me I feel that our separation is the only answer. Do as you think best.’
Her eyes, as she said this, were hesitant, as if expecting a refusal or a plea for delay. She was counting on my weakness or possible uncertainty regarding the paternity of the child, but she failed completely. Was there now within me a different man, one who was only revealed after the impact of new, powerful emotions? If so it was a shadowy figure. I replied that I would think about it, and we would do whatever I decided was best. To be frank with you, my mind was already made up.
In the meantime I recalled the words of the late Senhor Gurgel that day in his house when he showed me the portrait of his wife, with its likeness to Capitu. You must remember them; if not you should reread the chapter – I won’t put the number here because I don’t remember it, but it’s not too far back. They amount simply to his saying that there are resemblances that are inexplicable. From that day on, whenever the boy came to my study I noticed a growing similarity to the features of the other, or perhaps it was that I was looking for it. At the same time I remembered strange occurrences long ago, words, meetings, incidents, that in my blindness I did not find suspicious and to which my customary jealousy failed to alert me. Times when I found them together, a secret told to make me laugh, a careless word of hers, all these recollections came flooding back so forcefully as to leave me stupefied. How was it that I did not strangle them one day when I glanced back from watching two swallows perched together on the telephone wires? In the house my two other swallows were floating in the air, gazing into each other’s eyes, but cautiously enough to break off and disarm me with cheerful, friendly conversation. I told them of the two love-birds outside, and they found it amusing; for his part, Escobar said that better than having the swallows on the telephone wires would be to have them on the table, cooked. ‘I’ve never eaten their nests,’ he said, ‘but they should be good if it was the Chinese who first discovered them.’ And we talked about the Chinese and the references to them in the classics, until Capitu said she was bored and went to attend to something else. Now I remember everything, which at the time seemed to me nothing.
This is what we did. We reached a decision and travelled to Europe, not on holiday or to see anything either new or old. Finally we came to a halt in Switzerland. A governess from Rio Grande went with us to keep Capitu company and to teach Ezequiel her mother tongue; the rest he would learn at the local schools. Having settled our affairs I returned to Brazil.
After some months Capitu began to write me letters, to which I sent brief, curt replies. Hers were submissive, without rancour, occasionally affectionate and at the end full of regrets. She asked me to go and see her. I sailed a year later but did not go to see her, and went a second time with the same result. On my return those who remembered her asked for news of her, which I gave just as if we had been living together. Naturally my journeys were made with this very purpose, to keep up appearances. Finally, one day …
I should explain that José Dias did not go with me on the journeys I made to Europe, not for lack of inclination but to keep my Uncle Cosme, now almost an invalid, company, as well as my mother, who had aged suddenly. He himself was old, too, though still fit. He went on board to see me off, chatting, waving his handkerchief and drying his eyes so that I, too, felt distressed. The last time, however, he refused.
‘Come on …’
‘I can’t.’
‘Are you afraid?’
‘No, I can’t. I’ll say goodbye now, Bentinho. I don’t know whether you will see me again. I think I shall embark for that other Europe, the eternal one.’
He didn’t embark right away. My mother went first. If you look in the São João Batista cemetery you will find there a grave with just this inscription: ‘A Saint’. It’s there. The inscription caused some difficulty. The sculptor found it unusual, and the administrator of the cemetery consulted the parish priest, who objected that saints are to be found either at the altar or in heaven.
‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘I don’t mean that there is a canonized saint in that grave. My idea in using the word is merely to express clearly all the virtues she possessed in life. And since modesty was one of them, I have retained it after her death by not including her name.’
‘Nevertheless, her name, her parentage, the dates …’
‘Who will worry about dates, parentage or names once I am gone?’
‘So what you are saying is that she was a saintly lady?’
‘Exactly. If Protonotary Cabral were still alive he would confirm what I am saying.’
‘I don’t doubt the truth of what you say – it’s the formula that worries me. So you knew the Protonotary?’
‘Yes, I did. He was a model priest.’
‘A good canonist, Latinist, pious and charitable,’ went on the priest.
‘And not lacking in social virtues,’ I said. ‘At home I was told that he was an outstanding partner at backgammon.’
‘He threw a very good dice,’ said the priest with a drawn-out sigh. ‘A master with the dice.’
‘So you think … ?’
‘Seeing there is no other implication, nor could there be, yes, senhor, I think it can be allowed …’
It was a melancholy José Dias who listened to these arrangements. When we finally left he ran down the priest, calling him too meticulous. The only excuse he allowed him was that he hadn’t known my mother, neither he nor the other men in the cemetery.
‘They didn’t know her. If they had done, they would have written “the saintliest”.’
That was not José Dias’s last superlative. There were others which it is not worth recording here, until we come to the last, the best of all, the sweetest, the one that transformed death into a breath of life. He was then living with me. Although my mother had left him a small legacy, he came to tell me that with it or without it he would not be separated from me. Perhaps he hoped to see me buried. He corresponded with Capitu, whom he asked to send a portrait of Ezequiel, but she delayed sending it from one post to the next until he gave up asking, wanting only to be remembered to him. He asked her to tell Ezequiel of his father’s and grandfather’s old friend, ‘destined by heaven to love all of that blood’. Thus he paved the way to accepting the cares of the third generation, but his own death came before that of Ezequiel. He fell ill suddenly, and I ordered a homoeopathic doctor to be sent for.
‘No, Bentinho,’ he said. ‘An allopath will do. Any school will do to die in. In any case those were just the ideas of my youth, which time has changed. I’ve come round to the faith of my parents. Allopathy is the Catholicism of medicine …’
He died peacefully after a short agony. A little before, on hearing that the sky was beautiful, he asked us to open the window.
‘No, the air might be bad for you.’
‘Bad? Never! Air is life.’
We opened the window. Outside the sky was a bright blue. José Dias raised himself up and looked out. After a few moments his head dropped and he murmured, ‘It’s the loveliest day!’ Those were the last words he spoke in this world. Poor José Dias! Why should I deny that I wept for him?
So may the eyes of all the friends I leave in this world weep for me, but I doubt it. I have become a recluse. I live far from town and rarely go out. Not that I have been successful in attempting to link the two extremities of my life. This house in Engenho Novo, though built in imitation of the one in Matacavalos, serves only to remind me of it and then more in the sense of comparison and reflection than sentiment. I’ve said this before.
I may well be asked why it was, owning the old house itself in the same old street, that I didn’t prevent it being demolished but came and made this copy. This question should have been asked at the beginning; nevertheless, here is the answer. The reason is that shortly after my mother died I thought of moving there, but going there first on a long visit of inspection I found that the house no longer knew me. In the garden, to the Californian pepper, the cherry tree, the well with its old bucket and the wash-house, I was a complete stranger. The oak was just as I had left it at the bottom of the garden, except that the trunk, instead of being straight as before, was now bent like a question mark, in natural astonishment at my intrusion. I gazed round, seeking some familiar vestige of the past, but there was none. On the contrary, the branches began to murmur something I did not at first understand, though I think it was a hymn to the morning. And accompanying this sweet harmonious music I heard, too, the grunting of the pigs, in a kind of mocking but meaningful counterpoint.
Everything was strange and hostile. I allowed the house to be demolished and later, when I moved to Engenho Novo, gave instructions to the architect to make this copy, as I have already mentioned.
It was in this house that one day, while I was dressing for lunch, I received a visiting-card with the name:
EZEQUIEL A. DE SANTIAGO
‘Is he downstairs?’ I asked the servant.
‘Yes, senhor. He’s waiting.’
I didn’t go right away but kept him waiting ten or fifteen minutes in the living-room. Only later did I realize that I ought to have been more demonstrative – rushed and hugged him and talked about his mother. His mother – I think I forgot to mention that she was dead. She died and was buried in Switzerland. I finished dressing hurriedly. On leaving my bedroom I assumed the role of a father, one who was loving but also stern and taciturn. When I entered the living-room I saw a young man standing with his back to me, looking at the bust of Masinissa painted on the wall. I walked in quietly without making a noise. Nevertheless he heard my steps and turned round sharply. He recognized me from my photographs and ran to me. I did not move; he was none other than my former young friend from the São Jose seminary, a little shorter, a little thinner but, apart from his complexion, which was lighter, with the same face. Naturally, his clothes were modern and his manners different, but his general appearance was that of my dead friend. It was exactly him, it was Escobar himself. It was my wife’s lover; it was the son of his father. He was wearing mourning for his mother, and I, too, was in black. We sat down.
‘You’re just the same as in your latest photographs,’ he said. His voice was the same as Escobar’s, though with a French accent. I said that I hadn’t changed much lately and then began asking him questions in order to talk less myself and so control my emotion. But at this his face lit up, and more and more my seminarist friend re-emerged from the cemetery. He sat there in front of me, with the same smile and respectful manner, the very same person, the same politeness, the same charm. He had been looking forward to seeing me. His mother had spoken a lot about me, praising me to the skies, saying I was the finest man in the world, the most worthy and lovable.
‘She was still beautiful when she died,’ he concluded.
‘Let’s have lunch.’
If you think it was a cheerless lunch you are wrong. It had its bitter moments, to be sure; at first it hurt that Ezequiel was not really my son, a part of me, someone who would carry on after me. Had the lad taken after his mother I should have ended up believing everything, the more so since, as he recalled his boyhood, past events and conversations, his going to college, it seemed only the other day that he had left me.
‘Father, do you remember that day you took me to school?’ he asked with a laugh.
‘How could I forget?’
‘It was in Lapa. I was terrified, and you wouldn’t stop. You pulled me along, and me with my tiny legs …Yes, senhor, I’ll have another glass.’
He held out his glass for the wine I offered him, took a sip and went on eating. Escobar used to eat like that, too, with his face buried in his plate. He told me about his life in Europe, his studies, particularly in archaeology, which was his passion. He spoke enthusiastically about ancient history, mentioning Egypt with its thousands of centuries without confusing his figures; he had his father’s head for arithmetic. Even though I was by now hardened to the idea of the other’s paternity, I found his resurrection abhorrent. At times I closed my eyes so as not to see his gestures or anything, but the young devil talked and laughed, and the dead man talked and laughed through him.
Since there was no alternative but to accept him, I became a true father. The idea that he might have seen some photograph of Escobar that Capitu had thoughtlessly taken with her never occurred to me, and if it had done it wouldn’t have worried me. Ezequiel believed in me as firmly as in his mother. If he had been alive José Dias would have found him the image of myself. Cousin Justina wanted to see him, but as she was ill she asked me to take him there. He knew of her. I think her wish to see Ezequiel was to verify whether the young man’s appearance vindicated suspicions she might earlier have entertained concerning the boy. It would be a final gratification, but I forestalled her.
‘She’s very ill,’ I told Ezequiel, who was anxious to see her. ‘The slightest emotion might be fatal. We’ll go and see her when she’s better.’
We never went. Death carried her off a few days later. She now rests with the Lord, or however you care to put it. Ezequiel saw her face in the coffin but did not recognize her, nor could he have been expected to, changed as she was by death and the passage of years. On the way to the cemetery he was delighted to be able to remember a number of things – a road, a steeple or a stretch of beach. This happened every day when he returned home; he would tell me of familiar houses and streets he had seen. It surprised him that many of these were the same as when he had left, as if houses died young.
After six months Ezequiel told me of a scientific expedition he intended to make, to Greece, Egypt and Palestine. It was a promise he had made to some friends.
‘Of which sex?’ I asked, with a laugh.
He smiled but looked annoyed and replied that women were creatures of fashion, so wrapped up in the present that they could never understand a ruin thirty centuries old. They were two university friends. I promised him money and later gave him the necessary funds. To myself I said that one of the consequences of his father’s furtive love affairs was that I should pay for his son to become an archaeologist; I’d rather he became a leper … No sooner did this thought enter my head than I felt so cruel and perverse that I seized him and would have hugged him to me, but I held back. I gazed at him as one would one’s own son, and the look he gave me was one of tenderness and gratitude.
There was no leprosy, but there are fevers in every land of human habitation, in the New World and the Old. Eleven months later Ezequiel died of typhoid fever and was buried in the vicinity of Jerusalem by his two university friends, who erected a tomb with this inscription in Greek, taken from the prophet Ezekiel: ‘Thou wast perfect in thy ways.’ They sent me both texts, in Latin and Greek, a sketch of the tomb, the bill for the expenses and the rest of the money he had with him. I would have paid three times this never to see him again.
As I wished to verify the text, I consulted my Vulgate and found it was correct but that it also had this complement: ‘Thou wast perfect in thy ways, from the day that thou wast created.’ I stopped, and in a hushed voice, asked, ‘When was the day of Ezequiel’s creation?’ No one answered me. Another mystery to add to all the others of this world. In spite of everything I dined well and went to the theatre.
As you are aware, no matter how embittered, I have not hidden myself away in a corner like a pale solitary flower. Nothing like that. I have lived the best I could, not without other women to console me for the first. Brief affairs, it is true. They would leave me like people do who come to see a retrospective exhibition and either get bored or the lights fail. Only one of these visitors had a carriage at the door, with liveried coachman. The others arrived more modestly, calcante pede, and if it rained it was I who had to fetch a cab and help them in, with profuse farewells and good advice.
‘You’ll be back?’
‘Till tomorrow.’
They never came back. I would stand by the gate waiting, sometimes going to the corner to look. I would glance at my watch, but I never saw anything or anyone. Then, if another visitor appeared, I would give her my arm, we would walk in, and I would show her the landscapes, the historical or contemporary paintings, a water-colour, a pastel, a gouache, till this one too grew bored and would leave, promising to return …
Now why is it that none of these was able to make me forget the first love my heart ever knew? Perhaps because none of them had whirlpool eyes or the sly, cunning eyes of a gypsy. But that is not what I mean by the rest of the book. The rest is to know whether the Capitu of Glória beach was there inside the Capitu of Matacavalos or whether the latter was changed into the former by force of circumstance. Jesus, the son of Sirach, had he known of my initial jealousy, would have said, as in his chapter 9, verse 1: ‘Be not jealous of thy wife, lest she deceive thee with arts she learned of thee.’ But I don’t think so, and you will agree with me. If you remember Capitu the girl, you must admit that the one was inside the other as the fruit is inside the husk.
But when all is said and done, the one certainty is that the girl who was my first love and the man who was my best friend, so dear to me, so beloved – destiny decreed they should unite to deceive me … May they rest in peace. Now let’s turn to the History of the Suburbs.