Standing at the kitchen door, a crumpled envelope clasped in his hand, Gonçalo was scolding Rosa:
‘I told you not to write to Graça, but, no, you must have your own way! I thought we’d decided what to do with the little one without going whining to Oliveira. The Tower is fortunately large enough to accommodate another child!’
Crispola had died. The poor widow and near neighbour of the Tower, with her small troop of children to take care of, two boys and three girls, had been gradually wasting away in her humble bed since Easter. And now Gonçalo, who had kept the family well supplied with food, was finding homes for the children, who were already, thanks to him, appropriately dressed in mourning. The oldest girl (also called Crispola), who was always to be found skulking in the kitchen anyway, naturally became Rosa’s ‘paid assistant’. Gonçalo also took on the older son, a tall, bright twelve-year-old, as errand boy, complete with yellow-buttoned uniform. The other boy, a rather limp, snivelling child, nevertheless had a great gift for and love of carpentry, and with the help of his Aunt Louredo, Gonçalo had found a place for him in Lisbon at a school run by Salesian monks. One of the other girls was taken in by Manuel Duarte’s mother — a delightful woman who lived on a beautiful estate near Treixedo — who adored Gonçalo, considering him to be her Lord and she his vassal. However, he had as yet found no safe haven for the smallest and weakest of the girls. It had been Rosa who’d said that Senhora Dona Maria da Graça would be sure to take the child. Gonçalo had retorted brusquely, ‘We don’t need to trouble the town of Oliveira for a crust of bread!’ Rosa, though, had got carried away, feeling that the fair, frail little girl needed the protection of a real lady, and so, in Bento’s careful hand, she had written Gracinha a very long letter, giving the whole sad story of Crispola and lauding to the skies her master and his charitable ways. And it was Gracinha’s belated but deeply felt response, telling them to send her the poor child straight away, that had so angered the Nobleman.
Ever since that dreadful afternoon at the gazebo, Gonçalo had been overwhelmed by a strange, almost prudish feeling of repugnance regarding any communication with the Casa dos Cunhais! It was as if the gazebo and the vile deed that had taken place within its pale pink walls had contaminated the garden, the house, Largo d’El-Rei, and the whole town of Oliveira, and these scruples now made him recoil from that contaminated region, where his heart and his pride could not breathe. Soon after his flight from the Casa dos Cunhais, he had received an anxious letter from Barrolo, ‘Whatever got into you? Why didn’t you stay? I was quite worried when I returned that night from the Marges estate and found you gone. Gracinha has been in a terrible state about it. We only found out by chance about your departure from one of Maciel’s coachmen. We’ve started eating the peaches today, but we really don’t understand what’s going on!’ Gonçalo responded abruptly with a one-word note, ‘Business.’ Then he remembered that he had left the manuscript of his Novella in the drawer in his bedroom there, and early one morning, he despatched one of his servants with a more or less secret message to Father Soeiro, containing a request ‘to hand the briefcase to the bearer, well wrapped up, with not a word to my sister or her husband’. Between the Tower and the Casa dos Cunhais he wanted only separation and silence.
And in the days that he spent shut up in the Tower (not even risking going into Vila Clara, terrified that they were whispering his now sullied name in the tobacconist’s and the grocery store) he trembled with a kind of amorphous anger that hit out at everyone. At his sister who — trampling on modesty, family pride, and a justifiable fear of the Oliveira gossips as easily and frivolously as she might tread on the faded flowers of a rug — had run to the gazebo, to that moustachioed male, as soon as he waved his perfumed handerchief at her! At Barrolo, the chubby-cheeked fool, who spent his foolish days celebrating Cavaleiro, parading him about Largo d’El Rei, choosing from his cellars the finest wines with which Cavaleiro could heat his blood, plumping up the cushions on all the sofas so that Cavaleiro could better savour his cigar and the gracious presence of Gracinha! And, finally, at himself, for he, out of his base desire for a seat in Parliament, had destroyed the one safe wall between his sister and the man with the glossy hair, namely, his enmity, his high-walled enmity, which he had always, ever since his days in Coimbra, kept solidly reinforced and whitewashed! Ah, they were all horribly guilty!
Then, one afternoon, bored with being alone, he finally got up the courage to walk into Vila Clara. And he realised that no one there knew anything, not in the club, in the tobacconist’s or in Ramos’ shop, and that Gracinha’s love affair might as well have been taking place in darkest Tartary. Once reassured, his easy-going soul abandoned itself to the pleasure of weaving subtle excuses for all those guilty of that sad fall from grace. With no children, with dull, ineffectual Barrolo as a husband, with no intellectual interests and too indolent even to take up sewing or embroidery, poor Gracinha had given in — and who wouldn’t? — to the credulous, primitive passion that had sprung up in her soul, taken root there and awoken in her not just the only joy she had known in the world, but (more importantly) the only joy that had caused her to shed bitter tears! Poor dim Barrolo, on the other hand, was like the hawthorn bush in the song, incapable of producing any edible fruit, or even, in his case, any intelligent thoughts. And then there was Gonçalo himself, poor, forgotten Gonçalo, irresistibly seduced by the fateful Law of Increase, which had led him, as it leads all those greedy for fame and fortune, to rush through whichever door happens to open, oblivious to the dung heap blocking the way. None of us can really be judged guilty by a God who made us such fickle, fragile creatures, so dependent on forces over which we have even less control than the wind or the sun!
No, the only irredeemably guilty party was that rogue with the mane of wavy hair! In his behaviour towards Gracinha, he had always, ever since he was a student, revealed himself to be an out-and-out egotist — with an egotism that could only be punished as Gonçalo’s ancestors would have punished their enemies, with a slow and very painful death, after which his corpse would be thrown to the crows. When, in the long, idle summers, it had suited him to conduct a bucolic courtship beneath the trees at the Tower, he had courted her. When he felt that a wife and children would get in the way of his free and easy life, he had betrayed her. As soon as his former beloved belonged to another man, he had resumed his languid siege of her in order to enjoy the pleasures of romance without the responsibilities of fatherhood. And as soon as her husband had opened his door to him, he had not hesitated for a moment, but had brutally pounced on his prey! Ah, how would Tructesindo have treated such a villainous villain? He would doubtless have roasted him over a roaring fire or, in the castle dungeons, have filled his lying throat with the finest molten lead.
Whereas when he, Tructesindo’s descendant, met Cavaleiro in the streets of Oliveira, he could not even refuse to doff his hat to him and cut him dead! The slightest diminution in that disastrously renewed friendship would be tantamount to revealing the shameful incident in the gazebo! The whole of Oliveira would be gossiping and laughing, ‘Did you see? The Nobleman of the Tower invited Cavaleiro into his sister’s house and, a few weeks later, again broke off his friendship with him. Something truly scandalous must have happened!’ How pleased the Lousada sisters would be! No, he must treat Cavaleiro with such free and frank affection that its very freedom and frankness would entirely cover up the whole vile business, concealing what lay pulsating beneath the surface. An agonising pretence, imposed by the need to protect the honour of his name and keep the sordid affair safely hidden away among the dense trees in the garden and in the still more private penumbra of the gazebo! And outside, in broad daylight, he’d be seen in the squares of Oliveira, affectionately arm-in-arm with Cavaleiro!
The days continued to roll by, and Gonçalo could find no peace of mind. What made him still more bitter was feeling forced into this ostentatious intimacy with Cavaleiro both by his desire to protect his name and by the needs of the upcoming Election. Sometimes his pride rebelled, ‘What do I care about the Election! What’s some grubby seat in Parliament worth?’ However, blunt reality soon silenced him. The Election was the only crack through which he could escape from his rural hole, and if he broke off his friendship with Cavaleiro, that villain — so practised in villainy — would, with the support of the conniving horde in Lisbon, immediately produce another candidate for Vila Clara. Gonçalo was, alas, one of those spineless individuals who depends on others. And where did that sad dependence come from? From poverty, from the meagre rent he earned from his two estates, which would be a fortune for a simpler man, but which to him — given his upbringing, his tastes, his duties as a nobleman, his sociable ways — meant poverty.
And these thoughts slowly and insinuatingly led him to another thought — to Dona Ana Lucena and her two hundred contos. Finally, one morning, he bravely faced up to a troubling possibility — should he marry Dona Ana? Why not? She had clearly indicated her interest, almost her consent. Why couldn’t he marry Dona Ana?
True, her father had been a butcher and her brother a murderer, but, among his many ancestors, going all the way back to the ferocious Suevians, he’d be sure to find at least one butcher, and throughout those heroic centuries, the Ramires’ main occupation had, it must be said, largely consisted of murdering people. Besides, both the butcher and the murderer — both dead now, remote shadows — belonged to a dying legend, for, by marrying, Dona Ana had risen from the populace to the bourgeoisie. Gonçalo had not met her in her father’s butcher’s shop or in her brother’s hide-out, but at Feitosa, already a wealthy woman, with a steward, a chaplain and numerous lackeys, just like a Ramires of old. No, really, it was pure childishness to hesitate further, given that, along with those two hundred contos — good clean money, good rural money — that beautiful, serious-minded woman would also bring her body. With her pure gold and his name and talent, he would not need Cavaleiro’s false hand of friendship in order to rise in politics. And what a full and noble life that would be! His ancient Tower restored to the sober splendour of earlier days; the finest agricultural care lavished on the ancient fields of Treixedo; fruitful journeys made to educational lands. And the woman who would provide these riches would not — as happens with so many marriages of convenience — sour those pleasures with her ugliness, her bony body or her flaccid skin. No, after the day’s social glories, no monster would await him in the bedroom at night, but a Venus.
And so, one afternoon, succumbing to these tempting thoughts, he sent a note to his cousin Maria in Feitosa, asking if they could meet, alone, for a stroll nearby, because he wanted to have a serious, intimate little chat with her. Three long days dragged by, and the longed-for letter from Feitosa did not arrive. Gonçalo concluded that clever cousin Maria — sensing what that little chat would be about, but with no certain news to give him — was playing for time, avoiding having to answer. He had an awful, desolate week, ruminating on the melancholy of a life that seemed so utterly hollow and rife with uncertainty. Pride and a complicated kind of shame wouldn’t allow him to return to Oliveira, to the room where, through the trees, he’d inevitably see the dome of the gazebo topped by its plump Cupid, and it almost made him shudder to think of kissing his sister on the same cheek that had received that man’s slobbering kisses! A tomb-like silence had fallen on the matter of the Election, and a different, more acerbic repugnance prevented him from writing to Cavaleiro. João Gouveia was holidaying on the coast in his white shoes, picking up seashells on the shore. And Vila Clara was simply unbearable in the middle of that scorching September, with Titó in the Alentejo, where he had gone to tend his ailing brother, the heir to Cidadelhe; Manuel Duarte was at his mother’s estate, directing the grape harvest; and the club was completely deserted, except for the innumerable, drowsily buzzing flies.
To fill those idle hours, more out of duty than love of Art, he returned to his Novella, but with a marked lack of enthusiasm or inspiration. He had reached the point when Tructesindo and his knights were setting off in angry pursuit of the Bastard of Baião. This was a difficult episode, requiring plenty of noise and dazzling medieval colour. And he, in his current mood, felt so limp and dull! Fortunately, his uncle’s poem was full of beautiful descriptions of landscapes and interesting details of war.
When he reached the banks of the stream, Tructesindo found that the rickety bridge had been destroyed, and the meagre flow blocked by the broken supports and worm-eaten planks. As he fled, the Bastard had very sensibly demolished the bridge so as to delay the vengeful cavalcade pursuing him. Tructesindo’s men rode along the narrow bank, skirting the rows of poplar trees in search of the ford at Espigal and making very slow progress indeed! When the last of the mules had clambered up onto the further bank, evening was already coming on, and the fading light reflected in the small pools among the stepping stones was sometimes tinged gold and sometimes rosy pink. Dom Garcia Viegas the Wise immediately advised the party to split up, with the foot soldiers and the mules making their silent, stealthy way to Montemor, thus avoiding any dangerous encounters and leaving the lancers and mounted crossbowmen to continue their furious pursuit of the Bastard. Everyone praised his tactical skills, and the cavalcade, able to move more speedily now without the slow columns of halberdiers and slingsmen, gave their horses free rein and galloped across the barren fields and along the craggy paths as far as Três-Caminhos, a desolate spot where three roads meet, and where the only living thing was the ancient oak tree which, before it had been exorcised by St Froalengo, used to be the regular meeting-point — by the light of sulphurous torches, on the darkest Saturday in January — for the Great Coven of all the witches in Portugal. Tructesindo ordered his men to halt beside the tree, and standing up in his stirrups and sniffing the air, he gazed along the trifurcating paths that vanished into harsh, lugubrious hills covered in brush and gorse. The Bastard and all his evil had clearly passed that way, for, behind a rock, next to three scrawny goats nibbling at the coarse vegetation, lay the ragged body of a poor young goatherd, arms flung wide, his poor starved chest pierced by an arrow, and all to prevent him from telling which way the men from Baião had gone. But which of the three paths had the Bastard taken? On the loose earth, whipped up by the hot southerly wind blowing in from the hills, the soil bore no trace of fleeing hoofprints. Nor, in such a desolate place was there a hovel or hut where, hidden away, some villein or old crone might have seen which path those men had chosen. And so the standard-bearer Afonso Gomes commanded three horsemen to gallop off and reconnoitre the three paths, while the knights, without dismounting, unbuckled their helmets, wiped away the sweat pouring down their bearded faces and let their horses go over to the tiny thread of water trickling through a sparse bed of reeds. Enclosed in his black armour, Tructesindo did not move from beneath the shade of the oak tree, motionless on his equally motionless horse, his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle and his helmeted head bowed as if in grief or prayer. And beside him, their collars bristling with spikes, their red tongues lolling from their mouths, his two mastiffs lay stretched out on the ground, panting.
After a long wait, during which they all grew increasingly restless and irritated, the scout who had set off along the path heading east suddenly reappeared in a cloud of dust, brandishing his lance. Less than an hour’s ride away, he had spotted men on a hilltop, in an encampment surrounded by a stockade and by ditches.
‘What standard were they flying?’
‘One bearing thirteen roundels.’
‘God be praised!’ cried Tructesindo, shuddering and stretching as if waking from sleep. ‘That’s the standard of Dom Pedro de Castro, the Castilian, who joined the Leonese troops to bring succour to the Princesses.’
The Bastard wouldn’t have dared to take that path. However, already galloping back along the western path came another scout, who reported that in a pinewood he had come across a band of Genoan pedlars, who had been there since dawn, because one of them had fallen ill with a fever. And? Along the edge of the wood, the only people to have passed all day (so swore the Genoans) was a company of clowns on their way back from the fair at Grajelos. All that remained, then, was the middle path, as stony and steep-sided as the dried-up bed of a rushing stream. And at Tructesindo’s shouted command, that was the path they took. The gloomiest of evenings was coming on, and still the path stretched ahead through heather and rocks, wild and dark and endless, with not a hut or a wall or a hedge or a beast or a man to be seen. Farther on, they came to a flat, arid plain, pitch-dark and deserted, that seemed to reach out mutely to the remote horizon, where one last strip of coppery, blood-red sky was slowly fading to nothing. Next to some thornbushes buffeted by strong gusts of wind from the south, Tructesindo stopped his men.
‘It would seem, gentlemen, that we have embarked on an entirely vain and futile pursuit. What do you think, Garcia Viegas?’
Everyone gathered round, the panting horses steaming beneath their chain-mail coats. Garcia the Wise raised one arm:
‘Gentlemen! Clearly the Bastard crossed this plain to reach Vale-Murtinho where he can spend the night in the stronghold of Agredel, which is owned by a relative of his.’
‘Then what should we do, Dom Garcia?’
‘All we can do, my friends, is to do likewise and rest for the night. Let us go back to Três-Caminhos, and from there, if we’re all in agreement, ride up to Dom Pedro de Castro’s encampment, where we can ask for shelter. Such a great nobleman is sure to be far better provided for than we are with those things so necessary to all men, Christians and pagans alike, namely, bread, meat and three good draughts of wine.’
‘An excellent plan!’ they all cried. And they trotted wearily back down the shallow, stony ravine to Três-Caminhos, where two crows were now feasting on the body of the dead goatherd.
Shortly afterwards, at the far end of the path to the east, they spotted the encampment high up on the hill, lit all around by fires. The commanding officer of Santa Ireneia gave three slow blasts on his horn to announce the arrival of a nobleman. From within the stockade came answering calls, clear and welcoming. Then the commanding officer galloped over to the ditch to inform the sentinels posted among the warning beacons that friends in the form of the Ramires troops were at hand. Tructesindo had stopped along the dark path, made darker still by the thick pine trees swaying and moaning in the wind. Two knights in black hooded tunics immediately ran down the hill, declaring that Dom Pedro de Castro was waiting for the noble Lord of Santa Ireneia, ready and delighted to do all he could to help. Silently, Tructesindo dismounted, and along with Dom Garcia Viegas, Leonel de Samora, Mendo de Briteiros, and a few more of their closer relatives — all having downed lances and bucklers and removed their chain-mail gloves — walked up the hill to the stockade, where the gates stood wide open, revealing, in the sombre, flickering light of torches, clusters of infantrymen, and among the metal helmets, the occasional yellow bonnet of a camp-follower or the cap and bells of a jester. As soon as old Tructesindo appeared at the stockade, two infantrymen, brandishing their swords, shouted:
‘All honour to the noblemen of Portugal!’
The harsh clamour of trumpets mingled with the slow roll of the drums. And the throng silently parted to make way for old Dom Pedro de Castro, the Castilian — a survivor of many a long war and the owner of vast estates — preceded by four knights bearing blazing torches. He was wearing a silver-embroidered leather corselet, and his back was bent as if worn down by too many battles and too many ambitions. Unhelmeted and unarmed, he rested one hairy, thickly-veined hand on the ivory pommel of his staff. In his thin, weathered face, his sunken eyes glinted, friendly and curious, while his nose was as hooked as a falcon’s beak and marked on one side by a deep scar that ran down into his curly, pointed, almost white beard.
He opened wide his arms to Tructesindo, and with a grave laugh that brought his hawkish nose still closer to his pointed beard, he cried:
‘God be praised! This is indeed a happy night that brings you, my cousin and my friend, to us! I could not have expected such an honour or such a pleasure!’
Gonçalo worked for three whole mornings on this difficult chapter, and when he finished, he threw down his pen with a weary sigh. He was starting to grow bored with this interminable Novella, which was beginning to resemble a loose skein of wool, the ends of which he could not cut because they were too entangled in the dense poem written by his uncle Duarte, in whose footsteps he was now somewhat reluctantly trudging. He could not even console himself with the certainty that he was writing something real and convincing. All those Tructesindos, Bastards, Castros, Garcia Viegases the Wise, were they really proper Afonsine men, cut from solid, historical cloth? They were perhaps merely hollow puppets, crudely got up in the wrong armour, inhabiting unlikely encampments and castles, making not a single authentic gesture or speaking a single authentic word!
Next morning, he could not summon up the necessary courage to resume his breathless pursuit of the Bastard’s fleeing horde. Besides, he’d already sent off the first three chapters of the Novella, and thus assuaged Castanheiro’s anxieties, but all that week idleness weighed heavily on him, as he slouched indolently from one sofa to another, or along the box-lined paths in the garden, smoking and feeling glumly that Life was vanishing before him like so much smoke. A financial problem was adding to his nervous mood — the lender of a promissory note for six hundred mil-réis taken out in his final year at Coimbra (and which had been renegotiated time and again and increased time and again), a man called Leite in Oliveira, was now sternly demanding to be paid. His tailor in Lisbon was also pestering him with a terrifyingly large bill, which filled two whole sheets of paper. What most depressed him, though, was the solitude of the Tower. All his jolly friends had escaped to the beach or to their country estates. The Election had run aground, like a ship in the mud. His sister was doubtless in the gazebo with that Other Man. Even his cousin Maria had ungratefully ignored his timid request for a little chat. And there he was in his great hot house, drained of all energy and immobilised by a growing inertia, as if he were bound by ropes that grew tighter each day, rendering him more parcel than man.
Sitting one afternoon in his room, feeling sluggish and gloomy, lacking even the energy to talk to Bento, he had just got ready to go out for a ride to Vilaverde to pass the time, when Crispola’s little boy (now, in his yellow-buttoned uniform, well and truly settled in at the Tower) knocked urgently at his bedroom door. A lady had stopped at the gates, in a carriage, and was asking the Nobleman to come downstairs.
‘Didn’t she give a name?’
‘No, sir. She’s a thin lady, sir, drawn by two horses with nets on them . . .’
Cousin Maria. He raced excitedly to meet her, grabbing an old straw hat from the hatstand in the corridor, and once downstairs, it was as if he were contemplating the Goddess of Fortune in her light chariot.
‘Cousin Maria, what a surprise! And a very pleasant one too!’
Leaning out of the carriage window (it was the blue caleche from Feitosa), Dona Maria Mendonça, smiling from beneath a new hat adorned with sprigs of lilac, hurried to apologise for her silence. His letter had taken ages to arrive, the fault of their dreadful postman, who was always slow and often drunk. Then she’d spent a few very busy days in Oliveira with Ana, who was preparing her house in Rua das Velas for the winter.
‘And finally, since I owed a visit to poor Venância Rios in Vila Clara — she’s been ill, poor thing — I thought the simplest and most satisfactory solution would be to call in at the Tower. So what is it you want to discuss?’
Gonçalo gave an embarrassed smile:
‘Nothing very serious, but . . . I do need to talk to you. Why don’t you come upstairs?’
She had opened the carriage door now, saying that she preferred to remain outside. And they both strolled over to the old stone bench shaded by the poplars flanking the Tower’s mighty door. Gonçalo dusted off one end of the bench with his handkerchief.
‘Yes, cousin, I do need to talk, but it’s a very awkward matter. Perhaps I should simply attack the subject head-on.’
‘Attack away.’
‘Right, here goes. Do you think I’d be wasting my time if I were to turn my attentions to your friend, Dona Ana?’
Perched lightly on the edge of the bench, carefully furling her black silk parasol, Maria Mendonça took a while before answering, then murmured only:
‘No, I don’t think you’d be wasting your time.’
‘You don’t?’
She looked at Gonçalo, enjoying his evident confusion and impatience.
‘Please, cousin, do say more!’
‘What do you mean “more”? I told you all I had to tell you in Oliveira. And I’m still far too young to be delivering billets-doux, but what I will say is that Ana is pretty, rich, and a widow . . .’
Gonçalo leaped up from the bench, waving his arms about in despair. And when Dona Maria also got up, they continued on together along the strip of grass beneath the poplars. In a voice that emerged almost like a disconsolate moan, he said:
‘Pretty, rich and a widow! I hardly needed to write you a letter, cousin, in order to find out such “great” secrets! Damn it, be a good girl and tell me honestly. You must know. You’ve probably even discussed it with her. Be frank now. Does she like me, at least a little?’
Dona Maria stopped and, scraping at the yellowing grass with the tip of her parasol, murmured:
‘Of course she does.’
‘Bravo! Now, if, at some future date, once these first early months of mourning are over, I were to declare myself . . .’
She shot Gonçalo a sharp look:
‘Goodness, cousin, you’re going at quite a gallop, aren’t you? Are you in love?’
Gonçalo took off his old straw hat, slowly ran his fingers through his hair, and then, with great sadness in his voice, admitted:
‘No, cousin, more than anything, it’s a need to establish myself in life. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course I agree, and I was the one who pointed you in that direction. Anyway, it’s gone five o’clock and I must get on — the servants are waiting.’
Gonçalo protested and asked pleadingly:
‘Stay a while longer. It’s still early. Just one more thing. Tell me honestly. Is she a good girl?’
Dona Maria had turned as she reached the end of the line of poplars and was about to get into the caleche.
‘She has a bit of a temper, but that just makes life interesting. Otherwise, yes, she’s a very good girl. And she’s a wonderful housekeeper! You can’t imagine how beautifully she runs Feitosa, the orderliness, the cleanliness, the regularity, the discipline! She oversees everything — even the wine cellar, even the stables!’
Gonçalo rubbed his hands, a radiant smile on his face:
‘Well, if, in a year’s time, the big event were actually to happen, I intend to shout it from the rooftops that it was cousin Maria who saved the House of Ramires!’
‘That is precisely what I’m working for, to save our coat of arms and our name!’ she exclaimed, jumping lightly into the caleche, as if eager to escape after that overly frank confession.
The footman had climbed into his seat. And as the horses, now slightly rested, were setting off at a trot, she called out:
‘Guess who I met in Vila Clara? Titó!’
‘Titó?’
‘He’s just returned from the Alentejo and he’ll be coming to dine with you tonight. I didn’t bring him with me, for fear of compromising him . . .’
With that, the caleche rumbled off, and their friendly exchange of smiles and waves was made still friendlier by the new warmth born of that sentimental conspiracy.
Gonçalo immediately strode gaily off to Vila Clara to find Titó, already toying with the idea of gleaning from that close friend of Feitosa further information about Dona Ana, her character and her habits. Cousin Maria, out of love for the Ramires family (and especially, poor thing, anything that redounded to the benefit of the Mendonças!), was clearly idealising the bride-to-be. Titó, however — the most honest man in all Portugal, who loved the truth with the old-fashioned devotion of a latter-day Epaminondas — would present her to him unadorned, but without malice. For beneath that thundering voice and that appearance of bovine indolence, Titó possessed a very keen and penetrating intellect.
It did not take them long to find each other. And despite their very brief separation, they embraced with loud enthusiasm.
‘Senhor Gonçalão!’
‘Titó, my friend! You’ve been greatly missed. How’s your brother?’
His brother was better, but completely exhausted. Titó put it down to far too much probing of parchments and of young ladies for an old man of sixty. He had told him so, ‘João, if you carry on this way, always grappling either with old documents or young girls, you’ll kill yourself!’ But how were things there? What about the Election?
‘The Election will be held in early October. Otherwise, things have been deadly dull, with Gouveia at the beach, Manuel Duarte away at the grape harvest, and me bored rigid, with no energy and not even much of an appetite.’
‘Well, I’m coming to dine with you tonight, and I’ve invited Videirinha too.’
‘Yes, so I heard from cousin Maria. She visited me at the Tower earlier today. She’s staying at Feitosa with Dona Ana.’
For a moment, he babbled on about the close friendship between cousin Maria and Dona Ana, sorely tempted to tell Titó, right there in the street, about the possibility of a budding romance. His courage failed him, though. He felt vaguely embarrassed, as if ashamed of seeming to be coveting everything left behind by poor Lucena — both his seat in Parliament and his widow.
As they walked from Vila Clara to the Tower, with the intention of extending their walk as far as Bravais, they talked instead about the Alentejo and Titó’s brother João (who had told him many a tedious tale about the Ramires genealogy). However, when they reached the Tower, Gonçalo wanted to warn Rosa about those two unexpected guests, both past masters at wielding knife and fork. They went in through the orchard door, where a slow, feeble trickle of water was filling the irrigation ditches. When Rosa heard their jocular voices, she came bustling out, drying her hands on her apron. Only two guests? Why, there was more than enough food for four and with even bigger appetites too! That very afternoon, she had bought a basket of sardines from a woman come from the coast, nice plump ones too! Titó immediately ordered a huge sardine omelette. And the two friends were just crossing the courtyard when Gonçalo spotted Bento sitting on the bench near the vine trellis, crouched over a bowl and enthusiastically polishing an embossed silver knob that was attached to something wrapped in a rolled-up towel, like a sheath.
‘What’s that you’ve got there, Bento?’
Bento slowly unwound the towel to reveal a long, dark whip, with three sharp strands to it, each with a sharp tip, like the tip of a fencing foil.
‘Have you never seen it before, sir? It was in the attic — I was rooting around in there, looking to see where the cat had left her latest litter of kittens, and behind a trunk I came across a pair of silver spurs and this.’
Gonçalo studied the solid silver handle, then gave the slender stock a flick, and the whip whistled through the air.
‘It’s certainly a splendid specimen, eh, Titó? Sharp as a knife. And old, very old, as old as my coat of arms. What on earth is it made from? Whaleskin?’
‘No, that’s hippopotamus hide. It’s a highly dangerous weapon. It could kill a man. My brother João has one, only with a plain metal handle. Yes, you could kill a man with that.’
‘Good,’ said Gonçalo. ‘Clean it up, Bento, and put it in my room! It’ll be my personal weapon of war!’
At the orchard door, they also met Pereira, his cotton jacket draped over his shoulders. On St Michael’s day, he would be officially taking over the lands around the Tower. Gonçalo introduced Titó to the celebrated farmer, joking that this was the man, the great man, who was preparing to transform the Tower’s landscape into a marvel of wheatfields, vineyards and vegetable plots! Pereira scratched his sparse beard:
‘And burying a lot of good money in the process, but then pleasure is worth more than any amount of money! And the landlord here deserves an estate that is a delight to the eyes!’
‘Senhor Pereira,’ boomed Titó. ‘Don’t forget to take special care of the melons. It’s an absolute disgrace, you know — I’ve never once eaten a decent melon here.’
‘Well, next year, God willing, you shall!’
Gonçalo embraced the highly capable farmer and hurried off down to the road, determined now to take advantage of the propitious solitude of the Bravais woods to confess all to Titó. However, as soon as they set off, he felt the same constraint, almost fearing what he might learn from stern Titó with his strict moral values. When their long walk to Bravais and back was over, Gonçalo still hadn’t unburdened himself. By the time they returned, dusk had fallen, soft and warm, and they were deep in conversation about fishing for shad in the Guadiana river.
Videirinha was waiting outside the Tower, under the poplars, strumming his guitar. Since it was still quite close, without a breath of wind, they dined out on the balcony, by the light of two oil lamps. As soon as he had unfolded his napkin, Titó, red-faced and leaning back in his chair, declared that, thanks to the Lord of Good Health, his thirst remained undiminished! He and Videirinha performed their usual sterling feats with knife and fork and glass. As Bento was serving coffee, a bright new moon was rising on the far side of the dark garden, from behind the Valverde hills. Comfortably installed in a wicker chair, Gonçalo beatifically lit a cigar. All the tedium and uncertainty of those past weeks fell from his soul like so much ash, now quickly swept away. And feeling not so much the sweetness of the night as a sense of a newly unclouded life, he exclaimed:
‘Ah, yes, gentlemen, what could be more delicious than this!’
After briefly smoking a cigar, Videirinha, took up his guitar again. On the far side of the garden, fragments of whitewashed wall, the occasional stretch of empty road, the water in the great fountain, all shone in the moonlight silvering the hills; and the stillness of the trees and of that luminous night seeped into the soul like a soothing caress. Titó and Gonçalo were enjoying the famous moscatel brandy, one of the Tower’s most precious antiquities, and listening, silent and rapt, to Videirinha, who had withdrawn to the shadows at the back of the balcony. Never had he played more tenderly, more sweetly. Even the fields, the vaulted sky and the moon above the hills were listening intently to the mournful fado. Below, in the darkness, they could hear Rosa clearing her throat, the servants’ muffled footsteps, a girl’s occasional suppressed laughter, a hunting dog flapping its ears, and all those sounds were like the presence of people subtly drawn to that lovely song.
And as it grew later, the moon rose higher still in solitary splendour. Heavy with food, Titó had dozed off. And as always, to close the evening, Videirinha gave an ardent rendition of the Ramires fado:
Who can see you and not tremble,
Tower of Santa Ireneia,
So silent and so dark,
Ah, so silent and so dark,
Tower of Santa Ireneia!
And then he launched into a new verse, which he had been lovingly working on that very week, based on an erudite note from Father Soeiro. It spoke in praise of Paio Ramires, Knight Templar, who was called upon by Pope Innocent, by Queen Blanche of Castile and by all the Princes of Christendom to arm himself and ride as fast as he could to free Saint Louis, King of France, held captive in the lands of Egypt . . .
Now the world’s hopes rest
On brave Paio Ramires . . .
Gather together all your knights
And save the King of France!
Gonçalo took such an interest in that ancestor of his and his exploits, that he began accompanying Videirinho in a shrill, tremulous voice, one arm held aloft:
Yes, gather together all your knights
And save the King of France!
As the chorus rose to a crescendo, Titó opened his eyes, raised his huge body from the sofa, and declared that he was heading off home to Vila Clara:
‘I’m just about done in! I’ve been travelling since four o’clock yesterday morning, when I left Cidadelhe, and haven’t had a wink of sleep. I’m like that Greek king at the moment — I’d give a gold coin for a donkey!’
Enlivened by the brandy, Gonçalo also stood up, cheerful and resolute:
‘Before you go, Titó, come inside for a moment, will you? There’s something I want to ask you.’
He grabbed one of the lamps and went into the dining room, which was filled with the scent of some fading magnolia blossoms. There, he fixed Titó with a determined look — Titó having followed him sluggishly, still yawning and stretching — and asked him straight out:
‘Listen, Titó, be honest with me now. You used to be a regular visitor to Feitosa. What do you think of Dona Ana?’
Titó started as if a mortar had exploded nearby and stared at Gonçalo in amazement:
‘Why on earth would you ask me that?’
In his desire for reassurance, Gonçalo went on:
‘Look, I have no secrets from you, and in recent weeks, there have been certain conversations, certain meetings. Anyway, to cut a long story short, if, in the fullness of time, I were to consider marrying Dona Ana, I think that she, for her part, would not refuse me. You used to visit Feitosa. You know her. What kind of girl is she?’
Titó had angrily folded his arms:
‘You’re going to marry Dona Ana?’
‘Not this instant, no. I’m not heading off to the church tonight. All I want now is some information. And who could be in a better position to give me the kind of honest, trustworthy information I need than you, my friend and her friend too?’
Titó was still standing, arms firmly folded, looking at the Nobleman of the Tower sternly, frankly:
‘You, Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, are seriously thinking of marrying Dona Ana?’
Gonçalo gave an impatient, irritated shrug:
‘Oh, don’t start talking to me about the nobility and Paio Ramires and all that . . .’
In his indignation, Titó almost bellowed at him:
‘Nobility has nothing to do with it! But a decent man like you cannot possibly even consider marrying a creature like her! All right, nobility does have something to do with it, but nobility of the soul and the heart!’
Taken aback, Gonçalo said nothing. Then, with a hard-won serenity, he said:
‘You obviously know something I don’t. All I know is that she’s pretty and rich. I also know that she’s honest, because there’s never been a hint of gossip about her either here or in Lisbon. Those seem to me to be reasons enough to marry a woman. But you’re saying that’s impossible, which means you know something about her. Out with it.’
Now it was Titó’s turn to fall silent, standing motionless before Gonçalo, as if tightly bound by ropes. Finally, with a great effort, he took a deep breath and said:
‘You didn’t invite me here to give testimony. Without any explanation, you suddenly ask if you can marry that woman. I, also without any explanation, say no. What more do you want?’
Gonçalo exclaimed angrily:
‘What do I want? For heaven’s sake, Titó! Imagine I was madly in love with Dona Ana, or had a genuine desire to marry her, neither of which is true by the way, but just imagine that it was. You wouldn’t warn a friend off doing something he’s really set on doing without giving him some reason, some proof.’
Caught, Titó bowed his head and desperately scratched it. Then, taking the coward’s way out, he postponed entering into battle:
‘Look, Gonçalo, I’m really exhausted. As you say, you’re not heading off to the church right now, nor is she, given that her first husband is not yet cold in his grave. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
He took two enormous strides over to the balcony, where he opened the door and called to Videirinha:
‘It’s late, Videirinha! Time to go home. I haven’t slept since I left Cidadelhe.’
Videirinha, who was carefully preparing himself a glass of cold grog, hastily downed the contents and picked up his precious guitar. And Gonçalo did nothing to hold them back, silently rubbing his hands, furious with Titó’s stubborn, unfriendly refusal to talk. Like shadows, his two friends crossed the room in which there slept a laquered spinet, silent and forgotten since the Ramires who had lived there in the eighteenth century. On the landing that led down to the green door, Gonçalo held up a candlestick to light their way. Titó lit a cigarette on the flame. His hairy hand was trembling.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow, Gonçalo.’
‘Fine, if that’s what you want, Titó.’
There was such exasperation in the Nobleman’s brusque words that Titó hesitated on the narrow stairs, which he entirely filled with his great bulk, then continued on his lumbering way.
Out in the road, Videirinha was looking up at the bright, serene sky:
‘It’s a lovely night, sir!’
‘It is indeed, Videirinha. And thank you for coming. You played superbly this evening!’
Gonçalo had just gone into the portrait room, where he set down the candle, when, from beneath the open balcony, Titó’s great voice boomed out:
‘Gonçalo, come here, will you?’
The Nobleman raced eagerly down to meet him. Beyond the poplar trees, on the moonlit road, Videirinha was tuning his guitar. And as soon as the Nobleman appeared framed in the lighted doorway, Titó, his hat pushed back on his head, blurted out:
‘Oh, Gonçalo, you’re angry with me. That’s so silly. I would hate there to be any ill feeling between us. So here goes. You can’t marry that woman because she once had a lover. And she may have had another either before or afterwards. There’s no craftier, more two-faced woman alive. Don’t ask me anything now, but believe me, she definitely had a lover. I, Titó, am telling you this, and you know I never lie!’
He then strode off along the road, his great shoulders hunched. Gonçalo did not move from where he was on the stone steps, before the silent poplars, which stood as motionless as him. In the soft silence of the night and the moonlight, a few words had been spoken, a few irreparable words, and the lofty dream he had built on Dona Ana and her beauty and her two hundred contos lay now submerged in the mud. He went slowly up the stairs and back into the portrait room. In one of the gloomy canvases lit by the tall candle flame, a face had stirred into life, a gaunt, yellowish face with proud black moustaches, leaning forward intently, as if watching. And far off, Videirinha was scattering his ingenuous verses over the sleeping fields, celebrating the glorious past of the illustrious House:
Now the world’s hopes rest
On brave Paio Ramires . . .
Gather together all your knights
And save the King of France!