XII

Four years passed as lightly and swiftly over the old Tower as a flight of birds.

One warm, late-September afternoon, Gracinha — who had arrived the day before from Oliveira accompanied by Father Soeiro — was reclining on the wicker sofa on the balcony of the dining room, still wearing a voluminous white apron lent to her by Bento, so large that it covered her all the way up to her neck. She had been wearing it as she came and went in the house, helped by Rosa and by Crispola’s daughter, breathlessly tidying and cleaning, with such pleasure and vigour that she herself had been banging books together in the library, shaking off four quiet years of dust. Barrolo had been busy too, overseeing the work being carried out on the stables, which the valiant mare from the encounter in Grainha would soon be sharing with an English mare, a half-blood, bought in London. Father Soeiro had also been zealously dusting the archives. And even Pereira, their excellent tenant, had been chivvying along the two gardeners who were putting the finishing touches to the now immaculate vegetable garden, complete with a melon patch, a strawberry patch, and two new paths, both edged with rosebushes and sheltered by an arbour covered in dense vines.

To everyone’s undisguised joy, the ancient Tower was being spruced up, because on Sunday, after four years in Africa, Gonçalo was finally returning home.

As Gracinha lay there on the sofa in her old white apron, smiling thoughtfully out at the silent garden, at the sky turning red over the Valverde hills, she was looking back over those four years, from the morning when, trembling and biting back tears, she had embraced Gonçalo in his cabin on board ship. Four years had passed, and nothing had changed in the world, not at least in her small world, which comprised the Casa dos Cunhais and the Tower, and life had rolled on, as uneventfully as a slow river flowing through some desert place. Gonçalo was somewhere in Africa, and his letters, though few and far between, were always cheerful and full of the enthusiasm of the empire-builder; and she was at home with Barrolo, and their day-to-day routine was so quiet and unvarying that the supper parties they gave were positively intoxicating — they’d get together with the Mendonças, the Marges, the Colonel from the 7th regiment and a few other friends, and later, in the living room, open up two card tables to play ombre or Boston whist.

And in the gentle flow of life, the dark torment of her heart had very gently, almost imperceptibly, dissipated. Even she could not understand now how a feeling — which, at the height of her passion, she used to justify to herself (indeed almost sanctify) as unique and eternal — could disappear like that, unobtrusively and painlessly, leaving only a faint sense of remorse, a vanished longing, as well as bemusement and confusion, so that all that remained of the fiery blaze was a very fine layer of ash. Events had rolled by, like a gusting wind over a field, and she had rolled along with them, borne aloft as indifferently as a dry leaf.

Immediately after the last Christmas spent with Gonçalo, André, who had gone with them to midnight mass and shared a New Year’s Eve meal with them afterwards, returned to Lisbon to carry out the ‘reforms’ he was always complaining about. In the growing silence between them, there was now the chill of abandonment. And when André came back to Oliveira to his role as governor, she left for Amarante, where Barrolo’s saintly mother had fallen ill, succumbing to a combination of anaemia and old age, which in May, carried her off to our Lord.

June had seen Gonçalo’s emotional departure for Africa, and on the deck, among all the noise and the luggage, she had encountered André, who had arrived from Oliveira only days before and was full of cheerful talk about the marriage of Mariquinhas Marges. Barrolo had decided to have some major work done on their house in Largo d’El-Rei, and so they spent all that summer at their Murtosa estate, which Gracinha had chosen because of the lovely woods around the house and the tall convent walls. Barrolo blamed this new solitude for her melancholy, her thinness, and the way she would often stare wearily off into space while sitting on the mossy benches under the trees, a novel forgotten on her lap. In September, hoping to distract her and help restore her to health with some sea bathing, Barrolo rented Comendador Barros’ elegant house on the coast. She did not once bathe in the sea or go down to the beach at the coolest time of day, the hour when everyone went to their beach huts or sat around on low chairs; only later, in the early evening, did she go for walks along the shoreline, accompanied by two huge greyhounds, a present from Manuel Duarte. One morning, at lunch, when he opened the newspaper, Barrolo started and cried out in astonishment. It was the unexpected fall of São Fulgêncio’s government! André Cavaleiro had immediately sent a telegram offering his resignation. The same newspaper next informed them that Cavaleiro had left on ‘a long and picturesque journey’, the journey to Constantinople and Asia Minor he had spoken of during that supper at the Casa dos Cunhais. Gracinha opened an atlas and with one slow finger traced the route from Oliveira to Syria, over frontiers and mountains, already feeling that André had vanished over those bright horizons. She closed the atlas, thinking only, ‘How people change!’

They returned to Oliveira on a rainy November Saturday and, sitting in the carriage, she felt the melancholy and chill of that grey sky seeping into her heart. On the Sunday, though, she woke to the lovely sun pouring in through her window. She wore a new hat to the eleven o’clock mass in the cathedral; then, on the way to Aunt Arminda’s house, she glanced up at the governor’s residence; another governor lived there now, Senhor Santos Maldonado, a fair-haired young man who played the piano.

The next spring, Barrolo, now obsessed with refurbishing things, decided to demolish the gazebo and build a much larger hothouse, complete with fountain and palm trees, and thus create ‘a really elegant winter garden’.

The workers had begun to empty the gazebo, removing the old furniture that had been there since the days of Uncle Melchior: for two whole days, the divan lay in the garden, next to one of the box hedges, and Barrolo, who had no interest in that useless piece of junk with broken springs, did not even want it relegated to the attic along with other such detritus, and so he ordered it to be burned, along with some broken chairs, on a celebratory bonfire, on the night of Gracinha’s birthday. That night, she had walked around the fire, watching. The faded fabric flared up instantly, while the heavy mahogany frame burned more slowly, giving off only a little light smoke, until all that was left were some smouldering embers, which gradually darkened into ashes.

One afternoon that same week, the Lousada sisters, their features grown darker and sharper, invaded the Casa dos Cunhais, and as soon as they were perched stiffly on the sofa, their bright, beady eyes glinting with malice, they launched into an account of the latest major scandal: Cavaleiro, in Lisbon, was conducting a brazen affair with the wife of the Count de São Romão, who owned land in Cabo Verde!

That night, she wrote a very long letter to Gonçalo, which began, ‘We’re all fine here, back in our usual routine . . .’ And life and its routine had indeed begun again, simple, continuous, uneventful, like a clear river flowing through some desert place.

Crispola’s son peered round the French doors. He was the one who had stayed on at the Tower as an errand boy, but having long since grown out of that first yellow-buttoned jacket, he now wore the Nobleman’s cast-offs and had a nascent fuzz of beard on his chin.

‘Senhor António Vilalobos is downstairs with Senhor Gouveia and another gentleman, Videirinha, and they want to know if they can speak with you.’

‘Senhor Vilalobos! Of course, have them come up. Show them out here onto the balcony!’

As Titó crossed the room, where two men from Oliveira were nailing down some new matting, he commented in loud, approving tones on ‘the preparations for the party’. And when he appeared on the balcony, his face — now even more sunburned and thickly bearded — glowed with pleasure to find the Tower finally waking from the lassitude into which it had fallen, and which had made everything seem so sad and dim, even the fire in the kitchen stove.

‘Forgive the invasion, cousin Graça, but we were just coming back from a walk to Bravais and we learned that you were here with Barrolo.’

‘I’m delighted to see you, cousin António, and I’m the one who should apologise for receiving you in this rather dishevelled state, wearing this huge apron, but we’ve spent all day getting the house ready. And how have you been, Senhor Gouveia? I haven’t seen you since Easter.’

Gouveia thanked Senhora Dona Graça. He had been quite well since Easter, apart from that wretched throat of his. He hadn’t changed at all in those four years; he was still rather swarthy and thin, as if carved out of wood, and still very erect in his black frockcoat; the only change was perhaps his moustache, which had grown somewhat stained with nicotine.

‘And what about the great man? When does he arrive?’

‘On Sunday. We’re all so excited. Won’t you sit down Senhor Videirinha? Bring that wicker chair over here. We haven’t quite finished sorting out the balcony yet.’

Immediately after the Election, Gonçalo had given Videirinha the promised easy and undemanding position, so that he would not neglect his guitar. He was a clerk at the administrator’s office in Vila Clara, but still on familiar terms with his boss, who used him in all sorts of capacities, including that of nurse, and ordered him about rather abruptly, even when they were dining together at Gago’s.

He shyly dragged the wicker chair nearer, placing it respectfully just behind his boss’ chair. Then, removing the black gloves he always wore now to emphasise his new position, he explained that the train arrived at Craquede at ten forty, always assuming there were no delays. But perhaps, if Gonçalo had a lot of luggage, he would be getting off at Corinde.

‘I doubt it,’ said Gracinha. ‘Anyway, José intends leaving early tomorrow morning to meet him at the junction in Lamelo.’

‘We won’t do that,’ said Titó, who was leaning on the balustrade. ‘Our little group will go to Craquede, which is more or less part of the family estate, there should be fewer people around when we cheer him off the train. So he’s not staying long in Lisbon, then, cousin?’

‘He’s been there since Sunday. That’s when he arrived from Paris on the Sud-Express. And he was given an amazing reception, really amazing. I received a letter yesterday from Maria Mendonça, a long letter describing . . .’

‘What? Maria Mendonça is in Lisbon?’

‘Yes, she’s been there since the end of August, staying with Dona Ana Lucena.’

João Gouveia immediately sat up in his chair, betraying a curiosity he had clearly long been wanting to satisfy:

‘That’s true, Senhora Dona Graça! It seems that Dona Ana Lucena has bought a house in Lisbon and is busy fitting it out. Is that what you’ve heard too, Senhora Don Graça?’

Gracinha had heard nothing, but it seemed only natural really, given that Dona Ana spent most of her time in Lisbon now and very little time at Feitosa with its lovely garden.

‘She’s obviously going to remarry!’cried Gouveia with great conviction. ‘If she’s furnishing a house, that means she intends to marry. It’s only natural. She wants a position in society. After all, she’s been widowed for four years now, and . . .’

Gracinha smiled, but Titó, who was slowly scratching his beard, wanted to know more of Maria Mendonça’s letter, describing Gonçalo’s arrival.

‘Indeed,’ said Gracinha. ‘She says she was there at the Rossio Station, and Gonçalo apparently looks really strong and healthy. But, cousin António, read the letter, read it out loud. It contains no secrets, and it’s all about Gonçalo.’

She produced from her pocket a thick envelope, with a coat of arms on the wax seal. Cousin Maria, though, always wrote very quickly and in a terrible scrawl and sometimes the lines ran into each other. António might not be able to read it — and in fact Titó recoiled in horror at the sight of the four sheets of paper bristling with black lines, like a thorn bush. João Gouveia immediately offered to help, given his experience of deciphering reports written by village councillors. And if it contained no secrets . . .

‘No, there are no secrets,’ Gracinha assured him, smiling.

‘It’s all about Gonçalo, like a newspaper report.’

Gouveia rather solemnly smoothed his moustache, then began:

‘My dear Gracinha, Silva’s seamstress says that the dress . . .’

‘No, no!’ cried Gracinha. ‘Start on the other page, at the top. Turn over.’

Gouveia commented in loud, jocular tones that one wouldn’t really expect anything else in a letter between ladies; clothes were always the first thing to be mentioned, and yet there was Senhora Dona Graça assuring them that it was all about Gonçalo. These ladies and their fashions! She’d probably still be talking about clothes in the middle of the letter too. Then he began again on the next page, reading in slow, measured tones:

You must be eager to know about the grand arrival of cousin Gonçalo. It was a truly brilliant occasion, like a reception given to royalty. More than forty of his friends came. And, of course, all the family were present, and if a revolution had broken out that morning, the Republicans would have been able to round up the cream of Portugal’s oldest and best nobility right there in Rossio station. Among the ladies were cousin Chelas, Aunt Louredo, the two Esposende sisters (as well as Uncle Esposende, who, despite his rheumatism and the grape harvest, came all the way from his estate in Torres), and me. All the men had come, of course, and given that the Count de Arega, who is secretary to the King, and cousin Olhalvo, who is his majordomo, were both present, along with the Minister of the Navy and the Minister of Public Works, both of whom were at university with Gonçalo and are close friends, the other people at the station must have thought the King himself was about to arrive. The Sud-Express was forty minutes late, and so the scene at the station rather resembled a salon, with all the society people in attendance, with everyone in an excellent mood, and cousin Arega, who’s always so charming and funny, issuing invitations to a supper (which he later gave) in honour of cousin Gonçalo. I went to the supper actually, and wore my new green dress, which looked very good . . .

Gouveia cried triumphantly:

‘Aha! What did I say? A dress. A green dress!’

‘Keep reading, man!’ roared Titó.

And the administrator, who was, in fact, genuinely interested, read on in lofty tones:

. . . my new green dress, which looked very good, apart from the skirt, which I found a little cumbersome. I think I was the first to spot cousin Gonçalo on the Sud-Express platform. You can’t imagine how handsome he looked, and so much more manly too. The African sun hasn’t burned his skin at all, it’s still as white as ever. And he was so elegant, so well turned out! It just goes to show how civilised Africa is becoming, said cousin Arega, that must be the new fashion in loincloths in Macheque! As you can imagine, there were lots of hugs and kisses. Aunt Louredo even wept. Oh, and I was forgetting, the Viscount of Rio-Manso was there too, with his daughter, Rosinha. She caused quite a sensation, looking pretty as a picture in a dress by Redfern. Everyone asked me who she was, and the Count de Arega, of course, immediately wanted to be introduced. The Viscount wept too when he embraced Gonçalo. And to the amazement of the other people, we all trooped out of the station like a royal procession. But immediately there was a moment of drama. Suddenly, in the middle of that gathering of the crème de la crème, Gonçalo rushed off and fell into the arms of the little man wearing a cap with a badge on it, who was taking our tickets. The same old Gonçalo! Apparently, he had met the ticket collector when he arrived in Lourenço Marques, where the man had been trying to set himself up as a photographer. But I’m forgetting the best bit — Bento! You cannot imagine how magnificent Bento looked. He’s let his side whiskers grow a little, and he was dressed like a fashion plate, in new clothes bought in London, and so dignified in his full-length travelling coat and yellow gloves. Bento was obviously pleased to see me at the station and, with tears in his eyes, he immediately asked after Senhora Dona Graça and Rosa. That night, José and I dined en famille with cousin Gonçalo at the Hotel Bragança, so that we could talk about the Tower and the Casa dos Cunhais. He had lots of interesting things to tell us about Africa. He’s planning to write a book about it, and it seems that the estate is doing very well. In the few years he’s been there, he’s planted two thousand coconut palms as well as cocoa and rubber. And he has countless chickens. Apparently, a chicken in Macheque costs one pataco. Whereas here, in Lisbon, a chicken that’s all skin and bone costs six tostões, and if it’s got a bit of meat on it, then it’s ten tostões if you’re lucky. He’s built a big house on the estate, near the river, with twenty windows and all painted in blue. And cousin Gonçalo says that he wouldn’t sell the land even for eighty contos. To complete his happiness, he’s found an excellent administrator. I’m not sure, though, that he’s going back to Africa. I have my own plan for the future of cousin Gonçalo. You’ll laugh when I tell you, and you’ll never guess. In fact, I myself only had this inspired idea the night we dined at the hotel. The Viscount de Rio-Manso is staying at the Bragança too. When we went downstairs to the private room where we were to have supper, we met him and his granddaughter in the corridor. He immediately embraced Gonçalo again, like a fond father. And Rosinha blushed so deeply that even Gonçalo, despite being so excited and distracted, even he noticed and blushed a little as well. It seems that they know each other of old, something to do with a basket of roses, and that fate has, for years now, been slyly drawing them together. She really is a beauty. And so charming, so polite. She’s only eleven years younger than him, and she would bring a huge dowry. About five hundred contos people say. There is the question of blood, of course, and hers, poor thing . . . But as they say in heraldry, ‘The king makes the shepherdess a queen’. And not only are the Ramires descended from kings, kings are descended from the Ramires. Now, moving on to less interesting matters . . .

João Gouveia discreetly folded up the letter and handed it to Gracinha, praising Senhora Dona Maria Mendonça as an excellent reporter. Then, with a bow, he added:

‘And if her predictions come true . . .’

But Gracinha didn’t believe it. These were Maria Mendonça’s fantasies.

‘Cousin António knows her well and knows what a matchmaker she is.’

‘Yes, she even tried to marry me off,’ boomed Titó, standing up. ‘Imagine that, me! To Widow Pinho from the draper’s shop.’

‘Good heavens!’

However, Gouveia insisted with the air of a man of the world:

‘But, Senhora Dona Graça, that would be far better than Gonçalo going back to Africa. I don’t believe in those vast estates or in Africa. Indeed, I have a real horror of Africa. It’s only ever brought us trouble. Best sell it off, I say. Africa is like those little, half-wild farms that people inherit from some aged aunt, in some back-of-beyond place, where you don’t know anyone, where you can’t even find a tobacconist’s, just goatherds and fever all year round. Yes, best sell it off.’

Gracinha was slowly twining the belt of her apron round and round her fingers.

‘What, sell something that cost so much to win, all those dangers at sea, all that loss of life and money?!’

Ready for a quarrel, Gouveia protested heatedly:

‘What dangers? It was a simple matter of disembarking on the beach, planting a few wooden crosses and beating up some blacks. It’s all lies, that stuff about the glories of Africa. You, of course, Senhora, are speaking as a noblewoman, the granddaughter of noblemen, whereas I am an economist. I’ll go further . . .’

His raised forefinger threatened more keen arguments.

To save Gracinha, Titó interrupted, saying:

‘Listen, Gouveia, we’re wasting cousin Graça’s time. She has work to do. We can leave the question of Africa for later, after supper, when Gonçalo is here. Anyway, dear cousin, we will see you on Sunday in Craquede. The whole gang of us will be there. And I’ll be the one letting off fireworks!’

But Gouveia, smoothing his bowler hat with the sleeve of his jacket, was still hoping to convert Senhora Dona Graça to reasonable ideas about colonial politics.

‘We should sell it off, Senhora, sell it off!’

She smiled as if in agreement, then taking Videirinha’s hand, who hesitated, his fingers stiff, she said:

‘So, Senhor Videira, have you written some new verses for the fado?’

Blushing, Videirinha said that he had written a little something, another fado, to celebrate the Nobleman’s return. Gracinha promised to learn it by heart and sing it at the piano.

‘Thank you, Senhora. At your service, Senhora.’

‘So we will see you on Sunday, cousin António. Hasn’t it turned out to be a lovely afternoon?’

‘Yes, on Sunday in Craquede, cousin.’

However, João Gouveia stopped as he was about to go through the French doors and struck his head with his hand:

‘Forgive me, Senhora, I was forgetting. I received a letter from André Cavaleiro, from Figueira da Foz. He sends greetings to Barrolo and asks if Barrolo could let him have some of that vinho verde from Vidainhos. He wants to give it to another Africanist, the Count de São Romão. It seems the Countess would do anything for a good vinho verde!’

And the three friends filed out of the dining room, where Titó’s booming voice was praising the colourful new matting. In the corridor, Videirinha peered into the library and saw the quill pens stuck in the old brass inkstand, which was waiting, gleaming, all alone, on the table bare of papers or books. Then Rosa appeared at the door to Gonçalo’s room, her arms full of bed linen, a smile filling every line of her round, ruddy face, which was haloed by her large, very white chambray scarf. Titó patted her back affectionately.

‘So, Rosa, time to start making those delicious specialities of yours again, eh?’

‘God be praised, Senhor Dom António, I never thought I would see my beloved master again. In fact, I’d already decided that if I were buried here at Santa Ireneia before I saw the dear boy again, my soul would be sure to fly to Africa to visit him.’

Her little eyes sparkled, brimming with happy tears, and she continued resolutely down the corridor, carrying her bundle, which gave off a delicious scent of apples. Gouveia muttered, ‘What a sad thought!’ And the three friends went down to the courtyard where, to satisfy Titó’s curiosity, they visited the stables.

‘You see,’ he said to Gouveia, who was lighting a cigar. ‘Deny it if you like, but all this — furnishings, new stables, an English mare — was bought with African money.’

Gouveia shrugged.

‘Let’s wait and see what state his liver’s in . . .’

At the main gate, Titó paused to pick a rose from the usual bush to adorn his velvet jacket, and, at that precise moment, Father Soeiro came in, returning from a walk to Bravais, carrying his large parasol and his breviary. They all fondly greeted the saintly, scholarly old man, who was a rare visitor now to the Tower.

‘So, Father Soeiro, our man will be back with us on Sunday!’

Reverently, gratefully, the chaplain pressed one plump hand to his heart.

‘God has been kind enough, in my old age, to grant me that one great favour, because I really wasn’t expecting it. Such a harsh country for a man with such a delicate constitution . . .’

And in order to speak more of Gonçalo and to hear of their plans to meet him at Craquede, he walked with them to the bridge at Portela. João Gouveia was limping, tortured by the dreadful new boots he was wearing for the first time. The four friends rested for a moment on the fine stone bench that Gonçalo’s father had ordered to be placed there, when he was Governor of Oliveira. From that pleasant spot, you could see the whole of Vila Clara — always so clean and white, albeit tinged with pink at that late hour — from the vast Convent of Santa Teresa to the new cemetery wall up on the hill, with its slender cypresses.

Far beyond the Valverde hills, towards the coast, the sun was setting among the clouds, as red as a piece of cooling molten metal, still lighting the windows of the town with glittering gold.

At the bottom of the valley, the tall ruins of Santa Maria de Craquede glowed brightly among the dense trees surrounding them. Beneath the arch of the bridge, the full river flowed noiselessly past, already drowsing in the shade of the poplars, where the birds were still singing. And at the bend in the road, behind the trees concealing the house, stood the old Tower, older than the village and the ruins and all the houses round about, encircled now by the dark flight of bats and gazing silently out over the plain and the sun on the sea, as it had every evening for the last thousand years, from the days of Count Ordonho Mendes.

A little boy carrying a long staff passed by, driving along two slow cows. Father José Vicente from Finta trotted by on his white mare and greeted Gouveia and his friend Father Soeiro, and gave thanks for the return of the Nobleman, for whom he had already prepared a fine basket of his moscatel grapes. Three hunters with a pack of hounds, crossed the road, and went down the lane that runs past the Mirandas’ place.

A still, restful silence, as sweet as if it had come down from heaven, was descending upon all the houses in the countryside round about, where not a leaf was stirring in the transparently soft September air. The smoke from home fires drifted up, slow and light, from between sparse roof tiles. In the workshop of João the blacksmith, opposite the bridge, the forge glowed intensely red. The celebratory boom-boom of a drum could be heard over towards Bravais, growing louder and faster, keeping up a marching rhythm; then, when it reached a hilltop, it moved slowly off, growing fainter and fainter until it vanished among the trees in the depths of the valley.

Leaning back on the broad stone bench, his bowler hat on his knees, João Gouveia pointed in the direction of Bravais:

‘I’m just remembering that passage from Gonçalo’s Novella, when the Ramires are preparing to go to the aid of the Princesses and gathering their men together. It’s just at this time of day, with the sound of beating drums, and it would have been right here too. “In the cool of the valley . . .” No, that’s not it. “In the valley of Craquede . . .” No, that’s not it either. Wait, normally I have a really good memory. Ah, I know. “And all around Santa Ireneia, in the sweet afternoon air, Moorish drums, their drumming muffled in the woods, ba-da-dam, ba-da-dam, or louder on the hilltops, ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-ta, were summoning all the mercenaries and foot soldiers who owed allegiance to the Ramires.” Gorgeous!’

Titó was leaning forward, pensively scraping at the dust on the road with his stick, and standing immediately behind him, Videirinha turned to his boss Gouveia with a bright smile on his face:

‘Perhaps even better is that part where the Ramires men set off in pursuit of the Bastard. I find that piece more poetic somehow. When the old man swears on his sword and later, in the Tower, the death knell begins very slowly to toll. Wonderful!’

On the edge of the bench, pressed up against Titó, so that Gouveia could spread out in comfort, Father Soeiro, his hands resting on the handle of his parasol, said:

‘Oh, yes, those are definitely very interesting passages indeed. There’s such a rich imagination at work in his Novella, and there’s considerable learning and truth too.’

Titó hadn’t opened a book since reading Jussieu’s Fables as a child, and so hadn’t read The Tower of Dom Ramires, but he murmured as he scored a longer line in the dust:

‘He’s an extraordinary fellow, Gonçalo.’

Still smiling his rapt smile, Videirinha added:

‘And so talented.’

‘And he’s certainly determined!’ cried Titó, looking up. ‘That’s what saves him from his other defects. I’m one of Gonçalo’s oldest and best friends, but I don’t hide my views, not even from him — especially not from him. He’s very frivolous, very inconsistent, but it’s his determination that saves him.’

‘And his kindness, Senhor António Vilalobos!’ added Father Soeiro softly. ‘And kindness, especially Senhor Gonçalo’s sort of kindness, also saves. For example, there are some very serious, very pure, very austere men, veritable Catos, who have always done their duty and respected the law, and yet no one likes them or seeks them out. Why? Because they never gave, never forgave, were never fond of anyone or helped them. And beside them you put another man, frivolous, careless, who has faults and has made mistakes, who has even neglected his duty and broken the law, but he’s also lovable, generous, devoted, helpful, always ready with a kind word, an affectionate gesture. And that’s why everyone loves him, and may God forgive me, but I wonder too, if God doesn’t prefer such men . . .’

His small hand, which he had pointed up to the heavens, fell back onto the bone handle of his parasol. Then, blushing at the temerity of such a statement, he added cautiously:

‘Not that this is exactly Church doctrine, but it’s there in men’s souls, in many men’s souls.’

João Gouveia, his bowler hat slightly askew, got to his feet, drew himself up and buttoned his frockcoat, as he always did when about to make some conclusive statement:

‘Well, I’ve studied our friend Gonçalo Mendes long and hard, and do you two know what he reminds me of, do you Father Soeiro?’

‘Who?’

‘You may laugh, but I stand by my idea. Everything about Gonçalo, his honesty, his gentleness, his kindness, yes, his immense kindness, as pointed out by Father Soeiro. His impulses and sudden enthusiasms, which immediately vanish like so much smoke, combined with great determination and real grit when he sticks to an idea. His generosity, his thoughtlessness, his chaotic business dealings, his truly honourable feelings, his scruples, which can seem almost childish. His imagination, which leads him to exaggerate to the point of lying, and yet, at the same time, his practicality and realism. His intellect, his quickwittedness. His constant hope that some miracle will happen, like the famous miracle of Ourique, which will solve all his problems. His vanity, the pleasure he takes in cutting an elegant figure, and his enormous simplicity and sincerity, which means he will gladly help a beggar in the street. An underlying melancholy, despite his talkative, sociable nature. A terrible lack of self-confidence, which makes him draw back, shrink from danger, until the day he decides not to, and then he becomes the all-conquering hero. Even the antiquity of his race, here in this old Tower, for a thousand years. Even that recent departure for Africa. Put it all together, the good and the bad, and do you know who he reminds me of?’

‘Who?’

‘Portugal.’

The three friends set off again along the road to Vila Clara. In the clear sky, a tiny star was twinkling over Santa Maria de Craquede. And Father Soeiro, with his parasol under his arm, walked slowly back to the Tower in the sweet, silent evening air, saying his ‘Hail Marys’ and praying to God for peace for Gonçalo, for all men, for all the fields and houses sleeping in the dark, and for the lovely land of Portugal, so full of grace and love, praying that it should always be blessed among nations.

finis