The Barrolos’ sumptuous house in Oliveira (known since the beginning of the century as the Casa dos Cunhais — the Corner House) raised its noble façade with its twelve balconies on Largo d’El-Rei; it was positioned between a solitary little alleyway that led to the barracks and Rua das Tecedeiras, a steep, narrow cobbled street, made still narrower by the house’s long garden on one side and by the old wall of the Santa Mónica convent on the other. On that morning, just as Gonçalo — driven by Torto in the Tower’s caleche — was entering Largo d’El-Rei, who should be coming up Rua das Tecedeiras — clip-clopping proudly and elegantly over the cobbles on a horse with a thick, glossy mane — but the governor, André Cavaleiro, in a white waistcoat and a straw hat. From inside his carriage, Gonçalo saw Cavaleiro’s dark, long-lashed eyes glancing up at the wrought-iron balconies. Gonçalo struck his knee, muttering, ‘The cad!’ When he got out at the rather dwarfish main door (looking as if it had been crushed beneath the weight of the Sá family’s vast coat of arms), he was so filled with indignation that he did not even notice the effusive greetings of the old porter, Joaquim, and left behind in the caleche the presents he had brought for Gracinha — the box containing the parasol and a basket of flowers from the Tower covered with silk paper. Once upstairs in the parlour, to which José Barrolo had immediately hurried when he heard the clatter of carriage wheels in the silent square outside, he immediately gave full vent to his feelings, angrily flinging down his dustcoat onto a leather armchair.
‘It seems that I cannot even visit this town without coming face to face with that Cavaleiro creature! And he’s always in the square, right outside the house! It really is confounded bad luck. Can’t the moustachioed fool find somewhere else to parade that pathetic nag of his?’
José Barrolo, a plump lad, with curly, reddish hair, a fine fair moustache, and a face as round and red as a beautiful apple, said innocently:
‘What do you mean “nag”? It’s a magnificent horse, a lovely thing that he bought from the Baron das Marges!’
‘Well, he’s a hideous ass riding a very pretty horse. They should both stay in the stables where they belong or else be put out to pasture!’
In his astonishment, Barrolo opened wide his large, pink mouth, revealing a set of superb teeth. And suddenly, stamping on the ground, bent almost double, he burst into helpless, hopeless laughter that made the veins in his neck swell.
‘Oh that’s a good one! I’ll have to tell that to the chaps at the club. A hideous ass riding a very pretty horse! And both to be put out to pasture. You’re on very good form today, Gonçalo! I can see it now, both of them, the governor and his horse, with their snouts in the grass. Excellent!’
He bounced around the room, joyfully slapping his fat thighs. Somewhat placated by this celebration of his wit, Gonçalo said:
‘Let me embrace you, brother-in-law, if my arms are long enough. And how’s the family? How’s Gracinha? Ah, here comes the lovely flower now . . .’
And there she was, with her light, delicate, girlish air, her magnificent hair hanging down loose over her lace peignoir; she ran excitedly over to her brother, who folded her in a warm embrace and planted two loud kisses on her cheeks. Then, drawing back, he declared that she was looking even prettier — and plumper too.
‘No, you really are looking plumper, and perhaps even a little taller. Do I have a nephew on the way? No? Not yet?’
Gracinha blushed and smiled the languid smile that made her greenish eyes grow still moister and sweeter, more tender.
‘It’s up to her!’ cried José Barrolo, swaying from side to side, his hands in the pockets of a double-breasted jacket that seemed only to emphasise his large thighs. ‘It’s definitely not the fault of the master of the house. But she just can’t make up her mind!’
The Nobleman of the Tower scolded his sister:
‘We need a boy-child. And without one — since I’m never going to marry, because I’m simply not the type — well, that will be the end of both our families, the Barrolos and the Ramires. The extinction of the Barrolos would do the world a favour, frankly, but once the Ramires are finished, Portugal will be finished too. Therefore, Senhora Dona Graça Ramires, hurry up; in the name of the nation, we need a son and heir! A very fat heir, whom I intend to call Tructesindo!’
Barrolo protested, horrified:
‘Turtesinho? No, if that’s going to be his name, I’m having nothing to do with it!’
Gracinha put a stop to all these playful jests, wanting news of the Tower, of Bento, of Rosa the cook, the vegetable garden and the peacocks . . . Still talking, they went into the next room, which, furnished with Indian sideboards and heavy, gilded armchairs upholstered in blue damask, had three balconies looking out over Largo d’El-Rei. Barrolo rolled himself a cigarette and demanded to know all about Relho and the ensuing uproar. He himself had been engaged in a dispute with a tenant on his Ribeirinha estate, over the felling of some pine trees, but that Relho business had really been something.
Firmly installed in one corner of an ample blue sofa, and lazily unbuttoning his pale woollen jacket, Gonçalo said:
‘No, it was all very straightforward. Relho had been almost permanently drunk for some months, then, one night, he just exploded, threatening Rosa with a rifle. I, of course, went downstairs and an instant later, there was no Relho, and peace and quiet were duly restored.’
‘But didn’t the alderman come with his men?’ Barrolo asked.
Gonçalo gave an impatient shrug.
‘The alderman? Yes, but he only came afterwards, for legal purposes. The man had left by then, driven away. And, as a result, I’ve rented the land to Pereira, Pereira from Riosa.’
He recounted the details of this excellent deal, which had been brokered over lunch on the verandah, washed down by a couple of glasses of vinho verde. Barrolo was impressed by the amount of rent and was full of praise for Pereira. Could Gonçalo not come up with another Pereira for the Treixedo estate, which had such fertile land, and yet was so badly managed!
Perched on the edge of the sofa, her long, freshly-washed, rosemary-scented hair hanging loose, Gracinha was observing her brother tenderly:
‘And is your stomach any better? Are you still having those suppers with Titó?’
‘Oh, that wretch!’ exclaimed Gonçalo. ‘He promised days ago to come and have supper at the Tower, and Rosa even prepared a delicious spit-roast goat for him, and then he didn’t turn up. I think he’d been invited to some wild orgy somewhere, complete with firecrackers. In fact, he’s coming to Oliveira this week as well. Oh, and yes, did you know he was best friends with Sanches Lucena?’
He then gave a gleefully exaggerated account of the meeting at Bica-Santa, his horror of the lovely Dona Ana, and his unexpected discovery that Titó was a regular visitor to the Lucena household.
Barrolo recalled that, one afternoon in June, before St John’s Eve, he had spotted Titó outside the main gate of Feitosa, walking a small white lapdog.
‘But what I can’t understand is your horror of Dona Ana. Good heavens, the woman’s gorgeous! The way she walks, those big eyes of hers, her embonpoint . . .’
‘Hold your tongue, you libertine!’ cried Gonçalo. ‘How can you bring yourself to praise such a cut of meat when beside you sits your wife, the loveliest of all Gracinhas!’
Gracinha, who was not in the least jealous, laughed, saying that she quite understood José’s admiration for Ana Lucena, who really was most striking, very beautiful indeed!
‘Yes,’ agreed Gonçalo, ‘in the way that a fine-looking mare is beautiful. But that voice of hers, so affected, so coarse. And the lorgnette and her manners in general, all that, “Of course the gentleman may smoke”, or, “No, the gentleman is quite mistaken”. It’s just ghastly.’
Pacing up and down in front of the sofa, his hands in the pockets of his smoking jacket, Barrolo was muttering:
‘Sour grapes, Gonçalo, sour grapes!’
The Nobleman gave his brother-in-law a fierce look:
‘Not even if she came to me on her knees, in her nightdress, with two hundred contos from Sanches Lucena on a silver platter!’
Smiling and red as a peony, Gracinha uttered a scandalised ‘Oh!’ and clapped her brother on the back. He pulled her playfully towards him:
‘Let me kiss you on the cheek again, to purify myself. You see, even thinking about Dona Ana leads people to have brutish thoughts. Anyway, you were asking about my stomach. Yes, it’s still a little out of sorts. And some days it’s worse than others, especially after that spit-roast goat and Manuel Duarte’s drunken company. Do you happen to have any Vidago water in the house? You do? Well, José, would you be an angel and have them bring me a nice cool bottle of the stuff? And could you ask someone to bring me up the wicker basket and the cardboard box I left in the caleche, and have them put in my room. But don’t unwrap them. It’s a surprise. And have them bring me some hot water too. I need to change my clothes. There was so much dust on the road!’
And when Barrolo hurried plumply off, whistling, Gonçalo said:
‘You two make a splendidly harmonious couple. And you really do seem to have filled out. I honestly thought I was going to have a nephew. Whereas Barrolo seems slimmer and lighter on his feet.’
‘Well, he walks more now and rides too and doesn’t tend to drop off to sleep after supper so much.’
‘And what about the rest of the family? Aunt Arminda? The Mendonças? And what’s happened to that saintly man Father Soeiro?’
‘He had a slight attack of rheumatism, nothing serious though, and now he’s fine. He spends all his time in the library at the Bishop’s Palace. Apparently, he’s writing a book about bishops.’
‘Yes, I know, a history of the cathedral in Oliveira. Well, I’ve been working hard too, Gracinha. I’m writing a Novel.’
‘Really?’
‘A short Novel, a Novella, for the Annals of Literature and History, a journal founded by a friend of mine, Castanheiro. It’s about an event from our family’s past, about an ancestor of ours, Tructesindo, long, long ago.’
‘What fun, and what did he do?’
‘Oh, some truly dreadful things, but it’s all terribly picturesque. And I describe the House of Santa Ireneia in the twelfth century in all its glory! It’s a beautiful reconstruction of old Portugal, and especially, of the old Ramires family. You’ll love it. There are no romances, only wars; no, there is one romance from the remote past, involving one of our ancestors, Dona Menda, although I’m not even sure she really existed. Interesting, eh? I still want to get into politics, you see, but first I need to get into the public eye, to get my name known . . .’
Gracinha was smiling sweetly at her brother, charmed as ever.
‘Have you any ideas about how to do that? Aunt Arminda still insists you should become a diplomat. Only a few days ago, she was saying, “Ah, Gonçalinho is so handsome and from such a noble family, he really belongs in a big embassy somewhere!” ’
Gonçalo slowly levered himself out of the vast sofa, rebuttoning his jacket.
‘I do have an idea actually, something I’ve been thinking about for a while now. Perhaps I got the idea from an English novel I’m reading, King Solomon’s Mines. It’s really interesting. I can recommend it. Yes, I’m considering going off to Africa.’
‘Oh, Gonçalo, no! To Africa?’
The butler came in bearing on a tray two bottles of Vidago water, both uncorked. Quickly, to get the benefit of the ‘fizz’, Gonçalo filled an enormous cut-glass tumbler with the water. So delicious! And when Barrolo returned, saying that he had carried out all His Excellency’s orders, Gonçalo said:
‘We’ll talk about it more over lunch, Gracinha! Now, I’m going to have a wash and change my clothes. I’m so itchy from all that dust!’
Barrolo accompanied his brother-in-law to his room, one of the brightest and most spacious in the house, the walls lined with canary-yellow creton, and with a balcony that looked out over the garden and two windows that gave onto Rua das Tecedeiras and the old trees growing in the garden of the convent next door. Gonçalo impatiently took off his jacket and shook out his waistcoat:
‘You look splendid, Barrolo! You’ve lost a few pounds, which must be the pounds Gracinha has gained. If you carry on like that, you’ll be the perfectly balanced couple.’
Standing before the mirror, Barrolo was stroking his waistline, a delighted smile on his face:
‘Yes, I do believe I have lost weight. My trousers feel looser.’
Gonçalo had opened the exquisite chest of drawers with gilt handles where he always kept some clothes (even two tailcoats), to avoid having to bring luggage back and forth between there and the Tower. And he was cheerily advising Barrolo to continue ‘the slimming process’ for the sake of the future Barrolic race, when down below, in silent Rua das Tecedeiras, the hooves of a pedigree horse came clattering over the cobbles.
Immediately suspicious, Gonçalo ran to the window, still holding the clean shirt he was unfolding. It was him! It was André Cavaleiro, reining in his horse, as it gracefully, loudly picked its way over the uneven cobblestones. Gonçalo turned to Barrolo, his face aflame with anger:
‘This is pure provocation! If that shameless Cavaleiro rides past these windows one more time on that wretched nag of his, I’ll douse him with a bucket of dirty water!’
Barrolo peered anxiously out.
‘He’s probably going to visit the Lousadas. He’s very good friends with them now. I often see him riding past, but that’s where he’s going.’
‘He can go to Hell for all I care! Do you mean that, in the whole town, this is the only road that leads to the Lousadas’ house? Twice in half an hour! The insolent cur! That great hairy head of his and his moustaches will get a good dousing of soapy water, or my name’s not Ramires and I’m not my father’s son!’
Barrolo was nervously pinching the skin on his neck, troubled by these rancorous words that so spoiled his peace. On Gonçalo’s insistence, he had already reluctantly broken off with Cavaleiro, and now he could foresee some quarrel — some scandal — that would turn all Cavaleiro’s friends against him, excluding him from the club and from the sweet pleasures of the town’s cafés, which would make Oliveira even more tedious than his estates in Ribeirinha or Murtosa in their awful solitude. Unable to contain himself, he risked saying what he always said:
‘Why all this fuss, and about something as trivial as politics?’
Gonçalo put his glass down on the marble-topped washstand so hard that it almost broke.
‘Politics! What has politics got to do with it? You don’t go throwing dirty water over governors because of politics. Besides, he isn’t a politician, he’s just a scoundrel, and what’s more . . .’
He went no further, but merely shrugged and fell silent, and poor dim-witted Barrolo stared at him open-mouthed, for whenever he saw Cavaleiro passing the house, he saw only ‘the fine horse’ or ‘the shortest route to the Lousadas’ house’.
‘Right,’ Gonçalo said, ‘off you go. I need to get dressed. Leave that moustachioed fellow to me.’
‘I’ll see you shortly, then. But if he rides past again, no horseplay, eh?’
‘Only justice — by the bucketful!’
And he closed the door on a resigned Barrolo, who walked off down the corridor, sighing and regretting Gonçalinho’s quick temper and the disproportionate rage provoked by politics.
While he was furiously soaping himself before getting dressed in equally angry haste, Gonçalo pondered Cavaleiro’s intolerable, scandalous behaviour. The moment he arrived in Oliveira, Fate had decreed that he would find, wheeling about beneath Gracinha’s windows, that man with his great mop of hair mounted on that nag of his with its equally thick mane. What he found most depressing was that he could see in Gracinha’s poor, tender, weak heart a stubborn remnant of love for Cavaleiro, deeply buried, yes, but still alive, and which could easily spring into life again. And in the idle town of Oliveira, there was no other strong feeling to protect her, neither her husband’s superior love nor the delight of a baby in its cradle. Her only defence was pride, a certain religious respect for the name of Ramires, and fear of that small, nosy, gossipy town. Her only salvation would be to leave the town altogether and shut herself away on one of Barrolo’s estates, Ribeirinha or, even better, Murtosa, with its fine woods, its moss-covered convent walls, and a village nearby where she could play the part of the beneficent chatelaine. But Barrolo would never agree to give up his card games at the club, his friends at the Tabacaria Elegante, or Major Ribas’ banter.
Overwhelmed by heat and by emotion, Gonçalo opened the balcony doors. Below, on the small tiled garden terrace, edged with flower pots, Gracinha, her hair still hanging loose over her peignoir, was talking to a very tall, very thin lady wearing a sailor’s hat decked with poppies and holding in her arms a large bunch of roses.
It was his ‘cousin’, Maria Mendonça — the wife of José Mendonça, who had been to school with Barrolo in Amarante and was now the captain of the cavalry regiment stationed in Oliveira. She was the daughter of a certain Dom António, the owner (now Viscount) of the Severim estate, and obsessed with noble family connections and origins, she always managed to find a tenuous link between the vaguely aristocratic Severim estate and all the noble houses of Portugal, especially to her great glee, with the great House of Ramires; indeed, as soon as the regiment arrived in Oliveira, she had begun addressing Gracinha familiarly as ‘tu’ and addressing Gonçalo as ‘cousin’ with the particular intimacy of those with superior blood in their veins. She also cultivated close friendships with some wealthy Brazilian ladies resident in Oliveira, and even with the widow Pinho, who owned a draper’s shop and, who, according to local gossip, kept Maria’s two small children supplied with trousers and jackets. She was also on intimate terms with Dona Ana Lucena, both in the town and in the country. Gonçalo, however, enjoyed her wit, her sharpness, the mischievous vivacity that made her positively crackle, like a log on the fire aflame with good cheer. And at the sound above of the stiff window creaking open, she looked up with bright, intelligent eyes, and it was, for both of them, a moment of fond surprise:
‘Cousin Maria! What a pleasure to arrive and open my window and find you waiting there!
‘For me too, cousin Gonçalo. Why, I haven’t seen you since your return from Lisbon. And that moustache makes you look even handsomer.’
‘People do say that I’m extraordinarily handsome now, positively irresistible! I would even advise cousin Maria not to come too close — you might catch fire.’
She let her arms, and the heavy bunch of flowers, hang disconsolately by her sides.
‘Oh dear, then I am lost, because I have just this moment promised cousin Graça that I will come and dine with you tonight! Gracinha, you’ll have to put a screen between us!’
Hanging over the balustrade, delighted by cousin Maria’s playful comments, Gonçalo cried:
‘No, don’t worry, I’ll put a lampshade on my head so as not to dazzle anyone! And how is your dear husband and the little ones? How is the whole noble flock?’
‘Oh, surviving, with a little bread and by the good grace of God. Anyway, I will see you later, cousin Gonçalo. And remember, be merciful!’
And he was still delightedly laughing when cousin Maria — after exchanging a few whispered words with Gracinha and planting two hasty kisses on her cheeks — had, with her usual slender elegance, disappeared through the French doors. Gracinha proceeded slowly up the three marble steps from the little terrace into the garden. From the balcony, through the web of branches and along the avenues of box hedges, Gonçalo could still see her white peignoir and her long loose hair, gleaming in the sunlight like a cascade of jet. Then the glossy black hair and the white lace vanished beneath the laurels flanking the path that led to the gazebo.
Gonçalo still did not move from the window, vaguely filing his nails and peering suspiciously out from behind the curtains, his mind full of something akin to dread lest Cavaleiro should appear again on his wretched nag, now that Gracinha had plunged into the greenery at the far end of the garden, near the cosy gazebo — an eighteenth-century imitation of a miniature Temple of Love — that looked out over Rua das Tecedeiras. However, no sound broke the silence beneath the long shadows cast by the trees either there or in the convent opposite. And at last, he decided to go downstairs, ashamed of his espionage and convinced that his sister would not show herself to Cavaleiro, and certainly not like that, with her hair hanging loose over her white peignoir.
Then, just as he was closing the door to his room, he found himself in the arms of Father Soeiro, who grasped him fondly and respectfully about the waist.
‘Oh, Father Soeiro, how could you be so ungrateful!’ cried Gonçalo, affectionately patting the chaplain’s plump back. ‘How could you be so cruel? You haven’t visited the Tower for a whole month! Gonçalinho, I see, no longer exists for you now, only Gracinha . . .’
With his small, meek eyes almost brimming with tears, eyes that seemed still darker in the context of his fresh, pink, chubby face and his head of white-as-cotton hair, Father Soeira was clearly touched, folding his hands over his woollen cassock, from which there peeped one corner of a red-checked handkerchief. It had certainly not been for lack of wanting to that he had failed to visit the Tower, but there was his work at the Bishop’s Palace, and then that minor bout of rheumatism, and besides Senhora Dona Graça had been expecting a visit from the Nobleman for days and days now . . .
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Gonçalo gaily, ‘just as long as your heart has not forgotten the Tower.’
‘Ah, as if it could!’ murmured Father Soeiro, full of grave emotion.
And as they walked along the blue-painted corridor, adorned with coloured engravings illustrating the battles of Napoleon, Gonçalo gave him a summary of all the Tower news.
‘There was, as you know, Father, that whole scandalous business with Relho, which has actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because, just a few days ago, I rented out the land to Pereira, for one thousand one hundred and fifty mil-réis.’
Pausing before taking a pinch of snuff from a silver gilt snuffbox, the chaplain stood staring at the Nobleman in amazement.
‘You see, sir, that is how rumours start. Because here, the story is that you had reached an agreement with José Casco, José Casco of Bravais. In fact, over lunch on Sunday, Senhora Dona Graça . . .’
‘Yes,’ the Nobleman broke in, his fine features flushing red. ‘Casco did come to the Tower and we did talk. First he wanted it and then he didn’t. You know what Casco’s like. Anyway, it was all left rather up in the air, and nothing was decided. And when, out of the blue, Pereira appeared with his proposal, I felt under no obligation to Casco, and, as you can imagine, I gladly accepted the offer. A big increase in the rent and with Pereira as the lessee. You know Pereira, don’t you, Father?’
‘Oh, he’s certainly very capable,’ agreed the chaplain, awkwardly scratching his chin. ‘There’s no doubt about that. And he’s an excellent fellow. And if, as you say, no firm agreement had been reached with Cas . . .’
‘Pereira’s coming to Oliveira next week,’ said Gonçalo, interrupting him. ‘If you could warn the notary Guedes, then we can get the papers signed. The conditions are the usual ones. I think there’s one new clause needed concerning vegetables and a pig. But you’re sure to receive a letter from Pereira.’
And as they went down the stairs, Gonçalo smoothed his moustache with a perfumed handkerchief and joked with the chaplain about the Fado of the Ramires and his collaboration with Videirinha. Father Soeiro had certainly furnished Videirinha with some wonderful legends, but he had perhaps gone a little too far with the one about Saint Aldonça, with four kings carrying her coffin on their shoulders!
‘That’s far too many kings, Father!’
The good chaplain protested, immediately grave and serious, in his love for that song glorifying the House.
‘You’ll forgive me, sir, but it is entirely accurate. Father Guedes do Amaral describes just that in his Ladies of the Court of Heaven, a very rare and beautiful book that Senhor José Barrolo happens to have in his library. The author doesn’t specify which kings, but he definitely says there were four of them . . . “On the shoulders of four kings and accompanied by many counts.” José Videira said he couldn’t include the counts on account of the rhyme.’
The Nobleman laughed as he hung the straw hat he had brought down with him on a hook at the bottom of the stairs.
‘So the poor counts were lost on account of the rhyme! But it’s a lovely fado. I’ve brought a copy with me for Gracinha to sing at the piano. And another thing, Father, what do people here have to say about the governor, Senhor André Cavaleiro?’
The chaplain shrugged, carefully unfolding his vast red-check handkerchief.
‘As you are aware, sir, I know nothing of politics. Nor do I frequent cafés, which is where people discuss politics, but he does appear to be popular.’
In the corridor, a fat footman with bushy red side whiskers rang the bell for lunch. Gonçalo had not seen the man before, and, assuming he was new to the job, he informed him that Senhora Dona Maria da Graça was still at the bottom of the garden.
‘She has just come in, Senhor Dom Gonçalo,’ the footman said. ‘She even asked me to ask Your Excellency if you wanted a glass of vinho verde from Vidainhos with your lunch.’
Of course he did! Then, smiling, Gonçalo said:
‘Father Soeiro, would you tell that new footman not to bother with the Dom, I am, thank God, just plain Gonçalo!’
The chaplain murmured that, in documents from the First Dynasty, all the Ramires men still appeared with the title Dom. When Gonçalo stopped by the door leading into the dining room, the old man, with his scrupulous, reverent respect for ceremony, bowed and waited for the Nobleman to go first.
‘Please, Father Soeiro!’
But the chaplain, with deep respect, said:
‘Please, sir, after you . . .’
Gonçalo drew back the door curtain and gave the chaplain a very gentle push:
‘Father Soeiro, it is stated in the documents of the First Dynasty that saints never follow behind sinners!’
‘You give the orders, sir, and always so charmingly too.’
At about three o’clock one afternoon, following Gracinha’s birthday, Gonçalo was returning with Father Soeiro from a visit to the library in the Bishop’s Palace, when he heard Titó’s loud voice issuing from the parlour, rumbling around the blue room like slow thunder. Quickly pulling back the door curtain, he shook his fist at the huge man occupying one of the large gilt armchairs, with his new boots and their gleaming studs planted firmly on the floral rug.
‘You wretch! How dare you just abandon me like that, without a flicker of conscience, after I’d had a delicious spit-roast goat especially prepared for you, cooked, what’s more, on a cherry-wood spit. And why? Simply in order to attend some base orgy complete with rissoles and firecrackers!’
Titó’s look of cosy beatitude remained unchanged.
‘I had no option. I met João Gouveia at the fountain that afternoon, and only then did we remember that it was Dona Casimira’s birthday, which is utterly sacred!’
Barrolo was always fascinated by and envious of those suppers in Vila Clara, those ‘wild nights’ with guitar accompaniment that often went on into the small hours. And looking up brightly from the corner of the table where he was carefully crumbling tobacco into a Japanese box, he asked:
‘Who is Dona Casimira? You two know some very rum types in Vila Clara. Go on, who is she?’
‘Oh, she’s a monster!’ cried Gonçalo. ‘A vast matron, round as a barrel, and with a horribly bristly chin. She lives next to the cemetery in a hovel that stinks of lamp-oil, where this gentleman and other people in positions of authority go to play cards and flirt with floozies wearing short red jackets and with their hair all over the place. Hardly the kind of place one can speak of decently in the presence of Father Soeiro!’
The chaplain, who had discreetly withdrawn into the shadows between the fringed satin curtains and an imposing Indian cabinet, merely shrugged and smiled, as if he were perfectly accustomed to hearing about even the most heinous of sins. And Titó painstakingly corrected the Nobleman’s grotesque sketch.
‘Dona Casimira may be fat, but she’s very clean. Why only today she asked me to buy her a new sitz-bath while I’m in town. The house doesn’t smell of lamp-oil and it’s behind the Convent of Santa Teresa not the cemetery. The floozies are her nieces, two very jolly girls who enjoy a laugh and a joke. And Father Soeiro could, without fear . . .’
‘All right, all right,’ Gonçalo cried, interrupting him. ‘They’re delightful people! But let’s forget about Dona Casimira, who will now have a new sitz-bath for her nether regions. No, let us pass on to yet another of Senhor António Vilalobos’ infamies!’
But Barrolo insisted, full of curiosity:
‘No, no, tell us about the birthday party, Titó. I bet you had a high old time of it.’
‘No, it was a quiet little supper,’ Titó said, with all the seriousness he felt was due to his friends’ party. ‘Dona Casimira provided us with some delicious roast chicken served with peas, and João Gouveia brought a dish of rissoles from Gago’s, which went down very well indeed. Then, after fireworks in the garden, Videirinha played his guitar, and the girls sang. So, not a bad night at all.’
Gonçalo waited, still irresistibly intrigued by that supper at Dona Casimira’s house. Then he said:
‘All right, are we done with that? Now to the other still worse infamy. It seems that Senhor António Vilalobos is a close friend of Sanches Lucena, that he visits Feitosa every week, takes tea and toast with the lovely Dona Ana, and keeps his other friends completely in the dark about all these glorious privileges!’
‘Not to mention,’ declared Barrolo, who was enjoying himself enormously, ‘taking someone’s fluffy little lapdogs for a walk on the lead!’
Titó shifted his vast bulk in the armchair, drew in his gleaming, studded boots, and slowly stroked his bearded face, which was turning rather hot and pink. Then looking Gonçalo straight in the eye, in an attempt at slyness that only made him blush all the more, he said:
‘Have you ever once asked me if I knew Sanches Lucena? No, you never have.’
The Nobleman protested. No, he’d never asked, but whenever they talked politics — at the club, at Gago’s, at the Tower — they were constantly bandying about Sanches Lucena’s name! Surely the natural, indeed prudent, thing would have been for Senhor Titó to reveal so illustrious a friendship? If only to avoid the Nobleman, or his friends, from insulting Sanches Lucena in the presence of Senhor Titó, who had, after all, eaten his toast!
Titó got up from his armchair. Then, plunging his hands into his jacket pockets and giving a nonchalant shrug, he said:
‘Everyone’s entitled to his opinion about Sanches. I’ve only known the man for a few months, but I find him both serious and knowledgeable. As for how he performs in Parliament, that’s another matter . . .’
Gonçalo declared indignantly that they weren’t discussing the merits of Senhor Sanches Lucena, but the secrets of Senhor Titó Vilalobos! Then the new footman, poking his red side whiskers through a gap in the curtains, announced that the local administrator was asking if Their Excellencies were . . .
Barrolo immediately abandoned his tobacco-crumbling, crying:
‘Senhor João Gouveia! Show him in. Now the whole Vila Clara gang’s here!’
From the window where he had taken refuge, and in a voice intended to drown out that importunate conversation about Sanches Lucena and Feitosa, Titó thundered forth:
‘Yes, we travelled here together in a really rackety old carriage, and one of the nags even lost a shoe and we had to stop in Vendinha. Not that this was a complete waste of time, mind, because they serve a white wine there that’s simply out of this world!’
He was tugging at his earlobe and noisily advising Barrolo and Gonçalo to go to Vendinha and sample a drop of that celestial delight.
‘Even Father Soeiro might be tempted to try a glass, however sinful!’
At this point, João Gouveia entered, looking hot and dusty, with a red line on his forehead left by his hat and the heat, and dressed entirely in black — black frockcoat, black trousers and black gloves. Too out of breath to speak, he went silently around the room, shaking the hands of the friends greeting him. Then he collapsed onto the sofa, begging Barrolo to be so kind as to bring him a cool drink.
‘I almost went into Café Mónaco, then it occurred to me that the Barrolo household would have far more trustworthy beverages.’
‘Of course. What would you like? Horchata? Sangría? Lemonade?’
‘Sangría, please.’
And wiping the sweat from his neck and brow, he cursed the dreadful heat of Oliveira!
‘Mind you, it seems some people positively enjoy it. My boss, for example — the governor — always chooses to go out on his horse at the hottest time of the day. Even today. He was in the office until noon, then he had his horse brought round and headed off along the road to Ramilde, which is as hot as Africa. I’m surprised his brains didn’t fry!’
‘Oh, that’s easy enough to explain,’ said Gonçalo. ‘He has no brains!’
Gouveia responded gravely:
‘That’s all we need: Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires with one of his barbed comments. Don’t let’s start, please. Your brother-in-law is a completely untameable beast, Barrolo. He can always be relied on to kick.’
Embarrassed, Barrolo made some comment about Gonçalinho never being known to let a politician off lightly.
‘Well, you just listen to me,’ said Gouveia, wagging his finger at Gonçalo. ‘In the office this morning, that same brainless Senhor André Cavaleiro was speaking in the very highest terms of your brains!’
Gonçalo retorted very gravely:
‘That really is all we need. For the governor to prove his own utter absurdity, he only has to consider me an ass!’
‘Excuse me!’ cried Gouveia, springing to his feet and unbuttoning his frockcoat, ready for a fight.
In his alarm, Barrolo rushed over and placed his hands on Gouveia’s shoulders to calm him and persuade him to sit back down on the sofa.
‘Now, boys, no politics, all right? And no more bickering about Cavaleiro. Let’s get back to really important matters. Are you having supper with us tonight, João Gouveia?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve promised to dine with Cavaleiro. Inácio Vilhena will be there too. He’s going to read us an article he’s written for the Boletim de Guimarães about some moulds for making martyrs’ bones that were apparently discovered during work being carried out in the Monastery of São Bento. I’m curious to know more. But tell me, how is Senhora Dona Graça? Well, I hope. The other person I haven’t seen for months is you, Father Soeiro — you never visit the Tower any more! But you seem to be in fine fettle still. What’s the secret of your eternal youth?’
In his corner, the chaplain smiled shyly. His secret? Live life quietly, and don’t waste it on ambitions or disappointments. For him — praise God — life flowed by very simply and very humbly. And were it not for his rheumatism . . .
Then, blushing with embarrassment while uttering these evangelical precepts, he went on:
‘But not even my rheumatism is wasted. It comes from God, for reasons he alone knows, and with suffering comes edification, because what we suffer makes us think about what others suffer.’
With blithe incredulity, Gouveia said:
‘I have to say that whenever I have a bad throat, I never think of other people’s throats! I think only of my own, which gives me quite enough to worry about. And now I’m going to treat it to some of that excellent sangría.’
The footman bent down to offer him the gleaming silver platter laden with glasses of sangría bobbing with slices of lemon. And then they all took a glass, even Father Soeiro, simply to demonstrate to Senhor António Vilalobos that he did not despise God’s kindly gift of wine, because Tibullus, even though he was a pagan, was quite right when he said, ‘vinus facit dites animos, mollia corda dat’ or ‘wine strengthens the soul and softens the heart’.
Draining his glass, João Gouveia gave a contented sigh and replacing the glass on the tray, asked the Nobleman:
‘So what’s this fantastical tale about a party being held at the Tower, with ladies present, including Dona Ana Lucena? I didn’t believe a word of it when Gago’s boy found me and gave me the message. Then . . .’
From his refuge behind the curtains, Titó, who had also just finished his sangria, addressed another question to the Nobleman in his usual booming tones:
‘And Barrolo tells me you’re planning to head off to Africa? Is this true?’
João Gouveia’s shock was mingled almost with terror. To Africa? Did Gonçalo have a job in Africa?
‘No, he’s going to plant coconut palms, cocoa and coffee!’ exclaimed Barrolo, slapping his thigh, vastly amused.
Titó approved of the idea. If he himself could get enough capital together, say, ten or fifteen contos, he would go off to Africa as well and trade with the blacks. If, that is, he were only smaller and thinner, because heavily-built men like him require a lot of food and a lot of wine, and would never survive Africa. They’d die!
‘Gonçalo would be fine, though. He’s lean and tough enough. He doesn’t overdo the brandy either, so he’s perfectly suited for a career as an African adventurer. And that’s a damn sight better than that other career he’s so keen on, becoming a deputy! Whatever for? To prowl the corridors of power and kowtow to ministers?’
Barrolo enthusiastically agreed. He couldn’t understand Gonçalo’s determination to become a deputy either! What could be more tedious, what with all the plotting, the insults in the press, the mud-slinging. Not to mention having to put up with the people who elected you.
‘I wouldn’t do it even if they appointed me governor afterwards, and gave me a title and hung a medal round my neck, which is exactly what happened to Freixomil!’
Gonçalo listened to all this in smug, superior silence, laboriously rolling a cigarette from Barrolo’s newly crumbled tobacco.
‘No, you just don’t understand. You don’t know how Portugal works. Ask Gouveia. Portugal is an estate, a beautiful estate, owned by a partnership. As you know there are commercial partnerships and rural ones. The Lisbon partnership is a political one, which governs the estate called Portugal. We Portuguese divide into two classes: the five or six million who work on the estate or, like Barrolo, live on it and enjoy the view and pay for the privilege; and the thirty or so individuals at the top, in Lisbon, who make up the partnership that receives all the taxes and governs. Well, I would like to run the estate, whether simply because I want to or out of necessity or pure familial habit, I don’t know. But to get into the political partnership, the Portuguese citizen needs a qualification, namely, becoming a deputy. Just as you need a law degree if you want to be a lawyer. That’s why I’m trying to begin by becoming a deputy, so that I can join the political partnership and govern. Isn’t that right, João Gouveia?’
Gouveia had returned to the sangría tray and was already enjoying another glass, not downing it in one, but sipping it slowly now.
‘Yes, that’s how it works. Candidate, deputy, politician, counsellor, minister, mandarin — certainly a better career than heading off to Africa. After all, they grow cocoa in the Lisbon ministries too, and it’s so much shadier!’
Barrolo had meanwhile joined Titó in the window bay — since they were of the same opinion — and was standing with his arm around his friend’s imposing shoulder. He said jokingly:
‘I don’t belong to either of those two factions, but I govern the bits of Portugal that most interest me, the bits I own! And I’d like to see them — São Fulgêncio or Brás Vitorino or any other politicians in Lisbon — try to take control of my land, either Ribeirinha or Murtosa. I’d shoot them first!’
Leaning against the window, Titó was thoughtfully stroking his beard.
‘Well, all right, Barrolo, but you still have to pay the taxes they demand — you have to accept whoever they appoint to the local council. And you only have roads if they see fit to make them. Depending on the laws they vote in, you sell your wheat and your wine for more or less of a profit. And so on and so on. Gonçalo is right. The ghastly truth is that those who make the laws also make the biggest profits. My landlord in Vila Clara, the swine, is planning to increase my rent at Michaelmas, on a tiny house that no one wants because the executioner was murdered there, and he still puts in an occasional appearance. Meanwhile, Cavaleiro lives for free in the beautiful Palace of São Domingos, with a coach house, a garden, a vegetable patch . . .’
Afraid that Titó’s loud proclamation of the privileges enjoyed by Cavaleiro might reignite Gonçalo’s wrath, Barrolo held up one hand, trying to hush the giant’s booming voice. The Nobleman, however, appeared not to have heard, for he was still listening to João Gouveia, who, sitting slumped on the sofa after all that sangría, was once again describing his astonishment at meeting Gago’s boy by the fountain in Vila Clara and being told about the grand party about to be held at the Tower.
‘And when it struck nine o’clock, and Titó had still not turned up for supper at Dona Casimira’s, I even began to think that perhaps you really were giving a party. Maybe he had received the same message and raced off to the Tower! It was only when he appeared at Dona Casimira’s, in a short hooded jacket, that I understood it was Senhor Dom Gonçalo’s little joke.’
The Nobleman was assailed by a strange, unexpected suspicion:
‘Titó was wearing a hooded jacket?’
But from his post at the window, Barrolo suddenly gave a terrified cry:
‘Oh, Heaven help us! The Lousada sisters are coming!’ João Gouveia leapt off the sofa hurriedly buttoning up his frockcoat, as if he were in mortal danger; in his panic, Gonçalo collided with Titó and Barrolo, who, afraid they might be seen, had hastily drawn back from the window; even prudent Father Soeiro abandoned his corner, where he had been leafing through the Gazeta do Porto. And like soldiers at an arrow slit in a castle, they all stood peering through a gap in the curtains at the square below, golden in the four o’clock sun. The two Lousada sisters — very brisk and scrawny, both wearing short, beaded, black silk capes and both carrying faded, checkered parasols — were advancing along the far side of Rua das Pegas, casting two sharp shadows on the flagstones.
The two Lousada sisters! Thin and dark and as garrulous as cicadas, they had, for many a long year in Oliveira, been the scrutineers of everyone’s life, the spreaders of all malicious gossip, the weavers of all intrigues. And in the whole unfortunate town there was not a stain, defect, cracked teapot, broken heart, empty pocket, half-open window, dusty crevice, figure lurking on a corner, brand-new hat worn to mass, or cake ordered from the Matildes cake shop, that their four piercing, jet-black eyes had not detected, and on which their loose tongues, in their near toothless mouths, had not commented with sibilant malice! They were the source of all the anonymous letters infesting the town; the very devout considered any visit from them to be a penance, a visit during which they would whitter on for hours, gesticulating with their scraggy arms; and wherever they went, they left behind them the beating pulse of distrust and fear. But who would ever dare turn the Lousada sisters away? They were the daughters of the aged and venerable General Lousada; they were related to the bishop; they were powerful figures in the powerful confraternity of Our Lord of the Stations of the Cross. And their chastity was so iron-clad, so ancient and so withered, and so loudly bruited abroad by them, that Marcolino of O Independente had nicknamed them ‘The Two Thousand Virgins’.
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Titó, sounding immensely relieved. ‘They’re not coming here.’
Out in the square, next to the railings that boxed in the old sundial, the two sisters were standing, sniffing the air with their dark snouts and scrutinising the little church of São Mateus, where the bells were ringing out for a baptism.
‘Oh, no, devil take it, they are coming here!’
Yes, the two sisters were bearing down on the door of the Casa dos Cunhais! Panic ensued. Barrolo’s fat, fleeing legs bumped into cabinets and pot-bellied Indian jars and almost knocked them over. Gonçalo shouted to the others that they should all go and hide in the orchard. Gouveia frantically searched for his bowler hat. Only Titó, who loathed the sisters and whom they called Polyphemus, withdrew calmly, offering Father Soeiro his strong arm. And the whole terrified band were just about to rush out of the drawing-room door when Gracinha appeared, wearing a cool, strawberry-coloured silk dress and smiling in astonishment at the throng of men hurrying towards her.
‘Whatever’s happened?’
A muffled cry greeted the poor, unsuspecting lady:
‘It’s the Lousada sisters!’
‘Oh no!’
Titó and João Gouveia fleetingly shook the hand she held sadly, limply out to them. The door bell clanged loudly. And the unruly crowd, with plump Father Soeiro bringing up the rear, slipped into the library, where Barrolo bolted the door behind them, but first, in a moment of inspiration, called out to Gracinha:
‘Hide the sangria!’
Poor Gracinha! Perplexed and with no time to summon the footman, she struggled out into the corridor with the heavy tray and deposited it on a bench, knowing that if the Lousada sisters were to see the tray, they would construct a whole horrific tale of ‘heavy drinking and drunkenness’, which would loom larger over the town than the tower of São Mateus church. She gave a brief, breathless glance at herself in the mirror, smoothed her hair, and then standing very erect, like a gladiator in the arena, she waited for the two terrible sisters to advance.
The following Sunday, after lunch, Gonçalo accompanied his sister to the house of their aunt Arminda Vilegas, who after ordering her usual footbath on the previous evening, as she did every Saturday, had, alas, scalded herself and taken to her bed in fright, summoning to her bedside a council of Oliveira’s five surgeons. And in the afternoon, Gonçalo stood smoking a cigar beneath the acacia trees on the Terreiro da Louça, thinking about the Novella he had left behind him at the Tower and about the famous episode in the second chapter that both tempted and frightened him — the fateful encounter between Lourenço Ramires and Lopo de Baião, known as the Bastard, in the valley of Canta-Pedra. Later, as he was walking back to his sister’s house down Rua das Velas (because he had promised Barrolo to go for a ride as far as the pine forest at Estevinha, to take advantage of that gentle, misty Sunday), he spotted the notary Guedes, who was just coming out of Matildes cake shop carrying a large box. Gonçalo lightly crossed the road, and the portly, paunchy Guedes, poised on the edge of the pavement on the tips of his tiny polished boots, bowed very low and took off his hat, revealing his bald head with the famous tuft of greying hair in the middle, like the prow of a ship, which had earned him the nickname ‘Guedes Ahoy’.
‘Please, my dear Guedes, put your hat back on. How are you? Still young and healthy, I see. Excellent. Have you spoken to Father Soeiro? As it turns out, Pereira will only be coming to town on Wednesday.’
Yes, Father Soeiro had dropped in at the office and he really wanted to congratulate the Nobleman on his new tenant.
‘Pereira is such a capable man! I’ve known him for twenty years, and what he’s done with the Count de Monte-Agra’s land is quite amazing. I remember that land when it was a wilderness, and now it’s in tip-top condition! You only have to look at the vineyard he planted. Yes, a very competent man. And how long are you staying in Oliveira, sir?’
‘Only a few days. The heat here is just unbearable, but, fortunately, it’s a little cooler today. So what’s new in politics? Are you still a good, loyal, ardent Regenerationist?’
Pressing the box of cakes to his black silk waistcoat, the notary angrily shook one short, fat arm, and his sudden indignation sent a wave of blood from his neck to his hairy ears, from his shaven face to his head, and up under the brim of his white hat with its black band.
‘Who wouldn’t be, Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires? Who wouldn’t be, after this latest scandal?’
Gonçalo’s smiling eyes grew serious. ‘What scandal?’
The notary drew back. Hadn’t he heard about the governor’s — about Senhor André Cavaleiro’s — latest act of despotism?
‘What do you mean, my friend?’
Seeming to swell and expand, Guedes drew himself up again on the tips of his tiny boots and exclaimed:
‘Poor Noronha has been transferred!’
A lady as portly as Guedes, with a thick growth of hair on her upper lip, who was almost bursting out of her rich, rustling Sunday-best silks and dragging by the hand a bawling child, stopped and stared at him, because — with his belly, his box of cakes and his indignation — the worthy man was blocking the entrance to the shop. The Nobleman hurriedly opened the door to the shop for her. Then he asked excitedly:
‘No doubt you’re on your way home. Well, I’m heading that way too. We can talk as we walk. But which Noronha do you mean?’
‘Ricardo Noronha. You must know him. He’s the paymaster at the Public Works Office!’
‘Ah, yes. So he’s been transferred, you say, quite arbitrarily?’
They continued on down Rua das Brocas, and in the silence and solitude of the closed shops, Guedes gave full vent to his anger:
‘He’s been treated abominably, sir, absolutely abominably! He’s been moved to Almodóvar, to the outer reaches of the Alentejo! To a place with no resources, no amusements, and no families!’
He stopped, the box of cakes still pressed to his heart and his little glittering, bulging eyes fixed on the Nobleman. Noronha! An honest, hardworking employee! And with no interest in politics at all. He supported neither the Historicals nor the Regenerationists. He cared only for his family, his three sisters, those three flowers, for whom he was the sole support. He was highly respected in the town and so gifted too. Yes, he was a talented musician. Did Senhor Gonçalo not know? Well, he had composed some lovely pieces for the piano! And he was such an asset at gatherings and at birthday parties. He was also the moving force behind any amateur dramatic productions in Oliveira . . .
‘Because, as a director, no one can compare, sir, not even in Lisbon. No one! And then he’s despatched to Almodóvar, to that Inferno, along with his sisters and their few belongings! To transport the piano would cost a fortune!’
Gonçalo glowed with pleasure.
‘An utter scandal! But I’m so glad you told me, Guedes. And does anyone know the reason for his transfer?’
They resumed their slow walk along the narrow pavement, and the notary shrugged bitterly. As always with these despotic moves, the reason given was that it was in the public interest.
‘But all of Noronha’s friends know the real reason, the true, vile, secret reason!’
‘Which is?’
Guedes glanced prudently about him. An old lady came limping past, carrying a pitcher of water, and then the notary whispered darkly into the Nobleman’s expectant ear. ‘It’s because that scoundrel Senhor André Cavaleiro had taken a fancy to the oldest of the Noronha sisters, Dona Adelina — a beautiful young thing, tall and dark and statuesque! And when he’s rejected (because the sensible girl, a real pearl among women, realised that his intentions were far from honourable), who does he take his revenge on, out of sheer spite? The paymaster! Off he’s sent to Almodóvar with the girls and their few belongings! Yes, it’s the paymaster who has to pay!’
‘Shameless!’ muttered Gonçalo, smiling and delighted. ‘What’s more,’ exclaimed Guedes, holding one fat, trembling hand above his hat. ‘Only weeks ago, poor Noronha, in his innocence — for he’s a good man, who always tries to please his superiors — had composed a lovely waltz which he dedicated to Cavaleiro! He called it The Butterfly, a real little gem!’
Gonçalo could not contain his glee, rubbing his hands together in triumph.
‘Yes, utterly, divinely shameless! And hasn’t anyone spoken out? Has the opposition newspaper, O Clarim de Oliveira, made no mention of it, however glancing?’
Guedes hung his head. Senhor Gonçalo Ramires knew what the people who worked there were like. They were all style — ornate, opulent style — but when it came to making public a really serious case like that of Noronha, they lacked the necessary nerve, the courage. And meanwhile, Biscainho, the editor, had slyly changed his allegiance to the Historicals. Did Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires not know? Yes, that abject creature, Biscainho, had changed sides. Cavaleiro had probably offered him a post somewhere. Besides, how could they prove that anything untoward had taken place? These were private matters, family matters. They could hardly publish a statement from Dona Adelina, a young woman of the highest virtue — and with such eyes too! Ah, if this had happened in the days of Manuel Justino and his newspaper A Aurora de Oliveira, he would have printed it on the front page in large letters:
‘Civil Governor Attempts to Dishonour the Noronha Family!’
‘Now, Justino was a real man, but the poor man’s lying in the cemetery of São Miguel! And despotism, sir, is rampant!’
He was panting, his chest heaving, exhausted by this fiery outburst. In silence, they continued on down to the corner of the newly paved Rua da Princesa Dona Amélia. Guedes stopped at the second door and took out his key, and, still breathing hard, asked if Gonçalo would like to come in and rest.
‘No, no, thank you, my friend, I won’t, but I’m so very glad we met. This story about Noronha is really shocking, but then nothing I hear about the governor surprises me any more. The only thing that does surprise me is that he hasn’t been run out of town, as he deserves to be, with the crowds whipping and booing him! But, be assured, not all the good people are lying in the cemetery. I’ll see you tomorrow, Guedes. And thank you!’
Gonçalo ran all the way from Rua da Princesa Dona Amélia to Largo d’El-Rei, as excited as someone who’s just discovered a treasure and is carrying it under his cape! And he was carrying that scandal with him, the ripe scandal he had so longed for! That he had been trying to sniff out in order to remove the governor from the loyal town of Oliveira that had greeted him with such pomp! And, by God’s mercy, that ‘ripe scandal’ would also demolish the man in Gracinha’s heart, where, despite his earlier crimes, he still lingered like a worm in an apple, burrowing away and spoiling the fruit. And Gonçalo had no doubts about the efficacy of that scandal! The whole town would rise up against that womaniser for sending into cruel exile an admirable civil servant, simply because the poor gentleman’s sister had refused to accept his slobbering kisses. And Gracinha? How could she not be shocked and repelled by the thought of ‘her’ André burning with passion for one of the Noronha sisters, who had spurned his advances? Oh, it really was a superb scandal! All that was needed was for it to break, very loudly, over the rooftops of Oliveira and over Gracinha’s heart, like a beneficent thunderstorm cleansing the corrupt air. And he would gladly be the one to unleash that storm over the whole of the north of the country. And thus, with a few deft penstrokes, he would be working pro patria et pro domo.
Once back at the house, he ran to Barrolo’s room — where Barrolo was humming the Ramires fado and getting ready for his ride — and shouted resolutely through the door:
‘I can’t go with you to Estevinha. I have something very urgent to write. And don’t come up to see me either. I need to be alone!’
He didn’t even respond to his brother-in-law’s desolate protests when Barrolo rushed out into the corridor in his long underpants. Gonçalo bounded up the stairs and, once in his room, having quickly removed his jacket and sprayed his forehead with a little refreshing eau de Cologne, he sat down at his desk, where Gracinha always placed some flowers and the huge inkstand that had belonged to their Uncle Melchior, just in case Gonçalo wanted to work. He did not hesitate or make a first draft, for the prose flowed passionately from his pen as he improvised a rancorous letter to the Gazeta do Porto, denouncing the governor. Even the title blazed forth: A Monstrous Assault! Without actually naming the Noronha family, he described in detail, as if he himself had witnessed it, ‘the base, despicable assault by the highest authority in the region on the chastity, peace of mind and honour of a sweet young girl of sixteen!’ Then he described the scornful rebuff given by the noble creature to that administrative Don Juan, whose fine moustaches were the wonder of the town! Finally, he came to ‘the vile, unspeakable revenge that His Excellency has taken on his hardworking employee (who also happens to be a talented artist), arranging for this disastrous Government to have him transferred or, rather, uprooted and cruelly exiled, along with his three delicate sisters, to the farthest reaches of the Kingdom, to the bleakest and most arid of our provinces, simply because he could not legitimately pack him off to Africa in the filthy hold of a frigate!’ He threw in a few gruff comments about Portugal being in its, ‘political death throes’. With horror and sadness, he recalled the worst days of Absolutism, with innocence interred in dungeons and the Prince’s wild excesses as the only letter of the Law! And he concluded by asking the Government if it would cover up for this agent of theirs, ‘this grotesque Nero, who, as that other more famous Nero once did in Rome, tried to carry out his seductions in the very heart of the best families and, motivated by lust alone, stooped to the kind of abuse of power that has always, in all centuries and in every civilisation, been condemned by the just!’ Then he signed the letter Juvenal.
It was almost six o’clock in the evening when he came down to the drawing room, feeling light and resplendent. Gracinha was banging away at the piano as she tried to master the Ramires fado. And Barrolo (who had not wanted to risk going for a ride on his own) was lying on the sofa, leafing through a famous History of the Crimes of the Inquisition, which he had first begun reading when he was still a bachelor.
‘I’ve been working since two o’clock!’ cried Gonçalo, flinging wide the window. ‘I’m exhausted. I have, however, righted a wrong. This time, the Horseman will definitely fall off his Horse.’
Barrolo immediately shut his book and turning and leaning on one elbow, asked anxiously:
‘What happened?’
And standing immediately in front of him, Gonçalo snickered and jingled the money and keys in his pocket.
‘Oh, not very much. A mere trifle. Or, rather, a truly shameful act, but then to our governor shameful acts are mere trifles.’
Beneath Gracinha’s fingers, the fado dwindled to an uncertain murmur.
Barrolo was waiting, open-mouthed:
‘Come on, tell us!’
Gonçalo gleefully revealed all.
‘An absolute scandal! Noronha, poor Noronha, persecuted, humiliated, exiled! Along with his family too. Consigned to the Inferno, almost to the Algarve!’
‘Noronha the paymaster?’
‘Yes, Noronha the paymaster, a poor unfortunate paymaster who has himself been made to pay!’
And with great relish, he unfolded the whole wretched tale to them. Senhor André Cavaleiro was hopelessly in love, aflame with passion for the oldest Noronha sister. He bombarded the young woman with flowers, letters and poems and with his nag’s hooves clattering over the cobbles outside her window every morning! It seems he even sent her an old procuress, a bawd, but the girl, who is an angel of propriety, remained utterly unmoved. She didn’t even get angry, she just laughed. Over tea, the Noronha household would giggle at the doggerel he had written, in which he called her ‘nymph’ and ‘evening star’. All very sordid and grotesque!’
The poor fado broke down on the keyboard into a tumult of harsh, discordant groans.
‘And to think I’ve never heard a word about it,’ murmured Barrolo in astonishment. ‘Not at the club or at the Café da Arcada . . .’
‘Well, my friend, the person who heard it loud and clear was poor Noronha, banished to the dark depths of the Alentejo, to that insalubrious place, full of swamps. It’s a real death sentence!’
At this mention of Death rising up from the swamps, Barrolo slapped his knee and asked suspiciously:
‘But who the devil told you all this?’
The Nobleman of the Tower gave his brother-in-law a scornful, pitying look.
‘Who told me? Who told me that King Sebastião died at the Battle of Alcácer Quibir? It’s a fact. It’s history. The whole of Oliveira knows about it. I was just talking about it to Guedes this morning, but I’d already heard, of course. I almost felt sorry for poor André. I mean, it’s not a crime to be madly in love. Yes, madly, hopelessly in love! He even broke down at the office apparently, in front of the general secretary! And the girl in question just laughed. No, the crime, and a horrible one at that, is the persecution of her brother, the paymaster, an excellent worker and very talented too. And the duty of any decent man who values the dignity of public office and of society is to denounce such crimes. I, for my part, have done my duty. And rather brilliantly too!’
‘What have you done?’
‘I have plunged my good Toledo pen into the governor’s side right up to the very hilt of the nib-holder!’
Impressed, Barrolo was again pinching the skin on his neck. The piano had fallen completely silent, but Gracinha didn’t move from her stool, her fingers lying stiffly on the keys, as if she were oblivious to the large sheet before her on which were set out, in Videirinha’s careful hand, the triumphal verses in praise of the bold Ramires men. Gonçalo suddenly sensed in her dumb immobility the pain and disappointment that must be piercing her. Touched by this and wanting to free her from that pain, to perhaps prevent a sob from breaking forth, he ran over to the piano and affectionately patted her poor bent, trembling shoulders:
‘You still haven’t quite got the hang of that lovely fado, have you, dear? Let me sing you a verse in Videirinha’s style. But, first, be an angel, will you, and call out in the corridor for someone to bring me a nice cool glass of water.’
Fumbling at the piano, he sang in a rather off-key voice:
Forth onto the battlefield
Rode the four brave Ramires men . . .
Gracinha had disappeared soundlessly down the corridor. Then Barrolo, who’d been thoughtfully rolling a cigarette, darted to Gonçalo’s side and, leaning close, shared the revelation that had been slowly filling his mind:
‘I’m telling you, Gonçalo, Noronha’s sister is a real stunner, but I can’t believe she would repel any man’s advances — and certainly not those of a handsome lad like Cavaleiro. I bet you he’s had her!’
And with his pink cheeks aglow with admiration, he added:
‘The rascal. When it comes to horses and women, there’s not a man in Oliveira can touch him.’