Cavaleiro’s house in Corinde dated from the late eighteenth century; plain and inelegant, its vast, smooth, yellow façade was punctuated by fourteen windows, and the house itself was almost surrounded by flat, cultivated fields. There was, however, a noble avenue of neatly aligned chestnut trees leading to the front courtyard, which was adorned with two marble fountains. The gardens were still filled with the splendid abundance of roses that had made them so famous, and which, in the days of André’s grandfather, Judge Martinho, had merited a visit from the Queen herself, Maria II. The rooms inside were kept scrupulously clean and tidy, thanks to the care lavished on them by the old housekeeper, a poor relation of Cavaleiro’s, Senhora Dona Jesuína Rolim.
Gonçalo had ridden there from the Tower, and as he walked through the anteroom, he immediately spotted the painting — depicting a smoke-filled battle at sea — which, long ago, he’d accidentally pierced while playing at sword-fighting one afternoon with André. Beneath this painting, a melancholy clerk from the governor’s office sat waiting on a wicker sofa, his red briefcase resting on his knees. From a distant door at the far end of the corridor, André — having been informed by a servant of Gonçalo’s arrival — called out gaily:
‘Come in, Gonçalo. I’m in the bedroom. I’ve just this minute finished my bath and I’m not yet dressed.’
Still in his underwear, he folded Gonçalo in a generous, congratulatory embrace. Then, while he was dressing, among chairs piled high with the contents of his luggage — ties, silk socks, bottles of cologne — he talked about the heat, the tedious journey, and how deserted Lisbon had been.
‘Absolutely ghastly!’ exclaimed Cavaleiro, heating up a curling iron over a spirit lamp. ‘Almost every street in the Baixa is being dug up and is consequently nothing but rubble and dust. Plus, the Hotel Central was infested with mosquitos and the city is full of blacks! Lisbon is becoming more like Tunis every day! Nevertheless, we managed to fight the good fight!’
Perched on a divan, between a pile of coloured shirts and another of long underwear, all bearing a flamboyant monogram, Gonçalo was smiling:
‘So, my friend, it’s all arranged, is it?’
Seated at his dressing table, Cavaleiro was engaged in the meticulous task of curling the ends of his moustaches. And only once he had applied a large amount of brilliantine to them, tamed his rebelliously wavy hair, and studied himself in the mirror from every possible angle, did he assure an increasingly anxious Gonçalo that the Election was definitely his.
‘But you know, when I arrived in Lisbon at the Ministry of the Interior, I found that the position had already been promised to Pita, Teotónio Pita, the excellent fellow who writes for A Verdade.’
Gonçalo jumped to his feet, causing the pile of shirts to topple over.
‘And what happened then?’
Cavaleiro had left José Ernesto in no doubt as to his annoyance at having the constituency handed out as if it were a cigar, without consulting him, the governor in charge of said constituency. And when José Ernesto, in turn, got on his high horse, declaring that the Government came first, Cavaleiro had wagged a stern finger at him and said, ‘Well, Zezinho, my dear friend, either I have Ramires as the next deputy for Vila Clara or I resign — and that is that!’ There was much alarm and shouting and general uproar, but José Ernesto finally had to give in and they ended up having supper together in Algés with his uncle Reis Gomes, where, later that night, over a game of bluff, the ladies won fourteen mil réis off him.
‘In short, Gonçalinho, we need to keep our eyes open. José Ernesto is a loyal fellow, an old friend, and he knows me well, but there will inevitably be certain compromises and pressures. And now for the really funny part. Do you know who the Regenerationists are putting forward as your opponent? Guess . . . Julinho!’
‘Julinho? You mean Júlio the amateur photographer?’
‘The very same.’
‘Good heavens!’
Cavaleiro gave a pitying shrug:
‘He’ll get about ten votes from his nearest neighbours and take photos of all the local tavern-keepers in their shirtsleeves, but he’ll still be Julinho. No, it’s not him I’m worried about, it’s the political rabble in Lisbon.’
Gonçalo was disconsolately twirling his moustache:
‘I imagined it was all somehow more solid, more settled than that, but with all these possible plots, maybe it still won’t work out and I might not be elected!’
Still standing before the mirror, Cavaleiro was now smoothing his morning coat, which, after first carefully buttoning it up, he then unbuttoned to reveal his olive-green waistcoat and a puff of pale silk cravat, complete with sapphire pin. Then, drenching his handkerchief with perfume, he said:
‘What matters is that you and I are allies again, fully reconciled. So don’t worry, my dear Gonçalo — let’s go and enjoy a good lunch! Don’t you think this morning coat, courtesy of our friend Amieiro, fits rather well?
‘Oh, yes, it’s magnificent!’ said Gonçalo.
‘Good, let’s go down into the garden and you can revisit our old haunts and pick a Corinde rose for your buttonhole.’
And out in the corridor flanked by Indian vases and lacquered trunks, he linked arms with Gonçalo, his lost friend now recovered, and said:
‘Well, here we are again, treading the noble floorboards of Corinde, as we did years ago. And nothing has changed, not so much as a curtain or a servant! One of these days, I must visit the Tower.’
Gonçalo burst out ingenuously:
‘Oh, the Tower has changed enormously!’
And a sudden embarrassed silence descended, as if between them there had arisen the sad image of the old garden, in the days of love and hope, when André and Gracinha — accompanied by the beaming, tutelary presence of Miss Rhodes — went looking near the damp walls of the pond for the last violets of April. In silence they descended the spiral staircase, where, as children, they’d slid down the banister, and in a vaulted room below, lined with wooden benches, all bearing the Cavaleiro coat of arms, André stood before the French doors opening onto the garden and made a glum, despairing gesture:
‘I don’t spend much time in Corinde — not, you understand, because my work as governor keeps me in Oliveira, but because this old house has grown colder and somehow bigger since my mother died. I wander around in it as if I were lost. And when I do stay here, my walks in the garden or along the Rua Grande are very sad affairs. You remember the Rua Grande, don’t you? Ah, Gonçalo, I’m heading for a very lonely old age!’
His sympathy restored, Gonçalo reassured him, saying:
‘Oh, I get very bored at the Tower too.’
‘But you have a very different nature from mine. I’m a natural melancholic.’
With some difficulty, he slid back the stiff bolt on the door of the French windows. Then, wiping his fingers on his perfumed handkerchief, he said:
‘I think I would only enjoy Corinde now if it were surrounded by great bare hills and huge rugged rocks. Sometimes I feel that what I long for is the hermitage of St Bruno.’
Gonçalo smiled at these rather precious ascetic longings, uttered by lips adorned by carefully curled moustaches, glossy with brilliantine. And out on the terrace, leaning on the ivy-clad balustrade, after praising the lush, immaculate garden, he said mockingly:
‘Well, yes, to a disciple of St Bruno, all this perfection must be truly offensive! But for a sinner like myself, it’s an utter delight! The garden at the Tower is an absolute jungle.’
‘Yes, Cousin Jesuína loves flowers. Haven’t you met her? She’s a relative of my mother’s, and she’s in charge of the house now, poor old thing, but she takes such care of the place . . . If it weren’t for her, the pigs would be rooting around in the flowerbeds. Without women, my friend, there is no order!’
They went down the curved steps and past the blue ceramic pots overflowing with geraniums, asters and lilies. Gonçalo recalled one St John’s Eve when, clutching a bundle of fireworks, he had taken a terrible tumble down those same steps. And slowly, as they strolled about the garden, they both summoned up memories of their former friendship. The trapeze was still there from the days when they’d both cultivated the heroic religion of fitness, gymnastics and cold baths. On that bench, beneath the magnolia tree, André had read him the opening stanza of his poem, The Arzila Border. And what about the target where they’d practised with pistols in preparation for the future duels they’d believed would be inevitable in the campaign they both intended to wage against the Old Constitutional Syndicate? Alas, after André’s mother died, the whole of that wall adjoining the laundry room had been demolished so as to extend the hothouse.
‘Besides, all that target practice proved useless,’ added Cavaleiro. ‘Soon afterwards, I myself joined the Syndicate. And now you’re joining it too, through the door I opened for you!’
Plucking a leaf of lemon verbena and crushing it between his fingers to savour the scent, Gonçalo, with a frankness made more piercing and heartfelt by these disinterred memories, suddenly blurted out:
‘And as you well know, I passionately want to go in through that door, but are you sure I’ll be elected? Won’t some obstacle get in our way? Pita is a very clever fellow.’
Cavaleiro hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and murmured:
‘The cleverness of the Pitas is no match for the strength of the Cavaleiros.’
They went down three brick steps to the other unshaded garden, where the celebrated rose trees — the pride of Corinde and once the delight of a Queen — had been gloriously blooming since May. Cavaleiro’s easy disdain for Pita made it clear that the position was guaranteed, and a dazzled Gonçalo, treading as respectfully as if he were visiting a museum, showered the rose garden with compliments.
‘It’s so beautiful, André, really wonderful. The roses are absolutely sublime. And those cabbage roses are quite extraordinary, and these yellow ones too. Perfect. And look at this little charmer, blushing from the roots of its white petals. And that scarlet one over there! Divine!’
Folding his arms, Cavaleiro said in a mocking, melancholy voice:
‘Yes, but such is my social and sentimental solitude that, despite having all these roses blooming around me, I have no one to whom I can send a bouquet! I’m reduced to giving them to the Lousada sisters!’
The Nobleman flushed even more scarlet than the roses he’d been praising:
‘Not the Lousada sisters! Those shameless creatures!’
Glancing at his friend, André’s lustrous eyes were suddenly filled with an uneasy curiosity:
‘Why shameless?’
‘Why? Because they are! It’s their nature, the will of God! They’re as shameless as these roses are red.’
Reassured, Cavaleiro went on:
‘Oh, you’re speaking in general terms. They’re certainly full of malice. That’s why I heap them with roses. And when I’m in Oliveira, I make sure to take a very respectful cup of tea with them once a week!’
‘Well,’ muttered the Nobleman, ‘you’ll never tame them.’
Then Mateus appeared on the steps, a napkin over his arm, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight. It was time for lunch. Cavaleiro picked a ‘triumphant rose’ for Gonçalo and ‘an innocent rosebud’ for himself. And thus adorned, they were proceeding on up to the terrace, surrounded by the glow and perfume of the roses, when Cavaleiro suddenly had an idea:
‘What time are you heading off to Oliveira, Gonçalinho?’
The Nobleman hesitated. To Oliveira? He had no plans to go there that week.
‘Why? Do I need to go to Oliveira so very urgently?’
‘Of course, my boy! We have to talk to Barrolo tomorrow and reach some agreement, because we need the votes from his Murtosa estate! We can’t afford to rest on our laurels, you know. Not because of Júlio, but because of Pita!’
‘I see,’ said Gonçalo, startled. ‘I’ll set off to Oliveira today, then.’
‘In that case, we can go together, on horseback. It’s rather a pleasant ride through Freixos, and there’s always plenty of shade. You might perhaps send orders to the Tower, though, to have them bring you some fresh clothes.’
No, there was no need. Gonçalo always kept plenty of clothes at his sister’s house, everything from slippers to a tailcoat. And he’d ride into Oliveira just as the philosopher Bias rode into Athens, armed only with a walking stick and infinite patience.
‘Excellent!’ cried André. ‘We will make our official entrance into Oliveira this very evening. Let the campaign begin!’
The Nobleman twiddled his moustache rather anxiously, thinking of the mischievous titters such a flagrantly fraternal entrance would evoke from the Lousada sisters and from the whole town. And when Cavaleiro told Mateus to have his horse, Rossilho, and the Nobleman’s horse ready for half past four, Gonçalo rather exaggerated his worries about the heat and the dust. Wouldn’t it be better to leave in the cool of the evening, at, say, seven? (That way, he hoped to arrive in Oliveira unnoticed, under cover of dusk.) André, however, protested:
‘No, because then we’d arrive in the dark. We need to make a solemn entrance, when the band is playing in the square. What if we leave at five o’clock?’
Gonçalo bowed to this implacable fate.
‘Fine, at five o’clock, then.’
In the carpeted dining room, with its age-blackened paintings of flowers and fruits concealing the imitation damask wallpaper, André occupied his grandfather Martinho’s venerable armchair. The glittering china, the fresh roses arranged in a Royal Saxe vase were all evidence of Cousin Jesuína’s meticulous touch; she, however, having woken that morning with a stomach ache, had not even got dressed and was taking lunch in her room. Gonçalo praised the elegance and orderliness, so rare in the house of a bachelor, and regretted that he had no Cousin Jesuína at the Tower. André smiled modestly, unfolding his napkin and hoping that Gonçalo would tell the Barrolos about the comfort and luxury of Corinde. Then, spearing an olive with his fork, he began:
‘Yes, as I was saying, my dear Gonçalo, after spending a day or so in the capital, I went on to Sintra . . .’
Mateus opened the door a crack to remind His Excellency that the clerk was still waiting.
‘Well, let him wait!’ roared His Excellency.
Gonçalo reminded him that the worthy man might be getting impatient, might be hungry . . .
‘Let him eat, then!’ cried His Excellency.
Gonçalo was taken aback by André’s brusque scorn for the poor clerk, sitting forgotten on the bench in the hall, his briefcase on his lap. However, he merely speared an olive himself and said:
‘What were you saying about going to Sintra?’
‘Dreadfully dull,’ said André. ‘The dust was terrible and the women mediocre. Oh, but I was forgetting, who do you think I met there, on the road to Colares? Castanheiro, our friend Castanheiro of the Annals, and wearing a top hat too. He immediately flung up his arms and cried desolately, “Will Gonçalo Mendes Ramires never send me his Novella?” It seems that the first issue of the journal is due out in December, and he needs to have your story by the beginning of October. He begged me to urge you on, to remind you of the Ramires’ glorious past. You really should try and finish the book. It would actually be rather useful if you were to publish a serious, erudite, very Portuguese piece of work just before your entry into Parliament.’
‘It certainly would!’ said Gonçalo brightly. ‘And I only have the last chapter to write, but it’s a chapter that requires more preparation, more research. To finish the Novella I need peace of mind and the certainty that I am going to win this wretched Election. It isn’t that fool Júlio who worries me, it’s the conspiratorial rabble in Lisbon. What do you think?’
Cavaleiro laughed and again reached out his fork for the olives:
‘What do I think, Gonçalinho? I think you’re like a small, anxious child, who’s afraid there won’t be enough rice pudding left when the dish reaches him. But don’t you worry, little one, you’ll get your fair share of pudding. I must say, though, José Ernesto was very stubborn. Apparently, he owes Pita several favours. Pita’s newspaper, A Verdade, has been fiercely pro-Government. And ever since Pita found out that I’ve snatched Vila Clara from him, he’s been incandescent with rage, not that I care. I won’t lose any sleep over Pita’s little tantrums or jibes, but José Ernesto admires Pita, he needs Pita, and he’s committed to repaying Pita with a seat as a deputy. On my last day in Lisbon, he said to me — and I had to laugh, “It seems that the deputies for Vila Clara are in the habit of dying; so if, according to that excellent custom, your Ramires should suddenly die, then Pita will replace him.” ’
Gonçalo fell back in his chair.
‘Me? Die suddenly? The brute!’
‘He meant die as far as the constituency is concerned,’ said Cavaleiro, laughing. ‘For example, if you and I should quarrel, or if, tomorrow, we should have some disagreement — but that’s just not possible!’
Mateus brought in a steaming tureen of chicken soup.
‘Dig in!’ exclaimed André. ‘And let’s have no more talk of constituencies or Pitas or Júlios or damned politics! Tell me about the plot of your Novella. It’s historical, isn’t it? Set in the Middle Ages? In the time of João V? If I were ever to attempt to write a novel, I would choose that really delicious period of history: Portugal under the Habsburgs.’
The clock on the Church of São Cristóvão in Oliveira, which was always fast, was striking a quarter to seven when André Cavaleiro and Gonçalo rode down Rua Velha into the main square, Terreiro da Louça (now renamed Praça Counsellor Costa Barroso).
Every Sunday, on the bandstand that the aforementioned Counsellor Costa Barroso had had built when he was mayor, on the spot previously occupied by the stocks, the regimental band or the local musical society transformed the square into the sociable heart of that otherwise quiet, stay-at-home town. However, on that particular afternoon, the bazaar sponsored by the Bishop had just opened in the Convent of Santa Brígida, and, consequently, there was only a scattering of women sitting on the stone benches or on the chairs underneath the acacia trees outside the almshouses. The Lousada sisters were absent from their usual reserved seats, chosen for their panoramic view of the whole square — the houses on either side of the church and the convent, Rua Velha and Rua das Velas, the stall selling lemonade, and even another small retreat, modestly screened by ivy. The only familiar faces were those of Dona Maria Mendonça, the Baroness das Marges, and the two Alboim sisters, who were chatting together, their backs to the square, next to the wrought-iron railings on what had once been the city wall, from which one could see the fields, the new seminary, the pine forest and the River Crede’s glittering, meandering curves.
However, among the gentlemen strolling idly up and down the path known locally as The Ride and enjoying the coronation march from Meyerbeer’s The Prophet, there was renewed astonishment (even though they were all aware of the famous reconciliation that had taken place in the governor’s office) when the two friends, both wearing straw hats and long gaiters, rode in on their horses — Gonçalo’s was a graceful bay, its tail cropped short English-fashion, while André’s was darker and heavier, with a proudly arched neck and a thick tail so long that it brushed the flagstones. Melo Alboim, the Baron das Marges and the local delegate stopped in their tracks, open-mouthed, and were joined by one of the Vila-Velha brothers, then by the landowner Pestana, and finally by plump Major Ribas, who, uniform unbuttoned, rocked from side to side, joking about that ‘new’ friendship. The notary Guedes knocked over his chair as he sprang to his feet, indignant but respectful, baring his bald head in the lowest of bows and clutching his hat in one trembling hand. And emerging from behind the ivy-clad screen, still doing up his trousers, old Cerqueira, the lawyer, stood aghast, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, his fingers still poised over his trouser buttons.
Meanwhile, the two friends continued gravely past the line of houses, which were dominated by Dona Arminda Vilegas’ mansion, with the elaborate Vilegas coat of arms carved on the architrave, and its ten fine wrought-iron balconies opulently adorned with yellow damask curtains. On the corner balcony, Barrolo and José Mendonça were sitting on wickerwork stools, smoking. On hearing the slow clip-clop of hooves and unexpectedly seeing his brother-in-law, Barrolo almost fell off the balcony.
‘Gonçalo! Are you going to our house?’
And not even waiting for a response, he again shouted, waving his arms about:
‘We’ll be right there. We dined here this evening — Gracinha’s upstairs with her Aunt Arminda. We’ll be there in two ticks!’
Cavaleiro waved and smiled at Captain Mendonça, for Barrolo, in his excitement, had already plunged through the damask yellow curtains. And, leaving a wake of astonishment behind them as they rode across the square, the two friends continued on down Rua das Velas, where, much to the Nobleman’s gratification, a policeman stood to attention and saluted.
Cavaleiro accompanied Gonçalo to Largo d’El-Rei. Opposite the house, a man wearing a red beret was grinding out the wedding chorus from Lucia di Lammermoor on a barrel organ and gazing up at the deserted windows. Joaquim the porter, ran out from the courtyard to take the reins of the Nobleman’s horse. Without a word, the organ-grinder smilingly held out his beret. And after throwing him a handful of change, Gonçalo hesitated before murmuring, embarrassed and blushing:
‘Would you like to come in and rest for a moment, André?’
‘No, thank you, but I’ll see you tomorrow in my office at two o’clock, along with Barrolo, to sort out those votes. Goodbye, my friend! We’ve had a most enjoyable ride and given everyone something to talk about!’
And giving the house one last lingering look, he rode off down Rua das Tecedeiras.
In his room (which was always there ready for him, with the bed made), Gonçalo was just finishing his ablutions and brushing his hair when Barrolo came rushing down the corridor, eager and breathless, followed by an equally breathless Gracinha, nervously untying the scarlet ribbons on her hat. Ever since the afternoon when Barrolo had, ‘with his own eyes’, witnessed Gonçalo talking to André on the balcony of the governor’s office, he and Gracinha had been burning to know the reasons — the secret story — behind that surprising reconciliation. Gonçalo’s hasty return to the Tower in the carriage, without even stopping at the Casa dos Cunhais; Cavaleiro’s sudden departure for Lisbon; the silence that had fallen, heavier than an iron lid, on the whole matter; all these things had left them anxious and terrified. At night, Gracinha would kneel at her prayer stool and, as she mumbled her way through her usual prayers, would find herself murmuring distractedly to Our Lady, ‘Oh dear, whatever’s going to happen?’ Barrolo hadn’t dared to ride over to the Tower, but the balcony at the governor’s office kept invading his dreams, far larger than life and growing ever larger, until it filled the whole of Oliveira, pressing against the windows of the Casa dos Cunhais, where he managed to keep it at bay with a broom handle. And now here were Gonçalo and André serenely trotting into town, both wearing straw hats, like old friends returning from a ride!
Standing at the door of Gonçalo’s room, Barrolo flung wide his arms and bellowed:
‘What has been going on?! People are talking of little else. You, out riding with André!’
Still panting, her face as red as the ribbons on her hat, Gracinha could say only:
‘And you don’t visit, don’t even bother to write. We were so worried.’
And still holding his towel and without even inviting them in, the Nobleman explained the ‘mystery’:
‘It was all very unexpected, but perfectly natural too in a way. As you know, Sanches Lucena died, leaving the post of Vila Clara’s deputy vacant. And since the candidate for the post really has to be a local man with property and influence, the Government immediately wrote to me, by telegram, to ask if I wanted to stand. And since I basically have nothing against the Historicals and am good friends with José Ernesto and would like to enter Parliament, I said Yes.’
Barrolo slapped his thigh triumphantly.
‘So I was right, damn it!’
The Nobleman went on, still drying his hands:
‘I accepted, although, of course, with certain very important conditions . . . but, yes, I accepted. As you both know, it is important in such a situation for the candidate to get on well with the governor. Initially, I didn’t wish to renew our friendship. However, urged on by the powers-that-be in Lisbon, who were most insistent, and for certain other overriding political reasons, I agreed to make that sacrifice. Given the difficulties in which the country finds itself, we must all make sacrifices, and this was mine. Besides, André was extremely kind and affectionate. And so here we are, friends again. Political friends, but friends too. I had lunch with him today in Corinde and since it was such a lovely afternoon, we rode back here together via Freixos. So harmony has been restored, and the Election is guaranteed.’
‘Come here and let me embrace you!’ roared Barrolo, beside himself with joy.
Gracinha had sat down on the edge of the bed, her hat in her lap, gazing silently, tenderly up at her brother, her eyes simultaneously smiling and tearful. Detaching himself from Barrolo’s embrace, the Nobleman added as he distractedly folded up his towel:
‘The Election is guaranteed, but we still have work to do. You must talk to Cavaleiro too, Barrolo, and I’ve already arranged for us to be at his office at two o’clock tomorrow. You have to be reconciled with him as well, because we need the votes from your Murtosa estate . . .’
‘Of course, my boy! Whatever you want — votes, money . . .’ And absentmindedly spraying his jacket with eau de Cologne, which dripped onto the floor, Gonçalo added:
‘The moment I made my peace with André, you did too, Barrolo.’
Barrolo was so delighted, he almost leapt in the air:
‘Of course! Besides, I’ve always liked Cavaleiro immensely, indeed, I’ve often said to Gracinha, “Why all this fuss about something as trivial as politics?” ’
‘Well,’ said the Nobleman, ‘politics separated us and politics has brought us together again. Such is the fickle nature of Time and Empire.’
And with that, he seized Gracinha by the shoulders and gave her a resounding kiss on each cheek:
‘And how’s Aunt Arminda? Has she recovered from her scalding? And has she gone back to reading the adventures of Leandro the Handsome?’
Gracinha was positively aglow, still smiling the same slow smile, which wrapped her in sweetness and light.
‘Aunt Arminda is much better and able to walk again now. She asked after you, by the way. But Gonçalo, you must be hungry!’
‘No, not at all, I had a huge lunch at Corinde. But since you dined old-fashionedly early with Aunt Arminda, you’ll doubtless have a little supper later. So I’ll join you then. Now all I need is a good strong cup of tea!’
Gracinha raced off, eager to serve her beloved hero. And as he and Barrolo walked to the stairs, with Barrolo gazing adoringly up at him, the Nobleman of the Tower was bemoaning the sacrifices he’d have to make:
‘It’s true, my boy, it’s a real bore. But, damn it, we must all do our bit to drag our country out of the hole it’s in!’
Still dazzled, Barrolo murmured:
‘And yet you said not a word to a soul. Such modesty!’
‘On another matter entirely, Barrolo, tomorrow, when you meet André, you must invite him to supper.’
‘Naturally!’ cried Barrolo. ‘We’ll lay on a feast!’
‘No. We want a nice quiet, intimate little supper, with just us, André and João Gouveia. You can send a telegram to João. Oh, and the Mendonças too. But it’s to be a very discreet affair, just so that we can talk and seal our reconciliation in the most sociable, elegant way possible.’
The next day, at the governor’s office, Barrolo and Cavaleiro shook hands as simply as if they’d spent the previous evening playing billiards and chatting in the club on Rua das Pegas. They then spoke briefly about the Election, and when Cavaleiro idly mentioned the votes from the Murtosa estate, Barrolo almost choked in his impatience to offer them up to him:
‘Anything you want, you just have to ask — votes, money, whatever. I’ll go over to Murtosa, lay on a good spread, open a barrel of wine, and the whole parish will go to vote and there’ll be fireworks to celebrate . . .’
Cavaleiro laughed and tried to restrain such bounty:
‘No, no, my dear Barrolo! We are preparing a very sober, very quiet Election campaign. Vila Clara will elect Gonçalo Mendes Ramires deputy simply for being the best man for the job. There’s no competition really, Julinho is a mere shadow. Therefore . . .’
But a radiant, jigging Barrolo could not be put off:
‘No, André, I’m sorry, but there must be wine, revelry, fireworks and general merrymaking!’
Anxious to restrain Barrolo’s chatter and the affectionate way he kept slapping Cavaleiro on the back to underline their renewed intimacy, Gonçalo pointed to André’s desk:
‘But you have things to do, André. Look at all that dreadful paperwork. We mustn’t take up any more of our illustrious governor’s time. To work!
To work, my brother, for work
Equals André, virtue and valour!’
He picked up his hat and gestured to his brother-in-law, who, cheeks aflame with delight, stammered out the invitation that would place a sociable, elegant seal on their reconciliation:
‘Cavaleiro, perhaps we could best continue our conversation if you were to give us the great pleasure of dining with us on Thursday at half past six. Whenever Gonçalo is here, we always dine a little later than usual.’
Blushing, Cavaleiro thanked him discreetly and ceremoniously:
‘The pleasure will be all mine. I would consider it an immense honour . . .’
And accompanying them to the door of the anteroom, where he held aside the heavy scarlet baize curtain embroidered with the royal coat of arms, he asked Barrolo to present his deepest respects to Senhora Dona Graça.
Damp with emotion, Barrolo was mopping the sweat from his brow and neck as they went down the stone steps. And once out in the courtyard, he gave vent to his feelings:
‘He’s such a fine fellow, that André! A really honest lad. I’ve always liked him. To be frank, I couldn’t wait for all this silliness to be over. And as regards our own household, he’ll be such a fine addition to the company and to conversation.’
On Thursday, out on the terrace after lunch, where they were taking their postprandial coffee, Gonçalo advised Barrolo ‘so as to emphasise the easy intimacy of the occasion’, not to wear a tailcoat.
‘And you, Gracinha, nothing décolleté, but something bright and simple.’
Lounging on a wicker chair, with a small white cat asleep on her lap, Gracinha smiled hesitantly and continued leafing through a copy of Friendship’s Offerings.
After all the shock and turmoil of Sunday, she had affected a mute indifference not only to the reconciliation that was still causing tremors in the town, but also to the Election, and now to that evening’s dinner party. These last few days, though, she had been so touchy and irritable that Barrolo had kept recommending she take his mother’s favourite remedy for ‘nerves’, namely, rosemary leaves boiled in white wine.
Gonçalo could see how troubling she found the imminent triumphal return of André, the old André, into her marital home, the Casa dos Cunhais. And to calm his own anxieties, he reminded himself (as he had in the cemetery in Vila Clara) of Gracinha’s essentially serious nature, her pure, lofty mind, her proud, heroic little soul. That morning, still caught up in his nervous excitement about the Election, his one fear was that Gracinha, out of embarrassment or caution, might greet Cavaleiro coldly, might cast a chill over his renewed fervour for the House of Ramires and his political patronage. He said again in the same jocular tone:
‘Did you hear me, Gracinha? Wear a white dress, a cheerful dress, that’ll put a smile on our guests’ faces.’
Still immersed in her reading, she murmured:
‘Yes, of course, especially with this heat . . .’
Barrolo slapped his thigh. It was just such a shame he didn’t have there in the house — to drink a toast to their reconciliation — a particularly famous Port wine from his mother’s cellar, a wonderful, ancient wine from the reign of João II.
‘João II?’ snorted Gonçalo. ‘It will be well and truly corked by now!’
‘Or was it João VI? Anyway, it was some king or other, yes, a unique wine from the last century! Mama only has eight or so bottles left. And this would definitely have been the right occasion to open one.’
The Nobleman took a slow sip of coffee:
‘The other thing André used to love was crème caramel.’
Gracinha abruptly put down her book, and Gonçalo, struck dumb by her reaction, watched her brush the drowsing cat off her lap and stride silently across the terrace and disappear among the tall yew trees in the garden.
And that evening, when the Nobleman took his place at the oval table next to cousin Maria Mendonça, the first thing he saw, prominently displayed between two large compotiers, was a generous dish of crème caramel. Even though this supper was supposedly an intimate affair, the table was set with the finest china and with Uncle Melchior’s famous gold-plated cutlery, and two Royal Saxe vases overflowed with white and yellow carnations, the heraldic colours of the Ramires.
Dona Maria had not seen her beloved cousin since Gracinha’s birthday, and in the ceremonious silence during which they all unfolded their napkins, she said with a smile and a grave bow:
‘I haven’t yet congratulated you, cousin Gonçalo.’
‘Shh, cousin, not a word. It’s been decided that we won’t even mention the subject today — besides, it’s far too hot for politics.’
She sighed softly, as if she were fainting, ‘Ah, yes, the heat, this terrible heat!’ Ever since she’d arrived wearing a black dress, which was, she said, ‘her Sunday best’, she had not stopped commenting on Gracinha’s white dress.
‘It really suits her. She looks so lovely!’
It was a simple dress of white crepe, which only emphasised Gracinha’s almost virginal grace and made her appear still younger. And it was true, she had never looked more captivating, so pale and delicate, her green eyes shining like washed emeralds, her thick hair wavier and glossier than ever, a slight, transparent blush on her cheek; she had, in short, all the cool freshness of a newly watered flower, a flower brought back to life, despite the shyness that made her fumble slightly when she raised a golden spoon to her lips. And beside her, so much larger and more robust, his shirtfront bulging out like a cuirass and adorned with two sapphires, with a full-blown white rose in his lapel, sat André Cavaleiro — declining the soup (oh, no, he never drank soup in summer!) — who dominated the table and yet was clearly rather moved as well, dabbing at his glossy moustache with a handkerchief so strongly perfumed that it drowned out the scent from the carnations. Yet he was the one who set the tone of the conversation with his cheerful complaints about the heat, the dreadful Oliveira heat. What a burning Purgatory it was after his two days in Paradise, in the delicious cool of Sintra!
Dona Maria Mendonça turned her sharp eyes sweetly on the governor: How was Sintra? Busy? Were there a lot of parties in the evenings in Seteais? Had he met her cousin, the Countess de Chelas?
Yes, Cavaleiro had spoken briefly to the Countess when he visited the Queen in Pena.
‘Ah, and how is the Queen?’
‘Oh, as charming as ever.’
The Countess had, he thought, looked a little thin, but she was always so friendly, so intelligent, so very much the grande dame — wasn’t that so? He turned to Gracinha with the slightest, gentlest inclination of his head, and she, flustered and blushing more furiously still, stammered something about never having met the Countess de Chelas. Dona Maria Mendonça immediately put the blame for this on the inertia of her Barrolo cousins, always hidden away in their house in Oliveira, never venturing forth to Lisbon in the winter to meet their relatives and get to know them.
‘I blame cousin José, who loathes Lisbon.’
Barrolo didn’t loathe Lisbon at all. If he could transport to Lisbon all his comforts, his bedroom, his stables, the excellent water from the spring in the orchard, and the gorgeous verandah overlooking the garden, then he’d go there like a shot!
‘But the thought of being holed up in one of those mean little rooms in the Hotel Bragança . . . And then there’s the mediocre food and the constant noise to contend with. Gracinha never sleeps well in Lisbon. And the mornings there are so tedious. There’s never anything to do in Lisbon in the morning!’
Cavaleiro smiled at Barrolo, as if charmed by his wit and intelligence. Then he confessed that, despite living (thanks to the State) in a very comfortable mansion and also enjoying excellent water from the wonderful São Domingos well, he regretted that his political duties and party loyalties kept him tied to Oliveira. His one hope was that the Government would fall and thus free him up to spend three divine months in Italy.
Seated on the other side of Gracinha was Gouveia, usually so shy and silent in the presence of ladies. However, suddenly, prompted by friendship and conviction, he exclaimed impetuously:
‘Your hopes will, I’m afraid, be dashed, André! There’s no stopping São Fulgêncio! You’ve got another three or four years of him yet!’
And leaning closer to Gracinha, in an attempt at friendliness that made his cheeks blaze, he said again:
‘No, there’s no stopping São Fulgêncio. Our André will be with us for another three or four years.’
Languidly closing his thick-lashed eyes, André protested:
‘Oh, João, don’t be so cruel!’
Even if he had to desert his party (and what would the loss of one rusty spear matter to such a powerful army?), he was already dreaming of that winter escape to Italy, indeed, he was already planning it. Might he pour Senhora Dona Graça a little white wine?
Barrolo effusively reached out one arm to stop him:
‘André, I want you to taste that wine very carefully. It’s from my vineyard in Corvelo. I think it’s very special. But take your time!’
Cavaleiro tasted it as devoutly as if he were taking communion. And bowing his head appreciatively to Barrolo, who positively glowed with pleasure, he said:
‘Delicious, absolutely delicious!’
‘It is, isn’t it? I actually prefer this wine to any of the French wines, however fine. Even our saintly friend, Father Soeiro, likes it!’
Obscured behind one of the tall vases of carnations, Father Soeiro had been silent up until then; now, though, he blushed and smiled, saying:
‘Alas, these days, I have to take it with a lot of water, Senhor José Barrolo. My tongue may crave it, but my rheumatism says No.’
José Mendonça, who had no fear of rheumatism, always attacked that lovely Corvelo wine with great gusto.
‘What do you think of it, João Gouveia?’
João Gouveia was fortunate enough to have known that wine for years! And in Portugal, he had certainly never found a white wine to compare for freshness, bouquet or savour!
‘And I’ve been downing it with such enthusiasm, friend Barrolo, that this lovely cut-glass decanter is almost empty!’
Barrolo was thrilled. His only disappointment was that Gonçalo would never drink ‘that nectar’. No, Gonçalo hated white wine.
‘Today, though, I have one of those thirsts that can only be quenched by a good, slightly sparkling vinho verde, with ice. This Vidainhos wine is one of Barrolo’s too. I certainly don’t despise the family’s wines, no — this Vidainhos, for example, I consider to be utterly sublime.’
Cavaleiro immediately asked to taste that sublime vinho verde from the Vidainhos vineyard in Amarante. In response to urgent signals from Barrolo, the butler presented Cavaleiro with a slender glass, especially made for that sparkling wine. However, Cavaleiro, stroking the cool glass without actually drinking from it, returned to the idea of holidays and journeys, as if to emphasise how weary and bored he was with Oliveira. And did Senhora Dona Graça have any idea where he’d go after that winter escape to Italy, if, God willing, the Government were to fall? To Asia Minor.
‘It’s a journey I would tempt our Gonçalo to make too. It’s so easy now that we have railways! From Venice to Constantinople is a mere step! Then from Constantinople to Izmir it’s just one or two days on board an excellent steamer. And from there you can join a caravan via Tripoli and ancient Sidon to Galilee, yes, Galilee. What do you think, Gonçalo? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?’
Father Soeiro, his fork halfway to his mouth, recalled timidly that in Galilee, Senhor Gonçalo Ramires would be setting foot on land that had once very nearly belonged to his family:
‘One of your ancestors, Gutierres Ramires, who accompanied Tancredo on the First Crusade, turned down the lordship of Galilee and of Oultrejordain.’
‘Well, that was a great mistake,’ cried Gonçalo, laughing. ‘That was very wrong of him! What could be more amusing now than for me to be Lord of Galilee! Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, Lord of Galilee and Oultrejordain! What a joke!’
Cavaleiro protested earnestly:
‘Why a joke?’
‘Don’t you believe him!’ said Dona Maria Mendonça, eyes flashing. ‘Deep down, for all his joking, Cousin Gonçalo is profoundly, terribly aristocratic!’
The Nobleman of the Tower set down his glass, having first taken a long, appreciative sip.
‘Yes, of course I’m an aristocrat, and I would feel rather unhappy to have been born, like a weed, from other nameless weeds. I like knowing that I’m the son of my father Vicente, who was the son of his father Damião, and so on back to some Suevian king . . .’
‘Recesvinto,’ said Father Soeiro respectfully.
‘Yes, back to King Recesvinto. The trouble is that the blood of all those ancestors is no different from the blood of my porter’s ancestors. And if I go back beyond Recesvinto, as far as Adam, then I have no special ancestors at all!’
And while everyone was laughing, Dona Maria Mendonça leaned towards him and whispered behind her open fan:
‘You can speak as scornfully as you like, Gonçalo, but I know of a certain lady who greatly admires the House of Ramires and its representative.’
Gonçalo lovingly filled his glass again, watching carefully lest the bubbles should overflow.
‘I’m glad to hear it. But, as Manuel Duarte would say, “Can you be more precise, please?” Who does she really admire, me or the Suevian king, Recesvinto?’
‘Both.’
‘Goodness!’
Then, again setting down his glass, he asked more seriously this time:
‘Who is this person?’
Oh, she couldn’t possibly tell him that. She wasn’t yet old enough to play the role of go-between bearing little billets-doux.
Gonçalo didn’t need a name, he said, only her qualities. Was she young? Was she pretty?
‘Pretty?’ cried Dona Maria. ‘Why, she’s one of the most beautiful women in Portugal!’
Amazed, Gonçalo blurted out a name: ‘Dona Ana Lucena!’
‘Why her?’
‘Because she’s the only extremely beautiful woman living in the area who you know well enough to be her confidante.’
Dona Maria smiled, adjusting the two roses brightening up her black silk bodice.
‘Possibly.’
‘Well, I’m immensely flattered, but, like Manuel Duarte, I need you to be more precise. If, on her side, her intentions are honourable, then, dear God, no! However, if they are entirely dishonourable, then I promise to do my duty as best I can.’
Scandalised, Dona Maria covered her face with her fan. Then, peering over the top, her bright eyes shining, she said:
‘Her honourable intentions would suit you best, because they’d come with two hundred contos in tow!’
Gonçalo gave an admiring whoop:
‘Oh, cousin Maria! There isn’t a more intelligent woman in all Europe.’
Everyone was eager to hear Dona Maria’s latest witticism, but Gonçalo silenced them, saying:
‘We can’t tell you. It concerns a marriage.’
Then José Mendonça recalled the latest snippet of piquant gossip, which had been doing the rounds of Oliveira since the previous day:
‘Speaking of marriage, what do you make of Dona Rosa Alcoforado’s marriage?’
First, Barrolo, then Gouveia, and even Gracinha, all declared it to be ‘utterly dreadful’. That perfect young woman, with her lovely rosy complexion and her golden hair, bound in matrimony to Teixeira de Carredes, a patriarch with numerous grandchildren. A complete disgrace!
Cavaleiro did not, however, see the marriage as quite such a disgrace. Teixeira de Carredes, as well as being refined and intelligent, was a very young old man, with barely a wrinkle — indeed, that interesting contrast between his dark moustache and his thick, curly, white hair made him almost handsome. And despite her rosy complexion and golden hair, there was something rather limp and listless about Senhora Dona Rosa. She wasn’t very bright either and somewhat slovenly too, with her hair all over the place and her clothes always creased.
‘Forgive me for saying so, but the person making a bad marriage is poor Teixeira de Carredes.’
Dona Maria Mendonça stared at the governor with amusement and surprise:
‘Well, if you don’t admire Rosinha Alcoforado, who do you admire?’
He gave a swift and gallant response:
‘Well, ladies, apart from your good selves, there’s no one I admire! As regards feminine beauty, this is the most impoverished district in Portugal!’
Everyone protested. What about Maria Marges? And young Reriz from Riosa? And Melozinho Alboim, with those magnificent eyes of hers? Cavaleiro refused to be convinced, and demolished each and every candidate with caustic remarks aimed either at their dull complexion, their ugly gait, or their provincial tastes and manners, thus, without actually saying so, condemning them all for lacking Gracinha’s beauty and grace, and throwing at her feet a pile of weary, crumpled ladies. She noticed this subtle adulation of his, and her eyes lit up with a flame that burned more tenderly even than the blushes covering her cheeks. Hoping to disperse all this accumulating adulatory incense, she mentioned another beauty who was the pride of the district:
‘There’s Viscount de Rio-Manso’s daughter, Rosinha Rio-Manso. She’s really lovely!’
Cavaleiro quickly demolished her as well:
‘But she’s only twelve years old! She isn’t even a full-blown rose yet, but a mere rosebud!’
Almost humbly, Gracinha mentioned Luísa Moreira, the daughter of a shopkeeper, who always drew admiring glances at Sunday mass at the cathedral and in the main square.
‘She’s a very beautiful young woman and has a fine figure.’
Cavaleiro triumphed again, commenting languidly:
‘Yes, Senhora Dona Graça, but her teeth are all crooked and crowded together. Have you never noticed? A most unpleasant mouth. And quite apart from her teeth, there’s her brother, Evaristo, with his dull face and his dandruff and his grubby clothes and his Jacobinist views! No woman with a brother like that could possibly be beautiful!’
Mendonça brought up another curious piece of Oliveira news:
‘Speaking of Evaristo, is he still planning to start a new republican newspaper, O Rebate?’
The governor gave a dismissive, superior shrug and said he had no idea. João Gouveia, though, his face flushed and glowing after drinking both white wine and red, told them that O Rebate would be published in November. He even knew the patriot who’d be providing the ‘readies’. And the paper’s campaign would begin with five forthright articles on the Storming of the Bastille.
Gonçalo expressed his astonishment at the spread of republicanism in Portugal, even in old-fashioned, royalist Oliveira:
‘When I was studying for my university entrance exams, there were only two republicans in Oliveira — old Salema, who taught Rhetoric, and me. Now there’s a party, a committee and two newspapers. I’ve even seen the Baron das Marges reading that republican rag, A Voz Pública, in the Café da Arcada.’
Mendonça did not fear the advent of the Republic and said jokingly:
‘That’s a long way off, and, meanwhile, we still have time to eat that crème caramel.’
‘Delicious,’ murmured Cavaleiro.
‘Yes,’ said Gonçalo, ‘we still have time for the crème caramel. But if revolution should break out in Spain or if the young king dies before he comes of age, which he will of course . . .’
‘Oh, the poor thing and his poor mother too!’ said Gracinha, touched by such a possibility.
Cavaleiro immediately reassured her. Why should the young king die? The republicans were spreading grim rumours about the health of that excellent boy, but he knew the truth; fortunately for Spain, there was sure to be an Afonso XIII and even an Afonso XIV. As for our own republicans, well, that’s a matter for the municipal guard. Portugal’s masses, though, would remain royalist to the end. Only at the top end of society, among the bourgeoisie and the intellectuals, do you find a light, rather grubby scum, which could easily be skimmed off with a sabre or two.
‘I’m sure that you — a perfect housewife — will know that when cooking stock, you have to skim off the scum with a spoon, well, in the case of republicans you’d need a sabre. And that, very simply, is how Portugal will deal with the matter. Indeed, I said as much to the King just recently.’
He raised his head haughtily, and his shirtfront, swelling like a stout cuirass, glowed, ready to defend the Monarchy. And in the respectful silence that followed, two champagne corks popped behind the screen, in the pantry.
As soon as the butler had hurriedly filled the glasses, the Nobleman of the Tower said with a gravity belied by his smile:
‘To your health, André. And I drink not to the governor, but to my friend!’
Amidst a caressing murmur of voices, all glasses were raised. João Gouveia raised his with particular enthusiasm, crying, ‘To my old friend, Andrezinho!’
Cavaleiro very lightly clinked glasses with Gracinha. Father Soeiro murmured grace. And throwing down his napkin, Barrolo asked:
‘Shall we have coffee here or in the drawing room? It will be cooler there.’
In the large drawing room, with all its red velvet, the chandelier glowed in solitary splendour; and wafting in through the three open windows came the calm, hot night air and the hushed Oliveira silence; and outside, in the square, a few people, notably two ladies, their heads covered by white woollen shawls, stared up at the bright lights and jollity spilling out from the Casa dos Cunhais. On the balcony, André and Gonçalo lit their cigars and breathed in what little coolness there was, and Cavaleiro said earnestly:
‘As I always say, Gonçalinho, one dines sublimely at your brother-in-law’s house!’
Gonçalo invited him to come for dinner at the Tower the following Sunday. He still had a few bottles of Madeira from his grandfather Damião’s days, on which, with the help of Gouveia and Titó, they could launch an heroic assault.
A delighted Cavaleiro promised he’d be there and took his cup of coffee — no sugar — from the heavy silver tray, so heavy that the butler was almost bent beneath its weight.
‘Your duty now, Gonçalo, is to stick close to the Tower. Your role is to be a strong presence in the area: the Nobleman of the Tower standing firm on his territory — for standing there, he will be elected to Parliament. Yes, that is your role.’
A beaming Barrolo slipped in-between the two friends and put his arms affectionately about their waists:
‘And Cavaleiro and I will stay here, working away!’
From the deep sofa on which she had installed herself, Maria Mendonça, however, was demanding that Gonçalo join her in order ‘to talk business’. Meanwhile, next to a console table, João Gouveia and Father Soeiro, stirring their coffees, were agreeing on the need for strong government. And Gracinha, with cousin Mendonça, was riffling through the sheet music lying on the piano lid, looking for the Ramires fado. Mendonça was a pianist of fluid brilliance and had composed not only waltzes, a hymn to Colonel Trancoso, the hero of Machumba, but even the first act of an opera — A Pegureira, The Shepherdess. When they failed to find Videirinha’s fado, Mendonça, cigar in mouth, launched into one of his own waltzes, The Pearl, which had a lazy, amorous rhythm reminiscent of the waltz from Gounod’s Faust.
Then André Cavaleiro, who had come slowly back into the room, tugged at his waistcoat, smoothed his moustaches and, half-grave, half-playful, advanced on Gracinha saying:
‘Would Your Excellency do me the great honour of this dance?’
He opened wide his arms. Gracinha, scarlet-cheeked, accepted, and was immediately swept away as Cavaleiro led her, with long, sliding steps, across the carpet. Barrolo and Gouveia hurriedly shifted the armchairs to clear a space, and the waltz proceeded with Gracinha’s dress leaving a soft, white wake behind her. Small and light, she seemed entirely lost, as if she had melted into the sheer masculine strength of Cavaleiro, who bore her off, turning slowly, his head bent, breathing in the scent of her magnificent hair.
From the edge of the sofa, her keen eyes sparkling, Dona Maria Mendonça expressed her amazement:
‘Goodness, how well the governor waltzes!’
Beside her, Gonçalo was nervously twisting one end of his moustache, astonished by this renewed familiarity, taken up by Cavaleiro with such serene confidence and by Gracinha with such abandon. They turned and they spun, their arms about each other. Cavaleiro’s lips curved into a smile and he murmured something to her. Gracinha was breathing hard, her patent leather shoes gleaming beneath her skirt, which had wrapped itself about Cavaleiro’s trousers. And as they brushed past an ecstatic Barrolo, he applauded affectionately, crying:
‘Bravo! Bravo! Bravissimo!’