It was one of those days when everything went wrong. A sour day, pointless, irritating, and through which she had to live (it was so annoying having to live through such days, and not be able to close them and put them to one side as she did with books she didn’t like!). Time stretched out before her, occasionally appearing to hesitate and even stop altogether on her wristwatch, prompting her to shake it angrily. I wish I could hibernate like some animal, she thought. To hang by her feet or curl up in a ball (that would be more comfortable) and forget about everything and wake up a few months older. Yes, waking up old would be the ideal. Not just a little bit old, with a few gray hairs and some wrinkles to be disguised with the usual creams and thick foundation. No. What she would like would be to wake up really and truly old, old like Grandma Cândida, irredeemably old. How good finally to be her, however briefly, completely natural and true. Not just pretending to be older, as she used to do, or younger, as she did now; not trying to be more intelligent or more stupid depending on who she was talking to, or pretending to like someone or not to like them anymore. Perhaps old people and children were more authentic because they were closer to the void… Those about to depart and the new arrivals… New arrivals… Oh, bother! She had just typed those two words on the ad for Victoria milk: the very finest powdered milk. Another torn-up piece of paper because the boss didn’t like crossings-out. It had been like this all day. Even the very first thing she had done that morning had gone horribly wrong (she had torn her new blouse as she was putting it on), and she had then headed off into fresh disasters, and, still worse, knowing full well where she was heading. She had bent her knee more energetically than usual and caused a run in her stocking, and she didn’t have money to buy any more. Not until the end of the month! Then there was the heel on her shoe: the Sunday-best pair that she usually only wore when she went out at night or to visit her family—because she wanted them to think she was doing relatively well—and that, when she was hurrying, afraid she was going to be late for work, had become stuck in between one of those gaps in the floor of the tram, one of those horrid little gaps purpose-made for heels to get stuck in them, and that had almost torn the heel off and left it very wobbly. So there was that, and then, behind it all, lay the man she loved and who was about to get married. But she didn’t want to think about that. What was the point? The wastepaper basket was full of crumpled bits of paper because all morning and all afternoon she had been accumulating errors and more errors. She felt like smashing her typewriter; smashing her desk; smashing Alda’s dark, bold, soppy eyes, which she occasionally trained on her, eyes overflowing with unrequited love and heartfelt apologies. “Clara, sweetheart, you seem terribly nervous today. Whatever’s wrong?” And that “s” that kept popping up instead of the “a” when she typed. Lisbos instead of Lisboa. If it were Lesbos, that wouldn’t be so bad! At least Lesbos would be funny. Well, funny to her, but then she specialized in finding funny what other people didn’t find funny at all, certainly not Senhor Paiva, who hated them to waste paper or time. Because he had paid for everything: It all belonged to him, both time and paper. “What’s wrong with you today, Clara? Aren’t you feeling well?” He said this in a tone of voice intended to express concern, but that really conveyed only annoyance and reproval, especially reproval. “I’m a little tired, Senhor Paiva. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home.” And Alda, feeling so upset for her: “Oh, Clara, do take good care of yourself!” Clara not even responding.
Now it was four o’clock, and she was walking aimlessly along the street. It was cold, but she didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel anything, apart from the run in her right stocking spreading down her leg and the heel on her shoe that occasionally made her stumble. She was having one of her dark days. Alone. “It’s your choice,” her mother had said one day. “The remedy is in your hands. You know there’s always a place for you at home. Why don’t you come back, Clara?” But she didn’t want to go back to her parents’ house. She had her own home, not that it was much of a home because she lived alone, but she had grown used to it; she was living the life she had chosen—had she really chosen it?—the free life of a single woman. She wouldn’t know how to live with her parents now, with fixed mealtimes, visits from whoever happened to turn up, evenings spent knitting so as not to die of boredom. She sometimes asked herself if she would know how to live with another person now; she was so used to not having to explain what she did and always, always doing what she wanted. Always? What about the man who was going to be married in three days? She could still hear him saying, “Clara, I have to tell you something, and I don’t know how to begin…” She had said, “You’re going to get married, aren’t you?” And she had said this out of pure intuition, not really believing her own words, but when he didn’t laugh, she had suddenly felt afraid of what she was about to hear. He had talked and talked, but Clara hadn’t heard a word he said. The room had suddenly ceased to exist, as had the man who was speaking, and only she remained. She felt empty and incapable of making a sound. With other men, it had been different. With them, she had been the one to write the words “The End” on the final page—not that she had been in love with any of them; she had only been with them out of loneliness and a need for warmth. And for that reason, it hadn’t been difficult or painful or unexpected to find she was staring at the bottom of the glass. Sometimes, this even brought her a certain feeling of calm. All right, the glass was empty, but life went on. As it would now, of course, but it would be a different life. An empty existence, from which he would be absent, but where he, as she well knew, would always be present. But she didn’t want to think about him. Why was he clinging to her thoughts? Why did he appear in all of them?
She took the bus to Restauradores and had to go upstairs because there were so many people. She hated doing this because she was afraid of having to come down the stairs while the bus was moving, which made her nervous, and she almost always stumbled, and almost always there was some kind gentleman getting on in years who would catch her, and she never knew whether to thank the person or get angry or even slap his face, because she really didn’t feel it was necessary for him to touch her breasts or tug at her skirt. That afternoon, though, she was sorry to see that there was no elderly gentleman at the bottom of the stairs, because in his place was the very first man she had been with: the one who had led her to flee her parents’ house, the one she had believed in enough to think they would marry. She had believed in him and in herself, but it was all his fault, because he had said so many things that had made her think she really did love him and could set aside all her fears and uncertainties and, with him for company, never again feel alone. That had been years ago, and yet there he was, but he didn’t even see her because he jumped off the bus while it was still moving, as he always used to do. Clara even opened her mouth to call out to him, but he was already far away and wouldn’t have heard her. And why call out to him anyway? It was always so sad going back in time, so disheartening…
She needed some new stockings. She was going to visit Grandma Cândida to ask her to lend her some money. Before handing over any money, her grandmother would inevitably take the opportunity to give her a brief sermon on morality. “I hear that you’re living a life contrary to God’s law!”—“What is a life contrary to God’s law, Grandma?”—“You were seen in Bénard’s café, smoking. And you were with a man. Shortly thereafter you were seen in the street with another man. What do you have to say to that?” Her grandmother would skewer her with her very steady gaze, still crystal clear despite her eighty years. “What do you say to that, Clara?” What could she say? That one disappointment had been followed by another? No, not even a little romanticism and a few pretty words could persuade Grandma Cândida, so old-fashioned and so puritanical. She would lie to her; it was the only option. “Really, Grandma, the very idea! And all because I made one little mistake! I was very young then, you know. I’m most offended, Grandma. They were probably colleagues from the office. I can’t honestly remember who they were now, but I think in Bénard’s… Ah, now I know: I was with Chico, yes, it was Chico, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, poor thing. People even say he’s homosexual.” Her grandmother would almost leap from her chair, and her voice would echo round the room: “Really, child!”—“Sorry, Grandma.”
When she rang the bell, she immediately heard Gertrude’s footsteps coming down the corridor. “How is she?” she asked. The maid said very softly, “Not too bad, but not great either. The doctor came yesterday. The usual problem, he said: her heart. He gave her some medicine, and she had a good night. But she woke up saying she was dying and immediately went into her study and started tearing up papers. She’s been in there for ages now.”
Clara half-opened the study door and said, “Can I come in?” But she saw at once that Grandma Cândida had fallen asleep. She was bent over the desk, her large head with its soft, fluffy white hair resting on her left arm, which was so plump she could barely bend it. A drawer had been left open, and beside it stood a wastepaper basket full of crumpled and torn-up bits of paper. Clara tiptoed in and sat down in the old fringed armchair. She remembered that when she used to spend the afternoon there as a child, her grandmother would tether her to the foot of that same armchair with a piece of string so that she wouldn’t get up to mischief. And she would sit there very quietly. She suddenly wished she knew why she had kept so still. Was it because she was an obedient child or because she was afraid of her grandmother or because she thought she wouldn’t be able to break the string? She would have to ask her grandmother when she woke up. She glanced at the clock. It was almost half past five; Grandma Cândida was still fast asleep, but Clara couldn’t leave because she needed money for stockings and to have her shoe mended. She would have to wait. There was no way she was going to wake her grandmother up, because she was always very grumpy when woken. She was perfectly capable of saying No, just like that, without even waiting to hear her reasons for asking. “Don’t even think about it. I’ve had a lot of expenses lately—income tax, repairs around the house, you name it! So don’t count on me.” It wouldn’t be the first time this had happened.
Clara stood up and went over to the little watercolor she had bought for her grandmother as a souvenir of Paris and that her grandmother had hung on the wall because she thought it pretty. “But where the devil did you find the money to go to Paris?” she had asked on the day she came to say goodbye. “You’ve never had a penny to your name, and now you’re off to Paris… Did you win the jackpot, Clara?” She had come up with some story about it being a very cheap trip—“incredibly cheap, Grandma”—and how a friend of hers who lived there was letting her stay in her apartment. “That’s your business…but don’t count on me for any money, all right? It’s one thing helping you out of a little difficulty, but as for you going off to Paris, to that den of iniquity…” It was a banal little watercolor, nothing special, but full of memories. Now that it was all over, she would like to have it with her and hang it in her bedroom so that she could look at it every day. She would have to ask her grandmother to give it to her. There was the little café in Place de la Contrescarpe, where she had sat with him drinking a glass of rather gray, insipid mistela. He had said, “If you only knew how happy I am. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.” And she had sensed that memories of his time there as a student had a great deal to do with the happiness he was feeling. However, without a trace of resentment, she had placed her hand on his and she, too, had felt happy. “Who were you with when you were here? Go on, tell me.” He had shrugged and smiled a long, contented, fatuous smile. “A very poetic, dark-haired English girl who was studying something or other at the Sorbonne. She wouldn’t leave the hotel, or to be precise, she wouldn’t leave the room, which was somewhat compromising. Her name was Daisy. She’s sent me a few postcards from Birmingham harking back to those days and suggesting we revisit Paris, but I never replied.” She had smiled; yes, she remembered clearly that she had smiled. She also remembered the table where they had sat, next to the entrance, on the righthand side. When her grandmother woke up, she would ask her for the painting. She wouldn’t mention money for the moment. She would get by somehow or other. And at this, her eyes filled with tears, tears streamed down her cheeks, and her jacket was spotted with the large, dark drops.
At this point, Boga the cat appeared from behind a chair. She was a shaggy, very stately tabby. An appropriate cat for Grandma Cândida. She sat down and regarded Clara with serene, yellow eyes. Then she lost interest and tapped the wastepaper basket with one paw. A few balls of paper scattered across the floor. Boga again nonchalantly tapped one of these, and it rolled over to Clara’s foot. She instinctively bent down, placed the paper on her knee, and smoothed it out: “My beloved Cândida…” It was a love letter full of the overinflated language of the age. I adore you, worship you, my heart burns for you, my soulmate, and so on. It must have been from Grandpa Albino. What would he have been like? She had never known him—how could she, given that her father was still only a boy when Grandpa died—but she could piece together a kind of picture from what her grandmother had told her. “Your grandfather was an excellent man, none better. But the poor thing could only see what was there before his eyes, nothing else.” That was what her grandmother said about Grandpa Albino, who, poor man, had committed suicide over money worries; Grandpa Albino, the writer of that passionate letter full of details that…details that… But why on earth would Grandpa Albino write such a letter to his wife? Unless… She turned over the piece of paper. Of course. The letter wasn’t from Grandpa Albino, but from someone named Augusto. “Much love from your Augusto, who adores you.”
Clara was now very excited. She picked up all the balls of paper, pieced together the torn sheets, and began hurriedly reading them, keeping a close eye on Grandma Cândida, who might wake up at any moment. And as well as “your Augusto who adores you” there was “your Mário who thinks of you often” and “your Jorge who never for one instant forgets you” and another man who, very prudently, signed his letter with only a beautifully formed F. In the midst of all this muddle there was one letter that made Clara utter a faint cry, then sit, terrified, afraid she would wake her grandmother. And when her grandmother didn’t wake up, because she couldn’t, Clara re-read the letter in an attempt to understand it better. It was a letter from Grandpa Albino in which he bade farewell to Grandma Cândida, giving her his reason for blowing out his brains. And the reason was that he had found out that she had been unfaithful to him and always had been. “I forgive you, though, Cândida, and hope you will be happy.”
Clara shouted, “Grandma!” and she had no idea why she shouted. Then she shouted even louder, alarmed by her grandmother’s motionless state. “Grandma!” Then she leaped to her feet and walked round the desk: “Grandma! Grandma! Grandma!”
But Grandma Cândida had left a long time ago.