As soon as he realized that his godson was missing, the compadre became terribly upset; he sounded the alarm throughout the neighborhood, hunted, inquired, but no one had any news or information to offer about the boy. Then he remembered the Via-Sacra, and it occurred to him that the youngster might have gone off with it. He hurried along all the streets the procession had traversed, anxiously asking everyone he met for information about that precious treasure of his hopes. He got all the way to the Church of the Bom-Jesus without finding a trace. There they told him that they had seen three boys behaving in so reprehensible a manner as the Via-Sacra entered the church that the sacristan had thrown them out. That was the only clue he was able to find.
He then wandered in the street for a long time, repairing to his house only after it was very late. When he arrived at his door, the wicket of a neighboring shutter opened, and a woman’s voice called out: “No news, neighbor?”
“None,” the compadre answered in a disheartened voice.
“From now on you’ll believe me when I tell you that that child was born with a bad disposition.”
“That’s not a neighborly thing to say …”
“I’m telling you, and I say it again, the child was born with a bad disposition. God forbid, but I think he’s bound for no good.”
“Oh, senhora,” the compadre shot back in an irritated tone, “what gives you the right to talk about my life and the things in it? Mind your own, stick to your bobbins and your tatting, and leave other people alone.” And then he went into his house muttering, “Someday I’m going to raise some cain with that woman. It’s always the same thing. It seems like a bad omen.”
The poor man lay awake all night trying to come up with ways to find the child. And after he had hatched a thousand plans, he said to himself, “As a last resort, I’ll go see Major Vidigal.” And he awaited the daylight so that he could get back to searching.
In the meantime, let us satisfy the reader, who is probably curious to know where the youngster has got to.
Amidst the immigrants from Portugal there also came to Brazil the gypsy plague. A slothful, unscrupulous people, they earned here a well-deserved reputation as the worst of scoundrels; no one in their right mind would do business with them because they knew they would come out on the short end. The poetry of their customs and their beliefs, of which so much has been said, they left on the other side of the ocean; here they brought only bad habits, shady practices, and rascality. If you don’t believe that, our own Leonardo can offer a few words on the subject. They lived in almost complete sloth, but no night passed that did not have its party. As a rule, they lived away from the main streets and enjoyed total liberty. The women dressed with a considerable ostentation relative to their resources: They wore a lot of lace and ribbons, they favored items that were red, and none of them would consider herself dressed without at least one gold chain around her neck. The men had nothing to distinguish them other than some characteristic features that made them recognizable.
The two boys with whom the fugitive youngster had struck up a friendship belonged to a family of these people that lived on Rossio Square, a place that during a period of time back then had for that very reason acquired the name of “Gypsy Camp.” Those boys were, as we have said, about the same age as he; nevertheless, accustomed to a vagabond life, they were familiar with the whole city and ran about it alone to no great concern on their parents’ part. They never missed the Via-Sacra procession or anything else of the kind. Meeting our future clergyman that night, as the readers already know, they took up with him and ended up bringing him to their parents’ house, where, as usual, there was a gypsy party (a custom that remains to this day). They held, as we have said, a celebration every day—always, however, with a specific reason. Today it would be a baptism, tomorrow a wedding, now this person’s birthday, then that one’s feast day of this or that saint. On the evening of which we speak, there was an oratory set up, and a saint of their devotion—of whose name we are ignorant—was being celebrated.
On the way, the boy was overtaken by misgivings and wanted to go back, but his companions painted such a picture for him of what he would see if he went on with them that he decided to follow where they led. They arrived at last at the house, where the party had already begun.
On the left side of the living room, on top of a table covered with a white towel, a print cotton comforter serving as its canopy, was the oratory, illuminated by some small wax candles. Along the walls were seats of every sort, benches and chairs on which the guests were seated. It was no small number, both gypsies and native-born people; they wore dress of all kinds, ranging from the barely acceptable on down. They were jolly and ready to make the full most of the night.
The boys entered without anyone seeing them and went over and located themselves beside the oratory.
Shortly thereafter the fado commenced. Everyone knows what the fado is, that dance so voluptuous, so varied, that it seems the offspring of the most comprehensive study of the art. A simple guitar serves better as its accompaniment than any other instrument. The fado has different forms, each more original than the last. In one, just a single person, man or woman, dances for some time in the middle of the floor, performing the most difficult steps, assuming the haughtiest positions, accompanying all of this with a snapping of the fingers. Then he or she slowly begins approaching someone else of his or her choice. A few turns and movements in front of that person and finally handclaps say that the other has been chosen to go next. In that way the entire circle is called in until everyone has danced.
In other forms, a man and a woman dance together. Following the beat of the music with the greatest precision, they first dance together very slowly, then change to fast steps, one moment pushing each other away, the next joining back together again. Sometimes the man follows after the woman with quick steps as she, making slight movements with her body and arms, moves slowly away; at other times it is the woman who follows after the man, who retreats in his turn, until at the end they come back together again.
There is also the circle, in which many people dance, breaking off on certain beats to clap their hands and tap their feet, sometimes long and loud, other times in a brief and more subdued manner, though always at one and the same time.
And beyond these there are still other fado forms of which we have not spoken. The music is different for each one, though it is always played on the guitar. In some cases, the guitar player sings a song, which often is highly poetic in concept.
Once the fado begins, it is hard to stop it; it often stops only at dawn—when, that is, it does not take up entire days and nights on end.
The boy, having forgotten all else in the face of this pleasure, watched the party as long as he could. He was finally overtaken by slumber, and he and his companions curled up in a corner and slept lulled by the sound of the guitar and the tapping of feet.
At dawn he awoke startled, aroused one of his companions, and asked to be taken home.
The godfather was just coming out of the house to begin his hunt when he ran across him. “You little devil—where have you been?”
“I went to see an oratory. Aren’t you always saying I’m going to be a priest?”
The godfather stared at him for some time and finally, unable to resist the air of ingenuousness that he displayed, burst out laughing and took him inside, completely appeased.