One day Leonardo came home highly mortified because, having gone to visit Dona Maria, he had spent a long time with her without Luisinha’s appearing, so that after some hours he was obliged to leave without seeing her. Anyone who has ever been in love, no matter how slightly, and has had to undergo such a disappointment; anyone who has been obliged to endure for long the conversation of an old woman, having to agree with her on every tiny point in order not to incur her displeasure, all only with the goal of exchanging with “someone” a quick glance, a fugitive smile, or some other such; and who, after all was said and done, had not succeeded even in that, will agree that Leonardo had every reason to be put out at what had just happened to him and will forgive him for whatever mood might come over him on that occasion. There are, however, spirits so perverse that they take pleasure in building on someone else’s ill humor and who, the more irritable the unhappy person they see, the more they enjoy throwing brickbats at him.
Chiquinha, Leonardo-Pataca’s beloved, was just such a spirit. And ever since they had all begun living together she, by virtue of the antipathy that she had for the boy, had not missed a single opportunity to give poor Leonardo a good working-over with her tongue. The latter, choleric of temperament and little accustomed to being opposed, would hit the ceiling when that happened. And if quarrels were constant in the house on the ordinary occasions when he was in a good humor, just imagine what he would do in moments like the one to which we refer, when he had such motivation—and, what is more, what a motivation!
Seeing Leonardo come in the door with a thundercloud face and without so much as a “God save you” for anyone, Chiquinha smiled malignly to herself and, clearing her throat, said between her teeth, “Here’s hoping tomorrow will bring with it a better face.”
Leonardo, who understood what that referred to, made an angry gesture as he sat down in a chair—with, however, such ill luck as to send onto the floor a lace cushion that was lying next to him. The fall caused threads to pop, and a bunch of bobbins rolled all over the house. With even greater ill luck, the cushion had been Chiquinha’s, and Chiquinha was very protective of her lace cushion.
Boiling with fury, she arose from where she was sitting, put her hands on her hips, and, wagging her head as she spoke, exclaimed, “Now there, have you ever seen such shameless impudence? … He comes in off the street with his dander up, all overheated, and on purpose, totally on purpose, he does what you’ve just seen, just to spite me, as though he were the master of the house and can do anything he pleases to anybody without any cause at all!”
Leonardo listened to it all without interrupting, endeavoring to get control of his anger. And when Chiquinha stopped to take a breath he replied in a choked and trembling voice, “Stay out of my business, since I certainly don’t give a fig about yours; talk about having dander up—”
“Oh, for a good uniform on you!” Chiquinha cut in. “Oh, for the deck of some ship! Oh, for Major Vidigal!”
“I told you—”
“Phooey to ‘I told you,’ to even half of ‘I told you’—you stupid, lovesick calf—”
These words produced the same effect as a match in a keg of gunpowder. Leonardo advanced on Chiquinha with fists clenched and foaming with rage. “If you say one half a word more to me—I’m going to lose my respect for you—I never did actually trust you. And even though you may be the lady, or whatever it is, of my father—I’m going to lose my respect for you—”
“You never cease to show me that you’ve got Lisbon rustic in your veins,” Chiquinha retorted, stiffening and standing her ground.
Leonardo-Pataca, who was in the back part of the house, rushed out at the noise and arrived to find the two of them toe to toe. Seeing his son about to do damage to the beloved object of his latest affections, he did not hesitate in bursting out at him, “You thug—do you think this is like that house of your godfather’s you used to live in? What I want here is respect for everybody—if not—then if once before I gave you a kick that sent you away for a good many years; this time I’ll give you one that’ll put you away forever—”
“I never dreamed,” interrupted Chiquinha, addressing Leonardo-Pataca and wishing to make the situation appear as ugly as possible, “I never dreamed that I’d have to undergo such a thing living with you—”
“Don’t let it bother you, my dear; he’s just a wastrel I’m going to have to teach a lesson. I’d kick him out for your sake above anyone else’s.”
“For her sake!” the boy cut in. “Well, think of that! I’m sure she’ll pay you well for it—as well as the gypsy girl—”
“But I’ll never treat him,” Chiquinha hurried to add, infuriated at that insult, “I’ll never treat him the way your mother did—”
At this point Leonardo-Pataca lost control completely, what with the flood of bitter memories that those few words had brought down upon his head! “You wait, you no-account. Just wait; I’ll teach you,” he exclaimed, crimson with fury. “Just wait; I’ll teach you.” And running into the front bedroom, he rushed back, armed with the smallsword from his uniform, and charged his son. It should be noted that the smallsword was still in its scabbard.
“Don’t risk ruining your life for me,” exclaimed Chiquinha, grabbing hold of him by the cotton nightshirt he was wearing.
Chiquinha’s fear was unnecessary, however, because the youth, seeing that the whole affair was turning ugly and harboring an instinctive terror of his father as the result of that kick that had never left his memory, had headed for the open street, closing the shutter behind him.
“Ah, you ruffian!” said Leonardo-Pataca once more. “I’d cut you up in little pieces—”
Leonardo was fleeing on one side and the comadre was arriving on the other, for the latter had been absent during the whole scene. Hardly had she removed her mantilla and seen the two actors, who still remained on stage in positions corresponding to the last tableau, when she sought to inquire into the play that had just been staged.
“Oh, it was just one of your beloved godson’s usual,” answered Chiquinha, not yet calmed down.
“But it cost him dearly this time,” added Leonardo-Pataca.
“Well, really,” cut in the comadre in indignation. “Were you really using the sword to attack the boy with?”
“You bet! He was going to catch it as hard as bone!”
“But why? How many people did he kill with a single blow? Where did he start the house afire? A motherless child is a sad thing! … I’ll bet that if I had been here none of it would have happened!”
“Of course not,” replied Chiquinha, “because you’d take his side just as you always do. It’s the same old story: Many children do have mothers, and their mothers are only good for taking someone else’s side and leaving them out.”
“What? Nonsense! It’s just that there are two sides to everything.”
“Oh, senhora,” interrupted Leonardo-Pataca, “if we keep going this way, there’ll never be a moment’s peace in this house. As soon as one row ends another one starts. What will the neighborhood say? And remember that this is the home of an officer of the law.”
“All right,” said the comadre, “where’s the boy? Where have you buried the body?”
“He lit out of here like his tail was afire, and I hope to God he never comes back.”
“Now that’s very nice! Tell me it isn’t so, that you didn’t run the boy out of his home! … He’s no urchin, you know; he has what his godfather left him.”
“That’s part of what has him on the road to perdition.”
“You bet! Give him the airs of a rich man and you’ll see how he turns out!”
“Poor boy,” the comadre lamented, “he was born under a bad sign.” And putting her mantilla back on she went out with tears in her eyes in search of Leonardo.
As she left, three or four neighborhood women were waiting for her at their windows.
“What did they do to the youngster, then?”
“What happened, senhora comadre?”
“He passed by here going ten leagues an hour!”
“Leave me be, leave me be,” responded the comadre. “This isn’t working out the way it should.”