Uncle Cosme had lived with my mother since she had been widowed. He was already widowed then, as was cousin Justina; it was the house of the three widows.
Fortune often plays strange tricks with nature. Brought up for a serene life living off capital, Uncle Cosme did not make money as a lawyer; he spent more than he earned. He had his office in the old Rua das Violas, near the law courts, which were in the Aljube, the old prison building. Uncle Cosme worked in criminal law. José Dias never missed a single one of his speeches for the defense. He would help Uncle Cosme on and off with his gown, complimenting him effusively at the end. At home, he would recount the arguments. Uncle Cosme, despite a pretense of modesty, gave a contented smile.
He was fat and heavy, short of breath and with sleepy eyes. One of my oldest memories is of seeing him every morning mounting the animal given him by my mother, and which took him to the office every morning. The slave who had gone to get it from the stable held the reins while he lifted his foot and placed it in the stirrup; after he had done this, there followed a moment for rest or reflection. Then, he gave the first shove—his body struggled to get up, but didn’t manage it; a second shove produced the same effect. Finally, after a long interval, Uncle Cosme gathered all his physical and moral strength together, propelled himself one last time off the ground, and successfully landed in the saddle. Rarely did the animal fail to show by some gesture that it had received the world on its back. Uncle Cosme adjusted his ample form, and the mule went off at a trot.
Nor have I ever forgotten what he did to me one afternoon. Although I was born in the country (which I left when I was two) and in spite of the customs of the time, I didn’t know how to ride, and was afraid of horses. Uncle Cosme lifted me up and sat me astride the mule. When I found myself so high up (I was nine), alone and unprotected, with the ground way below, I began to scream desperately: “Mamma!, Mamma!” She hurried to the scene, pale and trembling, thinking someone was killing me. She lifted me down and comforted me, while her brother asked:
“Sister Glória, how can a grown lad like him be afraid of a tame mule?”
“He’s not used to it.”
“Then he should get used to it. Even if he’s to be a priest, if he has a country parish, he’ll have to ride a horse; and, here in the city, until he’s a priest, if he wants to cut a figure like the other lads, and doesn’t know how to ride, he’ll have good cause to complain of you, sister Glória.”
“Let him, if he wants to; I’m afraid.”
“Afraid! How absurd!”
The truth is that I only learned horsemanship later, less for the pleasure of it than because I was ashamed to say that I didn’t know how to ride. “Now he’ll really be chasing the girls,” they said when I began the lessons. The same could not be said of Uncle Cosme. With him, it had been an old habit, and a necessity. Now, he was done with flirting. They say that when he was younger he was very popular with the ladies, and was a fervent political enthusiast; but the years had removed the greater part of his political and sexual ardor, and corpulence had dealt a final blow to his ambitions, both in the public arena and in more intimate spheres. Now, he only carried out his duties, without his old enthusiasm. In his leisure hours he would sit staring, or playing cards. From time to time he would tell jokes.