Pádua was an employee in a department of the Ministry of War. He didn’t earn much, but his wife spent little, and living was cheap. Moreover, the house he lived in, of two storeys like ours, though smaller, was his own property. He bought it when he won the big prize with half a lottery ticket: ten contos.* Pádua’s first notion, when he won the prize, was to buy a thoroughbred horse, a diamond necklace for his wife, a burial vault for the family, some birds from Europe, etc.; but his wife—this same Dona Fortunata who is standing at the back door of the house, talking to her daughter, and tall, strong, and well built like her, with the same head and the same clear eyes—it was she who told him that the best thing to do was to buy the house, and keep anything that was left over to tide them through illnesses. Pádua hesitated a good deal; in the end, he had to give way to advice from my mother, to whom Dona Fortunata turned for help. Nor was that the only occasion that my mother assisted them; one day, she even saved Pádua’s life. Listen; it’s only a brief anecdote.
The director of the department where Pádua worked had to go to the North of the country, on a special commission. Either because of normal regulations, or by special appointment, Pádua took the director’s position, and with the appropriate honararia. The change of fortune went to his head somewhat; it was before the ten contos. He didn’t stop at buying new clothes and improving the kitchen, he also spent money extravagantly, gave jewels to his wife, killed a sucking pig on feast days, was seen at the theater, even went as far as patent-leather shoes. And so he spent the twenty-two months supposing that the temporary directorship was eternal. One day he came to our house, distressed and half crazed; he was going to lose his position, for the permanent director had come back that morning. He asked my mother to look after his hapless wife and daughter; he could not bear the disgrace, and was going to kill himself. My mother spoke kindly to him, but he paid no attention.
“No, Madam, I cannot consent to such disgrace. To bring my family down in the world, to go back … No, I’ll kill myself! I can’t admit this shame to my family. And the others? What will the neighbors say? And my friends? And public opinion?”
“What public opinion, Sr. Pádua? Stop this; be a man. Remember your wife has no one else … what will she do? For a man to do such a thing … Come, come, be a man.”
Pádua dried his eyes and went home, where for some days he remained prostrate, silent, shut in the bedroom—or in the yard, next to the well, as if the idea of death wouldn’t leave him. Dona Fortunata scolded him:
“Joãozinho, are you a child?”
But she heard him talk about death so much that she was frightened, and one day ran to ask my mother to do her the favor of seeing if she could save her husband from suicide. My mother went to the well where he was, and ordered him to live. What lunacy was this, thinking he was going to be disgraced, just because he was going to lose extra payments, and a temporary post? No, he should be a man, the father of a family, imitate his wife and daughter … Pádua obeyed; he confessed that he would find the strength to comply with my mother’s wishes.
“It’s not my wishes that matter; it’s your duty.”
“Well, then, my duty; I know it’s so.”
On the next few days, he went in and out of the house, as if he were trying to hide, and with his eyes on the ground. He was not the same man who wore his hat out greeting the neighbors, smiling, looking straight ahead of him, even before the temporary directorship. As the weeks went by, the wound began to heal. Pádua began to take an interest in the home again, to look after his birds, to sleep well at night and during the siesta, to chat and retail local gossip. His serenity came back; and in its wake came happiness, in the form of two friends, who came round one Sunday to play a game of solo, with tokens instead of money. He laughed, he joked, he was his usual self; the wound had healed completely.
With time, an interesting phenomenon came about. Pádua began to talk about the temporary directorship, not only with no regrets for the lost honoraria, no shame at having lost the job, but even with a certain conceit and pride. The directorship became the hejira, from which he counted backwards and forwards.
“It was the time when I was director …”
Or:
“Oh, yes, I remember, it was before I became director, one or two months before … Wait a moment; my directorship began … That’s it, it was a month and a half before, no more than that.”
Or again:
“Exactly, I had been director for six months …”
Such is the posthumous taste of temporary glories. José Dias proclaimed that it was enduring vanity; but Father Cabral, who referred everything back to the Scriptures, said that neighbor Pádua’s case could be summed up in the words of Eliphaz to Job: “Despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty: for He woundeth and His hands make whole.”*