Suddenly she stopped reflecting, fixed me with her undertow eyes, and asked me if I was afraid.
“Afraid?”
“Yes, I’m asking if you’re afraid?”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of being beaten, being locked up, of fighting, walking, working …”
I didn’t understand. If she had simply said to me: “Let’s run away!” I might have obeyed her or I might not; but in any case I would have understood. But a question like that, vague and out of context; I had no idea what it meant.
“But … I don’t understand. Being beaten?”
“Yes.”
“Beaten who by? Who’s going to beat me?”
Capitu made a gesture of impatience. The undertow eyes were motionless, and seemed to grow. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and not wanting to ask her again, I began to think about who was going to beat me, and why, and why I was going to be locked up, and who was going to arrest me. God help me! In my imagination I saw the city jail, a dark, evil-smelling place. I saw the prison ships, too, and the Barbonos barracks, and the reformatory. All these wonderful social institutions enveloped me in their mystery, but Capitu’s undertow eyes went on looking at me and growing, so much so that they drove these things completely from my mind. Capitu’s mistake was that she did not let them grow to infinity: rather they went back to their normal dimensions, and she moved them in her usual way. Capitu came back to her usual self, said that she had been joking, that I shouldn’t get upset, and, with a charming gesture, she patted me on the cheek with a smile, and said:
“Me? But …”
“It’s nothing, Bentinho. Who on earth’s going to beat you or arrest you? I’m sorry, I’m feeling a bit crazy today; I felt like playing games, and …”
“No, Capitu; you’re not playing games; just now, neither of us feels like playing games.”
“You’re right, it was just me being crazy; see you later.”
“What do you mean, see you later?”
“My headache’s coming back; I’m going to put a slice of lemon on my temples.”
She did as she said, and tied the kerchief round her forehead again. Then, she went with me to the yard to say goodbye; but even there we lingered for some minutes, sitting on the edge of the well. There was a strong wind, and the sky was overcast. Capitu spoke again of our separation, as of something certain and definite, however much I, fearing just that, tried to find arguments to cheer her up. Capitu, when she was not talking, was sketching noses and profiles on the ground with a bamboo stick. Since she had begun to draw, this was one of her amusements: anything could serve as paper and pencil. I was reminded of how she had scratched our names on the wall, and decided to do the same thing on the ground. I asked for the stick. Either she didn’t hear me, or she paid no attention.