My mother, when I came back a Bachelor of Law, almost burst with happiness. I can still hear José Dias’ voice, recalling St. John’s Gospel, and saying on seeing us embracing:
“Woman, behold thy son! Son, behold thy mother!”
My mother, amidst her tears:
“Brother Cosme, he’s the image of his father, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s got something, his eyes, the shape of his face. He’s his father, only a bit more modern,” he concluded jokingly. “And tell me now, sister Glória, wasn’t it better that he didn’t persist in becoming a priest? Imagine this dandy making a good priest!”
“How’s my substitute?”
“Coming along; he’ll be ordained next year,” answered Uncle Cosme. “You must go to his ordination; me too, if this devil of a heart will let me. You must feel yourself in his soul, as it were, as if you yourself were being consecrated.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed my mother. “But look carefully, brother Cosme, see if he isn’t the image of my dear departed. Look, Bentinho, look right at me. I always thought you looked like him, now it’s much clearer. The moustache detracts from it a little …”
“Yes, sister Glória, the moustache, it’s true … but he’s very like.”
And my mother kissed me with a tenderness I can’t put into words. Uncle Cosme, to please her, called me doctor, José Dias, too, and everybody at home, cousin Justina, the slaves, guests, Pádua, his daughter, and she herself kept repeating the title to me.