In my room, as I unpacked my trunk and took my Bachelor’s degree from its case, I thought about my happiness and glory. I saw my marriage and a successful career, while José Dias helped me, silently and zealously. At that point, an invisible fairy came down into the room, and said, in a voice both soft and warm: “You will be happy, Bentinho; you’re going to be happy.”
“And why shouldn’t you be happy?” asked José Dias, straightening his back and staring at me.
“Did you hear?” I asked, as I got up too, astonished.
“Hear what?”
“Did you hear a voice saying I will be happy?”
“That’s a good one! You said it yourself …”
Even now I could swear that it was the fairy’s voice; obviously, fairies, having been expelled from stories and poems, have gone into people’s hearts and speak from inside. This one, for instance—I’ve often heard her clearly and distinctly. She must be a cousin of the Scottish witches: “Thou shalt be king, Macbeth!” “You will be happy, Bentinho!” In the end, it’s the same prediction, set to the same universal, eternal tune. When I had got over my astonishment, I heard the rest of José Dias’ speech:
“… You will be happy, as you deserve, just as you deserved that diploma, which is a favor from nobody. The proof is that you got a distinction in every subject; I’ve already told you that I heard the most unstinting praise from the professors themselves, in private. What is more, happiness is not only glory, it’s something else as well… Ah, you’ve not confided in old José Dias! Poor José Dias is pushed away in a corner, like an old sock, no good for anything any more; now it’s the new friends, the Escobars of this world … I’m not denying that he’s a very refined young man, hardworking, a first-class husband; but, when all’s said and done, an old man knows how to love too…
“But what is it?”
“What do you think? Who doesn’t know all about it? … That neighborly intimacy was bound to end in this, and it is truly a blessing from heaven, for she is an angel, the angelest… Pardon the solecism, Bentinho, it’s a way of underlining the young lady’s perfection. Years ago, I thought differently; I confused her childish ways with expressions of character, and didn’t see that that mischievous girl, already with her thoughtful eyes, was the capricious bloom which would produce such a sweet, wholesome fruit … Why didn’t you tell me what others know, and is well known and approved of here at home?”
“Does Mamma really approve?”
“Well, what do you think? We have spoken about it, and she did me the favor of asking for my opinion. Ask her what I said to her in clear, positive terms; ask her. I told her that she could not ask for a better daughter-in-law, good, discreet, accomplished, a friend of the family… and a good housewife, I don’t need to tell you. After her mother’s death, she took charge of everything. Pádua, now he’s retired, does nothing but get his pension and hand it over to his daughter. She’s the one who takes care of the money, pays the bills, keeps track of expenses, looks after everything, food, clothes, fuel; you saw her yourself last year. And as for her beauty, you know better than anyone …”
“But did Mamma really consult you about our marriage?”
“Not in so many words; she did me the favor of asking if Capitu wouldn’t make a good wife; it was I who, in my reply, spoke of daughters-in-law. Dona Glória didn’t deny it, and even gave a knowing smile.”
“Always when Mamma wrote to me, she spoke of Capitu.”
“You know that they are fond of one another, and that’s why her cousin gets sulkier every day. She might get married all the quicker.”
“Cousin Justina?”
“Don’t you know? It’s only gossip, of course; but anyway, Dr. João da Costa lost his wife a few months ago, and they say—I don’t know, the protonotary told me—they say that the two of them are half inclined to leave widowhood behind and get married again. It might turn out to be nothing, but it might suit, even though she always thought the doctor was a bag of bones … Only if she’s a cemetery,” he commented laughing; then seriously: “I only say that in fun …”
I didn’t hear the rest. I only heard the voice of my internal fairy, who kept repeating, now wordlessly: “You will be happy, Bentinho!” And Capitu’s voice said the same thing, in different terms, and Escobar’s, both of whom confirmed José Dias’ news by their own impressions. Finally, my mother, some weeks later, when I went to ask her permission to marry, gave me the same prophecy along with her consent, except that it was in a mother’s version: “You will be happy, my son!”