I sounded José Dias out on my mother’s new manner; he was astonished. There was nothing the matter, nor could there be, such was the incessant praise he heard for the “beautiful and virtuous Capitu.”
“Now, when I hear it, I join the chorus; but I felt most ashamed at the beginning. For someone like me, who went so far as to disapprove of this marriage, it was hard to confess that it was a veritable blessing from heaven. What a dignified lady that mischievous girl from Matacavalos has become! It was her father who separated us somewhat, when we didn’t know one another, but it’s all worked out for the best. Yes indeed, when Dona Glória praises her daughter-in-law and mother of her godson …”
“So Mamma? …”
“Absolutely!”
“But why hasn’t she come to see us in so long?”
“I think she’s been suffering more from her rheumatism. It’s been very cold this year … Imagine how miserable she must be, when she used to be active all day; now she has to sit down beside her brother, who’s not too well himself …”
I wanted to say that this explained the interruption of her visits, and not her coolness when we went to Matacavalos; but I didn’t take my intimacy with our dependent that far. José Dias asked to see our “little prophet” (that was what he called Ezequiel) and made the usual fuss of him. This time he spoke in the biblical manner (he had been leafing through the book of Ezekiel the day before, as I found out afterwards), and asked him: “How are things, son of man?”, “Tell me, son of man, where are your toys?”, “Would you like a sweet, son of man?”
“What son of man is that?” asked Capitu, irritated.
“It’s the biblical way of putting it.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” she replied sharply.
“You’re right, Capitu,” agreed the dependent. “You can’t imagine how many crude, coarse expressions there are in the Bible. I put it that way for a change. How are you, my angel? My angel, how do I walk down the street?”
“No,” interrupted Capitu; “I’m trying to rid him of that habit of imitating others.”
“But it’s very funny; when he imitates my gestures, I seem to see a miniature version of myself. The other day he even imitated a gesture of Dona Glória’s so well that she kissed him for it. Come on, how is it I walk?”
“No, Ezequiel,” I said, “Mamma says no.”
Even I thought it was a bad habit. Some of the gestures kept on coming back, like those of Escobar’s hands and feet; lately, he had even caught his way of turning his head around when he talked, and of letting it drop when he laughed. Capitu scolded him. But the boy was a mischievous little devil; hardly had we started to talk about something else, when he jumped into the middle of the room, saying to José Dias:
“This is the way you walk.”
We had to laugh, I more than anybody. The first person to frown, reprimand him, and bring him to his senses was Capitu.
“I won’t have that, do you hear?”