So, my life was again sweet and tranquil, my lawyer’s practice was doing well, Capitu was lovelier, and Ezequiel was growing. It was the beginning of 1872.
“Have you noticed that Ezequiel has an odd expression in his eyes?” Capitu asked me. “I’ve only seen two people like that, a friend of Papa’s and the late Escobar. Look, Ezequiel; look straight ahead, just so, turn round to Papa, you’ve no need to roll your eyes, just so …”
It was after dinner; we were still at table, Capitu was playing with her son, and he with her, or each with the other, for, in truth, they were fond of each other; but it is also true that he was even fonder of me. I looked closely at Ezequiel, and thought that Capitu was right; they were Escobar’s eyes, but they didn’t seem any the odder for that. After all, there can’t be more than half a dozen expressions in the world, and many similarities would come about naturally. Ezequiel didn’t understand what was happening, looked startled at her and at me, and finally jumped into my lap:
“Can we go for a walk, Papa?”
“Soon, my son.”
Capitu, remote from us both, was now staring at the other side of the table; but when I said to her that, as far as their beauty was concerned, Ezequiel’s eyes came from his mother, Capitu smiled, shaking her head with an air that I have never seen in another woman, probably because I loved none as much as her. Each person is worth the value put on them by the affection of others, and that is where popular wisdom has found the proverb that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Capitu had half a dozen gestures that were unique on earth. That particular one went straight to my heart. That explains why I ran to my wife and companion and covered her face with kisses; but this further incident is not completely necessary to the understanding of the last chapter or of those that follow; let’s stick to Ezequiel’s eyes.