It was not José Dias’ last superlative. There were others which it is not worth transcribing here, until the last, the best of them, the gentlest, which made his death a part of his life. Now he was living with me; although my mother had left him a small legacy, he came to tell me that now, with the legacy or without it, he would not be separated from me. Perhaps he hoped to bury me. He corresponded with Capitu, asking her to send him a portrait of Ezequiel; but Capitu kept putting it off from one mail to the next, until he asked for nothing more than the young student’s affection; he also asked her that she should not fail to speak to Ezequiel of his father’s and grandfather’s old friend, “destined by heaven to love those of the same blood.” That was his way of preparing himself to be looked after by the third generation; but death came before Ezequiel. It was a brief illness. I asked for a homeopathic doctor to be sent for.
“No, Bentinho,” he said, “an allopath will do; death comes in every school. Anyway, those were the ideas of my youth, and time has taken them away; I am converted to the faith of my fathers. Allopathy is the Catholicism of medicine …”
He died serenely, after a short agony. A little before, he heard that the sky was beautiful, and asked us to open the window.
“No, the air could do you harm.”
“What harm? Air is life.”
We opened the window. Truly, the sky was clear and blue. José Dias raised himself up and looked out; after some moments, he let his head fall back, murmuring “Most beautiful!” They were the last words he uttered in this world. Poor José Dias! Why should I deny that I wept for him?