I’M GOING TO TELL YOU an anecdote, an anecdote in the true sense of the word, which common usage has since broadened out to include any brief, invented tale. This anecdote happens to be true: I can cite several people who know it as well as I do. Nor would it have remained hidden from view had some tranquil soul been capable of discerning its philosophical implications. As you know, everything has a philosophical meaning. Carlyle discovered the philosophy of vests, or, rather, of clothes, and everyone knows that numbers were used in the Pythagorean system long before the Ipiranga lottery. For my part, I think I have deciphered the meaning behind this tale of a loan; you will see if I am mistaken.
To begin with, let us amend what Seneca said. In the eyes of that stern moralist, every day is, in itself, a singular life; in other words, a life within life. I wouldn’t disagree with that, but why did he not add that often a single hour can encapsulate a whole life? Observe this young man: he enters the world with great ambitions: a ministerial portfolio perhaps, his own bank, a viscount’s coronet, a bishop’s crozier. At fifty, we will find him working as a lowly customs inspector, or as a sacristan in some country parish. This transformation took place over a period of thirty years, and no doubt a Balzac could have fit it all into a mere three hundred pages; so why shouldn’t life, which was, after all, Balzac’s teacher, squeeze it into thirty or sixty minutes?
Four o’clock had struck in the office of the notary Vaz Nunes, in Rua do Rosário. The clerks had put the final flourishes to their documents, and wiped their goose quills on the piece of black silk hanging from one of the drawers; then they had closed the drawers, gathered up their papers, tidied away their books and registers, and washed their hands; those who had changed their jackets on arriving took off their work coat and put on their outdoor one, and then they all left. Vaz Nunes remained alone.
This honest notary was one of the most perceptive men of his day. He has since died, so we can praise him all we like. He had eyes like a lancet, cutting and sharp. He could read the characters of the people who came to him to notarize their contracts and agreements; he knew a testator’s soul long before he had finished his will; he could scent secret plots and hidden thoughts. He wore glasses, as do all stage notaries, but, not being nearsighted, he would peer over them when he wanted to see, and through them if he preferred not to be seen. Crafty old fox, said the clerks. He was, in any event, a circumspect fellow. He was fifty years old, a childless widower, and, in the words of some of his fellow notaries, he was quietly nibbling his way through the two hundred contos de réis he had salted away.
“Who’s there?” he asked suddenly, looking up.
Standing in the doorway was a man whom he did not immediately recognize and whom he only barely recognized afterward. Vaz Nunes invited him in; the man entered, greeted him, shook his hand, and sat down on the chair beside the desk. He did not carry himself with the customary awkwardness of a beggar; on the contrary, he gave every impression of having come with the sole purpose of giving the notary some very precious and rare commodity. Vaz Nunes nevertheless shuddered and waited.
“Don’t you remember me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“We were with each other one night a few months ago, in Tijuca. Don’t you remember? In Teodorico’s house, at that magnificent Christmas Eve supper. As a matter of fact, I proposed a toast to you. Surely you remember old Custódio!”
“Ah!”
Custódio sat up straighter, having been sitting somewhat slumped. He was a man of about forty. Poorly dressed, but well groomed, neat, and very correct. He had long nails, neatly trimmed, and his hands were slender and soft, unlike the skin on his face, which was somewhat lined. Minor details, but necessary to illustrate a certain duality in the man, an air of being both a beggar and a general. Walking down the street with no breakfast and not a penny in his pocket, he behaved as if he were marching at the head of an army. The reason was none other than the contrast between nature and situation, between soul and life. Custódio had been born with a vocation to be wealthy, but with no vocation for work. He had an instinct for elegance, a love of excess, good food, beautiful ladies, luxuriant carpets, exquisite furniture, a voluptuary (and, up to a point, an artist) capable of running the Villa Torlonia or the Hamilton Gallery. But he had no money; neither money nor the aptitude or patience to earn it. And yet, on the other hand, he needed to live. Il faut bien que je vive, a man in search of a favor once said to Talleyrand. Je n’en vois pas la nécessité, the minister replied coldly. Nobody gave this answer to Custódio; they gave him money instead—someone would give him ten mil-réis, another would give five, another twenty, and it was principally from such small donations that he paid his bed and board.
I say “principally,” because Custódio did not hold back from involving himself in various business deals, but always on condition that he could choose them, and he always chose the ones that were doomed to fail. He had an excellent nose for disasters. From among twenty businesses, he could immediately pluck the most foolhardy, and would plunge in resolutely. The bad luck that pursued him would ensure that the other nineteen would prosper, while the one he chose would blow up in his face. No matter; he would pick himself up and get ready for the next.
He had, for example, recently read an advertisement in the paper seeking a business partner willing to invest five contos de réis in a certain enterprise that promised, within the first six months, to return a profit of between eighty and a hundred contos. Custódio went to meet the person who had placed the advertisement. It was a great idea: a needle factory, a brand-new business with an exciting future. And the plans, the design of the factory, the reports from Birmingham, the lists of imports, the replies from tailors and haberdashers and other such merchants, all swam before Custódio’s eyes, dazzled by figures he could not understand, and which, for that very reason, appeared to be the gospel truth. Twenty-four hours; he asked for twenty-four hours to find the five contos. And he left the place, flattered and fawned upon by the advertiser, who, still standing on the doorstep, continued to deluge him with a torrent of credit and debit balances. But the five contos—five thousand mil-réis, no less—proved less biddable or less fickle than a mere five mil-réis, shaking their heads incredulously and keeping to their coffers, paralyzed by fear and sleep. Not one penny. The eight or ten friends he spoke to all told him they didn’t have that amount of money available, nor did they have any faith in the factory. He had just about lost all hope when he happened to find himself in Rua do Rosário and saw the name Vaz Nunes above the doorway of a notary’s office. His heart leapt with joy, remembering Tijuca, the notary’s impeccable manners, the kind words with which he responded to the toast, and he said to himself that here was the man to save the situation.
“I’ve come to ask you to draw up a deed . . .”
Expecting a different opening gambit, Vaz Nunes did not reply, but simply peered over his glasses and waited.
“A deed of gratitude,” explained Custódio; “I’ve come to ask you a great favor, an indispensable favor, and I’m counting on you, my friend . . .”
“If I can help, of course . . .”
“It’s a really excellent business, a magnificent business. I would not even deign to bother other people if the outcome were not certain. It’s all set to go; stock has already been ordered from England, and the business should be up and running within two months; it’s a new factory, you see. There are three of us in the partnership; my share is five contos and I’ve come to ask you to lend me that amount for six months—or even three, at a reasonable rate of interest . . .”
“Five contos?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“But I can’t, Custódio. I simply don’t have that kind of money. Business is bad, and even if it were going really well, I wouldn’t be able to lay my hands on that amount. Who could ever expect five contos from a humble notary?”
“If you really wanted to . . .”
“But I do want to. All I’m saying is that if it were a small amount, proportionate to my means, I would have no hesitation in advancing it. But five contos! Believe me, it’s quite impossible.”
Custódio’s spirits sank. He had climbed up Jacob’s ladder to heaven, but instead of descending like the angels in the biblical dream, he had tumbled down and fallen flat on his face. This was his last hope, and precisely because it had arisen so unexpectedly, he was convinced it would bear fruit, since, like all souls who trust themselves to happenstance, Custódio was a superstitious man. The poor wretch could feel his body being pierced all over by every one of those millions of needles that the factory would undoubtedly produce during its first six months. Speechless, eyes downcast, he waited for the notary to continue, to take pity on him and give him a chance. But, sensing this, the notary remained equally silent, turning his snuff box around and around in his hand, and breathing heavily, with a certain knowing, nasal whistle. Custódio attempted every possible pose, now a beggar, now a general. The notary would not be moved. Custódio stood up.
”In that case,” he said, with just a touch of resentment, “forgive me for bothering you . . .”
“There’s nothing to forgive: it is I who must apologize for not being able to help you, as I would have liked. As I said, had the amount been smaller, much smaller, I would not have hesitated; however . . .”
He reached out to shake hands with Custódio, who mechanically tipped his hat with his other hand. Custódio’s dull stare revealed the state of his soul, barely recovered from its fall, which had drained him of his last ounce of energy. No mysterious ladder and no heaven; everything had vanished at the snap of a notary’s fingers. Farewell, needles! Reality once again gripped him with its bronze talons. He would have to return to his precarious, unplanned existence, to his old account books with their goggle-eyed zeros and wiggly-eared $-signs, that would continue to stare and listen, listen and stare, dangling before him the implacable numerology of hunger. What a fall! And into what an abyss! Realizing the truth of his situation, he looked at the notary as if to say goodbye, but an idea suddenly lit up the dark night of his brain. If it were a smaller amount, Vaz Nunes could provide it, and willingly. So why shouldn’t it be a smaller amount? He had already given up the idea of the business adventure; but he could scarcely do the same with his rent arrears and his various other creditors. A reasonable sum, five hundred mil-réis, for example, would do nicely, if he could only persuade the notary to lend it to him. Custódio’s spirits rose; he would live for the present and have nothing to do with the past, no regrets or fears, no remorse. The present was all that mattered. The present was the five hundred mil-réis that he would watch emerging from the notary’s pocket like a certificate of emancipation.
“In that case,” he said, “why don’t you see what you can give me, and I’ll go and ask some other friends as well. How much do you think you could afford?”
“I hardly dare say, because it can really only be a very modest amount indeed.”
“Five hundred mil-réis?”
“No, impossible.”
“Not even five hundred mil-réis?”
“No,” said the notary firmly. “What’s so surprising about that? I won’t deny that I own several properties, but, my friend, I don’t walk around with them in my wallet; and I have certain obligations incumbent upon me . . . Don’t you have a job?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Look, I’ll give you something better than five hundred mil-réis; I’ll have a word with the minister of justice. I know him well, and—”
Custódio interrupted him, slapping his thigh. Whether this was a natural gesture or a crafty diversion to avoid discussing a potential job, I have absolutely no idea; nor does it seem an essential element of the story. What is essential, though, is that he persisted in his request. Could the notary really not give him five hundred mil-réis? He would take two hundred; two hundred would be enough, not for the factory, for he would follow his friends’ advice and turn it down. Two hundred mil-réis, seeing that the notary was disposed to help him, would meet an urgent need, to “fill a hole,” as he put it. And then he told the notary everything, meeting frankness with frankness, for that was his rule of life. He admitted that, in dealing with the business proposal, he also had in mind settling matters with a particularly persistent creditor, a devil of a fellow and a Jew, who, strictly speaking, still owed him, but had treacherously turned the tables on him. It was two hundred and something mil-réis; two hundred and ten, to be precise; but he would accept two hundred—
“Really, it pains me to repeat what I’ve already said, but there we are; even two hundred mil-réis is beyond my means. Even if you were to ask me for a hundred mil-réis, that would still exceed my capabilities at this particular time. On another occasion, possibly, I’m sure, but not right now . . .”
“You can’t imagine the tricky situation I find myself in!”
“I repeat, not even one hundred mil-réis. I’ve had a lot of expenses recently. Clubs and societies, subscriptions, the Freemasons . . . You probably don’t believe me, do you, given that I do own some property, but, my friend, it is indeed a fine thing to own houses, but what you don’t see is all the wear and tear, the repairs, the water pipes, the tithes, the insurance, the rent arrears, and all the rest of it. They’re the holes in the pot through which most of the water is lost . . .”
“If only I had a pot!” sighed Custódio.
“I’m not saying I’m not fortunate, but what I am saying is that owning houses doesn’t mean you don’t have worries, expenses, even creditors . . . Believe you me, I have creditors too.”
“So not even a hundred mil-réis!”
“Not even a hundred mil-réis. It pains me to say so, but that’s how it is. Not even a hundred mil-réis. Now what time is it?”
He stood up and stepped forward into the middle of the room. Custódio did likewise, impelled by necessity and desperation. He could not bring himself to believe that the notary did not have at least a hundred mil-réis. Who on earth doesn’t have a hundred mil-réis? He considered making a pathetic scene, but the notary’s office opened directly onto the street and he didn’t want to appear ridiculous. He peered outside. In the shop across the street a man was asking the price of a frock coat; he was standing at the door because dusk was coming on and it was already dark in the shop. The clerk was holding up the item of clothing for the customer, who was examining the cloth with eyes and fingers, then the seams, the lining . . . The incident opened up a new horizon to Custódio, albeit a modest one: it was high time he replaced the jacket he was wearing. But the notary couldn’t even give him fifty mil-réis. Custódio smiled, not scornfully or angrily, but bitterly and hesitantly. It was impossible that the man didn’t have fifty mil-réis. Twenty, at least? Not twenty. Not even twenty! No, it was all pretense, all lies.
Custódio pulled out his handkerchief, slowly smoothed his hat, then put his handkerchief back in his pocket and straightened his tie, with a mixture of hope and resentment. He had gradually been trimming the wings of his ambitions, feather by feather, but there still remained a fine, furry down, which gave him the foolish idea that he could fly. The other man, however, remained unmoved. Vaz Nunes was checking his pocket watch with the clock on the wall, holding it to his ear, cleaning the watch face, quietly oozing impatience and annoyance from every pore. The clock’s hands were creeping toward five. Finally, the hour struck, and the notary was at last able to begin his farewells. It was late; he lived far away. As he said this, he took off his alpaca jacket and put on the cashmere one, transferring from one to the other his snuffbox, handkerchief, and wallet. Oh, the wallet! Custódio saw this problematic item, caressed it with his eyes, envying the alpaca, envying the cashmere, wishing he could be the pocket, wishing he could be the leather, the material of the precious receptacle itself. There it went, plunged straight into the inside left-hand pocket of the jacket, which the notary swiftly buttoned up. Not even twenty mil-réis! It was impossible that he didn’t have twenty mil-réis on him, thought Custódio; perhaps not two hundred, but certainly twenty, or ten . . .
“Right, then!” said Vaz Nunes, putting on his hat.
It was the fateful moment. Not a word from the notary, not even an invitation to dine with him; nothing. It was the end of the road. But supreme moments call for supreme efforts. Custódio felt this cliché in all its strength, and, suddenly, like a shot, he asked the notary if he couldn’t at least give him ten mil-réis.
“Shall I show you?”
And the notary unbuttoned his jacket, took out his wallet, opened it, and removed two notes of five mil-réis.
“See? That’s all I have,” he said. “What I can do is share them with you; I’ll give you one five mil-réis note, and I’ll keep the other; will that do?”
Custódio accepted the five mil-réis, not glumly or with bad grace, but smiling, indeed as thrilled as if he had just conquered Asia Minor. There was his dinner taken care of. He shook the other man’s hand, thanked him for his kindness, bade him farewell for now—a “for now” full of implicit meanings. Then he left; the beggar slipping out the door of the notary’s office and the general marching boldly down the street, nodding fraternally to the English merchants making their way up toward the suburbs. Never had the sky seemed so blue or the evening so clear; all the men around him had a gleam of hospitality in their eyes. With his left hand he lovingly squeezed the five-mil-réis note in his trouser pocket, the residue of a grand ambition which, but a short time ago, had soared boldly up to the sun like an eagle, and now flapped modestly with the flightless wings of a chicken.