“SOME VERY STRANGE THINGS happen. Do you see that lady going into Holy Cross Church? The one who’s just paused on the steps to give some money to a beggar.”
“The one in black?”
“That’s her; she’s just going in. She’s gone.”
“Stop right there. That look on your face tells me she’s a memento from your past, and not that long ago, either, to judge by her figure: she’s a real stunner.”
“She must be about forty-six now.”
“No! She’s certainly very well preserved. Come on, stop staring down at the ground and tell me all. She’s a widow, of course.”
“No.”
“So her husband’s still alive. Is he old?”
“She’s not married.”
“A spinster, then?”
“Something like that. No doubt she calls herself Dona Maria something-or-other these days. Back in 1860, everyone just called her Marocas. She wasn’t a seamstress, or a landlady, or a governess; if you carry on down the list of professions, you’ll get there eventually. She lived on Rua do Sacramento. She was just as slender then, too, and, as you’d expect, even prettier than she is today; well mannered and never vulgar. Out on the street, even in a plain, faded dress buttoned right up to the neck, she still caught the attention of many a man.”
“You, for example.”
“No, not me, but Andrade, a friend of mine from Alagoas. He was twenty-six at the time, half lawyer, half politician; he got married in Bahia and came to Rio in 1859. His wife was pretty, affectionate, loving, and uncomplaining; when I met them, they had a little two-year-old girl.”
“And in spite of all that, Marocas . . . ?”
“Yes, she completely captivated him. Look, if you’re not in a hurry, I’ll tell you an interesting story.”
“Go on.”
“The first time Andrade met her was at the door of Paula Brito’s bookshop, on Rocio. He was walking along, when he saw a pretty woman in the distance and he waited, his interest aroused, for he was very much a ladies’ man. Marocas walked toward him, stopping and looking around like someone searching for a particular address. She stopped in front of the bookshop for a moment, then, timid and shame-faced, she handed Andrade a piece of paper with the number of a house written on it and asked him where she could find that house. Andrade told her it was on the other side of the square, and pointed to its likely location. The woman took her leave with a charming curtsy, and Andrade was left not knowing quite what to think.”
“Like me.”
“It couldn’t be simpler: Marocas couldn’t read, but this thought didn’t even occur to Andrade. He watched her cross Rocio, which at the time had neither statue nor gardens in the middle, and make her way to the house she was looking for, although she still kept asking for directions from various people. That night he went to the Teatro do Ginásio to see La Dame aux Camélias; Marocas was there, and during the last act, she cried like a baby. I’ll say no more, but two weeks later they were madly in love. Marocas got rid of all her other admirers, and she must have incurred quite a loss, for there were several substantial businessmen among them. She lived completely alone, devoting herself to Andrade, with no thought for any other man or any other means of support.”
“Just like the Lady of the Camellias.”
“Precisely. Andrade taught her to read. ‘I’m a schoolmaster now,’ he said to me one day, and that’s when he told me the story about their meeting on Rocio. Marocas was a quick learner, which is entirely understandable—the shame of not being able to read, the desire to read the novels he talked about, the pleasure in obeying his wishes and pleasing him . . . Andrade hid nothing from me; he told me everything with such a look of gratitude in his eyes, you can scarcely imagine. Both of them confided in me. Sometimes the three of us would dine together, and—I see no reason to deny it—sometimes there was a fourth. Now, don’t go thinking these dinners were louche affairs; lively, perhaps, but entirely decent. Marocas was as straitlaced in her language as she was in her dress. Little by little, we became close; she would ask me about Andrade, his wife, his daughter, his habits, whether he really loved her or if she was just a casual affair; did he have other women, would he forget her—a torrent of questions, and a fear of losing him, that demonstrated the strength and sincerity of her affections. Then, for the St. John’s Feast holidays, Andrade took his family to Gávea, where he was to attend a lavish dinner and a ball. I went with them; we would be gone for two days. As she bade the two of us goodbye, Marocas recalled the comedy she had seen several weeks before at the Ginásio—I’m Dining with Mother—and she joked to me that, having no family with whom she could spend St. John’s Eve, she would do as Sofia Arnoult had in the play, and dine with a portrait. And since she had no mother, it would be Andrade’s portrait instead. Those words deserved a kiss, and Andrade obligingly leaned toward her; however, seeing that I was still there, she delicately pushed him away with her hand.”
“A lovely gesture.”
“He thought so too. He took her head between his hands and placed a paternal kiss on her forehead. We set off for Gávea. On the way, Andrade told me about all of Marocas’s fine qualities, recounted all their latest whims and fancies, and said he was planning to buy her a house somewhere on the outskirts of the city just as soon as he could rustle up the money. In passing, he praised her thriftiness, for she wouldn’t take from him a penny more than was absolutely necessary. ‘And that’s not all,’ I said, and told him that around three weeks earlier, Marocas had apparently pawned some jewelry to pay a seamstress’s bill. This news greatly upset him; I can’t swear to it, but I believe there were tears in his eyes. In any case, after a few moments’ thought, he said he would definitely get her a house and shield her from any further hardships. In Gávea, we carried on discussing Marocas until the end of the holidays and our return to the city. Andrade left his family at their house in Lapa and went to his office to attend to some urgent papers. Shortly after noon, a fellow called Leandro turned up, asking, as usual, for Andrade to lend him two or three mil-réis. Leandro was the former employee of a lawyer acquaintance, and was an idler and a scrounger who made his living milking his former boss’s friends. Andrade gave him three mil-réis, and, as the man seemed unusually chirpy, he asked him why he was looking so pleased with himself. Leandro winked and licked his lips. Andrade, who was always partial to a tale of romantic endeavor, asked if he’d been lucky in love. Leandro hemmed and hawed for a moment, and admitted that indeed he had.”
“Careful, she’s coming out of the church. Is that her?”
“That’s her, all right: come on, let’s move away from the corner.”
“She must have been really very pretty. She carries herself like a duchess.”
“She didn’t see us; she never looks around. She’ll head straight up Rua do Ouvidor.”
“Yes, sir. I can understand what Andrade saw in her.”
“Back to the story. Leandro confessed that the previous evening he’d had a rare, or, rather, unique stroke of luck, entirely unexpected and undeserved, because, deep down, he knew he was nothing but a miserable wretch. But then, even miserable wretches are God’s children. Anyway, at around ten o’clock the previous evening, on Rocio, he had happened upon a modestly dressed lady, her attractive figure tightly swathed in a large shawl. The lady came up behind him, walking briskly, and as she brushed past him, she stared straight at him and slowed her step, as if waiting for him. The poor devil thought she must have mistaken him for someone else, and he confessed to Andrade that, despite her simple attire, he saw at once that she was out of his league. He carried on walking; the woman, who had stopped, stared at him again, so insistently that he drummed up a little courage . . . and she drummed up the rest. Ah! A perfect angel! And such a fine house, such a sumptuous parlor! Absolutely top-notch. And no question of payment, either . . . He added: ‘For a gentleman like yourself, it would be the perfect setup.’ Andrade shook his head; chasing after another man’s mistress didn’t much appeal to him. Leandro persisted, though, and told him that the house was on Rua do Sacramento, number such-and-such . . .”
“You’re joking!”
“Just imagine how Andrade must have felt. He himself had no idea what he said or did during those first few minutes, nor what he thought or felt. He finally summoned up the courage to ask Leandro if he was telling the truth, to which the other replied that he had no reason to invent such a story; however, seeing how agitated Andrade was, Leandro asked him to keep it a secret, telling him that he, for his part, would be the soul of discretion. Leandro stood up to go, but Andrade stopped him and asked if he would like to earn twenty mil-réis. ‘Of course!’ was the answer. ‘Well then,’ continued Andrade, ‘I’ll give you twenty mil-réis if you’ll go with me to this lady’s house and tell me in her presence that she’s the one you met.”
“Oh!”
“I’m not defending Andrade; it wasn’t a nice thing to do, but in such cases, passion can blind the best of us. Andrade was an honorable, generous, sincere fellow, but it had been such a heavy blow and he loved her so deeply that he did not shrink from wreaking his revenge.”
“Did Leandro agree?”
“He hesitated somewhat, I suspect out of fear rather than any sense of dignity, but then, twenty mil-réis . . . He made one condition: he didn’t want any trouble. Marocas was in the parlor when Andrade entered. She came to the door, intending to embrace him, but Andrade indicated that he had brought someone with him. Then, watching her closely, he called Leandro into the room. Marocas turned white as a sheet. ‘Is this the lady?’ he asked. ‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Leandro feebly, for there are some actions that are even more despicable than the man who commits them. With a flourish, Andrade opened his wallet, pulled out a twenty-mil-réis note, and gave it to Leandro; then, with another flourish, he told him to get out. Leandro left. The scene that followed was brief but dramatic. I didn’t get the whole of it, because it was Andrade himself who told me everything, and, naturally, he was so shaken that many things escaped him. She confessed nothing, but was utterly distraught, and when, after saying some very harsh things, he made for the door, she threw herself at his feet, clasped his hands, tearful and desperate, threatening to kill herself; and there she stayed, sprawled on the staircase landing, while he ran down the stairs and out of the building.”
“Really! Picking up a miserable wretch like that on the street . . . Do you think she made a habit of it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Just listen and I’ll tell you. Sometime around eight o’clock that night, Andrade came to my house and waited for me to return. He’d come looking for me three times already. I was astonished, but how could I doubt him when he had taken the precaution of obtaining proof that was beyond all reasonable doubt? I won’t go into everything he said: his plans for revenge, his curses, the names he called her, the usual repertoire of insults people dredge up in moments of crisis. My advice was for him to leave her and devote himself to his kind, loving wife and his daughter. He agreed, then again flew into a rage. After fury came doubt; he even got it into his head that Marocas had dreamed up the whole thing just to test him, and had actually paid Leandro to come and say those things to him; the proof being that even when he’d shown no interest in meeting the woman, Leandro had insisted on telling him the exact address. In clinging to this improbable explanation he was trying to escape reality, but reality kept coming back at him—Marocas’s pallor, Leandro’s unfeigned chirpiness, and all the other things that told him it was true. I even think he was beginning to wonder if he’d gone too far. As for me, I went over and over the whole affair but could find no explanation. She was so demure! Prim, even!”
“There’s a line in a play that might explain the affair, a line from Augier, I believe: ‘nostalgia for the gutter.’ ”
“I think not, but keep on listening. At about ten o’clock, Marocas’s maid, a freed slave, who was very attached to her mistress, turned up at my house. She was desperately looking for Andrade, because Marocas, after locking herself in her room in floods of tears, had left the house without her dinner and hadn’t returned. I had to restrain Andrade, whose first impulse was to race off after her. The maid begged us to find her mistress. ‘Doesn’t she usually go out?’ asked Andrade sarcastically. But the maid said that, no, it wasn’t usual at all. ‘Did you hear that?’ he shouted at me. Once again, hope had seized the poor devil’s heart. ‘What about yesterday?’ I asked. The maid answered that, yes, she had gone out yesterday; I stopped asking her questions out of pity for Andrade, who was growing more and more distressed, and whose wounded pride was gradually receding in the face of this impending danger. We went out to search for Marocas; we went to all the houses where we might possibly find her, and to the police, but without success. In the morning, we returned to the police station. Andrade was friends with the station chief or one of his deputies (I can’t remember which), and told him the relevant details of the affair; in any case, Andrade’s relationship with Marocas was already well known to all his friends. Every possibility was looked into; no accidents had occurred during the night; none of the boatmen down at Praia Grande had seen any ferry passengers falling overboard; the gunsmiths had sold no firearms and the apothecaries no poison. The police deployed all their resources, but came up with nothing. I won’t tell you what a state poor Andrade was in during those long hours, for the whole day was spent in futile investigations. It wasn’t only the pain of losing her; there were his feelings of guilt or remorse or doubt when faced with a possible disaster that seemed in itself to exonerate the young woman. He kept saying to me, over and over, that surely it was only natural to react as he had done in the delirium of indignation, and wouldn’t I have done the same? But then he would once again reassert her guilt, and prove it to me as vehemently as he had tried to prove her innocence the night before; he kept trying to adjust reality to his shifting sentiments.”
“But did you eventually find Marocas?”
“We were having something to eat at a hotel—it was nearly eight o’clock—when we got news of a possible lead: the previous evening, a coachman had taken a lady out in the direction of the Jardim Botânico. When she got there, she went into a boardinghouse, and stayed there. We didn’t even finish our dinner—we took the very same coach in the same direction. The owner of the boardinghouse confirmed the coachman’s version of events, adding that the person in question had retired to her room and hadn’t eaten anything since arriving yesterday; she had asked only for a cup of coffee, and seemed in very low spirits. We made our way up to her room, and the owner knocked on the door; she answered in a feeble voice and opened the door. Before I could say anything, Andrade pushed me aside, and the two of them fell into each other’s arms. Marocas shed copious tears, then fainted.”
“Did she explain everything?”
“Not at all. Neither of them even spoke of it; having survived the shipwreck, they had no wish to know anything about the storm that had all but sunk them. The reconciliation was almost instantaneous. A few months later, Andrade bought her a little house in Catumbi; Marocas gave him a son, who died at the age of two. When Andrade was sent north on government business, their affection was still as strong, even if their passion no longer burned with the same intensity. Nevertheless, she wanted to go with him and it was I who obliged her to stay. Andrade intended to return a short time later but, as I think I told you, he died in the provinces. Marocas felt his death deeply, went into mourning, and considered herself a widow; I know that for the first three years she always went to mass on the anniversary of his death. Ten years ago, I completely lost sight of her. So what do you make of it all?”
“I suppose some very strange things really do happen, always assuming that you haven’t taken advantage of my youthful naïveté by making the whole thing up . . .”
“I haven’t made anything up; it really did happen.”
“And yet, sir, it’s certainly very odd. In the midst of all that burning, genuine passion . . . No, I’m sticking to my guns; I think it was nostalgia for the gutter.”
“No. Marocas had never stooped as low as the Leandros of this world.”
“Then why did she do so on that particular night?”
“She presumed there was a gaping social chasm separating him from anyone who might know her; that’s what made her so sure of herself. But she did not allow for coincidence, which is a god and a devil rolled into one . . . Well, strange things happen!”