There was a sung mass at the Cathedral the following Sunday, and São Joaneira and Amélia walked across the square to fetch Dona Maria da Assunção, who never went out alone on market days or when there were a lot of ‘working people’ about, for fear that they might steal her jewels or insult her chastity.
On that morning, large crowds had indeed come in from the villages and were filling the square: serious-looking men with close-shaven faces and with their jackets slung over their shoulders stood around in groups, blocking the street; there were women in pairs, wearing a fortune in gold chains and gold hearts on their plump bosoms, and in the shops, the assistants bustled about behind counters laden with linen goods and fabrics; coarse voices emerged from the packed taverns; endless haggling went on in the market, amongst the sacks of flour, the piles of china and the baskets of corn bread; crowds of people flocked around the stalls that glinted with small round mirrors and overflowed with bunches of rosaries; old women sitting by trays of cakes cried their wares; and on street corners, the poor of the parish said mournful paternosters.
Ladies were already heading for mass, grave-faced and all dressed in silk, and the arcade was full of gentlemen, very erect in their new cashmere suits, smoking expensive cigarettes and enjoying their Sunday.
Amélia drew everyone’s eyes: the tax-collector’s bold son, who was with a group of friends, even said out loud: ‘Ah, she’s stolen my heart!’ As the two ladies were hurrying on down Rua do Correio, they saw Libaninho, wearing black gloves and a carnation in his buttonhole. He had not seen them since the ‘disgraceful incident outside the Cathedral’ and he immediately burst out in exclamations: Ladies, how terrible! That wicked clerk! He himself had been so busy that he had only been able to offer his commiserations to Father Amaro that very morning; the saintly creature had been putting on his vestments, but had received him with such kindness; he had asked to see Father Amaro’s shoulder and, praise God, there was not even a mark on it . . . And if only they could have seen for themselves what delicate flesh the Father has, such white skin . . . the skin of an archangel!
‘But do you know, ladies, I found him greatly upset.’
The two ladies were much alarmed. Why, Libaninho?
His maid Vicência had not been feeling well for some days and had been admitted into hospital early that morning with a high fever.
‘And there he is with no maid, nothing. Imagine! He’s all right today, because he’s having lunch with the Canon (I saw him today as well – what a saint!), but what about tomorrow and the day after? Vicência’s sister, Dionísia, is there at the moment, but I mean, Dionísia, really! That’s what I said to him: Dionísia could be a saint for all I know, but her reputation . . . the worst in Leiria. A shameless hussy who never sets foot in church. I’m sure the precentor wouldn’t approve.’
The two ladies agreed that Dionísia (a woman who ignored all the Church’s teachings and who had even performed in amateur theatricals) was definitely not a suitable maid for the parish priest . . .
‘Now, São Joaneira,’ said Libaninho, ‘do you know what I think? I’ve already said as much to Father Amaro . . . I think he should move back in with you. That way he will be somewhere comfortable with people who care about him, who will look after his clothes, who know his tastes and where he will be surrounded by virtue. Now, he didn’t say no and he didn’t say yes. But I could tell from his face that he was dying to do just that. You ought to talk to him yourself, São Joaneira!’
Amélia turned as red as her Indian silk scarf. And São Joaneira merely said ambiguously:
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t mention it . . . I’m very discreet in such matters . . . I’m sure you understand . . .’
‘But it would be like having a saint living in your house,’ urged Libaninho. ‘Just think of that! And it would suit everyone. I’m sure that even Our Lord would be happy to see it. Anyway, ladies, I must rush. Don’t delay now, it’s nearly time for mass.’
The two ladies walked on in silence to Dona Maria da Assunção’s house. Neither of them wanted to risk being the first to speak about the grave and unexpected possibility of Father Amaro returning to Rua da Misericórdia. It was only when they had stopped and São Joaneira was ringing the doorbell, that she said:
‘Father Amaro really can’t have Dionísia as his housekeeper . . .’
‘No, just the thought of it is horrific!’
And that was exactly what Dona Maria da Assunção said when they told her briefly about Vicência’s illness and Dionísia’s temporary installation as housekeeper: horrific!
‘Not that I’ve met her, of course,’ said the excellent lady. ‘I’d even rather like to, because they say she is encrusted in sin from head to toe!’
São Joaneira then mentioned ‘Libaninho’s idea’. Dona Maria da Assunção said at once that it was an inspiration from Our Lord Himself, that Father Amaro should never have left Rua da Misericórdia! It was almost as if, as soon as he left, God had withdrawn His grace from the household . . . There had been nothing but problems – the article in The District Voice, the Canon’s stomach ache, the death of São Joaneira’s sister, that unfortunate marriage (which, oh horror, so very nearly took place), the incident outside the Cathedral . . . It was as if the house had been bewitched! And it was almost a sin to allow that sainted man to live amongst such disorder with that filthy woman Vicência, who didn’t even know how to darn a sock!
‘The best possible place for him is in your house. He has everything he needs there. And it’s a real honour for you, like being in state of grace with God. As I’ve always said, if I wasn’t on my own, I’d have him here as my lodger. This is the place for him . . . what a room, eh?’
And her eyes shone as she gazed around at her precious things.
The room was indeed crammed with a vast collection of holy objects and pious bric-a-brac: the tops of the two copper-hinged rosewood sideboards were crowded with Our Ladies dressed in blue silk, either protected under glass domes or poised on pedestals, as well as with curly-headed Baby Jesuses with fat bellies and one hand raised in blessing, St Anthonies in their habits, St Sebastians bristling with arrows, and bearded St Josephs. There were exotic saints, who were her pride and joy, and which she had had specially made in Alcobaça – St Paschal Baylon, St Didacus, St Chrysolius, St Gorislano . . . Then there were the scapulars, the rosaries made out of metal or olive stones and coloured beads, yellowing lace from ancient albs, hearts made from scarlet glass, cushions with the initials J.M. embroidered in sequins, palms from Palm Sunday, martyrs’ palms, packets of incense. The walls were entirely covered by pictures of Virgins of every devotion – balanced on orbs, kneeling at the foot of crosses or pierced by swords. And hearts dripping blood or on fire, hearts from which lightning sprang forth; framed prayers for certain much-loved festivals – ‘The Marriage of Our Lady’, ‘The Invention of the Holy Cross’, ‘The Stigmata of St Francis’, and, above all, ‘The Holy Virgin’s Confinement’, the most holy of all, which was suitable for Ember Days. The tables were full of small oil lamps ready lit so that they could be placed immediately in front of a particular saint when the good lady had a bout of sciatica or her catarrh got worse or she suffered from cramp. She herself tidied, dusted and polished that holy, heavenly population, that pious arsenal, which was barely enough for the salvation of her soul and the relief of any aches and pains. Her main concern was the positioning of the different saints; she was constantly changing them around because sometimes, for example, she sensed that St Eleutherius did not like being next to St Justin, and so she would hang his picture in a spot where he was in more sympathetic company. And there was a hierarchy amongst them too (drawn up according to the precepts of the ritual explained to her by her confessor) which bestowed on each of them different degrees of devotion, with less respect being due to St Joseph II than to St Joseph I. Such wealth was the envy of her friends and an edifying experience for curious visitors, and whenever Libaninho came to visit, he would cast a languorous look around the room and say: ‘Oh, my dear, it’s like the Kingdom of Heaven!’
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ the excellent lady continued, her face radiant. ‘The saintly Father Amaro would be at home here, don’t you think? It’s like holding heaven in your hand!’
The two other ladies agreed. She, of course, could afford to have her house decorated with such devotion, she was rich . . .
‘I don’t deny it, I’ve spent a few hundred mil réis on this room, not counting what I spent on the reliquary . . .’
Ah, the famous reliquary made out of sandalwood and lined with satin. It contained a sliver of wood from the actual Cross, a fragment from the Crown of Thorns and a scrap of material from the Baby Jesus’ nappy. Amongst the devout in Leiria, there were bitter mutterings that such precious items, being of divine origin, should be in the shrine in the Cathedral. Dona Maria da Assunção, fearful that the precentor would find out about that seraphic treasure, only showed it to a few close friends, in great secrecy. And the holy priest who had obtained it for her had made her swear on the Gospel not to reveal its provenance, ‘in order to avoid gossip’.
São Joaneira, as usual, drooled over the scrap of material from the nappy.
‘Wonderful!’ she murmured. ‘Wonderful!’
And Dona Maria da Assunção said in a low voice:
‘There’s none better. It cost me thirty mil réis, but I would have given sixty or a hundred for it. I would have given everything!’ she stammered, in raptures over the precious scrap of cloth. ‘My lovely little Baby’s nappy!’ she said, almost in tears.
She gave it a resounding kiss and put the reliquary away in a large drawer.
But the clock was striking noon, and the three ladies hurried to the Cathedral to get seats near the high altar.
Outside they met Dona Josefa Dias, who was also rushing to church, desperate to attend mass, her cape all awry and one feather in her hat coming loose. She had been in a positive frenzy with the maid all morning. She had had to do all the preparation for lunch herself. She was in such a state, she wasn’t sure even a mass could make her feel better.
‘Father Amaro’s coming today. You’ll have heard about his maid falling ill. Oh, and I forgot to say, my brother would like you to lunch with us too, Amélia. So that there are two ladies and two gentlemen, he says.’
Amélia gave a joyful laugh.
‘And you can come and fetch her in the evening, São Joaneira. Goodness, I had to get dressed so quickly, I think my petticoat is falling down!’
When the four ladies went into the Cathedral, the church was already full. It was a sung Eucharist. Although it went against the strict letter of the ritual, diocesan custom (of which good Silvério, who was very strict on liturgical matters, had always disapproved) required that whenever the Blessed Sacrament was exposed there was also to be music for violin, cello and flute. The highly decorated altar, with its relics on display, stood out in festive white: the dossal, the frontal, and the paraments for the missals were white with raised embroidery in pale gold; pyramids of white flowers and foliage filled the vases; swathes of decorative white velvet cloth had been hung like curtains on either side of the tabernacle and looked like two vast white wings, reminiscent of the Dove of the Holy Spirit; and twenty candlesticks topped by yellow flames flanked the steps leading up to the monstrance, in which was displayed on high, in a glitter of gold, the round, opaque host. Subdued whispers filled the packed church; now and again someone cleared their throat or a baby cried; the air was growing thick with mingled breath and the smell of incense; and from the choir, where the figures of the musicians could be seen moving about behind the necks of bass fiddles and behind the music stands, came the occasional moan of a violin being tuned or a high note from a piccolo. The four friends had only just found their seats near the high altar when the two acolytes entered from the sacristy, one tall and straight as a pine tree, the other flabby and dishevelled, each carrying one of the two tall consecrated candlesticks; behind them came squint-eyed Pimenta bearing the silver censer and wearing a voluminous surplice from beneath which appeared his huge flapping feet taking slow stately steps; then, accompanied by the rustle in the nave of people kneeling down and leafing through prayer books, came the two deacons; and finally, vested in white, eyes lowered and hands clasped in prayer, displaying the humble meditative quality demanded by the ritual and expressive of Jesus’ own meekness on the road to Calvary, came Father Amaro – still red in the face after the furious row he had just had in the sacristy, before donning his vestments, about the state of the albs.
And the choir immediately launched into the Introit.
Amélia spent the mass gazing in rapt amazement at Father Amaro, who was, as the Canon said ‘a real artist when it came to sung masses’; everyone in the chapter agreed, as did all the ladies. What dignity, what chivalry in the ceremonial greetings he addressed to the deacons! How well he prostrated himself before the altar, humble and submissive, as if he were mere ashes or dust before the Lord, who was watching from nearby, surrounded by His court and by His heavenly family! But he was especially admirable during the blessings; he passed his hands slowly over the altar as if to pluck up and gather in the grace that fell from Christ’s presence there, and then, with a broad, charitable gesture, he scattered it the length of the whole nave, over the vast expanse of white headscarves, to where the men from the country stood crowded together at the back, walking sticks in hand, staring in astonishment at the glittering monstrance! That was when Amélia loved him most, thinking to herself that those hands bestowing the blessing had passionately squeezed her hands beneath the table when they were playing lotto; that voice, with which he addressed her as ‘my love’, was now reciting ineffable prayers and it seemed to her far better than the moaning of the violins, and stirred her more deeply than the bass notes from the organ! She imagined proudly that all the women there probably admired him too, but the only time she felt jealous, the jealousy of a devotee aware of the charms of Heaven, was when he stood before the altar in the ecstatic position required by the ritual, as still as if his soul had soared high up into the Eternal and beyond the senses. However, she preferred him, because he felt more human and accessible, during the Kyrie or the reading of the Epistle, when he sat with the deacons on the red damask bench; she would have liked to have caught his glance then, but he kept his eyes modestly lowered.
Sitting back on her heels, smiling radiantly, Amélia admired his profile, his well-made head, his gold-embroidered vestments, and she remembered the first time she had seen him coming down the stairs in Rua da Misericórdia, cigarette in hand. How much had happened since that night. She remembered Morenal, the leap from the wall, her aunt’s death, that kiss by the fire . . . How would it all end? She tried to pray then and began leafing through her prayer book, but she suddenly remembered what Libaninho had said that morning about Father Amaro having skin as white as an archangel’s. It must indeed be very delicate and tender. She burned with intense desire, and imagined it must be a tempting visitation by the Devil; to drive it away she fixed wide eyes on the shrine and on the altar where Father Amaro, flanked by the deacons, was making semicircles of incense which signified everlasting praise, while the choir bawled out the Offertory . . . Then as he stood on the second altar step, hands in prayer, he himself was wafted with incense; squint-eyed Pimenta made the silver chains of the thurible creak loudly and the smell of incense rolled forth like a celestial annunciation; the shrine was shrouded in white volutes of smoke; and Father Amaro seemed to Amélia almost divine! Oh, how she adored him!
The church shook to the clamour of the organ at full blast; mouths wide open, the choir were singing at full pelt; above them, rising above the necks of the violins, the director of music, in the white heat of performance, was desperately waving a baton made from a rolled-up sheet of plainsong.
Amélia left the church feeling exhausted and looking very pale.
Over lunch at the Canon’s house, Dona Josefa told her off repeatedly for ‘not saying a word’.
Though she did not speak, under the table, her small foot was constantly brushing and pressing against that of Father Amaro. It got dark early now and so they had lit the candles; to accompany the dish of milk pudding which almost filled the middle of the table and on which Father Amaro’s initials had been traced in cinnamon, the Canon had opened a bottle, not of his famous 1815 duque wine, but of the 1847 vintage; it was, as the Canon explained, ‘a small homage’ by his sister to her guest. With his glass of 1847 wine Amaro immediately drank to the health of ‘the worthy lady of the house’. Dona Josefa positively glowed, a hideous sight in her green woollen dress. She was just sorry the meal had been so awful . . . Gertrudes was getting so careless. She had nearly burned the duck and the milk pudding!
‘But it was delicious, Senhora!’ protested Amaro.
‘Now you’re being kind. I did manage to step in just in time. A little more milk pudding, Father?’
‘No, thank you, Senhora, I’ve had quite enough.’
‘We’d better finish off this wine,’ said the Canon. ‘Have another glass.’
He himself drank it down slowly in one draught, uttered a satisfied ‘Ah!’ and settled back in his chair.
‘A good drop of wine that! Makes life worth living!’
His face was flushed and with his thick flannel jacket on and a napkin tied round his neck, he looked even fatter than usual.
‘Yes, a good drop of wine that!’ he said again. ‘Better than the stuff you had today at mass . . .’
‘Please, brother!’ exclaimed Dona Josefa, scandalised at his irreverence, her mouth still full of milk pudding.
The Canon shrugged scornfully.
‘And what’s wrong with that? It’s time you learned not to meddle in things you don’t understand. If you must know, the quality of wine at mass is of great importance. The wine should be good because . . .’
‘It contributes to the dignity of the holy sacrifice,’ said Amaro gravely, meanwhile stroking Amélia’s knee.
‘And not just that,’ said the Canon, immediately adopting a pedagogical tone. ‘If the wine is not good and contains additives, it leaves a deposit, and if the sacristan is not scrupulous about cleaning the chalice, it can start to smell really terrible. And then do you know what happens? The priest goes to drink the blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ and, taken by surprise, he pulls a face. Now do you see?’
And he planted a kiss on his glass. But he was in a garrulous mood that night and, after uttering a leisurely belch, he again addressed Dona Josefa, who sat in awe of his knowledge.
‘Since you’re such a know-all, sister, tell me something else: should the communion wine be white or red?’
Dona Josefa felt that it should be red so as to resemble Our Lord’s blood.
‘You put her right, Miss Amélia,’ boomed the Canon, wagging his finger at her.
Amélia declined with a giggle. Since she wasn’t a sacristan, how could she possibly know?
‘And you, Father?’
Amaro said laughingly that since it obviously wasn’t red, it had to be white.
‘Why?’
Amaro had heard tell that it was the custom in Rome.
‘But why?’ persisted the Canon in rumbling, pedantic tones.
Amaro did not know.
‘Because when our Lord Jesus Christ first consecrated the wine, he did so with white wine. And the reason is very simple, it is because, as everyone knows, at that time in Judaea they did not make red wine. Give me a little more milk pudding, will you?’
Then, apropos of the wine and the cleansing of the chalices, Father Amaro began complaining about Bento, one of the sacristans. That morning before donning his vestments – just before the Canon had come into the sacristy – Amaro had had to reprimand him about the state of the albs. In the first place, Bento sent them to be laundered by one Antónia who, to general scandal, lived out of wedlock with a carpenter and was not fit to touch holy vestments. That was the first thing. Secondly, the woman returned them in such a filthy state that it would be an insult to wear them during holy communion.
‘Oh, send them to me, Father, send them to me,’ said Dona Josefa. ‘I’ll give them to my washerwoman, who is a person of great virtue and returns the clothes looking absolutely immaculate. It would be an honour. I myself would iron them and we could even have the iron blessed . . .’
But the Canon (who really was in loquacious mode that night) interrupted her, and turning to Father Amaro, he fixed him with a stern look and said:
‘Regarding my visit to the sacristy, I meant to say, dear friend and colleague, that today you committed a punishable error.’
Amaro looked troubled.
‘What error was that, Master?’
‘After vesting,’ the Canon continued slowly, ‘when the deacons were already there beside you and you bowed to the cross in the sacristy, instead of making a low bow, you only made a half bow.’
‘Now just a moment, Master!’ exclaimed Amaro. ‘That’s what it says in the rubric. Facta reverentia cruci, bow to the cross, that is, a simple bow, a slight lowering of the head.’
And to demonstrate, he made just such a bow to Dona Josefa, who beamed and wriggled with glee.
‘Not so!’ declared the Canon who, in his own house and at his own table, was used to imposing his opinions. ‘And I have my authors to support me.’ And he let fall from on high, like great boulders of authority, the venerable names of Laboranti, Baldeschi, Merati, Turrino and Pavonio.
Amaro had pushed his chair back, ready for argument, glad, in front of Amélia, to be able to trounce the Canon, that master of moral theology and colossus of liturgical practice.
‘I maintain,’ he exclaimed, ‘I maintain, along with Castaldus . . .’
‘Stop, thief!’ roared the Canon, ‘Castaldus is one of mine!’
‘No, Castaldus is mine, Master!’
And they grew angry, each one claiming the venerable Castaldus and his eloquent authority. Dona Josefa bounced gleefully up and down in her chair, her face all creased with laughter, and she murmured to Amélia:
‘Isn’t it lovely to see them like this! The saints!’
Amaro went on, his head held high:
‘More than that, I have good sense on my side too, Father. Primo, the rubric, as I said initially. Secundo, the priest, while in the sacristy with the biretta on his head, should not make a deep bow because the biretta might fall off, and then where would we be? Tertio, it would lead to the absurdity of the priest making a deeper bow to the cross in the sacristy than to the cross on the altar!’
‘But the bow to the cross on the altar . . .’ bawled the Canon.
‘Is only a half bow. Read the rubric: Caput inclinat. Read Gavantus, read Garriffaldi. And that is how it should be! Do you know why? Because the priest is at his most dignified after mass since he has inside him the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ. The point, therefore, is mine!’
And standing up, he vigorously rubbed his hands together in triumph.
The Canon was sitting slumped, like a stunned ox, his double chins resting on the folds of his napkin. Then after a moment, he said:
‘Yes, you’re quite right. I just wanted to find out what your response would be. He’s an honour to me, my student,’ he added, winking at Amélia. ‘Anyway, drink up, drink up! And then bring in some nice hot coffee, Josefa.’
However, at that point, they were startled by a loud ringing at the doorbell.
‘That’ll be São Joaneira,’ said Dona Josefa.
Gertrudes came in wrapped in a shawl and a woollen cape.
‘It’s a message from Miss Amélia’s house. The Senhora sends her regrets, but she can’t come, she’s not feeling well.’
‘Who shall I go home with, then?’ asked Amélia anxiously.
The Canon reached across the table and patted her hand:
‘If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll take you. Your virtue will be quite safe with me . . .’
‘Brother, really!’ cried Dona Josefa.
‘Oh, hush, sister. Out of a saintly mouth come only saintly words.’
Amaro agreed fulsomely:
‘The Canon’s absolutely right. Out of a saintly mouth come only saintly words. Your health, Master!’
‘And yours!’
And they clinked glasses, their eyes bright, entirely reconciled after their argument.
But Amélia was worried.
‘Oh dear, whatever can be wrong with Mama?’
‘A bout of laziness most likely,’ said Father Amaro, laughing.
‘Now don’t distress yourself, child,’ said Dona Josefa. ‘I’ll go with you, we all will.’
‘We’ll carry her on a dais like a holy image,’ muttered the Canon, peeling a pear.
Then he suddenly put down his knife, looked wildly around him and, running his hand over his stomach, said:
‘I’m not feeling very well either as it happens . . .’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Just a bit of a pain. It’s gone now. It was nothing.’
Much alarmed, Dona Josefa tried to stop him eating the pear. The last time this had happened it had been brought on by eating fruit.
But he obstinately bit into the pear.
‘The pain’s gone now,’ he grumbled.
‘It was in sympathy with your Mama,’ said Amaro quietly to Amélia.
Then the Canon abruptly pushed back his chair and slumped to one side:
‘I’m not at all well, not at all! Oh, dear God! Oh, my Lord. Oh, I’m dying!’
Everyone rushed to his side. Dona Josefa took his arm and helped him to his room, calling to the maid to fetch the doctor. Amélia ran into the kitchen to heat up a towel to place on his stomach. But there was no towel. A terrified Gertrudes was bumping into chairs, looking for a shawl to put on.
‘Go without it, you fool,’ Amélia shouted.
The girl left. In his bedroom the Canon was howling with pain.
Amaro, genuinely concerned now, went into the room. Dona Josefa was on her knees by the dressing table saying mournful prayers to a large lithograph of Our Lady of Sorrows, and the poor Canon was lying face down on the bed, biting the pillow.
‘Senhora,’ said Amaro severely, ‘this is no time for praying. We must do something. What do you usually do?’
‘Ah, Father, there’s nothing we can do,’ said Dona Josefa tearfully. ‘The pain comes and goes so quickly. There’s no time to do anything. Sometimes some limeflower tea helps, but I haven’t any in the house. Oh, dear Lord!’
Amaro ran to his house to fetch some tea, and returned, panting, shortly afterwards, along with Dionísia, who had come to offer her energy and her experience.
But, fortunately, the Canon had suddenly felt much better!
‘Thank you so much, Father!’ Dona Josefa said. ‘Such excellent tea! You’re most kind. He’ll go to sleep now. That’s what always happens after one of his attacks. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and sit with him . . . This was the worst attack yet. It’s those wretched . . .’ But she stopped herself, terrified. ‘It’s the Dear Lord’s fruit that does it. It’s His divine will . . . Will you excuse me?’
Amélia and Amaro were left alone in the room. Their eyes shone with the desire to touch each other, to kiss, but all the doors were open, and they could hear the old woman’s slippers in the next room. Father Amaro said loudly:
‘The poor Canon! The pain must be terrible.’
‘He gets it about every three months,’ said Amélia. ‘Mama had a feeling it would happen now. She said so only the day before yesterday: “I’m worried,” she said, “the Canon’s due for another one of his attacks” . . .’
Amaro sighed and said softly:
‘I don’t have anyone to worry about me like that . . .’
Amélia rested her lovely, tender eyes on him:
‘Don’t say that.’
Their hands were about to meet passionately across the table, but Dona Josefa appeared, wrapped in her shawl. Her brother had gone to sleep, and she could barely stand for exhaustion. These upsets were ruining her health. She had lit two candles to St Joachim and made a promise to Our Lady of Good Health. It was the second time this year. And Our Lady had not failed her . . .
‘She never fails those who pray to her with faith, Senhora,’ said Father Amaro piously.
The hollow chimes of the tall grandfather clock struck eight. Amélia again said how worried she was about her mother. It was getting later and later.
‘And when I went out it was starting to rain,’ said Amaro.
Amélia ran anxiously to the window. The paving stones outside, under the street lamp, gleamed wetly. The sky was dark.
‘It looks set in for the night.’
Dona Josefa was most upset about this unforeseen difficulty, but, as Amélia could see, she couldn’t possibly leave the house; Gertrudes had gone for the doctor, but, of course, had not found him and would doubtless be going from house to house looking for him, who knows when he would turn up . . .
Amaro then suggested that Dionísia (who had come with him and was waiting in the kitchen) could accompany Miss Amélia to her house. It was only a few steps away, and there was no one about in the streets. He would go with them as far as the corner of the square. But they should hurry before the rain got too bad.
Dona Josefa went and found an umbrella for Amélia. She asked her to be sure to tell her mother what had happened, but that she wasn’t to worry, because her brother was better now.
‘Oh, and tell her,’ she shouted from the top of the stairs, ‘tell her that we did all we could, but that the pain was over in a flash!’
‘I’ll tell her. Goodnight.’
When they opened the street door, the rain was falling heavily. Amélia thought they should wait, but Amaro tugged impatiently at her arm.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’
They walked down the deserted street, huddled beneath the umbrella, with Dionísia beside them, saying nothing, her shawl over her head. All the windows in the houses were dark, and in the silence they could hear the water filling the gutters.
‘Goodness, what a night!’ said Amélia. ‘My dress will be ruined.’
They had reached Rua das Sousas.
‘Now it’s really coming down,’ said Amaro. ‘I think it would be best if we just stopped at my house for a moment and waited . . .’
‘No! No!’ cried Amélia.
‘Don’t be silly!’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘You’re going to ruin your dress. It’s only for a moment, it’s just a shower. Look, it’s clearing up over there. It’ll be over soon. Don’t be silly. Your mother would be furious with you if she saw you out in this downpour, and quite right too!’
‘No! No!’
But Amaro had already stopped, rapidly opened the door and was gently pushing Amélia inside:
‘Just for a moment, it’ll soon pass, go in . . .’
And there they stayed, in silence, in the dark hallway, watching the threads of rain glistening in the light of the street lamp opposite. Amélia felt utterly bewildered. Both the blackness of the hallway and the silence frightened her, but it also seemed to her delicious to be standing next to him in the darkness, unbeknown to anyone else. Involuntarily drawn to him, she rubbed against his shoulder, only to draw back immediately, startled to hear his agitated breathing, to feel him pressed up against her skirts. She could sense behind her the stairs that led up to his room, and she felt an intense desire to go upstairs and see what his room was like . . . She felt embarrassed by the presence of Dionísia, who was hunched silently by the door; she kept glancing across at her, wishing she would go away, wishing she would vanish into the darkness of the hallway or the night.
Then Amaro started stamping his feet on the floor, rubbing his hands and shivering.
‘We’ll catch our deaths standing here,’ he said. ‘The flagstones are icy cold. It would be much better if we waited upstairs in the dining room.’
‘Oh, no!’ she said.
‘Nonsense! Your mother would be angry if we didn’t. Go on, Dionísia, light a lamp upstairs.’
Dionísia immediately ran up the stairs.
He took Amélia’s arm and in a low voice said:
‘Come on, why not? What do you think? Don’t be silly now. Just until the rain stops. What do you say?’
She said nothing, but was breathing hard. Amaro placed his hand on her shoulder, on her breast, holding her close, stroking the silk of her dress. A shudder ran through her. And she followed him then up the stairs, as if in a daze, her ears burning, stumbling with each step on the hem of her dress.
‘Go in there, into my room,’ he whispered.
He ran to the kitchen. Dionísia was lighting a candle.
‘Dionísia . . . I’m going to hear Miss Amélia’s confession. It’s an urgent matter. Come back in half an hour. Here you are.’
And he placed three coins in her hand.
Dionísia took off her shoes, tiptoed downstairs and shut herself in the coal cellar.
He went back into the room carrying the candle. Amélia was there, utterly still and pale. Amaro closed the door and went silently towards her, teeth clenched, almost snorting like a bull.
Half an hour later, Dionísia coughed discreetly on the stairway. Amélia came down at once, well wrapped up in her cape: as they opened the street door, two drunks were passing, talking loudly. Amélia withdrew quickly into the dark. A little while later, Dionísia peered out and, seeing that the street was empty, said:
‘The coast’s clear now, my dear.’
Amélia covered her face and they hurried back to Rua da Misericórdia. The rain had stopped, the stars had come out, and a dry coldness announced the coming of the north wind and the good weather.