An unexpected circumstance arose to spoil those mornings in the sexton’s house. This was Totó’s eccentric behaviour. As Father Amaro said: ‘The girl’s turned out to be a real monster.’
She had taken a violent dislike to Amélia. As soon as Amélia approached the bed, Totó would pull the covers up over her head and writhe about frantically if she so much as felt the touch of her hand or heard the sound of her voice. Amélia would flee, gripped by the idea that the Devil, catching a whiff of the church on her clothes, impregnated as they were with incense and sprinkled with holy water, was thrashing about inside Totó’s body.
Amaro had tried to reprimand Totó with high-sounding words, tried to make her aware of her demoniacal ingratitude towards Miss Amélia, who had come to pass the time with her and to teach her to converse with Our Lord . . . But Totó had merely burst into hysterical sobs and then, suddenly, gone utterly still and rigid, her eyes rolled back and bulging, her lips flecked with foam. It gave them both a terrible fright; they frantically splashed the bed with water. As a precaution, Amaro recited the words of exorcism. But, since then, Amélia had decided ‘to leave the creature in peace’. She gave up trying to teach her the alphabet or the prayers to St Anne.
Out of conscience, though, they always looked in for a moment to see her. They did not go beyond the door to the bedroom, merely asking her how she was. She never replied. Then they would immediately withdraw, terrified of those wild, shining, devouring eyes that moved from one to the other, studying their bodies with an avid curiosity that made her nostrils flare and her pale lips draw back, eyes that fixed with a metallic glitter on Amélia’s clothes and Father Amaro’s cassock, as if trying to guess what lay underneath. What troubled them most, however, was her obstinate, rancorous silence. Amaro, who did not much believe in demonic possession, saw symptoms of insanity in her. Amélia grew more and more frightened. It was just as well that Totó’s paralysed legs kept her pinned to the mattress. Good God, if not, she might come into the room upstairs and attack them!
She told Amaro that ‘after that spectacle’ she did not even enjoy the morning’s pleasure, and so they decided, from then on, to go up to the room without speaking to Totó.
This only made matters worse. When Totó saw Amélia walk from the street door to the stairs, she would lean out from the mattress, her hands gripping the edge, desperate to see her and follow her, her face contorted with despair at her own immobility. And as Amélia went into the room, she would hear a short laugh drift up from downstairs or a long ‘Ooh!’ or a chilling howl.
She was petrified now: it occurred to her that God had placed there, side by side with her love for Amaro, an implacable demon to mock and deride her. In order to reassure her, Amaro told her that Pope Pius IX had recently declared it a sin to believe in demonic possession.
‘Why do they have special prayers and exorcisms, then?’
‘That’s from the old religion. Everything’s going to change now. After all, science is science . . .’
She sensed that Amaro was deceiving her, and Totó was spoiling their happiness. Finally, Amaro found a way of escaping from the ‘wretched girl’, and that was for both of them to enter through the sacristy. They only had to cross the kitchen in order to go up the stairs, and Totó’s bed was positioned in such a way that she could not see them when they cautiously tiptoed past. Besides, between eleven o’clock and midday, which was the hour chosen for their rendezvous, the sacristy was empty.
But even when they entered on tiptoe, holding their breath, their footsteps, however light, would still make the old stairs creak. Then Totó’s voice would emerge from the bedroom, a hoarse, harsh voice screaming:
‘There’s a dog outside! There’s a dog outside!’
Amaro felt a furious desire to strangle her. Amélia would turn pale and tremble.
And the creature would keep howling out:
‘There go the dogs! There go the dogs!’
They took refuge in the room, bolting the door behind them. But they could not escape that baleful, desolate voice that seemed to them to come from Hell itself.
‘The dogs are fighting! The dogs are fighting!’
Amélia would fall onto the bed, almost fainting with terror. She swore she would never again visit that accursed house.
‘But what the devil do you want?’ he would ask angrily. ‘Where would we see each other? Do you want us to lie down on the benches in the sacristy?’
‘But what did I do to her? What did I do?’ exclaimed Amélia, clasping her hands.
‘Nothing. She’s mad. And poor Esguelhas is a most unfortunate man. But what do you want me to do about it?’
She did not reply. But at home, as the day for their next rendezvous approached, she would begin to tremble at the thought of that voice which thundered constantly in her ears and which she could hear even in her dreams. And that horror began slowly to awaken her from the sleep that had overtaken her whole being as soon as she had fallen into Father Amaro’s arms. She asked herself questions now: Was she not committing an unpardonable sin? She was no longer consoled by Amaro’s assurances that God would forgive her. When Totó howled, she saw Amaro turn pale, as if a glimpse of Hell had sent a shudder through him. And if God truly forgave them, why did he allow the Devil to hurl scorn and abuse at them through the mouth of Totó?
She would kneel down then at the foot of her bed and pray endlessly to Our Lady of Sorrows, asking Her to enlighten her, to tell her the reason behind Totó’s persecution of her, asking if it was Her divine intention to send her a dreadful warning. But Our Lady did not answer. Amélia did not feel Our Lady descend from Heaven to hear her prayers as once she had, nor feel in her soul that sweet tranquillity, like a milky wave, which was a visitation from Our Lady. She would wring her hands, feeling utterly defeated and bereft of grace. She would promise then not to go back to the sexton’s house, but when the day came, the idea of Amaro, of the bed, of those kisses that carried away her very soul, of the fire that filled her, she would feel too weak to resist temptation. She would get dressed, swearing that it would be the very last time, and at the stroke of eleven, she would leave, her ears burning, her heart pounding at the thought of Totó’s voice, her belly aflame with desire for the man who would lay her down on the mattress.
She did not pray as she went into the church, for fear of the saints.
She would run to the sacristy to take refuge in Amaro, to find shelter in the sacred authority of his cassock. Seeing her arrive so pale and upset, he would try to calm her down by laughing it off. What nonsense! Surely she wasn’t going to let the presence of a mad girl in the house spoil the gift of those mornings together. He promised her too that he would look for another place for them to meet and sometimes, just to distract her, and taking advantage of the deserted sacristy, he would show her all the different robes, chalices and vestments, try to interest her in a new antependium or some antique lace on a surplice, proving to her, by the familiarity with which he touched these relics, that he was still the parish priest and had not lost his credit in Heaven.
And so it was that, one morning, he showed her the cloak of Our Lady that had arrived only days before, a present from a rich devotee in Ourém. Amélia thought it wonderful. It was made of blue satin embroidered with stars to represent the sky, and blazing forth from its centre was an exquisitely worked golden heart surrounded by golden roses. Amaro unfolded the cloak and held it up to the window, so that the heavy embroidery caught the light.
‘Beautiful, eh? It must be worth hundreds of mil réis. They tried it on the image yesterday. It fits perfectly. Although it is a bit long . . .’ And looking at Amélia, comparing her tall figure with the rather dumpy image of Our Lady, he said: ‘It would look really good on you, though. Let me see.’
She recoiled.
‘Good grief, no, please, that would be a sin!’
‘Nonsense,’ he said, approaching with the cloak spread wide, revealing the white satin lining, white as morning mist. ‘It hasn’t been blessed yet. It’s just as if it had come straight from the dressmaker’s.’
‘No, no,’ she said feebly, her eyes now shining with desire.
Then he got angry. Was she saying that she knew better than he did what was and was not a sin? Was she trying to teach him how much respect was or was not due to the vestments of the saints?
‘Don’t be silly. Let me see . . .’
He placed it over her shoulders and fastened the engraved silver clasp over her breast. Then with a smile of devout, ardent pleasure, he stood back to admire her as she stood wrapped in the cloak, frozen and afraid.
‘Oh, my love, you look so beautiful!’
Moving with solemn caution, she walked over to the mirror – an old tarnished mirror in a carved dark oak frame crowned by a cross. She looked at herself for a moment entirely wrapped in that sky-blue silk, glittering with stars of an almost celestial beauty. She felt the rich weight of it. The holiness it had acquired from contact with the image filled her with a voluptuous, pious pleasure. A fluid sweeter than air flowed about her, caressing her body with the ether of Paradise. She felt like a saint on a platform, or even higher than that, in Heaven itself . . .
Amaro said in stammering, rapturous tones:
‘Oh, my love, you’re even lovelier than Our Lady!’
She gave a quick glance at the mirror. Yes, she was beautiful, though not as beautiful as Our Lady . . . But with her red lips and with her brown skin lit by her dark, shining eyes, if she had been placed on the altar, with the organ playing and the murmur of mass being said around her, she would certainly have made the hearts of the faithful beat faster . . .
Amaro came up behind her, folded his arms over her chest and clasped her to him, then he leaned over and placed his lips on hers in a long, silent kiss. Amélia closed her eyes and her head lolled back, heavy with desire. Amaro’s lips remained avidly pressed to hers, sucking out her soul. Her breathing quickened, her legs shook, and with a moan she fainted on Amaro’s shoulder, white and overwhelmed with pleasure.
She came to at once and looked at Amaro, blinking as if summoned from some far distant place; then a wave of blood rushed to her cheeks:
‘Oh, Amaro, how dreadful, how sinful!’
‘Don’t be silly!’ he said.
But she was already taking off the cloak, in great distress.
‘Take it off, take it off!’ she cried as if the silk were burning her.
Then Amaro grew very serious. One really should not play with sacred things.
‘But it hasn’t been blessed yet, honestly,’ he said.
He carefully folded up the cloak, wrapped it in a white sheet and silently replaced it in the drawer. Amélia was watching him, petrified, her pale lips moving in prayer.
When he said to her that it was time to be going to the sexton’s house, she drew back, as if he were the Devil calling to her.
‘No, not today!’ she said imploringly.
He insisted. This really was taking piety too far. She knew it wasn’t a sin when the things had not yet been blessed. She was being very narrow-minded. What the devil did it matter, it would only be half an hour, or even a quarter of an hour!
She said nothing, moving towards the door.
‘So you don’t want to, then?’
She turned and looked at him with supplicant eyes:
‘No, not today!’
Amaro shrugged. And Amélia walked quickly back through the church, her head down, her eyes fixed on the flagstones, as if she were running a gauntlet of threatening looks from the indignant saints.
The following morning, as soon as São Joaneira, who was in the dining room, heard the Canon come panting up the stairs, she went out to meet him and closeted herself with him in the downstairs parlour.
She wanted to tell him about the worrying incident that had taken place early that morning. Amélia had woken up screaming that Our Lady was standing with her foot on her throat and was trying to suffocate her, that Totó was standing behind her, burning her, and that the flames from the fires of Hell reached higher than the towers of the Cathedral. Absolutely terrible. She had gone in to find Amélia running about the room like a mad thing. Then she had collapsed in hysteria. The whole house had been in an uproar. The poor child was in bed now and had only had a spoonful of broth all morning.
‘Just nightmares,’ said the Canon. ‘Caused by indigestion!’
‘No, Canon, that’s not what it is!’ exclaimed São Joaneira, who was sitting opposite him, perched on the edge of a chair, looking exhausted. ‘It’s something else. It’s those wretched visits to the sexton’s daughter!’
And then she unburdened herself with the effusiveness of one opening the floodgates of a long accumulated discontent. She had never wanted to say anything before because, after all, it was a great work of charity, but, ever since it had begun, Amélia had been a different person. She had been so moody lately. One moment, she was happy for no apparent reason, the next she looked miserable enough to make the furniture feel depressed. She would hear her pacing about until late at night and opening the windows . . . Sometimes she had felt quite afraid of the strange look in her eyes. Whenever she came back from the sexton’s house, she was as white as chalk and almost faint with hunger, so much so that she always had to have a bowl of broth as soon as she arrived home. Well, people did say that Totó was possessed by the Devil. And the precentor, the one who had died (may he rest in peace) used to say that the two things in this world that women were most prone to were tuberculosis and demonic possession. She felt that she could not allow Amélia to continue visiting the sexton’s house, not until she was sure that it wasn’t doing any harm to her health or to her soul. What she wanted, in short, was for someone with good judgement and experience to go and examine Totó . . .
‘In a word,’ said the Canon, who had listened to this somewhat tearful outpouring with his eyes closed, ‘you want me to go and see Totó and find out exactly what is going on.’
‘It would be such a relief if you could, my sweet!’
The Canon was touched by this endearment, which São Joaneira, given her grave matronly state, normally reserved for the intimacy of the siesta. He stroked São Joaneira’s plump neck and promised kindly that he would look into the matter.
‘Tomorrow, when Totó will be on her own,’ said São Joaneira.
But the Canon preferred Amélia to be present. He could then see how the two of them got on, and if there was any evidence of the Evil Spirit’s presence . . .
‘But I’m only doing this to please you, you know . . . I’ve got quite enough troubles of my own without getting mixed up in the Devil’s affairs.’
São Joaneira rewarded him with a resounding kiss.
‘Ah, you women are such sirens!’ said the Canon philosophically.
He did not like this particular assignment at all. It meant disrupting his habits, it meant ruining a whole morning; and having to exercise his judgement was bound to prove tiring; apart from that, he hated the sight of sick people or anything to do with death. However, true to his word, a few days later, on the morning that Amélia was due to visit Totó, he reluctantly dragged himself off to Carlos’ pharmacy and installed himself there, with one eye on the newspaper and the other on the door, waiting for Amélia to cross the Cathedral square. His friend Carlos was not there; Senhor Augusto was filling in time seated at his desk, head on his hand, poring over the sentimental poetry of Soares de Passos; outside, the already hot late April sun was making the stones in the square glitter; no one was about; the only sound to break the silence was the hammering from the work being done on Dr Pereira’s house. Amélia was late. And the Canon, having considered for a long time, with the newspaper fallen open on his knees, the enormous sacrifice he was making for São Joaneira, was just beginning to feel his eyelids droop, in the grip of that fatigue that can so easily overwhelm one in the quiet of noon, when another cleric came into the pharmacy.
‘Father Ferrão, what are you doing in town?’ exclaimed the Canon, roused from his exhaustion.
‘Oh, just a flying visit, Canon,’ said Ferrão, carefully setting down on a chair two large tomes tied together with string.
Then he turned and respectfully doffed his hat to Senhor Augusto.
Father Ferrão’s hair was completely white; he must have been over sixty, but he was a robust man with bright, sparkling eyes and magnificent teeth, which his iron constitution ensured remained in good condition; his one disfigurement was his enormous nose.
He asked the Canon in a kindly way if he was there on a visit or, alas, for reasons of ill health.
‘No, I’m just waiting for someone. I’m on a special mission, my friend.’
‘Ah,’ said Ferrão discreetly. And while he was methodically removing from a thick file of papers a prescription to give to Senhor Augusto, he told the Canon the latest parish news. The Canon’s farm, Ricoça, was in Ferrão’s parish of Poiais. Father Ferrão had passed the house that morning and been surprised to see that the outside was being painted. Was the Canon considering spending the summer there?
No, not at all. But since he had been having some decorating work done inside and the front was a disgrace, he had told them to give that a lick of paint too. Well, one had to keep up appearances, especially when one’s house was passed each day by the heir to the Poiais estate, a braggart who imagined that his was the only decent house for ten leagues around . . . He was only doing it to annoy that atheist . . . ‘A good idea, don’t you think, Father?’
Father Ferrão, who was just thinking to himself how regrettable it was to find such feelings of vanity in a priest, hastily agreed, out of Christian charity and so as not to annoy his colleague:
‘Of course, of course. Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all . . .’
The Canon, spotting a dress and shawl crossing the square, went to the door to see if it was Amélia. It was not. He came back, conscious once more of his immediate concerns, and when Senhor Augusto went out to the back, to the dispensary, he whispered to Ferrão:
‘Yes, I’m on a very special mission indeed! I’m going to see a case of demonic possession!’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Ferrão, grave-faced at the thought of such a responsibility.
‘Would you like to come with me? It’s just near here.’
Ferrão excused himself politely. He had been to see the vicar general, then gone to visit Silvério to ask him for the two books, had then come here to sort out a prescription for one of his older parishioners, and he had to be back in Poiais at the stroke of two.
The Canon pressed him; it would only take a moment and it did seem a most curious case . . .
Ferrão then confessed to his dear colleague that he preferred not to examine such matters. He approached them with a sceptical mind, with distrust and suspicion, and was therefore far from impartial.
‘But miracles do happen!’ said the Canon. Despite his own doubts, he disliked the fact that Ferrão should be unconvinced about a supernatural phenomenon in which he, Canon Dias, was interested. He said rather abruptly: ‘I have some experience myself, and I know that miracles happen.’
‘Of course they do,’ said Ferrão. ‘To deny that God or the Queen of Heaven could appear to a child goes against the very doctrine of the Church. To deny that the Devil can inhabit the body of a man would be a grave error. It happened to Job, for example, and to Sara’s family. Of course miracles happen. But how rare they are, Canon!’
He fell silent for a moment, watching the Canon, who was quietly taking some snuff, then he went on in a low voice, his eyes bright and intelligent:
‘Have you ever noticed that it always happens to women? Miracles only ever happen to women, who are so astute even Solomon could not resist them, and whose temperament is so highly-strung and so contradictory that not even doctors can understand them. Have you ever heard of Our Lady appearing to a respectable notary public? Have you ever heard of a worthy judge being possessed by the Evil Spirit? No. That gives me pause for thought, and I conclude that it’s just malice, illusion, imagination, sickness, etc. Don’t you think so? My rule in these cases is to treat them as lightly and with as much indifference as I can muster.’
But the Canon, who was watching the door, suddenly brandished his parasol and called out:
‘Hey! Hey there!’
It was Amélia. She stopped at once, annoyed by an encounter that would only delay her further. Father Amaro must already be getting worried.
‘So,’ said the Canon, standing at the door opening his parasol, ‘as soon as you smell a miracle . . .’
‘I immediately suspect a scandal.’
The Canon looked at him for a moment with new respect.
‘You, Ferrão, could outdo Solomon himself in prudence!’
‘Please, Canon!’ cried Ferrão offended by that injustice done to Solomon’s incomparable wisdom.
‘Yes, Solomon himself!’ said the Canon from the street.
He had concocted a clever story to justify his visit to Totó, but during his conversation with Ferrão it had completely slipped his mind, as did everything that he left for a moment in the reserves of his memory; and so he simply said to Amélia:
‘Come along then, I want to see this Totó girl as well.’
Amélia froze. Father Amaro would already be there. But her protectress, Our Lady of Sorrows, to whom she immediately turned in that moment of affliction, did not desert her. And the Canon, who was walking beside her, was surprised to hear her say with a smile:
‘Well, this is obviously Totó’s day for visitors. Father Amaro told me that he might visit today too. Indeed, he may already be there.’
‘Ah, our friend Amaro too! Good, very good. We’ll have a consultation with Totó.’
Pleased by her own guile, Amélia chattered on about Totó. The Canon would see for himself . . . She was utterly incomprehensible . . . She hadn’t wanted to say anything at home, but lately Totó had taken against her. And she said odd things, talked about dogs and animals; it quite made her shudder. It was a task that was beginning to weigh on her. The girl didn’t listen to the lessons or the prayers or any advice. She was little better than a wild beast.
‘What a terrible smell!’ grumbled the Canon as they went in.
What did he expect? The girl was a pig and it was impossible to clean her up. Her father was a sloven too.
‘It’s through here, Canon,’ she said, opening the door to the bedroom, which, in obedience to Father Amaro’s orders, Esguelhas always left shut.
They found Totó propped up in bed, her face ablaze with curiosity at the Canon’s unfamiliar voice.
‘How are you, Senhora Totó?’ he said from the door, without actually going in.
‘Go on, say hello to the Canon,’ said Amélia, immediately beginning, with unaccustomed kindness, to straighten the bedclothes and tidy the room. ‘Tell him how you are . . . Now don’t sulk!’
But as Totó scrutinised that fat, grizzled priest, so different from the parish priest, she remained as silent as the image of St Bento that stood above her bed. And her eyes, which grew brighter each day as her face grew gaunter, glanced, as they always did, from the man to Amélia, eager to understand why she had brought him there, that fat old man, and wondering if Amélia would go upstairs with him too.
Amélia was trembling now. What if Father Amaro came in, and, right there, in front of the Canon, Totó burst out into her frenzied shouting and started calling them ‘dogs’ again? On the pretext of putting something away, she went to the kitchen to watch the courtyard. She would signal to Father Amaro from the window, as soon as he appeared.
And the Canon, alone in Totó’s bedroom, preparing to make his observations, was about to ask her how many people formed the Holy Trinity, when she leaned forward and said in a voice as subtle as a sigh:
‘Where’s the other one?’
The Canon did not understand. Speak up! What was she trying to say?
‘The other man who comes with her.’
The Canon drew nearer, ears straining with curiosity.
‘Which other man?’
‘The handsome one. The one who goes upstairs with her to the room. The one who pinches her . . .’
But Amélia came back into the room at that point, and Totó immediately fell silent and lay absolutely still, her eyes closed, breathing easily as if she had received sudden relief from her suffering. The Canon, immobilised by shock, had remained where he was, bent over the bed in order to hear what Totó was saying. He finally straightened up, huffing and puffing as if it were a hot day in August, took a large pinch of snuff and stood there with the box open in his hand, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Totó’s bed.
‘So, Canon, what do you think of my patient?’ asked Amélia.
Without looking at her, he said:
‘Hm, fine. Yes, she’s seems fine. Odd, though . . . Anyway, I’d better be going. Goodbye.’
He left, muttering something about having things to do, and went straight back to the pharmacy.
‘Give me a glass of water!’ he exclaimed, collapsing on a chair.
Carlos, who had returned, bustled over with some orange-flower water, asking if the Canon was unwell.
‘No, just worn out,’ he said.
He picked up the newspaper from the table and sat there, motionless, absorbed in his reading. Carlos tried to discuss the politics of the day, events in Spain, the danger of revolution threatening Society, the deficiencies of the municipal council of which he was now a fierce adversary . . . All in vain. The Canon merely grunted a few gloomy monosyllables. In the end, Carlos withdrew in shocked silence, and with an inner disdain that traced sarcastic lines around his mouth, he compared the glum obtuseness of that priest with the inspired words of a Lacordaire or a Malhão. That was why in Leiria, as in all of Portugal, materialism was raising its Hydra head.
The tower clock was striking one when the Canon, who was keeping a weather eye open on the square, saw Amélia walk past; he threw down the paper, left the pharmacy without a word and strode off to Esguelhas’ house as swiftly as his large body would allow. Totó shook with fear to see that bulbous figure reappear at her bedroom door. But the Canon smiled and called her Totozinha and promised her some money to buy cakes with; and he even sat down with a delighted ‘Ah!’ at the foot of her bed, saying:
‘Now we’re going to have a talk, my little friend. This is your bad leg, isn’t it? Poor thing. You’ll get better one day. I’ll pray to God . . . You leave it to me.’
She turned first white and then red, glancing anxiously from side to side, embarrassed to be alone with this man, who was sitting so close she could smell his sour breath.
‘Now, listen,’ he said, leaning towards her, making the bed creak beneath his weight. ‘Who is this other man? Who is it who comes here with Amélia?’
She replied immediately, in one breath:
‘He’s the handsome one, the thin one, they go upstairs, shut themselves in, they’re like dogs.’
The Canon’s eyes bulged.
‘But who is he? What’s his name? What did your father tell you?’
‘He’s the other one, the parish priest, Amaro,’ she said impatiently.
‘And they go up to the room, do they? And what do you hear? Tell me everything, little one!’
Totó told him, with a fury that lent sibilant tones to her hoarse voice, how they came into the house, looked in to see her, and how they would rub against each other and then rush off to the room upstairs, where they would spend an hour shut up together.
But the Canon, whose dull eyes flickered with lubricious curiosity, wanted to know all the awful details.
‘And what do you hear, Totozinha? Can you hear the bed creak?’
She nodded, very pale now, her teeth clenched.
‘And have you seen them kissing and embracing? Go on, tell me, I’ll give you some money.’
She kept her mouth shut, and to the Canon her contorted face looked almost savage.
‘You don’t like her, do you?’
She shook her head fiercely.
‘And you say you’ve seen them pinching each other?’
‘They’re like dogs!’ she said through gritted teeth.
The Canon sat up, again blew out his breath and scratched his head vigorously.
‘Right,’ he said, getting up. ‘Goodbye, then, little one. Wrap up warm. You don’t want to catch cold.’
He left and as he slammed the door, he said out loud:
‘This is the villainy to beat all villainies! I’ll kill him! I’ll murder him!’
He stood for a moment lost in thought, then bustled off to Rua das Sousas, parasol at the ready, his face apoplectic with rage. In the Cathedral square, however, he paused to think awhile, and turning on his heel, he went into the church. He was so enraged that, forgetting the habit of forty years, he forgot to genuflect to the Sacrament. He headed straight for the sacristy, just as Father Amaro was coming out, carefully drawing on the black leather gloves which he always wore now to please Amélia.
He was shocked by the Canon’s agitated state.
‘What’s wrong, Master?’
‘What’s wrong?’ exclaimed the Canon. ‘You villain! It’s your depraved behaviour that’s wrong!’
And he said nothing more, overcome by anger.
Amaro had turned very pale.
‘Wh-what are you saying, Master?’
The Canon drew breath:
‘Don’t you “Master” me! You have ruined the girl! These are the actions of an utter scoundrel.’
Father Amaro frowned, as if he had failed to understand a joke.
‘What girl? You’re having me on . . .’
He even smiled, affecting confidence, but his white lips trembled.
‘I saw you, man!’ bawled the Canon.
Then Amaro drew back, suddenly terrified:
‘You saw me?’
It flashed upon his mind that he had somehow been betrayed and the Canon had perhaps been hidden in some corner of Esguelhas’ house.
‘I didn’t actually see anything, but I might as well have,’ said the Canon in ominous tones. ‘I know everything. I’ve just come from there. Totó told me. You spend hours and hours shut up in that bedroom. She can even hear the bed creaking from downstairs. It’s disgusting!’
Finding himself caught, Amaro, like some pursued and cornered animal, made one last desperate effort at resistance.
‘And what has it got to do with you?’
The Canon started.
‘What has it got to do with me? How can you talk to me like that? I’ll tell you what it’s got to do with me, I’m going straight to the vicar general and report the whole matter to him.’
Father Amaro, deathly pale, went over to him, fists clenched:
‘You scoundrel!’
‘Steady on, now, steady on!’ exclaimed the Canon, brandishing his parasol. ‘You’re not going to hit me, are you?’
Father Amaro took a step back; he closed his eyes and drew one hand across his forehead, which was beaded with sweat; then, after a moment, and speaking with apparent calm, he said:
‘Look here, Canon. I saw you once in bed with São Joaneira.’
‘You’re lying!’ bellowed the Canon.
‘I did, I did!’ said Amaro fiercely. ‘When I came back one evening . . . You were in your shirtsleeves, and she had just got up and was fastening her stays. You even called out: “Who’s there?” I saw you as clearly as I can see you now. You say one word, and I’ll tell everyone that São Joaneira has been your mistress for the last ten years, right under the noses of the whole clergy. What do you say now?’
The Canon’s fury had long since waned and, at those words, he stood stock still like a bewildered ox. After a while, he managed to say in a faint voice:
‘What a rogue you’ve turned out to be!’
Father Amaro, almost calm now, and assured of the Canon’s silence, said cheerily:
‘What do you mean “a rogue”? Why? We’ve both blotted our copybooks, that’s all. And I didn’t go snooping around or try to bribe Totó . . . I just happened to come home at the wrong time. And don’t talk to me about morality – don’t make me laugh. Morality is for school and for sermons. This is what I choose to do, you do something else, and the others do what they can. You’re getting on a bit now and so you grab yourself an old lady; I’m still young and so I choose Amélia. It’s a sad state of affairs, but that’s the way things are. It’s Nature! We’re men. And as priests, and out of respect for our class, what we have to do is to back each other up.’
The Canon was listening, nodding in dumb acceptance of these truths. He had slumped down in a chair, resting from all that pointless rage; then, looking up at Amaro, he said:
‘But you’re only at the beginning of your career!’
‘And you’re at the end of yours!’
They both laughed and immediately withdrew the offensive words they had said one to the other and gravely shook each other’s hand. Then they talked.
What enraged the Canon was that he should have chosen Amélia. If it had been some other girl, he would have been almost pleased for him, but Amélia! If her poor mother found out, she would die of grief.
‘But there’s no reason why her mother should find out,’ said Amaro. ‘This is between you and me, Father. This is a secret between you and me. Her mother must know nothing, and I won’t say a word to Amélia about what has passed between us today. Things will remain as they were, and the world will continue to turn. But remember, Master, not a word to São Joaneira. No treachery now.’
The Canon, with his hand on his breast, gravely gave his word of honour as a gentleman and a priest that the secret would remain forever buried in his heart.
Then they affectionately shook hands again.
The tower clock struck three. It was nearly time for the Canon’s high tea.
As they left, he clapped Amaro on the back and gave him a knowing look:
‘You clever young rascal!’
‘Well, what do you expect? It all just started as a bit of fun . . .’
‘Young man,’ said the Canon sententiously, ‘these are precisely the things that count in life.’
‘You’re quite right, Master, they are.’
From that day on, Amaro enjoyed almost complete tranquillity of soul. Up until then, he had occasionally been troubled by the thought that this was cruel repayment for all the trust and kindness that had been lavished on him in Rua da Misericórdia. But the Canon’s tacit approval had, as he put it, removed that thorn from his conscience. After all, the Canon was the head of the household, a respectable gentleman, the boss. São Joaneira was merely his mistress. And Amaro even sometimes jokingly addressed Dias as ‘his dear father-in-law’.
Something else happened to cheer him up. Totó suddenly fell ill; the day after the Canon’s visit she had started vomiting blood; Dr Cardoso was called in and spoke of galloping consumption, a matter of weeks, a hopeless case . . .
‘The sort of thing, my friend,’ he had said, ‘which is over in a trice,’ and he had made a whistling noise with his lips. This was his way of depicting death, which, when in a hurry, concludes its work with a swift scything movement.
The mornings spent at Esguelhas’ house were peaceful now. Amélia and Amaro no longer tiptoed in, trying to slink by to their pleasures upstairs, unnoticed by Totó. They slammed the doors and talked loudly, knowing that Totó was downstairs prostrated by fever, in sheets wet from her constant sweating. Amélia still guiltily said a Hail Mary every night for Totó to get better. And sometimes, when she was undressing upstairs in the sexton’s bedroom, she would stop suddenly and pull a sad face.
‘Oh, my love, it does seem wrong for us to be up here enjoying ourselves while the poor creature is down there battling with death.’
Amaro would shrug. What could they do about it if it was the will of God?
And Amélia, resigning herself entirely to God’s will, would step out of her petticoats.
She was now often subject to such bouts of sentiment, which annoyed Father Amaro. She often seemed cast down; she always had some awful dream to tell him about, one that had tormented her all night, and in which she saw warnings of impending doom.
Sometimes she would say to him:
‘If I were to die, would you be very sad?’
Amaro would get angry. It was ridiculous! They only had one hour to spend together, so why spoil it with gloomy thoughts?
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ she would say, ‘my heart is as black as the night.’
Her mother’s friends had noticed the change in her. Sometimes, she would not say a word all evening, bent over her sewing, desultorily plying her needle; or else, too tired to sew, she would sit by the table twirling the green shade on the oil lamp, her eyes vacant, her soul far away.
‘Leave that lampshade alone!’ the ladies would say to her irritably.
She would smile, give a weary sigh and slowly take up the white petticoat she had been hemming for weeks now. Her mother, seeing how pale she always was, thought of calling in Dr Gouveia.
‘It’s nothing, Mama, just my nerves, it will pass.’
Proof to everyone that her nerves were on edge was the way in which the slightest thing made her jump; she would even scream out, almost faint, if a door suddenly banged. On some nights, she would ask her mother to sleep in her room, for fear of nightmares and visions.
‘It’s just as Dr Gouveia always said,’ São Joaneira remarked to the Canon, ‘she’s one of those girls who needs to get married.’
The Canon cleared his throat.
‘She’s got everything she needs,’ he muttered. ‘Absolutely everything. More than enough it would seem.’
The Canon believed that the girl was (as he put it to himself) ‘brimming with happiness’. On the days when he knew she had visited Totó, he would look at her all the time, peering at her from the depths of his armchair with his lewd, heavy-lidded eyes. He showered her with displays of paternal affection. Whenever he met her on the stairs, he would always stop her and tickle her or pat her cheek. He repeatedly asked her over to his house in the mornings, and while Amélia was chatting to Dona Josefa, he would shuffle around her in his slippers like an old cockerel. Amélia and her mother talked endlessly about the Canon’s sudden friendly interest in her, convinced that he would leave her a good dowry.
When the Canon was alone with Amaro, he would roll his eyes and say: ‘You lucky devil. She’s a dish fit for a king that one!’
Amaro would reply arrogantly:
‘And a very tasty one, Master, very tasty indeed!’
That was one of Amaro’s great pleasures – to hear his colleagues praise Amélia, who was known amongst the clergy as ‘the flower of the devotees’. Everyone envied him his confessant. He always insisted that she dress up in her best clothes for mass on Sunday; he had even got annoyed with her lately because she always wore the same dark woollen dress which made her look like an old penitent.
Amélia, however, no longer felt a lover’s need to please Amaro in everything. She had awoken almost completely from that foolish sleep into which Amaro’s first embrace had thrown her. She was becoming painfully aware of her guilt. A dawn of reason was breaking over the darkness of that devout, slavish spirit. What was she after all? The parish priest’s mistress. And that idea, put bluntly, was terrible to her. Not that she regretted the loss of her virginity, her honour or her good name. She would sacrifice far more than that for him and for the delirious pleasures he gave her. But there was something more frightening than the disapproval of the world, and that was the vengeance of the Lord. What she quietly wept for was the possible loss of Paradise or, worse still, some punishment from God, not a transcendent punishment that would torture her soul beyond the grave, but some torment in life that would afflict her health, her well-being, her body. She had a vague fear of illness, leprosy, paralysis, poverty or hunger or any of the other penalties in which she believed the God of the catechism to be prodigal. When she was a little girl and forgot to pay the Virgin her regular tribute of Hail Marys, she would be afraid that the Virgin would make her fall down the stairs or get slapped by the teacher; now she went cold with fear at the idea that God, to punish her for going to bed with a priest, would send her some disease that would disfigure her or reduce her to begging for alms in the alleyways. She had been unable to rid herself of these ideas ever since the day in the sacristy when she had committed the sin of lust while wearing Our Lady’s cloak. She was sure that the Holy Virgin hated her and ceaselessly complained about her; in vain did she try to win her round with an endless flow of humble prayers; she could sense that Our Lady, inaccessible and disdainful, had turned her back on her. That divine face had never again smiled on her; those hands had never again opened gratefully to receive her prayers as if they were congratulatory bouquets. There was only a cutting silence, the icy hostility of a divinity offended. She knew how powerful Our Lady’s influence was in the councils of Heaven; she had been taught this as a child; everything she wants she gets, as a recompense for the tears she shed on Calvary; her Son sits smiling on her right hand side, God the Father speaks into her left ear. And Amélia understood that there was no hope for her, and that some terrible thing was being prepared for her up above, in Paradise, that would one day fall upon her body and upon her soul, crushing her in its calamitous collapse. What would it be?
She would have ended her relationship with Amaro if she dared, but she feared his wrath almost as much as God’s. What would become of her if she had both Our Lady and the parish priest against her? Besides, she loved him. In his arms, all terror of Heaven, even the idea of Heaven, vanished; safe in his arms, she felt no fear of divine anger; like a strong wine, desire and the fury of the flesh filled her with fierce courage; it was like a brutal challenge to Heaven coiling furiously about her body. The terror came later, when she was alone in her room. It was that struggle that drained the colour from her face, traced hard lines at the corners of her dry, parched lips, and gave her the faded air of weariness that so irritated Father Amaro.
‘What’s wrong with you? It’s as if someone had squeezed all the juice out of you,’ Father Amaro would say when she lay cold and inert beneath his first kisses.
‘I didn’t sleep well. It’s my nerves.’
‘Damn your nerves!’ Amaro would grumble impatiently.
Then she would ask him strange questions that would drive him to despair, the same questions every day. Had he said mass that morning with real fervour? Had he read his breviary? Had he said his prayers?
‘Stop it!’ he would say angrily. ‘Damnation! Anyone would think I was still a seminarian and you were the examining father, making sure I had kept the Rule. Don’t be so ridiculous!’
‘It’s important to be at peace with God,’ she would murmur.
She was genuinely concerned now that Amaro should be ‘a good priest’. In order to be saved and to be exempted from Our Lady’s wrath, she was relying now on Amaro’s influence at the court of God, and she feared that if he neglected his devotions, he would ruin her, and that any diminishment of his fervour would diminish her in the eyes of the Lord. She wanted him to remain a holy favourite in Heaven, in order to reap the benefits of his mystical protection.
Amaro referred to this as ‘the obsessions of an old nun’. He hated it because he thought it frivolous and because it took up precious time during those mornings at the sexton’s house.
‘Look, we haven’t come here to be miserable,’ he would say sharply. ‘Close the door, will you.’
She would obey and then, when he kissed her in the darkness of the closed room, he would at last recognise his Amélia, the Amélia of their first encounters, the delicious body that trembled passionately in his arms.
He desired her more each day with a continuous, tyrannical desire which those few hours could not satisfy. There really was no other woman like her. He was sure that not even in Lisbon, not even amongst the nobility, was there another woman like her. She had her moments of silliness, it was true, but they weren’t to be taken seriously, it was a matter of enjoying things while he was young.
Oh, and he did enjoy himself. His life was furnished on every side with sweet comforts, as if it were a room of cushioned walls, where there were no sharp corners to the furniture, where the body found only pillowy softnesses wherever it alighted.
The mornings spent in Esguelhas’ house were, of course, the best part, but there were other pleasures too. He ate well; he smoked good cigarettes and used a cigarette-holder; his underwear was all new and all made of linen; he had bought some furniture; and he no longer had to worry about money because Dona Maria da Assunção, his best confessant, was always ready to open her purse. And recently, he had had a piece of luck: one night at the house of São Joaneira, the excellent Dona Maria had expressed the view, regarding an English family whom she had seen pass by in a char-à-banc en route to Batalha, that the English were all heretics.
‘They are baptised just as we are,’ remarked Dona Joaquina Gansoso.
‘Yes, my dear, but it’s a laughable affair really, it’s not like our baptism, and doesn’t really count.’
The Canon, who enjoyed tormenting her, said gravely that Dona Maria had just uttered a blasphemy. It was determined in Canon 4, Session 7 of the Holy Council of Trent that ‘anyone who declared that the baptism given to heretics, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, was not a true baptism would be excommunicated’. According to the Holy Council, Dona Maria was thenceforth excommunicated!
The excellent lady had an attack of hysterics. The following day she threw herself at the feet of Father Amaro, who, as a penance for the offence committed under Canon 4, Session 7 of the Holy Council of Trent, ordered her to pay for three hundred masses for the benefit of the souls in Purgatory, for which Dona Maria paid five tostões each.
He was thus sometimes able to enter the sexton’s house with an air of mysterious satisfaction and with a small package in his hand. It would be some present for Amélia, a silk handkerchief, a coloured scarf, a pair of gloves. She would go into raptures over these proofs of Amaro’s affection for her, and while the darkened room filled with the delirium of love, below them, tuberculosis was busily wielding its scythe above Totó.