The other one that’s laughing is Rubião’s soul. Listen to the merry, bright tune with which it goes down the hill, saying the most intimate things to the stars, a kind of rhapsody made of a language that no one ever gave an alphabet to because it’s impossible to find a sign to convey the words. Down below the deserted streets seemed full of people to him, the silence a tumult, and leaning out of all the windows were the figures of women, pretty faces and thick eyebrows, all Sofias and one single Sofia. Over and over Rubião thinks he was rash, indiscreet; he remembers that business in the garden, the resistance, the young woman’s annoyance, and he begins to repent. Then he has chills, is terrified by the thought that the door might be slammed in his face and relations broken off completely. All because he’d got ahead of things. Yes, he should have waited. It wasn’t the right occasion. Visitors, all the lights, what kind of a notion was it to talk about love, carelessly, shamelessly … ? He thought she was right. It would have been proper for her to turn him away at once.
“I was crazy!” he said aloud.
He wasn’t thinking about the dinner, which was sumptuous, or the wines, which were abundant, or the very electricity of a room in which there were lovely ladies. He was thinking that he’d been crazy, absolutely crazy.
Immediately after, the same soul that was being accused defended itself. It seemed to him that Sofia had encouraged him to do what he did. Her frequent looks, then stares, her manners, her compliments, the honor of having her seat him next to her at the dinner table, paying attention only to him, telling him pleasant things in a melodious voice, what could all that be if not encouragement and solicitation? And the good soul explained the lady’s annoyance in the garden afterwards: it was the first time she’d heard such words outside her conjugal relationship, and close to all the people there. She naturally must have trembled a lot, too. He’d opened up so much that he brought it all out. No gradations. He should have gone step by step and never taken her hands with so much force that he annoyed her. In sum, he found himself to have been rude. The fear that the door would be closed on him came back. Then he returned to the consolation of hope, to the analysis of the young lady’s actions, to the invention of Father Mendes, a lie of complicity. He also thought of her husband’s esteem … He shuddered there … Her husband’s esteem gave him remorse. Not only did he have his trust, but added to that was a certain monetary debt, some three notes Rubião had taken on for him.
“I can’t, I mustn’t,” he was saying to himself. “It’s not right to go on. It’s also true that I didn’t start anything, really. She’s the one who’s been challenging me for a long time. So let her challenge, then! Yes, I’ve got to resist her . . . I lent the money almost without being asked because he needed a lot and I owed him favors. The notes, yes, the notes he asked me to sign, but he didn’t ask for anything else. I know that he’s honest, that he works hard. It’s that devil of a woman who did the wrong thing in coming between us with her beautiful eyes and her figure … What a figure, God in heaven! Just tonight it was divine. When her arm brushed mine at the table, in spite of my sleeve …”
Confused, uncertain, he went along thinking about the loyalty he owed his friend, but his conscience was split in two, one part accusing the other, the other explaining itself, both disoriented …
He found himself on the Praça da Constituição. He’d been wandering aimlessly. He thought about going to the theater, but it was too late. Then he headed for the Largo de São Francisco to get a cab and go to Botafogo. He found three of them, whose owners immediately came over to offer their services, mainly praising their horses: a good horse—an excellent animal.
XLVI
The sound of the voices and the vehicles woke up a beggar who was sleeping on the steps of the church. The poor devil sat up, saw what it was, then lay down again, but awake, on his back, his eyes fixed on the sky. The sky was staring back at him, as impassive as he, but without the beggar’s wrinkles or his worn shoes or his tatters, a clear, starry, calm, Olympian sky, like the one that presided over Jacob’s wedding and Lucretia’s suicide. They looked at each other in a kind of judgment game, with a certain air of rival and tranquil majesties, without haughtiness or wretchedness, as if the beggar were saying to the sky:
“Well, you won’t be falling on me.”
And the sky:
“And you won’t be climbing up me.”
XLVII
Rubião was not a philosopher. The comparison he made between his cares and those of the ragamuffin only brought a touch of envy to his soul. “That beggar isn’t thinking about anything,” he said to himself. “In just a little while he’ll be asleep, while I...”
“Get in, master, it’s a fine animal. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
The two other coachmen were telling him the same thing with almost the same words.
“Come over here, master, and you’ll see …”
“Look at my little horse ...”
“Please. It’s a thirteen–minute ride. You’ll be home in thirteen minutes.”
Rubião, still hesitating, got into the cab that was closest at hand and told the driver to go to Botafogo. Then he remembered an old forgotten episode, or it was the episode that unconsciously gave him the solution. One thing or the other. Rubião was directing his thoughts in an attempt to get away from the night’s feelings.
It had been a long time ago. He was still quite young, and poor. One day, at eight o’clock in the morning, he left the house, which was on the Rua do Cano (now Sete de Setembro), went onto the Largo de São Francisco de Paula, and from there went down the Rua do Ouvidor. He worried as he walked. He was living at the home of a friend who was beginning to treat him like a three–day guest, and he’d already been a four–week one. They say that the three–day ones stink. Dead people stink a lot earlier than that, at least in hot climates like this … What was certain was that our Rubião, simple as the good native of Minas that he was but as wary as someone from São Paulo, went along full of worries, thinking about leaving as soon as possible. It can be believed that from the moment he left the house, went out on to the Largo de Sao Francisco and down the Rua do Ouvidor to the Rua dos Ourives, he hadn’t seen or heard a single thing.
On the corner of the Rua dos Ourives his way was blocked by a crowd of people and a strange procession. A man in judicial robes was reading aloud from a sheet of paper: the sentence. In addition to the judge there were a priest, soldiers, and onlookers. But the principal figures were two black men. One of them, of medium height, thin, had his hands tied, his eyes cast down, bronze–colored skin, and a rope tied around his neck. The end of the rope was in the hands of another black man. This one was looking straight ahead, and his color was uniformly jet black. He was bearing the curiosity of the crowd with poise. When the paper had been read the procession continued on along the Rua dos Ourives. It was coming from the jail and was on its way to the Largo do Moura.
Rubião was naturally affected by it. For a few seconds he was the way he’d been just now about the choice of a cab. Inner forces were offering him their horses, some for him to turn back or to go about his business—others to go along and watch the black man be hanged. It was a rare opportunity to see a hanging! Sir, in twenty minutes it’s all over!—Sir, let’s go and take care of something else! And our man closed his eyes and let himself go as chance would have it. Chance, instead of leading him down the Rua do Ouvidor to the Rua da Quitanda, turned his path along the Rua dos Ourives behind the procession. He wasn’t going along to see the execution, he thought, it was only to watch the prisoner’s walk, the face of the executioner, the ritual… He didn’t want to see the execution. Every so often everything came to a halt, people appeared in doors and windows, and the court officer read the sentence again. Then the procession continued moving with the same solemnity. The onlookers were discussing the crime—a murder in Mata–Porcos. The murderer was known to be a cold–blooded, violent man. The news of those qualities made Rubião feel better. It gav
e him the strength to look the prisoner in the face without melting into pity. It was no longer the face of crime. Fright hid perversity. Without noticing, he arrived at the execution square. There were quite a few people there already. Along with those arriving they formed a compact mass.
“Let’s go back,” he said to himself.
The truth is that the prisoner hadn’t mounted the steps to the gallows yet. They were in no hurry to kill him. There was still time to run away. And since Rubião was staying, why wasn’t he closing his eyes the way a certain Alypius had done at the sight of the wild beasts? It must be noted that Rubião had never heard of that ancient youth. He was unaware that he had not only closed his eyes but had also opened them immediately after, slowly and curiously …
There was the prisoner, mounting the gallows. A murmur ran through the crowd. The executioner went to work. It was here that Rubião’s right foot made a turn in the direction it had come, obeying a feeling to go back. But the left foot, taken by a contrary feeling, stayed where it was. They fought for a few moments … Look at my horse!—See, he’s a fine animal!—Don’t be bad!—Don’t be faint–hearted! Rubião was like that for a few seconds, all that was needed for the fatal moment to arrive. All eyes were fixed on the same spot, the same as his. Rubião couldn’t understand what beast was gnawing at his insides or what iron hands were clutching his soul and keeping it there. The fatal instant really was an instant. The prisoner kicked, stiffened; the executioner climbed onto him in an agile and skillful way. A loud noise spread through the crowd. Rubião gave a shout and saw nothing more.
XLVIII
“Your Worship must have seen what a fine little horse I have ...” Rubião opened his half–closed eyes and saw the coachman who was lightly poking with the tip of his whip in order to rouse the animal. Inside he was annoyed with the man, who’d just brought him out of ancient memories. They weren’t pretty, but they were ancient—ancient and curative, because they were giving him an elixir to drink that seemed to have completely cured him of the present. And there was the coachman, tugging at him and waking him up. They were going up the Rua da Lapa, and the horse really was eating up the road, as if it were going downhill.
“This horse feels a great friendship for me,” the coachman went on, “unbelievable. I could tell you amazing things. There are people who say that they’re all lies of mine, but they’re not, no, sir, they’re not. Doesn’t everybody know that horses and dogs are the animals that like people the most? Dogs, I think, like us even more ...”
The mention of dogs brought Quincas Borba back into Rubião’s memory. He was probably waiting anxiously for him there at home. Rubião wasn’t forgetting the conditions of the will. He was fulfilling them to the letter. It must be said that part of the fear of seeing him run away was that of seeing the loss of his possessions. The lawyer’s assurances were useless. The latter had told him that there was no clause in the will making it revert to anyone else in case the dog ran away. The estate couldn’t leave his hands. What difference would the dog’s running away make for him since it would be one less care? Rubião gave the impression of accepting the explanation, but the doubt still remained, the thought of long, drawn–out lawsuits, a variety of judicial opinions concerning one single point, the acts of some envious person or an enemy, and, what summed it all up, the terror of being left without anything. Out of that came the strict confinement, out of that also the remorse of having spent the afternoon and evening without thinking even once about Quincas Borba.
“I’m an ingrate!” he told himself.
He immediately corrected himself. He was an even greater ingrate because he hadn’t thought about the other Quincas Borba, who’d left him everything. Then suddenly the thought occurred to him that the two Quincas Borbas might be the same creature through the effect of the dead man’s soul entering the body of the dog, not so much to purge his sins as to keep an eye on his owner. It had been a black woman from Sao Joao d’El–Rei who’d put that idea of transmigration into his head when he was a child. She’d said that a soul full of sin would enter the body of a beast. She even swore that she’d known a court clerk who’d been turned into an opossum …
“Your Worship mustn’t forget to tell me where your house is,” the coachman suddenly told him.
“Stop.”
XLIX
The dog was barking inside the gate, but as soon as Rubião entered, he received him with great joy and, no matter how bothersome it was, Rubião outdid himself with petting. The possibility of the testator’s being there gave him the shivers. They went up the stone steps together. They remained there for a few moments in the light of the lamp that Rubião had ordered left on. Rubião was more credulous than believing. He had no reason to attack or defend anything: eternally virgin soil for anything to be planted. Life in the capital had given him a trait, though: among incredulous people he had come to be incredulous …
He looked at the dog while he waited for them to open the door. The dog was looking at him in such a way that inside him there the selfsame and deceased Quincas Borba seemed to be present. It was the same meditative look that the philosopher had had when he was examining human motives … Another shiver. But the fear, while great, wasn’t so great that it tied his hands. Rubião reached them out to the dog’s head, scratching his ears and neck.
“Poor Quincas Borba! You like your master, don’t you? Rubião is a good friend of Quincas Borba …”
And the dog moved his head left and right to facilitate the petting of his two drooping ears. Then he lifted up his jaw so he could be scratched underneath it, and his master obeyed. But then the dog’s eyes, half closed with pleasure, took on the look of the philosopher’s eyes, in bed, telling him things of which he understood very little or nothing at all... Rubião closed his eyes. They opened the door for him. He took leave of the dog but with such petting that it was the same as inviting him in. The Spanish servant took charge of taking him back down.
“Don’t hurt him,” Rubião ordered.
He didn’t hurt him, but just going down was painful enough and the dog–friend whimpered in the garden for a long time. Rubião went in, got undressed, and lay down. Oh, he’d lived through a day full of diverse and contrary sensations, from his morning memories and lunch with his two friends up to that last idea of metempsychosis, passing along the way through the memory of the hanged man and through a declaration of love that wasn’t accepted, was barely repulsed, was seemingly suspected by other people … He was mixing everything in. His spirit was going back and forth like a rubber ball between the hands of children. All in all, the major feeling was that of love. Rubião was amazed at himself, and he repented. But the repentance was the work of his conscience, while his imagination wouldn’t for any price release the image of the beautiful Sofia … One, two, three o’clock… Sofia far off, the barking of the dog down below … Evasive sleep … Where had three o’clock gone? Three–thirty … Finally, after a great effort, sleep came for him, squeezed out the opium from its poppies, and it took only an instant. Before it was four o’clock, Rubião was asleep.
L
No, my dear lady, that ever so long day isn’t over yet. We still don’t know what happened between Sofia and Palha after everyone had left. It’s even possible that you’ll find a better taste here than in the case of the hanged man.
Be patient. It’s a matter of going back to Santa Teresa now. The parlor is still lighted by a gas jet. The other lights have been extinguished, and the last one was about to be when Palha ordered the servant to wait inside for a bit. The wife was about to leave the room; the husband held her back. She trembled.
“Our party was quite nice,” he said.
“It was.”
“Siqueira’s a bore, but we’ve got to be patient. He’s a jolly sort. His daughter didn’t look too bad. Did you see how Ramos gobbled up everything that was put on his plate? You just watch, someday he’s going to swallow his wife.”
“His wife?” Sofia asked, smiling.
“She’s fat. I admit, but the first one was even fatter, and I don’t think she died. He most certainly gobbled her up.”
Sofia, reclining on the settee, laughed at her husband’s witticisms. They discussed a few more episodes of the afternoon and evening; then Sofia, stroking her husband’s hair, said suddenly:
“But you still don’t know what the best episode of the evening was.”
“Which was it?”
“Guess.”
Palha was silent for some time, looking at his wife, trying to guess what had been the best episode of the evening. He couldn’t. This one or that one came to mind, but they weren’t it. Sofia would shake her head.
“Which was it, then?”
“I don’t know. Guess.”
“I can’t. Come on, tell me.”
“Under one condition,” she hastened to say. “I don’t want any huffing or any row ...”
Palha grew more serious. Huffing? Row? What the devil could it be? he thought. He wasn’t laughing any longer. All he had left were the remains of a forced and resigned smile. He stared hard at her and asked her what it was.
“Do you promise what I asked?”
“All right. What was it?”
“Well, you should know, then, that I heard a declaration of love.”
Palha grew pale. He hadn’t promised not to grow pale. He loved his wife, as we know, even to the point of showing her off. He couldn’t hear that news coldly. Sofia saw his paleness and enjoyed the bad impression she’d made. To savor it all the more she leaned her breast over him, loosened her hair, which had been bothering her a little, gathered the hairpins in a handkerchief, then shook her head, breathed deeply, and grasped her husband’s hands as he stood there.
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