at a tavern table, thin and pale-faced lord of
the poker game, sailing today on an unknown sea
with his angel wings, This tale here that I told
him once I’d tell.
For Laís and Rui Antunes, in whose fraternal
Pernambuco house with warmth of friendship Quincas
and his people came to be.
Let everyone see to his own funeral; nothing is impossible.
—The last words of Quincas Water-Bray,
according to Quitéria, who was at his side
The Double Death of Quincas Water-Bray
1
Even today a certain confusion remains surrounding the death of Quincas Water-Bray. Doubts to be explained, absurd details, contradictions in the testimony of witnesses, diverse gaps. Nothing is clear as to time, place, and last words. The family, backed up by neighbors and friends, remains adamant with their version of a peaceful death in the morning, without witnesses, display, or last words, taking place almost twenty hours before that other demise, the one bandied about and commented upon as the night wanes and the moon disappears over the sea, when mysteries take place along the waterfront of Bahia. Spoken in the presence of competent witnesses, however, and talked about everywhere in hillside neighborhoods and hidden alleys, his last words are repeated from mouth to mouth and in the opinion of those people represent more than just a farewell to the world; they are a prophetic testimony, a message with deep meaning (as a young author of our own time would come to write).
All those competent witnesses, among them Master Manuel and Quitéria Goggle-Eye, a woman of her word, and yet, in spite of it all, there are those who deny all and any authenticity, not to those admired words alone but also to all the events of that memorable night when at a doubtful time and under disputable circumstances Quincas Water-Bray plunged into the seas of Bahia and set off on an endless journey, never to return. That’s what the world’s like, hitched, like oxen to a yoke, to law and order, customary procedures, and sealed documents. They triumphantly display the death certificate, signed by the doctor just before noon, and on the strength of that simple sheet of paper—just because it has printed letters and some stamps on it—they try to snuff out all those hours lived so intensely by Quincas Water-Bray up until his departure, of his own free and spontaneous will, as he declared in a loud, clear voice to his friends and all present.
The dead man’s family—his respectable daughter and his proper son-in-law, a civil servant with a promising career; Aunt Marocas; and his younger brother, a merchant with modest credit in the bank—says that the whole tale is nothing but a gross bit of counterfeit goods, the inventions of inveterate drunkards and lowlifes on the margin of society and the law, rogues whose surroundings ought to be the bars of a jail cell and not the freedom of the streets, the waterfront of Bahia, its white sand beaches and its immense night. Committing an injustice, it is to these friends of Quincas that they attribute all the responsibility for the ill-fated existence he had been living these last few years, when he became a bother and a shame for his family. It had reached the point where his name was never mentioned or his deeds ever spoken about in the innocent presence of the children, for whom Grandfather Joaquim, of fond memory, had died a long time ago, decently enwrapped in everybody’s respect. Which leads one to attest that there had indeed been a first death, if not physical, a moral one at least, dating back some years earlier, which brings the total to three, making Quincas some kind of record holder in matters of death, a champion at dying, and gives us the right to think that posterior events—beginning with the death certificate right up to his plunge into the sea—were a farce he put together in order to molest his relatives’ lives once more, to bring some annoyance into their existence, lowering them into the shameful gossip of the street. He wasn’t a man for respect and convention, in spite of the respect he was paid by his card-playing partners as a gambler of outsized luck or as a drinker of storied amounts of cachaça.
I don’t know if this mystery of the death (of the successive deaths) of Quincas Water-Bray will ever be completely deciphered, but I shall make an attempt, as he himself advised, because the important thing is to try, even with the impossible.
2
The rascals who told the story of Quincas’s final moments up and down the streets in the hillside neighborhoods, across from the market and in the stalls at Água dos Meninos (there was even a handbill with some doggerel composed by the improviser Cuíca de Santo Amaro that was widely sold), were therefore an affront to the memory of the deceased, according to his family. And the memory of the dead, as is well known, is a sacred thing, not meant for the unclean mouths of cachaça-swillers, gamblers, and marijuana smugglers. Nor to serve as the basis for the vulgar poetry of the singers of popular songs by the entrance to the Lacerda Elevator, which so many proper people pass through, including the colleagues of Leonardo Barreto, Quincas’s humiliated son-in-law. When a man dies he is reintegrated into his most authentic respectability, even having committed the maddest acts when he was alive. Death, with its unseen hand, erases the stains of the past and leaves the dead man’s memory gleaming like a new-cut diamond. This was the thesis put forth by the family and seconded by neighbors and friends. According to them, Quincas Water-Bray, upon dying, went back to being that once respectable Joaquim Soares da Cunha, of good family; an exemplary employee of the State Bureau of Revenue, with a measured step, a closely shaved chin, a black alpaca jacket, and a briefcase under his arm; someone listened to with respect by his neighbors as he rendered his opinions on politics and the weather, never seen in any bar, with only a modest drink of cachaça at home. In reality, in an effort worthy of applause, the family had managed to arrange for Quincas’s memory to gleam forth without a flaw only a few years after having publicly declared him to be dead. They spoke of him in the past tense when circumstances obliged them to make mention of him. Unfortunately, however, every so often some neighbor, some colleague of Leonardo’s, a talkative friend of Vanda’s (his shamed daughter) would run into Quincas or hear something about him from some third party. It was as if a dead man had risen from his tomb to cast a stain on his own memory: lying drunk in the sun at the height of morning near the Rampa do Mercado, or, filthy and ragged, leaning against some greasy cart by the steps of the church of Pilar, or even singing in a hoarse voice on the arms of black and mulatto streetwalkers along the Ladeira de São Miguel. A horror!
When finally on that morning a vendor of holy images who had a shop on the Ladeira do Tabuão arrived in great affliction at the small but well-kept home of the Barreto family and brought the daughter, Vanda, and the son-in-law, Leonardo, the news that Quincas had indeed kicked the bucket, found dead in his miserable hovel, a sigh of relief arose in unison from the breasts of the couple. From now on it would no longer be the memory of the retired employee of the State Bureau of Revenue overturned and dragged through the mud by the contradictory acts of the tramp he had been transformed into toward the end of his life. The time for a bit of deserved rest had arrived. Now they could speak freely of Joaquim Soares da Cunha; praise his conduct as a civil servant, a husband and father, a citizen; point out his virtues as an example for the children; teach them to love the memory of their grandfather without fear of any upset.
The image vendor, a skinny old man with close-curled white hair, went into details: A black woman who sold mingau, acarajé, abará, and other culinary delights had had some important business to transact with Quincas that morning. He had promised to get her some herbs that were hard to find but that were indispensable for the obligations of candomblé rites. The black woman had come for the herbs. It was urgent that she get them because it was the holy season for festivities in honor of Xangô. As usual, the door to the room at the top of the filthy stairway was open—Quincas had lost the great and ancient key a long time ago. It was said that he’d sold it to some tourists on a day that was lean from his bad luck in gambling, as he coupled it to a tale, with dates a
nd all, that elevated it to the status of a holy key to a church. The woman called out but got no answer. She thought he was asleep and pushed open the unlocked door. Quincas was there smiling as he lay on his cot—the sheet was black with filth, and a ragged blanket covered his legs—but it was his usual smile of welcome, so she thought nothing of it. She asked him for the herbs he’d promised her, but he smiled without answering. The great toe of his right foot stuck out through a hole in the sock, and his beat-up shoes were on the floor. The black woman, a close friend and quite accustomed to Quincas’s monkeyshines, sat down on the bed and told him to get a move on. She was surprised he hadn’t reached out a libertine hand, addicted as he was to pats and pinches. She stared again at the great toe of his right foot, found it strange. She touched Quincas’s body and jumped up in alarm, dropping the cold hand. She ran down the stairs and spread the news.
It was with scant pleasure that the daughter and son-in-law listened to those details about the black woman and the herbs, the gropings, and the candomblé. They nodded their heads as they hurried the image vendor along. He was a calm man, and he liked to tell a story in full. He was the only one who knew about Quincas’s relatives, revealed to him once during a night of heavy drinking, and that was why he’d come. He put on a remorseful face and proffered his heartfelt condolences.
It was time for Leonardo to leave for the office, so he told his wife, “You go on ahead over there. I’ll stop by the office and won’t be long in joining you. I’ve got to sign in. I’ll talk to the boss.”
They invited in the image vendor and offered him a chair in the living room. Vanda went to change her clothes. The vendor was talking to Leonardo about Quincas. There was nobody on the Ladeira do Tabuão who didn’t like him. Why did he take up that life of a tramp, a man from a good family and property, as the vendor could see after having the pleasure of getting to know his daughter and son-in-law? Some kind of trouble? It must have been. Maybe his wife had been two-timing him; that happens a lot—and the vendor put his forefingers to his head in an imitation of horns, his way of asking a lewd kind of question: Had he guessed right?
“Dona Otacília, my mother-in-law, was a saint of a woman!”
The vendor scratched his chin: Why then? But Leonardo didn’t answer. He went to take care of Vanda, who was calling him from the bedroom.
“We’ve got to notify—”
“Notify? Who? Why?”
“Aunt Marocas and Uncle Eduardo…the neighbors. Send out invitations to the funeral…”
“Why do we have to let the neighbors know now? We’ll tell them later. If not, there’ll be a damned lot of talk.”
“But Aunt Marocas…”
“I’ll talk to her and Eduardo…after I stop by the office. Hurry up or else this guy who came with the news will go spreading it all over town.”
“Who could have thought? Dying like that, with nobody—”
“Whose fault is it? His own, the damned nut.”
In the living room the image vendor was admiring a color photo of Quincas. It was an old one, from some fifteen years before. A dignified gentleman in a stiff collar, with a black tie, a mustache with pointed tips, shiny hair, and ruddy cheeks. Next to it, in an identical frame, with an accusing look and hard mouth, was Dona Otacília, wearing a black lace dress. The vendor studied her sour face. She doesn’t have the look of someone who’s been cheating on her husband. On the other hand, she must have been a tough bone to gnaw.…Sainted woman? I don’t believe it.
3
Only a few people from the neighborhood were there looking at the corpse when Vanda arrived. The image vendor informed them in a soft voice, “This is his daughter. He had a daughter, a son-in-law, a brother, and a sister. Distinguished people. His son-in-law is a civil servant. He lives in Itapagipe in a fine home.”
They drew back to let her through, waiting with curiosity for her to fling herself onto the corpse, to embrace it and cover herself with tears, perhaps even to sob. On the cot, Quincas Water-Bray, in his old mended pants, his tattered shirt, a grease-stained vest that was too large for him, was smiling as though enjoying it all. Vanda stood there, motionless, looking at the unshaven face, the filthy hands, the great toe coming through the hole in his sock. She had no tears left to weep or sobs to fill the room. Both had been used up in the early days of Quincas’s madness, when she had made repeated attempts to bring him back to the home he’d abandoned. Now all she could do was look, her cheeks blushing with shame.
He didn’t make a very presentable corpse: the body of a tramp who’d just happened to die, with no decorum in his death, no respect, lying there and cynically laughing at her, at Leonardo certainly, at the rest of the family. A cadaver for the morgue, to go off in the black police hearse and later serve students at the medical school in their practice sessions, to be buried finally in a shallow grave with no cross or headstone. It was the corpse of Quincas Water-Bray, drunkard, scoffer, and gambler, with no family or home, no flowers or prayers. It wasn’t Joaquim Soares da Cunha, a proper civil servant at the State Bureau of Revenue, retired after twenty-five years of good and loyal service; a model husband whom everybody tipped his hat to and whose hand everybody shook. How could a man at the age of fifty abandon his family, his home, the habits of a lifetime, his circle of friends, to wander the streets, get drunk in cheap bars, frequent houses of prostitution, go about filthy and unshaven, live in a disgraceful hovel, sleep on a miserable cot? Vanda could find no valid explanation. Many times at night after the death of Dona Otacília—not even on that solemn occasion had Quincas deigned to return to the company of his people—she had discussed the matter with her husband. It wasn’t insanity, at least not insanity of the asylum kind—the doctors were unanimous in that. How could it be explained, then?
But now all that had come to an end—that nightmare over the years, that stain on family dignity. Vanda had inherited a certain practical sense from her mother, a capacity for making quick decisions and carrying them out. As she stood staring at the dead man, that unpleasant caricature of what had once been her father, she was deciding what to do. First, call the doctor for the death certificate. Then, dress the body decently and have it carried to their home. Bury it beside Otacília after a not too expensive funeral (times were hard), one that wouldn’t make them look bad in the eyes of friends, neighbors, or Leonardo’s colleagues. Aunt Marocas and Uncle Eduardo would help. As she was pondering all this with her eyes fixed on Quincas’s smiling face, Vanda wondered what was going to become of her father’s pension. Would they inherit it, or would it just go back into the pension fund? Maybe Leonardo could find out.…
She turned toward the onlookers, who were staring at her. They were part of that rabble from Tabuão, the riffraff in whose company Quincas found pleasure. What were they doing there? Didn’t they understand that Quincas Water-Bray had ceased to exist the moment he exhaled his last breath? That he had been nothing but an invention of the Devil? A bad dream? A nightmare? Joaquim Soares da Cunha would once again return to be among his people for a short time, in the comfort of a proper home, reinstalled in his respectability. The time for his return had arrived, and this time Quincas couldn’t laugh in the face of his daughter and son-in-law, telling them to go peddle their potatoes, bidding them a sarcastic “bye-bye” and going off whistling. He was lying there on the cot, not moving. Quincas Water-Bray was all through.
Vanda lifted her head, took a victorious look at those present, and demanded, in that voice of Otacília’s, “Is there something you want? If not, you can leave now.” Then, speaking to the image vendor: “Would you please do me a favor and call a doctor? It’s for the death certificate.”
The vendor nodded. He was impressed. The others slowly left. Vanda was left alone with the corpse. Quincas Water-Bray was smiling, and the great toe of his right foot seemed to be growing larger in the hole in his sock.
4
She looked for a place to sit down. All there was beside the cot was an empty kerosene can. V
anda stood it up, blew the dust off, and sat down. How long was it going to take the doctor to get there? And what about Leonardo? She imagined her husband at the office, clumsily explaining to the boss the unexpected death of his father-in-law. Leonardo’s boss had known Joaquim during his good days at the State Bureau of Revenue, so how could someone who’d known and respected him have imagined his end? These would be difficult moments for Leonardo, talking about the old man’s madness, trying to find some explanation for it. The worst of it would be the news spreading among his colleagues, whispered from desk to desk as faces took on wicked little smiles, uncouth tales told, tasteless comments made. That father had been a cross to bear, making their lives a calvary, but now they had come to the top of the hill, and all that was needed was a little more patience. Vanda got a glimpse of the dead man out of the corner of her eye. There he was, smiling, finding all of that exceedingly amusing.
It’s a sin to get angry at a dead man, especially so if he’s your father. Vanda restrained herself. She was religious; she attended the Bonfim church. A bit of a spiritualist too, she believed in reincarnation. Besides, Quincas’s smile didn’t matter all that much now. She was in charge at last, and he would shortly go back to being the proper Joaquim Soares da Cunha, the irreproachable good citizen.
The image vendor returned with the doctor, a young fellow, obviously a recent graduate, as it was still hard for him to appear as a full and competent physician. The image vendor pointed to the dead man, and the doctor nodded to Vanda, opening his shiny new leather satchel. Vanda got up and moved the kerosene can away.
“What did he die of?”
It was the image vendor who explained: “They found him dead, just the way he is here.”
The Double Death of Quincas Water-Bray Page 2
