Senhor Timóteo got up and, as he did, his dress unfurled about him in majestic folds.
“There was a time,” he said, almost with his back to me, “there was a time when I believed I should follow the same path as other people. It seemed criminal, almost foolish to obey my own law. The law was a shared domain from which none of us could escape. I wore throttlingly tight ties, mastered the art of banal conversations, imagined I was the same as everyone else. Until, one day, I felt I couldn’t possibly go on like that: why follow ordinary laws when I was far from ordinary, why pretend I was like everyone else when I was totally different? Ah, Betty, don’t look at me, dressed as I am, as a mere allegorical figure: I want to present others with an image of the courage I lack. I wear what I like and go where I like, except, alas, I do so in a cage of my own making. That is the only freedom that is entirely ours: to be monsters to ourselves.”
He fell silent, overcome by emotion. Then, more quietly, as if talking to himself:
“That is what they have done with my gesture, Betty. They have turned it into a prisoner’s maniacal obsession, and these clothes, which should constitute my triumph, merely adorn the dream of a condemned man. But one day, do you hear, one day, I will break free from the fear holding me back, and I will show them and the world who I really am. That will only happen when the last of the Meneses lets fall his arm in cowardly surrender. Only then will I have the strength to cry: ‘Do you see? Everything that they despise in me is the blood of the Meneses.’”
He spoke these last words rather more loudly than usual, but he quickly recovered, fixed me with an intense gaze and, doubtless overcome by a sudden wave of embarrassment, hid his face behind the fan.
“But, my dear Betty, what mad things I’m telling you, eh? How could you possibly understand what I mean?”
“I don’t understand everything,” I said, “but some of those things seem very real.”
“Real!” and he went back to pacing the room, and as he fanned himself, the scent of sandalwood grew still stronger. “Betty, don’t tell me that the only real things are those that exist in my blood. Shall I tell you something? I believe I was born with my soul in a ball gown. When I used to wear those throttling neckties, when I wore the same clothes as other men, my mind was full of sumptuous dresses, jewels, and fans. When my mother died—she, who in her youth, was famous for her extravagant clothes—my first act was to take over her entire wardrobe. And not just her wardrobe, but her jewelry too. Locked away in that chest of drawers I have a box containing the most beautiful jewels in the world: amethysts, diamonds, and topaz. When I’m alone, I take them out of their hiding place and, on sleepless nights, I play with them on the bed, I roll them around in my hands, jewels that would be the salvation of the whole family, but which will never leave this room, not at least as long as I live. That’s why I said to you that the spirit of Maria Sinhá is in my blood: she was always dreaming of the different outfits she would wear. They say that on moonless nights, she would go out into the streets dressed as a man, smoking a cigarette and with a dark cape over her shoulders.”
I confess that I was finding this whole conversation deeply troubling, especially since I did not believe what he was telling me and could see that it was leading nowhere. I sighed and stood up.
“This is all a bit over my head, Senhor Timóteo. But if it makes you happy . . .”
He turned around almost violently, and his face grew dark:
“No, Betty, it has nothing to do with happiness. I wouldn’t bother to defy anyone if it was merely a matter of my personal happiness. This is about the truth—and the truth is what matters.”
“I believe so too, Senhor Timóteo.”
Then something like a long tremor of pleasure ran through his voice:
“Well then. Truth cannot be invented, it cannot be distorted or replaced—it is simply that, the truth. However grotesque, absurd or fatal, it is the truth. You may not understand what I mean, Betty, but that is what is there at the heart of all things.”
He again fell silent and stood next to me, breathing hard. Then, as if he had revived old, possibly painful memories, he went on in a voice full of an insinuating nostalgia:
“As a man—or, rather, as a shadow of a man—nothing aroused any passion in me. It was as if I didn’t exist. And what is this world without passion, Betty? We must concentrate, we must squeeze every drop of interest and passion that we can out of things. But if there’s nothing inside me, if I am merely a ghost of others . . .”
I wasn’t following his reasoning at all now and felt slightly bewildered by these vague ideas. I saw only the sequins that glittered as his chest rose and fell with emotion. And he must have noticed my distraction, because he placed one hand on my shoulder.
“Whereas now,” and his voice lit up, “my free spirit embraces everything. I love and suffer just like anyone else, I hate, I laugh, and, for better or worse I stand among the others as a truth, not as a mere fantasy. Now do you understand me, Betty?”
I nodded, fearful that he would get even more carried away. What was the point of all those justifications, where did they get us? If it was the truth he was after, and if he had, as one of God’s creatures, managed to find a place within the mechanism of the universe, why then boast about what he considered to be his victory? And how could I, a poor housekeeper, used only to running a household, how could I comprehend such paradoxes? As he stood before me, breathing hard, he must have followed the arc of my thoughts, for, like someone coming down to earth again after some transcendent vision, he shook his head and said:
“No, you don’t understand. No one understands. The truth is a solitary science.”
He shrugged and laughed:
“And how absurd it would be, Betty, if they did understand, not everything, but at least what I represent. The fact is, my reasons are secret reasons.”
His laughter, like a fragment of brief, inconsequential music, hung in the air—I felt that the last word had been spoken. Slowly, still fanning himself, he went over to the window, which was permanently covered by thick curtains. What would he see, what landscape would he unveil behind those eternally closed curtains? He merely held up one finger, as if repeating an automatic gesture made dozens and dozens of times, before, as if mortally tired, he lowered it again. Then he turned and started slightly, as if surprised to see me there:
“But we’re friends, aren’t we, Betty?”
“Of course, Senhor Timóteo, we’ll always be friends.”
His whole face lit up with a look of great pleasure—no ordinary pleasure either, but a great, dense exhalation of pleasure, a kind of belated, silent flash of lightning that dissipated the continual gloom of his isolation—and he came closer and leaned over me, saying:
“For those words I will be eternally grateful,” and he kissed my forehead, a soft, warm, prolonged kiss. And while his lips were touching my skin, I could hear the beating of his heart, like the murmur of an ocean kept under lock and key.
“Senhor Timóteo . . .” I began to say, unable to hide the tears filling my eyes.
Then he stood up, took two steps back and said almost gruffly:
“But that isn’t why I asked you here, Betty.”
If I had hurt him, that had certainly not been my intention. I wanted to say something that would show him I had understood, but the words stuck in my throat. I felt like taking him in my arms and murmuring tender words, the words one says to children. But with his back to me, he had become a silent, impenetrable block of ice.
“Senhor Timóteo . . .” I began again.
He turned and said with extraordinary calm:
“Betty, I wanted to know if ‘she’ had arrived.”
He was clearly referring to the new mistress. I told him that a telegram had come and that everything had been postponed until the following day.
“Again!” he murmured in a voice as desolate as if something crucial, vital even, to his life hung on that one fact. “Again!” he repeated.
Then, in one of those impulses so peculiar to him, he rushed over to me, clutched my hands and said:
“Betty, I wanted to ask you a favor.”
“Of course, if I can help . . .”
I could see Senhor Demétrio’s implacable orders before me, as if engraved in stone.
“Yes, you can, you can help,” he said. And before I could respond, he explained: “I want to see her, Betty, I need to see her as soon as she arrives. Will you promise to give her a message from me?”
I hesitated, but his eyes remained fixed on mine, and so I said:
“Yes, I promise.”
“Thank you, Betty, thank you,” and he gave a sigh of relief. “I just want you to go to her and say: ‘A person wishes to see you as soon as possible, about a matter of extreme importance.’”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. You swear you won’t forget my words.”
I held out my hand:
“I swear.”
And with that oath we parted company.
21st– I think I was the first person to see her when she got out of the car and—oh!—I will never forget the impression she made on me. It wasn’t just admiration I felt, because I had seen other beautiful women in my time. But never before had my initial feeling of amazement been edged with anxiety, that slight breathlessness, it was not only the certainty that there before me stood an extraordinarily beautiful woman, it was my awareness that she was also a presence—a definite, self-assured being who appeared to give off her own light and her own warmth, like a landscape. (Note written in the margin: Even today, after all this time, I don’t think any one thing has ever impressed me so much as that first encounter with Dona Nina. She was not only graceful, she was subtle, generous, even majestic. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was intensely, violently seductive. She emerged from the car as if nothing else existed outside the aura of her fascination—this was not mere charm, it was magic. Later, as she deteriorated, I watched as the fatal illness left its marks upon her face, and I can honestly say that her features never became coarse or anything less than noble. There was a metamorphosis, a shift perhaps, but the essence was there, and even when I saw her dead, wrapped in the sad winding sheet of the despised outsider, I could see the same splendor as on that first day, flickering, sleepless, rootless, like moonlight glinting on the wreckage of a ship.)
She paused for a moment, one hand resting on the car door. We were lined up before her, with Senhor Demétrio, Dona Ana, and Senhor Valdo slightly ahead, followed, as befitted my station, by me, then old Anastácia, who had been Senhor Valdo’s nursemaid and was in charge of the black servants in the kitchen, then Pedro and the other servants. Such ceremony, such solemn faces, slightly embarrassed her.
“Valdo! Valdo!” she cried. “Help me unload the luggage.”
Senhor Valdo beckoned to me and I stepped forward, closely followed by old Anastácia. I began the task of unloading suitcases of varying sizes, endless hat boxes—why so many?—and an infinite number of smaller items. Even while I was engaged in doing this, I still had time to observe the welcoming party. The mistress went over to Senhor Valdo, and I noticed their slightly awkward embrace, even though they were newlyweds. He was doubtless wounded by her continual postponements and wanted to make his feelings clear. As for Senhor Demétrio, he gave her a far warmer reception than I would have expected—as if he were both surprised and excited by Dona Nina’s beauty. As soon as she had extricated herself from her husband’s arms, Senhor Demétrio immediately stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek, saying how delighted he was to welcome her to the Chácara. At the same time, he pushed poor Dona Ana forward, but she showed not the slightest glimmer of pleasure at meeting the new arrival. That was the most difficult moment for all those present: the newcomer merely offered Dona Ana the tips of her fingers, as if she had no great interest in meeting this new acquaintance either. Dona Ana turned even paler than usual and murmured a few words that no one understood. Finally, they all went into the house. At the very foot of the steps, I saw the new mistress crouch down and pick a violet that was growing among the clover. “My favorite flower,” she said.
Helped by Pedro and Anastácia, I took the luggage to the newlyweds’ room, which was right next to Senhor Timóteo’s room—so close that, outside, the windows almost touched. This meant that, for some time, I lost track of events. When I returned to the drawing room, Senhor Demétrio and Dona Ana had already withdrawn. Standing at the window, looking out onto the verandah—although what was there to look at in that sea of mango trees?—were Senhor Valdo and the mistress. They must have been quarrelling, because they both seemed very ill at ease. Not noticing my presence, he turned to her and said:
“You are never right, Nina, and the worst of it is that you don’t seem to realize it.”
I saw her spin around, aflame with indignation:
“Is that why you wanted me to come here, Valdo? So that you could pester and threaten me with your jealousy? I’ve already explained the reason for my delay, that I had to say goodbye to various friends. As for the Colonel, I’ve haven’t seen him since. Now, if you think . . .”
“You don’t understand, Nina,” he said, interrupting her.
Those words seemed to raise her anger to a new pitch. She began pacing furiously up and down, and I withdrew discreetly into Senhor Demétrio’s study, intending to tidy some of the bookshelves. Since his study immediately adjoined the drawing room and I had left the door open, I could still hear fragments of their argument. As far as I could make out, it was about some money that Senhor Valdo had failed to send to her in Rio de Janeiro, with, according to her, the “base” intention of forcing her to start out for Minas earlier than expected. (Ah, Minas Gerais, she roared, the ugly, silent people she had seen from the train, people who had seemed to her both sad and mean, qualities she loathed.) Standing at the window, doubtless pointing at the dense host of mango trees outside, she declared in her most eloquent tones: “You cannot imagine how I hate all this!” She was doubtless sincere in this, for she had never lived in the countryside, and that low, flat landscape, with its bare expanses parched by the summer sun, did not speak to her at all and aroused in her only a genuine feeling of anxiety. I think it may well have been that aversion, expressed on innumerable occasions, in every possible tone of voice, that laid the foundations for the hostility between her and Senhor Demétrio, who was so deeply rooted in Minas Gerais. More than anything, though, he loved the Chácara, which, in his eyes, represented the tradition and dignity of the local customs—which were, according to him, the only authentic customs in all Brazil. “People may speak ill of me,” he used to say, “but not of this house. It dates back to the days of the Empire, and represents several generations of the Meneses family, who have lived here proudly and with dignity.”
The fact is that, once the argument between Dona Nina and Senhor Valdo was over—it was early days for them to have any truly bitter disputes—they both went out into the garden while they waited for lunch to be served. I have no idea what they did or talked about as they walked up and down the sandy paths—I saw only that when the mistress returned, she was holding a small bunch of violets. “Alberto the gardener gave them to me,” she said, as if not wanting us to think they had been a gift from Senhor Valdo. Senhor Demétrio and Dona Ana were already seated at the table, and perhaps because they had been kept waiting, the ensuing conversation was not exactly animated. When Dona Nina praised the flowers in the garden, Senhor Demétrio commented vaguely that Alberto was, indeed, a good gardener, but rather too young for the job. He lacked the necessary experience for dealing with certain more difficult plants. Dona Nina mounted a rather lively defense, saying that precisely because he was so young, he was more likely to be open to adopting new methods. Talk turned to the Pavilion, and for some reason, Senhor Valdo suddenly began to list some of the Chácara’s shortcomings.
“The facilities here are far from perfect, Demétrio, and have long been in need of
renovation.”
I saw Senhor Demétrio first stare at him in some amazement, then slowly put down his knife and fork.
“You astonish me, Valdo. Since when have you taken any interest in ‘the facilities’?”
“I was looking around with Nina today and . . .” Senhor Valdo began tentatively.
“Today!” and Senhor Demétrio’s voice was ripe with irony. “Only today, and yet the house has been falling to pieces for a very long time! I congratulate you, Nina, on your miraculous powers. Really, only someone totally irresponsible . . .”
Quickly and as if wanting to prevent his brother from going any further down that route, Senhor Valdo broke in with:
“We need to do some work on the house, Demétrio. For example, as I mentioned, the Pavilion . . .”
Senhor Demétrio glanced first at Dona Ana, as if to make sure that she, too, was aware of the absurdity of what they were hearing, then at Senhor Valdo, who was trying to look as unruffled as possible, and lastly at Dona Nina, who was the only one following the conversation with visible interest—then he gave a soft, delicious gurgle of laughter:
“Work! On the Pavilion in the garden . . . That’s ridiculous, Valdo!”
It was Senhor Valdo’s turn to put down his knife and fork.
“I don’t see why.”
“Don’t you?” and Senhor Demétrio’s laugh, which continued to light up his face, suddenly stopped. “You really don’t see why? You know perfectly well what we are: a bankrupt family living in the south of Minas Gerais, a family that no longer has any cattle to graze, that lives from renting out the pastures it owns, although only when they’re not parched dry, a family that produces nothing, absolutely nothing, to replace sources of income that long ago dried up. Our one hope is that we simply disappear very quietly here under this roof, unless, of course, some generous soul”—and he shot a quick glance at the mistress—“comes to our rescue.”
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 7
