“You’re joking, Demétrio,” murmured Senhor Valdo, turning pale.
“No, I’m not,” retorted his brother. “I assume that in order to carry out such work, repairs on the Pavilion in the garden and who knows what else, you’re counting on a loan from your dear wife.”
Dona Nina remained utterly impassive—she merely raised her eyebrows and said coolly:
“I married a wealthy man.”
“Wealthy? Is that what he told you?” cried Senhor Demétrio.
“Yes.”
He had been leaning forward across the table, but he fell back now, so violently that I feared he might take the chair with him.
“He doesn’t have a penny to his name! We owe money to the servants, to the pharmacist, to the local bank . . . No, really, this is too much . . .”
Only then did the mistress appear to lose her composure. Throwing down her napkin on the table, her lips trembling, she said:
“Valdo, this is too humiliating!”
I thought for a moment that she was going to get up and leave the room, but after a few seconds, with the atmosphere still just as tense, I heard Senhor Valdo say:
“Don’t worry, Nina, my brother always exaggerates.”
I had my back to them, pretending to be preparing the plates for dessert—this was a special day and on such occasions, among my other tasks, I would serve at the table. And so while I couldn’t see the look on Senhor Demétrio’s face, I heard him laugh again, his laughter muffled this time by the napkin pressed to his lips.
“So I exaggerate, do I?” he said. “It should be easy enough then to explain why you didn’t send Nina the money she was expecting, and why you didn’t order the room she’ll be occupying to be painted, a room that is, by the way, merely a cubbyhole at the far end of the hallway.” He stopped, almost hesitated. Then he added more quietly, but very firmly: “And where will you find the money to pay for all the dresses and hats she’s brought with her?”
“Oh, Valdo!” I heard Dona Nina exclaim.
I turned and began serving dessert, not that anyone noticed me. Something was clearly about to explode—a struggle, a misunderstanding that could last a lifetime—and only Dona Ana was indifferently stirring the cream sauce I had set before her.
“Oh, Valdo,” Dona Nina said again, and suddenly hid her face in her napkin.
“Don’t you meddle in my affairs,” roared Senhor Valdo, almost out of control. “I’m perfectly capable of paying my own bills, and it won’t be with my wife’s money.”
Then, more softly, and emphasizing every syllable, as if to savor the pleasure of what he was about to reveal, Senhor Demétrio murmured:
“That’s just as well, Valdo, because then I won’t have to dip into my wife’s savings, as I have on other occasions.”
I heard a stifled cry, and Dona Nina sprang to her feet, trembling. A few tears glittered on her eyelashes—the easily provoked tears I would often see later on—and in a gesture of impotent rage, she was still clutching her crumpled napkin. I realized then that we had reached the critical moment and that, whatever followed, nothing would be as potent or as far-reaching as what was happening at that very minute, because it was the kernel from which everything else would subsequently emerge. With a bold movement, which appeared to be a declaration that she would never submit to the economic strictures of the Meneses family, she pushed back her chair and was about to leave the room when Senhor Demétrio stopped her:
“I’m sorry, Nina, but all those hats and dresses of yours will be of no use to you in the country. Because this is the countryside, you know. Here,” and he pointed casually at his wife, “women dress like Ana.”
The mistress had no option but to look at the person indicated, and the enmity that sprang up between them had its beginnings there and then, I think, in the haughty, horribly scornful look that Nina bestowed on Ana. As she stood there, a few steps away from the table, a venomous smile appeared on her lips. Dona Ana, still seated, endured that examination with head bowed: she was wearing a faded black dress, entirely unadorned and entirely out of fashion. This rapid examination must have been enough to satisfy Dona Nina, because, without responding, without even turning to look at Senhor Demétrio, she stalked out of the room, her chin defiantly lifted. Senhor Valdo shot a glance at his brother—a glance of pure hatred—and followed his wife. Alone at the table, Senhor Demétrio and Dona Ana drank their coffee and, in that shared silence, I realized there was a new and tacit understanding between them.
Hours later, when I went out onto the verandah to shake the table cloth, I found the mistress there, lying in a hammock. She looked completely exhausted. She appeared to have been crying too, for her eyes were still red.
“Come here, Betty,” she said.
I went over to her, and she took my hands in hers.
“Dear God, what a dreadful start. Did you see how they treated me today?”
“Senhor Demétrio is always like that,” I said, trying to offer her a small crumb of comfort.
She let go of my hand and set the hammock swinging slightly.
“And yet Valdo really did tell me that he was a wealthy man and that here, in this house, I would want for nothing. Why did he do that, why did he deceive me like that?”
“Perhaps he didn’t want to lose you, Dona Nina. And Senhor Demétrio does tend to exaggerate . . .”
She again took one of my hands and said:
“I’m surrounded by enemies here, Betty, but I don’t want you to be one of them.”
“Of course not, Dona Nina,” I protested warmly, thinking how beautiful she looked, lying there in the hammock. (Note written in the margin: Such an odd impression. There was still a remnant of warm, golden evening light on the verandah. Her pale skin and her almost auburn hair emphasized her shining, liquid eyes, and yet everything about her spoke of a certain strength. I would never have said that she was, overall, a real beauty: no, she was beautiful in every detail, every line, almost exasperatingly perfect in every respect.) “I would never be your enemy,” I concluded after a brief pause. “But aren’t you yourself perhaps exaggerating too?”
She gave me a sharp, enquiring look.
“No, I’m not exaggerating.”
Perplexed, I asked:
“But then why, Senhora, why?”
She let go of my hand and once more set the hammock gently swinging. When she leaned her head back, the branch of an acacia tree cast a shadow over her face.
“I don’t know, I really don’t,” she murmured. “These old families always have a kind of canker at their heart. I don’t think they can bear what I represent: a new life, a different landscape.”
And as if on a sudden inspiration, she added:
“And maybe they’re afraid too.”
I said nothing, doubtless hoping she would explain what she meant. The shadow came and went on her face, and a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes.
“The family may be bankrupt, but this house must be worth a lot, Betty. I noticed that around back there’s open pasture as far as the mountains.”
“It’s the grazing land that belonged to the old Fazenda Santa Eulália,” I said.
And half sitting up in the hammock, Dona Nina asked:
“And what would they say, these ancient Meneses folk, if I were to give birth to an heir to all this?”
I nodded silently, because I felt she was quite right. Senhor Demétrio, who was older than Senhor Valdo, and who, because of the latter’s incompetence and indifference, had always been in charge of the business side of things, would lose all rights to the Chácara, since he had no heir. Yes, it was quite possible; and beneath the pressure of that inquisitorial gaze, I forgot about the wear and tear inflicted by time and suddenly saw the garden and the Pavilion, and even the surrounding mountains, as a great hope of wealth and resurrection. Dona Nina read my thoughts and, leaning toward me, she clasped my hands in hers, saying:
“Don’t leave me, Betty, be my friend, I need your friendship.
At least as long as I’m living here.”
Those were almost the very words I had heard in Senhor Timóteo’s room. I remembered my visit there on the previous day and the favor he had asked me. Then, seizing the opportunity, I said:
“A person wishes to see you as soon as possible, about a matter of extreme importance.”
Those, I believed, had been his exact words.
5.
The Doctor’s First Report
I don’t remember exactly what day it was, and I couldn’t even say what time, but I can say that the call came as no surprise to me, for it had been evident for some time, even to outsiders, that all was not well at the Chácara. Perhaps I should rather say that our little town, and even other towns in the district, were full of gossip, ranging from the naïve to the scurrilous, about what scandals might conceivably be engulfing the house of the Meneses. For example, Donana de Lara, who had come to consult me about her son and, in the last few days, had been even more agitated than usual, had even suggested that Father Justino should be summoned to ask for God’s blessing for the Chácara: according to her, the evil was deeply ingrained in the misdeeds of all those past Meneses, who had poisoned the whole atmosphere of the house. But to return to the incident in question, I assumed, and soon found out how wrong I was, that the call was to attend Dona Nina, whose more or less recent arrival had aroused everyone’s interest. While I was getting dressed, I kept imagining what might have happened. People said she was dangerous, fascinating, capricious and imperious, and having seen our little circle come to the boil and then cool off over so many other different people, I asked myself what it was about her that made her such a lasting topic of conversation. “Perhaps it’s just because she’s an outsider, and a beautiful woman at that,” I thought. And as I prepared my medical bag, I sensed deep down a certain pleasure, because I was, at the time, extremely curious to find out what went on at the Chácara.
It was not, however, Dona Nina who needed my attention—and this was the first of my disappointments. The second, which followed immediately afterward, was that there was no scandalous scene for me to witness, for what I found was a fait accompli. I shrugged and tried to hide my dismay. As I climbed the steps from the garden, I was immediately informed that Senhor Valdo had injured himself while cleaning an old gun. I was accompanied by an old negro woman by the name of Anastácia, one of the long-time servants at the Chácara, and I had great difficulty in understanding her half-African, half-country dialect. In any event, I soon found myself in a room plunged in darkness, where the wounded man was lying on a couch. The first thing I noticed was the strange atmosphere; the second was that the man seemed more gravely wounded than I had been led to believe. The only person with him was Senhor Demétrio, and, perhaps in order to feign indifference and thus inspire me with a confidence I did not share, he was sitting on a low chair, his legs crossed, pretending to read a newspaper. I saw at once that he was extremely irritated; indeed, that sense of irritation was the most noticeable thing about his attitude, which one would normally have expected to be one of concern and anxiety. He stood up as soon as I entered, greeted me with the customary reserve of the Meneses, and asked if I wanted him to turn on the light. “Naturally,” I replied, and he went over to turn the switch. As in almost all country districts, our town lacked a reliable electricity supply, but at the Chácara, which had its own generator, things were even worse: the yellowish, flickering light brightened and dimmed according to the strength of the current. I saw instantly that the room was not exactly a bedroom, but one of those storerooms they have in large houses, and which get used for all sorts of things. So quickly had Senhor Valdo been carried to this cubbyhole—for that was what it was—that there had been no time to prepare anything: he had been thrown in among the furniture like just another useless object. He was lying on a tattered couch that they had covered with a faded red shawl. One of his shoes was missing and he was wearing a rather worn linen dressing gown. Beneath that loosely fastened gown I could see his white, blood-soaked shirt. The wound itself wasn’t immediately visible because they had covered it with ice, from which the water, mingled with blood, was trickling from the couch onto the floor. He showed no signs of life and his eyes were closed. I asked if that was the only place he had been wounded, and Senhor Demétrio said “Yes,” although he did not believe that the bullet had affected any vital organ. He spoke quickly, as if to dismiss the matter as one of little importance. I started by removing the ice and cleaning the surrounding area, which was covered in thick, coagulated blood. It did not take me long to find the wound itself: it was just beneath the heart, and the bullet must have grazed his ribs. It had clearly missed its target but, despite this, he must have lost a lot of blood, which is probably why he had fainted. I asked if anyone had heard the shot, and how they had found him. Senhor Demétrio appeared somewhat annoyed by these questions, which seemed perhaps more appropriate to a police investigation than a medical inquiry, but he nevertheless told me that his brother had been cleaning the revolver since early that morning; that he, Demétrio, had several times voiced his fears that something untoward might happen with a rusty old gun like that; that he didn’t know who the gun belonged to; that he hadn’t heard the shot nor indeed had anyone else; and that, shortly before my arrival, puzzled by Senhor Valdo’s prolonged silence, he had found him, in his dressing gown, stretched out on the drawing room floor. He also told me that there had been a pool of blood on the floor, which he had told the housekeeper to clean up, while he carried the wounded man to this, the nearest bedroom. Senhor Valdo had not opened his eyes since then, and he, Demétrio, who found such recklessness inexcusable, was waiting for his brother to regain consciousness so that he could explain himself. I asked whether he really had been cleaning the gun since early that morning and, barely containing his irritation, Senhor Demétrio repeated: “Yes, since early this morning,” while I thought how very odd it was for a man to spend an entire day cleaning a rusty gun. But then the Meneses are capable of anything. Seeing me hesitate, Senhor Demétrio declared:
“Everything points to it being an accident plain and simple. Any other explanation would, frankly, be a betrayal of the facts,” and he shot me a furtive glance to see if his words had convinced me.
At that precise moment—and it was as if he were doing so deliberately to annoy his brother—Senhor Valdo opened his eyes—and I confess that I have never seen so absolute an expression of revulsion, anger, and discord as in that first exchange of glances between the two brothers. There was no doubt about it: the accident, or whatever it was, had enraged Senhor Demétrio. This troubled me and, while the wounded man groaned softly (for I was probing his wound), I found myself staring at Senhor Demétrio somewhat unguardedly. He must have realized what was going through my mind, for he placed one hand on my shoulder, in a gesture at once amicable and commanding:
“My brother is not yet able to speak about the incident,” he said. “He has lost a lot of blood in this silly stunt of his, and is probably still not capable of thinking very clearly. But soon . . .”
I watched the wounded man make a great effort to draw himself up into a sitting position, sweat pouring from his brow:
“Yes I am,” he murmured. “And you know very well, Demétrio, what I have to say.”
Although spoken with difficulty, his words were entirely audible.
“What? Speaking already? Well, I’m delighted,” Senhor Demétrio said with feigned pleasure, as if he had not heard what the wounded man had said. And he added somewhat scornfully: “Do you really mean to say it wasn’t just a reckless joke?”
Senhor Valdo gave him another long look as if formulating an accusation, but, overcome by weariness, he groaned and let his head fall back on the couch, at the same time clawing at the blanket in a gesture of rage and impotence. I waited for his temper to cool and his strength to return, but he merely turned his face to the wall in a gesture of utter exhaustion. I then began the medical treatment proper, applying gauze and ba
ndages, even though I was not entirely sure how effective they would be, since, in emotional crises such as these, the mood of the patient often counts for more than any form of palliative care. When I had finished, I saw that there was nothing more for me to do: the patient, his chest now swathed in bandages, appeared to be sleeping. Much as I may have wanted to, I could not justifiably prolong my presence there. So I covered the wounded man with a sheet and was about to leave when I felt him grasp one of my hands. It was an unexpected and extraordinarily significant gesture: I leaned over and saw his pleading eyes, in which I saw an evident cry for help, insisting that I stay. Not knowing what to do, I stared first at the wounded man and then at Senhor Demétrio, until the latter decided for me what path I should take:
“Come,” he said, “I think that more than anything else the patient needs rest. There will be plenty of time for talk later.”
He slightly tightened his grip on my shoulder as he said this. After making a few further recommendations, I left the room, ignoring the supplicant look in Senhor Valdo’s eyes. I confess I found the calm, silent atmosphere in the house very strange. No one would have thought that such a serious incident had occurred only a short time before, one that could so easily have turned into tragedy. I met no one else as I passed through the various rooms, and since I could think of no rational explanation for this—other than its being a very large house with spacious rooms in which each inhabitant could be alone—I imagined that it was probably due to orders issued by Senhor Demétrio himself. He felt under no obligation to show me to the front door and, after asking a few banal questions about the patient’s general state of health, he bade me farewell and, unprompted by me, declared that he felt entirely at ease regarding his brother. “It’s no more than a minor disaster brought on by his own recklessness,” he concluded, and as he spoke, it was clear that he was utterly incensed by this incident, which he insisted on describing as “reckless.” What he said next was further proof of this: “He shouldn’t have gone poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.” Alone, I passed through the drawing room and walked across the verandah as far as the steps down into the garden. It was only there, when I turned to take a last look back at the house, so crammed with secrets, that I noticed a few lights coming on; then a door slammed, a voice rang out, probably from the kitchen, as if normal life were returning to the house, leaving me, a curious onlooker, standing on its forbidden threshold. Once again I shrugged—what else could I do?—and went down the steps, which seemed about to be overwhelmed on either side by the encroaching greenery.
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 8
