There is no point in refusing me, because by the time you receive this, I will already be on my way. I have the right to live out peacefully the little time I have left. I know I did nothing to offend you, and I will not allow you to keep me away from my son because of a mere calumny. Are you listening, Valdo, do you understand what I’m saying? ....................................................................................................... ....................................................................................................................
7.
The Pharmacist’s Second Report
It was around this time that the most disparate and divergent rumors concerning the Chácara began to circulate. Nobody knew for certain what was going on, but all manner of things were suspected, even an actual crime. (Dr. Vilaça, the doctor who attended the Chácara, had even let slip something to that effect . . .) It has to be said that the general atmosphere was highly conducive to such gossip, and the more intrepid of the local busybodies even took to strolling along by the fence surrounding the grounds, in the hope of seeing something. In vain: the trees filling the garden prevented any clear view of the Chácara, and the most they could report was that they had seen Dona Ana, or even Senhor Demétrio, strolling along the avenues. Any mention of the Meneses was accompanied by a wry smile, a shrug of the shoulders, a knowing shake of the head; and the old house that had for so long been the pride of the whole municipality soon began to be tainted by that aura of suspicion and drama. Despite this, less and less was seen of its inhabitants. At one point, it was said that Dona Nina had been spotted with a stranger, close to the old slave cemetery on the road to the Chácara; then it was reported that Senhor Demétrio had his bags packed ready to go traveling, that he was going abroad and that no one knew when he would be back. However, none of these reports was confirmed, for the Meneses kept themselves to themselves and rarely called on any of their neighbors. Even so, it is fair to say that they remained immensely important in the locality, and there were no festivities, charitable occasions, or public ceremonies to which they were not invited. In short, while they were neither friendly nor kind, they were, nonetheless, indispensable to the life of the town.
Now, it was in this climate of high drama that Senhor Valdo one day appeared at my pharmacy, even though the shop was having work done to it and was partly closed to customers. He came not once, but two or three times, always trying to look as nonchalant as possible and pretending there was nothing he was looking for, but all the while paying close attention to everything around him. I was not surprised by this, not least because I was accustomed to that family’s curious manners. His pretext for coming was in order to have a wound dressed, for he had sustained a gunshot wound to his chest, which was not healing well. (I believe, moreover, that this was the origin of the rumors filling the town.) As discretion required, I asked no questions, but he told me he had wounded himself “accidentally.” I said nothing, even pretending that the story did not interest me in the slightest. It was, I believed, the only way of putting him at his ease, and thus more inclined to talk. On the other hand, it occurred to me that he may simply have been sounding me out, as a way of gauging the extent of the townspeople’s curiosity. In any event, I kept my silence, which is another way of saying that I asked nothing and presumed everything. Since they were in the habit of summoning me whenever they needed anything, I assumed that, this time, they wanted to keep me away from the house precisely so that I would not see whatever it was they wanted to hide from me. I have no idea what it was, but it clearly existed, and those visits to the shop by Senhor Valdo were the proof, breaking as they did with such a well-established modus operandi. There was also, I must say, a certain nervousness about his movements, and he, unaccustomed to my cool demeanor, occasionally shot me a worried, searching glance.
On his last visit, he unceremoniously sat down on a pile of bricks next to the counter, resting his hands on the crook of his umbrella. (He had come on foot from the Chácara, even though a storm was brewing; to the south where the railroad tracks stretch off into the distance, thick black clouds were gathering.) As I’ve already mentioned, his wound was a minor one, and the dressings could well have been changed at the Chácara itself. Perhaps, since the departure of Dona Nina, he was unable to find anyone there to help him, and it was this, among other things, that had brought him to the shop. He was, like all the Meneses men, a man of few words, but on this occasion, so as to break the silence into which we were gradually sinking, he let out a sigh and said:
“Ah, yes, the good old days.”
Which probably meant nothing at all, or at least, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see what he was referring to. He said it several times, though, and hearing the words repeated so often, I ended up thinking that they must contain some deep meaning, which I, in my ignorance, could not apprehend. He spoke with his chin resting on his hands, which were, in turn, resting on the handle of his umbrella in a pose that struck me as particularly characteristic. He was gazing into space, as if he really was traveling incalculable distances. Such theatricality, whether feigned or not, must have concealed some purpose, and I waited patiently for that purpose to become apparent. But looking at him, I felt troubled—his suffering seemed so disturbingly real. I had often seen the suffering on men’s faces, but nothing like that, hemmed in by so much reticence and scruple. It must be said, however, that there was a certain dignity in everything to do with Senhor Valdo, and at the same time, a feeling of such sadness, such constant loneliness, that those attributes, by their very force, became factors of indisputable prestige. Women, who are particularly sensitive to such refinement, can sense it from a distance, and never fail to be captivated: “How manly, how romantic, such refined manners!” And it was undoubtedly the case that almost all of them considered him their very own small, personal god.
I always hoped he would tell me some clear, concrete fact about the Chácara and its goings-on, because it was precisely those facts, and the enigma surrounding them, that most interested me and the rest of the town. Even the most restrained of men have their moments of weakness, but during all those visits (for I deliberately lengthened the period of his treatment, and the visits lasted for over three weeks), he was always very discreet, and I never heard him utter a single word to deny or confirm the myths swirling around the Meneses.
He did speak to me once, on one single occasion, and with the exuberance and emotion of the very timid, who, in the depths of their heart, feel the wall of ice imprisoning their most cherished feelings suddenly break. He spoke to me not because it was me, but merely because he had a need to speak to someone, indeed anyone. Listening to him, the story seemed so much his own and so disconnected from any Meneses family business, that I wondered whether that wasn’t his real reason for coming to my pharmacy: an excuse to relive those events, to ponder them in the presence of someone else, and thus escape from the siege and isolation imposed on him by the other inhabitants of the Chácara. I must stress that this was the only time I saw a Meneses in a confiding mood, and what he did confide to me was only remotely connected to the Meneses. (Indeed, perhaps before telling you what he said, I ought to revive an old recollection of my own, for it fits with everything I heard later on, and agrees with what is known of the person in question. I cannot emphasize enough the impression that Senhor Valdo’s unexpected marriage caused in Vila Velha, and the excitement with which the first news of his wife-to-be was received. It isn’t easy, however, to gauge the impact of this without bearing in mind the almost universal esteem in which Senhor Valdo was held and the deep interest felt by everyone regarding the Meneses. By the time he married, he was no longer what could be termed a boy; saucy tales and anecdotes abounded concerning him and his adventures, whether true or not, with all sorts of women. There was even one, a certain Raquel, who worked at a place called “Half Past Midnight” and who was said to have received a large sum in payment for several hours of her favors. Indeed, to put it plainly,
he was assumed to be an accomplished womanizer: silent and arrogant, of a kind very common among wealthy provincial folk. His manners, his noble bearing, his immaculate elegance, albeit somewhat old-fashioned, contributed greatly to this reputation. Half of these affairs were quite possibly invented and he may never even have set foot in that place called “Half Past Midnight,” such were the tales and imaginings the Meneses men aroused. But then, as they say, there’s no smoke without fire. To the outside world, Senhor Valdo, with his faintly supercilious air, cut a figure that perfectly fitted the legends that circulated about him. On many occasions I saw young girls of marriageable age leaning out of their window whenever he passed by, flashing him sly looks or giggling, and this trail of excitement would last at least as long as his stroll around the town.
When it was finally announced that he was to marry, there was general excitement, and the only topic of conversation was who the lucky woman might be. It was said—by those recently returned from Rio de Janeiro—that she was the most beautiful of women, rich and endowed with all the attributes one might expect in a wife chosen by a Meneses. Someone who swore he had seen them together in a smart coffee-house in Rio, said: “They make the perfect couple.”
So there was great expectation when Senhor Valdo left to bring her back to the Chácara: for days and days, when the train from the capital was due to arrive, our little railroad station was packed with people. And this expectation turned into a great torrent of whisperings and mutterings when he returned alone after several days in the city. It was reported that she did not want to come to such a backwater and that she hated the thought of leaving Rio de Janeiro.
And so, before they even knew a single positive fact about her, the majority already felt hostile to the new bride, declaring her to be a conceited woman who would neither look at nor speak to anyone. However, this was all mere supposition, and it all changed on a certain afternoon when Dona Nina stepped off the train at our little station, which by that time was completely deserted. She may well have merely been waiting for interest in her to wane so that she could arrive peacefully and quietly. She arrived laden down with luggage and, I swear, I have never seen a more beautiful woman in my entire life. She wasn’t particularly tall and was perhaps slightly too thin, and she was clearly of a highly-strung disposition and accustomed to being treated well. The purity of her features—only her nose was perhaps a little too aquiline—combined to create a strange, tempestuous atmosphere that, even at first sight, made her an irresistible creature to behold. The whole town—for as news of her arrival spread from house to house like a lit fuse, every window filled up with onlookers—wondered what it was that simmered inside her to make her gaze so melancholy and her attitude so warm and irresolute. And everyone agreed that the delay, and her subsequent arrival when everyone had forgotten about her and the station was deserted, all worked in her favor. Many rashly proclaimed that she deserved an apology from Vila Velha, and since there was no means of delivering such an apology, they instead heaped her with exaggerated praise, declaring her “a queen who did not deserve to be exiled to this dull, dusty place.” So from the moment she set foot in the town, she became the focus of attention, driving the Meneses themselves discreetly into the background. Little by little, however, this interest, for lack of nourishment, became gradually corrupted—and what had previously been unalloyed praise turned into a game of doubts and probabilities. From calling her a queen, they judged her to be, rather, a failed cabaret singer, and there were even those who recalled seeing her face in certain “specialist” magazines. Others, more romantically, persisted in considering her to be a mysterious blue-blooded heiress.
But the majority obstinately countered with: “No, she’s a singer, and in a revealing pose that leaves little to the imagination . . .” The truth is that nobody really knew anything about her, and so it remained for a long time.)
“I can remember perfectly the moment I first saw her,” he told me, his chin still resting on the handle of his umbrella, eyes still gazing into the distance, as if pursuing a vision he feared might break up on the rocks of time. “It was a hot summer’s afternoon, and I was walking along the shore at Flamengo. I was looking for the address of a friend, who I was told was living in a luxurious guesthouse somewhere near Glória. But we country folk always seem to go astray when we get to the city. And so that’s how I came to be knocking at the door not of a luxurious guest house, but of a very modest hotel. It was situated in a vast old two- or three-story building with a wide, steep, dark staircase with wooden banisters. The doorman was half-deaf and pointed me in the direction of a room on the second floor, and as I went up, I was assailed by the characteristically tepid smell of food and ill-disguised poverty. I couldn’t find the room number I was looking for and was about to turn back, when I overheard the sounds of an argument coming from one of the rooms off the hallway. I stopped, out of curiosity and a desire to see for myself how people lived in such confined surroundings. They were discussing a marriage. One of the speakers had the hesitant, fitful voice of an elderly, ailing man, possibly an asthmatic. Each sentence was interspersed with gasps and coughs and choking. The other speaker was female, and she had the warm voice of a young girl. Listening to her replies I instantly wanted to know who she was, and as I stood there, I imagined her to be small, blonde, and blue-eyed. When the door was flung open following a particularly angry riposte, I saw just how wrong I was: she was dark-haired, almost a redhead, of medium height and with bright, shining eyes. I was immediately struck by her appearance, or rather, by her pallor and her nervous, pitiful tone. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and was dressed very modestly. My first thought was: ‘So beautiful, and yet she will never be happy.’ Why? What led me to prophesy such a dark future? Then I asked myself who she could be, and before I could answer, I heard the argument coming to an end. ‘I can wait until tomorrow,’ said the old man. I was hiding behind one of the newel posts on the staircase, and I peered around it to see who the speaker was. He was indeed an old man, his hair and moustache entirely white, and he had a very kind face, but he was, alas, sitting in a wheelchair. ‘Paralyzed,’ I thought to myself. There was still a glint of anger in his eyes.” (Ah, I thought, while Senhor Valdo continued talking: what a strong impression this incident must have made for it to remain so clear after all this time!) “I saw the woman turn around and say with extraordinary passion: ‘Never. I would rather die.’ The old man started to move his wheelchair, trying to catch up with her: ‘You’ve always done exactly what you wanted, you’ve never once considered your father. Perhaps now . . .’ She slammed the door shut without answering, rushed past me and went down the stairs. Suddenly everything in the old building went quiet. Cautiously, I followed, breathing in the trail of perfume she left behind. It was growing dark and the sky, still blue over toward the sea, was beginning to glow a fiery red. I walked along distractedly, thinking about what I had just heard, when I saw her standing beneath a lamppost. She must have been waiting for a bus or some other means of transport. I stopped and saw her take a handkerchief out of her handbag to wipe her eyes. I felt a searing pang of pity. I kept my distance, though, not knowing whether or not to approach her in her present distraught state. At that moment, a car stopped by the curb and I saw a man’s hand push open the door. She got in and the car drove off. I caught a sudden gleam of stripes on a uniform, shining in the darkness. I assumed therefore, with some disappointment, that she was the lover of some soldier.
“On an impulse, I returned there at the same time the next day. Throughout the night, during which I endured the exhausting, sleepless rigors of a Rio summer, I could not drive from my mind the image of that beautiful stranger. I hoped to find her under the same lamppost, and sure enough there she was, clutching her handbag and waiting for the car. It did not take long to appear and everything happened exactly as before. It was clearly a regular occurrence, and, as if they were of crucial importance, the same questions kept going around and around in my head: Fiancée? L
over? Wife? I observed this same scene on the following three nights, prompted by an interest it seemed pointless to conceal. Then, on the fourth night, I finally resolved to approach her. I needed to act at once, before the car arrived. When I went over to her, she gave me a look more of sadness than surprise, and that impenetrable sadness, which seemed to have its origins in some unending inner agony, never failed to touch me. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ she said simply and in a formal tone that somehow in no way suggested rejection. I shrugged as if to say ‘what does it matter?’ while the girl glanced down the street, no doubt imagining that her soldier would appear at any moment. But that day, to my good fortune, he must have been delayed. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I insisted. She looked at me again, slowly this time, from head to toe, as if trying to determine exactly who I was. I surmised from her look that she had judged me rightly. Oh that wicked thing, female intuition! I must also confess that I had no intention of hiding anything from her. Standing there, already somewhat distracted, she was trying to contain the only emotion holding her back: a mixture of anxiety and irritation at the imminent arrival of the man whom I presumed to be her lover. At last, she reached a decision and, taking me by the arm, said: ‘Let’s go, before he arrives.’ She said this quickly and with evident relief, and we walked down to the beach so briskly that in no time at all we found ourselves some distance from the lamppost where they had arranged to meet. As we walked we exchanged not a single word, for we felt that no explanation was necessary; the impulse that had begun our friendship was explanation enough.
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 11
