“That same night, tucked away in the corner of a bar in Copacabana, she told me everything: the soldier, an army colonel, was a friend of her father’s. Or rather, his only friend. Her father had also been a soldier, and had served in a garrison in Deodoro until a terrible disaster had befallen him—a grenade going off unexpectedly. He had then retired from the army and, being of an irascible, even violent temper, he had lost all his friends and acquaintances, driven away by his angry outbursts. His injuries made matters even worse, for he was still a young man, imprisoned in his wheelchair and seething with anger. His one remaining friend was Colonel Gonçalves, Amadeu Gonçalves, who endured his old comrade’s virulent mood swings not out of friendship exactly, but . . .
“Every night they played interminable games of cards. They had started with simple games like escopa, rouba-monte, and ronda. But gradually they moved on to playing more seriously, for money, which, as the night wore on, left them flushed and excited. When the money ran out—for now they always played for money—they played for whatever was at hand: books, tables, chairs. They did this without a flicker of shame, and she allowed it to happen, because it was the only way for her father to forget his sorrows. ‘I’ll bet you this watch,’ her father would say, apoplectic with rage after a long-drawn-out defeat. The Colonel, who had more valuable items at his disposal, always kept his cool, hid his cards from prying eyes, and always won. The daughter, who was a witness to these daily spectacles, thought it would be better for her father to refrain from such unprofitable games, but she held her tongue, aware that he saw no one during the day, and that it was the Colonel who formed the only bridge between him and the outside world and kept him up-to-date on military matters with a meticulous detail that would be the envy of the very best gazettes. A judicious observer could not fail to notice a certain touch of sadism on the part of the Colonel. For example, when the subject matter was particularly thrilling, as was often the case, for the Colonel showed a truly histrionic talent—he was a man who reveled in farcical incidents, piquant details, unexpected discoveries—he would often stop suddenly and fall into a deathly silence. ‘What is it?’ her father would cry out anxiously. And slowly, rubbing his chin with his hand, the Colonel would say: ‘You know, I can’t quite remember what happened next.’ Her father would reach his hand across the table and touch his companion’s arm: ‘For the love of God, man, don’t stop now, not before you’ve told me the rest. Don’t just leave me in suspense!’ The Colonel would shake his head: ‘No, I don’t remember. It was a lance corporal who gave me that particular piece of information. I need to go and find him again.’ The father, distraught, tried to jog his memory: ‘Which lance corporal? Was it Mamede from Pernambuco?’ The Colonel smugly shook his head again. The old man spluttered: ‘In my day . . .’ And the Colonel interrupted: ‘In your day, Colonel, but these days it’s all very different. It wasn’t Mamede from Pernambuco, indeed, I’m almost certain it was Libânio from Paraná.’ ‘Ah!’ exclaimed the invalid, greatly relieved. And he would repeat, as if it were the most delightful thing in the world: ‘Libânio from Paraná!’ But the other man wouldn’t give in so easily and would once again shake his head: ‘No, no, I’m wrong, it wasn’t Libânio. Libânio was in the Third Division, and if I’m not mistaken, this story took place in São Paulo. Oh dear, this memory of mine.’ Then the father, bereft, his forehead dripping with sweat—the world, movement, the sensation of life itself were all disappearing before his eyes—would scan the almost bare room: ‘I’ll bet you that photo album over there—do you see it? It’s a family heirloom. Look carefully. It has silver clasps!’”—(At this point in his story, Senhor Valdo paused briefly. The silence was so great that we could hear the leaves rustling outside. Then he started speaking again, in a different, more emotional tone: “I well remember the last time I saw that room. It was after her father had died of a heart attack, shortly before the wedding. There was nothing left at all, and his corpse, far too thin for the uniform they’d forced his body into, lay stretched out on a mattress on the floorboards. You might say that after living so long in that cramped room, he had drained it of everything; he had gone and left nothing behind. And here’s a curious fact: it never occurred to Nina, who wept bitter tears, that she could not carry on living there after his death. She still hadn’t given me a definite ‘yes,’ and her life, seen from outside, resembled a strange, disturbing adventure. I should have mentioned that the window looked onto a stretch of the Glória seafront: through it wafted a gentle sea breeze and you caught glimpses of the unexpectedly blue water, the one luxury left to adorn that humble death.”)—Senhor Valdo went on: “On hearing the old man’s proposal, the Colonel deliberately played for time: ‘What would I do with an album with silver clasps? It’s the sort of thing that could only be of interest to your family.’ The father began to grovel and beg: ‘I’ll bet you that chair over there, then. It’s the last one, you know. Or that Panama hat you like. Or I’ll bet . . .’ (and his gaze ran desperately around the room, then returned to the table, stopping at his own hands). ‘I’ll bet my wedding ring!’ Sometimes, in the silence broken only by the ticking of the clock, the Colonel would give in and tell him the rest of the story. Then it was as if a river of light flowed invisibly through the room. At other times, though, hard, immovable and as silent as the grave, he would simply leave. On those occasions the father would sleep badly, tossing and turning, waking up shouting in the middle of the night: ‘What is it? Where’s the Minister? Who took the message?’ When he returned to his senses, he would apologize to his daughter, sip a glass of water and wash his face. ‘Colonel Amadeu didn’t tell me everything. Lord, what suffering. It’s like being condemned to death,’ he would say.
“Now, it was in the midst of one of these stories that the most incredible bet of all took place. Colonel Amadeu had stopped telling one of his tales at a key moment, just as he was about to reveal some great political intrigue in which government ministers and generals were implicated. An ex-Minister of War, plotting against the new government, had been secretly transporting arms to a far-flung region of Mato Grosso, where he was training a bunch of badly-paid half-castes and Indians to form a small rebel army who would trigger the revolt, in conjunction with key underground cells established at various locations across the country. It had all been carefully planned by many fine army men, Colonel Amadeu assured him, nodding his head mysteriously. In this intrigue, somewhat improbably, the father himself had figured, for according to the Colonel, ‘they needed him to provide certain reports, and to carry out certain checks that should properly be exercised outside the purview of the Ministry.’ The father was thrilled by this sudden possibility that he might be needed—him, a cripple!—and that he might, even at a distance, play a small part in events which proved, even after his long years as a retiree and an invalid, that he still existed and that in the world of his former comrades, where all that was meaningful in his life had occurred, they still remembered him and valued his contribution. Daydreaming and with his eyes half-shut, he could almost hear them: ‘General, it’s that colonel who had the accident—don’t you remember? The one who served for many years at the district headquarters. A splendid fellow; you couldn’t find a better man for the job.’ This, then, was the final, most diabolical and perfect part of the Colonel’s invention: suddenly bestowing on the poor old man a reason to live, implicating him in the most sensational intrigues of the day. ‘Don’t you remember?’ he would say. ‘It was back when they were repairing the tank at the regimental depot . . .’ Beside him, the old man was anxiously racking his brain, scarcely daring to draw breath: ‘Yes, I remember it well . . .’ ‘Moreover, the matter concerns a major, who was just a lieutenant back in your day.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ the father replied. ‘I remember that lieutenant very well. To judge from the sloppy way he saluted me, he seemed very full of himself.’ Sensing that the old man was hooked, the Colonel stroked his chin: ‘Indeed . . . But the damned thing is I can’t quite remember . . .’ The fathe
r cried out: ‘For the love of God, man!’ And the Colonel: ‘Quite. It’s a funny old business. It’s always at exactly this point that my memory seems to fail me.’ The old man shook him: ‘Please, please, carry on . . .’ But the Colonel had cruelly decided to stop. Suspended at its very climax, the story hovered in the air like a slowly evaporating cloud. Already on his feet and standing motionless before him, the Colonel said: ‘It’s late, my friend, and it’s quite a walk home.’ He was blinking as if struggling to pick up the threads of a memory. ‘For pity’s sake,’ groaned the cripple. But the other man, unmoved, was shaking his head: ‘It’s a terrible thing, unbelievable really, but I can’t remember a thing about what happened next.’ The father wrung his hands: ‘Not one more detail? Nothing?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘A snippet? Anything at all?’ The Colonel was implacable: ‘Alas, I’ve completely forgotten—don’t know what’s come over me.’ And all just as the Colonel was beginning a tale about the regimental depot, at the time when the old man was still a serving officer. A deep sigh filled his chest, as if his own life were escaping him. And that night the Colonel rose and bade him a chilly goodbye, as if the father had mortally offended him. A great silence fell upon the room. Then the father began to shout and foam at the mouth. He was having an attack, just as he used to in his younger days. He spent the rest of the night in a bad way, his body rigid, his eyes bulging. The next day, his face pale and drawn, his very first question was: ‘No message from the Colonel?’ ‘No,’ replied his daughter, standing by his bed. ‘Oh God, I’m suffocating! I need some air!’ he exclaimed, and pressed his hands to his chest. The strange thing was that, for three nights, three interminable nights of permanent agony, the Colonel failed to show up. The father sniffled and sobbed over his misfortune. His daughter tried in vain to distract him, but he became even more irritated, calling her ‘lazy’ and ‘slovenly’ and any other insults that came into his head. ‘Calm down, father,’ she replied. He twisted and turned in his wheelchair, saying he was done for, abandoned by God and by man, one foot already in the grave. He stretched out his hands, examining them: ‘Do you see, Nina? This is what used to happen to me as a young man. I nearly died.’ ‘Hush,’ she consoled him, ‘I’m here beside you. Nothing’s going to happen to you.’ Then he told her she was just like her mother—a mediocre Italian actress who had run off back to Europe saying she was homesick—and that one of these days she, too, would abandon him. His was a terrible fate, and why? What had he done? Nothing, nothing at all. There he was, rotting away in that room, with no friendly voices and not knowing what was happening in the world, or even how his former comrades-in-arms were faring. Oh, it was all too much—what a miserable fate, what indignity! Finally, on the fourth day, the Colonel reappeared, and found a broken man, crushed by adversity. ‘I’m a dead man, my friend,’ the father declared as soon as he saw the Colonel, who went over to him, feigning complete ignorance. ‘But what happened? What can have brought you to this state, and so quickly?’ The old man smiled, the sad smile of a defeated man: ‘I’m a dead man, Colonel.’ The Colonel sat down then and whispered: ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come for the last few days.’ Then added mysteriously: ‘Things have been happening at the barracks . . .’ This insinuating statement made the father’s eyes gleam. And reaching out one trembling hand, he touched his companion’s arm. ‘Shall we play today?’ There was a long, painful pause. Slowly, however, the Colonel’s features revealed his true feelings: ‘I’m sorry, my friend, but today is quite impossible.’ A kind of strangled cry rose to the father’s lips: ‘You mean you’re not going to tell me the rest of the story?’ ‘Please believe me, I’m very sorry, but it’s quite impossible.’ ‘Why?’—and the father, who for years had not risen from his chair, found himself almost standing, ready to prevent his friend’s sudden departure. ‘Because . . .’ He stopped, and for the length of that pause it really did seem that the very existence of a human being hung in the balance. ‘Because I don’t remember the rest of the story.’ He said this coolly, and it was clear from his wan smile that he had just told an enormous lie. At that instant, there must have passed before the father’s eyes, like a flash of lightning, the empty nights, the silence, the absence of any human companionship, nothing but those four walls, and, ashen-faced, he fell back in his chair. ‘What do you want?
What do you want of me?’ he groaned. The Colonel shook his head without saying a word. ‘Just say it. Take whatever you want, but don’t treat me like this: have some pity on a poor old man.’ His voice trembled, his eyes filled with tears. The Colonel, a few feet away, looked impassively down at the broken man before him. ‘To tell the truth . . .’ A faint warmth seemed to revive the old man’s exhausted body. ‘Yes . . .’ The Colonel leaned over the table, ready to play his winning card. ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ The father waited silently, his eyes fixed on the eyes of his friend. The other man, sighing, as if removing a great weight from his soul: ‘We get on so well with each other—I tell you my stories and you listen.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ the father stammered, like someone who can hear joyful ringing deep inside him. Then the soldier, his mind made up and with an impudent gleam in his eye: ‘Well, then, we could be friends, we could even be relations!’ The astonished father merely repeated: ‘Relations!’ as if he suddenly saw the possibility of supreme happiness in this world. ‘Relations . . .’ he said again. Then rapidly recovering himself: ‘But how?’ ‘Well, for example . . .’ the Colonel hesitated, looked at his friend as if not yet entirely sure of victory, then a confident smile reappeared on his lips: ‘For example, here we have a pretty young woman of marriageable age.’ ‘She’s my daughter!’ exclaimed the father outraged. ‘Yes, she’s your daughter,’ repeated the Colonel coldly, realizing that he had gone too far now to turn back, ‘so what if she’s your daughter? Your daughter also needs to marry, and if we agree . . . In any case, I think I have all the necessary qualities. Or do you have some objection? I may not be exactly young . . .’ The father interrupted him impatiently: ‘But . . .’ The Colonel continued unabashed: ‘There are no ifs or buts about it. Unless, of course, you can think of a better suitor than me? I’m not some down-and-out, I know a thing or two, and, what’s more, there’s my position in the army.’ ‘And you want me to gamble away my own daughter?’ The Colonel stood abruptly to attention: ‘It is not your daughter you are gambling away, it’s her happiness. And I think we can agree it is a bet you are sure to win.’ This argument seemed decisive. The old man tried to resist, wrung his hands and muttered something inaudible, but, seeing the Colonel about to leave, he bowed his head. ‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know . . .’ ‘Don’t know?’ The Colonel loomed forbiddingly over him. ‘You don’t know what? Because I do know: girls of that age have no right to want anything; they must do what their father decides.’ The old man tried one last time: ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say. She . . .’ The Colonel gave a contemptuous snort: ‘She? I’ll take care of that. Once I have your consent . . .’ The father thought it over for a minute and came to the conclusion that the request was not so unreasonable after all, and that they could very well come to an agreement, given that the Colonel himself was offering to speak to his daughter. When he heard the old man’s answer, the Colonel sat down again, pulled his chair closer and picked up where he had left off: ‘So then, my friend, as I was telling you the other day, you were unwittingly at the very fulcrum of the story. At the time, the district headquarters . . .’ The details poured forth and multiplied, but for the entire duration of the Colonel’s report, the father’s eyes remained inexplicably wet with tears.”
“I don’t know,” said Senhor Valdo, finishing his story, “if that was the end of the matter. Colonel Gonçalves wasn’t at heart a bad sort. He helped Nina many times, but the truth is he never managed to master her. Nina wasn’t as needy as her father, although they both had the same lust for life. And as was to be expected, the Colonel ended by losing the bet—the only time he did.”
That was the re
port given to me by Senhor Valdo. Once or twice, he broke off in order to rein in some particularly strong emotion. Leaning on the counter and feigning an indifference I certainly didn’t feel, I repeatedly asked myself what it was that had made him go so far, what was the secret and pressing motive that had caused him to unburden himself to me in such a manner. Ah, how little we know of the human heart. Deep down, in that unfathomable place where the final scene of a comedy without spectators is played out, perhaps he was merely reacting against the wrath of the Meneses, their constant and oppressive tyranny.
He stood before me for some time, his head bowed, as if he had summoned up those memories purely for his own pleasure. However as soon as he raised his head, I saw his now shadowless face and realized that, during all that time, he had been speaking about someone who had already died, a being who had undoubtedly once been very dear to him, but whose irremediable absence had only be softened by the passing of time. I felt a shiver run through me, imagining the courtship that had preceded their nuptials: the Colonel, with no reason to come up to their rooms after the father’s death, pacing around downstairs waiting for Senhor Valdo to leave so that he could speak to Dona Nina—his pleas, his possible threats, his astonishing proposals—and then the final capitulation, the sublime flowering of that late passion, the wedding, and, at last, Dona Nina’s arrival . . .
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 12
