Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  11.

  The Pharmacist’s Third Report

  After the work on the pharmacy had finished, carried out with Senhor Demétrio’s assistance, I must confess that my greatest wish in life was to own a dog. I wasn’t thinking of a pedigree dog with silky, well-groomed fur, nor one of those fierce hounds they keep on the big country estates up near Rio Espera and Queimados, but a medium-sized animal, perhaps some kind of mongrel, but with a strong, gentle appearance, always ready to come when called. You could well say, and I would not necessarily disagree with you, that such are the dreams of an old bachelor. For those, like me, who are accustomed to solitary conversations, it is always good to find a listener, even one who cannot reply. I would call this dog Pastor, which seems to me an appropriate and even poetic name. I’ve often imagined him lying beside me, and me saying to him: “Such is life, Pastor. Each to his own.” It wouldn’t matter that he couldn’t reply and merely wagged his tail, looking at me with the tender eyes of a true canine friend. I would thus be sure of having a faithful listener, one who would never contradict my opinions, as could all too easily be the case with one of my own species.

  This is not the only reason that makes me wish for Pastor to arrive. With the increase in stock and a subsequent increase in value, I find that I no longer sleep easily in the back room, mainly because of all the reports of thefts and burglaries in and around our town (Vila Velha is coming on in the world, of that there is no doubt . . .), sometimes almost in broad daylight. Just now, for example, to everyone’s alarm, people are saying that the notorious Chico Herrera has returned and is already up to his old tricks over in Serra do Baú. So in addition to being a faithful companion, the dog could also stand guard over the shop. I heard that outside the town, over by Fundão, there was a man who wanted to sell a dog, a fine rat-catcher, but which had recently taken to chasing his hens. I pounced: it was exactly the animal I needed, since I kept no poultry in my back yard. This rat catcher, I confess, was nothing to write home about: thin and bony, with a snout gouged with scars left from previous encounters with hedgehogs and wild pigs; he barked little and spent most of his time crouching in the corner. But although not exactly what I had imagined, he served my purpose. I trained him carefully and he grew accustomed to sleeping at my feet while I did the accounts and made up the cashbook. I like seeing him prick up his ears at the slightest sound, and listening to him snarl at the most imperceptible of noises. It’s the old rat-catcher in him, as if he could sense his prey out there in some dark, invisible wood.

  It was precisely such a warning signal that caught my attention one night just recently, during a heavy, relentless downpour. I didn’t hear the knocking at my door because of the streams of water running off the roof, and it was only when Pastor suddenly jumped up, ears pricked, that I realized there was someone outside. It was late and the pharmacy was already closed—who on earth could be looking for me at such an hour, and in such foul weather too? Of one thing there could be no doubt: it was clearly an emergency. So I got up, closing my book and muttering under my breath, not wanting to get out of the habit of grumbling, went to the window and pulled up the sash:

  “Who’s there?”

  I saw a shape moving in the darkness.

  “You’re needed, doctor.”

  Hearing that muffled voice and seeing a figure that seemed more anxious to hide than to reveal itself, I hesitated.

  “Sorry, you’ve made a mistake. The doctor lives farther along, next block down.”

  Then the man moved closer and I was able to see him properly: he was dark-skinned, middle-aged, and over his shoulders, like a cape, he wore a sack made of coarse cloth. I remembered having seen him a couple of times near the Meneses’ house. He told me that he’d already gone to the doctor’s house, but that the doctor was on a call in Fundão.

  “But what do you want?” I asked, not without a certain impatience, looking out at the pouring rain.

  “Senhor Valdo sent me to get you. He said that if I couldn’t find the doctor, you would do.”

  “Oh, he said that, did he?”

  “Yes, he did, he said that you could stand in for the doctor.”

  “Is it Senhor Valdo who’s sick?”

  “No, it’s the mistress.”

  It’s true, some patients did from time to time seek me out when they couldn’t get hold of the doctor, so this certainly wasn’t the first time. But even so I shook my head and wondered. Going to the Chácara in that weather was no laughing matter. I imagined the muddy track, rutted by carts and stray cattle from the surrounding countryside. I asked once again if Senhor Valdo had expressly told him to knock at my door, and when he said yes, I realized that I had no choice and that I would have to go with him. I asked him to wait and went to get dressed. While I was doing so, Pastor kept growling by my side, as if he wasn’t at all pleased. “You see?” I said to him, “I have to go out in weather like this, and I’ll be paid a pittance.” He agreed, and I promised him I’d be back shortly. Putting on my thick drover’s cape, it occurred to me that there might in the end be some recompense, at least in terms of finding out some gossip about the Meneses family. “And what’s more,” I continued out loud, “it’s all part of the job. Whose idea was it set myself up as a pharmacist in a poor town in Minas Gerais? I should have been a civil servant in Rio, that’s what I should’ve done.” Once again Pastor agreed with me and accompanied me, tail wagging, as I gathered together the things I needed. I closed my case, bade Pastor farewell and within a few minutes I was at the dark-skinned man’s side, heading toward the Chácara. We took a shortcut along a narrow path that left the main road and ran alongside an old slave cemetery, weaving between the clumps of crocuses that carpeted the marshes on either side of us. A muddled orchestra of frogs were croaking so close by that they seemed at any moment to be about to join us. Puddles of water glistened in the darkness, and the rain continued to fall, dripping softly on the leaves. Hoping to break the monotony of the walk, I asked:

  “What happened?”

  And he replied:

  “The mistress suddenly felt unwell. She was sitting at the piano, and had an argument with her husband . . . I don’t know. I think she fainted.”

  I couldn’t resist exclaiming disapprovingly:

  “Honestly, that family!”

  And we continued in silence, me snug in my thick cape, he sheltering as best he could under his sack. Through the rain, I could make out a few rough crosses and the remnants of whitewashed tombstones that glowed in the darkness: it was the old slave cemetery. The Chácara, therefore, wasn’t very far away. Now and then, I stepped into a deep puddle as I tried to keep to one side of the path, since I didn’t like having that man walking behind me—he was, after all, a stranger. It wasn’t long before we rejoined the road leading to the main gate of the Chácara. I must confess that as we drew near, its avenues seemed even gloomier than usual. In the distance, I could make out the dark shape of the house, with a couple of windows lit.

  It was filled by a dense air of secrecy, of a life lived apart. “Strange creatures, those Meneses,” I thought again. And the whole landscape gave off a coldness that came not so much from the rain as from the hostility emanating from its silent, austere occupants.

  Senhor Valdo was waiting for us at the top of the steps, a lamp already lit. As soon as he saw me, he exclaimed:

  “You certainly took your time! I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “You forget, sir, that I am a mere maker of medicines,” I replied, with a certain irony.

  “At times like this,” he replied, “your assistance will be invaluable.”

  As I set down my case and removed my dripping cape, I tried to find out what had happened. Senhor Valdo told me that just after dinner, Dona Nina had sat down at the piano, feeling overcome by a sudden illness. She was feeling better now, thanks to some lemon balm tea she had drunk, although she was still very weak. Since she did not generally enjoy good health, he had thought it best to call someone, f
or he himself had little understanding of medical matters. In the absence of the doctor, the task had fallen to me: there was no one in the town better qualified. He added that he hoped I would forgive the inconvenience, but that he would reward me generously. Clearly he knew who he was dealing with, and this promise did indeed encourage me somewhat. As he was explaining all this, he led me to the drawing room, and, with my customary pleasure and curiosity, as if I were attending a magic show, I revisited those surroundings so typical of such families: heavy, antique furniture of mahogany and jacaranda that spoke of an illustrious past, of generations of Meneses who led perhaps simpler and more tranquil lives, whereas now a vein of disorder and dissolution adulterated those finer qualities. Even so, it was easy to see what they had once been, this country nobility, with their crystal gleaming gently in the darkness, their dusty silverware attesting to a faded splendor, their ivories and their opals—yes, one certainly had a sense of comfort there, and yet it was merely a survival of things long gone. In this slowly disintegrating world, there seemed to be an evil gnawing away inside it, a latent tumor deep in its guts.

  Dona Nina lay stretched out on a couch (a tattered chaise longue over which they had spread a red shawl) and she was visibly pale, her forehead glistening with sweat. But even in that state I had to admit that she was a very beautiful creature, endowed with a delicate, decadent beauty very much in keeping with the spirit of the house. Her breathing was irregular, and she followed my movements with eyes that seemed both fearful and suspicious. She said nothing to me, but I was aware she was studying me intently. I sat down beside her and took her pulse, which was very fast. I asked how she felt, and she said it wasn’t the first time she’d felt nauseous and feverish, with blurred vision and other peculiar symptoms. I called Senhor Valdo to one side:

  “She’s pregnant!” I exclaimed.

  His eyes widened:

  “Pregnant?” and he stared at me as if I had just said something utterly outrageous.

  I nodded my head gravely and returned to finish my examination. Without me needing to say a word, Dona Nina had understood everything. With her head resting against the wall, she appeared apprehensive and even paler.

  “Oh, good Lord,” she said, “I’m not ready for this.”

  I told her that all she needed was rest. Finally coming to his senses after the shock of the news, Senhor Valdo went to the door and called for his sister-in-law:

  “Ana! Do you know what Senhor Aurélio has just told me? We’re going to have a child in the house.”

  Dona Ana gave me an indefinable look—I believe I even saw in it a faint touch of irony—and said simply:

  “Well, it’s high time there was a Meneses heir.”

  Her husband also appeared at the doorway, but did not enter. He was swathed in shadows and seemed to be held back by an inexplicable timidity. On hearing Senhor Valdo repeating the news, he shook his head:

  “In that case, she must be taken to Rio de Janeiro. We don’t have the facilities here to deal with that kind of situation.”

  Senhor Valdo erupted:

  “We don’t? Nonsense, Demétrio. Nina will stay right here. The Pavilion suits her very well and there she will find all the rest she needs.”

  Senhor Demétrio cut in coldly:

  “The Pavilion is not to be recommended. It’s downright unhealthy and, besides, it’s too far from the house.”

  He had a point, for the Pavilion, where the couple was now living, was little more than a long-abandoned, glorified gazebo with no home comforts. But Senhor Valdo, thrilled with the idea of becoming a father, ignored all such remarks and immediately began to plan out loud a series of renovations that he maintained would completely transform the Pavilion and make of it a magnificent residence, better even than the house itself. The boy—he was quite sure it would be a boy, indeed it could only be a boy—would receive every possible care and attention. Perhaps even Betty herself might want to look after him—why not? And so he paced from one side of the room to the other, rubbing his hands, and it was a pleasure to see him so full of manly enthusiasm. His enthusiasm, however, was not shared by the others. A strange silence had descended on the room as if everyone else had lost interest in the subject, making Senhor Valdo’s delight seem disproportionate and futile. Still lying on the couch, Dona Nina had picked up a magazine and was pretending to leaf through it. I noticed, though, that she seemed agitated and her hands were trembling. Dona Ana had turned away and appeared to be absorbed in some detail of the room that no one else could quite determine; and as for Senhor Demétrio, he was waiting, head bowed and hands folded, for his brother’s high spirits to cool. Senhor Valdo, as if none of this were of any importance to him, or indeed as if he hadn’t even noticed what was going on, came over and stood beside his wife:

  “You’ll see, Nina. Everything will turn out just fine,” he murmured, taking one of her hands, which she allowed to lie limply in his.

  Only after he had repeated these words a couple of times did she put down the magazine and look calmly up at him:

  “Perhaps Demétrio is right, Valdo. There are no facilities of any kind in Vila Velha.”

  He, however, was not about to give in:

  “We can go to Queimados—there’s a hospital there. It isn’t very far, and that way we would avoid a long journey.”

  Dona Nina merely said: “Queimados!” But it was clear she wasn’t thrilled by the suggestion, perhaps because the little hospital in that town was not exactly famous for the care it lavished on its patients, indeed she had heard that it was more of a poorhouse than anything else. Senhor Valdo was clearly not listening and he continued elaborating his many plans. Finally, turning again to me, he asked what type of treatment should be provided, what would be needed, what should be done and what should be avoided. I set out the usual facts I would have assumed were common knowledge, and was rather surprised that the Meneses did not apparently know them. He interrupted me once or twice, in order to clarify some detail he hadn’t understood. Then, at last, when he had tired of this, and judged he had exhausted all the advice I could possibly provide, he sat down beside Dona Nina, and the two of them carried on a whispered conversation whose meaning I could not make out. At that moment, seeing them sitting so close to each other, I had no doubt that the greatest possible harmony existed between them. The rumors that had at one time been circulating in town must, I thought to myself, be completely unfounded—and I couldn’t help but regret that such a fine, decent couple, who, in their own home, conducted themselves in such a sincere and amicable manner, should be exposed to the frivolous, indiscreet comments of half a dozen idlers with nothing better to do. It was at this point that Senhor Demétrio came slowly over to me.

  Taking me by the arm with a familiarity I found somewhat disconcerting, he led me to the window, saying that he, too, required my services. Before I could even answer or remind him that I was not a doctor, he said that he wished me to treat the subject of our conversation with the utmost secrecy. This preamble aroused enormous curiosity on my part and banished all the negative thoughts that had been forming in my mind. Immediately grasping the meaning of my silence, he then asked if I had noticed his wife, Dona Ana. I said that I had, and he asked whether I thought her somewhat pale. I replied that I hadn’t noticed anything in particular, but that I had always found Dona Ana to be somewhat pale. “No, no,” he said to me, “she’s much paler than usual.” He paused, as if searching for the precise words to tell me what the problem was. “Well,” he eventually said, “I’ve noticed that she’s not herself lately, that she seems agitated, even feverish.” Perhaps he was expecting me to say that these were the symptoms of some serious ailment, but I merely shrugged, in the hope that he would provide more information. In the face of my continued silence, he decided it was best to carry on, and told me that he was very worried, indeed, he could see no practical solution. “Why?” I asked. He replied despondently: “She’s such a very reserved person, she could easily fall gravely ill be
fore she said anything to anyone.” I remained silent, but this time I was seriously considering how I could help him. It was difficult, though, since no precise illness had yet been identified. I asked whether this was all he knew or whether there might, by any chance, be other symptoms, some overlooked detail that could help me form a rational opinion. He said no, and that it was all a matter of probabilities. At that point, and so as to bring the matter to a close, I suggested that perhaps she needed a change of air. Women, after all, are such strange creatures. My words clearly made a strong impression on him, and he nodded repeatedly: yes, women certainly were very strange creatures. Perhaps a change of air was exactly what she needed, and he should, therefore, send her away on a trip somewhere. I thought it strange that he should so immediately take up my suggestion; one might almost say that this was not the first time he had thought of the idea, and that I was merely corroborating something that had already crossed his mind innumerable times. In any event, not wishing to appear indiscreet, I did not press the matter further. He thanked me for my concern, and bade me goodnight with an effusiveness I found somewhat suspect.