“Alberto,” I called, “where are you going?”
He stopped by the fountain, his back to me, as if he had recognized my voice. I called again, he turned and came toward me dejectedly. It was as if he were asleep or in some kind of hypnotic trance. I emphasize that word “hypnotic,” just so that you can understand the power that woman had over him. However hard he might try to clutch his secret to him, he could not fool me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked again, shaking his arm, unable to control my impatience.
Then, uttering a single, violent, tearless sob, he covered his face with his hands. Seeing him in that state—and I swear, Father, this was the first time—I was filled by something far stronger than pity, and the rigor of all those years spent keeping a distance, maintaining that mechanical mistress-servant relationship, fell to the ground like a useless, rusty piece of armor.
“Speak,” I cried, shaking him even harder, “for God’s sake, speak! If it wasn’t her, if she’s alive, why are you so upset? Can’t you see that I’m your friend, Alberto?”
He was so distraught that not even these extraordinary words caught his attention.
“Speak,” I went on, still shaking him, and it was like trying to shake a body made of marble, whose soul has been snatched away by some occult power. “What was it, what happened, what’s wrong with you?”
Finally, he could hold back no longer and he spoke—not because he was moved by my questions, not because he was giving in to the silent fury of my feelings—for I, too, could keep silent!—but simply because he was too young, and everything locked inside his heart needed to break through the narrow walls of the prison in which it found itself enclosed. Slowly he began to unfold his secret—or enfold himself in another far denser secret from which there could be no escape. His story was a simple one; or at least what he told me of it was simple. Because someone like Alberto would never reveal himself entirely—that would be tantamount to destroying himself. Such people are their silence, their refusal to speak, and forcing them to confess would be like climbing over forbidden walls and entering territory that a permanent, congenital modesty defends from prying eyes. He said nothing really about his love, or only what I already knew, but again and again, like a fateful, agonizing leitmotif, the name of that woman appeared on his lips and never have I heard a name pronounced with such pain and such delight.
He said that Nina had walked past him without so much as looking at him—at him, the man who had planted a whole bed of violets behind the Pavilion, a bed he watered morning and evening, hoping it would produce some truly beautiful flowers . . .—and all because, every day, standing at her window, she would ask him for a bunch of violets. “Now don’t forget, Alberto . . . You can’t imagine how I adore violets.” And then she had just walked past him as if he didn’t exist. When he met Betty by the fountain, he asked her what had happened, and Betty, who was dusting off some suitcases, told him that the mistress would be leaving first thing in the morning. That was all. Stunned, he had waited there on the verandah, hoping to see Nina again, to find out if she was still speaking to him. The flower bed was doing well, the sweet smell of violets surrounded the Pavilion; he had kept his promise—so why was she leaving and behaving so coldly toward him? While he was waiting, he saw not Nina, but Demétrio come out. He was deathly pale and had about him the threatening air of contained fury. “You should leave this house, Alberto, and as soon as possible.” “Why?” Alberto had asked.
Demétrio seemed momentarily lost for words because, according to Alberto, he did not respond at once. But when Alberto stayed where he was, with that indecipherable look in his eyes, an explanation was finally given in a low, penetrating voice: “Because of what happened at the Pavilion.” He fell silent then, as if remembering the scene, not the scene with Demétrio, which mattered very little to him, but the other scene, the one in the Pavilion, where, he told me, Senhor Demétrio had caught him kissing Nina’s hands. Only her hands, nothing more. There was something in his voice I could not quite pin down, as if he found telling this story very hard; and seeing the suffering provoked by that small, almost fictitious betrayal, I imagined what he must be concealing—the great, tumultuous passion Nina had awoken in him, the meetings they would have had, the words exchanged, none of which I would ever know about, in this life or the next—and he selected from his small vocabulary the exact words that would leave no room for error. “Just because of that?” he asked Demétrio, still unable to believe what he was hearing. “Yes, just because of that,” my husband answered in a firm voice. And then everything became perfectly clear in his mind: she had ignored him because she was about to leave. Simply because he had dared to kiss one of her hands, and Senhor Demétrio had caught him in the act. He may have been sincere in what he said, Father Justino, and his surprise may have been genuine, but the truth is I was eaten up with jealousy, it was as if a deadly acid were flowing through my veins, and I was cruel, cruel in the way one can only be to the dying, to whom one refuses a final word of comfort.
“Ah,” I said, “you didn’t fool my husband, just as you didn’t fool me that day when I saw you in the garden, do you remember? You only kissed her hand, you say! So what were you doing together in the clearing, then, and why did she slap you?”
He looked at me in horror, as if he had only just realized that I had seen them together in the garden. We were facing each other, both of us breathing hard, staring into each other’s eyes. And suddenly he began to talk, very loud and fast. I knew we could be heard, that Demétrio might come out at any moment, which would only cause more scandal—but I had neither the courage nor the desire to stop him. She had slapped him for no reason, because of the violets. Every day, he carefully placed a bunch of violets on her windowsill—but she called him a liar and said that he never left anything. He couldn’t understand and insisted that, every morning, religiously, he left her some flowers—and he had even started to keep watch in case someone was stealing them or to see if they were blown away by the wind. He couldn’t solve the mystery, and Nina had grown angry then, saying he was taking her for a fool, but that she would teach him a lesson. How could she possibly think that of him, when he had planted a whole bed of violets solely to please her? And yet, despite this, what pleasure, what joy he had felt, knowing that she appreciated his gift, that she was demanding it of him, because, in her eyes, it was valuable. It was then, realizing her mistake and realizing that she had gone too far in revealing her feelings to that man, who, however simple and rustic, understood what she was saying, it was then that she had slapped his face as a punishment. But there was nothing to be done, because those violets, whether real or not, were a tie that bound them together—perhaps the first and only tie.
(Moments later, Father, I caught a glimpse of that joy in the warm, true light that flowed from his eyes, and it stripped me bare as though it were tearing away the veils in which I had long been buried. As if lit by a flash of lightning, I saw myself for what I was. Losing him, knowing that I had lost him forever, transformed me instantly into the stiff, colorless being I am today. Now do you understand why nothing matters to me, neither God, nor my husband, nor even that scapular? Now do you understand, Father?)
My rage on hearing his story knew no limits. I began to pound on his chest (you cannot know and never will know the wild delirium that filled me, Father, me, a mature woman, whose flesh had never once trembled with love . . .) and my eyes filled with tears:
“You’re lying, Alberto, you’re still lying! When has anyone ever slapped someone’s face because of a bunch of violets? That wasn’t the reason, and besides, you never did leave flowers on her windowsill . . .”
He stood transfixed and uncomprehending. Overwhelmed by sobs, I finally slumped against the pillar, defeated. He came toward me, he tried to explain that he wasn’t lying—although what did I care about his wretched violets?—and that he had only kissed her hand because he had gone there to ask her forgiveness. He wanted to know why that was so very
bad, how could they condemn him when that was all he had done, when he was even prepared to admit he had been lax and, yes, he had sometimes forgotten to leave violets on her windowsill? And he said other things too, excuses, threats, who knows what else, but I did not respond and continued to weep, my face pressed against the cold stone. He must have felt very awkward, not knowing what to do, and although I knew I was making a complete fool of myself, I couldn’t help it. When he timidly touched my hand, I begged him:
“Go away, for God’s sake, go away!”
And as he moved off, I continued to weep, my gaze turned now on the vast darkness of the garden.
15.
Continuation of Ana’s Second Confession
Father Justino, I cannot describe to you what those first few days after Nina’s departure were like. Apparently, the gossip in the town was that she had been driven out, and I really do believe that my husband played a major part in her leaving the Chácara. It was odd, though, because once we were free of her presence, none of us felt any real sense of relief. It was as if we were forever prisoners of that woman’s magic spell. My husband hardly spoke, and I think he felt responsible for everything that had happened. I can recall almost word for word a conversation I heard one night, when he and Valdo lingered after supper, when he certainly had no qualms about accusing Nina of adultery. On that point, he was immovable and brought his fist down hard on the table to confirm this. I remember Valdo’s voice: “You’re mad, I don’t understand . . .” And Demétrio: “You’re the one who’s mad, and if it wasn’t for the current precarious state of your health . . .” I have no idea what veiled threat lay behind those words, but I imagined he was in possession of some hidden proof, of facts that the whole family would prefer to keep secret. Valdo had left his bed sooner than expected, but, were it not for Betty’s ministrations, he would doubtless have succumbed to the seriousness of his wounds—it had not been a mere act, as Demétrio sometimes implied: Valdo genuinely had attempted suicide. Betty took charge of everything, as if she were the mistress of the house. And she was really, because I took no interest in what was going on around me, only occasionally receiving news of my brother-in-law’s condition from other people, for I never asked anything myself.
On the other hand, while we were living this tense, silent life, I kept my eyes fixed on Alberto. I must tell you now, Father—so that one day you can reconstruct the truth—about something that happened on the night of Valdo’s failed suicide attempt. I have already described how I was left sobbing and gazing out at the dark garden. Well, moments later, I saw Alberto once again go creeping past. He had only just left my side, I myself had begged him to leave me, I could even hear the echo of his footsteps—but I couldn’t bring myself to lose sight of him, and so, drying my tears, I waited until he was lost among the trees before I myself went down the steps. The impulse that drove me on was that of a broken, troubled being, an irresistible need to rebel, which had the effect on me of a toxic drug. Stepping lightly, I too plunged in among the shadows. I think it had rained, because everywhere there was the smell of damp flowers and leaves. It did not take me long to find him—there he was, crouched behind a clump of ferns, watching someone moving about inside the house. Since the light was on in the window, it was not difficult to see who it was: Nina. She was clearly silhouetted and was talking to someone we could not see. Perhaps Alberto could hear what was going on and may even have heard part of the argument—judging by Nina’s gestures, she seemed extremely angry, so it was clear that this was indeed an argument—but I could not hear a single word, however hard I tried and however close I got to Alberto. I was constrained by the fear that a dry twig might crack or the sand crunch beneath my feet, and that Alberto would then realize I was spying on him. Nevertheless, it was clear that the person Nina was talking to was lying down, and since this was the couple’s bedroom, I assumed she was speaking to Valdo. At one point, when I raised my head a little, I saw something metallic glitter in her hands. She strode over to the window and threw the object out into the garden—it arced through the air and fell into one of the flower beds. Alberto gave a cat-like leap and began rummaging among the plants. He did this urgently, as if time were of the essence. Suddenly, he appeared to find what he was looking for: the object Nina had thrown out of the window. I soon learned what it was, because he came trampling through the bushes onto the path. When he emerged into the light, almost opposite me, I saw that he was holding a revolver—a small nickel-plated weapon, which I had noticed before, some time ago, on the large sideboard in the drawing room. Alberto was turning it over in his hands as if examining some strange, unidentifiable object. The dreadful idea had probably not yet entered his mind, he was doubtless still far from imagining what extremes he would go to, but I already knew what would happen later on—more than that, I realized that Nina had seen Alberto outside and had thrown the weapon out of the window precisely so that he would pick it up. This realization so shocked me that I almost gave myself away, revealing my hiding place. Alberto must have heard a noise, because he quickly stuffed the gun inside his shirt and whirled around, expecting to see someone. I stole away into the thick undergrowth and, had he been less agitated, I am sure he would have spotted me. I saw him almost break into a run as he approached the Pavilion. I confess I was afraid he might kill himself in the cellar, that he might do the deed there and then, without further delay. Slowly, afraid now that I might be seen by the people inside the house, I followed him, taking occasional refuge behind a tree whenever I thought he might look back. He never did, though, too consumed by the idea leading him on. I reached the place where he had entered through a low door, half-hidden among the foliage, and which was the sole entrance to the cellar. It occurred to me for the first time that this was where he must live, and I was touched. I had never been there before, because it seemed to me so uninhabitable, so neglected—and now, standing before the door, I was surprised that such a young man could live in such a gloomy place. There were a few barred windows in the ivy-clad wall, but the bars were all broken, so it was easy to see how dark it was inside and that the walls were black with damp. I went over to the door and, looking inside, saw a small lamp flickering in one of the rooms. I went in, trying to avoid bumping into the furniture and the piles of old crates, and managed to reach a spot where the light was brightest. There, too, the door was open and I was able to hide behind it, peering in through the crack. Alberto was in the middle of the room, shirtless now, but still holding the revolver. I don’t know—how could I?—if, at that point, he had already considered killing himself, if the insidious idea had already taken hold of his mind and begun to flow through the wild, healthy, youthful blood in his veins. I think it had, because, with one tremulous hand, he slowly raised the gun to his heart, first higher, then lower, like someone rehearsing a scene. He did this very carefully, as if he were weighing up the possibilities of a task in which there was no room for error.
I knew he would not kill himself then, Father, that he would have many inner struggles first, that his youth would do battle with the mad urges of an innocent heart. But I decided, at that precise moment, not to intervene, but to allow the boy’s fate to run its course. Ah, Father, all I ask is that you understand what was going on in my soul. I know that my decision implied a tacit complicity, that I could have been compromising my soul by maintaining a stupid silence in that game of chance. I could have intervened, it’s true, I could, at that early stage, have prevented him from destroying himself in an act of extreme desperation. But for me to have done that, I would need to have been in an entirely untroubled state myself, my heart at rest and feeling at one with the people and things of this world. That was the first reason justifying my silence. The second, and possibly the most important reason, was that I wanted to preserve for myself that proof of Nina’s treachery. I did not know how or when I would use it, only that one day I would be able to throw that horrible truth in her face and call her a murderer, proving that it was all her fault, and that
I had seen her toss the gun into the garden. (As time has passed, I have gradually lost my way, and I am no longer sure I have the right: Could she really have known what she was doing when she threw the gun out of the window? If it had been an unthinking gesture—and how could one ever know the truth?—then almost all the blame would fall on my shoulders, and I would be the criminal, not her. But at that moment, how could I not give in to the voluptuous pleasure of gambling and risking everything? This was almost my only opportunity to destroy her.) The pleasure I felt when I imagined this was almost a guarantee of impunity. Later, long after I had abandoned him to his fate, my heart grew troubled, and I no longer knew what to think. It was horrible to have before me that blood-stained body, as I did later on. No, he no longer exists, there was nothing in the world to stop him killing himself—neither beauty nor youth nor the strong beat of a warm, generous heart. Now silence has fallen forever in his small room, in which his twenty years of life were consumed with no possible escape or remission, I am guilty of having preferred to lose him because I knew he could never be mine. I cannot conceal that fact, Father, if I intend to be honest and open in my confession. I say again—and the tears flow from my eyes as I do so—it was my love and my despair that abandoned him to his death.
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 20
