Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  “It’s him,” she said simply.

  Him! And for a moment I tried desperately to work out who she meant by that, going through all my memories, the names of people I had met, the stories, and even the confessions I had heard. She sensed my consternation and sighed:

  “Ah, you didn’t read my letters! You don’t know who it is!”

  It was only at this outburst that I remembered who it must be, and, with unexpected violence, that dark, tortuous tale thrust itself once more into my thoughts, bringing with it the same deep unease as before. So it was him, the gardener. He was what this was all about. Turning to look at her, I felt genuinely afraid for the first time: an undefined but very real fear, like that of someone slowly realizing the danger he is in. What did it really mean, this woman’s coldness, her apparent self-control, her resignation in the face of a drama that must have deeply affected her?

  “How did it happen?” I asked.

  “He killed himself,” she replied.

  So it was all over—despair had consumed the one person who was perhaps the most innocent of all, the one whom destiny had most cruelly entangled in its web. But for us wretched mortals there is no destiny, only the will of God. In their silent, eloquent simplicity, those blood-soaked remains were an exact representation of man’s rebellion against God and his refusal to believe in Divine Providence.

  “He killed himself, Father,” repeated Dona Ana, in a tone that made me turn immediately toward her. Then, more quietly, as if saying something she could not believe: “He killed himself.”

  Suddenly, unable to hide her true feelings, she exclaimed:

  “He killed himself, or at least that’s what they say. But as far as I’m concerned, he was murdered.”

  I waited for her to offer some explanation for this outlandish statement. Coming a little closer, but without taking her eyes off the body of that poor soul lying on the bed, she told me that Dona Nina was the cause of all this. It was she who had thrown the revolver out of the window and thus created, you might say, the opportunity for a suicide. Ah, yes, and she knew why too: Dona Nina was about to leave, indeed was obliged to leave, and she knew the gardener would kill himself the moment he knew all hope was gone. And here, lying before us, was the proof. He had picked up the revolver that had landed in the garden and taken it as if it were an order. The loyalty of such simple souls was unimaginable. (As she spoke, into my mind came the nagging question that has never left me since: was Dona Nina really conscious of her actions? Would she have been quite so cruelly aware that she was ordering the gardener’s death? How much of it was her fault, and how much that of the others? I have no idea, or rather, I have never found out. Over time, I have made many inquiries, but have never been able to pin down that woman’s role in such a tragic event. I was never able to tell whether she had acted out of wickedness, which is something I don’t believe in, or whether she had been driven by jealousy and the fear of leaving him behind, which seems scarcely more likely. There then remained the most plausible explanation: that it was one of those reckless, impetuous gestures, which, from what I have heard, was typical of her. I don’t know why, but this seemed to me the most convincing hypothesis. In any event, one can only agree that this was a still graver shadow to be added to the many dark shadows left trailing in her wake and adding to the portrait of that strange, remarkable person—an enigma of God.)

  The force with which Dona Ana said those words had now faded, and she sank groaning to the floor beside the body. She stayed there for some time, her head resting on the edge of the pallet, not so much crying as wailing; a long, harsh, rasping sound like the cry of a dying animal, and which was merely the sign of a broken soul, unprepared for such strong emotions.

  “He’s dead,” she wailed, and I wondered to myself how many times she had repeated this to herself when alone. “He’s dead. Gone. What will become of me now?”

  “My dear child,” I said, going over to her and trying to help her to her feet, “everything that happens is by the will of God.”

  “Of God!” she exclaimed. And she raised her head so I could see the scorn glinting in her eyes. “Of God! Oh, Father, how can it be that of all the creatures in the world God should choose this one?”

  “We can never know what He desires of us,” I replied.

  Once again she slumped to the floor. For some time the whole of that small space echoed with the sound of her tears, like the mournful cry of farmers calling their cattle. Then, feeling calmer, she turned to me:

  “He’s gone, gone forever. He’s not here any more.” And as she said this there was such sadness in her voice, such poignant melancholy, that it was impossible not to see that there lay the crux of all her ills: a deep, constant, desolate absence of Hope. The young man’s death did not signify for her an act of God’s will, nor the beginning of another existence, nor the possibility of a future life—it was simply death, like a blank wall against which there was no point in throwing oneself. (Wasn’t it precisely this absence of Hope and this sense of the precariousness of worldly things that had for so long weighed on her poor benighted spirit? I saw her again some time later in equally dramatic circumstances, and then, as now, she exemplified for me what it is to despair of divine assistance and to think of this world as a place with no possibility of rescue or redemption. The world, with all its limitations, filled her entirely, and there was not the tiniest crevice in which so much as one leaf from the tree of fraternal joy could grow and flourish.)

  I don’t know if it was pity or simply a need to say something, but I placed one hand on her head and said, in a tone which I intended to be joyful:

  “Not forever. For it is written that we shall all be restored to life, and the fewer our sins the younger and more beautiful we shall be.”

  “Young! Beautiful!” she cried, astonished.

  “Don’t you believe in immortality? It does exist.”

  “Oh, Father!” And she began to weep again, not with the same harsh gasps as before, but frankly and openly, as if something had given way inside her, and the tears flowed freely down her cheeks. “Oh Father, don’t you understand?” she stammered, her voice choked by tears. “It’s now that I want him, right now, here, living and breathing in front of me. And yet there he lies, stiff and cold.”

  How could I respond to such a cry, filled as it was with her utter incomprehension of God’s divine mercy? I bowed my head and begged God to shine a light into that poor, sad, imprisoned soul. As I prayed, my thoughts were filled with a vision: a vision of what she and all of us were lacking, a lack that was probably the cause, for many, of a hard, daily battle: Christ’s presence. Or rather, a vision of his absence. An absence so absolute and so tangible that, around us, it created a kind of vacuum, an intense, accusing reminder of that absence. The truth came spontaneously to my lips:

  “You must understand, my daughter, that God wanted you to lose him.”

  She stopped crying and laughed, a soft, sinister laugh that made me shudder. Then she began to clamber to her feet by a series of oddly contorted movements, first heaving herself up onto the edge of the bed then sliding up the blood-streaked wall until, finally, she was standing. And there she stood, facing me, eyes shining, leaning against the wall as if she might fall at any moment.

  “No, it wasn’t God. It was me who wanted to lose him. And the worst of it, Father, is that even if he had been mine, all mine, I might still have wanted to lose him. It was too much for me, too much for my meager strength.”

  She took two steps toward me.

  “After he killed himself, I finally understood everything: living without him was worse than living with him. A thousand times worse. Day after day of emptiness, coming and going, not caring about anything. Now that he can no longer hear or reply to anything I say, I’m horrified at what happened. I can’t bring myself to do anything, to walk or eat or talk to anyone. That’s why I came to find you, Father.”

  “That’s why?”

  She drew even closer:
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br />   “That’s why.” (She paused briefly and looked at me. Her deep, inquiring gaze made me feel suddenly uneasy.) “Do you know what people say about you, Father? They say you’re a saint.”

  She didn’t laugh, but stared at me again as if testing me. “Ah,” I thought to myself, “what does she want? What lengths will she not go to?” I shrugged, as if to say that people said all sorts of silly things. Then I detected a tremor in her fervent voice:

  “Don’t you believe me? That’s what everyone says, Father. Not just here in Vila Velha, but farther away in places like Rio Espera, Mercês, and even Ubá! Everyone says you’re a saint. And I believe them, Father. I believe that you are a saint.”

  I don’t know where I found the strength to reply:

  “There is something more important than believing in this or that. Do you believe in God?”

  She again fixed me with her gaze, and this time her eyes were vacant, with no fear in them now, only exhaustion, complete and utter exhaustion.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what I believe in. Is it important? Look,” she added brusquely, “I believe in what I can see.”

  “That isn’t believing in God,” I replied.

  “Does it matter?” She spun toward me, finally laying bare her intentions: “If you perform a miracle here in front of me, then I’ll believe in God.”

  “You must be mad!” I exclaimed.

  She laughed again, that same strange, soft snicker.

  “No, I’m not mad. I know you could very easily perform a miracle. It’s just a matter of stretching out your hand . . .”

  I took a step back and, for the first time, it occurred to me that what was happening to that woman was more serious than I had thought. In the cellar’s dim, flickering light, I stared at her, and she stared back at me. I could see that something in her had changed and she no longer looked like the person I knew; she had grown taller, thinner, and strangely self-assured. I don’t know how long we stood staring at each other, but it seemed to me an eternity, and while it lasted, as if by some ingenious conjuring trick, an extraordinary rearrangement of her personality occurred. (That’s when I truly discovered that human beings change, that we are not fixed structures but moving forces, always advancing toward our definitive form.) From where I stood, I watched her slowly circle the bed—even her way of walking was different—and take up a position at the other end, almost at the dead man’s head. From there, erect and resolute, she dominated the space now separating us. There was something in her that struck me as profoundly masculine: even her face, usually softened by despair, had taken on a hard, greenish, sculptural quality, and in her pale eyes I saw a being I had never known before.

  “It isn’t me you should turn to,” I said, holding her gaze, “but to God’s mercy.”

  The voice that echoed around the room sounded breathless, as if pressed for time, and, although it was still human, it was no longer a woman’s voice, still less that of the woman who stood before me. It was a man’s voice, and a man who had run a long way before he arrived at that spot. “I don’t believe in God. Who is God? What can He do for me? But you, on the other hand . . .”

  I felt dizzy and feared I might collapse. The rasping voice from the other side of the room continued:

  “Only you, only you can do anything for me. He was young, Father. He was handsome, he was charming. Just look at him resting there like a sleeping child. Look, Father, how can you not feel pity when you see that face?

  “Yes, I can see that,” I replied. “But didn’t Christ tell us to let the dead bury the dead? There’s nothing more I can do, neither I nor anyone.”

  “A miracle, Father,” she begged. “You must make a miracle happen.”

  Suddenly she moved, stepping forward and almost shouting:

  “Bring him back to life, Father. Bring him back to life and I will believe in God and everything else.”

  “How can I . . .” I cried, recoiling.

  Her trembling hand pointed to the corpse:

  “If you give the word, he will rise. All you have to say is: ‘Arise, wipe away your blood and walk.’”

  I raised my hand, not to do as she asked, but to make the sign of the cross over her. She ignored my gesture and, coming closer, continued gabbling furiously:

  “A man from Mercês said that you performed a miracle. I believe him, Father. I believe him. He was short and fat, he wore boots, he was riding a horse and was covered in dust.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “I was sitting on the verandah. He didn’t even dismount, he just looked at me and said: ‘I have just seen great things, Senhora.’ I asked him: ‘Where?’ and he pointed to the road: ‘Over toward Fundão.’ I asked what he had seen, and the traveler told me: ‘A priest has performed a miracle.’”

  “And you believed that?”

  “I did. I asked him ‘What miracle?’ And he replied: ‘He brought a man back to life, a man who already stank of death.’”

  “It’s a lie. There was no miracle.”

  “None?”

  “None.”

  “Not even that man . . . ?”

  “I don’t know that man.”

  Then she threw herself at me, shaking me so violently that I almost fell to the floor.

  “What does it matter who it was? What does it matter whether or not you know him? Perhaps there never was such a man and I’ve merely invented this story to get through to you.”

  Silently, I again made the sign of the cross. She shrank back, but she had not given up. She was still breathing hard, but her voice was fading as if she were ready to depart this life “Bring him back to life, Father. They’ll say you’re a saint. Your name will be known throughout the state, even the entire country. A saint! Our very own Brazilian saint! And here in our little provincial backwater we’ll proudly say: ‘Yes, it’s a priest from Vila Velha who’s performing those miracles.’”

  No longer able to contain my emotion, and confronted by that pathetic voice flowing around me like a river of darkness, I hid my face in my hands and began to pray. I don’t know what I said—snatches of prayers that came to my lips and which I recited willynilly, while in the depths of my heart I implored God to have mercy on her poor tormented soul. Seeing me praying, she shook her head:

  “No, it isn’t saintliness that interests you.”

  “Not that kind of saintliness,” I whispered.

  She turned to me one last time, her eyes blurred with tears:

  “Who knows? Perhaps you don’t believe in God either. These things happen: false priests who prey on people’s good faith.”

  “May God protect you . . .” I began.

  She looked at me scornfully:

  “From what?”

  I imperceptibly lowered my voice:

  “May God have mercy on you.”

  She shrugged and seemed suddenly to grow distant, forgetting my presence altogether. She fell into her usual apathetic state. She sat down beside the bed and stared sadly at the corpse, at the single black bloodstain spreading across his chest. She pulled her shawl around her, as if she were cold. The lamp was burning out. I realized it was time for me to go, that there was nothing more for me to do there. But I left with the certainty that I would never forget the image of that small, frail woman sitting beside a corpse—for no other image would ever give me such a profound, tormenting sense of human solitude.

  17.

  André’s Diary (ii)

  15th – I was no longer expecting her to come and had assumed she had forgotten her promise. Yes, I repeated to myself once, twice, innumerable times, that she must have forgotten, there was no doubt about it, and that thought, by dint of being repeated and chewed over like a humiliation I chose not to forget, made me turn pale with rage. She had deceived me, had made mock of my hopes, my feelings, my friendship, in short, everything—and the most painful part of all was that it was entirely unnecessary. Why promise to visit me when, before she spoke, I had not for a moment
expected she would even deign to knock at my bedroom door? Now there was no avoiding the sad truth: she was treating me like a child. Her very gesture, which I had seen as a sure sign of her unequivocal liking for me, was revealed for what it was: banal and empty. (And yet she could transfigure everything, from the simplest of laughs to the most distant, fleeting glance . . .) How often I had relived that gesture in my mind, my heart beating like a schoolboy’s! The hours were slipping by, and there I was still sitting on my bed, staring into the darkness. I could remember it perfectly, and would probably do so for the rest of my life: she was leaning on the piano—the piano in the Chácara, which was almost never used—leafing through some music, while my father played. I can’t recall exactly what he was playing, or the names or titles on the score, because I was interested only in her. There was something so abandoned, so intensely lonely about the way in which she leaned on the piano, that I could never drive it from my memory. After all, what are our memories but an awareness of an elusive, fugitive light hovering over the truth of things? Oh, she was certainly beautiful, singularly beautiful, as she bent nonchalantly over the music, her elbows on the piano lid, possibly reading, possibly oblivious to everything, or, as I would often see her later on, immersed in endless, feverish thought. I was thinking how everyone was saying that she was not as beautiful as she used to be, that she had aged and was very different from the person she once had been. With great difficulty, like someone traversing dark, difficult terrain, I was trying to imagine what she would have been like then, when everyone bowed before her, acknowledging her as one of the most beautiful women of her day. Younger perhaps, more carefree, unmarked as yet by such things as a knowledge of certain fixed and irremediable truths or of secrets finally penetrated, things that lent her face a stern maturity.