It was made of a heavy, dark-red fabric, as soft to the touch as satin. It was very simply cut, almost like a tunic, that fell loosely over her breasts to form a wide, sweeping wave. Covering the tunic was a veil of black gauze sewn with beads that glittered with every move she made—and she was so keenly aware of her own charm, now stopping, now moving with studied ease, an infallible quality in women who understand their clothes. I could see her from the bed, and, following with my gaze the contrast of the black gauze against her white arms, I felt she was becoming a painting in oils, and that those basic colors were making of her a timeless, definitive portrait.) She went over to the door, and I assumed she was about to leave without saying another word, when she stopped and turned, her eyes almost closed:
“When I left the Chácara that first time, André, you did not yet exist. I don’t know what memories or feelings you may still have of the time when I lived with you . . .”
She let go of the latch and came back to the bed, where she leaned over me:
“Tell me, do you really remember nothing at all?”
And although her eyes were fixed on mine, and she asked that question as gravely as she could, it still did not ring quite true; it was as if she were playing a part she had rehearsed earlier. It was clear that any secret depended on my response, but that the actual words I used would not, in themselves, be of any importance or significance. I wondered what it was she needed—what word or tender gesture or acknowledgement of what had clearly been a very painful time in her life? Then, as if speaking out of the silence inside me, I lied:
“No, I do remember.”
And I saw her shiver, and a new music began to play between us.
“Where? How?” And she touched my shoulder.
“I’m not sure where . . .” and I tried to imagine where it could have been, more accurately than I suspected. “In a garden. There was a tree, a big tree and I used to sit in its shade. But it’s all very vague, and it was such a long time ago!”
“Ah, a garden!” she exclaimed, and there was disappointment in her voice.
Then, after a silence, she spoke again, and her words were so cold they appeared to roll lifelessly around in the vacuum surrounding us:
“You must mean the Pavilion where we used to live.”
That was all, and I realized then that she did not believe me. A kind of sob rose to my lips:
“Aren’t I allowed to forget?”
She looked at me as if she could no longer see me:
“Goodnight, André. Go to sleep, and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Those were the last words she spoke, and we had obviously reached the end of that particular path. My importunate question still hung in the air. I heard the door close; I turned off the light and found myself once again in the darkness. However, I was less alone now, because from the four corners of the room, not in the form of a lie now, but as a real, tangible building, there arose the image of that Pavilion where, who knows, I had possibly been conceived.
18.
Letter from Nina to the Colonel
. . . Everything that happened after I left. Given your naturally fatherly heart, I can imagine you must have been very shocked. I can even see you taking a handkerchief out of your pocket and furtively dabbing at your eyes, but without saying a word against me. Ah, Colonel, my own eyes fill with tears at the thought. And yet, it isn’t hard to guess why I left, I couldn’t go on living like that, I was haunted by the image of my son. I felt guilty and had a horror of dying without seeing him and being able to kneel at his feet and beg his forgiveness. You do not perhaps understand a mother’s heart, but there is nothing in the world more potent than the idea of the being who was born of your own flesh. You also may or may not remember that I had written to my husband demanding some money that he had promised, but never sent. (The evenings I spent alone in that narrow apartment with no one to help me. The perversity of the world and of the indifferent creatures filling the streets and whom I could see from my window. I think I would have succumbed to despair were it not for your generosity. I especially remember that night when we went to the Casino together and I won a not inconsiderable sum, a decisive event in my life, because I was definitely prepared to die at that point. I had even bought some poison and kept it always within reach, ready for the moment when I finally summoned up the courage. When I returned home in the early hours that night, I opened the drawer in my bedside table, removed the envelope containing the poison, threw it away, and replaced it with my winnings, saying to myself: “God made the decision for you, Nina, and the hour of your death has not yet come.” It was then, whirling blithely about the room—I hadn’t felt such a sense of freedom in a long time!—that I thought about refurbishing the apartment and replacing the old furniture. You encouraged me in this and, breaking the silence of years, I wrote to my husband, asking him to send me some money. When I met Valdo, I was, I admit, an innocent who knew nothing of the world. I lived closeted in that boarding house where you used to come and visit my father, do you remember? It was Valdo who taught me about good taste, about what one should and shouldn’t wear. And so, Colonel, my idea of what an elegant apartment should look like came from Valdo and his advice, and I imagined it furnished with pieces identical to those I had known during the only really happy time of my life. For days and days, I waited for his answer, and never had the place where I was living seemed sadder or more cramped. Leaning at my window, I would stare out at the horizon, and my entire life would parade past me in my thoughts, and unconsciously, things I had believed to be long dead would rise to the surface, and I suffered all over again, but with a new intensity, a new sense of injustice at the way I had been treated. I could not for a moment forget that my husband was living in the quiet abundance of the Chácara, while I pined away in that bare, uncomfortable apartment. It was then that I showed the first signs of a strange illness, a kind of paralysis, which the doctor diagnosed as being psychological in origin. You were tireless in your help then, Colonel. No one could possibly have had a better guardian angel. Not a day went by without you visiting me, bearing sweets and flowers, and you went even further, always leaving some small, secret gift, sums of money hidden under the towels, loose change that you deliberately forgot and left behind, checks that you silently slipped into my handbag. We never spoke about this, I felt too embarrassed, but the moment has come to confess that my soul felt grateful unto death. Whenever you left me, I would burst into tears. Ah, Colonel, what a strange, ungrateful thing the human heart is. While you were heaping me with presents, my thoughts returned again and again to the home I had lost. I could not sleep, I could find no peace, I could not drive from my mind the idea of the Chácara as a place of refuge. Because for years and years, that thought had been working away inside me, slowly and surely, until it manifested itself in that physical paralysis, which kept me confined to my room. I was sure that what afflicted me was nostalgia and that I would not survive unless I satisfied that deep-seated yearning. (I talked to my husband today about that time and about the illness that confined me to a wheelchair. I saw him almost smile, doubtless thinking it was pure invention. And the truth is that, seen from a distance and in the silence that surrounds us here, it does seem more like a fantasy, an unconscious lie, a private trap, rather than a genuine illness. His eyes seemed to be saying: “Really, Nina, the things you invent!” And I could only agree and bow my head.) At the time, weary of suffering, I wrote a second letter to my husband and gave him a frank description of what my life was like. I wanted to set off to the Chácara whether he agreed or not. When you read these words, you may well accuse me of duplicity and consider me a sly, treacherous creature. There I was planning to leave and abandon you forever, while still gladly accepting the presents and flowers you brought to me each day. You would be wrong, Colonel, even though, at the same time as I was accepting your gifts, I was equally sure that I could not possibly go on living in that apartment. To do so would have been to accept my own death, a form of
suicide more certain than poison. That is why, sitting trapped and still in my wheelchair, I began to feel a kind of nausea, an exquisite, deep-seated loathing for that furniture, those paintings, for all the things that made up the sad atmosphere in which I dragged out my existence. The Chácara and its comforts had seeped into my very bones. I wasn’t angry with you, Colonel, but with my surroundings, the way some people with a high fever become consumed with anger for everything around them. I would fall asleep, but, despite my dreams, would wake up surrounded by those loathsome objects. Alone, I would weep and hurl insults at those cold walls, at what seemed to me a lifeless world.
I vividly remember the moment when I decided, once and for all, to leave. You had just closed the door and left a large amount of money on the bed. The day was fading fast, all was silence and nothingness. I knew it was now or never, and, throwing aside the blankets covering me—I could still hear your parting words: “Wrap up warm, my dear, the nights are getting cold”—I tried to get up. You will be surprised that I still had the strength to stand after such a long illness. I can assure you, Colonel, that the only thing driving me at that moment was the desire to see my son again, to see my home and the trees of the Chácara. That alone was enough to bring me back to life. I cannot describe what happened next, the feverish way I packed away my things, the journey to the station, and then the train. I was trembling, and had to force my poor body to do the bidding of my will.
Even though I had written on ahead, there was no familiar face at the station. The Meneses are very slow to forgive, and I feared they would not give me the warmest of welcomes. Added to this was a certain embarrassment, because I knew I was badly dressed and that my illness had left me pale and debilitated. I had always been a woman noted for her elegance; now, in a situation requiring me to look my attractive best, I arrived looking like someone who had suffered terrible privation. I know this will surprise you, bearing in mind that you had done your utmost to ensure that I lacked for nothing. I will go further, though, and confess that I fabricated and skillfully created that modest exterior in order to touch my husband’s heart. I wanted him to be troubled by what he saw and to say to himself: “Is this the same poor Nina whom I so mistreated?” I would say nothing, but my silence, my black clothes, my cheap necklace, would speak volumes. No, don’t protest, Colonel, I know I have lovely clothes and lovely jewels, but when I packed the little luggage I had brought with me, I deliberately chose the oldest, cheapest items. (Perhaps because I no longer felt I had the right to wear all your gifts.) Anyway, when I got off the train, I immediately realized that I was not exactly the most welcome of guests. No one was waiting for me, and I had to make my own way to the Chácara. A few people in Vila Velha had spotted me, and a group was already gathering in the pharmacy, opposite the station. Soon the gossip would reach fever pitch. But what did it matter? I called a cab and asked to be taken to the Chácara. Throughout the ride, I felt I was being stared at, and even though I knew it was just a ridiculous provincial town, I suffered, nonetheless, because I saw in those eyes a curiosity verging on malice. More than my own pale skin, what marked me out was the name of the Meneses.
Only Valdo was waiting for me in the garden and he held out his hands to me far more cordially than I was expecting. Before I could say a word, my eyes were already saying beseechingly: “Where is André?” He said softly: “Don’t worry, you’ll see your son soon enough.” And I may have been imagining it, but I thought I heard in his voice a faint tremor of jealousy. He stood back from me a little:
“But you haven’t changed a bit!”
He sounded so genuine that I felt all the care I had taken had been in vain. I attempted a smile:
“Oh, Valdo, I’ve changed a lot, I’m a different woman. After my illness . . .”
He replied rather too briskly and with a look in which I sensed a certain irony:
“On the contrary, you have never looked better.”
Those were the only words we exchanged. I went up the steps—those worn stone steps, in whose cracks grew the occasional stubborn weed, steps I used to know by heart—wondering how the others would receive me. That was the most serious obstacle, and I was determined to face it with my head high. I said to myself: “Those Meneses will see that I have as much character as they do.” When we reached the drawing room, though, my strength failed me. At the far end, next to the sideboard, were Demétrio and Ana; sitting slightly apart from each other, they formed a solemn, hostile pair. How stupid I had been to think I would have the strength to confront them: I would never be able to cope with their terrifying dignity. Especially Ana, who to me seemed as much a part of that atmosphere as if she were one of the rooms or a detail on a piece of furniture, as immovable as if she were a judge handing down the most unappealable of sentences. I pretended to feel dizzy, cried out: “Valdo!” and fell limply into his arms. I heard him say to the others:
“The poor thing. She must be exhausted . . .”
Then I heard Demétrio speak for the first time, and his voice sounded quite close:
“It’s nothing. She’s just a little pale.”
“No, it’s more than that,” said Valdo, and I was pleased to hear him speak so warmly in my defense. “She’s still recovering from a serious illness. I think the doctor may even . . .”
I didn’t hear what else they said because they moved off into another room. I opened my eyes and saw the figure of Ana not that far away; she wore her usual hard expression. (That expression had the power to drag me back to a previous climate I could not quite identify, and in which we suffered as if we were chained one to the other.) I looked at her too: something had clearly happened to her. When I left, she had been simply a sad, graceless woman; now I saw before me someone wrinkled, worn down, prematurely old, as if shaped by some furious inner fire. For a while, I stared at her in astonishment, and then, slowly, a sort of smile appeared on her lips, an indefinable smile, because I don’t know whether it was scornful or accusing, but which illumined that physiognomy with a dull, tentative light.
Just then, Valdo returned bearing a bowl of soup, which he forced me to eat, saying that I must be weak with hunger. Even Demétrio came over and took my pulse. I may be wrong, but I thought his hand trembled. Cold, inaccessible Demétrio! I tried to catch his eye, but he fled, turning away. Did he regret what he had done to me? I went straight to my room, saying that I felt unwell: in fact, I merely wanted to gain time, analyze the situation, and perhaps savor my triumph. Because I was sure I had won, and that victory was to me the sweetest of pleasures. It was there, in the quiet of my room—the same window, the same bars, the same view . . . and from outside, like a continual exhalation, the scent of violets and mallows filling the whole garden—that Betty suddenly appeared, despite my asking not to be disturbed. She was the same old Betty, with her spotless apron and her maid’s bonnet covering her hair, which had not yet turned entirely gray, and her own quiet presence, which made her not a superior housekeeper, but a distinguished, shy, polite being, untouched now by the miseries of this world.
“I’m so glad to see you again, Betty,” I said.
She sighed and shook her head:
“And I am even gladder to have you back, Senhora. You cannot imagine how much you have been missed . . .”
These were precisely the words I needed to hear. I knelt on the bed:
“Oh, Betty, what good is an old woman like me?”
She laughed and said I was exaggerating—I was still the same lovely creature whom everyone admired. In a confidential tone, she told me that, since my departure, the sound of laughter had been completely absent from the house. And even André, who barely knew me . . . When I heard that name, I shuddered, lacking the courage to ask about my son. She noticed my reluctance to speak and said his name again: “André.” I put my arms around her waist and drenched her with my tears. Where was he? I hadn’t seen him in the garden or the drawing room or anywhere. Why had he not come to greet me?
Had someone forbidd
en him to do so? Betty fell silent before that rush of questions. Then, when I insisted, she said:
“Don’t worry, he’s gone hunting in the Serra do Baú.”
“But didn’t he know I was coming?”
She lied, saying:
“No, he’s been gone since yesterday.”
And she indicated some vague point on the horizon. My curiosity knew no bounds, and I made her sit down beside me, while I asked her what he was like, who he resembled, if he enjoyed those brutish sports. She answered only that last question:
“Senhor Valdo makes him go hunting, but I don’t think André much enjoys such violent sports.”
“I see,” I said, but that barely quenched my thirst for information.
She tried to get up, but I made her stay, asking her what he did, what he thought, what his interests were—and she told me that he was, by nature, reserved and taciturn. Not very tall and not very strong either. He enjoyed reading and would steal books from her room. A silence fell between us, and, fearfully, lowering my eyes, I asked if he ever spoke about me, if he knew I existed, if he had been told of my arrival. I saw Betty hesitate, and a shadow crept across her face.
“Yes, he knows. Senhor Valdo told him you would be arriving today. But I’ve never heard him mention it. I think it’s a forbidden subject.”
“But has he never said anything to you?” I asked urgently.
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 24
