Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  I was listening in the dark to the ticking of the clock, and it sounded different to me, as if it were marking off the minutes of a new life. I remembered how, in the garden, abandoning her apparent aloofness, she had suddenly taken my head in her hands, fixed her eyes on mine, and with a strange tremor in her voice, said: “My son, my son!” And strange though it may seem, it was as if those were words of love; not the words mothers usually say to their sons, but the words women reserve for the object of their passion. My hand does not tremble when I write this, no remorse clouds my conscience; indeed, I cannot imagine how else to describe the feelings that bound us together in that embrace. There was such torment in her face, and her words were like the cry of a helpless, wounded animal. I don’t know why, but almost without my realizing it, my eyes filled with tears.

  11th – I saw her again, quite suddenly, and almost without my expecting it. I say “almost” because ever since she entered this house, I have lived in a state of permanent expectation. So it would not be true to say that I was not expecting to meet her, on the contrary, I went looking for her all over the house, following the sound of voices I could not identify, peering through windows and around doors and even following the trail of the perfume she left behind her. It was a strange perfume, I’m not sure if I have mentioned it before—a bit like the scent of violets, but mingled with some kind of human essence that somehow diluted it and made it less banal. I knew very little of such things, but I imagined that it was a truly feminine perfume, the kind I had read about in novels as being characteristic of romantic heroines. Perhaps the image I created for myself of the woman wearing that perfume was slightly bookish, but I liked that, because the warm scent marked her off as quite different from the other women I knew. That is what I was thinking when I saw her before me, standing motionless in the drawing room, as if she were waiting for someone. She was leaning against the sideboard where Demétrio displayed what remained of the family heirlooms, and she was somewhat distractedly and indifferently examining the various objects, as if they had no meaning for her apart from their existence as mere domestic items. As soon as she saw me, she cried:

  “André!” and there was no mistaking the joy in her voice.

  I was troubled by that encounter, as unexpected as it was desired; the words got stuck in my throat. She guessed what was happening and drew me over to the sofa:

  “André,” she said tenderly, “where have you been hiding all this time?”

  “I’ve been looking for you,” I answered, and an image flashed into my mind: her looking for me, while I was wretchedly pursuing her. It’s extraordinary, there was nothing wrong with a mother looking for her son like that or a son looking for his mother, and despite that, we seemed to be under some kind of spell, as if there were something reprehensible about our behavior.

  “You were looking for me!” and as if she were grateful to me for that, she took my hand in hers and squeezed it. “How kind you are, André. Ah, if you knew how much I love you . . .”

  (Written in the margin, in a different colored ink: How much truth was there in what she said, what was it about her earnestness that failed to communicate any real enthusiasm, and what exactly did she intend by those words? I don’t know now and I didn’t know then. Only one thing seems certain: at the time, she was struggling to readapt to the rhythm of life at the Chácara, and anything, any show of friendship, was like a piece of wreckage to cling to. It did not much matter if it was me, but it was almost better that it was. She needed an anchor, a safe mooring post, given the hostility surrounding her, from the monotony which, despite her best efforts, she found utterly unbearable, to the memory of past events, which she had hoped to drown in the depths of her consciousness, but which, with every minute, kept muscling their way up into her thoughts and even—why deny it?—into her flesh.)

  “Don’t leave me,” she said in a soft, pleading voice, and she looked at me for the first time and for the first time made me feel that she was actually looking at me sitting there beside her, and not at a ghost. “Don’t leave me. If you knew everything that was going on here . . .”

  I think the kind of relationship we formed was influenced by the feeling of intense insecurity she gave off; indeed, from that very moment, a sense of pity, like a permanent mist, began to grow inside me, a pity I could no longer disguise. Ah, poor, strange woman, what was the sin she dared not reveal and that made her tremble before her enemies, and which I did not even need her to reveal to me in order to guarantee her all my support and all my love?

  Still with my hand in hers, she went on:

  “Now, no one can steal you away from me. We know each other, we know who we are. And you must tell me what you’ve been up to, where you’ve been. I want to know everything. A son should have no secrets from his mother.”

  I found the straightforward tone in which she said these words quite extraordinary—it was as if she were both doing herself a violence and expressing a tenderness, a concern that she either did not really feel or kept carefully preserved beneath a layer of excessive shame. Then, abruptly, she fell silent. (Did I already mention that we were sitting on the sofa in the drawing room? The light was fairly dim, kept out by the curtains. I could still see her eyes, though, and they continued to scrutinize me, and I was so shocked by the genuine anxiety and affliction I saw in them that the blood rushed to my face.

  There was something about the whole situation that defied common sense—this could not possibly be the usual way in which mothers spoke to their sons.)

  “Please don’t look at me like that,” I said.

  “Why not?” and letting go of my hand, she tried to create a more normal atmosphere.

  I shrugged, and for a while we sat in silence, unable to shake off the feeling of constraint that wrapped about us. Gradually, the room grew darker. On the sideboard, the silverware gleamed dully. Suddenly, as if she had made a decision, she put one hand about my neck and drew me toward her, meanwhile saying very tenderly:

  “Little fool. I bet you’ve always been a little fool . . .”

  I tried to pull away, unable to interpret that gesture; and when she did not release her grip, but began stroking my hair with her free hand, I felt afraid, and for the first time wondered if perhaps she was not quite right in the head. She felt me trying to draw back, but, instead of letting go, she tightened her grip, saying:

  “Don’t move away, don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I said, despite my deep unease.

  Then she leaned forward and kissed my forehead and my cheeks:

  “I want you to promise me something. I want you to swear . . .”

  I could still feel those warm moist lips on my skin:

  “I swear,” I stammered, astonished at her intensity of feeling.

  “No, don’t swear anything, at least not now.”

  She did let go then, and when I looked at her again, I saw that her eyes were full of tears. It was my turn to take her hands in mine—and I was amazed at my own audacity.

  “If there’s something wrong . . . if you need me . . .”

  “One of these nights,” she said, “I’ll come to your room and then, if you like, we can talk.”

  She was already standing up when she said these words. I thought perhaps I should say something, just to keep her there, but I saw that it would be pointless: she had not really seen me, had not really recognized me, except for a fraction of a second, and had now moved off again into that distant place of which I knew nothing, and which was reflected in her eyes like the memory of some underwater world. Any attempt on my part to get closer would be utterly futile. Without a word or gesture of farewell, she left as suddenly as she had arrived.

  I stayed where I was, feeling as if I had been abandoned forever or as if some element that was very dear to me, essential even, had dissolved inside my heart. I sat on in the dark for some time, then slumping forward onto the sofa, I burst into tears. I had never felt as unhappy as I did at that moment.
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br />   12th – Every detail of last night’s scene keeps running through my mind. I don’t know why I reacted like that, whether it was anger or merely my response to the terrible strangeness of everything. I only know that, unable to control the emotional confusion within, I lay there sobbing for some time, leaving the sofa wet with tears. I say “confusion” because there is no other word for what was going on inside me; I had no idea what I wanted or what anyone else wanted. As I lay there, I felt as though something were flowing out of me, carrying me along like a hidden, boundless river, making of me a different person, full of nameless contradictions. Perhaps I was growing up or had simply outgrown the childish being I had been up until then. Life seemed touched by a new meaning, dense and obscure: the boy taking on that new shape was doing so with an awareness entirely novel to me. There was no vanity in this, only a certainty that I would now have to face up to the obstacles awaiting me like a man, and experience the hard task of living and continuing to live despite all the little deaths that would inevitably occur as I came into collision with life’s events. It was only when I became aware of someone else’s presence that I emerged from these thoughts. In the secret hope that they had not seen me, I stayed where I was, my head buried in my arms. However, that person came and placed a hand on my shoulder. I turned: it was Betty. I tried to push her angrily away and again hid my face, but she forced me to look up and anxiously examined my face:

  “What’s a boy like you doing crying like this!”

  All I could say was:

  “Oh, Betty!”

  And pressing my face to her bosom, I began to cry again, as if, far from comforting me, those words had only increased my despair. She silently stroked my hair and that tender gesture somehow made matters worse, because I hated being or having been a child; and while my tears diminished, long shudders still ran through my body. I felt too exhausted even to raise my head. We stayed like that for some time, and when, with a sigh, I finally looked up, night had fallen and the shadows in the room had grown still more impenetrable.

  “A boy like you!” Betty said again and she appeared to have no other words with which to express her displeasure, shaking her head and looking at me reprovingly.

  Now that we were in almost total darkness, she could not see the traces of tears on my face nor understand how very weak I was. And I confess, my pain was so great, I felt so alone and helpless before the problem looming before me, that I really did not care about anything else—whether good or bad, whether she could see me or not, and I quailed before facts whose real dimension was quite beyond me. Only one thing was sure, I had just made a discovery, one that I judged to be so very grave, so full of consequences for my future, that I could not hold back my tears—and it was that discovery that had surfaced inside me and revealed a terrain I had never known to exist, but which could well be the stepping-off point into the most dangerous of feelings. It was that vision perhaps that made me again press my head to Betty’s bosom, and she again began silently stroking my hair. Then in a very low voice, she said:

  “It was her, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded. She must have understood, because I heard her sigh and say:

  “Never mind. Everything passes.”

  She was about to say something else, some further words of consolation, when I, giving in to the heavy weight on my heart, exclaimed:

  “It was so strange, Betty. She was talking to me and looking at me as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t even understand what she was saying. It was as though there was someone else in my place or as if she was talking to someone other than me.”

  “And is that what upset you so much?”

  I shrugged, unable to find any other way of giving expression to my feelings.

  “Yes, Betty, it was.”

  How could I explain how distressing I had found her sudden departure, her plunging off into some distant, all-absorbing place, a memory, a lost past, a painful image that never left her heart? Betty respected my silence and seemed to be thinking, gazing off into space, as if searching for the motives I could not find and never would, and with which I would always struggle vainly and desperately, like someone hurling himself against the shifting, insubstantial walls of mist. After a while, she stopped stroking my hair, sighed again, and said:

  “There’s no point thinking about these things, André. Maybe it was all in your imagination. Besides, your mother was always like that: if you had known her earlier, you wouldn’t find it so very strange. Best forget all about it.”

  Then she stood up, bringing our conversation to a close with those sensible words. I remained where I was, unable to quiet my thoughts, my mind occupied by a single idea: she had promised to come to my bedroom one night.

  22.

  Letter from Valdo to Father Justino

  . . . forgive me for writing to you like this, but I find myself in a state of the utmost perplexity. While I have never been much of a churchgoer, in the present circumstances, I know that neither a doctor nor even a friend could help me. And you, although not exactly a doctor, are accustomed to dealing with all manner of human ills—besides, you are an old friend of the family, a man whom my dear departed mother trusted implicitly. Even if that were not the case, there remains the incalculable gift of Christian charity, which must surely incline you to look with compassion on my wretched state ...... .................................................................................................................... I don’t know whether you have ever had the chance to meet my wife; she, too, has strayed from the Sacraments and from the Church. After being absent from our home for many years due to regrettable incidents entirely beyond my wishes or control, she has now returned on the pretext that she is gravely ill. After fifteen years, that was the only reason that could possibly move me. Since her arrival, however, I have discovered that she is not so very ill after all, and apart from looking slightly worn by time or, more likely, by her lifestyle (she was never a person of what one might call temperate habits), I have seen nothing that could have justified her returning in this manner. My brother, who played a decisive role in her departure, blames her return on my weak character. At first, I disagreed, but I am now beginning to wonder if he might not be right, as he usually is. And yet if you were to ask me precisely why I say this, I would be unable to give you an answer. Up until now, my wife has given me no reason to reproach her for her conduct. She behaves like any other normal person, walking, talking, going about her business—and yet, Father, there is about her something distinctly ambiguous, not to say dangerous. I cannot put my finger on what exactly it is, because it isn’t anything specific. It is as if she were preparing some kind of revolution or attack, which one senses to be imminent, but without knowing exactly when it will be. She gives off an air of subversion, but I have no concrete evidence with which to confront her. There have been certain silences, certain omissions, one or two absences at key moments, yes, but that is hardly enough for me to make the kind of grave accusation I am making. How can I expose her without running the risk of accusing her of things that exist only in my imagination? And the truth is that it became apparent to me long ago that she was the carrier of a certain disease or, rather, that she behaved toward others in an arbitrary, cynical, or even, to put it bluntly, criminal manner. I can now easily believe that the passion we shared fifteen years ago was a mere product of the feelings she gives off. I don’t know if these things can be said, if it is possible to accuse someone of such imponderables, but if I do so now, even against my will (for it reopens old wounds that have long since healed), it is because I foresee even graver situations, with possibly even more dramatic consequences than in the past. That woman will never stop, for the simple reason that she doesn’t know how to; she is a loose cannon, a force of nature, and if we still lived in the dark days of the Inquisition, she would doubtless die at the stake. Yes, Father Justino, once again there is a storm brewing over the Chácara, and it is an agglomeration of all those wicked, aimless feelings that I see o
nce again building up over the heads of innocent people .................................................

  ....................................................................................................... one of my concerns, before I gave my full consent to her return, was my son. Now him I’m sure you do know, and so it’s easier for me to talk to you about him. He may, alas, have inherited a lot of his mother’s character, because he shares those same wild, extravagant tendencies. He’s a sensitive soul, for whom the world of fantasy counts more than reality. Many, many times I have warned him that this will be the cause of much suffering should the gifts of intelligence not come to his aid. I have of course limited myself to warning him, since true to his nature, he is strong-willed and extremely thin-skinned. Knowing his origins, and knowing, too, that some ills are incurable, I have tried to set him on the right path without wounding his sensibilities or inhibiting his natural spontaneity. My brother often said: “You’re raising a savage.” And to my shame, I have to admit that he has once again proved to be right.