Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  Senhor Valdo brought the buggy to a halt, not at the steps leading up to the main house, but alongside a separate building known as the Pavilion, with its large frosted-glass windows. I had never been inside and must confess that I entered it then with considerable curiosity since, for good or ill, anything connected with the Meneses was to me a subject of the utmost interest. The Pavilion must have been abandoned long ago, because the steps were almost overwhelmed by greenery and puddled with rainwater. The walls, too, were showing the effects of time, and beams poked randomly out from under the roof of broken tiles. Before stepping inside, Senhor Valdo turned and rather roughly grabbed my arm:

  “I don’t quite know how to begin . . . but it concerns my son.”

  He seemed to hesitate again, and his eyes—which were not vacant exactly, but uncertain—looked away from me in search of some other external support, and in them I saw all the wild feelings filling his soul. And then, like someone embarking on a dangerous journey, he added:

  “I myself don’t really understand. I need you as a doctor and, perhaps, as a friend. Ah, if I were to tell you everything . . .”

  He steered me toward one corner of the verandah, where there was a pile of wicker chairs. He extricated two, made me sit on one, then himself slumped down in the other. The rain was hammering tirelessly down on the roof. With a sigh, his eyes half-closed, one eyelid twitching slightly, he began his story, and it was curiosity rather than any clinical interest that held me in thrall to every tremor in his voice.

  He began by saying that he had noticed recently that his son, André, was behaving very oddly. Nothing very alarming at first, he merely seemed somewhat overwrought, and there was about him . . .—he stopped for a moment, searching for the right expression—. . . a sly, angry air, like someone trying to conceal some profound inner turmoil, all of which could, of course, be put down to adolescence. However, the first symptoms had coincided with the return of André’s mother—and at this point, he stopped again and stared at me, then lowered his eyes as if embarrassed—after an absence of fifteen years. For family reasons—and he eyed me uneasily, almost pleadingly—her name was never mentioned in the house, and the shock of meeting her at last could well be the reason for the boy’s troubled state. Senhor Valdo fell silent, no doubt so as to compose his thoughts, and I took the opportunity to ask if the boy had always exhibited such tendencies, that is to say, was he naturally of a nervous disposition. He said that he was, adding that his son had always been an enigma to him, full of abrupt mood swings that he had never understood. I then asked him for details of André’s more recent moods and odd behavior. Once again he fell silent, looking at me uneasily as if afraid that I would never be able to fully grasp what was going on. He then asked, rather oddly I thought, if I knew his brother Senhor Demétrio. “Of course,” I replied, “I’ve known Senhor Demétrio for many years. I believe, at one time or another, I’ve even treated some illness of his.” He then told me that Senhor Demétrio had been the first to notice that there might be a problem and had long ago warned him about the boy. “It’s quite extraordinary,” he had said. “He’s simply not like other boys.” Senhor Valdo had never quite understood what his brother meant by this, but, deep down, he felt afraid, because his brother’s predictions and misgivings had so often proved true. He could remember one or two occasions . . .—and for a moment, the words almost came to his lips, but he drew back and, instead, merely sighed. It was best to say nothing, he said, because those past events had absolutely no influence on what was happening now. Nevertheless, he had begun to observe André more closely (when he said his son’s name, I noticed a faint tremor in his voice, a slight dissonance, as when people are fearful perhaps of betraying a non-existent intimacy or of revealing some overpowering emotion—and remembering that he had always referred to the lad as “my son,” I couldn’t help but think, with some concern, that the evident effort required in saying the boy’s name might, first and foremost, be an attempt to overcome some kind of secret repugnance), and that closer scrutiny had confirmed that the boy did, indeed, seem deeply disturbed. He had decided to intervene and on more than one occasion had tried unsuccessfully to talk to the boy, who, having been raised in total freedom, refused now to submit to any degree of control. That upbringing had been a terrible mistake! Urged on by his brother, who was clearly worried about the situation, he had attempted to act more decisively. Two days ago, when the boy was refusing to eat, he had summoned up the courage to go and see him in his room. He had immediately noticed the unhealthy atmosphere—the lights off, pillows scattered on the floor, everything in complete disorder. André (I noted that his tone was now more robust, the name pronounced more firmly, as if he were finally acknowledging his paternal responsibilities) was crouching in one corner beside the chest of drawers and, even in the dark, his eyes had a strange glint in them. “This won’t do,” he had said, “either you’re very ill, or else . . .” The boy had slowly gotten to his feet, leaning on the chest of drawers. Lacking the courage to complete his sentence, Senhor Valdo had instead changed tack and spoken more gently and affectionately, in a desperate bid to win over that rebellious heart. “If you’re not ill, you need to go outside and get some fresh air. You can’t live in here on your own like a convict.” André had laughed: “Are you saying I can’t live the way I want?” And Valdo had seen then that any attempt to draw him out was doomed to failure, and that if he wanted to achieve anything he would need to have more influence over the boy than that of a mere father. (This time his voice had grown noticeably quieter, and at the sight of that bowed head, that unexpected show of humility in one who had always been so proud, I could not help but feel sorry for him.) In the end, all he could say, with a sad shake of his head, was: “You’re still little more than a child. No one at your age lives the way they want to live.” But then something inside the boy seemed to snap, and Valdo watched in astonishment as André flew into a furious rage: What did he care about his advice? What did he care what he thought? What did he care if he considered him still a child? What did he care about anything? And he had propelled him toward the door, beating on his father’s chest with his fists like a creature possessed. Something very grave must be happening for him to get so worked up at the mere mention of his age. André again took refuge in one corner of the room, angrily repeating: “A child! A child!” Senhor Valdo had not wanted to offend him, and his failure in that regard left him paralyzed. Now he understood what his brother had always told him: “You don’t know how to raise that son of yours, and you’re laying the foundations for a bleak future for you both.” He had approached the boy again to attempt a reconciliation—possibly for the last time. “You don’t understand. I’m only saying these things for your own good.” The boy was still trembling with rage. “What do you know what’s good for me? What do you know about me at all?” And then he had once more exploded with rage: “For God’s sake get out! Just get out of my room. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to see anyone.” And he had pushed him so hard that Senhor Valdo, fearing he might trip and fall, had left the room. From that moment on, he had been pondering what course of action to take. (There was a new note of despondency in his voice: But what course of action? Spiritual assistance? He had written a letter to Father Justino, but had received no reply. In any case, there didn’t seem to be much that God could do in a case like that. A doctor, that’s what he needed.) He had felt his sense of responsibility growing within him: measures must be taken and the more draconian the better. Meeting his brother in the hallway, he decided to tell him what had happened. Demétrio’s response was decidedly cool: “So what are you going to do?” Senhor Valdo had confessed his doubts, and his brother, shaking his head, had commented. “It may already be too late.” Senhor Valdo felt a shiver run down his spine when he heard those words, which rang out like a death knell. “It can’t be too late, it just can’t—we have to do something.” Then in an almost off-hand manner, Demétrio said: “Let me think about it. I’ll g
ive you my opinion later.” (Another tremor in Senhor Valdo’s voice: “And yet,” he said, as if he were talking to himself now, “I had the impression that Demétrio had already formed an opinion, that he had known about all these things before I did and had thought long and hard about them, although I may, of course, be mistaken. Standing there before me, Demétrio seemed ready to fend off any further questions from me on the subject.”) “However, before he gave his promised verdict, we received unexpected and decisive confirmation of the boy’s madness.” (Once again, in that broken narrative, he appeared to hesitate—not as he had done previously, but more profoundly, more frankly, if I can put it like that. It was a hesitation of despondency, and his silence seemed to carry within it the bitter gall of all human despair.)

  Then he said very bluntly: “I don’t know if you’ve ever met my other brother, Timóteo. He’s an eccentric fellow, a complete madman really. In fact, he’s even worse than that . . .” (Perhaps it’s my age, or my habit of listening with eyes cast down, not looking at the speaker, but, curiously, the years seem to have increased my ability to notice the subtlest nuances in a person’s voice. Perhaps it’s a talent honed by experience, I don’t know. What I do know is that not the slightest shift in his tone of voice escaped me, and I saw with utter clarity that there was not a hint of sorrow or discomfort or regret, as one might expect when one brother speaks of another, and which was so evident when he spoke about his son, but, rather, a deep-seated loathing that went far beyond contempt, a loathing that informed everything he felt about his brother. This was apparent in the confidence with which he expressed himself, almost as if he were handing down a judicial sentence, an unappealable verdict, consigning Timóteo to utter ignominy, and I, who had often heard tales of this elusive Meneses brother, sensed that he was exaggerating, even though I knew beyond a doubt that the family considered Timóteo to be the blackest of black sheep.) “And even worse,” continued Senhor Valdo, “he is a sick, evil creature, unfit for human company. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this now. It’s as if I were finally giving vent to my deepest feelings.” He then told me that this infamous brother of his was at the heart of all that was wrong in the family. Timóteo had not left his room for many years, and never saw either of his brothers. Only the maid visited him, reporting back afterward to Senhor Demétrio on what she found. André had been brought up completely ignorant of the situation, and had never been told the truth about his uncle. Once or twice he had tried to breach the walls of the mystery and actually meet his uncle in his self-imposed prison. Senhor Valdo had intercepted him at the last moment and, when the boy insisted, he felt no compunction about lying. “You can’t,” he had said. “The doctor won’t allow anyone to enter that room.” Astonished, André had asked: “Why?” And Senhor Valdo had replied: “He has a highly contagious disease.” André had gazed at the door to the room almost in horror—and since then had never again broached the subject. Recently, however, the maid had told them that Timóteo was not at all well. And this was no doubt why Nina (another brief pause) had decided to visit her brother-in-law. Senhor Valdo explained that his wife was now a frequent visitor to Timóteo’s room; indeed, she seemed to take a secret delight in his company, and, ever since the very first occasion fifteen years ago, this had always been a source of discord between them. Deep down, he was convinced it was not that she was seduced by his brother’s saccharine compliments, but by a real desire to annoy Senhor Valdo and to wound his pride, for there was nothing in that house more likely to cause him pain than her friendship with a person of such abnormal habits.

  On that occasion, however, he had not seen her go to Timóteo’s room. A few minutes later, the whole house had been shaken by André’s shouts as he pounded with his fists on the door, screaming “Let me in!” And then even more loudly, redoubling his efforts: “What’s she doing in there?” Obviously, Valdo was to blame for planting such fears in the boy’s mind with the idea of a contagious disease. For years and years he had made the boy avoid that room as if a leper lived there. And then when the boy saw his mother entering that accursed place, all his instincts, curiosities, and misgivings had awoken, and, blind with rage and anxiety, sensing perhaps that the person he adored was slipping away from him, crossing the forbidden threshold (goodness knows what dangers he imagined hovering over Nina’s head), he had hurled himself at the door like a lunatic, determined to penetrate its secret. That, at least, is what Senhor Valdo had thought initially, but this was not the conclusion reached by Senhor Demétrio and his wife, Dona Ana, who both rushed to the scene, drawn by André’s shouts. André was in a terrible state: disheveled and sobbing, still pounding at the door, resisting all efforts to pull him away. He repeated again and again: “Let me in! Let me in! What’s she doing in there?” Helped by his wife, Senhor Demétrio had finally managed to subdue him. “The boy has gone completely mad,” he said. “This calls for the severest of measures.” Senhor Valdo did not dare to intervene, convinced that disaster beckoned. André seemed to be having some kind of seizure and, when they finally and with great difficulty managed to restrain him, he had been brought to the Pavilion—Senhor Valdo indicated the faded tiles of the verandah—and locked in one of its rooms. This is what his brother had decided, and he had gone along with it on condition that he was allowed to consult a doctor about the matter, so that André could undergo a suitable course of treatment. Demétrio had chosen the Pavilion because it was far from the house, and so that the boy would be safe from what he considered to be pernicious influences. (It was hard to say what these influences were—whenever any mention was made of them, Demétrio always retreated into impenetrable silence.) At first, the patient had reacted violently, but, little by little, his strength gave way and he fell into a state of extreme prostration. For several hours he would neither speak nor eat, and this was why Senhor Valdo had been in such a hurry to seek medical advice. He wanted a detailed examination, for upon my diagnosis hung the decision of whether to send the boy away from the Chácara or not. No sacrifice would be too great and he was even ready to send him to Rio de Janeiro, perhaps to a spa on the coast. This was what he told me, and he concluded by declaring that he hardly needed to say how much he was relying on my clear judgment and knowledge of the facts—it was almost his only hope of seeing his son return to normality.

  Thus ended Senhor Valdo’s explanation. I remained seated after he had finished speaking, my head bowed. Although many things remained unclear to me, I now knew why I had been summoned and what was expected of me. I needed to tread with caution, though, for I sensed I was walking through a minefield. Senhor Valdo must have grown impatient with my silence, for he cleared his throat, sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down the verandah. I could hear the monotonous sound of the rain dripping from the gutters. When my silence continued, he stopped pacing and stood in front of me: “So what do you think of all of this?” Only then did I raise my head and look at him—the expression on his face was one of anxiety. “There are certain other things I would like to know,” I replied. “What other things?” he asked, glaring at me and making no attempt to conceal the note of defiance in his voice. “For example, during all that commotion, did no one open the door, even out of simple curiosity? Did no one respond to the boy’s pleas?” His answer came quickly: “No, my brother considers himself to be some kind of enemy of the world.” I nodded to indicate that I had understood, then said: “When you talked with André in his bedroom, was that all he said?” This time he did not reply quite so promptly. I looked at him again and, although this may only have been an impression, he seemed to turn pale and to have difficulty formulating the right words. I stood up too and looked him straight in the eye. He flinched and turned away, but did not have the courage to lie: “No, that wasn’t all—he told me something else as well.” “And could you tell me what that was?” I asked. His voice grew very quiet and he suddenly looked old and weary. “I don’t know what strange idea, what obsession, has taken hold of him. He told m
e I had only come there out of jealousy, that I couldn’t bear seeing him so close to his mother, and that my intention—and here I really couldn’t grasp what he meant at all—that my intention was to destroy them both.”

  Standing motionless on that verandah, I felt myself slowly slipping further down the dark, narrow path that was the life of the Meneses.

  25.

  André’s Diary (v)

  Undated – Although I could not be sure that she had received my note—I hadn’t left it anywhere very visible for fear it might fall into the wrong hands—as soon as supper was over, I ran to the proposed meeting place. (It would perhaps have been easier to speak to her directly, during a pause in one of the unbearable conversations at the supper table, but, afraid that someone might notice, I chose instead that difficult and ingenuous stratagem.)

  I have no doubts now—I know exactly what I want. I am not blindly engaged in a struggle that might have possibly surprising results; I have weighed up all the possibilities and I know exactly the result I want. What do I care about what the others think and have always thought? I feel extraordinarily free: the walls imprisoning the old me have crumbled. Like a man who has been sleeping for a long time at the bottom of a well, I have woken up now and can face the light of the sun full on. This feeling is not maturity, as I once thought, it is plenitude. Aren’t my flushed cheeks, my restlessness, my arrhythmic heart—are not all those things proof that I have really started to live, that I exist, and that life has ceased to be a fiction gleaned from books?