Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  “Oh, André!” she cried in a strange voice.

  And spoken like that, my name sounded like the name of an absent being, a stranger, and yet it seemed to me that nothing had changed. The bench, the night, the garden were all the same, but that feeling of strangeness, which had sprung so quickly into life, was nothing to do with us, or not at least with me, and I was overwhelmed by a presence that divested me of all personality. I was tempted to shake her and say: “Yes, I am André, but I am not the person your voice calls out to, nor am I the person your gaze is fixed on. But why?” At the same time, though, I realized how futile those words would be and how far that kiss had driven us apart. Because, for her, any kiss was but a memory of another kiss exchanged, possibly on that very bench, on an identically windy night, a kiss that, by dissolving the present reality, cast a spell capable of replacing it with a vanished time, which, though utterly destroyed, was, nevertheless, still strong enough to return from exile. She must have sensed what was happening from my silence, from my impassive face, both of which betrayed the depth of the feelings gripping me, and then, raising my hand to her lips, she covered it with moist, lingering kisses, saying:

  “Ah, what will become of us? What utter madness is this? Who knows where it will lead?” and in those words, in the tragic way in which she pressed my hand to her face, there was a certain coldness, which, far from deceiving me, repelled me. What shocked me most was that her words had no roots in any genuine feeling of perplexity; they were merely an attempt to adapt to the situation, there was no sense of any inner struggle, but, rather, a desire to restore the balance and lead me quietly back to some kind of natural status quo. This was a mistake on her part, which I found outrageous and repellent, because I was very far from considering this to be the kind of adventure one might have with some free-and-easy maid, and when I held her in my arms and kissed her lips, I was knowingly stepping into a part of the world that would never be seen as acceptable, and in which I would have to travel alone, a journey that would make me not the happy, much-loved son, but the guiltiest and most knowing of lovers.

  I tried to oppose that coldness, that attempted deception, with my glad acceptance of the situation, embracing her and crying:

  “Who cares what happens? What can anyone do in the face of what is happening to us now? We exist.”

  She let out a moan and stared at me in astonishment:

  “Ah, my poor André . . . what do you know . . .”

  I covered her mouth with my hand, afraid she might say something irrevocable.

  “Let me speak, André!” she begged, drawing back.

  “No, no! Don’t say anything . . .”

  And in my struggle to overcome the phantasmagorical atmosphere she had created—when had that other man existed, whoever he was?—I felt crumbling about me not just the fragments of that vivid memory, but also the whole image of what we represented—and which did not yet exist. Perhaps I pressed too hard with my hand and—as I hoped—she felt slightly threatened by me, because she stood up, and a sob shook her whole body, an explosion of emotion the truth of which could not be doubted. She turned away as if not wanting me to see what was happening, and, for some time, not daring to interrupt her, I watched her back shaken by her sobbing. And I could not have said who she was crying for, whether for me, who did not yet exist, or for that other man, who no longer existed. At that precise moment, I understood how terribly alone she was, and it was like glimpsing a landscape peopled with random shadows and lit by a dying light. I too stood up and slowly put my arms about her waist, resting my cheek on her shoulder:

  “Nina,” I said. And added more softly still: “My love.”

  Just when I was hoping to triumph and see the ghost of that absent being banished forever by my tenderness and my understanding, he threw off his disguise and fearlessly presented himself to me in the look on her face. She said:

  “Yes, call me Nina, just like that . . . very softly.”

  Ah, how her face was transformed, even frighteningly rejuvenated, as if, after enduring years and years of pain and struggle, her torment had finally returned to its starting point, and was there, resplendent, magnificent, triumphant in its refusal to submit. The woman standing before me was not the one I knew, even though there was still the trace of a tear in her eyes; she was the same, but different, and what overlaid her present anguished appearance was the warmth of a passion I could only glimpse, not share, an imitation of the pleasurable, peaceful look on the faces of lovers at a moment of supreme revelation. Like a rose touched by the dew and about to open and burst into life, her whole being appeared to tremble with a still fresh emotion, to be made new, revealing a hidden energy revitalizing her whole being, her enthusiasm for all love’s febrile lunacies. I did not dare to move or to say anything, aware only that she was giving off an energy that both burned me and drew me to her. Realizing what was happening, she took my hand and began to lead me away: I allowed myself to be led, not knowing where we were going.

  We came to the end of that path and headed down another still darker one. This was one of the least frequented parts of the garden, and the path itself emerged near the Pavilion, in a clearing whose four corners had once been adorned with statues, each one representing a season, of which only Summer had survived. She stopped in that clearing and, still holding my hand, glanced around as if looking for someone. My sense of that other presence was so strong that I shuddered, and in her troubled, shining eyes I saw something like a reflection of that lost time, a reflection so insistent that I could almost make out a man’s face, and through that face, a name, which should, I felt, never be spoken. She was so clearly looking for someone that, at one point, I found myself looking too, expecting to see him step out from the undergrowth. But I saw no one, and when I turned to her again, I realized that what she was doing was pure, obsessive habit. Again, I had the feeling that I did not exist, and even though she still held my hand in hers, I knew she was in another time altogether, doubtless in that same place, but in the midst of events that had vanished and dissolved many years before. I don’t know how long she stood there, gazing at that moonlit scene. The statue of Summer rose serenely from behind a dark bush, a clump of ferns sprouting out of it as if from a vase. She again tugged at my hand and leaned against the statue, and it was as if she were listening to words spoken in the distant past, because her eyes shone with visionary energy, and her whole being gave off an intense feeling of happiness, like a blue wave. That was what obliged me to keep silent, even though I was suffering inside and understood little of what was going on.

  “Call me Nina again,” she said softly.

  And I obeyed:

  “Nina.”

  I don’t know why, but this felt to me like the repetition of a scene from years ago, as if through my mouth another mouth were breathing the sound of that other voice. The wind was growing colder, the stars were fading—what time would it be?—and the trees were beginning to stir quietly and rhythmically. Then a shudder ran through me and, releasing myself from her grasp, I began to shake her:

  “No, Nina, no! We need to live, but we need to live now, don’t you see?” And I did not know who was telling me to say those words or what power was wrenching them up from my very soul.

  Somehow she awoke from that dangerous state of distraction and again took my hand. Then, walking at an unexpectedly fast pace, she headed off toward the Pavilion. I confess I was intrigued, because the Pavilion, an old wooden building, had long since been abandoned, and as far as I knew, no one ever dared enter what was now the domain of mice and cockroaches. I myself rarely ventured into that part of the garden, which, in its neglected, overgrown state, was hardly the most alluring or most picturesque part of the Chácara. Nina, however, strode confidently ahead, as if the path held no surprises for her and she had often trodden it before in a different time and, doubtless, in a very different situation. (When, though? When she had lived there with my father? But the undergrowth was far denser now, and the place
almost unrecognizable. Later? But in what circumstances? Why would she go to the Pavilion, what business or what idea would take her to that almost forbidden place? I did not know the answers to any of those questions, and so I accepted what was happening, convinced that, sooner or later, either by my own efforts or with the mere passage of time, I would eventually learn the truth.)

  We reached a low, narrow door, which was clearly a servants’ entrance, presumably with access to the rooms above via some stairs. She tried the door, but it was locked. (It may have been my imagination, but, at that precise moment, when the moon suddenly appeared from behind a frayed cloud, I turned my head and, not far off, thought I saw the leaves stirring. My first thought was that someone was watching us, but I immediately rejected the idea because the leaves stopped moving and I thought then that it was probably only the strange atmosphere and the bright moonlight helping to create those illusory, shifting shadows.) After a moment’s hesitation—only a moment, like someone finally reaching a decision—Nina went over to one of the window ledges and felt nervously with her hands for some object that should have been there, but clearly wasn’t. After feeling about for some time, she gave an irritated sigh. I did not at first understand what she was looking for, but when she again ran her hand along the ledge, I realized that she must be looking for a key. After this fruitless search, she lost patience, went back to the door and pushed hard, first with her hands and then with her shoulder, trying to force it open. The stubborn lock soon gave and, slowly, with a dull creak that echoed through the garden, it turned on its hinges, revealing the dark cellar within. I thought I saw signs of some previous experience in the skillful way she had opened that door. I went closer and felt a damp musty breath on my cheek. She grabbed my arm and said:

  “Come here.”

  I obediently followed the sound of her voice, because I could see nothing and my heart was pounding ever faster. There seems little point in telling lies in a notebook intended exclusively as a place in which to describe my emotions, and the truth is that I felt not so much afraid as convinced that something grave and decisive was about to happen, something in which I would, perhaps, be an unwitting participant. For a few seconds, we stumbled over various objects and piles of tools, which toppled and fell as we collided with them, until we reached a point I could still not identify, but which she clearly thought was the place she was seeking. She stopped, ran her hand along the wall in a circular gesture and must have found a latch, because before our eyes a door opened with a creak just like the outer door—those hinges had clearly not been oiled for a long time. I could not help but admire her knowledge of the darkness, and a far from scornful smile appeared on my lips. Holding out her hand to me, she continued to lead me on, skillfully avoiding any further obstacles, as if she knew precisely where they were, and as if guided by an instinct or a sixth sense, which aroused not so much my surprise as a sharp, unexpected pang of jealousy. So it was until, a little further on, she sat down on something, giving an enormous sigh of relief as she did. I sat down too and found myself sitting on a tattered old couch covered with a musty shawl, and which had presumably been relegated there as a useless piece of junk. Mice and cockroaches scurried about in the darkness, and sitting there, motionless, for a moment, I could hear that whole prodigious concerto of sounds and sense the powerful breath of death filling the place. It must have been a servant’s room, cramped and dirty—on one of the walls was a single barred window, through which I could see a sliver of sky, as if we were in a prison cell.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, and I could feel her breath on my neck. “We need to live now,” and I realized she was repeating my words back to me, but without a hint of scorn or any wish to offend.

  Bending over, I sensed that she was so close I had only to turn my head in order to touch her face, which I did, and our lips met again. True, one part of my conscience remained in the shadows, although I still felt it as a very present, albeit intangible weight; besides, what did I care about those remnants of conscience, when, for the first time, the body I had so desired in secret was there before me, alive and willing? She lay back and I followed suit and we rolled about on that old couch—and for as long as I live, I will never forget the feel of her breasts beneath my hands, her soft throat beneath my lips, the warm, sweet perfume she gave off, like a whole bed of crushed violets. And I cannot even say I was unaware of the extent of my sin because, however often I repeated to myself that I was caressing and biting the very body that had borne me, at the same time, I took a strange, mortal pleasure in that, and it was as if I were leaning over myself, and, having always been the most solitary of creatures, I was now plunging into a perfumed tangle of nerves that was me, my most faithful image, my conscience and my hell.

  I gently ran my hand over her body, my whole being prickling at the touch of her skin, and as if this were a long-familiar path along which flowed all the world’s dissonances, I placed my hand on her soft, moist cunt, which, like a sucker, trembled beneath my touch. Her whole body shuddered and heaved, and as my fingers probed more deeply, I felt that hidden flower opening and frankly laying bare its mysteries, like a mouth uttering not its own name but that of its invited guest. I again ran my hand over her body, overwhelming her with the sheer force of my affections, and finally, like a shout, the spell broke, and that body’s dark, red cleft half-opened with a laugh so youthful and so vibrant that it seemed to ring with all the music that had ever existed.

  To say that we made love would be to say but little; allowing myself to be absorbed, I, in turn, tried to absorb her, and out of that fusion I gained my first sense of love and its abyss. How often we made love would be hard to say, for the act of love and my own emotional ecstasy were too intertwined. The sheer sacrilege of it drove me on; imagining it to be an affront to both human and divine laws, I delighted in clutching her to me, in squeezing and biting her breasts, reinventing the pleasure of being a child and imagining the deep, narrow path that was now mine and which, independently of myself, had once brought me into this world. I, we, what greater madness was there than this desperate coming together of flesh, annihilating time with our deviant love?

  Finally, overwhelmed by exhaustion, I fell back beside her, drenched in sweat. (The same sweat, I sensed, the same sticky sweat, cold as ice, that I would, alas, meet again later, on the walls of the room in which she lay dying, the same sweat that would absorb her last trace of perfume, her final tremor—her final living breath. The same oily sweat—the common denominator of those two moments of rupture, creating that barrier of separation against which I began to struggle as soon as I rolled over and she began to breathe alone and far from me, solely herself, cut off from our joint escapade, a mere woman, and she fell asleep, exhausted, like an anemone closing, like a rejection or a condemnation.)

  I do not know how long we lay there, but it must have been very late when we heard a noise, probably a spade or a hoe falling over in the darkness. It could easily have been caused by a scampering mouse, but, for some reason, I remembered the leaves stirring outside and imagined that someone really was following us. I betrayed my cowardice then:

  “I think someone is spying on us,” I said, sitting up.

  She laughed softly:

  “Are you afraid?”

  I hesitated:

  “What if it’s my father?”

  She did not reply at once; she must have been weighing up just how cowardly I was. Then, with extraordinary calm, she said:

  “Well, whoever it is, you had better leave. They mustn’t find you with me.”

  I confess, and I blush as I write these words, that I was only waiting for that excuse to run away. I wanted to be alone in order to evaluate the extent and depth of those experiences. I fled, stumbling over the tools in my path. My forehead was bathed in sweat, my shirt stuck to my body, and I gave a sigh of relief when I saw the sky again and felt the night breeze on my face.

  27.

  Ana’s Third Confession

/>   I, Ana Meneses, am writing this even though I have no idea who I am writing it for. It’s pointless, more habit than necessity, but such is my despair that I resort to writing so as not to give in entirely to my distress. I used to write to Father Justino, and even if such confessions did not always reach him, they often served to calm me. Writing created a kind of artificial serenity in my inner self. And perhaps that is what I am still hoping for: to forget, to sink into a lethargy that would change nothing, but would at least allow me to forget myself, as if I were under the influence of a narcotic. Now, though, I don’t know who I am writing for, nor who could possibly be interested in these neat, symmetrical lines with which I am laboriously filling this sheet of paper. The only thing I do know is that everything around me feels terribly hostile and I myself have become a sad, cold creature. How hard it is to put those two words together—sad and cold—knowing that they correspond precisely to what exists inside us, to that heavy, insensitive thing that is our heart. I often stand in front of the mirror and take a long, cool look at my reflection. It’s me, there’s no doubt about that, because it moves when I move, and wears the same familiar shabby clothes, as inalterably mine as my hands, my eyes, my mouth. Despite this, I cannot help asking myself: who does that face belong to? And slowly, cruelly, I gradually reconstruct that familiar physiognomy, which, needless to say, causes me such revulsion. How I hate and despise myself, how I dislike my external self. The snuff-brown skirt, the plain, faded blouse, the unkempt hair, are all proof of how mean and vile I consider myself to be. There is, alas, no Christian sentiment in that statement. I loathe myself in vain, just as one might loathe a snake or a toad, but this does not imply any leniency toward the rest of the world, because I loathe the others just as much, not because I feel they are better than me, but because, in my opinion, they are equally ridiculous and despicable. I loathe everything and everyone, and it is at such moments, standing before the mirror, that I realize the extent of the coldness inhabiting me—a bottomless, inconsolable thing, oppressive and stagnant, as if everything inside me had been scorched by a fire that had destroyed any possibility of tenderness and forgiveness in my soul. I cannot say why I am like this, perhaps someone else could, maybe Father Justino, were he ever to read what I am writing here. But I no longer believe in Father Justino—I never did; besides, I am not interested in what he might have to say. All that remains is that creature in the mirror: she moves from side to side, winks, smiles, but has long been dead, and what is dead cannot be resurrected out of mud or sterility.