“How is your health?”
It was years since he had asked anyone such a personal question. He had to take into consideration the fact that she was ill, and was making an effort to behave politely. Nina merely shrugged:
“The doctor says there’s nothing wrong with me,” and after a moment’s pause, as if weighing the importance of what she was about to say: “I just need to rest.”
His reply came quickly:
“Well, you’ll get plenty of that here at the Chácara.”
Nina, who was filling her glass with wine, put the jug down on the table, perhaps so that no one would notice that her hands were shaking.
“But I need distractions too. The doctor said . . .”
Demétrio slowly raised his eyes to look at her—ah, how cold those Meneses men could be when they wanted!—or, rather, not at her, but rather at her décolletage and her jewelry. She bravely held his gaze, with its barely concealed censoriousness:
“I need to go out, enjoy myself.”
Somewhat embarrassed, Valdo came to her aid:
“Yes, Nina needs to have fun, and why not? She’s young, it’s only right that we . . .”
“. . . who are old,” said Demétrio, completing his sentence and smiling.
Valdo bowed his head over his rapidly cooling soup. Demétrio, without a hint of irony in his voice, went on:
“But there are young people here. André, for example.”
I pressed my napkin to my mouth, almost choking. This time, he had gone too far. Before me, as if touched with a magic wand, the colors of the crystal wine glasses glittered brightly. Demétrio could not possibly be so ingenuous as to mention such a painful subject unintentionally. I put down my napkin and observed him discreetly. He was happily drinking his soup as if he had said nothing of any significance. He only looked up—eyes glinting—when he heard Nina say:
“Yes, I could go out and about with André.” (She said this with extraordinary calm, as if this were a game she knew and liked and accepted so easily that, for a moment, taken aback, I thought perhaps I was the victim of an illusion; I must be wrong, there was no malice behind those words, and everything I thought I knew was a mere trick of my imagination. “He would be good company.”
“Do you like hunting?” Demétrio went on. “I understand André is an excellent hunter.”
“I’ve never tried,” she said, “but I could always practice. Is it easy, André?” And she turned to her son, who was sitting, his spoon poised in midair.
(I could not recall her having behaved like this before, even though she had spoken these words as though they were utterly banal and unexceptional. Yet for those who knew her, there was in that very indifference a veiled note of defiance.)
André managed a quavering response:
“Yes, it’s easy.”
He was clearly not up to the game they were playing. A silence fell, during which all you could hear was the clink of crockery. Even supper was different that night. Perhaps on Valdo’s orders—wishing to celebrate Nina’s return—or perhaps on her orders, who knows, they had disinterred from the old chest the porcelain dinner service sent from Europe and on which the M of Meneses appeared surrounded by gilded garlands of leaves; the linen tablecloth, edged with lace, reached down to the floor; and the dishes kept coming, roasts and salads, almost regardless of order, but with an exuberance reminiscent of brighter, more prosperous days. André was not drinking, and Demétrio barely touched his wine, whereas Valdo and Nina indulged themselves freely. All these things, and the evident disparity between this behavior and our usual everyday habits, created a feeling of constraint that was growing by the minute. It was in this climate, at the very point when the air began to become unbreathable, that Valdo spoke, doubtless hoping to lighten the atmosphere, but never had he appeared to be more on Nina’s side, never keener to cover up or at least pass over her faults and weaknesses, and having witnessed his constant coolness toward her, his air of seething, silent disapproval, in which I had learned to see not repugnance, but the strength of feeling that bound him to her, I was left wondering if there had perhaps been a mitigation, a pause, or even a complete stagnation of his love. In his defense, he was not so much interested in her as a person, as in his need to oppose and defeat Demétrio. It was not, on his part, a protective act, but one of resistance. Or perhaps her illness had changed his way of being. As I was thinking all this, I was promising myself not to miss a single detail of what was happening around the table. Valdo was speaking, and it was clear that he was struggling to make his voice sound as natural as possible. The subject was still hunting and, extraordinarily enough, night hunting. The talk turned to fishing, and he said that the local streams and rivers were full of fish, especially wolf fish, which were small, but very tasty. When it grew dark, they would gather near the banks to sleep, and that was the best time to catch them, because, oblivious to any light, they would not move away when the fisherman approached. I pick out this particular topic as an indication of how trivial the conversation was, but it was precisely the triviality that heightened tensions. He developed his theme, and we, who never talked at supper, were barely listening to what he was saying, trying to work out why he was behaving in this extraordinary manner. As expected, he soon tired of talking, and the supper ended in silence, as if pushed to its usual limits by a force far stronger than us. We left the table and went out onto the verandah to wait for coffee to be served. Convinced that it was all over, I went and leaned on the balustrade: a wind was still blowing, but more gently, in sudden gusts that ruffled the trees, then vanished into the distance, like waves breaking on the shore. It was then that Demétrio, provoked by who knows what malevolent thought (I believe he wanted to add to the artificial tone of the evening), went back into the drawing room and opened the lid of the piano that had belonged to his mother, who had been a great pianist in her youth. He ran his fingers idly over the keys. I heard the sound from where I was, leaning on the balustrade, and I turned around, amazed. What a strange effect it had, that music echoing gravely through the stern Meneses household. After years of disuse, the piano was badly out of tune and some of the notes very flat—but what did that matter? The fingers running over them managed to draw from them a song that filled the whole house. Nina, who had lain down in the hammock, as she always did after meals, got up and, drawn by the music, went over to the piano.
“Ah,” she said, and I heard her voice distinctly, “I’d completely forgotten that you played the piano. It’s been years since I heard you play!”
And this time, there was no pretense or irony in her voice, on the contrary, she spoke warmly and with a visible desire to move closer. Demétrio did not answer, but when I, too, went over to the door, and a few of the servants appeared at the end of the hallway, I caught a malicious glint in his eye.
“Would you like me to play ‘Waves of the Danube’?” he asked. “It was my mother’s favorite waltz.”
“That would be lovely,” said Nina.
Seduced by the affectionate tone of the question, she leaned against the piano, almost bending over the keys. She was clearly very moved, her breast rising and falling. From the other side of the room, sitting on the white-upholstered sofa, André, equally surprised, was observing the scene. And Valdo, who seemed aglow with happiness that night, also came in and sat down beside his son. From outside, cut off from that harmonious picture, I thought to myself that they looked for all the world like a happy family. Pure illusion, because all of them were being eaten away inside by a destructive element. Yes, let them enjoy the pleasure of being together, while I stood there, as if watching a performance from which I was excluded. Again, jealousy filled my heart, and, as I had so many times in my life, I gazed enviously at my sister-in-law—there she was, victorious, as she always would be. She had even managed to make the illness gnawing away at her a reason to triumph and dominate. If only God would come to my aid and punish her as she deserved to be punished. If only he would show how unfair and
sinful her victory was. If only he would save me and destroy her. Behind the window I was murmuring the Our Father, pouring every ounce of willpower into that desire for justice. It was then that I saw her go over to André and say:
“Have you really never danced in your entire life? That’s shameful! Would you like to try?”
He did not, and made some excuse I could not hear. But Nina, in an ebullient mood and encouraged by the music and by her apparent success—she had finally made the Meneses unbend a little—she insisted:
“Come on, it’s easy. You just have to count one, two, three . . . do you see?”
And he did then begin to follow her steps, although he obviously felt deeply embarrassed. He stumbled, tried to stop, but his mother hung on to him. “What a clumsy clot!” she would exclaim whenever he showed himself to be more than usually inept. From my position out on the verandah, I could almost have sworn that the old days of the Chácara had returned, and I found it incomprehensible, feeling that, for some reason or other, they were all betraying me. The delighted servants were now crowded in the doorway, smiling at this remarkable sight. Then, unexpectedly, the music stopped—Demétrio slammed down the lid of the piano, and that violent sound echoed around the room. Nina abandoned her partner, and Demétrio strode off, taking long, determined steps. Left alone between André and her husband, she looked first at one, then at the other, and her eyes filled with tears. Demétrio had just been playing a game. He evidently believed neither in Nina’s illness, nor in her reasons for coming back to the Chácara, nor in anything else she said. That, at least, is what we all felt. Unable to withstand the pressure of all those eyes on her, Nina put her hands to her face and burst into tears; almost doubled-over with sobbing, she had to lean on the piano. Valdo rushed to her side, while André slumped down on the sofa. And it was as though the sole purpose of that whole scenario, so cruelly constructed, had been to heighten the contrast with what was happening now. Valdo tried to embrace Nina, but she pushed him away and stalked out of the room. Alone on the verandah, I saw that the wind was relenting, and one hesitant star had appeared. I said to myself, I wonder how much Demétrio knows about the cellar and its secrets? And feeling utterly serene, I leaned out into the vastness of the night and murmured: “Thank you, God.”
41.
André’s Diary (viii)
2nd – We were finally alone in the drawing room. I had been devouring her with my eyes throughout supper, so much so that, at one point, I could feel the others staring at me. I blushed and looked down at my untouched plate. Gradually, feeling the tension around me easing (although not the general tension in the room), I resumed my staring, unable to believe what my eyes were seeing. It was her, she had come back, and had said nothing to me, either about her departure or her return. I was in my room, trying in vain to read a book, when I heard the sound of a car crunching up the sandy path. I ran to the window, convinced it was her, that she had come back. It was her, and out of sheer joy, my hands gripped the wooden window frame and sweat beaded my brow. The summer was just beginning, although there were still occasional high winds, a warm, gusty wind, laden with the acidic smell of ripening fruit. The weight of all those preceding days dissolved in my heart, and in the agitation that followed directly on from my earlier state of utter dejection, I kept pacing up and down and asking myself how I could possibly have imagined she had left for good, had abandoned me, and so I moved seamlessly from believing myself to be the most wretched of creatures to being the most fortunate and happiest of mortals. What did I care about what had happened, her possible treachery, her reasons for leaving? What did I care about anything except her presence? She was back, I kept repeating, and that, at the time, was enough. I went over to the window again, looked down at the car parked below, then whirled around my room, whistling. In the distance, the horizon was turning an intense, obsessive red, and the first cicadas were singing. From outside, from the plum trees laden with clutches of yellow fruit, came a sour, exciting smell. I opened the door then and ran out onto the verandah, ready to help her with her luggage—an excellent excuse—if help was still needed. It was, because I had never seen anyone arrive at the Chácara with so much baggage. And I confess that, while I worked, my hands trembled and my vision blurred just to feel her standing not far off, possibly casting furtive glances at me. I looked up, studying the world about me, and felt that the simple fact of her being there again restored the Chácara to its old familiar self. My father came to meet her too and planted a kiss on her forehead, but what did I care if they kissed? She had come back, she was here. Then, arm in arm, they went up the steps. As I sorted out the various parcels and packages, I never once lost sight of her: I saw her go rather unsteadily up the steps, noticed her slender ankles, her slim body, more like a girl’s than a grown woman’s. When she reached a certain point on the steps, she called to me: “André, can you bring me that parcel over there . . .” I ran to take it to her, and she bent down and whispered in my ear: “Later on . . . I really need to talk to you.” That was the only indication that she had noticed my existence, but it was all so quick that I didn’t have time to respond. Even so, who could doubt that she had deliberately forgotten that parcel, and that her doing so had instantly rekindled our former intimacy? I gave a long sigh of relief.
Some hours later, we were sitting opposite each other at the same table. She was wearing a beautiful dark-green dress, with a neckline that, to many, would have seemed far too low, but which, to me, seemed endowed with a special charm. I admired her elegance and imagined her among the other ladies of the town; they would no doubt all be fatter than her and definitely vulgar. They would never be able to carry off such a décolletage, or feel so at ease when being examined by those impertinent eyes. And yet, when I scrutinized her further, I noticed that something had changed, not her satin skin, which I knew so well, nor its slightly duller tone, as if under the effects of an early dusk, but I examined her in vain, because I could not pinpoint what it was about her that was different. She was simply not the same. I felt a pity whose origins I myself could not explain, a pity mingled with a sense of danger, as if she had changed or suffered, not for any reason peculiar to her, but because of some factor that affected us both equally. It’s true that, at least for that moment, she was filled with animation, with a vibrant desire to spread her wings and enjoy life, which could be mistaken for a natural impulse, but, on closer examination, I could not help but see how much effort and artificiality lay behind this. Yes, there was in her a vacuum, an emptiness that she was trying desperately to conceal. And I think that never again will I find myself before a creature who gave off such a powerful sense of having been betrayed or, rather, shaken to the very core by the violence of a blow that had come completely out of the blue. Nina was struggling to regain a lost equilibrium and, if she failed, it would be because such failures are almost always definitive. While I sipped my soup, I imagined that, if I could only devote myself to her, I could take this analysis still further, but the atmosphere at the supper table remained tense, and I noticed, unsurprised, that everything had been prepared with more than usual care. There was a sense of generous abundance, and among the glasses and the cutlery, tureens of dark, rich, steaming gravy, a speciality of old Anastácia’s, were passed around; then a lovingly prepared loin of pork served on a bed of lettuce; and blood sausages too, my Uncle Demétrio’s personal favorite. I observed all this and was momentarily dazzled by the light glittering on the crystal glasses. It was clear that my father was happy and, contrary to the Meneses’ usual commonsensical approach to things, wanted to celebrate the return of someone dear to him. As for me, I confess that I was barely listening to what was being said around the table, and was counting the minutes until I could finally get up and leave. What mattered, I thought, was escaping from there. This meant somehow making time move faster, bringing me closer to the moment when I could, at last, see her alone. The conversation was interspersed with long pauses, and the trivial words spoken barely co
vered what was hidden beneath the surface. At one point, though, the talk turned to leisure, and she said she intended to devote herself to sports, and hoped to be able to go out with me walking and hunting. Only I could gauge how sad this comment was—after all, she had always gone on walks and gone hunting with me. So why announce this now as something new? But then, she wasn’t saying it for my benefit, but for the benefit of the others. That is why I rather unenthusiastically agreed, weighing the effect those words had on the atmosphere. Had they noticed? Had they found something out? (I mean about our relationship, which hovered like a dark, invisible circle over the brightly lit table.) Yes, they probably had, and I recalled catching whispered remarks among the servants, something Ana had said, certain unequivocal silences—but what did that matter? What did I care if the whole world went up in flames, and the scandal smeared the faces of all those around me with soot? When she and I were alone, I would say: “Do you remember what you said to me? That I should embrace my sin and have the courage to take full responsibility for it? Well, that’s what I am proposing now: let us escape, let us leave the Chácara, and confront the world with our love. What do the others matter compared with the love that unites us?” And those words came into my mind with such force that they almost burst from my lips. I found it very hard to keep them in, and it was with enormous relief that I saw that supper had reached an end.
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 45
