Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  I don’t know why, but the atmosphere in the room was electric. Outside, the wind was blowing and bringing with it into the house the smell of ripe peaches. My uncle went over to the piano and started playing some old familiar tunes. Still under the influence of this fictitious excitement, Nina told me off because I didn’t know how to dance, insisting that I try, and I obeyed, of course, but it gave me no joy at all. There was a whiff of something putrid in the air and, despite the wind gusting in through the window, I felt as if I were suffocating. It was not long before my uncle slammed the piano shut, prompting Nina to burst into tears, as if that had been a blow inflicted on her personally. She finally left the room leaning on the arm of my father, who did not dare say a word about what had happened. I was left alone, listening to the clock ticking in the background. With all the lights blazing, the crystal glasses still glittered on the table, and there was that lingering acidic smell of ripening fruit; the atmosphere now was that of a party abruptly broken off. I went over to the table and poured myself a glass of wine, which I drank down in one: the liquid burned my throat. I was again aware of the sound of the wind blowing, and it seemed to carry on it the very essence of the rotting garden outside. I poured myself another glass of wine and, for the first time in my life, considered getting drunk. I felt too afraid, though, because some stubborn instinct was urging me to stay where I was. Had she herself not said that she needed to talk to me? I believed her, and it was those words that kept me there, intently waiting. I put down the glass and the bottle and went to lie on the sofa. The tick-tock of the clock sounded closer, perforating the dense air in the room. Through my half-closed eyes, the Chácara seemed to glow, and anyone seeing the house from a distance would have thought the fires of some forbidden party were still burning. It was then that Aunt Ana, who had been standing out on the verandah until then, came inside: wearing her usual drab clothes, she stood for a moment before the cluttered table, then fixed her paralyzing gaze on me, and the hideous things those eyes were saying could not have been clearer. This, however, lasted barely any time at all, and then she, too, disappeared. A few more minutes slipped by—the wind, the ticking clock—and suddenly Nina was there before me. She crouched down, and I saw not just the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her décolletage, but also her moist, red eyes, those of someone who has been crying.

  “André,” she said.

  She looked so upset, her breath was so warm, that I feared she might not have the strength to get to her feet again. I sat up on the sofa and made her sit beside me. She did so with a sigh, as if this involved an enormous sacrifice.

  “Whatever’s wrong?”

  Nina began to cry again and rested her head on my shoulder. My shirt became wet with her tears, and I have to say that I had never before seen her in such a state, so immersed in her pain. All the barriers erected over supper fell, and now, defenseless, she was revealing her terrified inner self.

  “Nina,” I said, and I took a cruel pleasure in calling her by her name, as if this placed us on the same level, from which there was no possible escape. “Nina,” I said again.

  She did not respond, but looked up at me and wiped away her tears. She was so close that I could see the traces of tears left on her cheeks. Her lips, which were only inches away, were half-open as she struggled to catch her breath. On a wild impulse, I bent nearer and, for some time, we kissed each other with extraordinary violence. Breathless, she tried to break away, but I held her close, my hand around her waist, forcing her to allow our lips to meet again, and in my mouth, open and eager to taste her, I felt the tang of salt and fever. Finally, with a moan, she managed to free herself, but we stayed there, our heads pressed together, our eyes closed, oblivious to everything apart from the powerful force uniting us. I was stroking her as one would a child, and my hand grew wet with the warm sweat drenching her body. Yet that was not my most important discovery: as I ran my hand down her back, I felt how much thinner she had become. What I had failed to see initially or only glimpsed during supper, became horribly, inexorably clear to my touch.

  “You’re ill, Nina!” and my voice trembled despite myself.

  Slowly, as if those words had awoken ghosts that should have remained dormant, she placed one hand on my lips:

  “Don’t talk.”

  “But I knew nothing about it. Why didn’t you tell me, why did you never say anything?”

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t have the courage.”

  I interrupted her, holding her still closer so that if she noticed the irritation in my voice, she would not attempt to flee.

  “The torment you put me through. I almost died, thinking you had left forever. How could you? How did you have the courage for that?”

  Again her hand brushed my lips:

  “Don’t talk like that. I’m back now.” And in a softer voice, in which was concentrated every ounce of solemnity and certainty she possessed, she added: “Forever.”

  I found her tone odd, though, because it sounded more than anything like an invocation. They were not mere words, but a confluence, a coming together of every fiber of her will, as if in response to some kind of incantation. Where and when and to whom had she spoken those same deep, decisive words, which were not just a promise, but a manifestation of her entire being, a particular way of feeling and understanding the world? “Forever.” And those words resonated so deeply inside me that, relieved, I said:

  “Why don’t we run away together? Why don’t we leave this place? You spoke of sin once, well, what kind of sin would be worthy of the name if it was not disapproved of by the whole world?”

  She gave a sigh:

  “André, don’t talk like that. What I said then . . .”

  “. . . no longer counts?”

  “No, it still counts,” she said, “but what do I know about love or sin?”

  “What does it matter? What does anything matter?”

  “Ah,” and again her voice sounded strange to me. “Perhaps I didn’t love you. Perhaps it isn’t love . . .”

  I drew her close to me again, before she could complete that blasphemous sentence.

  “If it wasn’t love, then it was sin or pure mischief. But that is what I want and nothing else. Let the Devil do what he likes with me, as long as I can be with you. Let’s run away, Nina, let’s flee this place. You’ll get better, you’ll see . . .”

  She protested, and for the first time that night, she spoke almost vehemently:

  “But I’m not ill, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just bored. I have no appetite. We can go wherever you want, somewhere far from here. We’ll go to parties, on long trips. God willing, André, we will lead a completely different life from now on. I’ve brought plenty of clothes with me and everything I might need for a long journey.”

  As she talked, I was thinking to myself that it was impossible not to believe what she was saying. Once, seeing how changeable her moods were, I would have wondered if what we felt really was love, until I stopped asking that question, because, regardless of whether it was love or not, her presence was quite simply essential to me. Now she was talking about sin, and what did I care if it was or wasn’t sin, as long as I was by her side? Hadn’t she been the one who taught me the importance, above all else, of submitting to and embracing sin? The days were long gone when remorse or something like it would keep me awake at night, when I would feel fear gripping my throat, and vainly seek solace for my poor, tormented heart in the darkness of the room. No, everything had changed, we had reached a stage of mutual understanding, and she could no longer play a role. Her ardor was very real, and her words represented a genuine lust for life. I could see her eyes shining, her hands pressed earnestly together as if in prayer. All of this was sacred, and I would have sworn that this ritual was being watched over by some unknown god. I obstinately repeated to myself that she could not possibly be lying. Lies have no place in certain passionate human feelings. And so, despite the instinct telling me that something very grave was happening,
despite the uncertainty and confusion which I sensed lay beneath that determined façade, I surrendered to her words, convinced that my raison d’être, and possibly that of the world, was to be found only in her acquiescence. She did not need now to swear oaths or protest her love, it was enough that she was by my side and allowing me to cover her with caresses and kisses. We had crossed the frontier and were walking alone in the silence emanating from all things definitively laid to rest. Very carefully, I made her lie down on the sofa, and she obeyed, although she did look terribly pale. When I bent over her, however, she held me back, pleading:

  “No, André, not here. Someone might come in. Be careful . . .”

  “But it’s been so long,” I said imploringly.

  “I know, but not today.”

  And struggling to detach herself from the weight of my embrace, she added:

  “From now on, we will always be together. Just wait, and you’ll see how I will be entirely yours . . .”

  ....................................................................................................

  42.

  The Doctor’s Last Report

  No, no. The courage to tell everything? Where would I find that? Having been a doctor for all those years, and a poor country doctor at that, obliged to add to my Aesculapian duties the roles of counselor, protector and friend—no, I would never be able to tell all with the calm ferocity the subject demands. But I confess that a shudder ran through me, a mist covered my eyes as, thermometer in hand, I kept repeating to myself: say nothing, reveal nothing, even if it costs you your life. You might ask: was it so very grave? And I for my part would say: how should I know? After all, what do we actually die from? From illness, which does exist, from carelessness, which does occur, or simply from that imponderable thing we call the will to die? I believe that we die because our time has come. That woman of legendary beauty was revealing her secret to me as if she were laying herself bare. It was the first time in my whole career that I felt afraid—not of the diagnosis: what did it matter to me if I was wrong?—but of the inscrutable law that rules human destiny, the one we struggle to give a name to, but which always finds a name that answers to it: the will of God.

  There lay the cause of my terror: transcending mere illness, it filled the bedroom, and hung in the air like the shadow of a supernatural existence. It was something more remarkable than an illness, it was a dialogue of unforeseeable consequences between two worlds, because it was not a dialogue confined merely to the things of this world. I don’t know how long I stood looking at her, snug in bed, and, who knows, perhaps willingly giving in to a slow, elaborate desire to die, to surrender to a will far greater than her own, one that was already inscribing on her flesh, in perishable letters, her ineluctable fate. Or perhaps I was mistaken, and what I saw was only the end of a battle, the wreckage of a half-vanquished army? I don’t know; it’s not my business to know, indeed, I never will because, whether she was surrendering or not, every separation is also a defeat. It was enough to know that I was there with her, consumed by a profound sense of pity. A poor creature of dreams, I thought to myself, she was barely recognizable now, and how often had I seen her pass by, so absolute in her perfection and her harmony? How primitive our power is, and how useless our unknowing hands; and how I wept for her, that woman laid out before me, the mistress of the Chácara whom, it was often said, the Meneses had never understood.

  Propped up against pillows, and neither dead nor alive, her breathing was labored, her eyes closed. And as I contemplated her impassive beauty, I kept tirelessly repeating to myself: Why did they ask me to come? What did they expect me to say? I looked at her and felt I did not have the strength to pierce the veil of that mystery. They had closed the door, and we were alone, face to face. The various objects in the room stood around us, bearing silent witness to the scene. I took two steps forward:

  “Dona Nina?”

  The body did not move. But, as proof that all signs of life had not yet departed, it gave off the warm, sweaty exhalation typical of patients long confined to bed. She was much thinner, and her copper-red hair, which had always been so immaculately combed and styled, hung in a loose tangle. I leaned closer and took her pulse. There was no reaction, but she wasn’t dead, that much was clear, merely plunged in a sleep so profound that it often resembles death. No, not dead, but asleep, the deep sleep of someone whose final rest is steadily advancing toward them, like a date marked on the calendar. Could I have been mistaken? In that case, dear God, who am I but a poor man trying to do the right thing, one who has seen death so often, stripped of its disguise, but nevertheless different from the death before me now? And I cannot even say where this impression of mine came from, for I still hadn’t examined her, although, by some kind of sixth sense, I already knew what was wrong; yet she seemed surrounded by an atmosphere of attentive, passive waiting, rather than the intense, muted tumult of a place where death has already pitched its camp. I said again: “Dona Nina,” and this time she opened her eyes.

  “Ah, it’s you, Doctor,” she said.

  “How have you been?” I asked, sitting down beside her.

  She smiled and shrugged:

  “I think that this time . . .”

  “There’s always a chance,” I said, interrupting her, opening my case and setting out on the bed the various instruments I needed to make my examination, “so why not this time too?”

  “I’ve already consulted other doctors,” she said simply.

  “But not me, and I’ve been your doctor for many years now,” I said, trying to convey much more than those words actually said—that is, my devotion and feelings of respect and loyalty for the entire Meneses family.

  She sighed and tried to sit up a little. I asked her to lean toward me, just enough for me to examine her chest. She did as I asked, but I noticed that she lacked the simplicity of those patients who deliver themselves totally into the hands of their doctor, and that she moved as if she were defending her own body, and as if I were not merely carrying out a simple examination, but was trying to perform some strange ritual, or surreptitiously steal some secret from her. For she was certainly ill, and I needed no laboratory tests to prove that. The moment I touched her shoulder with my finger, she raised her head and her eyes shone so brightly that I stopped. There was no clearly formulated question in those eyes, but her whole being seemed to be waiting intently for me to speak. Curiosity? Hope? Whatever it was, what could I possibly say? Had she not been told the facts in Rio, had she not heard what the doctors there had to say, did she not know their diagnosis? I studiously avoided her gaze, bowed my head, and continued feeling along her bare shoulder, just above her right breast, then a little lower, moving gradually toward the center, until I reached the most sensitive point. And when I touched that point, she let out a scream—not a normal scream of pain, but something stronger and deeper, as if my fingers had brushed not a vital, living place, but a place where death had placed its lips and stamped upon it the fragile seal of pain. I immediately stopped my examination, and she slumped back onto the pillows, as the door opened and Senhor Valdo burst into the room.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, not daring to approach the bed.

  I shrugged:

  “No, I just touched a particularly painful spot.”

  He seemed to lack the courage to come any closer. For the first time, the truth, which he had possibly been avoiding for a long time, came to meet him in all its strength. He clearly did not have it in him to flee and so he stood, arms hanging by his side, cowardly and defenseless in the face of the inevitable. He motioned to me and I felt I had to obey. Together, we went over to the window.

  “Is it serious?” he asked, a look of childlike anxiety on his face. (Therein lies one of man’s great mysteries: even the strongest and most well-balanced of men—even a Meneses—turns into a little boy when ambushed by that powerful enemy lurking in the shadows.)

  I nodded, and he bowed his head. Then, recovering hims
elf, he asked again:

  “Is there nothing to be done?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “My examination was very superficial. We may need to do some more tests.”

  “If necessary . . .” he began.

  “I’ll need to see her again,” I said, interrupting him. “And possibly consult other colleagues.”

  His hand rested timidly on my arm:

  “Do you think . . .”

  His feebleness irritated me and I was unsparing in my frankness:

  “From what I could see, it’s quite widespread. She should have sought help earlier . . .”

  His face flushed scarlet, almost like a landscape suddenly covered by dark storm clouds. Seeing me studying his face, he made an effort to control himself and, with the Meneses’ obscure distaste for any kind of illness—which probably explained why Nina had kept silent about her condition and pretended not to notice that the disease was heartlessly spreading throughout her body, creating small rosy islands, twisting through dark canals and swollen veins, tracing long winding, purple paths, a whole geography of slow, pitiless destruction—he asked:

  “Is it cancer?”