Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  Her spirit was finally abandoning that poor exterior, leaving it intact, albeit coarse and soulless, and meanwhile revealing, with brazen cruelty, that room, in all its icy, definitive horror, as a summation of what had been. I don’t know if all deaths are like that, but now that the body on the bed had grown quite still, it felt to me as if a bell had stopped ringing and a final wave of sound was solemnly unfurling; and I sensed that somewhere else, perhaps not that far away, she was beginning to live, while in the air, made cold by her departure, the rest of that note lingered on, dissolving down to its very last vibration, although that, too, would soon disappear and all that would remain would be the air reshaping itself into the future—or into nothing.

  49.

  Valdo’s Second Statement (iii)

  Questions were now building up in my mind and, as if they bore the same hallmark, they all had the same focus and the same origin: her, and what she had been, what she had meant to me, who she really was. And, above all, her true personality, her genuine, unadorned self, the Nina who would emerge only at the most difficult of times. For I was now convinced that I had never really known her, or, rather, that those things in her that were most real had always escaped me. And this bothered me. It was like a painful point in my body that I could not get rid of, or even ease the discomfort. Yet another frustration to add to all the others that our life together had brought us. I felt almost angry, and was gripped again by the suppressed rage that had once been my most constant feeling in regard to her: I realized that, in her final moments, she had once again eluded me, leaving me alone with my endless questions. Yes, initially, I had loved her with all the fury and impetuosity of unbridled passion. I said nothing, kept a lid on my feelings, because that was what the situation required, but only I knew what I really felt in my heart of hearts, and what energy it took to contain those futile, seething emotions. Even later on, when the first flush of excitement had passed, I still loved her, but knowing that I had chosen the wrong woman and was wasting my time on someone who could never love me. I did not condemn her coldness, not least because you cannot condemn anyone for not loving you at all—and when I say not at all, I am perhaps exaggerating, tormented by what I could never have—but deep inside me, I could not help but nurse a certain sadness and imagine that, even if I had made a mistake, things could nevertheless have turned out very differently. I had made a mistake, and yet it was just one individual case, for I knew many men who were happy with the woman they had chosen as their wife. And yet despite this, despite this awareness of my own failure, something else still tormented me: a kind of longing or regret that I simply could not justify; in vain I groped my way along the meandering paths of my mind, unable to find the reasons for this pain: a remnant of love? the beginnings of pity? Who knows? In all violent tendencies there is always a hidden impulse of pity. I remembered when I first met her, what a difficult situation she was in, what with her ailing father—was that perhaps the source of everything I had felt afterward? Wiser men than me might perhaps smile at my conjectures, bearing in mind that she was an exceptionally beautiful young woman. But isn’t beauty the thing that drives our more or less dormant virtues, and whose presence prompts feelings that so often end in wonderment or terror, in attraction or repulsion? I had always loved her; I loved her from the very first moment I saw her, and, right from the start, she had also aroused in me paternal feelings and a desire to protect her, but she was too headstrong, too violent, and my paternalistic feelings were completely out of place—but at least they never ceased to exist, always pointing the way, silent and disregarded, like a compass lost in the depths of my being. What I was mourning, then, was possibly not the love I had never received, but the defenseless person who had never made use of my better instincts. The truth is, she had never made any use of me at all, and had lived far outside my orbit, beyond the reach of any gesture of mine. But now it was clear to me: marooned by my own bitter resentment, I had never made an effort worthy of the name, and, standing there on the verandah, indifferent to everything going on around me, I began to sense that I had only one authentic feeling: guilt. Why? Where had it come from? Hadn’t she been the one who had left me, run away, leaving behind her everything that was rightfully hers? Wasn’t she the one . . . But then a loud voice cried out in my head: “No, she wasn’t!” and for the first time in my life I understood that she had not been the one to blame. It was me, guilty of a crime I could not identify, of a neglect I could not see, of a lack of love perhaps, that was greater by far than what I believed love to be. This discovery was so overwhelming that I had to lean against a pillar, my heart pounding wildly. What had really happened? What was I guilty of? What unworthy act had I committed without realizing? An unexpected darkness surrounded me. I was lost; a bitter taste filled my mouth. Ah, what a mystery life is, and how dark and senseless the motives that shape our actions! It was at that very moment, with these thoughts passing through my mind, that I heard a voice behind me say:

  “She’s dead, Senhor Valdo.”

  I turned around: it was Betty. Her calm air contrasted sharply with what she had just said. But as I stepped forward to examine her more closely, since her words seemed to me so utterly extraordinary, I noticed that her eyes were strangely bright and her face, grown gaunt with watching and worrying, showed the strain of maintaining the reserve she must have felt was the only response compatible with her position.

  “Betty,” I cried, “is it possible? Is it really all over?”

  She nodded. I stood there, unable to move, and for a moment, the air seemed to desert me. Even though this was hardly an unexpected ending, its sheer brutality hit me like a stinging blow to the face. Betty stood there waiting, not looking away. I summoned up all my strength, gently pushed her aside, and went into the house. The stillness I had observed earlier was already gone. Some lights had been turned on, and a few people were moving around. I was so dazed that I couldn’t tell who they were, or even what they were doing. I rushed toward the bedroom, opened the door and stopped: there was no one inside. No one at all, just a bedspread thrown on the floor and a few pillows piled up at the end of the bed. I couldn’t imagine not seeing her in that place; I had grown so used to her being curled up in the darkness there. “Nina!” I called out softly, as if she could still hear me. But no voice, no answer came. I stepped forward, suddenly afraid I might be confronted by the mortal remains of the woman I had loved so much. No, there really was no one in the bed; the crumpled sheet pulled to one side marked the place where someone had, until recently, been lying. I bent down and saw a dark, damp stain almost in the shape of a human form. I touched it and it seemed to be still warm. How many minutes had it been since they removed the body? Or was it only seconds? Why such a hurry? Who gave the orders?

  “Betty!” I called.

  She came quickly. This time I saw at once that her eyes were red, and that she had been crying.

  “Where is she? Who took her away?”

  She pointed down the hallway:

  “She’s in the drawing room. Didn’t you see them moving her?”

  “No.” And I thought to myself that it must have been at the exact moment when I had heard the news and bowed my head, overcome with emotion. “And who ordered . . .?”

  I didn’t finish the question.

  “It was Senhor Demétrio,” she replied.

  There was no hint of criticism in her voice. Perhaps this was how it should be, and Demétrio, yet again, was right. I went to the drawing room and saw what I hadn’t been able to see before, and which explained why I had noticed people walking up and down the hallway: the body, wrapped in a sheet, was lying on the dining table, which had been placed against the wall. A single candle burned at the head of the table—it was one of those cheap, white candles to be found at the back of a drawer somewhere in almost every household. Some women from the neighborhood were kneeling near the body, saying the rosary in a low voice. As soon as they saw me, they respectfully withdrew. I rushed over. “Nina
!” I cried and, oblivious to the people around me, I collapsed next to the body covered by the sheet, giving vent to my grief for the first time, tears streaming down my cheeks. Someone placed a hand on my shoulder: “Senhor Valdo!” I didn’t recognize the voice, my face still buried in the sheet. As the pressure of the hand on my shoulder increased, I pressed my face closer to the body. And to my amazement, the sheet felt warm, as if beneath it there were still a living soul. I stood up and tried to touch the stiffening body beneath the folds of the sheet. Yes, she was still warm; it wasn’t the mere reflection of warmth as it leaves the bodies of the recently departed, but the heat of someone still living, radiating softly through her skin. Astonished, I gazed at the face concealed by the sheet. I was sure I could detect a slight movement, like someone breathing almost imperceptibly, but nonetheless breathing. “No! No!” I cried, trying to convince myself that it was merely an illusion. But giving in to an irresistible impulse, I lifted the edge of the linen sheet. Her naked face emerged into the light like a cry suppressed almost before it was uttered, but I could have sworn she was alive, alive and breathing, even if it was only the faintest of stirrings, like the falling of a rose petal. (Today, when all that remains is the image of the person she was, I tend to think it really was an illusion, or perhaps one of those remnants of life between true existence and absolute death that doctors sometimes call “neutral ground,” and of which we know nothing except that it is the gateway leading to a new path, whilst behind lies the old path, still visible in the fading light.) Her face was deathly pale and drawn, her nostrils strangely dilated and there was a greenish tinge to her hollow-cheeked, disease-wracked face. But I swear that there was still not the distance, the coolness, the hostility so typical of corpses. Something secret and difficult to grasp still lingered—the last fading shadow perhaps of human consciousness. I eagerly touched her again: she was still warm, still living. Oh, why hadn’t they left her to grow cold in her own bed, and escape to her eternal life like someone drifting off into sleep? Why that pointless cruelty, that excess of fastidiousness in disposing of a human being who had not yet entirely succumbed to death? I turned and left her there, her face uncovered. Slowly, I went back out into the hallway. Betty stood staring at me. Her eyes coldly followed my every movement. I could no longer contain the cry that burst from my lips:

  “Betty! How did it happen? Who told them to remove her from the bed?”

  Her voice seemed to tremble with impatience:

  “I’ve already told you, Senhor Valdo. It was Senhor Demétrio who gave the orders. I didn’t want . . .”

  She then explained how Demétrio had appeared in the bedroom, although without going over to the bed, but keeping a distance, slightly turned away, a handkerchief pressed to his nose. Even from that safe distance, he had declared: “She’s dead.” For the very first time since setting foot in that house, Betty had dared to disagree with him. “She might not be dead, Senhor Demétrio. She might not yet have breathed her last.” He had become angry then, removing the handkerchief from his face: “Who gives the orders in this house?” Betty had pleaded with him, citing the days she had spent by the dying woman’s side, her past experience of the dead and dying—she had already watched so many people depart this world—and even the Christian sentiments that must be upheld at times like these. He had replied abruptly that he was perfectly well aware of all that. “But Dona Nina is dead, completely dead. All the rest is sentimental women’s nonsense.” Along with Ana, Betty had gone over to the bed and touched the body again: still warm, the eyes barely closed, the lips half open. Might she not say something? Perhaps ask for something? She had turned to Ana, standing close behind her, and Ana had turned to look at her husband. He, by then standing at the door, had bellowed: “Ana!” and she, automatically, had pulled Betty away and leaned over the bed. She touched the body, but her fingers barely brushed the skin of Dona Nina’s face. “She’s dead, Betty. There’s no doubt.” And without a tremor, as if it were a task she performed every day, she began to pull back the sheet to reveal the rest of the body. The cloth seemed to stick to the skin on Nina’s breast, as if it formed part of the wound. “No!” exclaimed Betty softly, grabbing Ana by the hand. Ana did not turn around and kept a firm grip on the sheet, although not daring to continue pulling. “What is it?” asked Demétrio from the doorway. Ana did not reply. Indeed, no reply was necessary, for his revulsion was more than apparent. But when he moved as if to come closer, she turned toward him and said calmly: “It’s not that easy, Demétrio. The sheet is stuck to the body.” Rather than moving forward, he took two steps back, and their eyes met in apparent agreement. Both women waited, Ana holding the sheet, Betty holding Ana’s hand. At that moment, Betty said, she would have been capable of anything. Then Demétrio said in a more measured tone: “It won’t be necessary to dress her. In cases like this, such formalities can be dispensed with. It’ll be enough just to wrap the body in another sheet.” And as if there were nothing more to be said or done, he left the room. Betty, seething with rage, tightened her grip on Ana’s hand: “But the poor woman . . . Are you just going to wrap her in a sheet? And nothing else?” Ana had turned to her with a smug smile. “No, please, Dona Ana, not like that . . .” she had begged again, refusing to give in, but Ana shook her off and pulled the sheet up over the face of the woman they presumed was dead. “It’s monstrous,” wailed Betty. “What if the poor woman is still alive?” Ana did not even reply; she went over to the window and, lifting the catch, opened it wide. The light streamed violently in from outside: the body, covered by the white cloth, suddenly appeared even stranger, more forsaken. Leaning her forehead against the bedpost, Betty began to cry—she would never have the strength to help Ana with that grim task.

  From the garden came the resinous smell of trees in blossom, and the stench of death began to dissipate. Ana had gone to the large drawer of the cupboard in the hallway (Betty could see her every movement from where she was, without even looking up), and took out a sheet. It was linen, one of the family’s best, carefully laid between layers of fragrant lemongrass. She unfolded it in front of Betty: “See? It’s one of the best we have.” When Betty continued to cry, Dona Ana shook the sheet at her imperiously: “Betty!”, and so the poor woman, tears streaming down her face, was obliged to help her in that funereal task. But she had refused to carry the body out, and they had had to seek the assistance of the black maids in the kitchen. They and Ana had taken hold of the body, still not yet stiff, and transported it down the hallway to the drawing room. Off the body went, not exactly a heavy load, but lugged unceremoniously along, sagging in the middle. With every jolt Betty thought she could hear the body protesting, imagining the poor woman with her eyes barely closed and two thick, waxen tears rolling down her cheeks. Then she had collapsed weeping onto the bed, and despite the terrible smell emanating from the sheets, she could still make out a trace of Nina’s favorite perfume—the faint scent of violets that had always accompanied her and even now lingered on as a final testimony of her presence, like a last glimmer of light and youthfulness shining through her long-drawn-out death and decomposition.

  Betty talked, and as she talked I began finally to understand, not all at once like a revelation, but little by little, relying on old events and memories, things that only now have become entirely clear to me. Yes, whether dead or alive, by then it scarcely mattered, since she was, in any event, more on the path of death than of life. Other problems were calling me, and they, too, were life-and-death problems in grave need of being resolved before her remains left that house forever. So, without giving any explanation and ignoring the people who approached me to talk, I made my way toward the door, walked through the drawing room and down the steps into the garden. From there I began to walk more quickly, almost running, until I reached the road that leads to Vila Velha.

  50.

  The Pharmacist’s Fourth Report

  I had been told that the leaves of certain medicinal plants (stonebreaker, for example
) should only be ground down into a powder after they have been dried in the sun, since they would lose much of their power if exposed to the heat of an oven. Now, at the time, I was experimenting with various combinations of plants and had discovered several infusions that were giving good results for certain ailments. And so, taking advantage of a very hot day, I had laid out in the blazing sun, on a sheet of zinc, some branches of a fibrous herb that seemed to bring some relief to sufferers of rheumatism. However, as night fell, and with rumbles of thunder coming up the valley, I decided to bring in the leaves, fearing that a sudden downpour would ruin all my good work. I was just putting them in a jar when Pastor, my dog, burst into the yard and convinced me with his loud barking that something untoward was afoot. He kept sniffing restlessly at the fence and pawing the ground, as if there was some stranger on the other side. Not that this would have been unusual, since people were always coming to me not only as a pharmacist but also as doctor, and even as a counselor, for advice on illnesses that were more often than not mere figments of their imagination. There was, then, every likelihood that this was one of those occasions and, despite Pastor’s barking, there was therefore no need for me to rush what I was doing and run out to see who it might be. I returned to my task, but then my wife appeared at the door: