“Aurélio! Senhor Valdo from the Chácara is here.”
“Oh,” I said, turning around. “Senhor Valdo?”
“Yes, and from the look of it, he’s in a hurry.”
“I’m on my way. Tell him I’m on my way.” And without further ado I put the lid on the jar and handed the jar to my wife. I then tied Pastor to one of the fence posts and went inside. Senhor Valdo was waiting, pacing impatiently back and forth. I was shocked by his appearance: he was usually so impeccably dressed and never forgot his fine manners, but now he was in a visible state of disarray—no tie, crumpled jacket, his hair uncombed. But since I knew what was happening at the Chácara and that Dona Nina was not long for this world, I assumed that his lack of composure was a result of his distress, and that, quite possibly, he had come to fetch some urgent medication. As soon as he saw me, he stopped pacing and stood in front of me, leaning on the edge of the counter.
“Good evening, Senhor Aurélio.”
“Good evening, Senhor Valdo. How are things up at the Chácara? Is Dona Nina feeling better?”
His voice rang out with unusual clarity:
“Dona Nina has just passed away.”
“Oh!” And I was so taken aback that, at first, I could say nothing more. Then: “I am so very, very sorry, Senhor Valdo.”
He did not answer me at first; his restless eyes, somewhat reddened (had he been crying?), kept glancing from shelf to shelf, even though I was quite certain that they saw nothing. Perhaps he was merely trying to gain time with this subterfuge, or perhaps he really was weighed down by the emotional pressure of what had happened, and was struggling to find the right words. After some time, just as the silence was becoming embarrassing, he let out a deep sigh and said:
“I have come here about an important matter.” He drew his hand across his brow, as if trying to recall an elusive thought. “Or at least one that is important to me,” he added. Then, as if he were having great difficulty in getting the words out, he abandoned his rigid position and began his pacing again, his forehead even more deeply furrowed. I wouldn’t say that he had aged—for men of his kind are ageless—rather that he had fallen apart, literally fallen apart, and that the fine façade he had for so many years presented to the world now revealed the dilapidated structure behind it. He was no longer a Meneses, immune to any form of insult; he was a poor, terrified creature who, in his affliction, was totally unaware of where he was or who he was talking to.
“And what would that be?” I enquired, more out of a desire to help him than out of any real interest in the matter. (It must be some family problem—didn’t they all run around and around after each other, like turkeys inside a chalk circle?)
Once again, and as if moved by some inner resolve, he stopped in front of me:
“Senhor Aurélio, will you tell me the truth? The whole truth?”
“Senhor Valdo!” I exclaimed, almost offended.
“Well,” he said, “these are difficult times. And everything depends on what you tell me.”
The subject was beginning to interest me. I said:
“You can rely on me. Besides, I have no reason to withhold any information.”
“Excellent. That’s excellent,” he murmured.
I don’t know from which dark region he was now trying to extract his questions, but still he hesitated. Hunched over the counter, I observed with some curiosity the changing expressions on that troubled face; it was as if clarity were doing battle with something fluid and imponderable, impotent against the shadow slowly overwhelming his features.
“Senhor Aurélio,” he finally said, his voice resolute and resonant, “I heard my brother say, many years ago, that there was a transaction between you and him. Is that true?”
A transaction? The word sounded so ingenuous that I couldn’t help but smile.
“There have always been transactions between me and the Meneses,” I said.
“I’m not referring to any ordinary transaction,” he said with an impatient gesture.
“To what then?”
The same shadow passed across his face, the same anxious look, and we stood there for a minute in silence, facing one another. I don’t know why, but on seeing a sudden, tiny glint in his eyes, I sensed something in him that almost resembled a threat. What could he mean by that silence intentionally left hanging between my question and his answer? When he spoke his tone was different, quiet, veiled:
“I am referring to a revolver.”
“Ah!”
This time, I tried to look him straight in the eye—so that’s what it was. Oddly enough, even though the incident had occurred many years ago (when was it exactly? Images raced through my mind, of the Chácara, of Dona Nina, of Senhor Valdo himself), I had always assumed that one day, someone would come and call me to account for what had happened. “Call me to account” is perhaps an exaggeration, for I had played a purely passive role, but someone would inevitably want to investigate, to discover what had happened, how it had all begun. Because in that respect I had not the slightest doubt—something had indeed happened! And at its heart, fatally, lay the revolver. Yes, I remembered the revolver very clearly: wasn’t that what had so influenced my subsequent relations with Senhor Demétrio? Since then, as if we had jointly committed an act whose weight and responsibility would unite us forever (the rapid glance whenever we met, the sidelong greeting, his careful avoidance of my pharmacy when once it had been the only place in Vila Velha he would honor with his presence), that gun had remained a secret point of reference between us. When I say he never again came to the pharmacy, that is not quite true. He did come, only once or twice, but he did come. But why should I have to be reminded of all that now? Who was forcing me to remember and why should I bother? Besides, it had all happened so many years ago! The matter was, in my view, entirely devoid of interest, but Senhor Valdo, as if sensing my desire not to answer his question, leaned persuasively over the counter.
“Don’t you remember selling him a revolver?” he asked in a most insinuating tone.
I looked at him again and felt that I could lead him wherever I wanted.
“Yes, I remember,” I replied. “It was a small revolver, a bluish color, and the grip was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.”
This simple description seemed to make the object itself, until then hidden in the folds of our insinuations, become palpably present, gleaming in that indiscreet beam of light from the past.
“Exactly.”
“But why . . .”
Senhor Valdo cut me short:
“It is enough, Senhor Aurélio, that you remember selling it.”
“Why? Has there been an accident? If so . . .” and I made the gesture of someone denying all responsibility.
He understood that this path would lead us nowhere, and that I would remain, for as long as I wished, immured in silence. He stood up and said:
“No, don’t worry. There hasn’t been any accident.”
Another brief pause. I kept my eyes trained on him and saw him tilt his head as if he were thinking about what he was going to say next. Then, looking up, he said calmly:
“I would like to know the circumstances in which that transaction took place. You must understand, it is very important to me that no detail be omitted.”
(The conversation was beginning to interest me now: he was doing the asking and, all of a sudden, I was no longer the prey. What’s more, if it was a favor he was seeking from me, then what might I, exercising proper caution of course, obtain in return?)
“I can assure you,” I affirmed, “that I will hide nothing.”
Senhor Valdo seemed relieved, more relaxed.
“I also want you to tell me what he said, his exact words. You do remember, don’t you?” (He smiled as if wishing to instill me with confidence, but his smile was quite clearly false.) “I don’t believe,” he added, “that such matters are to be treated as secrets of the confessional. Especially given that they are mere insignificant facts.”
; “No, I certainly don’t treat such matters as confidential. Quite the contrary.”
And while I was saying this, I was thinking: Why should I say anything? I was under no obligation. What right does he have to demand this of me? I looked straight at him and told him rather abruptly to sit down. He obeyed without hesitation, and I noticed that his hands were trembling, and, as I absorbed this piece of information, I smiled.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
“No, thank you.” And the ensuing silence was eloquent confirmation that, notwithstanding our brief exchange, he had come there with the sole purpose of hearing what I had to say.
I began to speak. Moths were fluttering around the low lamp lighting the pharmacy. From time to time, slowly and silently, Senhor Valdo would brush one of the annoying insects away from his face. I told him how Senhor Demétrio had turned up at the shop one day and had, after some toing and froing, told me that there was a marauding wolf he needed to kill. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this; the drought that was spreading throughout the region was opening the way up for the wild dogs that the half-castes call wolves and which, although they don’t attack humans, certainly kill livestock. It was entirely possible that some stray animal was roaming around the Chácara. Senhor Valdo nodded. I then explained that, at the time, the shop had been in need of repair, which was the reason I proposed selling Senhor Demétrio the gun. I recounted our entire conversation, carefully recalling details that were already beginning to fade in my memory. When I finished—and my account was not a long one—I asked:
“Is that all you wanted to know, Senhor Valdo?”
I noted that during the time I had been speaking, he had kept his head bowed and that the veins in his temples were swollen and throbbing. On hearing my question, he seemed to come to:
“No, it’s not all.”
I waited for him to explain, and he simply asked:
“And you never saw him again?”
I hesitated: should I tell him what happened afterward, during the second visit? I sensed instinctively that therein lay the vital heart of the story, the part that might be of real interest to Senhor Valdo in the tale of the revolver. But, by a curious contrast, and one that would not be easy for me to explain, this was precisely the part of the story that I felt to be strictly off-limits, revealing it would, I felt, be an implicit betrayal of Senhor Demétrio. Or to put it even more obscurely, a betrayal of what bound us together, and whose only manifestation was the look he gave me whenever we met in the street. Senhor Valdo must have sensed my doubts, for he stood up and once again came and leaned on the counter. The light from the lamp lit up half his face and, as he leaned there, his eyes close to mine, I could still see in them that hint of a threat.
“And you never saw him again?” he repeated, still with his gaze fixed on mine. “I need to know all the details. And you can be quite sure, Senhor Aurélio, that I will reward you very generously.”
These last words cast an entirely new light on the problem.
“Ah!” I murmured. “The Meneses seem to be very good at sensing when people are in need.”
“How much?” and his voice brushed my cheek like a gentle breeze.
A moth flew past me, and with a folded piece of paper, I felled it with a single blow.
“Times are hard, Senhor Valdo. As you know, I have three sons . . .”
He grabbed me violently by the lapels:
“How much?”
I did not reply. I maintained a dignified silence, sometimes looking at his face, sometimes at the hand creasing my jacket, as if to say that I would not speak until he changed his attitude. His grip slackened:
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My nerves are on edge, what with the situation at home.”
And he let me go. It was the first time he had revealed his motives for coming to see me; for a moment, as I examined his face, I wondered whether or not I should take advantage of the opportunity to find out what he was after. I had long been curious about what went on within those four walls and about which so much had been said and for so long! However, his facial expression, which, for a second, had relaxed somewhat, darkened again: it was clear that I would get nothing more out of him on that subject. I sighed and, smoothing my jacket, said:
“You can give me whatever you think appropriate, Senhor Valdo. A poor man never refuses a generous offer.”
“As I said,” he declared vehemently, “you will have no cause to regret your decision.”
With that guarantee, I began to talk:
“Senhor Demétrio did come back. It was more or less a year after I’d sold him the revolver. I noticed he was nervous and seemed to want to talk to me about something. I asked about the gun. ‘Ah, the gun!’ he grunted. There was clearly a certain disappointment in the way he spoke. ‘Haven’t you used it yet?’ He shook his head: ‘No, no.’ ‘Why?’ He shrugged: ‘Because the wolf never reappeared.’ I said to him that, frankly, I hadn’t heard of any wolves in the area. He smiled: ‘Well, they’re certainly out there.’ I suggested ironically that perhaps the wolves could tell which houses had guns. As if he had missed the irony in my voice, he asked if I really believed that. I replied: ‘Of course I do.’ His eyes widened and he nodded. ‘That’s a good suggestion of yours—I should make sure the gun is clearly on display.’ I wasn’t entirely sure where the conversation was leading, but even so I asked if he’d heard the old saying: ‘Opportunity makes the thief.’ He laughed, calmer now: ‘Indeed it does. There’s always wisdom in those old sayings.’ I did not respond, feeling that we had nothing more to say to each other.”
“Is that all?” asked Senhor Valdo.
“Yes.”
Placing one hand on my arm, he asked again:
“Try to remember. Perhaps you’ve forgotten something. So much time has passed since then.”
I tried hard, but the truth is I couldn’t remember anything else—one or two words, perhaps, a look, an inflexion, but what did that amount to, set against the overall impression he had given me? I said as much to Senhor Valdo, and he seemed particularly interested in that last remark:
“You said ‘impression.’ That’s exactly what I want: what impression did he give you on that second visit?”
I tried to remember:
“He seemed very agitated. Or, rather, frightened. He was afraid of something, and perhaps didn’t dare admit to himself that he was afraid.”
A smile spread across Senhor Valdo’s lips. And encouraged by this, other recollections came to mind:
“Yes, he was pacing from side to side, just like you were when you arrived here today. From time to time he would rub his hands, and there was a strange light in his eyes.”
“Didn’t he say anything?”
“Yes, he did. Just once, he turned to me and asked: ‘Are you sure that revolver works?’ ‘I am,’ I replied. And he said: ‘Then the mouse is sure to fall into the trap.’”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else. I’m sure of it.”
Senhor Valdo let out a deep sigh and again turned to face me, fixing me with a stare. Then he put his hand in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, took out a few notes and handed them to me:
“Believe me—you have been of enormous help.”
I modestly bowed my head. Then, turning his back on me, he left without saying goodbye. I ran to the door:
“Senhor Valdo! Senhor Valdo!”
In the darkness, I saw him turn.
“My wife and I,” I said, “will be going to the funeral tomorrow.”
He mumbled something I could not quite make out, and carried on walking. For some time, his heavy footsteps continued to echo down the deserted street.
51.
Valdo’s Statement (iv)
When I was still far off, I could see the lights of the Chácara through the thick foliage. The front of the house, glimpsed intermittently in the flickering light provided by the failing generator, took on a funereal appearance. When I reached the mai
n gate, I saw that it lay wide open, as only used to happen on grand occasions, in the days when our mother was still alive and the neighbors would all come in to greet her as news reached them that she had gone out into the garden in her wheelchair. Small groups of people, probably locals who did not dare to enter the house, stood around here and there in the darkness. They greeted me, but I could not hear what they said, nor did I acknowledge their nods and waves, which, under the circumstances, seemed to me false and inappropriate. Without even looking at them, I reached the main avenue, where I could make out other equally unfamiliar silhouettes. They too spoke to me, but by now I had but one idea—that only he mattered—and so I did not reply and continued on my way. As the shadows fell, the garden gave off the sharp, sweet smell of fennel and magnolia that, in spite of myself, reminded me of happier times.
The Chácara was coming to meet me, revealing its new face: the open windows seemed to be keeping watch over the darkness, their motionless eyes gazing out over some other landscape, superimposed upon the landscape that had once been the old pastures surrounding the place where I was born. My heart began to pound—in the old days, when would they ever have permitted such an invasion, such a breach of the Chácara’s laws, such a total capitulation to the curiosity of neighbors who had always been kept at bay by its inviolable walls? Ever since learning the truth (and now, finally, I knew the whole truth in all its startling detail), ever since the lie had burst upon me, I had no doubt that this invasion signified the end, the end of the Meneses. The neighbors were gathering, heralding the end, just as circling vultures in the fields reveal the presence of a dying steer.
As if obeying the same rhythm of destruction, something inside me was also crumbling. I listened in vain to voices seeking to restore a way of life that was irredeemably compromised (Demétrio, his way of looking and speaking, and, hovering over everything, the whole pernicious notion of family . . .), or whispering diktats issued by an authority that no longer existed. The sense of collapse was so strong, the vacuum within me so intense, that I even began to believe in some sort of imminent physical disaster—that the Chácara really might crumble into nothing and suck us all down into its vortex of dust.
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 53
