Neto could not credit this implacable resolve. He folded his arms and stared at his son-in-law with a burning gaze.
‘Let me look at you, man. . . Let me look at you, for you are a monster! So you mean to say that you abandon your wife, leave her in the street, with no corner to shelter in?’
Such words tortured Alves. It was like probing a wound that was still bleeding. He got up, wanting to say the word that would put an end to the discussion, but Neto did not let him open his mouth, bawling out:
‘And one does not put a wife out of the house just because one finds her alone, receiving a visitor!’
Alves went on looking at him, his lips trembling, unable to utter the words that were choking him. It was an ordeal to utter aloud, in that very place, and even to a father-in-law, how he had found her in another man’s embrace. And in face of that silence, Neto grew more confident, triumphant:
‘Proofs are necessary! The law requires that one is caught in the act. . . You saw nothing, did not find a single letter. . .’
Alves’s anger erupted:
‘Disgraceful letters, sir! Disgusting letters! Do you realise what she said to him, that she would like to have a son by him! A son that I would have to clothe, to feed, to care for, to educate. . . A son! And this is the way that you brought up your daughter. . .’
Neto was taken aback. His daughter had said nothing to him about the letters. He passed his hand across the two strands on his bald head with an air of distraction; and, after a long silence, he muttered:
‘When madness seizes them, women write things without rhyme or reason. . .’
Alves did not reply. He paced the room, with his hands in his pockets; on the table, his plate of rice was forgotten, getting cold, drying up. Neto drank a large glass of water and suddenly, like someone coming to a decision, he mentioned the all-important matter that had brought him there:
‘But what, after all, do you intend her to live on? I have nothing to clothe her or provide her with shoes. . .’
At once, Alves ceased his dejected pacing. He had been waiting for this, he was prepared for it and had his answer ready, introducing into it a touch of dignity, of a man above considerations of money:
‘As long as your daughter stays in her father’s household and behaves herself, she has thirty milreis a month.’
Neto’s bald head fairly glistened and he seemed content, all his anger suddenly disappeared.
‘That’s reasonable, that is reasonable,’ he said in a voice that was almost gentle. And the two men stayed silent, as if there was nothing more to be said. Alves rang the bell, the servant came at once, darting an inquisitive glance from one to the other as she came in.
‘The coffee,’ said Alves.
‘And bring a cup for me, Senhora Margarida,’ added Neto, quickly resuming the homely familiarity of a father-in-law.
Alves went on pacing about the room. Neto sat down at the table and was carefully rolling a cigarette, glancing now and then at his son-in-law. He took an age to make the cigarette, rolling it slowly, full and smooth, and putting the tobacco pouch in his pocket, he exclaimed, with a little sigh:
‘The worst thing is the tittle-tattle!’
Alves said nothing; the other struck a match and lit his cigarette with deliberation.
‘And with your position in business, it can do you nothing but harm. . .’
Alves turned on him impatiently:
‘And whose fault is that?’
That was the point, the fault was not his, Neto knew that very well. But, after all, it would be better to avoid gossip, at least in these early days.
Margarida came in with the coffee. Alves had sat down. As they stirred the sugar, father-in-law and son-in-law face to face were silent for a moment. Neto tried his coffee, added more sugar. Then he took a couple of puffs and returned to his theme:
‘Neither for you, nor for me, is it a good thing that they should start talking in the neighbourhood. . .’
His slowness, these pauses, irritated Alves:
‘So what the deuce do you want me to do?’
Still Neto maintained his calm reflective air. And in a low voice, he spoke about his feelings. He had always considered himself a good father; and if his circumstances had been different, he would not have accepted the monthly allowance for his daughter. . . he would have asked for nothing. He would have taken her home; they would all have lived there together, and that would have been that. . . and he for his part would have done everything possible to put an end to the scandal.
Alves began to understand. Neto had a plan for getting more money out of him. He wanted to have matters cleared up quickly:
‘Come on, let me know what you have in mind, without any more beating about the bush.’
Still Neto was evasive. The best way of avoiding scandal was to go away from Lisbon. . . and the season was in their favour, it was the time for going to the seaside. . . No one would be surprised if he were to go away, for example, to Ericeira, taking his married daughter with him. Everyone would assume that Alves, because of his business, was unable to accompany her. . . But no one would know whether or not he went to visit his wife each Sunday. It was a fine idea, but. . . Alves broke in:
‘And you want me to give you the money for it. . .’
‘But not if I am going to rob you,’ confessed the other, with great frankness.
Alves reflected. That would be a clever way of going to spend the summer at the seaside at his expense; but at the same time, the idea was practical, would kill the gossip. . . He accepted. And in a moment they settled the details. Alves would contribute towards the cost of a house, to the travelling, to moving certain items of furniture; during the months of August, September and October, the allowance to Neto’s daughter would be increased to fifty milreis, to cover expenses at the seaside. Having said all this, he got up, wanting by any means to bring the interview to a close.
‘Let us not discuss things any further, for my head is swimming.’
Indeed, he was as pale as a corpse, with a headache coming on, a desire to lie down, go to sleep and forget for a long time.
Yet Neto, on his feet, still wanted to say one last word. From now on, he would be the person responsible for his daughter. He had faith in God, he felt certain that, later on, when the first shock had passed, there would be a better understanding between the couple and they would come together again.
With a sad smile, Alves shook his head in disagreement; no, he would never again be reconciled with her.
‘The future belongs to God,’ said Neto. ‘At the moment, I agree that it is better that you should be separated for a while. And I should like to end with this: while she is in my house, it will be as though she were in a convent. I am answerable for her.’
Alves shrugged his shoulders a little. All this seemed to him idle chatter. What he now wanted was to be alone. He had rung for Margarida so that she could open the door and show Senhor Neto out. The latter took up his hat and, already on his feet, drank the last gulp of coffee and, after shaking hands with his son-in-law, went out, quietly telling the maid to have the mistress’s luggage ready.
‘And she told me to say that you were not to forget the silver sugar caster that her godfather gave her on her birthday, the sugar caster is hers. . .’
And he went down the stairs, congratulating himself on that bright idea. His daughter had not even mentioned the sugar caster. But, after all, it was hers, a nice piece of silver, it was right that it too should go back home.
Outdoors, the evening was sultry and Neto slowly made his way home, hat in hand, well pleased with himself, working out the expenses for the stay in Ericeira. The seaside holiday was going to do him good. With Ludovina’s fifty milreis a month, one could be comfortable, and since she ought not to be appearing in public, there would be no expensive outfits, so he would be putting money in his pocket!
When he had climbed his hundred and fifty steps, a few at a time, he rang the doorbell and it was his un
married daughter, Teresa, who came to let him in, her eyes shining, quite excited. No one had hidden the truth from her. She already knew that Ludovina had been caught with a man, that there had been a big row, and that her father had gone to have it out with Alves.
‘Well?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Indoors, we will talk indoors,’ said Neto.
They went through the kitchen which was in semi-darkness, lit only by the brightness of the coal fire in the stove, on which the kettle was boiling, and they came to the dining-room, a sort of cubbyhole at the rear of the flat. Sitting at a round table covered with oilcloth, the maid, Joanna, a lively young woman wearing the expensive earrings of a lady and dressed in a blue merino cloth, was reading the daily newspaper by the light of an oil lamp. In the shadow, next to the sideboard, was Ludovina, stretched out in a wicker chair.
When her father appeared, she got up, dressed all in black, her eyes still red. Neto sat down, wiping his neck with a silk handkerchief. The eyes of the three women devoured him, and as he was in no hurry, enjoying the family’s suspense, it was Joanna who cried out to him:
‘Come on then, out with it!’
He slowly folded up the handkerchief and, in the pregnant silence of the room, replied:
‘Godofredo is giving thirty milreis a month.’
They breathed a low sigh of relief, there was a stir of satisfaction. Teresa looked at her sister, astonished at those thirty milreis, coming into anyone’s purse like that, just through being caught with a man! Joanna admitted that he was a gentleman. But Ludovina saw nothing extraordinary in it; it was he who had been at fault, who had put her out of the house without a bean! Then her father turned to her, his brow puckered:
‘After all, you say you had written nothing, but he says he caught you with improper letters.’
‘It’s a lie,’ she said simply, ‘the letters meant nothing, it was just a joke.’
There was silence. Gazing at the table edge, Neto was arranging the hair strands of his bald pate, in a dignified way. And the three women went on staring at him, awaiting more details, the full story of the interview.
‘And Lulu’s luggage, Papa?’ asked Teresa who, since the previous evening, had been living in hopes of watching the suitcases arrive, seeing them unpacked, picking up a present. But Papa, following his own line of thought, without answering the girl, went on:
‘And in order to avoid gossip, it was agreed that we should go and spend the summer at Ericeira.’
Then there was a joyful outburst. Teresa clapped her hands, Joanna smiled with satisfaction, for she so much wanted to go to the seaside. Only Ludovina remained indifferent, her face clouded with sadness, thinking about the fine plans that Godofredo had recently been discussing—the months of August and September to be spent in Sintra. . . And she went and sat down again, while Joanna and Teresa, already full of plans, plied Neto with questions, both full of enthusiasm for that unexpected seaside holiday. And already there were a thousand projects. Teresa chattered endlessly, Joanna mentioned the things that they would need to take—mattresses, crockery, and the piano, for greater enjoyment. It would be best for all of them to go to Ericeira and find a house. Then Ludovina broke her silence:
‘And a house is needed in which there is sufficient space. For I am not disposed to sleep in a cubicle, like the one here.’
In face of this demand, Papa shook his head. And he did not mince words, but said at once:
‘You’ve got to sleep where you can. . . If you wanted the comforts of your husband’s house, you should have behaved yourself and stayed there.’
There was an embarrassed silence. No one dared to answer back when Neto raised his voice. So in the respectful silence evoked by his annoyed tone, he drew closer to the table, took a pencil from his pocket, set his spectacles on his nose, and under the oil lamp, began to work out, on the white margin of the newspaper, his estimate of the expenses for Ericeira.
Stretching across the table, Teresa saw those figures lining up—so much for the house, so much for a carriage to take them there—like a string of pleasures, shining out from the figures. Standing opposite to her, Joanna was giving her opinion. In the kitchen, the kettle went on boiling. . . Virtuous tranquillity enveloped the house—and in the shadow, Ludovina was silent, as though crushed by the existence which now awaited her; the discomforts, poor food, her father’s temperament, the maid’s position of authority in the house—everything that lay in store for her and everything that she had lost. She cursed her own stupidity for falling like that into the arms of a man she did not love, from whom she derived no pleasure, brought to her present pass for no real reason, through a mere whim and through having nothing to do.
5 Next morning, a shaft of sunlight shining through the window awoke Alves abruptly. He quickly sat up, leaning on his elbow, and as he rubbed his eyes, he was astounded to find himself on the sofa, fully dressed and wearing his shoes. Then, like a blow, the recall of his trouble fell heavily on his heart. A dark veil seemed to cover everything around him.
The previous night, after Neto had gone, he had stretched out there, dead tired, and had quickly fallen into a deep and heavy sleep.
He sat up on the sofa. In the house and in the street profound silence reigned: it was only six o’clock. Around him, the room still showed the disorder of the previous day, with the suitcases in the centre, the negligee at the foot of the double bed. He gazed at the bed in which no one had slept, with the two pillows side by side. Then, as on the previous evening, he paced around; in the dining-room, the table still bore the previous day’s tablecloth, and on the sideboard a forgotten candle had guttered and gone out in the candlestick.
As he faced the drawing-room, cowardice seized him; he did not dare to draw the curtains. And he returned to the bedroom, sat down again, his hands purposeless, his gaze vacant, not knowing what he ought to do at that early hour when the city was still sleeping. At that hour, Ludovina certainly would also be asleep.
And he remembered mornings when, while he was still asleep, she would wake early, get up quietly and open a fanlight in the window, her beautiful tresses in a hair-net, the lace of her nightdress covering her breast and her long dark eyelashes shading her face. . . . Now, in that bright early morning light, the undisturbed bed gave him a painful feeling of coldness and discomfort. Despondency gripped him, an immense and unending wretchedness ate into his spirit, made him want to lay his head on the arm of the sofa and sit there until he died. And, as on the previous day, the thought of death returned, penetrating his spirit with the gentle softness of a caress. . .
Within a few hours, everything would be resolved—perhaps he would be dead. It was at ten o’clock that he was to meet the other man. His heart pounded at the thought of seeing him again, face to face, and it seemed impossible to visualise him in any posture other than the one in which he had seen him the previous day, with his arm round her waist. And his idea of the previous evening—suicide decided by drawing lots—which had seemed so natural, now made him afraid. It seemed odd that he, Alves, there in that house in São Bento Street, with the morning sun lighting it up, should have had that grim idea, more appropriate to a violent character. So he was greatly worried. What would the other one say to such a proposition? What if he were to refuse? And other difficulties of detail would arise. How would they draw lots—with blank slips of paper? And he grew fearful that, faced with so preposterous a suggestion, the other man would merely laugh. . . . In which case, he would box his ears! But no, he could not refuse, he was a man of honour. At all events, he would know very soon. And he did not want to think about that; the idea kept him going, almost saved him from suffering and even gave him some sort of self-respect, lessening the sense of ridicule. He did not want to dwell on anything that might lessen the importance of his plan.
Meanwhile, he heard footsteps in the kitchen: the maids had got up. In the street, noise was growing, the voices of street-criers, passing carts, the confused hum of a city coming to life. And
then, little by little, he began to follow his daily routine, put the cuff links into his clean shirt, sharpen his razor. . . But the big trunk in the middle of the room got in his way.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he ought to make his will. Before the mirror, motionless, with his face half lathered, he went on turning it over in his mind—and a sort of dread amazement took hold of him, at being there in his own bedroom, in his shirt-sleeves, calmly thinking about dying. For all those ideas which in the excitement of the evening had seemed so natural and easy were assuming in the clear light of morning, in the routine of his toilet, a false, unnatural, aspect which was at odds with his real personality.
At eight o’clock, the doorbell rang. He went and listened; on the landing, women’s voices were speaking. Then a maid came in and went out—he asked who it was. It was Neto’s maid. But he did not venture to ask more questions, or what it was she wanted.
Then there was breakfast. He ate ravenously. He wondered why the ham was not on the table and the maid, when she brought it, told him that the mistress would be sending for the cases in the evening. He said nothing. Increasingly, he detested Margarida, who seemed to be continuing to watch over her mistress’s interests, getting messages from her, still her confidante. And as the sugar caster was missing, Alves was annoyed, made much of its absence, threatened to throw her out. As the girl was in the corridor, muttering, he shouted angrily:
‘Less noise.’
All the time his chest was tightening at the thought of meeting the other man. Fearful of crossing the street, where his misfortune was perhaps already being talked about, he ordered a cab. The maid dawdled. Time was passing, and nervously, almost in a fever, he moved between the window and the front door, putting on his gloves, and feeling that the floor on which he was walking was insubstantial, giving way beneath his feet. At last, the cab arrived and he went down, his throat constricted in awful agitation. His voice nearly dried up as he gave the cab driver the address. Once on its way, the cab seemed to fly, and in his excited state his stomach kept turning over, his breakfast heaved in his throat. At last it got there. And he was so confused that he could not find in his pocket the right coin to pay the driver.
The Yellow Sofa Page 4
