‘What do you think I should do, Mama?’ she asked suddenly. She had decided to seize on those perceived advantages, but her weak nature needed to be cajoled and persuaded.
‘I would choose the safe option,’ was São Joaneira’s reply.
‘Yes, it’s usually best,’ murmured Amélia, going into her room. And she sat down very sadly at the foot of her bed, because the melancholy of evening made her longing for ‘the good times with Father Amaro’ seem all the more painful.
It rained heavily that night, and the two ladies were alone. São Joaneira, free now from her anxieties, grew sleepy and kept nodding off, her knitting in her lap. Amélia put her sewing down then, and leaning one elbow on the table, twirled the shade on the oil lamp and thought about her marriage: João Eduardo was a decent enough fellow, poor thing; he was exactly the kind of husband the petit bourgeois admired – he wasn’t bad-looking and he had a job; asking for her hand in marriage, despite the libels in the newspaper, did not seem to her, as her mother had said, ‘a generous gesture’, but she was flattered by his devotion, especially after Amaro’s cowardly abandonment of her; and poor João had been in love with her for two years . . . She then began laboriously recalling all the things about him that she liked – his seriousness, his white teeth, his clean clothes.
Outside, the wind was blowing hard, and the rain, coldly flailing the window panes, awoke in her an appetite for comfort, a good fire, a husband by her side, a little baby boy sleeping in the cradle – because the child was sure to be a boy and he would be called Carlos and would have Father Amaro’s dark eyes. Ah, Father Amaro! Once she was married, she would doubtless meet Father Amaro again. And then an idea pierced her whole being, made her sit up suddenly and forced her instinctively to seek out the dark of the window to hide her flaming cheeks. No, not that! That would be terrible! But the idea took implacable hold of her like a very strong arm simultaneously suffocating her and inflicting on her the most delicious pain. And then her old love, which spite and necessity had driven down into the depths of her soul, burst forth and flooded through her. Wringing her hands, she passionately repeated Amaro’s name again and again; she hungered for his kisses – oh, how she adored him! And it was all over, all over! And she, poor thing, would have to marry. Standing at the window, her face pressed against the darkness of the night, she wept softly.
Over tea, São Joaneira suddenly said:
‘If you’re going to do it, my dear, you should do it now. Start getting your trousseau together and, if possible, get married before the month is out.’
Amélia said nothing, but her imagination grew agitated at these words. Married before the month was out! Despite her indifference towards João Eduardo, the idea of living and sleeping with a passionate young man stirred her whole being.
And as her mother was going down to her bedroom, Amélia said:
‘What do you think, Mama? I feel a bit awkward about discussing it all with João Eduardo and accepting his proposal. It might be best to write him a letter . . .’
‘I agree, my dear, write to him. Ruça will take it round in the morning. Write him a nice letter, one that will please him.’
Amélia stayed up until late in the dining room writing a draft letter. It said:
Senhor João Eduardo,
Mama has informed me of the conversation she had with you. And if your feelings are genuine, and you have given me every proof that they are, I willingly accept your proposal, for you already know my feelings. As regards the trousseau and the papers to be drawn up, we can talk about that tomorrow. We will expect you for tea. Mama is very pleased and I hope that everything works out well for our happiness, as I am sure, with God’s help, it will. Mama sends her best wishes, as does your loving
Amélia Caminha
As soon as she had signed the letter, the sight of the sheets of white paper scattered before her made her feel like writing to Father Amaro. But what? To confess her love to him with the same quill still wet with the same ink with which she had just accepted another man as her husband? To accuse him of cowardice and to show her displeasure would be humiliating. And yet, although she had no reason to write to him, her hand nonetheless languorously wrote the first words: ‘My darling Amaro . . .’ She stopped, realising that there was no one who could deliver the letter for her. Ah, so they would have to separate like this, in silence, for ever. But why should they separate? she thought. Once she was married, she could still see Father Amaro. And the same idea returned, surreptitiously this time, and in such an honest guise that it did not alarm her: Father Amaro could be her confessor; he was the one person in all Christendom who could best guide her soul, her will, her conscience; there would be between them a constant, delicious exchange of confidences, of sweet admonishments; every Saturday, she would go to confession to receive in the light of his eyes and in the sound of his words a portion of happiness; and that would be chaste, exciting and to the glory of God.
She felt rather pleased with the impression, which she could not quite define, of an existence in which the flesh would receive its legitimate satisfactions, and her soul would enjoy the charms of an amorous devotion. Everything would turn out well after all . . . And soon afterwards, she was sleeping peacefully, dreaming that she was in her house, with her husband, and that she was sitting on Father Amaro’s knees, playing cards with her old friends, to the great contentment of the entire Cathedral.
The following day, Ruça took the letter to João Eduardo, and the two women spent the whole morning sewing by the window and talking about the wedding. Amélia did not want to leave her mother, and, since the house was large enough, the newlyweds would live on the first floor and São Joaneira would sleep in the room upstairs; the Canon would doubtless help with the trousseau; and they could spend their honeymoon on Dona Maria’s farm. And at this happy prospect, Amélia blushed beneath the eyes of her mother, who gazed at her adoringly over her spectacles.
When the Angelus rang, São Joaneira shut herself up in her bedroom downstairs to say her rosary, leaving Amélia alone ‘to sort things out with her young man’. Shortly afterwards, João Eduardo rang the doorbell. He was very nervous and had donned black gloves and drenched himself in eau-de-cologne. When he reached the door of the dining room, there was no light on, and Amélia’s pretty figure was silhouetted against the bright window. He placed his cloak down in one corner, as he usually did, and rubbing his hands, he went over to her, for she had still not moved. He said:
‘I got your note, Miss Amélia . . .’
‘Yes, I sent Ruça round with it first thing so as to catch you at home,’ she said, her cheeks burning.
‘I was on my way to the office, I was coming down the stairs . . . It must have been nine o’clock . . .’
‘Yes, it must have been . . .’ she said.
They fell silent, embarrassed. Then he delicately took her hands and said softly:
‘You still want to, then?’
‘I do,’ murmured Amélia.
‘And as soon as possible?’
‘Yes.’
He sighed, utterly happy.
‘I’m sure we’ll get on well, I’m sure we’ll get on very well!’ he said. And his hands, tenderly squeezing her arms, grasped them from the wrists to the elbows.
‘Mama says that we can all live here together,’ she said, trying to speak calmly.
‘Of course, and I’ll have some sheets made,’ he added, very agitated.
He suddenly drew her to him and kissed her on the lips; she gave a little sob, and then, weak and languid, abandoned herself to his arms.
‘Oh, my love!’ murmured João Eduardo.
They heard her mother’s shoes come squeaking up the stairs, and Amélia walked briskly over to the sideboard to light the oil lamp.
São Joaneira stood in the doorway and uttered her first words of motherly approval, saying kindly:
‘Are you sitting up here in the dark, my dears?’
It was Canon Dias who told Father Amaro a
bout Amélia’s wedding, one morning in the Cathedral. He spoke of the appropriateness of the marriage and added:
‘I’m pleased, because it’s what the girl wants and it’s a relief to her poor mother . . .’
‘Of course, of course,’ muttered Amaro, who had gone very white.
The Canon cleared his throat loudly and said:
‘So you can go round there again, now that everything’s in order . . . That unpleasant business in the newspaper is all water under the bridge . . .What’s done is done.’
‘Of course, of course . . .’ grunted Amaro. He flung his cape about him and left the church.
He was so furious that he had to stop himself cursing out loud as he walked along. On the corner of Rua das Sousas, he almost collided with Natário, who grabbed him by the sleeve in order to whisper in his ear:
‘I haven’t found out anything yet.’
‘About what?’
‘About the “Liberal”, about the article. But I’m working on it, oh yes!’
Amaro, anxious to talk to someone, said:
‘Have you heard the news? About Amélia’s marriage . . . What do you think?’
‘Yes, that fool Libaninho told me. He says the lad’s got the job. Through Dr Godinho, of course. He’s another one. What a bunch of scoundrels: Dr Godinho at loggerheads in his newspaper with the district government and the district government throwing jobs to Dr Godinho’s favourites . . . There’s no understanding them! We’re a country of rogues!’
‘Apparently everyone’s thrilled at São Joaneira’s house,’ said Amaro blackly.
‘Well, good luck to them! I haven’t got time to go round there . . . I haven’t got time for anything. I know what my goal is, to find out who this “Liberal” is and to crush him! I can’t stand these people who take a beating, say nothing and turn the other cheek. I’m not like that, oh no. I never forget.’ A rancorous shudder ran through him, curling his fingers into claws, narrowing his bony chest, and he said through clenched teeth: ‘When I hate, I really hate!’
He was silent for a moment, enjoying the taste of his own bile.
‘If you go to Rua da Misericórdia, give them my congratulations . . .’ And he added, fixing Amaro with his beady eyes: ‘That fool of a clerk is making off with the prettiest girl in town, the lucky so-and-so!’
Amaro bade him a brusque farewell and shot off down the road.
After that first terrible Sunday when the article had appeared, Father Amaro, had at first, very selfishly, thought only about the consequences – ‘the fatal consequences, dear God’ – that the scandal could have for him. What if it got around that he was the ‘dandified priest’ the ‘Liberal’ was addressing? He spent two days in terror, fearfully expecting to see Father Saldanha appear at any moment, with his child-like face and mellifluous voice, telling him: ‘The precentor requires your presence!’ He spent that time preparing explanations, clever answers, flattering remarks. But when he saw that, despite the outspoken nature of the article, the precentor seemed ready ‘to turn a blind eye’, only then, feeling calmer, did he stop to consider his violently interrupted love affair. Fear made him astute, and he decided not to go back to Rua da Misericórdia for a while.
‘We’ll just let the storm pass,’ he thought.
In a fortnight or three weeks, when the article had been forgotten, he would go back to São Joaneira’s house; he would make it clear to the girl that he still adored her, but he would avoid their old familiarity, the whispered conversations, the chairs pushed cosily together at the card table; then, through Dona Maria da Assunção or through Dona Josefa Dias, he would arrange for Amélia to leave Father Silvério and take him as her confessor instead; they could reach some arrangement in the secrecy of the confessional; they would find some discreet modus vivendi, cautious meetings here and there, letters sent via the maid; and, if prudently conducted, there would be no danger of that love affair ever being one day revealed in the newspaper. And he was already congratulating himself on the cleverness of this plan when he received that terrible blow – the girl was getting married!
After his initial despair, which he vented by stamping on the floor and uttering blasphemies for which he immediately asked pardon from Our Lord Jesus Christ, he tried to calm himself and to think the matter through rationally. Where was that passion leading him? Into scandal. And once she was married, they each would follow their legitimate, sensible destinies, she with her family and he with his parish. When they met afterwards, they would exchange friendly greetings, and he could walk the streets of the town with his head high, without fear of gossip in the arcade, insinuations in the press, the precentor’s harsh words or any prickings of conscience. And his life would be happy. No, dear God, his life could not be happy without her. Without the excitement of visiting Rua da Misericórdia, of squeezing her hand, of hoping for even greater delights, what was there left to him? He would vegetate, like the mushrooms that grew in the damp corners of the Cathedral courtyard. And she, who had driven him mad with her flirtatious looks and manners, had simply turned her back on him as soon as another man appeared, someone who would make a good husband with a salary of 25$000 réis per month. All that sighing and blushing – pure mockery! She had toyed with him.
How he hated her, although not as much as he hated the clerk, who had triumphed because he was a man and had his freedom and his hair and his moustache, and an arm to offer her in the street. He lingered rancorously over visions of the clerk’s happiness: he saw him bringing her triumphantly home from the church; he saw him kissing her throat, her breasts . . . And these ideas made him stamp his feet furiously on the floor, startling Vicência downstairs in the kitchen.
Then he tried to get a grip on himself and all his faculties and to apply them to finding the best way to have his revenge. And then the old despair returned that he was not living in the times of the Inquisition and could not therefore pack them off to prison on some accusation of irreligion or black magic. Ah, a priest could have enjoyed himself then. But now, with the liberals in power, he was forced to watch as that wretched clerk earning six vinténs a day made off with the girl, whilst he, an educated priest, who might become a bishop or even Pope, had to bow his shoulders and ponder his grief alone. If God’s curses had any value, then let them be cursed. He hoped to see them overrun with children, with no bread in the cupboard, their last blanket pawned, gaunt with hunger, cursing each other – then he would laugh, oh, how he would laugh!
By Monday, he could contain himself no longer and he went to Rua da Misericórdia. São Joaneira was downstairs in the sitting room with Canon Dias. As soon as she saw him, she said:
‘Father Amaro, how good to see you! I was just talking about you. We wondered where you had got to, what with our good news.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ murmured Amaro, looking very pale.
‘It had to happen some time,’ said the Canon jovially. ‘May God make them happy and not give them too many children because meat is very expensive.’
Amaro smiled, hearing the piano upstairs.
It was Amélia playing, as she used to, ‘The Waltz of Two Worlds’; and João Eduardo, sitting very close to her, was turning the pages of the music.
‘Who was that, Ruça?’ she called, hearing Ruça coming up the stairs.
‘Father Amaro.’
The blood rushed to her face, and her heart beat so fast that for a moment her fingers hung motionless over the keys.
‘Oh, that’s all we needed,’ muttered João Eduardo.
Amélia bit her lip. She hated the clerk; she suddenly found everything about him repugnant, his voice, his manner, his body close to hers; she thought with delight of how, after she was married (since she had to get married), she would confess everything to Father Amaro and would never stop loving him! She felt no scruples at that moment, and almost wanted the clerk to notice the passion lighting up her face.
‘Honestly!’ she said. ‘Move over a bit, you don’t leave me enough room to play.’
She abruptly stopped playing the waltz and instead began singing ‘The Farewell’.
Ah, farewell, farewell!
Gone now are the days
When I lived happy by your side . . .
Her voice rose up ardently, sending the song down through the floorboards, straight to the heart of Amaro in the room below.
And Amaro, sitting on the sofa, his walking stick resting between his knees, devoured each note, while São Joaneira chattered on, describing the lengths of cotton she had bought for the sheets and the alterations she was going to make to the newly-weds’ bedroom, and the advantages of them all living together . . .
‘Won’t we be happy,’ broke in the Canon sourly, heaving himself to his feet. ‘We’d better go upstairs, we shouldn’t really leave the engaged couple alone like that.’
‘Oh, I’ve no worries on that account,’ said São Joaneira, smiling, ‘I trust him, he’s a very proper young man.’
Amaro was trembling as he went up the stairs and, as soon as he entered the room and saw Amélia’s face lit by the candles on the piano, he felt dazzled, as if the imminence of the wedding had made her even more beautiful, as if separation had made her even more enticing. He went over and, eyes downcast, gravely shook her hand and that of the clerk, mumbling:
‘Congratulations . . . Congratulations . . .’
He turned then and joined the Canon who had flopped down in his armchair complaining that he was tired and wanted his tea.
Amélia seemed abstracted, running her fingers dreamily over the keys. Father Amaro’s manner confirmed her suspicions: he wanted to be rid of her at all costs, the ungrateful wretch. He behaved as if nothing had happened, the scoundrel. In his priestly cowardice, terrified of the precentor, the newspaper, the gossip in the arcade, of everything, he had removed her from his imagination, from his heart and from his life, as one would remove a poisonous insect. Then, in order to enrage him, she began talking in a low tender voice to João Eduardo; she leaned languidly against his shoulder, giggling and whispering; they tried, with loud hilarity, to play a piece for four hands; then she pinched him, and he gave a piercing shriek. And São Joaneira gazed on them dotingly, while the Canon dozed, and Father Amaro, relegated, as once João Eduardo had been, to a corner of the room, sat leafing through the old scrapbook.
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 19
