‘Well?’ Sinhá Rita insisted.
With a gesture of his hand, he told her to wait. He rubbed his chin, looking for a way out. God in heaven! A decree from the Pope dissolving the church, or at least abolishing seminaries, would bring everything to a satisfactory conclusion. João Carneiro would go back home and play gin rummy. Imagine Napoleon’s barber being put in command of the army at the battle of Austerlitz … But the church was still there, seminaries were still there, his godson was still there, his back to the wall, eyes downcast, waiting, and giving no sign of apoplexy.
‘Go on, go,’ said Sinhá Rita, handing him his hat and stick.
There was nothing for it. The barber put his razor in its sheath, gripped his sword and went off to the wars. Damião breathed easier; on the outside, however, he remained the same, his eyes fixed on the ground, dejected. This time Sinhá Rita held his chin up.
‘Come on, get some supper, don’t be so miserable.’
‘Do you really think he’ll get anywhere?’
‘He’ll sort it all out,’ Sinhá Rita replied, with confidence. ‘Come on, the soup’s getting cold.’
In spite of Sinhá Rita’s jovial nature, and his own easygoing ways, Damião wasn’t as happy at supper as earlier that day. He didn’t trust his godfather’s pliable nature. However, he ate well; and towards the end of the meal returned to the funny stories they’d been telling in the morning. When he was eating his dessert, he heard the noise of people in the next room, and asked if they were coming to take him away.
‘It must be the girls.’
They got up and went to the sitting room. The ‘girls’ were five neighbours who came every afternoon to have coffee with Sinhá Rita, and stayed until it was dark.
The pupils, when their supper was over, went back to their work cushions. Sinhá Rita presided over all these womenfolk, those who lived there and those from outside. The gentle clicking of the bobbins and the neighbours’ chatter were such homely noises, so far away from theology and Latin, that the lad let himself be drawn in by them and forgot everything else. For the first few minutes, the women were a little shy; but that soon wore off. One of them sang a modinha, accompanied by Sinhá Rita on the guitar, and the afternoon passed quickly by. Before the end, Sinhá Rita asked Damião to tell a certain story she’d been amused by. It was the same one that had made Lucretia laugh.
‘Come on, Senhor Damião, don’t play hard to get, the girls want to be off. You’ll like this story.’
Damião had no option but to obey. Even though the expectations had been built up, which reduced the surprise and the effect, the story ended in laughter from the girls. Damião, pleased with himself, didn’t forget Lucretia and looked at her, to see if she’d laughed too. He saw she had her face close to her cushion to finish her task. She wasn’t laughing; or maybe she’d laughed inwardly, just as she coughed.
The neighbours left, and twilight came. Damião’s soul blackened as night fell. What could be happening? Over and over he went to look through the shutters, and came back more and more disheartened. Not a sign of his godfather. It was plain that his father had told him to shut up, called a couple of slaves and gone to the police to ask for the loan of a constable, and was on his way to take him back to the seminary by force. Damião asked Sinhá Rita if you could get out of the house by the back; he ran into the backyard and thought he could jump over the wall. He asked if there was some way of escaping to the Rua da Vala, or if it was better to ask some neighbour to do him the favour of taking him in. The worst thing was his cassock; if Sinhá Rita could get him a jacket, or an old frock-coat… Sinhá Rita had just the thing, a coat, a memento from João Carneiro, or perhaps an over-sight.
‘I’ve one of my late husband’s coats,’ she said, laughing, ‘but what’s all this fuss for? It’ll all work out, don’t worry.’
Finally, just as night came, one of his godfather’s slaves appeared with a letter for Sinhá Rita. The business wasn’t settled yet; the father was furious and on the point of smashing the furniture; he’d shouted that no, sir, the young dandy would go to the seminary, or he’d put him in jail, or the army. João Carneiro had had a terrific struggle to persuade his friend not to take things in hand now, but sleep on it for the night, and think whether it was right to destine such a rebellious and vicious young man to the religious life. He explained in the letter that he spoke in those terms the better to argue the case. He’d not won it yet, he said; but on the next day he’d go and see him and insist again. He concluded by saying the boy should come to his house.
Damião finished reading the letter and looked at Sinhá Rita. ‘She’s my last refuge,’ he thought. Sinhá Rita had a horn inkwell brought over, and at the bottom of the letter itself, on the same sheet, wrote this reply: ‘Joãozinho, either you save the boy, or I’ll never see you again.’ She sealed the letter with a wafer, and gave it to the slave, telling him to take it quickly. Again she tried to cheer the seminarian, who had once more donned the habit of humility and dismay. She told him to calm down, for this was now her affair.
‘They’ll see what I’m worth! I’m no pushover, wait and see!’
It was time to gather in the work. Sinhá Rita examined it: all the pupils had finished. Only Lucretia was still at her cushion, weaving her bobbins in and out, unable to see; Sinhá Rita went over to her, saw that her task wasn’t finished, flew into a rage, and grabbed her by the ear.
‘Ah, you little good-for-nothing!’
‘Missy, missy! For the love of God! For Our Lady in heaven!’
‘Good-for-nothing! Our Lady doesn’t protect idle girls!’
Lucretia struggled, pulled herself away from her mistress’s grip, and ran inside; Sinhá Rita went after her and grabbed her.
‘Get here!’
‘Please, mistress, forgive me!’ The little girl coughed.
‘Certainly not. Where’s the cane?’
And they both came back into the room, one held by her ear, struggling, weeping and begging; the other saying over and over that no, she was going to punish her.
‘Where’s the cane?’
The cane was at the head of the settee, on the other side of the room. Sinhá Rita, so as not to let go of the girl, shouted to the seminarian:
‘Senhor Damião, pass me that cane, if you please.’
Damião went cold … Cruel moment! A cloud passed before his eyes. Yes, he had sworn to give the girl his protection – she had got behind in her work because of him …
‘Give me the cane, Senhor Damião!’
Damião got as far as going towards the settee. Then the girl begged him for the sake of everything he held most sacred, his mother, his father, Our Lord himself …
‘Help me, young master!’
Sinhá Rita, her face on fire and her eyes starting out of her head, demanded the cane without letting go of the girl, who was now paralysed by a fit of coughing. Damião felt a pang of guilt; but he needed to get out of the seminary so badly! He went over to the settee, picked up the cane and handed it to Sinhá Rita.
Midnight Mass
I’ve never been able to understand the conversation I had with a lady, many years ago, when I was seventeen, and she was thirty. It was Christmas Eve. I had arranged to go to Midnight Mass with a neighbour, and decided not to go to bed; it was fixed that I’d wake him at midnight.
The house where I lodged belonged to the notary Meneses, whose first marriage had been with one of my cousins. His second wife, Conceição, and her mother had made me feel welcome when I came from Mangaratiba, some months before, to study for my entrance exams. I lived a quiet life, in that two-storey house on the Rua do Senado, with my books, a few acquaintances, outings from time to time. It was a small family, consisting of the notary, his wife and mother-in-law and two female slaves. They had old-fashioned habits. At ten at night everyone was in their rooms; by half past ten the whole house was asleep. I’d never been to the theatre, and more than once, hearing Meneses say he was going, I asked him to take me w
ith him. When this happened, the mother-in-law made a face, and the slaves stifled their giggles; he didn’t answer, got dressed, went out and only came back the next morning. Later on I found out that the theatre was a living, breathing euphemism. Meneses had an ongoing affair with a lady who was separated from her husband, and slept away one night a week. Conceição had suffered at the outset from the existence of this rival; but finally she’d resigned herself to the arrangement, got used to it, and ended up thinking it was just fine.
Dear, good Conceição! They called her ‘the saint’ and she merited the title, so easily did she put up with her husband’s neglect. In truth, she was of a middling temperament, given neither to floods of tears nor to bursts of laughter. In the department we’re talking of she was like a Muslim; she’d accept a harem, so long as appearances were kept up. God forgive me, if I misjudge her. Everything about her was passive and attenuated. Even her face was average, neither pretty nor ugly. She was what we call a nice person. She spoke ill of no one, and pardoned everything. She didn’t know how to hate; maybe even she didn’t know how to love.
On that Christmas Eve, the notary went to the theatre. It was in 1861 or 1862. I should have been back in Mangaratiba, on my holidays; but I stayed till Christmas to see ‘Midnight Mass in the big city’. The family went to bed at the usual time; I went into the front room, dressed and ready. From there I could go into the vestibule and leave without waking anyone. There were three keys to the door; the notary had one, I’d take another and the third was kept in the house.
‘But, Senhor Nogueira, what will you do all this time?’ Conceição’s mother asked me.
‘I’ll read, Dona Ignacia.’
I had a novel with me, The Three Musketeers, in an old translation published by the Jornal do Commercio, I think. I sat down at the table in the middle of the room, and by the light of a kerosene lamp, while the house was asleep, I leaped once more on to d’Artagnan’s scrawny horse and embarked on my adventures. In a short while I was completely drunk on Dumas. The minutes flew by, instead of dragging as they usually do when we’re waiting; I heard the clock strike eleven, but only by chance – I hardly noticed a thing. However, a little noise I heard from inside the house awoke me from my reading. Someone was walking along the corridor leading from the parlour to the dining room; I lifted my head; soon I saw the figure of Conceição appear at the door.
‘Haven’t you gone yet?’ she asked.
‘No, I don’t think it’s midnight yet.’
‘How patient you are!’
Conceição came into the front room, trailing along in her bedroom slippers. She was wearing a white dressing gown loosely tied at her waist. Thin as she was, she looked like a romantic vision, not out of keeping with my novel. I shut the book; she went to sit on the chair in front of me, near the settee. I asked her if I’d made a noise and unintentionally woken her; quickly she replied:
‘No! Of course not! I just woke, that’s all.’
I looked at her a little and doubted what she said. Her eyes didn’t look as if she’d just been asleep; she looked as if she’d been awake. Someone else would have made something of this observation; I hurriedly rejected it, without realising that maybe she’d not been sleeping because of me, and was lying so as not to worry or annoy me. I’ve already said she was a good woman, very good.
‘But it must be nearly time,’ I said.
‘What patience you have to wait up, while our neighbour’s asleep! And alone! Aren’t you afraid of ghosts? I thought I gave you a fright when you saw me.’
‘I was surprised when I heard the steps; but you soon came in.’
‘What were you reading? Don’t tell me, I know, it’s the Musketeers.’
‘That’s right; it’s very good.’
‘Do you like novels?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you read A moreninha?’1
‘By Dr Macedo? I’ve got it in Mangaratiba.’
‘I’m very fond of novels, but I don’t read much, for lack of time. What novels have you read?’
I began to tell her the names of some. Conceição listened to me with her head leaning on the back of the chair, her eyes peeping between half-shut lids, fixed on me. From time to time she passed her tongue over her lips, to wet them. When I stopped talking she said nothing to me; we stayed that way for a few seconds. Then I saw her lift her head, entwine her fingers and rest her chin on them, with her elbows on the arms of the chair, all this without taking her big sharp eyes off me.
‘Maybe she’s bored,’ I thought.
Then, out loud:
‘Dona Conceição, I think it’s about time, and I …’
‘No, no, it’s still early. I saw the clock this minute, and it’s half past eleven. You’ve got time. If you can’t sleep at night can you get through the day without sleeping?’
‘I have done in the past.’
‘Not me; if I lose a night’s sleep I’m useless the next day unless I nod off, even for half an hour. But I’m getting old too.’
‘You, old, Dona Conceição?’
Perhaps my saying this so warmly made her smile. Usually, her gestures were slow and her attitudes calm; now, however, she suddenly got up, went over to the other side of the room and paced back and forth between the street window and her husband’s study door. Like this, in this respectable state of disarray, she made a singular impression on me. Though she was thin she had a kind of sway to her walk, as if she found it hard to carry her own weight; this had never seemed as marked as on that night. She stopped from time to time, examining a piece of curtain, or putting some object into its right place on the sideboard; finally she stopped in front of me, with the table between us. The circle of her ideas was narrow; she went back to her surprise at finding me waiting up alone; I repeated what she already knew, that is, that I had never seen Midnight Mass in the capital, and didn’t want to miss it.
‘It’s the same as in the country; all Masses are alike.’
‘I believe you; but here there’s bound to be more show, and more people. Holy Week in Rio is more colourful than in the country. Not to mention St John’s Night, and St Anthony’s …’
Little by little, she’d leaned forward; she’d put her elbows on the marble top of the table and her face between her outspread hands. Her sleeves weren’t buttoned, and fell naturally; I saw half her arms, very pale, and not as thin as you might have thought. I had seen her arms before, though not often; at that moment, however, they made a great impression on me. Her veins were so blue that in spite of the dim light I could count them from where I was. More than the book, it was Conceiço’s presence that kept me awake. I went on saying what I thought about festivals in the country and the town, and other things that came into my head. As I went on I changed the subject without knowing why, going from one to another and then back to the first, and laughing to make her smile and see her white, gleaming teeth, all neat and even. Her eyes weren’t exactly black, but they were dark; her nose, long, narrow and slightly curved, gave her face an interrogative look. When I raised my voice a little, she restrained me:
‘Not so loud! You might wake Mama.’
She never abandoned that position: with our faces so close, it filled me with delight. It was true, there was no need to raise our voices to be heard; the two of us whispered, I more than she, because I talked more; at times, she looked earnest, very earnest, with her forehead a little furrowed. In the end, she tired of this; her manner changed and she moved. She came round to my side of the table and sat on the settee. I turned round, and secretly caught sight of the tips of her slippers; but this was only while she was sitting down, for her dressing gown was long and instantly covered them. I remember they were black. Conceição said in a low voice:
‘Mama’s room is way off, but she sleeps very lightly; if she woke now, poor thing, she’d take a while to get back to sleep.’
‘I’m like that too.’
‘What?’ she asked, leaning towards me to catch my words bet
ter.
I went to sit on the chair next to the settee and repeated what I’d said. She laughed at the coincidence; she was a light sleeper too – that made three of us.
‘There are times when I’m like Mama; when I wake up, I can’t get back to sleep. I roll around in the bed, get up, light a candle, walk round, go back to bed, but it’s no good.’
‘That’s what happened to you tonight.’
‘No, no,’ she interrupted.
I didn’t understand her denial; maybe she didn’t either. She picked up the ends of the cord of her gown and tapped them on her knees – her right knee, rather, for she’d just crossed her legs. Then she told me a story from a dream, and told me she’d only ever had one nightmare, when she was a child. She asked me if I had them. The conversation began again, slowly, lengthily, without my thinking about the time or the Mass. When I ended one story or an explanation, she invented another question or another subject, and I began talking again. From time to time, she restrained me:
‘Not so loud, not so loud …’
There were pauses too. Twice I thought I saw her going to sleep; but her eyes, shut for an instant, opened soon after, with no sign of sleepiness or fatigue, as if she’d shut them to see better. At one of these moments, I think she saw me absorbed by her presence, and I remember she closed them again – whether slowly or hurriedly, I don’t know. There are impressions from that night which seem truncated or confused. I contradict myself, and get mixed up. One that I still have fresh in my mind is that, on one occasion, this woman who was merely nice looked beautiful, truly beautiful. She was standing with her arms crossed; out of respect for her, I tried to get up; she didn’t let me, put one of her hands on my shoulder, and made me sit down. I think she was going to say something; but she shivered, as if she had felt the cold, turned her back on me and went to sit on the chair where she’d found me reading. From there she gave a glance at the mirror, which was above the settee, and talked about two pictures hanging on the wall.
A Chapter of Hats: Selected Stories Page 19
