The Looking-Glass, page 2
Everything seemed better to him now, things had a new aspect, the sky was limpid and the faces cheerful. He even laughed at his fears, calling them childish; he recalled the words in Vilela’s letter and saw that they were friendly and familiar. Where had he seen any threat? He could tell, too, that they were urgent, and that he had been wrong to delay as he had; it could be the very gravest of matters.
“Go on, quickly, go on,” he said again to the coachman.
And to himself, to explain his delay to his friend, he invented something; it seems he also formed a plan to take advantage of the incident to return to their previous regularity … And along with his plans, the words of the fortune-teller resounded in his soul. Truly she had divined the purpose of his consultation, his condition, the existence of a third party; why should she not have divined the rest? The present unknown is no different from the future. So it was, slow and persistent, that the young man’s old beliefs were being restored to their supremacy, and mystery seized him with fingernails of iron. At times he wanted to laugh, and he did laugh at himself, somewhat vexed; but the woman, the cards, those clipped, positive words, then the exhortation: Go, go, ragazzo innamorato; and at the end, in the distance, that barcarole of farewell, slow and graceful, these were the recent elements which, together with the old ones, formed a faith that was lively and new.
The truth is, his heart was glad now and impatient, thinking of happy hours gone by and those yet to come. As the cab passed through Glória, Camilo looked out to sea, reaching his eyes far to where the water and the sky meet in an infinite embrace, and thus he had a sense of the future – a long, long, endless future.
Soon he arrived at Vilela’s house. He stepped out, pushed the metal garden gate and entered. The house was silent. He climbed the six stone steps, and barely had time to knock before the door opened, and Vilela appeared.
“My apologies, I couldn’t get here earlier; what is the matter?”
Vilela did not reply; his features were discomposed; he gestured to Camilo and they walked into a small inner room. As he stepped inside, Camilo could not contain a scream of horror: at the back of the room, on the sofa, Rita lay dead and bloody. Vilela took him by the collar, and with two shots from his revolver, laid him out dead on the floor.
THE POSTHUMOUS PORTRAIT GALLERY
I
No, there is simply no way to describe the dismay caused across the whole of Engenho Velho, and particularly in the hearts of his friends, by the death of Joaquim Fidélis. Nothing more unexpected. He was strong, in cast-iron health, and he had been to a dance on the very night before, where all those present saw him conversing and happy. He even danced himself, at the invitation of a woman in her sixties, the widow of a friend, who took him by the arm and said:
“Come along now, let’s show these whippersnappers what we oldies can do.”
Joaquim Fidélis protested, smiling; but he obeyed and he danced. It was two o’clock when he left, wrapping his sixty years in a thick cloak – we were in June 1879 at that time – putting his bald head into his hood, lighting a cigar, and stepping nimbly into his carriage.
In the carriage he might have dozed; but at home, despite the hour and the great weight of his eyelids, he still went to his desk, opened a drawer, took out one of several handwritten booklets – and spent three or four minutes writing ten or eleven lines. His last words were these: “In short, a frightful evening; some long-in-the-tooth reveller forced me to dance a quadrille with her; at the door this yokel asked me for a gift. Frightful!” He put the notebook away, undressed, got into bed, fell asleep and died.
Yes, the news dismayed the whole neighbourhood. So loved was he, with those beautiful manners, able to talk to anybody, well-educated with those who were well-educated, ignorant with the ignorant, youthful with the youths, and even girlish with the girls. And then so obliging, ready to write letters, to talk to friends, to fix quarrels, to lend money. In his home he would gather some of his closest acquaintances from the neighbourhood, and sometimes from other areas, too; they would play ombre or whist, they would talk about politics. Joaquim Fidélis had been a member of the chamber of deputies until the chamber was dissolved by the Marquis of Olinda, in 1863. Failing to get re-elected, he quit public life. He was a conservative, though he accepted the label only with great difficulty, believing it a political Gallicism. One of the Saquarema group, that was what he liked to be called. But he relinquished everything; it seemed he had lately disconnected from his own party, and finally even from their views. There are reasons to believe that, from a certain point in time, he had been a profound sceptic, and nothing more.
He was rich and well-schooled. He had graduated in Law in 1842. Now he did nothing, and read a lot. He had no women in the house. A widower since the first wave of yellow fever, he refused any second marriage, to the great grief of three or four ladies, who had been nurturing that particular hope for some time. One of them even perfidiously prolonged her beautiful curls of 1845 until she was a grandmother twice over; another, a younger woman, likewise widowed, thought to keep him with some concessions as generous as they were irreparable. “My dear Leocádia,” he would say on those occasions when she hinted at a matrimonial solution, “why do we not continue just as we are? Mystery is the very charm of life.” He lived with a nephew, Benjamim, the son of a sister, orphaned from a tender age. Joaquim Fidélis raised him and got him into his studies, the boy eventually receiving a bachelor’s diploma in the legal sciences, in the year 1877.
Benjamim was in a daze. He could not take in his uncle’s death. He had run to the bedroom, found a corpse in the bed, cold, his eyes open, a slight ironic curl on the left corner of his mouth. He wept and wept. He had not lost any mere relative but a father, a tender and devoted father, a unique heart. Benjamim, at last, wiped away his tears; and because it pained him to see the dead man’s eyes open, and especially the curled lip, he corrected both of those things. The dead man thus received his tragic expression; but the originality of the mask was lost.
“Don’t say that!” one of the neighbours, Diogo Vilares, was soon shouting, when he learned of the event.
Diogo Vilares was one of Joaquim Fidélis’s five principal intimates. He owed him the job that he had been doing since 1857. Now he came over to the house, followed by the other four, who arrived right after him, one by one, stunned, incredulous. First came Elias Xavier, who had attained through the intercession of the deceased, it was said, a commendation; then João Bras, a member of parliament who was, under the substitutes rule, elected with Joaquim Fidélis’s influence. Then, finally, came Fragoso and Galdino, who did not owe him diplomas, commendations or jobs, but other favours. To Galdino he had advanced some small amount of capital, and for Frangoso he had arranged a good marriage … And now dead! Dead for ever! Standing around the bed of the deceased, they gazed at the serene face and recalled their final party, from last Sunday, so intimate, so jovial! And, closer still, two nights ago, when the usual rounds of ombre went on until eleven.
“Do not come tomorrow,” Joaquim Fidélis had said to them. “I shall be at Carvalhinho’s dance.”
“And after that …?”
“The night after tomorrow, I will be here.”
And as they left, he had even given them a packet of very fine cigars, as he did on occasion, with the addition of some sweets for the little ones, and two or three refined jokes … All faded away! All scattered! All over!
The burial was attended by many important people: two senators, an ex-minister, noblemen, men of means, lawyers, traders, doctors; but the coffin-handles were held by the five close friends and Benjamim. None of them wanted to yield this final favour to anybody else, considering it a personal and non-transferable duty. The valediction at the cemetery was spoken by João Brás, a touching farewell, with rather too much style for such a sudden event, but, still, excusable. Once the shovelful of earth had been thrown, every mourner moved away from the grave, apart from the six of them, who watched the gravediggers go about the rest of their indifferent work. They did not step away until they had seen the grave filled up, and the funeral wreaths placed atop it.
II
The seventh-day mass gathered them all together again in the church. When the mass was over, the five friends accompanied the dead man’s nephew back to the house. Benjamim invited them to join him for lunch.
“I hope Uncle Joaquim’s friends will be my friends, too,” he said.
They went in, they had lunch. At lunch they talked about the dead man; each of them told a little anecdote, shared a witticism; they were unanimous in their praise and their feelings of loss. After the meal, since they had asked for something to remember the deceased by, they moved into the study, and chose freely: one man an old pen, another a glasses case, a pamphlet, some private remnant or other. Benjamim felt consoled. He informed them that he intended to preserve the study just so. He had not even opened the desk. He did open it then, however, and, with them, inventoried the contents of some drawers. Letters, loose pieces of paper, concert programmes, menus from some superb dinners, everything jumbled and muddled together. Among other things, they found a few handwritten notebooks, numbered and dated.
“A journal!” said Benjamim.
It was, indeed, a journal with the deceased’s impressions, like secretly kept memories, a man’s confidences to himself. Great was the friends’ emotion; to read it was to be talking to him still. Such an upright character! Such a discreet soul! Benjamim began to read, but his voice quickly choked up, and João Brás continued.
Their interest in the writing numbed the pain of the death. It was a book worthy of the printing-press. Much political and social observation, much philosophical reflection, some stories about public men, about Feijó, about Vasconcelos, other stories that were purely amorous, the names of ladies, Leocádia among them; a collection of events and comments. Each man marvelled at the deceased’s skill, the charms of his style, the interest of his subject-matter. Some shared their opinions about typographical printing; Benjamim agreed, on the condition that certain things be excluded, their being either inappropriate or excessively private. And they continued to read, skipping over pieces and pages, until the clock struck noon. They all got up; Diogo Vilares was already going to arrive at the office out of hours; João Brás and Elias had somewhere to be together; Galdino was going on to the store; Fragoso needed to change out of his black garb to accompany his wife to the Rua do Ouvidor. They agreed to meet again to continue their reading. Certain details had given them an itching of scandal, and itches need to be scratched: which is what they hoped to do, by reading.
“Until tomorrow, then,” they said.
“Until tomorrow.”
Once alone, Benjamim continued to read what his uncle had written. Among other things, he did admire the portrait of the widow Leocádia, a masterpiece of patience and likeness, even if the date coincided with that of their affair. It was evidence of a rare impartiality of spirit. As for the others, the deceased was excellent in his portraits. Starting from 1873 or 1874, the notebooks were full of them, some of the living, others of the dead, a few of public men, Paula Sousa, Aureliano, Olinda, etc. They were brief and substantial, sometimes three or four bold strokes, of such fidelity and perfection that it was as if the figure had been photographed. Benjamim kept reading; suddenly he came across Diogo Vilares. And he read these few lines:
Diogo Vilares. – I have referred to this friend on many occasions, and I will do so on many more, if he does not first bore me to death, a skill in which I deem him a professional. He asked me years ago to secure some employment for him, which I did. He did not warn me in what currency he would be repaying me. What rare gratitude! He went so far as to compose a sonnet and publish it. He talked to me about the favour I had done him at every step, he paid me great compliments; at last, it stopped. Later we became more intimately acquainted. I came to know him even better then. C’est le genre ennuyeux. He is not a bad ombre partner. I am told he owes nothing to anybody. A good family man. Stupid and credulous. In the space of four days, I have heard him say of one minister that he was excellent and loathsome – his interlocutors being different. He laughs a great deal and not well. Everybody, on their first encounter with him, supposes him a serious fellow; on the second day they click their fingers at him. The reason for this is his appearance, or more specifically, his cheeks, which lend him a rather superior air.
Benjamim’s first sensation was of having escaped some danger. What if Diogo Vilares had been there? He reread the portrait and could barely believe his eyes; but there was no denying it, it was Vilares’s own name, it was his uncle’s own hand. And he was not the only one of the friends; Benjamim leafed through the pages and found Elias:
Elias Xavier. – This Elias is a subordinate spirit, destined to serve, and to serve haughtily, like coachmen in an elegant house. He commonly treats my private visits with a certain arrogance and disdain: the politics of an ambitious flunky. From the first weeks, I understood that he wanted to make himself my closest friend; and I understood equally that, on the day he actually found himself in such a position, he would turf all the rest out onto the street. There are moments when he calls me into a window recess to talk in secret of the sun and the rain, his obvious purpose being to instil a suspicion in other people that there are private matters between us, which he does indeed achieve, because everybody is exceedingly courteous towards him. He is intelligent, cheerful and polite. He talks very well. I do not know any man quicker to understand. He is no coward, nor a slanderer. He only speaks ill of people out of self-interest; lacking any interest, he keeps quiet; true slander is gratuitous. Devoted and ingratiating. He has no ideas, this is true; but there is this one big difference between him and Diogo Vilares: Diogo repeats quickly and ignorantly those ideas that he hears, whereas Elias knows how to make them his own and plant them in the conversation at an opportune moment. One incident in 1865 is a good demonstration of the man’s cunning. Having supplied a few freed slaves for the Paraguayan war, he was set to receive a commendation. He did not need me; but he came to ask me to intercede, two or three times, with a look of distress and much beseeching. I spoke to the minister, who replied: “Elias already knows that the order has been drawn up; all that is needed now is the Emperor’s signature.” I understood then that this was merely a strategy in order that he might acknowledge this obligation to me. A good ombre partner; a bit quarrelsome, but shrewd.
“Oh my, Uncle Joaquim!” exclaimed Benjamim, getting to his feet. And then, after a few moments, he mused: “I am reading a heart, an unpublished book. I knew the public edition, the revised and expurgated one. This is the primitive interior text, the precise and authentic text. But who ever would have imagined it … Oh my, Uncle Joaquim!”
And sitting back down, he re-read the portrait of Elias, at a leisurely pace, considering the characteristics. Although he lacked sufficient observation to allow him to evaluate the truth of what was written, he found it in many parts, at least, a good likeness. He compared these iconographical notes, so stark, so blunt, with his uncle’s civil and charming manners, and felt himself overtaken by a certain terror and unease. And of himself, for example, what might the deceased have said of him? With this in mind, he leafed further through the pages, overlooking a few ladies, public men, found Fragoso – the briefest of sketches – and Galdino right after him, and João Brás four pages later. The first had just taken away a pen of his uncle’s, maybe the very same with which the deceased had produced his portrait. The sketch was brief, and read thus:
Fragoso. – Honest, with sugary manners and handsome. It was no trouble to marry him off; he and his wife live very well together. I know he adores me extraordinarily – almost as much as he does himself. His talk is banal, polished and hollow.
Galdino Madeira. – The best heart in the world and a character without blemish; but the qualities of his mind destroy the others. I lent him some money, for family reasons, and because I did not need it. He has a kind of hole in his brain, through which his mind drains and falls into the void. He will never reflect for three minutes straight. He lives mostly on images, on borrowed phrases. The “teeth of calumny” and other expressions, as battered as old guest-house mattresses, are his delights. He is easily shamed at cards, and once shamed he makes a point of losing, and of showing that it is deliberate. He does not dismiss his bad shop assistants. If he did not have a bookkeeper, it is doubtful whether he could add up his own loose change. One subdelegate, a friend of mine who owed him a little money for two years, used to tell me with great mirth that whenever Galdino saw him on the street, instead of asking him to settle his debt, he would ask instead for news from the ministry.
João Brás. – No fool, and no dullard. Very attentive, albeit unmannerly. He cannot watch a minister’s car driving past but he pales and looks away. I believe he is ambitious; but at his age, with no career, his ambition is turning gradually to envy. For the two years in which he served as a parliamentarian he fulfilled his role honourably: he worked hard, and made some good speeches, not brilliant ones, but solid, full of facts and thoughtful. The proof that he has retained a trace of ambition is the ardour with which he pursues certain prestigious or honorary posts; a few months ago, he agreed to be president of a São José brotherhood, and I am told that he fulfils that role with exemplary zeal. I do believe he is an atheist, but I cannot assert so much. He laughs little and discreetly. His life is pure and austere, but his character does have one or two fraudulent notes, which lack the artist’s hand; on very small matters, he lies easily.
