Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 15

  8th – Today, for the second time in two days, the mistress returned to Senhor Timóteo’s room. There was no champagne, but a modest pot of tea, which I prepared. Unable to forget Senhor Valdo’s words, I confess that I was surprised by this second visit so soon after the first. While I was serving tea, I tried to linger longer than usual, in order to gauge the degree of intimacy that had grown up between these two new friends. What could two such different people find to talk about? At first, they chatted about our town, Vila Velha—and she complained about its bad roads, saying that while there had been improvements made in Mercês, Queimados, and Rio Espera, there was no sign of anything similar happening in Vila Velha. Senhor Timóteo agreed, laying the blame on the mayor, who, in his opinion, was a fool and a thief. Gradually, though, I saw that, beneath the apparent superficiality of that conversation, there existed between them a mutual understanding—it was as if they had talked long and hard and reached an agreement on some matter of great importance. Without knowing quite why, my heart contracted. What would he be capable of, that man whom others said was not quite right in the head, and who did indeed behave like someone mentally ill? He might not be dangerously mad, but who knew what he might do? Immersed in these sad thoughts, I pulled a small table into the middle of the room. I also noticed that, at one point, they stopped talking, as if waiting for me to leave—and on purpose and in order to affirm my independence, I began painstakingly polishing the cups, occasionally glancing across at the mistress and at Senhor Timóteo. Then Dona Nina said something I didn’t quite catch, but which must have been very funny, because Senhor Timóteo erupted in a series of muffled laughs, exclamations and yelps. Then, as if they had noticed my determination not to leave, they began another boring, banal conversation about fashion or some other such nonsense. The conversation changed then and became faster, more energetic. They were talking about the Chácara, and Senhor Timóteo launched into a passionate description of what the garden used to look like. Dona Nina grew equally passionate and said that flowers were the thing she loved best in the world. No jewel, no diamond, no turquoise was worth as much to her as a few rosebuds about to open. Senhor Timóteo suggested that this was perhaps because she had been brought up in a city. Dona Nina was not sure what the reason was, but spoke nostalgically about the flowers that a friend, a colonel, used to bring her. She concluded, saying:

  “They were so lovely, the roses. But they are not my favorite flower.”

  “What’s your favorite, then?” asked Senhor Timóteo, sipping the tea I had poured him.

  “Violets,” she said. (And I remember that, suddenly, as if her thoughts had entered some shadowy zone, her eyes grew dark. And her voice, abandoning its earlier frivolous tone, became suddenly more serious.). “Timóteo, will you promise me one thing?”

  “Anything, my angel.”

  “I’m sure that I will never go back to Rio . . .”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged:

  “I don’t know, but something tells me I’m going to die here.”

  “What a sad thought!” protested Senhor Timóteo.

  “Sad or not, it’s the truth. And I want you to promise me one thing.”

  “Of course, anything,” he said. “But tell me, why would you die now?”

  “I’m not talking about now, but we all have to die one day, don’t we?”

  He tried to lighten the tone:

  “Yes, but I’m likely to go before you do.”

  “No, no,” she said firmly. “I’ll go first. And I want you to promise that you won’t forget me and will place some violets on my coffin.”

  At this unusual request, Senhor Timóteo was touched and took her hands in his:

  “I will do anything you wish, my angel. But you mustn’t think like that. I bet it was my brother who . . .”

  She covered his mouth with her hand and the conversation moved on. It was hot, and the sun was visible through the closed shutters. In some dark corner of the room a bee was buzzing. Dona Nina got up, kissed her brother-in-law and left, saying that she needed to write a letter to Rio. Senhor Timóteo and I were left alone, and I was just about to leave too, when he called me back.

  “Betty, do you remember Father Justino? When my mother was alive, he often used to come to the Chácara.”

  “Of course I remember, sir,” and I was surprised at the abrupt shift from unaccustomed frivolity to his more usual grave, reserved manner.

  “Father Justino,” he went on, “sometimes said some very true things. Nothing very profound, you understand, because a provincial priest can’t be expected to know very much, but one day . . .”

  He paused as if trying to recall the priest’s exact words, then went on:

  “One day, in the garden, he told me that a sin is almost always something very tiny, a grain of sand, a nothing—but that it can destroy an entire soul. Ah, Betty, the soul is a strong thing, an invisible, indestructible force. If a tiny pinch of sin—a nothing, a dream, a nasty thought—can destroy it, what will a large dose of poison do, a sin instilled drop by drop into the heart you want to destroy?”

  I didn’t really understand what he meant, but I stared at him in alarm.

  10.

  Valdo Meneses’ Letter

  Post-script written in margin:

  Make no mistake, Nina, you will find things here very different now. I don’t love you in the way I once did, and all you can expect from me is an honest, compassionate coolness. I will meet you at the station, and together we will rebuild the relationship between us that should not have been severed in the first place, but which, alas for us, now lies in ruins. But just remember that I am only doing this for the sake of the dignity of the Meneses .......................................................... ....................................................................................................................

  Yes, you can come—of course, no one can stop you returning to the house on which you so high-handedly turned your back all those years ago (fifteen years, Nina—fifteen years!). I was not at first going to reply to your letter or give in to your entreaties . . .

  However, on reading your most recent letter, I see there is no putting you off and that I will have to drain this poisoned chalice to the dregs, and silence will help neither of us: we will have to look each other in the eye, and I know that, just as I will not have the heart to refuse you my protection, so you will not have the courage to live without it. Perhaps everything will be different now: my brother, about whom you complained so much in the past, is older and more irascible than ever, and my sister-in-law has grown even quieter and sadder. The house is just the same, but time is visibly taking its toll: yet more windows that won’t open, the green paintwork growing ever darker, the walls cracked by the beating rain, and the wilder parts of the garden invading the flower beds. There’s no denying it, Nina, things have changed since you left—as if an engine, dependent entirely on its own momentum, had suddenly stopped working—and the calm that descended on the house after your departure brought with it, too, the first signs of death that so often reveal themselves in our moments of repose; we have stopped in time, and our slow progress toward extinction has created a climate to which you will probably never be able to adapt. Despite all this, the eternal spirit of the Meneses family remains and for that we are thankful, for it is the only thing that cheers and sustains us, like a steel joist holding up crumbling masonry. You will find us, immutable, at our posts, and the house exactly where it has always been. As time goes by, many things may get lost along the way without us even noticing, but others will grow and gather strength within us, and so, in some ways, due to circumstance or fate, we are more Meneses than ever—as you will see the moment you set foot once again in the Chácara.

  For us there remains, like weeds clinging desperately to a ruined wall, the nostalgia for what might have been, had we not destroyed it through our own weakness or negligence. No, Nina, don’t think I am accusing you of some crime or blaming you
for everything that happened. I long ago lost my old rigor. I now believe we were both to blame for all the things that went wrong between us; and if we were to blame, then we were also the victims.

  What surfaces in my mind now, in particular, is the night you came to my bedside to say goodbye. How I loved you at that moment, Nina, and what unspeakable pain and turmoil your presence aroused in me! The doctor had just left, and I was still convalescing from that senseless act of folly; and I committed that act not because I was finding it harder than usual to bear the Chácara, Demétrio, and all the other things you found so hateful. No, my reason was more straightforward: I simply couldn’t face life without you by my side. Demétrio had placed the lamp behind my head, which meant that I could see the whole room without others immediately being able to see me. I remember you were dressed very simply in a dark woolen cape. We were alone, and you stood in the doorway, no doubt waiting for your eyes to grow accustomed to the glare. Ah, how well I recall that silence; you cannot imagine how ignominious and wretched I felt while it lasted. All the things we could not say to each other, all the things left unspoken and that formed part of our unremitting sadness and isolation, all those things we knew so well without ever having been able to give voice to them, all the torment that always constitutes the most painful portion of any kind of love, all hung there between us, vast and tangible. For that whole minute, I could measure exactly how low I had fallen in your estimation; and at the same time, Nina, I was aware of the utter absurdity of my despairing gesture all those weeks earlier; I know you were never convinced by that gesture, but it was that feeling more than any other, intermingled with so much shame and humiliation, that led me to abandon everything and let you go, let you leave—at that moment, in the silent way you looked at me, I understood that it was all over.

  “I came to say goodbye,” you said coldly, taking a step forward.

  My days spent recuperating in the Pavilion had proved very beneficial, and although I wasn’t in any pain, I was still very weak. I tried to sit up, failed, and let out a groan. You looked at me from afar—from miles away it seemed—and a chilly smile crept across your lips.

  “Well, you’re certainly not going to die of your wounds, Valdo, and not even this silly pantomime of yours is going to keep me in this house a moment longer.”

  “Nina!” I cried, trying to grab hold of one of your hands in an attempt to revive old times, when, despite everything, and however great my humiliation, I could still count on having you by my side.

  It was not to be, though, and I could tell you were trying to contain your own tumultuous feelings; and as you turned away you seemed to me taller than usual and somehow more of a stranger. When you turned around again, your voice was even calmer and more composed.

  “I was hoping to leave on good terms, Valdo, with no ill feelings and no resentment. But this ridiculous accusation . . .”

  “Please, Nina,” I said. “No one in this house hates you; here you are among friends.”

  (It was true: one or two longer than usual silences from my brother, a few rebuttals on his part, a misunderstanding here and there—how could such simple things, so common in the day-to-day rhythm of family life, be interpreted as signs of irreparable enmity?)

  “Friends!” and once again a smile spread across your lips. “Listen, Valdo. I met Demétrio in the hallway just now, and he walked straight past me without saying a word.”

  From your lofty position standing there beside me, not even deigning to look at me on the sick-bed where I lay, what were you afraid of, what benevolent feelings did you fear might be triggered in your heart of hearts were you to look me straight in the eye, as I had always done with you? But no, your cruelty knew no limits. You chose blindness and, by rejecting me outright, you consigned all my suffering and despair to oblivion. I said:

  “It was doubtless all that silly nonsense at the Pavilion . . .”

  Then, for the first time, I saw you tremble, and you bent down as if to crush me with your words:

  “It’s a lie, Valdo! All lies! As you know very well, that man barely brushed my fingertips with his lips.”

  I said nothing. What was to be gained by revisiting such painful events when we were about to say goodbye? That was when you began to pace the room. With your every movement I could smell the perfume given off by your body—that particular sweet, feminine scent—and I remembered—oh, how I remembered!—what we had lived through in those final days together in the Pavilion, all the minute details of that life, still so potent and yet already dead, quite dead. You suddenly stopped pacing and knelt down beside me—the only time you did that, Nina, the only time!—and whispered almost in my ear:

  “You know very well why he wants to drive me away.”

  Yes, Nina, I knew, as I still do today. These things are never forgotten, but they are things that go beyond our understanding, and all we can do is keep a dignified silence. You stood up again.

  “Even if he really did hate you,” I said, grabbing hold of your skirt, “even if he really wanted to see you driven from this house forever, thrown out into the street like a dog, you could still count on me, Nina. You could always count on me. I swear that no one would ever dare touch so much as a hair on your head . . .”

  “Ah!” you cried, startling me. “Is that what you think? Oh, but you’re so naïve, Valdo!”

  I sensed your gaze wandering about the room, evidently looking for something. How well I knew you, Nina, especially at times like that when you were in the grip of anger and your gleaming eyes darted about enigmatically, like an animal sensing danger. How well I knew you, and how much I loved you, trembling and ready to pounce on the first object that might serve you as a weapon. The object you were looking for—and I knew this just as well as you—was the revolver I had used for my ill-fated suicide attempt. You probably realized what was going through my mind too, and as my gaze instinctively fell on the chest of drawers, you rushed over, opened the top drawer and triumphantly pulled out the gun. Demétrio had wrapped it in a handkerchief so as to hide it from my view.

  “Here it is!” you cried. “The murder weapon. Only you, Valdo, only you could try to deceive me about such stupid things.”

  At that moment, I confess, I feared for your sanity. We were in one of the rooms farthest from the drawing room, a narrow storeroom containing the old couch on which they had laid me all those years ago. If you really had gone mad—which, after so many days of inner struggle, could not be entirely ruled out—how would I summon help? With some astonishment, I observed your growing agitation, your abrupt manner, the wild, harsh way you spoke.

  “It wasn’t a suicide attempt,” you went on. “It was murder. Who does this revolver belong to, Valdo? How long has it been paraded about in front of everyone, displayed in the most visible place in the whole house, tempting you, leading you on to that moment of folly?”

  I felt a tremor inside me, for your words contained a glimmer of truth. The revolver belonged to Demétrio, who had come to me that night saying: “It’s an old model, unusual too. Senhor Aurélio promised me I wouldn’t find a better one anywhere in town.” I took it in my hands and examined the trigger. “It’s certainly old,” I agreed, “but it works perfectly well.” For some time he continued twirling the gun around in front of me, then he placed it in a prominent position on the sideboard. And it’s true that every time I passed by I saw it there. Even Ana, when she was tidying the drawing room one day, asked: “Why don’t you put that gun away, Demétrio?” He replied somewhat drily: “No. Guns must be kept on display so that they’re immediately at hand whenever they’re needed.” I don’t know what need he was referring to, probably nothing in particular, for I could never imagine that I would use that gun. But viewed from a certain angle, maybe you were right? My brother has always had a very labyrinthine way of thinking, and neither I nor anyone else ever managed to penetrate its paths. It’s possible that he was trying to tempt someone, but I don’t believe that person was me. You yoursel
f, Nina—what might you have done in a moment of madness? Despite everything, I tried to dissuade you:

  “Mere appearances, Nina. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  “No, no,” you shouted. “I’m sure he planned to kill you, but probably didn’t have the courage to do it himself.”

  “But I tried to take my own life,” I retorted.

  I remember you studying the gun carefully and then, all of a sudden, as if something outside had caught your attention, you rushed over to the window and leaned out into the darkness. There was nothing to be seen, apart from the treetops swaying in the wind. I asked what had happened and you, without turning around, answered:

  “I don’t know. I thought I saw someone.”

  I tried to convince you that it had only been a shadow, the branch of a tree perhaps, but you continued to insist that it wasn’t a shadow, but a real person lurking among the bushes. As you turned away from the window there was a new expression on your face. You calmly tossed the gun from hand to hand, turning it over, and then, suddenly, as if gripped by some new idea (what could you possibly have been thinking, Nina, for your eyes to shine like that?), you threw it out of the window, saying:

  “I just want that wretched gun out of here—it can damn well rot in the garden!” you said, as the revolver flew from your hand in a single, smooth arc. We didn’t even hear it land among the leaves.

  Those angry words and that gesture seemed to close an entire chapter of our story. The air suddenly felt lighter, and I gazed at you with a smile of contentment. You were standing right next to me by then, almost within reach. There was a pause, however, and when I looked at you, I realized that you were there merely in order to say your final farewell.

  “Is this forever, Nina?” I whispered.

  “Yes, Valdo, forever.”

  A few minutes later—or seconds, rather, for so brief was the illusion of your presence—all that was left in my hands was the faint trace of your perfume. A mere trace, nothing more. I tried to get up, and considered looking for the revolver again and repeating my desperate act. But I had lost a lot of blood and, as the room began to swim around me, I let myself fall back onto the couch. After that, I don’t know what happened; the wound wasn’t that serious, but I believe I would have died if it hadn’t been for Betty’s unstinting care and attention. I would have died of sorrow, neglect, and nervous exhaustion. It’s true, however, that there is no ill to which the human soul cannot accustom itself, and by the time I was able to leave my bed, your absence was already less painful. I learned to be even more taciturn than before and to hide my thoughts from others, to distance myself from everything that causes me pain. This was the reason for my silence during all these years, and so it would have gone on were your return not imminent. I don’t know what else to say, Nina: at this moment, the thing that hurts inside me is like an old stitch, muted like a distant tune, a memory, perhaps remorse. I can’t imagine what will happen when you return. In any event, you can be quite sure that I never ........................................................................................................ ....................................................................................................................