‘Yes, we were there,’ she murmured, underlining the plural pronoun.
‘I haven’t seen you at the Cassino though,’5 he went on.
‘She’s turning into a recluse,’ said Sophia, laughing.
Viçoso had enjoyed the last ball a great deal, and enumerated his reminiscences of it; Sophia did the same. The best toilettes were described by both in some detail; then came the people, their characters, with two or three malicious digs, so anodyne, however, as not to harm anyone. Mariana listened without interest; two or three times she even got up to go to the window; but the hats were so many, and they looked at her with such curiosity, that she went to sit down again. Just to herself, she called her friend nasty names; I won’t quote any of them here – it’s unnecessary, and moreover it would be in bad taste to reveal what one young lady thought about another during a few minutes’ irritation.
‘And the races at the Jockey Club?’ asked the ex-president.
Mariana shook her head again. She hadn’t gone to the races this year at all. Well, she’d missed a great deal; the meeting before last, in particular; it was very lively, and the horses were of the first order. The horses at Epsom, which he’d seen when he was in England, were no better than those at the meeting before last at the Prado Fluminense. Sophia was in total agreement, the meeting before last was a feather in the Jockey Club’s cap. She confessed she’d enjoyed it a lot; it gave her quite a thrill. The conversation moved on to two concerts taking place that week; then it took the ferry, and went up the mountainside to Petrópolis, where two diplomats had put him up at their expense. When he mentioned a minister’s wife, it occurred to Sophia to be agreeable to the ex-president, declaring that he must marry too, for he would soon be a member of the cabinet. Viçoso squirmed with pleasure, smiled, and protested; then, with his eyes on Mariana, said that probably he would never marry … Mariana blushed deeply and got up.
‘You’re in a hurry,’ said Sophia. ‘What time is it?’ she went on, turning to Viçoso.
‘Nearly three!’ he exclaimed.
Time was getting on; he had to go to the Chamber of Deputies. He went over to speak to the two ladies whom he’d accompanied, cousins of his, and said goodbye to them; he was going to say goodbye to our friends as well, but Sophia said she too was leaving. She wasn’t waiting any longer. The truth is that the idea of going to the Chamber of Deputies had begun to set off sparks in her mind.
‘Shall we go to the Chamber?’ she proposed to her friend.
‘No, no,’ said Mariana; ‘I can’t, I’m very tired.’
‘Come on, just for a short while; I’m very tired too …’
Mariana resisted for a little; but resisting Sophia – a dove arguing with a hawk – was a pointless occupation. There was no choice, and she went. The street was busier now; people were coming and going along both pavements, and getting in each others’ way at the street corners. What was more, the obliging ex-president walked between the two ladies, having offered to find them a seat to watch the proceedings.
Mariana felt her soul increasingly torn apart by all this confusion. She had lost her original interest; and her vexation, which had provided the strength for her audacious, ephemeral flight, felt its wings weakening – or rather, she felt they had lost all their strength. And again she thought back to her house, so tranquil, with all her things each in their place, methodical, respectful of one another, everything happening unhurriedly, and, above all, with no unforeseen changes. And her soul began to tap its foot, angrily … She wasn’t listening to anything Viçoso was saying, even though he was talking in a loud voice, and many of his statements were addressed to her. She heard nothing, didn’t want to hear anything. She merely asked God to make the time go quickly. They got to the Chamber and went to a seat. The rustle of skirts drew the attention of some twenty deputies, who were still there, listening to a speech on the budget. As soon as Viçoso begged leave and left, Mariana quickly asked her friend not to play another one on her.
‘What other?’ Sophia asked.
‘Don’t play another trick on me, having me rushing round from one place to another like a madwoman. What’s the Chamber got to do with me? Why should I listen to speeches I don’t understand?’
Sophia smiled, fanned herself, and got an outright stare from one of the secretaries. There were many eyes fixed on her when she went into the Chamber, but this secretary’s had a special, warm, pleading expression. We can understand, then, that she didn’t acknowledge the stare straight away; we can even understand that she sought it out with some curiosity. As she was taking in this legislative gaze, she went on mildly answering her friend, telling her that it was her own fault, and that she, Sophia, had set out with the best of intentions, to restore her to herself.
‘But if I’m getting on your nerves you needn’t come with me again,’ Sophia concluded.
Then, leaning over a little: ‘Look at the justice minister.’
Mariana had no alternative but to look at the justice minister. He was putting up as well as he could with a speech by a government supporter, who was proving the importance of the minor criminal courts, and, on the way, providing a summary of the colonial legislation on the matter. No interruptions: a resigned, polite, discreet and cautious silence. Mariana’s eyes wandered from one side to another, without interest; Sophia was talking a lot, so as to give occasion for various elegant gestures. After fifteen minutes the Chamber livened up, thanks to one of the orator’s expressions and a challenge from the opposition. There was some heckling, which became more and more heated, and then there was an uproar, which lasted nearly a quarter of an hour.
This diversion provided no amusement to Mariana, whose placid, unvarying spirit was bewildered at so much unexpected agitation. She even got up to go, but sat down again. Now she made up her mind to go on to the end, repentant and resolved to weep over her conjugal sorrows on her own. Doubt was beginning to enter, even. She was right to ask her husband what she did; but should she have been so upset? Was it reasonable to make so much fuss? Certainly, his ironies were cruel; but, after all, it was the first time she’d stamped her foot, and naturally, the novelty had irritated him. Whichever way you looked at it, it had been a mistake to reveal everything to her friend. Sophia might well tell others… This notion made Mariana go cold; her friend was sure to be indiscreet; she’d heard a lot of stories from her about male and female hats, things rather more serious than just a marital tiff. Mariana felt the need to flatter her, and covered up her impatience and anger with a mask of hypocritical docility. She began to smile too, to make some observations about this or that deputy, and so they reached the end of the speech and the session.
The clocks had already struck four. ‘Time to be off,’ said Sophia; and Mariana agreed, but without impatience, and both of them went back up the Rua do Ouvidor. Walking along the street and getting into the tram put the finishing touches to the exhaustion of Mariana’s spirit; she gave a sigh of relief when she saw she was finally on her way home. A little before her friend got off, she asked her to keep what had happened to herself; Sophia promised she would.
Mariana breathed easily. The dove was free of the hawk. Her soul was bruised from pushing and shoving, dizzy from the variety of things and people. She needed harmony and well-being. The house was nearby; as she saw the other houses with their gardens, Mariana felt restored to her former self. Finally, she got home; she went into the garden, and breathed deeply. That was her world; apart from a flowerpot, which the gardener had moved.
‘João, put that pot back where it was,’ she said.
Everything else was in order, the hall, the drawing room, the dining room, the bedrooms, everything. Mariana sat down first, in a few different places, looking at all the objects, so still and ordered. After a whole day of variety and disturbance, monotony did her a great deal of good, and had never seemed so delicious to her. It was true, she’d made a mistake … She tried to go back over events and couldn’t; her soul was stretching its arms an
d yawning in this homely uniformity. If anything, she thought about the figure of Viçoso, whom she now thought ridiculous, which was unjust. She slowly undressed, lovingly, picking every object up with precision. Once this was done, she thought again about the quarrel with her husband. She thought, when all was said and done, that she was mainly to blame. Why on earth make such a fuss about a hat that her husband had worn for so many years? And her father was too demanding …
‘I’ll wait and see his face when he comes back,’ she thought.
It was half past five; he’d not be long. Mariana went to the front room, looked through the glass, listened for the tram – nothing. She sat down right there with Ivanhoe in her hands, trying to read, and reading nothing. Her eyes went to the bottom of the page, and back to the top, in the first place because she couldn’t grasp the meaning, and in the second place because they kept being diverted, to savour the correct drop of the curtains, or some other feature in the room. Holy Monotony, you cradled her in your eternal bosom.
Finally, a tram stopped; her husband got off; the garden’s metal gate creaked. Mariana went to the window and peeped out. Conrado was coming slowly in, looking to right and left, with the hat on his head – not the famous hat he’d been used to wearing, but another, the one his wife had asked him to wear that morning. Mariana’s spirit received a violent shock, similar to the one she’d got from the changed flowerpot – or would have got from a sheet of Voltaire encountered among the pages of Moreninha or Ivanhoe … It was a discordant note in the middle of the harmonious sonata of life. No, that hat was impossible. Really, what kind of lunacy was this, demanding he stop wearing the other, which fitted him so well? And even if it wasn’t the most appropriate, he’d worn it for many years; it went with her husband’s face … Conrado came in by a side door. Mariana received him in her arms.
‘Well, is it over?’ he asked, finally, holding her by the waist.
‘Listen,’ she said with a divine caress, ‘chuck that one out; I’d rather have the other.’
Those Cousins from Sapucaia!
Sometimes a happy opportunity comes our way, but mischance then lands two or three cousins from Sapucaia on us; at other times, however, these same cousins are more of a blessing than a misfortune.
It happened at a church doorway. I was waiting for my cousins Claudina and Rosa to take holy water, so I could conduct them to our house, where they were staying. They had come from Sapucaia at around carnival time, and had stayed on in Rio for two months. It was I who accompanied them everywhere, to Mass, the theatres, the Rua do Ouvidor, because my mother, with her rheumatism, could hardly move around the house, and they weren’t used to going out alone. Sapucaia was where our family came from. Though our relatives were scattered about all over the place, that was where the family tree had first taken root. My uncle, José Ribeiro, father to these cousins, was the only one of five brothers who stayed there farming the land and playing his part in local politics. I came to Rio early on, and went on from there to study and graduate in São Paulo. I only went back to Sapucaia once, to fight an election, and lost.
Strictly speaking, all this information is unnecessary to the understanding of my adventure; but it’s a way of saying something before I get to the real story, since I can’t find an entrance for it, large or small; the best solution is to loosen the reins on my pen, and let it wander on till it finds a way in. There must be one; everything depends on circumstances – a rule as valid for one’s style as it is for life; one word leads to another, and that’s the way books, governments and revolutions happen; some even say that’s the way nature put the species together.
So then, where were we? – the holy water and the church doorway. It was the church of São José. Mass was over; Claudina and Rosa made the sign of the cross on their foreheads with their thumbs, dipping them in the water, the glove removed expressly for that purpose. Then they adjusted their capes, while, in the doorway, I stood looking at the ladies as they came out. Suddenly, I shuddered, leaned out, and even took a couple of steps towards the street.
‘What was that, cousin?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
It was a lady, who’d passed by right next to the church, slowly, her head bowed, leaning on her parasol; she was going up the Rua da Misericórdia. To explain my agitation, it has to be said that this was the second time I’d seen her. The first was at the races, two months before, with a man who, to all appearances, was her husband, but could just as easily have been her father. She was a bit of a spectacle, dressed in scarlet, with big showy trimmings, and a pair of earrings that were too large; but her eyes and mouth made up for the rest. We flirted outrageously. If I say I left there head over heels in love, I’ll not put my soul in hell – it’s the simple truth. I was giddy, but frustrated too, for I lost sight of her in the crowd. I never managed to see her again, nor could anyone tell me who she was.
Imagine my vexation when chance brought her my way again and these accidental cousins didn’t let me get my hands on her. It’ll not be hard to imagine, because these cousins from Sapucaia take all kinds of different guises, and in one shape or another my reader must have come across them. Sometimes they take the form of the gentleman who knows everything about the latest ministerial crisis, and who in the greatest confidence expatiates on all the overt and secret elements in play, conflicts new or old, the interests at stake, conspiracies, crises, etc. At others, they’re dressed like that immortal citizen who states in a ponderous, buttoned-up tone that laws depend on customs, nisi lege sine moribus. Others slip on the mask of the bore at the tram stop, who recounts every detail of the ribbons and lace worn by some lady or other to a ball or the theatre. Meanwhile, Opportunity passes by, slowly, head bowed, leaning on her parasol; she passes, turns the corner, and goodbye … The ministry’s on the point of collapse; real Belgian lace, mind you; nisi lege sine moribus …
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell my cousins to take their own way home; we lived not far off, in the Rua do Carmo – but I gave up on the idea. Once we were in the street, I thought of leaving them to wait for me at the church and going to see if I could catch Opportunity by the coat-tails. I think I even stopped for a moment, but I rejected that option too and went on my way.
I went on my way with them, going in the opposite direction from my mystery lady. I looked back over and over again, until round a curve in the street I lost sight of her, with her eyes on the ground, as if she was reflecting, daydreaming or on her way to a rendezvous. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that this last idea gave me a twinge ofjealousy. I’m possessive and take things personally; I’d be useless as a lover for a married woman. No matter that all there was between me and the lady was a fleeting dalliance lasting a few hours; since I was so bound up with her, sharing her became unbearable. I’m imaginative too; I soon dreamed up an adventure, with an adventurer to go with it, and gave myself over to the morbid pleasure of tormenting myself for no good reason at all. My cousins walked ahead, and spoke to me from time to time; I gave brief answers, if I answered at all. In my heart, I detested them.
When I got home, I looked at my watch, as if I had something to do; then I told my cousins to go in and start lunch. I ran to the Rua da Misericórdia. First I went to the School of Medicine; then I turned and came back as far as the Chamber of Deputies, then walked slower, hoping to see her at every turn in the street; not a sign. Stupid, wasn’t it? Still, I went up the street once more, for I realised that, on foot and walking slowly, she’d hardly have had time to get halfway along Santa Luzia beach – that is, if she’d not stopped before; and on I went, up the street and along the beach, as far as the Ajuda convent. I found nothing, nothing at all. Even so I didn’t lose hope; I turned back on myself and walked, slowly or quickly, depending on whether I might catch up with her in front of me or give her time to emerge from somewhere. As I pictured the lady in my imagination, I felt in a state of shock, as if I might see her any minute. I understood what it must feel like to be mad.
However, there was nothing to be seen. I went down the street, but found not the least vestige of my mystery lady. Dogs are lucky; they find their friends by their sense of smell! Who knows if she wasn’t there, close by, inside some house, maybe even her own? I thought of enquiring; but who, and how? A baker, leaning in a doorway, was watching me; some women were peeping through the shutters, doing the same thing. Naturally, they were suspicious of this passer-by, his step slow or hurried by turns, his inquisitive look, his restless manner. I went as far as the Chamber of Deputies and stopped for about five minutes, unsure what to do. It was nearly midday. I waited another ten minutes, then five more, standing there in the hope of seeing her; finally I gave up and went to have lunch.
I didn’t lunch at home. I didn’t want to see those damned cousins, who’d stopped me following the unknown lady. I went to a hotel. I chose a table at the back of the room, and sat with my back turned; I didn’t want to be seen or spoken to. I began to eat what they brought me. I asked for some papers, but I confess I read nothing through, and scarcely understood three-quarters of what I did. In the middle of a news item or an article, my mind slipped and fell into the Rua da Misericórdia, at the church door, watching the mystery lady pass by, slowly, her head bowed, and leaning on her parasol.