“Women won’t let an affront like that go unpunished. And your ideas are an affront to the female sex. I wonder what a suitable punishment would be? But I’ll go no further . . .”
“Where are you off to?”
“I’m leaving. Goodbye. And forget about that absurd idea of me challenging you to a duel . . .”
“Of course. But you had a very lucky escape.”
“From what?”
“From death. It would have been such a pleasure to stick my sword in that belly of yours, a pleasure comparable only to that of embracing you while you’re alive and kicking!”
Diogo gave a forced laugh:
“Thank you very much! And see you again soon!”
“Come back. Where are you off to? Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Dona Adelaide?”
“I’ll be back shortly,” said Diogo, putting on his hat and rushing out.
Tito watched him leave.
“That fellow,” he said to himself when alone, “has never had an original thought in his life. He didn’t think up that business about vengeful women all by himself. Rather . . . I smell a plot. That suits me fine. The sooner, the better.”
A German servant came to tell Tito that his breakfast was ready, and Tito was just about to go in, when Azevedo appeared at the door.
“So there you are! You obviously didn’t rise with the sun. You look as if you’d just got up.”
“I know, and I’m about to have my breakfast.”
They both went into the dining room, where the table was set, and Tito asked:
“Are you having a second breakfast?”
“No.”
“Well, you can watch how it’s done.”
Tito sat down at the table and Azevedo stretched out on a sofa.
“Where did you go?”
“For a walk. I’ve realized that I need to see and admire what is indifferent to me in order to appreciate fully what fills my heart with true happiness.”
“Really? So one can also tire of happiness! As you see, reason is still on my side.”
“Perhaps, but despite everything, it seems to me that you are intent on joining the married brigade.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why?”
“Is it or is it not true?”
“What do you mean, ‘true’?”
“All I know is that one afternoon recently, when you fell asleep over a book—I can’t remember what book it was now—I heard you talking in your dreams and pronouncing the name ‘Emília’ with the utmost tenderness.”
“Really?” asked Tito, his mouth full.
“Yes. I came to the conclusion that if you were dreaming about her, then she must be on your mind, and that if she’s on your mind, then you must love her.”
“You concluded wrongly.”
“Wrongly?”
“You drew the conclusion of a man who has been married for five months. What does a dream prove?”
“It proves a lot!”
“It proves nothing. You’re acting like a superstitious old woman.”
“There must be something going on, though. Could you tell me what it is?”
“I could if it weren’t for the fact that you’re married.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Everything. You could, unwittingly, be indiscreet. At night, between a kiss and a yawn, husband and wife open their respective bags of confidences to each other. You could, without thinking, ruin everything.”
“No, I wouldn’t. But that means you do have something to tell me.”
“No, nothing.”
“You’re merely confirming my suspicions. You like Emília, don’t you?”
“I certainly don’t hate her.”
“So you do like her. And she deserves to be liked. She’s an excellent lady, uncommonly beautiful and possessed of all the finest qualities. Perhaps you would rather she were not a widow?”
“Yes, because she probably spends much of the day gloating over the two husbands she’s already dispatched to the next world, while she waits to dispatch a third . . .”
“She’s not like that at all.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
“Pretty much.”
“Ah, my friend,” said Tito, getting up from the table and lighting a cigar, “take the advice of a fool: never guarantee anything, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. If you have to choose between discreet prudence and blind trust, don’t hesitate, and let the former be your guide. What can you guarantee about Emília? You know her no better than I do. I’ve known her for two weeks, and I can read her like a book, and while I certainly wouldn’t attribute any malevolent feelings to her, I’m sure she does not possess the rarest of rare qualities that would make her ‘the exception.’ Do you know something I don’t?”
“No, nothing.”
“So, you know nothing, do you?” Tito said to himself.
“I’m basing myself purely on my personal observations, and it seems to me that a marriage between you two would be rather a good idea.”
“If you mention marriage one more time, I’m leaving.”
“Not even the word?”
“No, not the word, the idea, nothing.”
“And yet you admire and applaud my marriage . . .”
“I applaud many things in other people, things of which I myself am incapable. It all depends on vocation . . .”
Adelaide appeared at the door of the dining room, and the conversation between the two men came to an abrupt halt.
“I bring you news.”
“What news?” asked Tito and Azevedo in unison.
“I’ve just had a note from Emília . . . She’s inviting us to visit her tomorrow, because . . .”
“Because?” asked Azevedo.
“Because she might be going back to Rio in a week or so’s time.”
“Oh,” said Tito with bland indifference.
“You’d better pack your bags,” Azevedo said to Tito.
“Why?”
“Aren’t you going to follow in the footsteps of the goddess?”
“Don’t make fun of me, cruel friend, when there’s absolutely no—”
“Come on . . .”
Adelaide smiled at these words.
Half an hour later, Tito went up to the study where Azevedo kept his books. He intended to read Saint Augustine’s Confessions.
“Why the sudden trip to Rio?” Azevedo asked his wife.
“Do you really want to know?”
“I do.”
“All right, but it’s a secret. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s a strategy.”
“A strategy? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain. It’s a way of ensnaring Tito.”
“Ensnaring?”
“You’re very slow today! Yes, ensnaring him in the bonds of love . . .”
“Ah!”
“Emília felt she had to do it. It’s just a joke. When he declares himself vanquished, she will be avenged for what he said about the female sex.”
“Not bad . . . And you’re part of this strategy, are you?”
“Only in an advisory capacity.”
“So you’re plotting against my friend, my alter ego.”
“Now, now, don’t say a word. You don’t want to ruin the plan.”
Azevedo laughed long and loud. He was amused by this premeditated punishment of poor Tito.
The visit Tito had said he was due to make to Emília that day did not happen.
However, knowing Emília’s intentions, Diogo had gone immediately to her house to await Tito’s arrival, and there he spent the whole day, in vain: in vain he dined, in vain he spent the entire afternoon boring Emília and her aunt, and still Tito did not appear.
That evening, however, when Diogo, bored with waiting at Emília’s house, was just about to leave, Tito’s presence was announced.
Emília trembled, but this went unnoticed by Diogo.
Tito entered the ro
om where Emília, her aunt, and Diogo were all sitting.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Emília said.
“That’s the way I am. I arrive when least expected. I’m like death or a win on the lottery.”
“Tonight, you’re a win on the lottery,” said Emília.
“And what number is your ticket?”
“Number twelve, for the twelve hours I’ve had the pleasure of Senhor Diogo’s company today.”
“Twelve hours!” exclaimed Tito, turning to Diogo.
“And our good friend has yet to tell us a single story . . .”
“Twelve hours!” Tito said again.
“And what’s so astonishing about that, sir?” asked Diogo.
“It does seem rather a long time.”
“One only counts the hours when one is bored . . . With your permission, I will withdraw . . .”
And, saying this, Diogo picked up his hat to leave, shooting a look of jealous scorn at Emília.
“Why?” she asked. “Where are you going?”
“I am lending wings to the hours,” Diogo whispered into Emília’s ear. “They will pass quickly now.”
“I forgive you and ask you to sit down again.”
Diogo did as asked.
Emília’s aunt begged to be excused for a few moments, leaving only the three of them.
“So,” said Tito, “he didn’t tell you a single story.”
“Not one.”
Emília glanced at Diogo as if to reassure him. Feeling calmer now, Diogo remembered what Adelaide had told him and immediately cheered up.
“After all,” he thought, “the joke’s on him. I am merely the means to entrap him. Let’s all play our part in pulling the rug from under his feet.”
“Not a single story,” Emília said again.
“Oh, I know plenty of stories,” said Diogo insinuatingly.
“Then tell us one of those many stories,” said Tito.
“Certainly not! Why don’t you tell us one?”
“If you insist . . .”
“Oh, I do, I do,” said Diogo, blinking. “Tell us one about jilted bridegrooms, or love’s deceits, or hardened voyagers. Go on!”
“No, I’m going to tell you a story about a man and a monkey.”
“Oh,” said Emília.
“It’s very interesting,” said Tito. “Listen.”
“Forgive me,” said Emília, “but let’s have tea first.”
“Of course.”
Tea was served shortly afterward, and when it was over, Tito began his story:
STORY OF A MAN AND A MONKEY
About twenty years ago, not far from the town of *** in the interior of Brazil, there lived a thirty-five-year-old man, whose mysterious life was the subject of much gossip in the surrounding towns and a source of terror to any travelers who happened along the road that passed only a few feet from his house.
The house itself was enough to strike fear into the least timid of hearts. Seen from a distance, it was built so close to the ground that it did not even resemble a house. However, anyone who dared to go closer would see that half of the building was above ground level and half below. While it was very solidly built, it had neither doors nor windows, only a square opening that served as both window and door, through which the mysterious inhabitant came and went.
Few people saw him leave, not just because he rarely did leave, but because he left at very strange times of day. This solitary individual only left his house to go roaming around when the moon was full. He always took with him a large monkey, who answered to the name Caligula.
Monkey and man, man and monkey, were inseparable friends, inside the house and out, when the moon was new.
People had many theories about this mysterious man.
The most widely held theory was that he was a wizard. According to another, he was crazy, and yet another held that he was merely a misanthrope.
This last theory was supported by two facts: first, there was no positive evidence to indicate that the man ever behaved like a wizard or a madman; second, there was his avowed friendship with the monkey and his horror of being seen by other men. Whenever we begin to loathe mankind, we always grow fonder of animals, who have the advantage of neither talking too much nor intriguing against us.
This mysterious man . . . Wait, we need to give him a name: let’s call him Daniel. Well, Daniel preferred the company of the monkey and spoke to no one else. Travelers passing by on the road would sometimes hear shrieks coming from both man and monkey; it was the man stroking the monkey.
What did those two creatures live on? One morning, someone saw the monkey leave the house only to return shortly afterward carrying a package in its mouth. The muleteer who witnessed this wanted to find out where the monkey went to fetch that package, which doubtless contained food for those two solitary beings. The following morning, he hid in the wood; the monkey arrived at the usual hour and went over to a tree trunk; higher up the trunk was a large branch, which the monkey threw to the ground. Then, putting his hands inside the trunk, he took out a package identical to the one seen on the previous day, and left.
The muleteer made the sign of the cross, and was so frightened by what he had seen that he told no one.
This went on for three years.
During this time, the man did not age at all. He looked exactly as he had on the first day, with his long reddish beard and mane of shoulder-length hair. Winter and summer, he wore a big, heavy jacket, boots, but no hat.
It was impossible for travelers or neighbors to penetrate that solitary house, but it need not be so for us, dear lady and dear friend.
The house is divided into three rooms, a dining room, a parlor—for visitors—and a bedroom. The bedroom is occupied by the two inhabitants, Daniel and Caligula.
The dining room and the parlor are the same size, the bedroom only half that size. The furniture in the parlor comprises two grubby benches positioned against the wall, and a low table in the middle. The floor is made of wood. On the walls hang two portraits: one of a young woman, the other of an old man. The young woman has a delightful, angelic face. The old man’s face inspires respect and admiration. On the other two walls hang, on one side, a knife with an ivory handle, and on the other, a dead hand, withered and yellow.
The dining room contains only a table and two benches.
The furniture in the bedroom consists of a pallet bed, where Daniel sleeps, while Caligula lies on the floor, alongside his master.
So much for the furniture.
Seen from outside, one might think that a man could not even stand upright in those rooms, but because, as I said earlier, the lower half was below ground level, it was in fact, quite large enough.
What kind of life would monkey and man have led during those three years? Who can say?
When Caligula brings the package in the morning, Daniel divides the food into two portions, one for lunch and the other for supper. Then man and monkey sit down facing each other in the dining room and eat those two meals in brotherly companionship.
As I mentioned, when it’s a full moon, they sally forth each night until the moon begins to wane. They leave at around ten o’clock and return at around two in the morning. When they enter the house, Daniel takes the dead man’s hand off the wall and slaps himself twice. Having done this, he retires to bed, and Caligula goes with him.
One night, in the month of June, at the time of the full moon, Daniel prepared to go out. With one leap, Caligula landed out in the road. Daniel closed the door and the two of them set off.
The moon, entirely full, shed its pale, melancholy light on the vast woods covering the nearby hills, lighting up the vast area of grassland surrounding the house.
All one could hear in the distance was the murmur of a waterfall, and, closer by, the hooting of some owls and the chirping of an endless number of crickets scattered over the plain.
Daniel was walking slowly along, a stick under one arm, accompanied by the monkey, which kept leaping
up onto his shoulders, then back onto the ground.
Even without the gloomy nature of that solitary place inhabited only by the man and the monkey, anyone meeting the pair at that hour risked dying of fright. Daniel was extremely tall and thin and cut an equally gloomy figure. His abundant hair and beard made his head seem still larger than it was, and, bareheaded as he was, he looked positively satanic.
On other days, Caligula was just an ordinary monkey, but on those nocturnal walks, he took on the same mysterious, gloomy air as Daniel.
The two had been out for an hour already, and the house was some way off. What could be more natural than for the police to take the opportunity to enter the house and uncover its mystery? The police, however, despite having every means at their disposal, could not bring themselves to investigate what the local people believed to be some diabolical mystery. The police are human, too, and know all there is to know about the human race.
As I was saying, an hour had passed since man and monkey had left the house. Then they began to climb a small hill—
Tito was interrupted by a yawn from Diogo.
“Are you ready for bed?” asked Tito.
“That is precisely where I intend to go.”
“But what about the story?”
“Well, it is, of course, a most amusing story. Up until now, we’ve seen two characters, a man and a monkey, no, what am I saying, we’ve seen two other characters, a monkey and a man. Fascinating stuff. And just to vary things, I suppose the man will one day go out and leave the monkey on its own.”
Diogo uttered these words with almost comic rage, then picked up his hat and left.
Tito burst out laughing.
“Aren’t you going to finish the story?” asked Emília.
“Finish it, senhora? I was already struggling to know how to continue . . . It was simply a way of helping you out. The man’s obviously a frightful bore.”
“No, no, you’re wrong.”
“Really?”
“He amuses me, although, of course, I find your conversation infinitely more pleasing.”
“Now you’ve just told a falsehood.”
“What?”
“You said you found my conversation pleasing, and that’s an out-and-out lie.”
“Now you’re fishing for compliments.”
“No, I’m just being honest. I really don’t know how you put up with me: I’m rude, tedious, sarcastic, a complete skeptic, in short, a most undesirable conversationalist. You’re obviously a very kind person to say such benevolent, friendly things—”