“There’s a mystery,” the stranger said at last. “Would you like to know what it is?”
Another silence.
“This is hardly the appropriate place,” said Camilo, “but if you have something to tell me . . .”
“No, you must find out for yourself.”
And with that, the short, thin man with the small, bright eyes vanished into the crowd. Camilo elbowed his way past ten or twelve people, trod on fifteen or twenty corns, apologizing just as often for his rash behavior, only to find himself out in the street with not a sign of the stranger.
“This is like a novel,” he said. “I’m caught up in the middle of a novel!”
At that moment, Isabel, Dona Gertrudes, and Dr. Matos came out of the church. Camilo went over to greet them. Dr. Matos gave his arm to Dona Gertrudes, and Camilo timidly offered his to Isabel. She hesitated, but since she could hardly refuse, she linked arms with him, and they walked to the colonel’s house, where the colonel and various other important people were already installed. In the midst of the throng, another man was making his way to the colonel’s house, and he did not once take his eyes off Camilo and Isabel.
That man bit his lip until it bled.
Need I add that the man was Leandro Soares?
Chapter V
PASSION
It was only a short distance from the church to the house, and the conversation between Isabel and Camilo was neither long nor sustained. And yet, dear reader, if the Muscovite princess deserves any sympathy at all, then now is the time to take pity on her, for the dawn of a new feeling was beginning to gild the peaks of Camilo’s heart. As they went up the steps to the colonel’s house, Camilo had to admit to himself that the intriguing Isabel was possessed of qualities far superior to those of the lovely Russian princess. An hour and a half later—that is, toward the end of supper—Camilo’s heart confirmed the discovery made by his inquiring mind.
The couple stuck entirely to neutral topics of conversation, but Isabel spoke with such sweetness and grace—although always with her habitual reserve—and her eyes, seen from close up, were so pretty, as was her hair and her mouth, not to mention her hands, that our ardent young hero could only have resisted the allure of such combined charms had he entirely changed his nature.
Supper passed without incident. The colonel had gathered together all the local worthies: the priest, the magistrate, the merchant, the farmer, and the utmost cordiality and harmony reigned from one end of the table to the other. The Emperor of the Divine Holy Spirit, now back in his normal clothes, presided over the table with real enthusiasm. The festival was the main topic of conversation, intermingled, it’s true, with a few political reflections, with which everyone agreed, because the men and women present all belonged to the same party.
Major Brás was in the habit of making one or two long, eloquent toasts at any important supper to which he was invited. His facility as a speaker had no rival in the entire province. Moreover, given his great height, he could dominate any audience simply by getting to his feet.
He could not allow the colonel’s supper to pass without some intervention on his part; dessert was about to be served when the eloquent major asked permission to say a few simple, artless words. A murmur equivalent to a round of nays in the Chamber of Deputies greeted this announcement, and the audience prepared their ears to receive the pearls about to fall from his lips.
“This illustrious audience,” he said, “will forgive my boldness. I speak not simply because I can, ladies and gentlemen, no, I speak from the heart. My toast will be a brief one; in order to celebrate the virtues and abilities of our illustrious Colonel Veiga no long speech is necessary. His name says it all, and my voice would add nothing new . . .”
The audience gave an indication that while it unreservedly applauded the first part of that sentence, it had its reservations about the second, thus complimenting both the colonel and the major; and the speaker, who, if he was to be true to what he had just said, should merely have drained his glass, continued as follows:
“I believe, ladies and gentlemen, that the extraordinary event we have just witnessed will never be expunged from our memories. This town and other towns have seen many Festivals of the Holy Spirit, but never have the people enjoyed a more splendid, lively, triumphant affair than the one put on by our illustrious fellow believer and friend, Colonel Veiga, who is an honor to his class and one of the glories of his party . . .”
“The party in which I will remain until I die,” added the colonel, in a tone of voice that made clear these words were a mere parenthesis.
Despite having begun by declaring that there was no need to say anything more about the colonel’s many merits, the intrepid orator went on to speak for a good twenty-five minutes, much to the chagrin both of Father Maciel, who had his eye on a seductively quivering bread pudding at the far end of the table, and of the magistrate, who was dying for a cigarette. This memorable discourse concluded more or less like this:
“I would, however, be neglecting my duties as a friend, fellow believer, subordinate, and admirer if I were not to speak out on this occasion and put into words—rough-and-ready, yes (disapproving murmurs), but sincerely felt—all the emotions that crowd my breast, all the enthusiasm that fills my heart, when I gaze on the venerable, the illustrious Colonel Veiga, and if I were not to invite you now to join me in drinking to his health.”
The audience enthusiastically joined in the toast, to which the colonel responded with these few, heartfelt words:
“The praise heaped on me by the distinguished Major Brás is the gift of a large and generous heart; I do not deserve such a gift, ladies and gentlemen, and I return it intact to the illustrious orator himself.”
In the midst of the feast and the prevailing gaiety, no one noticed Camilo’s attentions to Dr. Matos’s lovely daughter. No, I lie. Leandro Soares, who had also been invited to the supper, did not once take his eyes off his elegant rival or his beautiful and elusive lady.
It must seem to the reader a near-miracle that Soares should remain so unmoved and even happy to see his rival’s clear intentions, but it is no miracle. Soares was also studying Isabel’s gaze, and he saw in it only the indifference or even disdain with which she treated the comendador’s son, and he thought to himself: “She loves neither of us.”
Camilo was in love, and the following day, he was even more in love; with each day that passed, the consuming flame of passion grew higher. Paris and the princess had vanished from his heart and mind. Only one being and one place merited a space in his thoughts: Isabel and Goiás.
The young woman’s haughty, scornful demeanor contributed in large measure to this transformation. Considering himself better than his rival, Camilo was thinking:
“If she cares nothing for me, how much less must she care for Soares. But why is she so offhand with me? Why should I be defeated like any other vulgar suitor?”
When he thought this, he recalled what the stranger in the church had said to him and told himself:
“There really must be some mystery behind this, but how to find out what it is?”
He asked various townspeople if they knew the identity of the short man with the small, bright eyes. No one could help him. It seemed incredible that he could not find the whereabouts of a man who must be known to someone; he redoubled his efforts, but no one could tell him who the mysterious stranger was.
Meanwhile, he became a frequent visitor to Dr. Matos’s house and occasionally dined there. It was difficult to speak to Isabel with the freedom that more modern manners would allow, and yet he did what he could to communicate his feelings to the beautiful young woman. She, however, seemed to grow more and more impervious to his protestations. She didn’t exactly treat him scornfully, but coldly; she appeared to have a heart of ice.
Spurned love was joined by wounded pride, resentment, and embarrassment, and all these things, along with an epidemic raging in the area, landed our Camilo in bed, where we will leave him t
o be cared for by his medical colleagues.
Chapter VI
REVELATION
There are no mysteries for an author who can scrutinize every nook and cranny of the human heart. While the people of Santa Luzia came up with a thousand theories to explain the real reason behind the lovely Isabel’s inability to love, I am in a position to tell the impatient reader that she is perfectly capable of love.
“But who does she love?” asks the reader urgently.
She loves . . . a flower. A flower? Yes, a flower. It must be a very pretty flower, then, a miracle of perfumed freshness. No, it’s a very ugly flower, dried and withered, a mere corpse of a flower, which must once have been very beautiful, but which now, lying in its little basket, inspires only curiosity. Because it really is very odd that a young woman of twenty, when she is at her most passionate, should seem indifferent to the men around her and focus all her affections on the faded, withered remains of a flower.
Ah, but the flower was picked in very special circumstances. It happened a few years ago. There was a boy who lived locally and who was very fond of Isabel, because she was a delightful creature; he even used to call her his wife, an innocent joke to which time gave the lie. Isabel was equally fond of the boy, so much so that the following idea took root in the mind of the girl’s father:
“If she still feels the same in a few years’ time, and if he does truly love her, then I think I could well marry them off.”
Isabel knew nothing of her father’s idea, but she continued to be fond of the boy, and he continued to find her a very interesting creature.
One day, Isabel saw a pretty blue flower growing among the branches of a tree.
“What a lovely flower!” she said.
“I suppose you’d like it, would you?”
“I would, yes,” said the girl, who, though untutored in these matters, already understood such oblique, disguised ways of speaking.
He took off his jacket with all the nonchalance of a grown-up in the presence of a child and climbed the tree. Isabel waited below, tense and eager to have the flower. The obliging boy soon reached the flower and delicately plucked it.
“Catch!” he said from up above.
Isabel went closer to the tree and held out her skirts to catch the flower. Pleased to have granted the girl’s wish, the boy began to descend, but so clumsily that, only two minutes later, he was lying on the ground at Isabel’s feet. She gave a terrified cry and called for help; the boy tried to calm her, saying it was nothing, and trying to clamber cheerfully to his feet. He did eventually manage to stand up, but his shirt was spattered with blood, for he had cut his head.
The wound was declared to be only superficial, and, after a few days, the brave boy had completely recovered.
The incident made a deep impression on Isabel. Up until then, she had merely been fond of the boy; thenceforth, she adored him. The flower he had picked inevitably withered, but Isabel kept it as if it were a relic, kissing it every day and, later on, even shedding tears over it. A kind of superstitious cult bound her heart to that shriveled flower.
However, she was not so callous that she did not feel deeply concerned when she learned that Camilo was ill. She asked assiduously after his health and, five days later, went with her father to visit him.
While the mere fact of her visit did not cure the patient, it did console and encourage him; a few faint hopes sprang up in him, hopes that had grown as dried and withered as the flower of the story.
“Perhaps now she will love me,” he thought.
As soon as he was more or less restored to health, his first act was to go to Dr. Matos’s house, and his father offered to go with him. Dr. Matos was not at home, only his sister and daughter. The sister was a poor old lady, who, as well as suffering the usual afflictions of old age, had two further afflictions, namely, deafness and a love of politics. The occasion proved propitious; while Isabel’s aunt monopolized the comendador’s person and attention, Camilo had time to deliver a quick, decisive blow, addressing these words to the young woman:
“I wanted to thank you for your kindness and concern while I was ill. That same kindness gives me the courage to ask you one other thing.”
Isabel frowned.
“A few days ago, a hope I had long thought dead and buried suddenly revived,” Camilo went on. “Was that a mere illusion? A single word, a single gesture from you would resolve that doubt.”
Isabel shrugged.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Yes, you do,” said Camilo somewhat bitterly. “But, if you insist, I’ll put it plainly. I love you. I’ve told you so a thousand times, but you always ignore me. Now, though—”
Camilo would have happily ended this brief speech there and then, if he’d had before him the person he had hoped would be listening to him. Isabel, however, did not even give him time to finish. Without a word or gesture, she walked the entire length of the veranda and went and sat at the far end, where her old aunt was testing the comendador’s excellent lungs to the limit.
Camilo’s disappointment was beyond description. Complaining of a nonexistent heat, he left the house to get some fresh air, and, now slowly, now quickly, depending on which emotion dominated, whether irritation or despair, he, the wretched suitor, wandered off. He invented endless plans for revenge and endless ways of throwing himself at her feet; he recalled all their previous encounters, and, after a very long hour, he reached the sad conclusion that all was lost. At this point, he realized that he was standing beside a stream that crossed Dr. Matos’s farm. It was a rather desolate place and perfectly suited to the situation in which he found himself. Two hundred paces away, he saw a cabin, where he thought he could hear someone singing a song from the sertão.
Another person’s happiness is always a tiresome thing when one has oneself suffered some misfortune! Camilo felt even more irritated, and ingenuously wondered how anyone could possibly be happy when his own despairing heart was bleeding. Then a man appeared at the cabin door and walked over to the stream. A shiver ran through Camilo, for he seemed to recognize in him the mysterious stranger who had spoken to him in the church. He was the same stature and had the same air about him; Camilo walked rapidly over to him and stopped a few feet away. The man turned around: it was him!
Camilo ran up to him.
“At last!” he said.
The stranger smiled smugly and shook Camilo’s proffered hand.
“Do you need to sit down?” he asked.
“No,” said Camilo. “I don’t mind where we talk, it can be here or somewhere else if you like, but, please, explain what you said to me the other day in the church.”
The stranger smiled again.
“So?” said Camilo, seeing that the man did not answer.
“First of all, tell me honestly: do you really love her?”
“Oh, yes, very much.”
“Do you swear that you will make her happy?”
“I swear.”
“Then, listen. What I’m about to tell you is true, because I heard it from my wife, who was Dona Isabel’s wet nurse. That’s her over there.”
Camilo glanced back at the cabin door and saw a tall, elegant mulatto woman eyeing him curiously.
“Let’s move a little farther off so that she can’t hear us,” said the stranger, “because I don’t want her to know who you heard this story from.”
And they did move away, walking along beside the stream. The stranger then told Camilo the story of the flower and the cult the young woman had built up around it. A less canny reader will imagine that Camilo listened to this story feeling sad and downcast. However, a more experienced reader will have guessed at once that the stranger’s revelation made Camilo’s soul turn somersaults of joy.
“So that’s how it is,” said the stranger in conclusion. “You now know where you stand.”
“Oh, yes, I do, I do!” cried Camilo. “I am loved! I am loved!”
Once he knew the story, Camilo could not
wait to go back to the house he had left some time before. He put his hand in his pocket, opened his wallet, and took out a twenty-mil-réis note.
“You have done me an enormous service,” he said, “one that is beyond price. Please accept this small token of my appreciation.”
And he handed the money to the man. The stranger gave a scornful laugh and, at first, said nothing. Then he took the note Camilo was offering and, to the latter’s great astonishment, threw it into the stream. The thread of water, which ran burbling and leaping over the pebbles, carried off the note, along with a leaf that the wind also carried off with it.
“That way,” said the stranger, “you don’t owe me a favor and I receive no payment for it. Please don’t think my intention was to serve you; it wasn’t. I simply wanted to make the daughter of my benefactor happy. I knew that she had been in love with a boy, and that he would be able to make her happy; I merely opened up the way that would lead him to her. That is not something you pay for, your gratitude is enough.”
Having said these words, the stranger returned to the cabin. Camilo watched the rustic fellow walk away, and, shortly afterward, he was back at Isabel’s house, where his return was awaited with some anxiety. Indeed, Isabel’s face lit up with joy when she saw him.
“I know everything,” Camilo said to her shortly before he left to go home.
She stared at him in amazement.
“Everything?” she said.
“I know that you love me, and I know that your love began many years ago, when you were a child, and that even now—”
He was interrupted by his father coming over to join them. Isabel looked pale and confused, and was grateful for this interruption, because she had no idea how to respond.
The following day, Camilo wrote her a passionate letter, invoking the love she had kept hidden in her heart, and asking her to make him happy. He waited two whole days for a reply. It came on the third day, and was short and to the point. She admitted that she had indeed loved him for all those years and had sworn never to love anyone else.