Papa José hurried into the house and waited for his master, who entered with his usual downcast air. The house, of course, was neither rich nor particularly welcoming. It bore not a trace of a woman’s presence, either old or young; there were no songbirds, no flowers, no lively, cheerful colors. It was a somber, barren place. The most joyful thing was the harpsichord, which Maestro Romão sometimes played when practicing. On a chair beside it lay some sheets of music, none composed by him.
Ah! If Maestro Romão had had the necessary talent, he would have been a great composer! It seems there are two sorts of vocation: those that can speak and those that cannot. The former find fulfillment; the latter are nothing but a continual, sterile struggle between one’s internal impulse and one’s inability to communicate with the outside world. Romão’s vocation belonged in that second category. He had a profound vocation for music; he carried within him many operas and masses, a whole world of new and original harmonies that he could neither express nor put down on paper. This was the sole cause of Maestro Romão’s sadness. Naturally, the hoi polloi did not realize this; some said one thing, others said another: illness, a lack of money, some lingering regret, but the truth is this: the cause of Maestro Romão’s melancholy was that inability to compose and translate his feelings into music. Not that he hadn’t scribbled many a bar and stave and sat staring at the harpsichord for hours on end, but everything emerged unformed and shapeless, with neither idea nor harmony. Latterly, he had even begun to feel embarrassed lest his neighbors should hear him, and so he had stopped trying altogether.
And yet, if he could, he wanted at least to finish one particular piece, a nuptial song started three days after he got married in 1779. His wife, who was then twenty-one and who had died at age twenty-three, was not pretty in the least, but she was extremely kind and loved him as much as he loved her. Three days after their wedding, Maestro Romão felt the stirrings of something akin to inspiration. He conceived the idea of writing a nuptial song and set about composing it, but the inspiration remained locked inside. Like a bird that has just been captured and tries to escape through the bars of the cage, flitting up and down, impatient and terrified—that was our musician’s inspiration, imprisoned within him, unable to escape, unable to find a door or a way out. A few notes managed to come together; he wrote them down, just a single sheet of paper, nothing more. He tried again the following day, then ten days later, and at least twenty times more during their marriage. When his wife died, he reread those first few conjugal notes and it made him even sadder, because he had failed to set down on paper that feeling of happiness now extinct.
“Papa José,” he said as he came in, “I’m feeling rather under the weather today.”
“Sinhô ate something that make him sick?”
“No, even this morning I wasn’t feeling well. Go to the apothecary’s, will you, and fetch me . . .”
The apothecary sent him some remedy or other, which he took that night; the following day, though, he still didn’t feel any better. I should mention here that he had a bad heart—a grave, chronic condition. Papa José was so dismayed when he saw that neither rest nor medicine yielded any results that he wanted to call the doctor.
“What for?” asked the maestro. “It will pass.”
Things were no worse by the end of the day, and the maestro got through the night unscathed, unlike his slave, who barely managed two hours’ sleep. When they heard about the illness, the neighbors could speak of nothing else; those who were on friendly terms with the maestro went to visit him, telling him it was nothing to worry about and that it was probably just a bug that was going around; someone added jokingly that it was simply a trick on his part to avoid being beaten at backgammon by the apothecary; someone else chipped in that he must be lovesick. Maestro Romão smiled, but said to himself that the end was nigh.
“It’s all over,” he said.
One morning, five days after the church pageant, the doctor found him to be really ill, and despite the doctor’s soothing words, the maestro could read this in the doctor’s face:
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about; you must stop thinking about songs all the time . . .”
Songs! It was precisely this word spoken by the doctor that gave the maestro an idea. As soon as he was alone with the slave, he opened the drawer where he kept the nuptial song he had begun in 1779. He reread those notes wrung from himself with such difficulty and still left unfinished. And then he had a remarkable idea: he would finish it off now, come what may. Anything would do, as long as he left something of his soul on Earth.
“Who knows? Perhaps, in 1880, someone will play this, and say that it was written by a certain Maestro Romão . . .”
The beginning of the song ended in la; this la, which did not sound quite right, was the very last note he had written. Maestro Romão gave orders for the harpsichord to be moved to the rear parlor, which faced onto the yard: he needed air. Through the window, he could see two newlyweds—they had only been married a week—leaning out the window of a neighboring house, each with an arm about the other’s shoulder, their two free hands clasped. Maestro Romão smiled sadly.
“They’re arriving and I’m leaving,” he said to himself. “I’ll compose this one song for them to play . . .”
He sat down at the harpsichord, replayed the notes, and came to the la . . .
“La . . . la . . . la . . .”
Nothing. He was completely stuck. And yet he knew music like no one else.
“La, doh . . . la, mi . . . la, si, doh, re . . . re . . . re . . .”
Impossible! No inspiration whatsoever. He wasn’t asking for a profoundly original piece, but just something that was his and in keeping with his original idea. He went back to the beginning, repeating the notes and trying to retrieve a remnant of his extinguished feelings, remembering his wife and their first days together. To complete the illusion, he looked out the window in the direction of the newlyweds. They were still there, hands clasped, each with an arm draped over the other’s shoulder; the difference was that they were now gazing at each other, instead of down into the yard. Breathless with illness and impatience, Maestro Romão returned to the harpsichord; but the sight of the young couple had given him no inspiration, and the notes that should have followed would still not come.
“La . . . la . . . la . . .”
In despair, he got up from the harpsichord, took the sheet of music, and tore it into pieces. At that moment, the young woman, entranced by her husband’s gaze, began to hum randomly, unconsciously, something never before sung or even imagined, in which a certain la gave way to a beautiful musical phrase, precisely the one Maestro Romão had been seeking for so many years and had never found. The maestro listened to it sadly, shook his head, and, that night, he passed away.
A STRANGE THING
“SOME VERY STRANGE THINGS happen. Do you see that lady going into Holy Cross Church? The one who’s just paused on the steps to give some money to a beggar.”
“The one in black?”
“That’s her; she’s just going in. She’s gone.”
“Stop right there. That look on your face tells me she’s a memento from your past, and not that long ago, either, to judge by her figure: she’s a real stunner.”
“She must be about forty-six now.”
“No! She’s certainly very well preserved. Come on, stop staring down at the ground and tell me all. She’s a widow, of course.”
“No.”
“So her husband’s still alive. Is he old?”
“She’s not married.”
“A spinster, then?”
“Something like that. No doubt she calls herself Dona Maria something-or-other these days. Back in 1860, everyone just called her Marocas. She wasn’t a seamstress, or a landlady, or a governess; if you carry on down the list of professions, you’ll get there eventually. She lived on Rua do Sacramento. She was just as slender then, too, and, as you’d expect, even prettier than she is today; well mannered and never vulgar. Out on th
e street, even in a plain, faded dress buttoned right up to the neck, she still caught the attention of many a man.”
“You, for example.”
“No, not me, but Andrade, a friend of mine from Alagoas. He was twenty-six at the time, half lawyer, half politician; he got married in Bahia and came to Rio in 1859. His wife was pretty, affectionate, loving, and uncomplaining; when I met them, they had a little two-year-old girl.”
“And in spite of all that, Marocas . . . ?”
“Yes, she completely captivated him. Look, if you’re not in a hurry, I’ll tell you an interesting story.”
“Go on.”
“The first time Andrade met her was at the door of Paula Brito’s bookshop, on Rocio. He was walking along, when he saw a pretty woman in the distance and he waited, his interest aroused, for he was very much a ladies’ man. Marocas walked toward him, stopping and looking around like someone searching for a particular address. She stopped in front of the bookshop for a moment, then, timid and shame-faced, she handed Andrade a piece of paper with the number of a house written on it and asked him where she could find that house. Andrade told her it was on the other side of the square, and pointed to its likely location. The woman took her leave with a charming curtsy, and Andrade was left not knowing quite what to think.”
“Like me.”
“It couldn’t be simpler: Marocas couldn’t read, but this thought didn’t even occur to Andrade. He watched her cross Rocio, which at the time had neither statue nor gardens in the middle, and make her way to the house she was looking for, although she still kept asking for directions from various people. That night he went to the Teatro do Ginásio to see La Dame aux Camélias; Marocas was there, and during the last act, she cried like a baby. I’ll say no more, but two weeks later they were madly in love. Marocas got rid of all her other admirers, and she must have incurred quite a loss, for there were several substantial businessmen among them. She lived completely alone, devoting herself to Andrade, with no thought for any other man or any other means of support.”
“Just like the Lady of the Camellias.”
“Precisely. Andrade taught her to read. ‘I’m a schoolmaster now,’ he said to me one day, and that’s when he told me the story about their meeting on Rocio. Marocas was a quick learner, which is entirely understandable—the shame of not being able to read, the desire to read the novels he talked about, the pleasure in obeying his wishes and pleasing him . . . Andrade hid nothing from me; he told me everything with such a look of gratitude in his eyes, you can scarcely imagine. Both of them confided in me. Sometimes the three of us would dine together, and—I see no reason to deny it—sometimes there was a fourth. Now, don’t go thinking these dinners were louche affairs; lively, perhaps, but entirely decent. Marocas was as straitlaced in her language as she was in her dress. Little by little, we became close; she would ask me about Andrade, his wife, his daughter, his habits, whether he really loved her or if she was just a casual affair; did he have other women, would he forget her—a torrent of questions, and a fear of losing him, that demonstrated the strength and sincerity of her affections. Then, for the St. John’s Feast holidays, Andrade took his family to Gávea, where he was to attend a lavish dinner and a ball. I went with them; we would be gone for two days. As she bade the two of us goodbye, Marocas recalled the comedy she had seen several weeks before at the Ginásio—I’m Dining with Mother—and she joked to me that, having no family with whom she could spend St. John’s Eve, she would do as Sofia Arnoult had in the play, and dine with a portrait. And since she had no mother, it would be Andrade’s portrait instead. Those words deserved a kiss, and Andrade obligingly leaned toward her; however, seeing that I was still there, she delicately pushed him away with her hand.”
“A lovely gesture.”
“He thought so too. He took her head between his hands and placed a paternal kiss on her forehead. We set off for Gávea. On the way, Andrade told me about all of Marocas’s fine qualities, recounted all their latest whims and fancies, and said he was planning to buy her a house somewhere on the outskirts of the city just as soon as he could rustle up the money. In passing, he praised her thriftiness, for she wouldn’t take from him a penny more than was absolutely necessary. ‘And that’s not all,’ I said, and told him that around three weeks earlier, Marocas had apparently pawned some jewelry to pay a seamstress’s bill. This news greatly upset him; I can’t swear to it, but I believe there were tears in his eyes. In any case, after a few moments’ thought, he said he would definitely get her a house and shield her from any further hardships. In Gávea, we carried on discussing Marocas until the end of the holidays and our return to the city. Andrade left his family at their house in Lapa and went to his office to attend to some urgent papers. Shortly after noon, a fellow called Leandro turned up, asking, as usual, for Andrade to lend him two or three mil-réis. Leandro was the former employee of a lawyer acquaintance, and was an idler and a scrounger who made his living milking his former boss’s friends. Andrade gave him three mil-réis, and, as the man seemed unusually chirpy, he asked him why he was looking so pleased with himself. Leandro winked and licked his lips. Andrade, who was always partial to a tale of romantic endeavor, asked if he’d been lucky in love. Leandro hemmed and hawed for a moment, and admitted that indeed he had.”
“Careful, she’s coming out of the church. Is that her?”
“That’s her, all right: come on, let’s move away from the corner.”
“She must have been really very pretty. She carries herself like a duchess.”
“She didn’t see us; she never looks around. She’ll head straight up Rua do Ouvidor.”
“Yes, sir. I can understand what Andrade saw in her.”
“Back to the story. Leandro confessed that the previous evening he’d had a rare, or, rather, unique stroke of luck, entirely unexpected and undeserved, because, deep down, he knew he was nothing but a miserable wretch. But then, even miserable wretches are God’s children. Anyway, at around ten o’clock the previous evening, on Rocio, he had happened upon a modestly dressed lady, her attractive figure tightly swathed in a large shawl. The lady came up behind him, walking briskly, and as she brushed past him, she stared straight at him and slowed her step, as if waiting for him. The poor devil thought she must have mistaken him for someone else, and he confessed to Andrade that, despite her simple attire, he saw at once that she was out of his league. He carried on walking; the woman, who had stopped, stared at him again, so insistently that he drummed up a little courage . . . and she drummed up the rest. Ah! A perfect angel! And such a fine house, such a sumptuous parlor! Absolutely top-notch. And no question of payment, either . . . He added: ‘For a gentleman like yourself, it would be the perfect setup.’ Andrade shook his head; chasing after another man’s mistress didn’t much appeal to him. Leandro persisted, though, and told him that the house was on Rua do Sacramento, number such-and-such . . .”
“You’re joking!”
“Just imagine how Andrade must have felt. He himself had no idea what he said or did during those first few minutes, nor what he thought or felt. He finally summoned up the courage to ask Leandro if he was telling the truth, to which the other replied that he had no reason to invent such a story; however, seeing how agitated Andrade was, Leandro asked him to keep it a secret, telling him that he, for his part, would be the soul of discretion. Leandro stood up to go, but Andrade stopped him and asked if he would like to earn twenty mil-réis. ‘Of course!’ was the answer. ‘Well then,’ continued Andrade, ‘I’ll give you twenty mil-réis if you’ll go with me to this lady’s house and tell me in her presence that she’s the one you met.”
“Oh!”
“I’m not defending Andrade; it wasn’t a nice thing to do, but in such cases, passion can blind the best of us. Andrade was an honorable, generous, sincere fellow, but it had been such a heavy blow and he loved her so deeply that he did not shrink from wreaking his revenge.”
“Did Leandro agree?”
“He hesitated somewhat, I suspect out of fear rather than any sense of dignity, but then, twenty mil-réis . . . He made one condition: he didn’t want any trouble. Marocas was in the parlor when Andrade entered. She came to the door, intending to embrace him, but Andrade indicated that he had brought someone with him. Then, watching her closely, he called Leandro into the room. Marocas turned white as a sheet. ‘Is this the lady?’ he asked. ‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Leandro feebly, for there are some actions that are even more despicable than the man who commits them. With a flourish, Andrade opened his wallet, pulled out a twenty-mil-réis note, and gave it to Leandro; then, with another flourish, he told him to get out. Leandro left. The scene that followed was brief but dramatic. I didn’t get the whole of it, because it was Andrade himself who told me everything, and, naturally, he was so shaken that many things escaped him. She confessed nothing, but was utterly distraught, and when, after saying some very harsh things, he made for the door, she threw herself at his feet, clasped his hands, tearful and desperate, threatening to kill herself; and there she stayed, sprawled on the staircase landing, while he ran down the stairs and out of the building.”
“Really! Picking up a miserable wretch like that on the street . . . Do you think she made a habit of it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Just listen and I’ll tell you. Sometime around eight o’clock that night, Andrade came to my house and waited for me to return. He’d come looking for me three times already. I was astonished, but how could I doubt him when he had taken the precaution of obtaining proof that was beyond all reasonable doubt? I won’t go into everything he said: his plans for revenge, his curses, the names he called her, the usual repertoire of insults people dredge up in moments of crisis. My advice was for him to leave her and devote himself to his kind, loving wife and his daughter. He agreed, then again flew into a rage. After fury came doubt; he even got it into his head that Marocas had dreamed up the whole thing just to test him, and had actually paid Leandro to come and say those things to him; the proof being that even when he’d shown no interest in meeting the woman, Leandro had insisted on telling him the exact address. In clinging to this improbable explanation he was trying to escape reality, but reality kept coming back at him—Marocas’s pallor, Leandro’s unfeigned chirpiness, and all the other things that told him it was true. I even think he was beginning to wonder if he’d gone too far. As for me, I went over and over the whole affair but could find no explanation. She was so demure! Prim, even!”