Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) (21 page)

She told him that she’d felt so sorry that she’d immediately resolved to organize a committee of women to seek donations. Her aunt’s death interrupted the first steps, but she was going to continue once the seventh-day mass was over. And she asked him what he thought of the idea.

“It sounds fine to me. Aren’t there any men on the committee?”

“Only women. The men just give money,” she finished, laughing.

Rubião immediately agreed to a large amount in order to obligate those who came after. It was all true. It was also true that the committee was going to make Sofia visible and give her a lift up in society. The women chosen were not from our lady’s circle, and she really knew only one of them. But through the intervention of a certain widow who’d dazzled between 1840 and 1850 and was still nostalgic for those times, and through her own efforts, Sofia got everyone to join in that charitable work. For several days she could think about nothing else. Sometimes at night before her tea, she would seem to be asleep in her rocking chair. She wasn’t sleeping, she was closing her eyes to think of herself in the midst of her colleagues, people of quality. Understandably, this was the main topic of conversation, but from time to time Sofia would get back to her friend there. Why was he staying away for such long periods, eight, ten, fifteen days and more? Rubião answered for no reason but in such an emotional way that one of the seamstresses tapped the other one on the
foot. From then on, even during the long silences cut only by the needles on the woolen cloth, the shears, the ripping, neither one took her eyes off the person of our friend with his eyes fastened on the lady of the house.

A visitor arrived to offer his condolences—a man, a bank director. They immediately went to call Palha, who came down to receive him. Sofia excused herself to Rubião for a few seconds. She was going to look in on Maria Benedita.

R
ubião, left alone with the two women, began to walk back and forth, muffling his steps so as not to bother anyone. From the parlor an occasional word of Palha’s came out. “In any case, you can believe …”—“The administration of a bank isn’t child’s play…“—“Absolutely…” The director spoke sparsely, dry and softly.

One of the seamstresses folded up her sewing and hurriedly gathered up cuttings, shears, spools of thread, and silk. It was late, she was leaving.

“Wait a bit, Dondon, I’m leaving too.”

“No, I can’t. Could you please tell me what time it is, sir?”

“It’s eight–thirty,” Rubião replied.

“Good Lord! It’s so late.”

Rubião, just to say something, asked her why she wouldn’t wait as the other woman had asked.

“I’m only waiting for Dona Sofia,” Dondon put in respectfully. “But do you know where this one lives? She lives on the Rua do Passeio. And I’ve got to drag my boots to the Rua da Harmonia. And you know that the Rua da Harmonia is a fair piece from here.”

s
ofia came down right after and found Rubião all upset, avoiding her with his eyes. She asked him what was wrong and he said nothing, a headache. Dondon left, and the bank director took his leave. Palha thanked him for his kindness, wished him good health. Where was his hat? He found it. He also gave him his coat, and, as it appeared that he was looking for something else, he asked him if it was his cane.

“No, sir. It’s my umbrella. I think this is it. This is it. Goodbye.”

“Once more, thank you, thank you very much,” Palha said. “Put your hat on, it’s damp, don’t stand on ceremony. Thank you, thank you very much,” he finished, squeezing the man’s hand in both of his and bowing.

Returning to the study he found his business partner, who was bent on leaving. He, too, pressed him, telling him to have a cup of tea, that it would soon go away. Rubião refused everything.

“Your hand’s cold,” the young woman observed to Rubião as she shook it. “Why don’t you wait? Lemon-balm water is very good. I’ll go get some.”

Rubião stopped her. It wasn’t necessary. He knew these attacks, they were cured with sleep. Palha wanted to send for a cab, but the other man said that the night air would do him good and that he could find transportation in Catete.

I
’ll catch up with her before she reaches Catete, Rubião said, going up the Rua do Príncipe.

He calculated that the seamstress had probably gone that way. In the distance he could make out two shapes on both sides. One of them looked like a woman’s. It must be she, he thought, and
picked up his pace. It has to be understood, of course, that his head was all dizzy: Rua da Harmonia, seamstress, a lady, and all the open gratings. Don’t be surprised that, at wit’s end and walking rapidly, he collided with a certain man who was going along slowly with his head down. Nor did he excuse himself, but lengthened his pace, seeing that the woman was also walking fast.

A
nd the man who was bumped scarcely felt it. He was walking along absorbed but content, open-spirited, free of cares and annoyances. It was the bank director who’d just paid Palha a visit of condolence. He felt the bump but didn’t become angry. He straightened his coat and his spirits and continued along calmly.

It should be mentioned, in order to explain the man’s indifference, that within the space of one hour he’d had two contrasting encounters. He’d gone first to the home of a cabinet minister to deal with a brother’s petition. The minister, who’d just finished dinner, was smoking, silently and peacefully. The director laid out the matter in a jumbled way, going back, jumping ahead, tying up and untying words. Barely sitting so as not to cross the line of respect, he kept a constant and worshipful smile on his lips. And he bowed, asking to be excused. The minister asked a few questions. He, encouraged, gave long answers, extremely long ones, and ended up handing him a petition. Then he got up, thanked the minister, shook his hand. The latter accompanied him to the veranda. There the director bowed twice—one full one before going down the steps—another useless one already below in the garden. Instead of the minister, he only saw the frosted glass of the door and on the veranda, hanging from the roof, the gas lamp. He put on his hat and left. He went away humiliated, annoyed with himself. It wasn’t the matter
at hand that bothered him, but the bows he’d made, his begging his pardon, the attitude of a subaltern, a string of unrewarding acts. That was his state of mind when he reached Palha’s.

Within ten minutes his spirits had been dusted off and returned to what they’d been before, such were the courtesies of the man of the house, the approving nods of his head and the ray of a perpetual smile, not to mention the offer of tea and cigars. The director then became stern, superior, cold, with few words. He disdainfully tossed aside an idea of Palha’s, and the latter immediately retreated, agreeing that it was absurd. He copied the minister’s slow gestures. As he left, the bows were coming not from him but from his host.

He was a different man when he reached the street. Therefore his walk was calm and satisfied. The opening up of his spirits devolved to his whole being and led to the indifference with which he received Rubião’s bump. Away went the memory of his bowing and scraping. What he was savoring now was Cristiano Palha’s bowing and scraping.

W
hen Rubião got to the corner of Catete, the seamstress was chatting with a man who’d been waiting for her and who immediately gave her his arm. He saw them both go off like husband and wife in the direction of Gloria. Married? Friends? They disappeared around the first corner of the street while Rubião stood there recalling the words of the cabman, the grating, the young man with a mustache, the lady with a pretty figure, the Rua da Harmonia… Rua da Harmonia. She’d said Rua da Harmonia.

He went to bed late. Part of the time he spent by the window, reflecting, cigar lighted, unable to come to any explanation of that business. Dondon had to be the go-between in the affair. She had to be, she had cunning eyes, Rubião was thinking.

“I’m going there tomorrow. I’ll leave very early, go and wait for her on the corner. I’ll give her a hundred
mil-reis
, two hundred, five hundred. She’ll have to confess everything to me.”

When he grew tired, he looked at the sky. There was the Southern Cross … Oh, if she’d only consented to gaze at the Southern Cross! The life of both of them would have been different. The constellation seemed to confirm that train of thought, gleaming brilliantly. And Rubião stayed there looking at it, composing a thousand beautiful love scenes—living what might have been. When his spirit had had enough of never-revealed love, it came to our friend’s thought that the Southern Cross wasn’t only a constellation, it was also a medal of honor. From there he went on to a different series of thoughts. He thought that it had been a stroke of genius to get the idea of making the Southern Cross a symbol of national distinction and privilege. He’d already seen the decoration on the chests of a few public servants. It was beautiful, but, best of all, rare.

“So much the better!” he said aloud

It was close to two o’clock when he left the window. He closed it and got into bed, falling asleep immediately. He awoke to the sound of the voice of the Spanish servant who was bringing him a note.

R
ubião sat up in bed, bewildered. He didn’t notice the handwriting on the envelope. He opened the note and read:

We were quite concerned last night after you left. Cristiano can’t stop by there now because he got up late and has to see the customs inspector. Send us a note saying you’re feeling better. Best wishes from Maria Benedita and

Your faithful friend

SOFIA.

“Tell the messenger to wait.”

Twenty minutes later the reply reached the hand of the black boy who’d brought the note. It was Rubião himself who gave it to him, asking him how the ladies were. He learned that they were well. He gave him ten
tostões
, telling him that if he ever was in need of money to come by and get some. The boy, startled, opened his eyes wide and promised that he would.

“Goodbye!” Rubião said to him benevolently.

And he stood there while the messenger went down the few steps. When the latter got to the center of the garden, he heard a shout:

“Wait!”

He came back in response to the call. Rubião had already gone down the steps. They approached each other and stopped, not saying anything. Two minutes passed before Rubião opened his mouth. Finally he asked something—if the ladies were well. It was the same question as the one a short time back. The servant confirmed the answer. Then Rubião let his eyes wander over the garden. The roses and the daisies were pretty and fresh, a few carnations were in bloom, other flowers and foliage, begonias and vines, that whole little world seemed to be placing its invisible eyes on Rubião and calling to him:

“You indolent soul, follow your desire for once, pick us, send US ...”

Fine,” Rubião said finally. “Remember me to the ladies. Don’t forget what I told you. If you need me, come here. Have you got the letter?”

“Yes, sir. It’s here.”

“You’d better put it in your pocket, but be careful not to crumple it.”

“I won’t crumple it, no, sir,” the servant replied, putting the letter away.

T
he black boy left. Rubião remained there, strolling in the garden, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown and his eyes on the flowers. Should he have sent some? It was a natural present and even an obligatory one, repaying one courtesy with another. He’d done poorly. He ran to the gate, but the boy was far off. Rubião remembered that mourning excluded happy offerings, and he calmed down.

Except that as he start strolling again he spied a letter next to a flower bed. He leaned over, picked it up, and read the envelope . . . It was in her hand, it could only be hers. He compared it with the note he’d received. It was the same. The name on it was the devil’s own: Carlos Maria.

“Yes, that’s what happened,” he thought after a few minutes. “The fellow who brought my letter was carrying this one and dropped it.”

And, looking the letter up and down, he wondered about the contents. Oh, the contents! What could be written there on that homicidal piece of paper? Perversion, lust, the whole language of evil and dementia summed up in two or three lines. He held it up to his eyes to see if he could read some word. The paper was thick, nothing was legible. Remembering that the messenger, when he found the letter missing, would be coming back looking for it, he quickly put it in his pocket and ran inside.

In the house he took it out and looked at it again. His hands hesitated, following the state of his conscience. If he opened the letter, he would know everything. Once read and burned, its contents would never be known to anyone else, while he would be putting an end, once and for all, to that terrible fascination that had been giving him so much pain there on the brink of that pit of infamy… I’m not the one who’s saying it; he’s the one who’s putting together those and other horrible names, he’s the one who stands in the center of the room with his eyes on the rug, where in the design an indolent Turk figures, pipe in mouth, looking out over the Bosporus . . . It has to be the Bosporus.

“Hellish letter!” he snorted softly, repeating a phrase he’d heard at the theater a few weeks earlier, an odd phrase that was
emerging now to express the moral analogy between spectacle and spectator.

He had an urge to open it. It was only a gesture, an act. No one could see him; the pictures on the wall were silent, indifferent; the Turk on the rug continued smoking and looking out at the Bosporus. Nevertheless, he had scruples. The letter, even though found in the garden, didn’t belong to him but to the other man. It was the same as if it had been a roll of bills. Wouldn’t he return the money to its owner? Annoyed, he put it back in his pocket. Between sending the letter to its addressee and giving it to Sofia, he chose the second solution. It had the advantage of letting him read the truth in the features of the writer herself.