Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) (23 page)

“It’s your writing.”

“It’s mine, yes, but what would I be saying inside?” she continued, calm. “Who gave you that?”

Rubião wanted to mention how he’d found it, but he understood that he’d gone far enough. He bowed, as a sign of leaving.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Open the letter yourself.”

“I’ve got nothing more to do here.”

“Wait. Open the letter. Here it is. Read all of it,” the young woman said, tugging at his sleeve. But Rubião pulled his arm away violently, went to get his hat, and left. Sofia, afraid of the servants, remained in the parlor.

S
he was so nervous during those first few moments that she forgot about the letter. Finally, she turned it over and over without guessing the contents, but little by little, in control of herself now, she remembered that it must have been the circular about the committee for Alagoas. She opened the envelope: it was the circular. How could such a paper have fallen into his hands? And where did his suspicions come from? From himself or from outside? Was there gossip going around? She went to see the servant who’d taken the circular to Carlos Maria, and she asked him if he’d delivered it. She found out that he hadn’t. When the servant had reached the Rua dos Inválidos, he couldn’t find the paper in his pocket, and since he was afraid, he didn’t say anything to his mistress.

Sofia went back to the parlor, having decided not to go out. She picked up the letter and the envelope in order to show them to Rubião so he could see that it was nothing, but he would no doubt suspect that the paper was a replacement. Damned fellow! she murmured and began to walk about aimlessly.

A surge of memories came into Sofia’s mind. The image of Carlos Maria came to plant itself in front of her with his big eyes of a beloved and hated specter. Sofia tried to put it aside, but she couldn’t. He followed her from one side to the other, without losing his slender and manly look or his sublime smile. Sometimes she would see him leaning over, pronouncing the same words as on a certain night at a ball, which had cost her hours of insomnia, days of hope, until they were lost in irreality. Sofia never understood the failure of that adventure. The man seemed really to be in love with her, and no one had obliged him to declare it in such a daring way or to pass by her window in the middle of the night as she’d heard him say. She recalled still other encounters, furtive words, big, burning eyes, and she never came to understand why all that passion ended up in nothing. There probably hadn’t been any, a simple flirtation—at most a way of sharpening the weapons of attraction … The nature of a dandy, a cynic, a coxcomb.

What did she care about the mystery? He was a coxcomb. Her
revulsion and disdain increased. She reached the point of laughing at him. She could face him without any remorse. And she went about having her revenge on the boob—she called him a boob—and staring into space with her virginal eyes. She really was taking up too much time on a matter like that. She began to curse Rubião for having brought a man like that back into her memory because of that damned circular … Then she returned to her earlier memories, Carlos Maria’s words. If everybody thought she was beautiful, why shouldn’t he? Maybe she could have had him at her feet if she hadn’t acted so thankful, so humble …

Suddenly the maid, who was in the next room and heard something break, ran into the parlor and saw her mistress all alone, standing.

“It’s all right,” the latter said.

“I thought I heard …”

“It was the doll that fell. Pick up the pieces.”

“The Chinese one!” the maid exclaimed.

It was, in fact, a porcelain mandarin, a poor devil who’d been resting quite peacefully on top of a bookcase. Sofia found him in her hands, not knowing how he got there or when. As she thought about her voluntary humiliation, she had an impulse—it seemed to be anger with herself—and she threw the doll to the floor. Poor mandarin! It didn’t matter that it was made of porcelain, it didn’t even matter that it had been a gift from Palha.

“But, ma’am, how did it happen that the Chinaman …”

“Get out!”

Sofia remembered her complete behavior with Carlos Maria: her easy acquiescence, excusing herself in anticipation, the eyes with which she sought him out, the strong handclasps … That was it. She’d thrown herself at his feet. Then her feelings began to change. In spite of everything, it was natural that he should like her, and the moral conformity of both wouldn’t lead to cither’s giving in. Perhaps something else was to blame. She dug for possible reasons, some cold or harsh act, some lack of attention for him. She remembered that once, for fear of receiving him all alone, she’d had him told that she wasn’t at home. Yes, that might have been it. Carlos Maria was proud. The slightest
affront would hurt him. He’d found out that it was a lie ... That was to blame.

...O
r, more accurately, a chapter in which the disoriented reader is unable to connect Sofia’s sadness to the cabman’s tale. And he asks, confused: “So, is that gabble in loud, delinquent rhymes about the meeting on the Rua da Harmonia, Sofia, Carlos Maria, all slander? Slander for the reader and Rubião, but not for the poor cabman, who didn’t reveal any names or even get to tell a real tale. That’s what you would have seen had you read slowly. Yes, wretch, take careful note of how unlikely it was that a man off on that kind of adventure should have his cab stop in front of the designated house. It would be supplying evidence of the crime. There are more streets in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy—cross streets where the cab could have remained waiting.

“So, the cabman didn’t know how to put his facts together. But what interest did he have in making up the story?”

He’d taken Rubião to a house where our friend spent almost two hours without sending him away. He saw him come out, get into the cab, get out shortly after and continue on foot, ordering him to follow. He drew the conclusion that this was the best kind of fare, but even so he never thought to invent anything. A woman with a boy passed, however—the one on the Rua da Saúde—and Rubião stopped to look after her, showing signs of love and melancholy. This is where the cabman took him to be lascivious as well as liberal and complimented his talents. If he spoke of the Rua da Harmonia, it was suggested by the neighborhood they were coming from. And if he said that he’d carried a young man from the Rua dos Invalidos, it’s quite natural that he’d taken someone from there the day before—perhaps the very same Carlos Maria—or because he lived there, or because he
kept his cab there—any circumstance that helped in the invention, the way reminiscences of the day serve as material for the dreams of night. Not all cabmen are imaginative. Mending the tatters of reality is more than enough.

All that’s left is the coincidence that one of the seamstresses for the mourning lived on the Rua da Harmonia. That does seem to be the product of chance. The fault lies with the seamstress. She wouldn’t have lacked for a house closer to the center of the city if she’d wanted to give up her needles and her husband. On the contrary, she loves them both more than anything in this world. There was no reason for me to cut the episode or interrupt the book.

A
s far as Sofia’s reflections are concerned, there’s nothing to explain. They were all solidly based on the truth. It was certain, ever so certain that Carlos Maria hadn’t matched her first expectations—or the second or the third—because they came at different times, even though less fresh or abundant. As for the cause of that, we’ve seen that Sofia attributed the lack of the first successively to all three. She never got to think that he might have had other loves, or that this one had become just as insipid as they. There must have been a fourth cause, the true one, perhaps.

F
or several months Rubião stopped going to Flamengo. It wasn’t an easy resolution to keep. It cost him a lot of indecision, a lot of regret. More than once he reached the point of going out with the intention of visiting Sofia and asking for her forgiveness. For what? He didn’t know, but he wanted to be forgiven. In every attempt of this kind the memory of Carlos Maria made him retreat. After a certain point in time it was the lapse itself that prevented him. It would be strange for him to show up there one day like a sad prodigal son simply to beseech the beautiful eyes of the lady of the house. He would go to the warehouse and visit Palha. The latter, after five weeks, scolded him for his absence. And after two months asked him if it was something intentional.

“I’ve had a lot to do,” Rubião replied. “This business of politics takes up a person’s time completely. I’ll come by on Sunday.”

Sofia got all ready to receive him. She would wait for an opportunity to tell him what the letter was, swearing by everything holy so he would see that the truth held nothing against her. Vain plans. Rubião never showed up. Another Sunday came, other Sundays came … Nevertheless, Sofia sent him a request for a contribution for Alagoas. He gave five
cantos
.

“That’s too much,” his partner told him at the warehouse when he brought the paper to him.

“I won’t give anything less.”

“But look, you can give a lot without giving that much. Do you think that this subscription is being circulated among only half a dozen people? It’s in the hands of a lot of women and a few men. It’s on the counters in shops on the Praça do Comercio and elsewhere. Donate a little less.”

“How can I? It’s already written down.”

“You can easily make a 3 out of this 5. Three
cantos
is already a generous donation. There are bigger ones, but they’re from people who are obliged by their position or their millions. Bomfim, for example, signed up for ten
contos.”

Rubião couldn’t hold back an ironic chuckle. He shook his
head and refused to back down from the five
cantos
. He would only change it by writing the number i in front—fifteen
cantos
—more than Bomfim.

“Of course, you can give five, ten, fifteen
contos,”
Palha answered, “but your assets call for caution. You’ve been digging into them a lot… You should be aware that they’re not yielding as much now.”

Palha was now the custodian of Rubião’s holdings (stocks, bonds, deeds) that were locked up in the safe at the warehouse. He was collecting the interest, the dividends, and the rent from three houses that he’d had him buy some time earlier at a ridiculous price and which were bringing in a good return. He was also holding some gold coins because Rubião had the mania of collecting them just to look at. He knew the sum total of Rubião’s possessions better than the owner, and he saw the leaks the ship was springing with no storm, on a sea that was milky calm. Three
cantos
were enough, he insisted, and he proved his sincerity by the fact that he so happened to be the husband of the one who had organized the committee. But Rubião wouldn’t budge from his five. He took advantage of the occasion to ask him for ten more, he needed ten
cantos
. Palha shook his head.

“You have to excuse me,” he said after a few seconds, “but what do you want them for? Are you sure you’re not going to lose them, or risk them at least?”

Rubião laughed at the objection.

“If I were sure I was going to lose them, I wouldn’t have come looking for them. I might be taking a risk, but you never gain anything without taking a risk. I need them for a transaction—I mean three transactions. Two are for safe loans that don’t go beyond one
canto
five hundred. The eight
cantos
five hundred are for an undertaking. Why are you shaking your head if you don’t know what it’s all about?”

“That’s exactly why. If you’d consulted with me, if you’d told me what the undertaking was and who the people were, I’d have seen immediately that there’s nothing good about it except the money that’s going to be lost. Do you remember the Union of Honest Capital Co. stock? I told you right off that the title was pompous, a way of hoodwinking people, of giving employment
to characters in need. You refused to believe me, and you fell for it. The stock went down, and this last quarter there were already no dividends.”

“Well, then, just sell those shares. I’ll be happy with whatever you get. Or give it to me from the funds of our firm … I’ll be back in a while if you want—or you can send it to me in Botafogo. Pledge some bonds if you think that’s better …”

“No, I’m not going to do anything. I’m not giving you the ten
cantos”
Palha cut in furiously. “Enough of giving in all the time. It’s my duty to resist. Safe loans? What loans are those? Can’t you see that they’re taking your money and not paying their debts? Characters who reach the point of dining every day with their creditor himself, like a certain Carneiro I’ve seen there. I don’t know if the others owe you anything. They probably do. I can see that it’s too much. I’m talking to you as a friend. Don’t say someday that I didn’t warn you in advance. What are you going to live off if you squander what you have? Our firm could go under.”

“It won’t go under,” Rubião put in.

“It can. Anything can go under. I watched Souto the banker go under in 1864.”

Rubião mulled over his partner’s advice, not because it was good or probable, but because in it he found an affectionate intent disguised in a rough form. He gave him heartfelt thanks, but rejected it. He needed the ten
cantos
. He would be more prudent from then on, and he promised him that he wouldn’t be so easygoing. Beyond that, he had more than enough, he had money to sell or give away.

“Only to sell,” Palha corrected.

And after a moment:

“All right. It’s late now. I’ll bring the ten
cantos
tomorrow. So why don’t you come get them at our place in Flamengo? How have we hurt you? What have the women done to you? Your anger must be with them, because I see you here. What was it, to punish them?” he finished, smiling.