Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) (9 page)

“W
ho sent this?” Rubião asked. W “Dona Sofia.”

Rubião didn’t recognize the handwriting. It was the first time she’d written him. What could it be? His commotion was visible on his face and his fingers. While he was opening the letter, Freitas, in a familiar way, uncovered the basket: they were strawberries. Rubião’s hand trembled as he read these lines:

SOFIA

“What kind of fruit is it?” Rubião asked, folding the letter.

“Strawberries.”

“They arrived late. Strawberries?” he repeated without knowing what he was saying.

“You don’t have to blush, my dear friend,” Freitas told him, laughing, as soon as the servant left. “These things happen to people in love …”

“People in love?” Rubião repeated, really blushing. “But you can read the letter, look...”

He was going to show it but withdrew it and put it in his pocket. He was beside himself, half confused and half happy. Carlos Maria took delight in telling him that he couldn’t hide it, that the little gift was from some sweetheart. And there was no reason to scold him, love was a universal law. If it was some married lady, he praised his discretion …

“But for the love of God!” the host interrupted.

“A widow? It’s the same thing,” Carlos Maria went on. “Discretion there is still worthy. The greater sin, after the sin, is the publication of the sin. If I were a legislator, I would propose that all men convicted of indiscretion in these matters be burned at the stake. And they would go to the flames like prisoners of the Inquisition with the difference that instead of sackcloth they would wear a cape of parrot feathers …”

Freitas couldn’t contain his laughter and pounded on the table as a way of applause. Rubião, half skewered, hastened to say that it wasn’t either a married woman or a widow …

“A single woman, then?” the young man replied. “A wedding on its way? Well, it’s about time. Betrothal strawberries,” he continued, picking some up with his fingers. “They smell of a maiden’s chamber and a priest’s Latin.”

Rubião didn’t know what else to say. Finally he went back to the beginning and explained. They were from the wife of a close friend. Carlos Maria winked. Freitas put in his word saying that now, yes sir, it was all explained. But that at first the mystery, the arrangement of the basket, the look of the strawberries themselves—adulterous strawberries, he said, laughing—all those things gave the matter an immoral and sinful look. But it turned out all right in the end.

They drank their coffee in silence. Then they went into the parlor. Rubião outdid himself in courtesies, but he was worried. After a few minutes he was content with the first supposition of his two guests: that of an adulterous love affair. He even thought that he’d defended himself too heatedly. Since he hadn’t mentioned anybody’s name, he could have confessed that it really was an intimate affair. But it also might have happened that the very heat of his denial might have left doubts in the minds of the two, some suspicion … At this he smiled, consoled.

Carlos Maria consulted his watch. It was two o’clock. He was leaving. Rubião thanked him warmly, obsequiously, and asked him to come back again. They could spend some Sundays like that in good friendly conversation.

“I second the motion!” Freitas shouted, coming over.

He had half a dozen cigars in his pocket, and as he left he whispered into Rubião’s ear:

“These are the usual souvenirs. Six delightful days. A delight every day.”

“Take some more.”

“No, I’ll come back for them another time.”

Rubião accompanied them to the iron gate. Quincas Borba, as soon as he heard voices, ran out from the back of the garden to greet them, especially his master. He paid particular attention to Carlos Maria, tried to lick his hand. The young man drew back
with repugnance. Rubião gave the dog a kick, which made him yelp and run away. Finally they all said goodbye.

“Which way are you going?” Carlos Maria asked Freitas.

Freitas calculated that he would be going to visit someone in the direction of Sao Clemente and wanted to accompany him.

“I’m going to the end of the beach,” he said.

“I’m going back,” the other replied.

R
ubião watched them leave, came back in, went into the parlor and read Sofia’s note again. Every word on that unexpected page was a mystery, the signature a capitulation. Only
Sofia
, no other family or married name.
Your true friend was
obviously a metaphor. As for the first words,
I’m sending you these bits of fruit for lunch
breathed the innocence of a good and generous soul. Rubião saw, felt, touched everything with only the force of instinct and gave in, kissing the paper—I’m not saying it right, kissing the name, the name given at the baptismal font, repeated by her mother, handed over to her husband as part of the moral document of marriage, and now stolen away from all those origins and ownerships to be sent to him at the bottom of a piece of paper … Sofia! Sofia! Sofia!

“W
hy did you come so late?” Sofia asked him as soon as he appeared at the garden gate in Santa Teresa. “After lunch, which lasted until two o’clock, I was working on
some papers. But it’s not all that late,” Rubião went on, looking at his watch, “it’s only four–thirty.”

“It’s always late for friends,” Sofia replied with a look of censure.

Rubião got hold of himself but not in time to withdraw his hand. Facing him, on an iron bench alongside the house, were four silent ladies eying him curiously. They were Sofia’s guests, who were awaiting the arrival of the capitalist Rubião. Sofia brought him over to be introduced. Three of them were married, one was single, or more than single. She was thirty–nine, with a pair of dark eyes that were weary from waiting. She was the daughter of a Major Siqueira, who appeared in the garden a few moments later.

“Our friend Palha has spoken about you, sir,” the major said after being introduced to Rubião. “I can vouch that he’s your very good friend. He told me that chance brought you together. Those are generally the best friendships. When I was thirtysomething, a little before becoming a major, I made a friend, my best friend in those days, whom I met by chance like that in Bernardes’ pharmacy. His nickname was
Johnny Spats
. I think he wore them when he was young, between 1801 and 1812, and the nickname happened to stick. The pharmacy was on the Rua de São José, corner of Misericórdia …
Johnny Spats …
You know, it was a way of making his ankles look bigger … Bernardes was his name, João Alves Bernardes … He owned the pharmacy on the Rua de São José. He would stay there long hours in the afternoon, into the night. People went around with their capes and their big walking sticks. Some carried lanterns. Not me. I only wore my cape … He went around in a cape, Bernardes—João Alves Bernardes was his full name. He was from Maricá but he grew up here in Rio de Janeiro …
Johnny Spats
was his nickname. They said he went around in spats when he was young, and it seems he was one of the dandies of the city. I never forgot:
Johnny Spats …
He went around in a cape …”

Rubião’s soul was flailing its arms under that torrent of words, but it was up a blind alley with no way out on any side. Walls all around. No open door, no hallway, and the rain kept falling. If he could have looked at the young ladies he would have seen, at least, that he was the object of the curiosity of all of them,
most of all the major’s daughter, Dona Tonica. But he couldn’t. He was listening, and the major was raining cats and dogs. It was Palha who brought him an umbrella. Sofia had gone to tell her husband that Rubião had just arrived. Palha was in the garden in no time and greeted his friend, telling him he was late. The major, who was explaining the druggist’s nickname one more time, abandoned his prey and went over to the young ladies. Then he went outside.

T
he married ladies were pretty. Even the single one couldn’t have been ugly when she was twenty–five. But Sofia stood out among all of them.

That’s probably not all that our friend was feeling, but it was a good part of it. She was of that breed of women whom time, like a slow sculptor, doesn’t finish immediately but goes on perfecting all along its passage. Slow sculptures like that are miraculous. Sofia was bordering on twenty–eight. She was more beautiful than at twenty–seven. It was to be imagined that the sculptor would only give the final touches at the age of thirty, unless he wished to prolong the work for two or three more years.

Her eyes, for example, are no longer the same ones they were on the train when our Rubião was talking to Palha, and they were underscoring the conversation … They seemed darker now, and they weren’t underscoring anything. They were setting type themselves in bold, clear letters, and it wasn’t a line or two but whole chapters. Her mouth seems livelier. Shoulders, hands, arms are better, and she makes them even better by means of well–chosen postures and gestures. There was one feature that the lady could never tolerate—something that Rubião himself found detracted from the rest of her face at first—her heavy eyebrows—even they, without having been diminished in any way, give the whole a very special look.

She wears clothes well. Her waist and bodice are drawn in by a chestnut corselet of fine wool, a simple piece, and she’s wearing two genuine pearls on her ears—a gracious gift that our Rubião had made to Palha at Easter.

The beautiful lady is the daughter of an old civil servant. At the age of twenty she married this Cristiano de Almeida e Palha, an idler on city squares, who was twenty–five at the time. The husband made money. He was skillful, active, and had a nose for business and circumstances. In 1864, in spite of being new in the business, he guessed—there’s no other term for it—he guessed that there would be bank failures.

“We’ve got something here, for better or for worse. It’s held together by a thread. The slightest cry of alarm will carry it all off.”

The bad part was that he spent everything he earned and more. He was attracted to the good life: frequent gatherings, expensive clothing and jewels for his wife, household furnishings, usually of the latest style or invention—all carried off present and future profits. Except for meals he was frugal with himself. He went to the theater quite often without enjoying it and to balls where he didn’t have a good time—but he went not so much for himself as to show off his wife’s eyes, her eyes and her breasts. He had that one touch of vanity. He would have his wife wear low–cut gowns whenever he could and even where he shouldn’t in order to show others his personal good fortune. In that way he was a kind of King Candules,
*
more personal on one side, more public on the other.

Now let us do justice to our lady. At first she gave in to her husband’s wishes under protest, but such was the admiration received and since habit accustoms people to circumstances, it reached the stage where she ended up enjoying being seen, seen often for the enjoyment of others. Let’s not make her more of a saint than she is, nor less. For the demands of vanity her eyes were sufficient. They were laughing, restless, inviting, only inviting.
They could be compared to the light of a guest house with no accomodations. The lamp made everybody stop, it was beautiful in its color and in the originality of its emblems. People would stop, look, and go on their way. Why open the windows wide? She opened them finally, but the door, if we can call her heart a door, was closed tight and bolted.

* King of Lydia in the seventh century B.C. According to Herodotus, Candules was so proud of his wife’s beauty that he forced a courtier, Gyges, to see her nude. The queen caught Gyges spying on her and compelled him to kill her husband, marry her, and become king. [Ed.]

“
G
od, she’s beautiful! I feel capable of causing a scandal Rubiao was thinking that night by the window with his back to the outside, looking at Sofia, who was looking at him.

A lady was singing. The three husbands from out of town who were there on a visit interrupted their card game and came into the parlor for a few moments. The singer was the wife of one of them. Palha, who was accompanying her on the piano, didn’t see the mutual looks between his wife and the capitalist. I don’t know if all the other people were in the same situation. One of them, I do know, was watching them: Dona Tonica, the major’s daughter.

“God, she’s beautiful! I feel capable of causing a scandalé” Rubião kept thinking, leaning against the window with his back to the outside, his eyes lost on the pretty woman who was looking back at him.

I
t must be understood that Dona Tonica was watching the mutual contemplation of the pair. Ever since Rubião had arrived, she did nothing but attempt to attract him. Her poor thirty–nine–year–old eyes, eyes with no partners in the world, ready now to slip into the weariness of despair, had a few sparks left. Rolling them about once and several times, putting a tender expression on them, was her long-held stock in trade. It was no problem for her to aim them at the capitalist.

Her heart, half–disillusioned, got worked up once more. Something was telling her that heaven had destined this rich man from Minas Gerais to solve her marriage problem. Rich was more than she was asking for. She wasn’t asking for riches, she was only asking for a husband. None of her campaigns had been made with any pecuniary considerations. In recent times they’d been getting lower, and lower, and lower. The last had been waged against a poor student… But, who knows, could it be that heaven had meant her precisely for a rich man? Dona Tonica had faith in her patron saint, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, and she attacked the fortress with great skill and valor.