We lived in the poorest section of town. Sometimes my father, pointing to a dirty, ragged-looking boy with no shoes and threadbare clothes, would say, “That child there might well be our messiah. Treat him as you would a prince.”
Nobody ever took my father seriously, and it was only through my sainted mother’s brother, Gil Vicente Monteiro, that I managed to get a job as a clerk in the government financial office. All my father left me when he gave up the ghost were his words, and a small collection of books.
Of course many things had changed over the years, and though Dona Leonor’s aristocratic family was no longer as wealthy or powerful as it had once been, still her family and mine were separated by an unbreachable gulf. But her dress, I noted, made no such distinctions; her dress overlooked my lowly position, my humble background, my poverty.
Leonor paused on the sidewalk to chatter with some acquaintances. When she stepped into the doorway of a shop a moment later, I watched her dress slip tentatively around the edge of the entranceway, as if to see I was still there. Just the sight of its undulations made my heart ring with joy and kept my feet from resting firmly on the ground. The dress swayed and swirled around her legs, which it only partially concealed, exposing the pale flesh just above the knees, as if blown hither by the wind—yet, curiously, no breeze blew just then; the sky held its breath, unwilling to disturb the miraculous dance performed on the sidewalk below.
When Leonor entered a nearby store, I waited, leaning against the building, anxious for her to come out again, to see those patterns that left my impoverished eyes only wanting more. It reappeared suddenly like a fresh October squall. I stood frozen, unable to breathe or think or move, but the dress, with an exaggerated gesture, boldly brushed against my leg as it swept past me.
I stumbled and nearly fell, trying to regain my balance, to follow. The rest of the city, all the shops, the people milling around, the main street—everything—faded into nothingness; they were no longer real, but like ghosts to me; only Leonor’s dress and myself were real.
The rest of the afternoon I was a drunken fool, a jealous lover, who trailed after the object of his desires. I followed the dress everywhere, absorbed by its quixotic life: the way it clung to her flesh, tightly, expressing every curve, and then proudly rose and flowed like newly freed waters bursting forth from some remote chasm.
The dress disappeared into the doorway of a building and minutes passed before I realized that it wouldn’t be coming out again anytime soon. We had come to Leonor’s home.
I stood lost, unable to move, staring at the building. So close, yet still so far beyond my reach. Though no longer visible, the lingering memory of movements, now languid and smooth, then wildly paced and strikingly bold, entranced me.
I stood waiting on the street. Soon her bedroom window was lit upstairs. I watched as the dress was hung up. One sleeve motioned toward me, a gesture to show it was pleased I was still there yet obviously saddened at the terrible distance which now stretched between us.
The house grew quiet as everyone settled in for the night. The dress hung, perhaps motionless, in the stillness of the enclosed space. Or did it tremble restlessly, unable to sleep?
I fought against the urge to climb to the window, wanting nothing so much as to touch that material, to hold it in my hands for a moment and let it whisper its secret rustlings in my ear.
I stood vigil the entire night, fixed like a stone statue, buffeted by the elements. I was unaware of the cold, or hunger, or loneliness, for I was warmed by the visions I possessed of Dona Leonor’s dress. I dreamt of the two of us wandering together, how it would perhaps strive to be more than a mere dress, as was already so apparent in its nature.
I envisioned the two of us shipwrecked, afloat on some planks of timber, wherein the dress, in order to save me, formed itself into a taut sail. I saw us sleeping in fields while it curled around me, protectively serving as a blanket, warming me in the damp night. I smiled at the thought of strumming a guitarra, or playing a violin, and watching the dress dance, a vision of beauty, imparting meaning with each subtle movement in that sublime language that connected the two of us to our very core.
I prayed the dress would fly off its hanger and float down to where I stood. Perhaps it tried but couldn’t remove itself from the fixture. I heard it whisper to me, the maddening rustle of soft cloth.
In the morning I was still there, stiff and half-asleep, my whole body aching. But when I saw the flash of that bright dress spring forth from the front door, like hope itself, once again my spirits soared. I forgot about my aching muscles, my sore back, forgot everything but that dress, which fluttered, as if it could barely restrain itself; it was so alive, in spite of the two hands that in a futile gesture kept reaching to keep it down.
I followed it to a room in the office building where Dona Leonor worked. I decided to go home and clean myself up, though it was nearly impossible to tear myself away. As I walked I noticed the many dresses I passed and was surprised to realize how different they were; they hung drab and lifeless, their colors monotonous, without any spark. There was no vibrancy compared to her dress.
The entire day I dreamt of the dress, moved by the sound of a mere flutter, lightheaded and breathless as I imagined my hand touching it, or smelling its fresh scent, kissing every stitch along its marvelous hem.
That evening I made my move, entirely unplanned yet unavoidable. My father’s words, “Beauty makes its own cause,” came to mind.
I went to her house and peered over the fence into the yard. There was a clothesline that ran alongside the building. And to my amazement, hanging from the clothesline, I found the dress, waving wildly, trying desperately to get my attention.
Without thinking, I unlatched the fence and stepped into the yard. I instantly unhooked the dress. My hands shook as it fell into my arms, spent and relieved I assumed, from its hours of demonstrations, or perhaps the uncertainty of wondering whether I would show up.
I folded the dress carefully and left the yard before anyone observed me. I quickly made my way down the street without so much as a glance backward. If someone had shouted or come after me I knew I would have had to flee. But as it was, no one saw and no one followed. The dress and I had escaped. My body thrilled to the feel of the dress in my arms, the way it nestled against my side. It was difficult to believe we had done it! I rushed home, taking side streets the entire way.
All my secret expectations have been fulfilled. The dress is remarkable, as I knew when I first saw it. I have acquired a dressmaker’s dummy—though it cost me considerable trouble—upon which it fits beautifully. It is obviously proud and happy. Its carefree flow, the way it reaches out to touch me when I stand near is both reassuring and exhilarating.
Its ever-shifting patterns and colors please and delight the eye: rows of blood-red hearts one moment, then hundreds of waves curling, spray flying from their crests, or blue and white birds suddenly taking flight.
At night, with the window flung wide open and the rising moon bathing us in its milky light, I put on some music and the two of us swim, sail, float across the floor, free of gravity and all else—just the two of us, Dona Leonor’s dress and me dancing on air.
ALFREDO BETTENCOURT SPOKE ABOUT HIS IMPENDING DEATH SO OFTEN and for so long that everyone living in the village of Quebrado do Caminho became swept up in the excitement and expectation that grew with each passing day, week, and month. After some time, people forgot exactly what he was dying of, but that only added to the impressive weight and magnitude of his death, until nothing else mattered. It was as if time had stopped and events in the village had come to a standstill, everyone holding their collective breath, awaiting the resolution of Alfredo’s imminent death.
Quebrado do Caminho was situated at the bottom of a secluded rift between the towns of Santa Luzia and Santo António, on the island of Pico in the Azores. It was a forgotten place, too small to be remembered and too insignificant to be noticed by anyone who may have passed
by. The village had been abandoned long ago, after a severe earthquake destroyed many of the buildings. At that time, most people simply moved farther up the mountain and built a new village, leaving the ruins of the old one behind. Some, however, wished to remain in their old familiar homes, where generation after generation of their families had lived. So these few determined souls rebuilt what they could and remained in Quebrado, cut off from all the other towns and villages. It was the kind of place one could find only by accident, but it happened so rarely that the villagers thought of themselves and Quebrado do Caminho as the entire world.
Each time Alfredo stepped into the café or the taberna his neighbors rushed to buy him drinks, as they would for any good friend who, in a day or two, was going off on a long journey. He couldn’t pass someone’s house without being called inside for a meal or a drink of angelica or aguardente. If he didn’t appear for a day or two, people would come by to check with his friends and neighbors.
“Is it time?” they asked. “Has he gone?”
“No, not yet,” the others answered. “He still lives.”
“Thank God!”
Everyone in the village had long ago decided how they would respond when the moment finally did arrive. They knew precisely what they would do and the things they would say: Rui, the stone mason, would tell tall tales of Alfredo, the ladies’ man, of his cavorting with numerous unnamed women—who didn’t exist, except in Rui’s imagination; João Carlos, the baker, would give a fine speech about Alfredo’s honesty and biting wit, neither of which he possessed; even Pacheco, the laundress, had in mind to utter a few humorous asides, to lighten the mood, since Alfredo always loved a good joke.
The people of the village even had the funeral planned out, since Alfredo spoke often of how he would like it to be. The only problem was that Alfredo frequently changed his mind about how his funeral should be conducted.
Just when the villagers knew they were to bury him beside his mother and father in the small local cemetery, Alfredo suddenly decided that he should be buried instead on Corvo, where his grandfather had been born; then he insisted on being buried up the steep slopes of Pico, and later that he should be buried at sea.
Still, he was dying, and such caprices must be tolerated, no matter how inconvenient and bothersome they might be for the living.
One day he met his old friend, José Vicente, along the road.
“Good day, Alfredo,” José said. “How are you holding up these days?”
“Not bad for a dead man.”
“You’re giving Old Man Death quite a chase, no?”
“It’s best not to rush this sort of thing,” Alfredo said.
“No, I guess not,” José said. “It seems that death, too, knows the word amanhã.”
“Yes, so it does,” Alfredo said, laughing. The two men leaned against a tree and each rolled a cigarette. José offered Alfredo a light.
“But you still look pretty good,” José said, examining Alfredo’s appearance. “Especially given, you know, your condition.”
“I’m beginning to think death suits me, José. Who knows—perhaps I can die better than I lived.”
José nodded thoughtfully. “You think maybe he has forgotten about you?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Alfredo said. “I’ve had very little experience with dying.”
“Well, how do you feel? Do you feel that death is very close?”
Alfredo nodded. “If I were to judge for myself, I would say that chances are I’m quite close to death. I’m old, and my bones have grown weary. Yes, I should think that any time now, perhaps tonight, death will come fetch me, and I shall go.”
José Vicente crossed himself several times. “May you rest in peace, my friend.”
“Thank you, José. I must go now.”
“Take care, then, Alfredo. Until soon.”
“If God should will it,” Alfredo said. “Good day, José.”
Alfredo walked away. “Why tell a dying man to take care? What does a dead man have to worry about? Catching a cold? Might I trip and break my neck?”
He chuckled to himself as he walked back to the village. He didn’t see the cart loaded down with hay until it had run him over. He got up and dusted himself off.
“Ha, ha! Be careful, Alfredo. Better watch out, you might get killed. It’s a joke, no?”
He looked himself over, and shouted after the cart, “Hey, did you see? I wasn’t killed!”
In the early morning, Alfredo went down to the quay, as if inspecting which boat might take him on his final journey. He jumped into the water to see if he would drown, but it didn’t work, no matter how long he stayed under.
“I knew it,” he shouted. “Someone is trying to cheat me out of my own death.”
In the middle of the night Alfredo could be seen walking through the streets or along the road out of town, heedless of carts, wagons, or horses that might have run him over, because once a man believes he is impervious to death he feels it incumbent upon himself to defy again and again that fate from which he has escaped, as if flaunting his miraculous luck.
“Is this right?” Maria Teresa asked. “Why, all of a sudden, is he carrying on so much, everywhere at once? Why isn’t he at home in bed where a dying man should be?”
“Perhaps he thinks he can hide,” João Roberto said. “He’s trying to find a place where death hasn’t yet been.”
“There is no such place,” Miguel Mendes declared.
“He should settle down and die already,” Maria Teresa said. “And be done with it.”
The children of the village were greatly impressed with Alfredo’s death, which by this time had become legend, and they anxiously awaited the event. They regarded Alfredo as a hero, the likes of whom hadn’t been seen for many, many years. They believed the event would transform the village—indeed, the entire island. They were sure that miracles would occur on a scale never before seen, although they never bothered to explain exactly what they thought would happen. Instead, they said, “You’ll see,” and watched the skies, eager to find any sign or portent of the miracles certain to come.
Even when their parents began dying off, the children, who remained children, knew that it was somehow preparatory and necessary to the greater death to come.
Alfredo often found a group of the children waiting for him by the docks or in front of the market. “Mariazinha,” he said, patting one child’s head. “And you, Miguel, don’t be afraid of anything. You listen to your uncle Alfredo. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” He would hand them some berries gathered on one of his walks.
One day his neighbor, Maria Isabel, found Alfredo two or three kilometers from the village. He was walking along the road in the wrong direction. She had gone to bring a meal to her husband tending their cows. She was surprised to find Alfredo out there.
He didn’t see her until she shouted at him: “Alfredo! What are you doing?”
He stared at her. His face was without expression.
“Are you asleep?”
Alfredo rubbed his jaw. “No. I don’t think so.”
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, what are you doing, then?”
“Looking.”
“Did you lose something?”
“See there,” he said, pointing at the ground beside his feet. “I have no shadow.”
“Oh, sweet sainted Mother of God, you are a dead man!” Maria rolled her eyes toward heaven and ran away, leaving Alfredo all alone, searching for his lost shadow. She returned to her husband, Rui Gomes, and told him what she had seen. The two of them rushed back to the village as quickly as they could and told everyone how Maria Isabel had seen Alfredo, who no longer cast any shadow.
Later that same day, the children of the village were seen following Alfredo.
“What next?” cried Maria Teresa. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough? Someone should put a stop to this foolishness once and for all!”
“Careful
, woman. You might blaspheme,” Miguel Mendes said, raising his eyes toward heaven.
It was generally agreed that Maria Teresa was a reckless woman. No one else in the village was about to say much concerning this thing that none of them understood, especially since it was generally agreed that the supernatural might be involved with Alfredo and the children.
He was seen leading them at all times of the day and night, along the roads in and around the village, down by the quay, or the rocks along the shore, and up the steep slopes of the mountain toward the caldeira, bellowing volcanic smoke.
The children came home infrequently and often spoke mysteriously about things that frightened the old people. Alfredo had taught them to talk with the animals, they said, to stay under water for days at a time, and converse with the dead.
“God help us,’” the people cried. “Only ruin can come of this!”
~ ~ ~
After a number of years, many of the people who had known Alfredo had passed on, but his name had by no means been forgotten. It was on one cold windless night that his old friend José Vicente saw Alfredo walk out of the water and come toward him.
“Alfredo,” José said, with a heavy sigh. “Still not dead, I see.”
“Good evening, José. I’m happy to see you are alive, as well.”
“Everybody is dying, old man. Myself, and a few others are all that’s left. Why aren’t you dead yet?”
Alfredo shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s still not my time.”
“Hell, we will all be dead before you are.”
“Who knows what God intends for any of us. Until next time, José.”
The next day José Vicente told those villagers who were still alive about his talk with Alfredo.
“I told you it was a bad thing,” said Maria Teresa. “He’s taken the children. What have we got left but a dead village?”
“Be still, woman,” Miguel Mendes said. “It’s beyond our comprehension. Some things weren’t meant for us to understand.”
The Conjurer and Other Azorean Tales Page 3