If I Close My Eyes Now

by Silvestre, Edney

  ‘What do you want to ask me?’

  6

  The Fragrance of Lavender

  HE WAS STILL pale when he left the changing room. He searched for a cigarette, but everything in his pockets was soaking. Eduardo and Paulo were busy watching an argument between the blue team’s goalkeeper and a yellow-team forward. Trainers and substitutes from both teams were trying to pull them apart, but before long they became involved in the brawl as well. The exchange of blows and insults quickly spread, and some of the fans jumped down on to the pitch to join in.

  The old man walked off on his own, out of the sports ground.

  Half an hour later, he found the address he was looking for. As the nun had told him, the imposing yellow two-storey mansion was surrounded by nondescript houses from a recent development, built on terrain that had been part of the mansion for more than a century.

  The iron gate was not locked. He opened it, went in and began to walk up a gravel drive wide enough to accommodate the coaches and carriages of the senators and barons who came and went for evening balls and to hatch plots during the empire of Pedro II.

  A black limousine stood beneath a bougainvillea-covered summerhouse. The old man had seen models like it only in magazines. It was one of those luxury European models that had just begun to be made in Brazil. The tail fins rose up from the bodywork, with big vertical rear lights. Its style was as futuristic as a science-fiction comic: the spokes of its silver hubcaps were meant as an affectionate reminder of the wheels of a cabriolet. He put his hands on the bonnet, near the silver letters spelling out the name: Simca Chambord. It was cold.

  He reached the arched veranda. The lights were off. He walked up the five steps, went towards what he thought must be the main door, looking for the bell-pull. He couldn’t find it. He clapped his hands. No one came. Clapping a second time produced no result either. He was about to try once more when a door to his left opened, throwing a rectangle of light on to the drive behind him. Even before he turned towards it, he could smell the fragrance of lavender.

  The young girl trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly. She was wearing a different blouse and skirt, and her hair was loose. Even so, and despite the fact that he had caught only a momentary glimpse of her, he recognized her at once. He hadn’t noticed in the changing room how much taller than him she was. Or how adult her body was.

  ‘I’d like to talk to the mayor.’

  Shaped like a bird with spread wings, her plump lips opened slightly. Her close-set dark eyes glanced quickly back inside the house, and then again at him.

  ‘My father isn’t in.’

  ‘His car is in the drive.’

  She stepped back. Grasped the doorknob.

  ‘My father is busy.’

  ‘I have to talk to him.’

  ‘I don’t know if he can see you.’

  ‘Please go and call Dr Torres.’

  ‘My father won’t be able to …’

  A light came on above the door. Dazzled, the old man blinked. Behind the girl he saw a woman with her hair done up in a bun staring sternly at him.

  ‘What is it, daughter?’

  There was an unmistakable air of authority in her voice.

  ‘This gentleman,’ said the adolescent, taking her hand from the doorknob to let her mother past, ‘wants to talk to Daddy.’

  Her mother stepped forward. She wore no make-up on her dainty face. She must have been around forty.

  ‘Good evening. Can I help you?’

  There were crow’s feet around her eyes. When she smiled, the corners of her lips remained fixed in a firm line: the sort of condescending smile that politicians’ wives practise on platforms and display at inaugurations, tributes and charity functions.

  ‘I have to talk to the mayor.’

  ‘I’m Isabel Marques Torres, his wife. You can talk to me. I’ll pass on the message.’

  She placed one hand delicately on top of the other. She was dressed in unremarkable but impeccable clothes.

  ‘It’s a personal matter.’

  ‘My husband came home exhausted. He’s already retired.’

  ‘It’s quite urgent.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s impossible tonight.’

  ‘I really need to talk to him.’

  ‘It’s better if you come back tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s about … I’m the lawyer of the …’ He tried to think of a name. ‘I was hired in order to …’

  ‘Tomorrow you can—’

  ‘I need to talk to him about the murder of the dentist’s wife.’

  Her smile vanished.

  ‘Cecilia,’ she said, without taking her eyes off the old man, ‘you’d better go inside.’

  ‘Would you like me to call Daddy?’

  ‘That’s not necessary. Go to your room. It’s late.’

  Isabel Marques Torres waited for her daughter to withdraw.

  ‘Cecilia was very shocked by what happened. We all were. It’s an unpleasant matter, an affair—’

  ‘A murder,’ he corrected her.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. And it had to happen during my husband’s term in office. He’s very annoyed about it. I’m sure it would be better for you to see him some other time.’

  ‘I need to speak to Dr Torres right now.’

  ‘Marques Torres. Our surname is Marques Torres. Fortunately, that affair was resolved by the city police. There was no need to call in anyone from the capital. The case is closed.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The victim’s family has hired me,’ it suddenly occurred to him to say, enjoying his invention, which seemed to catch her off guard. ‘Relatives in Rio de Janeiro. I arrived from there today. I need some information. The family needs it. I’d like to clarify some unclear points. They – I – want to avoid this appearing in the sensationalist press.’

  He waited. She did not answer at once.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you came in,’ she said eventually.

  ‘I prefer to wait out here.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  She turned her back on him. He saw her disappear inside the house. A few minutes later, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps descending stairs.

  The man who appeared almost filled the door-frame.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me?’

  White stubble was sprouting on his reddish face. The tight-fitting shirt, possibly bought when he wasn’t so stocky, emphasized a broad chest that seemed out of proportion to his short, bowed legs. He was wearing boots.

  ‘Dr Torres?’

  ‘Marques Torres. You want to speak to me?’

  ‘I need to. I’m the lawyer for—’

  ‘You can talk. But that murder is a matter for the police chief.’

  ‘It’s not about Dona Anita’s death that I want to talk to you. It’s about before. About Aparecida.’

  The mayor stepped forward, pulling the door closed behind him. The old man could see how big and clumsy-looking his hands were. His nails were manicured.

  ‘What Aparecida?’

  The old man realized he was talking to someone who ever since childhood was used to being obeyed. His fleshy mouth and full lips reminded him of Cecilia. His daughter had also inherited his small, close-set eyes.

  ‘The director of the orphanage suggested I came to see you.’

  ‘Ah yes, that black woman. She suggested you see me? What on earth for?’

  ‘It appears that your father …’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Your father, Senator Marques Torres … he was a member of Congress in 1952, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It seems that around that time the senator wanted to adopt a girl.’

  ‘Adopt?’

  ‘A girl. By the name of Aparecida. The daughter of an estate worker.’

  ‘I couldn’t say. By that time I was already married; I had my own life, my own family. My father spent more time in the capital,
in the Chamber of Deputies, than here.’

  ‘Do you have adopted brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yet in the case of that girl, that Aparecida …’

  ‘In 1952? That was the year my father founded the high school. What I remember from back then is my father being involved in providing free secondary education for the city. I remember the struggle he had to obtain funds from the federal government.’

  ‘That was the year Aparecida was married. Her mother, Elza—’

  ‘Four hundred and twenty pupils, studying for free. From the first year of high school to university entrance. That was when the road to the capital was asphalted too. Thanks to his efforts. Thanks to the funding he obtained.’

  ‘In 1952—’

  ‘Dr Getúlio was very fond of him.’

  ‘Your father was friends with the dictator?’

  ‘In 1952, Dr Getúlio was an elected president. My father talked of him more as a friend than as Dr Vargas, the president of Brazil.’

  ‘Didn’t your father ever mention anything? About adopting a girl? Or about her mother, Elza?’

  ‘We didn’t see much of each other; I was on the estate, he was in the capital. I mean Rio de Janeiro. That was before Brasilia existed. Before Dr Getúlio committed suicide.’

  ‘Aparecida was born on your estate, wasn’t she?’

  ‘We don’t own the estate any more.’

  ‘But you did when she was born?’

  ‘Now it belongs to Dr Geraldo.’

  ‘Elza, her mother, was a worker on the estate, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Dr Geraldo Bastos. The textile factory owner. After my father died, we sold him the estate. In 1955. A year after Vargas’s death.’

  ‘Like Vargas, your father—’

  ‘My father was very upset at Dr Getúlio’s death.’

  ‘Was he aware that you knew Dona Anita? Aparecida?’

  ‘Dona Anita’s husband and I have known each other a long time. We studied together.’

  ‘Are you a dentist too?’

  ‘No, an engineer. An agronomist. We met at the Valença seminary in the state of Rio.’

  He turned back towards the door, grasped the knob, cleared his throat. His back was astonishingly broad.

  ‘If you want to know anything more, I suggest you consult the police. And tell that black woman … that nun, to do the same.’

  With that, he closed the door. The veranda light snapped off.

  ‘My granny came from a place like this,’ said Paulo, getting off his bike at the roadside.

  In front of them, the valley stretched for kilometres to a line of black, gleaming mountains. Pastureland, scrub, a coffee plantation: wide strips of different shades of green shone in the afternoon sun. A hawk took off from the top of a glory bush, flapping its wings hard until it found a rising current of air. Then it relaxed, gliding high above the bends of the wide stream below. A goat was wandering along its sandy banks, followed by her kids.

  Eduardo watched the flight of the hawk until it disappeared between two hills dotted with trees that had survived being cleared by burning. He looked in the opposite direction: an arched stone bridge crossed a narrower part of the river. On the far side was a gravel path lined with imperial palms. The path led to an ivy-covered wall. Beyond the wall, a garden extended to the summit of a hill, on which stood a big, three-storey whitewashed house. The ground floor was an open area, where two carts, saddles, bridles and piles of sacks were stored. A woman was sweeping the steps that led up to the first floor. Above that, all the blue-and-green-framed windows were shuttered. There were a lot of them: Eduardo began to count: two, three, five, eight …

  ‘I’ve never seen so many windows,’ he said, losing count. ‘How many bedrooms can there be? Who lives there? Is that where your granny was born?’

  ‘Nobody lives there any more. It used to belong to the Marques Torres family.’

  ‘But you said that your granny …’

  ‘She was a tenant farmer.’

  ‘A tenant farmer?’

  ‘A sharecropper. Isn’t that what they call them in São Paulo?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’

  ‘She was a tenant farmer. Before she left the countryside and got a job in the textile factory.’

  ‘I thought it was your mother who worked in the factory.’

  ‘Yes, my mother did too. Before she got married. Before my granny died.’

  ‘And her family? Where do they live?’

  ‘I don’t know. My father never talks about them.’

  ‘But your brother must tell you.’

  ‘I don’t know if any of them are still alive. I only know about my granny.’

  ‘Everybody has relatives. A cousin, an uncle … Someone.’

  ‘I’ve never met any. Let’s go!’

  Paulo climbed on to his bike, pedalled hard, then freewheeled down the dirt track to the bridge. Eduardo took off in pursuit.

  When they reached the big estate house, the woman stopped sweeping to listen to their questions. She pointed across the river, beyond the coffee plantation.

  They walked through two rows of coffee bushes. Eduardo, who had seen coffee plants only in photographs, was surprised at how tall they were.

  They came out on to a beaten earth track, with deep parallel ruts made by ox-carts. There were no tyre tracks. In the rainy season, which began in June, eased off in July and returned more strongly in August, no jeep would be able to pass here.

  They followed the track, pushing their bikes up each incline, bouncing over the potholes on downward slopes. They went through grassland where the cattle did not seem to move at all. Nowhere was there any sign of human life. The setting sun lent everything a melancholy orange glow. Used to cities, Eduardo found it hard to believe anybody could live in the midst of such quiet tranquillity. He spoke, less out of any real interest but more to break the silence.

  ‘Was she from the estate?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your granny.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where was she from?’

  ‘Somewhere near here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was she the only one who left? Did her brothers and sisters stay? What about her parents?’

  ‘I don’t know if she had any brothers or sisters.’

  ‘What about your granddad?’

  ‘I don’t know where he was from. He died before my grandmother. I never knew him.’

  ‘So your mother was brought up without a father?’

  ‘It must be that house there,’ said Paulo, pointing to a dot in the distance surrounded by uncultivated land.

  They cycled more quickly. It took them longer than they had expected to reach the adobe hut. A black boy, younger than them, was poking a bamboo stick at a line of ants in the red earth.

  ‘Is this where Dona Madalena lives?’ asked Paulo.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Is she here? We want to talk to her.’

  The boy left the ants and, still clasping the stick, went to the door of the hut and waved for them to go in.

  It was a single, tiny, dark room. The walls were grimy with soot. No chair or table. Or wardrobe. A clay pot stood on a wood stove that had gone out. What could be in it, what could these people eat, what did they have to eat, wondered Eduardo, who had never been in such a poor place.

  The fading evening light streamed in through the only window, half blocked by the end of a crate. They could just make out a skinny woman lying on a canvas camp bed in one corner of the room.

  ‘Dona Madalena?’

  When she heard Paulo’s voice, she opened her eyes. It took her a few moments to focus on the two boys. Even so, it was as if she didn’t see them. She made no sound, and lay there motionless. They were quiet too. The silence lasted only for a few seconds, but it made Eduardo feel uncomfortable. Without knowing why, he wanted to leave at once. Then he recalled a similar sile
nce and someone staring at him in the same way, many years earlier: his grandfather, the nonno, on his hospital deathbed.

  ‘Dona Madalena?’ Paulo repeated, going across and squatting down beside her.

  Eduardo followed him, but didn’t bend down. He felt increasingly awkward.

  ‘Dona Madalena …’ said Paulo, in a gentle voice that Eduardo had never heard before. ‘Your grandson told us to come and look for you.’

  The boy playing with the ants stole out of the hut.

  Paulo waited. Nothing happened. He said:

  ‘Renato.’

  ‘Your grandson Renato,’ Eduardo explained.

  Was she really looking at them? Did she see them? Did she understand what they were saying?

  ‘Renato,’ Paulo repeated. ‘Your daughter Elza’s son.’

  The old woman moved her head feebly. Paulo took it as a confirmation.

  ‘Renato said you might know.’

  Eduardo was growing impatient. He wanted Paulo to ask the questions the old man had told them to put to her. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. He butted in:

  ‘Your daughter Elza had a daughter before she had Renato, didn’t she? Five years before, wasn’t it? Ask her, Paulo!’

  Paulo took a deep breath.

  ‘Your grandson. Renato. He told us to come and look for you,’ Paulo began again, trying to find the right words. ‘Your daughter Elza had a little girl before she had Renato.’

  ‘In 1937,’ added Eduardo.

  ‘Do you remember, Dona Madalena? A little girl. Light-skinned. Very light-skinned.’

  ‘On 15 May 1937. She was registered as Aparecida. Dos Santos. Tell her, Paulo!’

  ‘Aparecida dos Santos. Do you remember?’

  Eduardo thought he saw the old woman shake her head. He insisted:

  ‘Aparecida. The daughter of your daughter.’

  ‘The girl’s mother … your daughter Elza … was twelve years old. Aparecida’s mother. She was twelve years old when …’

  Madalena’s expression was indecipherable.

  ‘Your granddaughter was born, and taken to the orphanage,’ Eduardo insisted.

  ‘Your granddaughter, Aparecida.’