She turned to me as if she had read my mind:
“Ah, André, if only we could live again as we once lived!”
Not daring to take that thought any further, a thought too full of sinful ideas, ideas that should be repelled at that supreme moment, her hand brushed against one of the fallen violets and she picked it up as if trying to pluck a humble witness from the past, then let it fall again—and the flower dropped to the floor.
“But perhaps . . . perhaps . . .” I murmured, not even knowing what exactly I was trying to say.
At that word, a desperate flame, possibly her final plea to the fast-retreating material world, flared into life.
“Perhaps!” and her voice echoed around the room. “Ah, yes, perhaps, who knows, André?”
And she tried to sit up. Her cold, bony hand drew me toward her and, once again, with the same thirst the traveler feels as he pours out the last few drops of water from his canteen, her eyes sought mine—devouring my outer and my inner fabric, my final shape and form, my very being, in order to go beyond that sad, enclosed thing that is the very heart, the umbilical cord, of the material self, and to wander, lucid and uncertain, through my essential self, looking to see if the love that had bound us together was true—seeking, too, the final word, the farewell, the power, the suggestion and the love that had made of me the unique creature chosen by her passion. A cloud obscured my vision and I had to lean on the bed to steady myself.
“Who knows?” she said again. “Maybe this is not the end of everything. So many things happen, so many people recover.”
And drowning me in her burning breath, she added:
“Do you believe in miracles, André? Do you believe in the resurrection?”
When I did not immediately reply—feeling as if I had been hurled violently against some hard, dark wall—she shook me, dredging up strength from her impatience:
“You promised you would tell no lies. Come on, speak—do miracles exist?”
“No,” I answered, and was myself startled by the calm voice in which I said this. “Miracles don’t exist. And there is no resurrection either, Nina, for anyone.”
The silence that followed was so vast that I felt as if an unexpected twilight had descended upon us. The objects sitting coolly in their places were growing dull and turning into still, metallic shapes.
When she spoke again, her voice sounded as if it were rising up from the depths of a well:
“We’ll go somewhere far away, André. I hate this town, this house. And there are other places, there are, I swear, where we can live and be happy.”
I could stand it no longer and tried to free myself from her grasp. This went beyond anything I could bear. I would have preferred distance and solitude and never to see her again, rather than this face-to-face interrogation, in which not the smallest subterfuge was allowed. She sensed my reluctance, and her eyes filled with tears.
“You want to run away from me, don’t you? You want to run away, André. It’s not the same as it once was.”
I don’t know what superhuman energy was driving her just then, but thanks to those feelings, she had managed to sit up in bed, despite the beads of sweat running down her thin face and despite her broken breathing, as if she were about to faint. Now, instead of holding me only by my hand, she was tugging at my arm, my whole body, in a last effort to force me to submit. I struggled, because I was afraid she might die in my arms. I bent lower, although still without entirely giving in to her will, and since, in this ongoing battle, she continued to tug at me, her face sometimes touched mine and I felt rising up into my nostrils the stale smell of an ailing body that has spent too long in bed. This awoke in me only a feeling of intense, desolating pity for her. Our struggle lasted perhaps a minute, and when she finally realized she was going to lose, some instinct, some wounded, outraged female essence gripped her—and she raised her hand and slapped my face. It was a rather feeble slap, but I stared at her in astonishment, with eyes that held not even the faintest glimmer of resentment.
We gazed at each other and she managed to gasp out:
“You’re running away, André, running away from me. And that slap is so that you will never forget, so that you can say one day: she slapped my face to punish me for my indifference.”
And in a quieter tone, with a smile so sad I felt my heart contract:
“And so that you will never unthinkingly betray me, André. So that you will never lie and say: yes, I sinned, but it’s not something I’m proud of.”
Only then did the tears come into my eyes, not out of grief, because, by then, I was incapable of any emotion, but because I knew then that I could not help that poor, unfortunate creature still clinging to the last glimmerings of life. And what a life that had been, what a past, what a future she was evoking, making one final effort to imprison me, when nothing could now save us on that well-trodden path. Nothing. And how wretched we were, and how I felt in my own flesh the despair of that condemned creature. When I turned back to her, she saw the tears on my face.
“I’m a fool, André, I have no right to talk to you like that. I know that you and I, that our love can never die. How could you possibly forget me when I taught you everything you know?”
She fell silent, but kept her eyes fixed on mine, as if she wanted to drag from them the truth about the situation in which we found ourselves. It was easy enough to say that we, that our love would never die—but how to believe it, if all around us everything was slowly fading? Gravely, almost solemnly, she spoke again:
“I want you to remember, André . . . in case . . . in case anything should happen. I want you to remember and for your heart never to lose sight of me. I want you, on certain nights, to remember how I touched you—never to forget the first kiss we exchanged, next to that big tree by the Pavilion. I want you never to enter a garden without remembering the garden that was once ours. I want you never to wait for anyone else without remembering how you would wait for me on that bench where we used to meet. I want you always to remember the warmth of my body and the things I said when you took me in your arms. I want . . .”
I slowly knelt down. With almost frightening strength, fueled by a kind of yearning, she forced me to lay my head on her breast, to brush her cheek and her lips with my lips. But little by little, the pressure waned and, exhausted, she let her head droop to one side, her eyes closed.
....................................................................................................
The last night I saw her . . .
....................................................................................................
When I learned that Timóteo, my uncle, had been asked to leave the room and that it was now empty, I went straight there in order to say my final farewell. On the threshold I saw a figure with his back turned to me and realized at once that it was my father. He turned around as soon I approached and he seemed to me to have aged considerably, although he was still very erect and had the same irritatingly smug air of the country gentleman. I don’t understand why I felt so drawn to him just then—given that we didn’t even speak when we passed in the hallway. I think I’m right in saying, though, that only then did I fully grasp that the Meneses as a family no longer existed. I had come to say goodbye to a corpse—and, for a few seconds, it was that man who held my gaze, as if I had suddenly stumbled upon a dead body. A dead stranger, whom I had never seen before and did not know, who, as far as I was concerned, had no name and no identity. I stood rooted to the spot, anxiously asking myself if that feeling of estrangement was not the result of a long, patient process of separation. But, as I say, the odd thing was that I regarded him with an indifference that was there in my flesh, my blood, my nerves—I regarded him as if he were a being from another world whom we struggle to clothe in some kind of humanity. Perhaps drawn by my gaze, he walked toward me, but the coffin lay between us—then, automatically, and almost without being able to take his eyes off me, he approached the dead wom
an, removed the sheet covering her face and stared down at her. With that gesture, his humanity returned to him—and I felt sure that I was face to face with a complete stranger.
As soon as he moved away, I went straight over to the coffin and stopped short: it had been made by Senhor Juca and was a very simple affair, with metal handles and a plain fabric lining. Wrapped in a sheet, the body lay there without so much as a flower to adorn it. Perhaps she herself had requested that bare, Spartan simplicity.
Unhurriedly, and as timidly as if I were disobeying some secret law, I bent over and lifted one corner of the sheet. That was the first time I had ever seen the face of a corpse, and I had the strangest feeling, as if a distant, delicate music were playing inside my mind. How could a human face change so quickly! Her gentle, perfect features had suffered a violent transformation, from her almost excessively long eyelashes, to her pale, almost too broad forehead and the exaggerated curve of her nostrils, which lent her an unexpectedly semitic appearance. Rigor mortis had placed around that face an impenetrable aura. Death was clearly no joking matter; in death, the original being, roughly shaped out of clay by God’s hands, cast off all disguises to triumphantly reveal its true essence. It was clear, too, that there was nothing more to be said between us. Any unspoken words were useless now, as were any caresses not bestowed and the flowers with which we could still adorn her. Free now, she rested there in a state of ultimate purity. Everything, apart from fury and acceptance, was pointless. No answers, as if we creatures deserved nothing but mourning and injustice; it all ended there. And everything that had existed had been only a dream, a magnificent, fleeting sensory illusion. Nothing could ever remove the heavy weight pressing on my heart, and in that ruin already touched by corruption I found it hard to recognize the person who had once been the object of my love, and no tears came into my eyes, not even tears of pity.
In the same unhurried way in which I had lifted the corner of the sheet, I bent over and kissed the woman’s cheek—as I had done so many, many times before—but this time I felt the kiss was meaningless and that I no longer knew her.
2.
First Letter from Nina to Valdo Meneses
. . . Don’t be alarmed, Valdo, to find this letter among your papers. I know you haven’t expected any news from me in a long time, and that you essentially consider me to be dead. Ah, how things change in this world. With an effort of will that paralyzes the hand I’m writing with, I can even see you sitting with your brother and your sister-in-law on the verandah, as you used to do, and in between two long silences, I can hear you saying: “Poor Nina ended up taking the only path that lay open to her . . .” And Demétrio, who has never taken any interest in other people’s problems, folds up his newspaper and looks out at the garden with a sigh: “I warned you, Valdo, but you wouldn’t listen to the voice of reason.” (Yes, “the voice of reason,” those would be his exact words, with his usual lack of modesty when it comes to talking about himself.) Ana perhaps says nothing, her abstracted gaze fixed on the sky growing gradually dark as night falls. And so it has been for years and years, because the Meneses family is very sparing with its gestures and has rarely ever instigated anything. And suddenly, on the usual dust covering your bedside reading, you will find this letter. It might take you a while to recognize the writing and it might also take you a while to think: “It’s that poor woman Nina again,” while your heart beats a little faster.
For once in your life, Valdo, you will be right. That “poor woman Nina,” even poorer now, is once again standing humbly at your door, having sniffed her way home like a dog abandoned on the road. I should perhaps warn you that women like me are very hard to kill off, and you’ll have to make a few attempts before I actually disappear. But don’t worry, my dear, my objective this time is very simple, and once I’ve gotten what I want, I will return once more to the silence and distance to which the Meneses family relegated me. I don’t intend to return to the Chácara (although I do, sometimes, on a wave of nostalgia, remember the quiet drawing room, the imposing sideboard laden with dusty silverware, and above it, the painting of The Last Supper, which does not quite cover the obvious mark left by the portrait of Maria Sinhá that used to hang there long ago), nor, indeed, do I intend ever again to use the name of which you are so proud, and which for me merely marked the beginning of a series of errors and mistakes. No, I want only to reclaim what I judge to be rightfully mine. You once said to me that people who are always demanding their rights show a lack of love, which might be true in part, because despite all the love that may perhaps still exist between us, time has not changed me, Valdo, and although you may often have misinterpreted both me and my actions, I believe there is still a remnant in your heart of the sentiment that first brought us together—and, given my current situation, I feel it only right that I should demand the things I believe to be my due. You are doubtless looking a little alarmed now, asking yourself what those things could be—and I should, at this point, remind you that we are only separated, that there has been no legal separation, something so repugnant to your brother Demétrio, always so wary of anything that might tarnish the honorable family name. It is, therefore, only logical that I should enjoy the same help I would expect were I still by your side. Now do you see what I’m getting at? In the eyes of the law, I am still your wife, and while, during all this time, I haven’t received a single penny from you and you have proved tight-fisted almost to the point of propelling me into poverty, it is still your duty to watch over me and help me in difficult times.
I can see your furrowed brow, the suspicious expression you always adopt on these occasions, and the false accusations you’re storing up in your mind. I can foresee the suppositions and suspicions you have about the life I lead and my current situation. Don’t worry, Valdo, I’m not coming to you in order to satisfy mere whims or so that I can afford things that you deem to be luxuries and therefore unnecessary. I can guarantee that in this respect I am more than fortunate, because I do not lack for male friends who help me and give me what I need, and who are, to be frank, sometimes surplus to requirements. Yes, I do have male friends, I won’t hide the fact, and some of them occasionally say of me: “Nina has never looked lovelier”—men whom, I’m pleased to say, and you will be pleased to hear, I keep at a distance and even treat with a certain disdain. No, my problem is of quite a different nature. Imagine, for example, always assuming you’re capable of imagining such things, and that those things are capable of touching your heart, that a woman of my status, married into such a family—and what higher status could I have in the eyes of a Meneses?—finds herself obliged to live in a cramped apartment that reeks of poverty and of that unmentionable thing: the life of a woman abandoned by her husband. By now, you, who were always trying to second-guess my motives, will have said to yourself: “It’s as clear as day what she’s trying to get out of me!” I can’t deny it . . . ah, Valdo, how we honest souls do suffer, how we cover ourselves in unnecessary shame when it comes to dealing with certain of the world’s material values. On the other hand, consider that in the Chácara, where you enjoy a life of relative plenty ........................ ................................................................................................................... ...................... and of all my friends, the person who takes the fairest view of the matter is the Colonel. He says that, even when legally separated, a wife deserves the full consideration of the man who was her husband—even more so when there is no legal separation. I can see Demétrio leaning over your shoulder like a shadow and roaring: “The lengths that woman will go to . . .” May God forgive me, but I very much doubt that any sensible person would take your brother’s opinions seriously, for they are fueled by prejudice rather than by any kind of fair, reasoned judgment. So think carefully, Valdo, especially since I am really not asking for very much at all. And even if I were, right would be on my side, I would have my reasons and my justifications. For example, the allowance you promised—do you remember?—and t
hat never materialized, and for which I waited in the hope that the family situation would ease, even though, deep down, I was sure you would never get out of the cul-de-sac you have chosen to go down. I say this because I know now that building the Chácara, not to mention maintaining it, has been a complete waste of money, and could have been avoided if you weren’t all convinced that abandoning Vila Velha and this mansion of ours would be an act discrediting the family. The fact is that rather than dismembering the old Fazenda do Baú and dividing up the lands among creditors who could perfectly well have waited a little longer, you would have done far better to accept the situation and simply refurbish the old house that is now moldering away in the hills. I have to say that on the occasions when I rode up there, I felt it had a poetry and a dignity I did not always find in the pretentious mansion where you live today . . . If you had done what I always advised and sold the house, auctioned the furniture, dismissed some of the servants, divided the land up into lots and come to an agreement with the rest of the creditors, we wouldn’t be in this state of ................................................................. ......................................... which are the same as before. This increases the not inconsiderable amount I’m having to pay out. I actually think that, at times, I might have gone hungry had it not been for the zealous male friends I mentioned earlier. Among them, Colonel Amadeu Gonçalves, who never lets a day go by without visiting me, encouraging me to despise men’s evil nature and, at the same time, bringing me a word of comfort. It’s hard to believe such men still exist: the devotion of the man, the constancy of his friendship, his selflessness; I sometimes find such qualities frightening. What would become of me were it not for his paternal zeal? Sometimes he arrives and finds me in tears, and then he says: “Nina, I don’t want to weigh you down with any more suffering, you have quite enough to cope with as it is, I just want you to know that I come here as a father and that you can depend upon me as if you were my daughter.” He was, of course, the only real friend my late father had, and I cannot but feel grateful, especially when he goes still further and often leaves lying about, as if absentmindedly, varying sums of money that have been my sole source of income. I sometimes say to him: “Please, Colonel, don’t do that, because I really don’t know that I’ll ever be able to repay you . . .” He smiles and shakes his head: “Don’t be silly, one day you’ll pay me back in full.” I feel ashamed, Valdo, because I know that day will probably never come. And I feel sorry for that quiet, humble, helpless man at my side. He, for his part, rails against the way you have treated me, saying: “Really, a woman of your quality, who deserved only the very best, who merited every respect!” In writing this letter, I only wish I could tell you all the sympathetic things he has to say about my situation. Perhaps only then would you understand that this world, whose opinion you seem to value so highly, is not on your side, but on mine. Yes, I am the person being wronged and persecuted, despite all Demétrio’s efforts to portray me as a flibbertigibbet, a femme fatale who would lead any man to his ruin. And strangely enough, the rumors you so fear are not about me, as you might expect, but about the Meneses family. The Meneses of Vila Velha, that ancient trunk whose roots reach down into the very origins of Minas Gerais. I can’t help but feel a certain pleasure when I say this and imagine Demétrio, tremulous with resentment, and Ana, disdainfully sticking her nose in the air whenever she passes me, meanwhile peering at me through every window and shutter she comes across. As I say, this world does not accuse me, it judges you as severely as the Colonel does.
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 4