Just when I thought my visit was at an end, I noticed a figure appear from behind the shrubbery, as if whoever it was had been waiting for me. Straining my eyes—for my sight never was very good—I saw that it was a woman and, I confess, I couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction at the thought that I might perhaps leave the Chácara knowing a little more about the mystery than I had expected. For, right from the start, I had been in little doubt that there was a mystery to be unveiled, and that behind what appeared to be a simple accident lurked the kind of grave and painful feelings that churn away in the hearts of all families. The woman drew closer, and I saw that she was dressed for a journey. (Let me be more precise: she was wearing a black woolen cape, gloves, a green scarf around her neck, and one of those berets women used to wear when traveling.)
“Doctor,” she said, stopping a few feet away from me, “I need to speak to you urgently.”
Her voice was calm and somewhat imperious.
“Of course, Senhora. How can I help?”
And I bowed, quite certain that before me stood Senhor Valdo’s wife, whose beauty was already legendary. Even in the darkness, I knew that I was in the presence of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my whole life.
“I was just about to leave,” she said, “when all this happened. My suitcases are over there, by the steps.”
She stopped for a moment. Then, without betraying any of the emotion she must certainly have been feeling, she asked:
“Is it serious his condition? Is it very serious? How is he now? Is there any hope?”
She asked all these questions one after the other, without giving me time to answer her first question. I was still more struck by the fact that she had no doubt whatsoever as to the gravity of what had taken place, despite her apparent calm and even coolness. There may have been one or two tremors in her voice, but I put this down to a certain degree of suppressed irritation at events that had doubtless disrupted her carefully-laid plans. It was easy enough to tell what those plans were: she was on the point of leaving the Chácara, probably hoping to say goodbye to it forever, and that “reckless” incident had prevented her from doing so at the very moment of her departure.
“Please,” she continued, without giving me time to say anything, “I heard that it was nothing, merely carelessness . . . but I have to say that the person who told me that is not to be trusted. When he said it was merely a reckless accident, I immediately thought Valdo might die this very night. Is there such a danger, Doctor?”
This time she sounded almost anxious. When she stopped speaking, I noticed that she was breathing hard as if she had just returned from a long walk. What a strange woman, I thought, and wondered what peculiar feelings stirred in the depths of her soul. I shook my head and, sensing that she was hanging on my every word, said:
“No, there’s absolutely no danger of that. It’s only a superficial wound.”
“Superficial!” she cried. “Do you mean he isn’t fatally wounded, Doctor? Betty told me she had to clean up a large pool of blood from the drawing room floor. When I heard that, I imagined he must already be at death’s door.”
“No, he is very far from that.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “so it’s true then. Demétrio was right. It was merely a foolish gesture, an act of . . .”
She stopped and bowed her head. For a few moments, she remained silent, lost in thought. The wind caught a few strands of hair that had escaped from beneath her beret. But when she looked up again, she suddenly gave a laugh that echoed through the shadowy garden. I shuddered, sensing the repressed malice my words had unleashed.
“So,” she said, “that’s how they want to play it. Well, they don’t fool me. They clearly do not know me or what I’m capable of. Tell me, Doctor, now that we’re alone, what did he say, what lies did he invent about me? Did he mention anything about a gardener . . .”
She clapped her hand over her mouth as if wanting to catch those words spoken seemingly involuntarily.
“Who do you mean?” I asked.
“Valdo. Who else?”
I explained that Senhor Valdo was not yet able to speak, due to the shock he had suffered and the large quantity of blood he had lost. She murmured: “So he lost a lot of blood, then,” and continued rather absently to listen to what I was saying, as if the subject no longer interested her very much. As soon as I finished speaking, and seeing that she had not moved, I wasn’t sure whether I should stay or go, and I had just decided it would be best to leave when her apparent indifference abruptly turned into a state of great agitation, stopping me in my tracks. As if suddenly waking up, she hid her face in her hands, crying and laughing at the same time. Then, overcome by emotion, she leaned against a tree letting her arms droop despondently by her sides, and repeated over and over: “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I tried to intervene, and went as far as to reach out my arm to comfort her, but nothing seemed capable of drawing her out of that agitated state and so I decided to do nothing, like someone waiting patiently for a tornado to pass. Eventually, she calmed down, resting her head against the trunk. The moonlight fell directly on her face, and I could see the tears streaming down it. I suspected that such distress had no ordinary cause, and realized from her slightly swollen body that she must be pregnant. Ah, how beautiful she was! A hundred thousand times more beautiful than before, more beautiful than all the women I had ever seen.
“I think you would be better . . .” I mumbled.
She gave me a look that seemed to contain all the feelings ravaging her soul:
“Don’t give me any advice, Doctor. I don’t need advice, and I don’t want anyone to concern themselves with my life.”
At the same time, she silently contradicted these words by linking arms with me and drawing me along with her toward the end of the avenue, where the fence separated the garden from the road. The sand crunched beneath our feet, and great pools of moonlight alternated with great pools of darkness. I don’t know why (perhaps I was already under the influence of the restless atmosphere in the Chácara), but I was afraid someone might see me in such close proximity to that woman; for there was no doubt that she was someone who paid little heed to convention. But there was in her beauty (for, from time to time, I was able to cast a furtive glance at her), a hint of tragedy. As we walked, she told me her story, although her words were so garbled, so jumbled by emotion, that I could scarcely grasp their meaning.
After an argument with Valdo, she had that very day decided to leave the Chácara forever. Or rather, she had already decided this some time before, when she found out she was pregnant. However, she had not taken this decision lightly; on the contrary, she had thought about it long and hard, for it would indeed be the end of a period of relative tranquility in her life, “relative” because she was sure she could never be entirely happy living with the Meneses, although she had done her best to cope, by moving away from the house and into the Pavilion. She sensed, however, that her presence was displeasing to Demétrio, and he had been the cause of her last argument with Valdo. Because Demétrio had invented the most fantastical stories about her. Oh, she knew very well that he only wanted to get rid of her: he was afraid of the soon-to-be-born future heir of the Chácara. At least that’s what she thought, since she could find no other reason for her brother-in-law’s peculiar attitude toward her. They had, at times, even argued about whether or not the child should be born at the Chácara. Valdo was opposed to her leaving and implored, even threatened her, but Demétrio, claiming that there were no adequate medical facilities in either Vila Velha or the surrounding area, insisted that she should leave and wait in Rio for the child to be born. She had hesitated because of her husband, but had then suddenly felt so very weary of it all that she had decided to leave. When he saw her mind was made up, Valdo had turned very pale: “Is there no other way, Nina? Are you really leaving?” No, there was no other way; she was leaving. Then he had compounded his brother’s insults with one great, definitive insult of his own: �
�I don’t know why God punished me by making me fall in love with and choose a prostitute to be the mother of my son. Because that’s what you are, Nina. It’s written all over your face, branded on your forehead: you’re one of those sluts who follow men in the streets . . .” She had sprung angrily to her feet, and it was there and then that she had decided to pack her bags and leave the Pavilion where she had, albeit briefly, been so happy. Now she was determined to put an end to this charade, once and for all. There was no love between them; there was nothing at all. He had met her at a time of great difficulty for her, when her father was ill, and as soon as her father had died, Valdo had showered her with love and attention and convinced her she should accompany him to the Chácara. That was all. Since she’d arrived, however, she had realized that she would not be able to live there for very long. She was from Rio and used to life in a big city. Here, everything displeased her: the silence, the local customs, even the landscape. She missed the restaurants, the hustle and bustle, the cars, the closeness to the sea. Taking advantage of a brief pause—we had almost reached the fence by then—I asked what kind of feeling it was that bound her to Senhor Valdo if it was not love? It was my only question. The reply she gave was characteristically confused, as if she had never before given the matter serious consideration. It was, she said, a difficult feeling to describe: irritation mingled with fear and a touch of fascination. To her, Senhor Valdo represented many things she had not had: a family, a house, the kind of upbringing she had never known. But she was perfectly aware that she needed to leave and return to the little room where she had lived before she was married, to the friends she had left behind, before she and Valdo became mortal enemies—which was sure to happen sometime soon. While she was dressing, her cases already packed and waiting on the bed, Betty, who had been told to order a cart to transport her luggage, heard a shot ring out. And it was Betty who had burst into her room, crying: “Senhora! Senhor Valdo has shot himself!” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t imagine him capable of such an act. So much so that she did not even unpack her suitcases. Ah, she was still very far from imagining what mad lengths her husband would go to in order to keep up their little charade. She was still too stunned even to leave her room, imagining Valdo dying or perhaps already dead in a pool of blood. She paced up and down, unable to decide what to do. It was then that Senhor Demétrio had appeared, even stiffer and more formal than usual. “Nina, it is my duty to inform you of what has happened. My brother has committed a reckless act, but from what I can see, it’s of no great consequence. A mere graze. If you still wish to leave, please do not feel you have to stay.” She could see that he was extremely angry, and that he would never forgive Valdo for something he considered to be utter foolishness. She knew very well what he wanted, and what those words uttered with such calculated slowness meant. Everything about that man was studied and false. And turning to face him, she was about to apologize and say she wasn’t going to leave after all, when she caught in his eyes a gleam so fixed, so cold, that the words died on her lips. She was sure, beyond any doubt, that Demétrio was concealing some criminal intent. For some moments they stood in silence, he accusing her with all the force of his hostile presence, she doing her best to defend her helpless self, ready to grasp at any straw. Steeling herself, however, she asked: “Suicide? Did he try to . . .” Senhor Demétrio grew even more distant, even stiffer and colder: “Yes, he did, but, as I say, there were no serious consequences.” There was a faint note of irony in his voice. When she did not move, he opened the door and left. From that point on, she had felt unable to stay in that room a moment longer and leaving her bags packed and ready on the bed, she went down into the garden, looking for a servant from whom she could obtain more information. Finding no one, she had summoned up all her courage and gone to the small room where Senhor Valdo was lying. Her hands were trembling, her whole body was trembling. What if Demétrio had lied and Valdo was gravely wounded, how could she possibly face him? She found Senhor Valdo on the couch, his shirt stained with blood. Unable to bear the sight for more than a second, she ran from the room, certain that she had indeed been the cause of that absurd tragedy.
For a while, she remained absorbed in her thoughts, not speaking, her hand resting on my arm. We had reached the fence, beyond which lay the road leading to Vila Velha. Fireflies glowed in the darkness, and not far off, an invisible stream sang and babbled.
“Tell me, Doctor,” and she turned to me again, her voice noticeably softer, as if she were about to give voice to the heavy matter weighing on her heart, “is he really not in any danger?”
“None,” I confirmed.
“Is it possible,” and by now she was almost whispering in my ear, “is it possible that it was . . . an attempted murder?”
I have to say that her question, far from surprising me, found an echo in my own thoughts. I remembered the look the brothers had exchanged when Senhor Valdo came around, his threat to reveal all that he knew and, as there seemed to be no proof that it really was an “accident,” I had no qualms in affirming that the possibility of a crime could not be entirely dismissed.
“In that case, everything changes,” she said. “If this isn’t some new charade of Valdo’s, then I won’t leave. I shall stay, and I shan’t rest until . . .”
A bright, decisive light appeared in her eyes—I saw that she had finally reached a decision. The mimosa-covered fence blocked our path and we could go no farther. What’s more, we were bathed in moonlight and thus easily visible from the windows of the Chácara. It was then that Dona Nina seemed to remember that this was the first time we had met and that, with her customary impetuosity, she had just entrusted her secret to a man whom her family did not even consider to be a friend of the household.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, taking my hands for the last time. “Forgive me for everything I’ve said.”
I declared with a certain warmth that there was absolutely no need to apologize, and said goodbye. The moon was shining brightly, the stream was singing close by. I took a detour to reach the gate. I was feeling somewhat uneasy, sensing a new element in my life. Well, perhaps only for an instant, but it had been like a poetic ray of light. A remarkable woman and a remarkable story. From a distance, I turned again and saw her walking resolutely through the darkness toward the Chácara.
6.
Second Letter from Nina to Valdo Meneses
. . . An era, all that I suffered while living in utter penury. Ah, Valdo, I became so disillusioned that I almost came to believe that the love between us had been but a dream. I spent days and days in a state of utter despair, slumped on a sofa, unable to move my legs. The doctor, who diagnosed a form of nervous paralysis, said I might never return to full health, that the illness was very difficult to treat, and then he rattled off a string of complicated names I can no longer remember. I wept copiously, indeed, my eyes are still swollen from crying. These were not the easy tears you always found so irritating, these were the genuinely desperate tears of a poor paralytic. If only I had simply died and put an end to my suffering once and for all, then I would not have to rely on other people’s charity in order to live. Sitting in my room, looking around at the few pathetic objects that are a testament to my penury, I realize that I am surrounded by strangers, that I am no longer any use to anyone, that no one even bothers to ask after me. Yes, Valdo, I must finally give in and acknowledge the truth I have tried so hard to avoid: in the face of your silence, I have no alternative but to consider you a stranger. However much thought I have given to our situation—and I have thought about it endlessly, tossing and turning in my bed—however hard I have tried to find a solution to the painful times we are going through now, and for which neither of us is actually to blame (and I say again, and will continue to say until the end: there are malevolent influences at work, on the part of our enemies, people who have nothing to do with our problem, which should be left to us alone to resolve. On the night of the “accident,” and in view of the happy days
we had spent in the Pavilion, I had decided to stay—and I would have stayed, if, in addition to his crude accusations, Demétrio had not then produced his so-called proof . . . He was the one who forced me to leave the Chácara. And you and I were too innocent, too trusting of loyalties that did not exist.) I have studied and examined our situation from every angle, but have found nothing that could help us in our affliction. We are condemned to a hatred we did not want. As far as I am concerned, Valdo, I have never harbored any cruel feelings for you in my heart. And there was a time when we loved each other ....... ............................................. the ingratitude of others, the evil of the world. They are the real culprits, and were we to appear in court, what judges would we see before us, what hypocritical faces, what false friends revealed at last as the liars and slanderers they really are? As I write, my eyes again fill with tears. Everything around me is so ugly, this apartment with its tiny windows, the concrete courtyard where children play, this mean little room—I have never been any good at being poor. Meanwhile, Valdo, in order to retrace the path of that old story, we need to probe certain secrets and rummage around in the ashes of that sad night. Up until now, out of a kind of foolish scrupulousness, I have always refused to comment on what happened. Largely because that would mean naming someone who no longer exists, and who, through his suicide, freed himself from a slander he could not bear. And besides, what’s past is past. I take up my pen now to write about those tragic events because I have a plan of action—and I warn you, Valdo, that nothing, not even my son’s life, will stop me from following my chosen path. Besides, it is time I got my own life back and restored the purity of my name for the sake of that poor angel. He and he alone is the motivating force behind what I now intend to do. Forgive me if I occasionally cut a slightly pathetic figure, it is simply that this whole business causes me more than mere disgust—it drives me to extremes of humiliation and despair. My very blood cries out to be avenged for the injustice of which I was the victim. From now on, Valdo, no one will have the right to throw my sins in my face. There are no sins, they never existed. You’ll say I’m mad, that I’m playing a role no one takes seriously. But you must believe me, Valdo, you must take me seriously, because I need you to and would not, otherwise, know how to go on living in the way I have been living until now. Or is it my fate to go from door to door protesting my innocence? What is this guilt with which nature has tainted me from birth? Yes, Valdo, from now on, you have but one duty: to understand me and to judge me in the true light, and not allow others, purely in order to salve your conscience, to interfere in our lives and trample on the little that is left to us.
Chronicle of the Murdered House Page 9