Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  I was still watching him from a distance, through the crack in the door, still admiring his splendid body, his bare torso, which took on a coppery glow in the lamplight. I had never seen a male body naked like that, because I imagined that my husband’s unclothed body—the body he occasionally pressed against mine to offer me a bitter, fleeting caress—would be lifeless and ungainly. Alberto’s was an adolescent body, the matte pink of human flesh when it is still pure, ready for the great leap into sin; he had only just become a man, and I could sense the energy in him, as clear as music in the air. Now I understood why Nina could not possibly have failed to notice him, and I imagined her running expert fingers over that tender flesh, provoking in him his first tremors of pleasure and getting the same pleasure herself from that discovery. I confess, Father, that I was half-blind with jealousy. No, I could not help myself—since he would never be mine, I would rather lose him forever than know he was in the hands of another woman.

  Alberto did not kill himself that night, and many more nights passed before he committed that final act. I barely let him out of my sight, following him everywhere with my eyes—and he must have been aware of being watched, if, that is, he was still aware of the things of this world. But following Nina’s departure, which happened immediately after the argument in the bedroom, his heart was no longer here; he would go back and forth, pretend to be packing his bags as Demétrio had demanded, or perhaps weed a flower bed—but we both knew he lacked the strength to do much more than that, and time passed, and inexplicably, my husband no longer insisted on his leaving. (Did he also think the gardener would kill himself? His impassive features gave nothing away.) A strange torpor fell upon us, as if we were helpless to do anything until overtaken by some sudden, dramatic event. I don’t know if all of us were aware of the turbulent emotions filling the gardener’s heart, but I knew its every beat, and, ah, what rage I felt, what despair, to be unable to anaesthetize that mind poisoned by the image of the woman with whom he was obsessed! He came and went, fussing about in the garden over violets that no one wanted any more. I would follow his movements from the verandah, where I sat with my embroidery on my lap, watching out of the corner of my eye. If he disappeared behind a bush, I would immediately stand up and stretch, as if I had suddenly grown bored with sewing. Demétrio, who was always by my side, immersed in a book—and how often I caught him, too, staring off into space—would sometimes jump when I started to my feet.

  “What’s wrong?” he would ask.

  And I would lie shamelessly:

  “I thought I heard someone . . .”

  And he would say: “It’s only the gardener,” and go back to his reading, as if he could not tear himself away from it.

  Yes, how often I would sit absolutely still, head bowed, heart pounding, trying to listen—and I would imagine footsteps, people running, the hasty gestures of people shaken by some grave incident, and which existed only in my mind. “When will it happen?” I kept tirelessly asking myself. And equally tirelessly, I kept staring at the paths beneath the hot light of the unforgiving sun, where things seemed so fixed as to appear eternal. And so the days crawled by and nothing happened. I felt almost impatient sometimes: “How can he, how does he have the courage to drag things out like this?” And out of that long soliloquy was born a kind of secret, insalubrious joy that appeared on my lips in the form of a sad smile: “Perhaps he didn’t really love her so very much . . .” And again I would start listening, but nothing disturbed the peace of the day. Far off, a bird would unleash its harsh, repetitive, monotonous cry, and I would go back to my embroidery, my hands trembling with impatience. When I had not seen him for a while, though, and spotted his hoe abandoned in the sun, I would stand up. I had grown so inured to the idea of his suicide that not even the sound of a shot would have startled me. And yet he had only to disappear from view for me immediately to spring to my feet.

  “Whatever’s wrong with you?” Demétrio would ask, putting down his book.

  “I’m tired, my legs have gone to sleep,” I would say. “I’m going for a walk . . .”

  “In this heat?”

  I would try to look as nonchalant as possible.

  “Yes, why not? There’s plenty of shade beneath the trees.”

  I don’t know, perhaps it was simply my imagination, but I felt that he looked at me for longer than usual, although without betraying any nameable emotion. I came to loathe him then, but was still able to conceal from him what was happening in my heart. I would walk down into the garden and, pausing before a flower here, a bush there—he was, of course, still following me from the verandah with his eyes—I would finally reach the protective shade. A silent rage made my heart beat faster: the calm he affected, that horrible indifference! And head down, I would follow every crushed leaf, every bit of scuffed earth that indicated Alberto had come that way. And I would say to myself: when, oh when will it be? The blue sky did not answer, and the birds flapped serenely past on the horizon. I imagined then that he was perhaps already in his room, that he would kill himself in the next few minutes or seconds. I would listen intently for the shot. Then I would walk on, unconsciously quickening my step. I was dripping with sweat, but that did not stop me: even if my husband did see me, even if I permanently compromised myself, what did it matter? I wanted to be present at his death. I ran—and when I stopped, exhausted, my eyes clouded by a slight dizziness, I felt the strangeness of my situation. No shot rang out, and my eyes filled with tears. I would walk back to the house then, aware of another hopelessly peaceful evening coming on.

  He did kill himself, but on a day so calm that any violent act seemed utterly impossible. We were sitting at the table, and I was just thinking about him when Betty came to say that something had happened, that the gardener was lying, wounded, in the Pavilion. Despite my long training in repression, I leapt to my feet. Demétrio gave me an indefinable look and, as he had before, kept his eyes fixed on me for a long time.

  “Are you going?” he asked.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” I answered, and I myself didn’t know why I said that.

  I knew I must have turned pale, and I could not for another second control my emotions. What was the point of lies and pretense at that supreme moment? Demétrio continued to look at me, as if challenging me—and I turned to face him as if for the last time, as if I were saying goodbye, bidding him a final farewell—without rancor, without scorn, but strangely detached. I left the room without a backward glance, certain that, as always, his eyes would accompany me as far as they could. I went down the steps, my heart beating only a little faster than usual, my vision slightly blurred. I did at least have solid reasons for doing what I was doing. But even if no one else agreed, even if they were all suspicious of me and pointed to me as the worst of sinners, even then, I would still have gone, despite Demétrio’s unspoken anger, because the woman I had been up until then had ceased to exist, and in accepting that death, I was accepting my drama, my passion, and everything that existed outside the ordinary orbit of that house. And there I was going down the steps from which I had so often gazed with yearning eyes—there I was walking along the sandy paths of the garden I had so often probed and studied from a distance, imagining it to be the garden of all possible delights. Except that now it was very late, and the sun was cold and the color of lead.

  Alberto was not yet dead, and I asked Betty to send at once for a doctor. In my impatience, I even gave her a shove, but there was peace in my heart, and in my mind the certainty that he was already doomed, and that no one, not even the doctor, could do anything to save him. No, Alberto had not yet died, but what good were those faint, lingering glimmers of life? Standing there, frozen to the spot, I looked at him as if for the first time, so accustomed had I become to the image I myself had created, so very different from the reality confronting me now, however hard I tried to mound real-life flesh to dream. He was lying on the bed, one hand beneath his head, the other trailing on the floor, revealing his blood-soaked chest
. He could no longer recognize me, he was breathing hard, his eyes closed—and yet still I was afraid to go any closer, dumb and dry-eyed with respect. A pinkish foam was forming in the corners of his mouth, and his face was taking on a greenish hue: death was not far off. It was this thought, I believe, that gave me the strength to approach him—because I could hold back no longer—and, kneeling by his side, I pressed my lips violently to his foam-tinged lips. What I said then, Father, even I could not repeat—incoherent words, insane ramblings, that seemed to be spoken by someone else, and which, when I recalled them later, filled me with panic and shame. A hoarse voice was speaking those words, while I embraced that wounded body, my cheek resting on his chest, where my tears, free at last, mingled with his still-warm blood. At last, I could touch him, and touch him while he was still alive, feeling that every tremor shaking my body was draining the strength from his, and that each of my all-too-passionate kisses brought his death a little nearer. There was a moment when I saw him open his eyes and look at me as if he understood what was happening. A wave of hope ran through my being, and I believed for a moment that I could yet be redeemed, even if only through a word or a smile, and that the hatred in my heart could be purged forever. A single word, a smile, not of love or complicity, but merely of understanding—that was all I was hoping for. His lips moved, he was about to say something, perhaps a word of farewell. I leaned closer, not wanting to miss that supreme message—and then I distinctly heard him say a name—NINA. Oh, Father, I do not know what madness gripped me then, but seeing him close his eyes again, I kissed his lips one more time, and said: “It’s Nina, my love, it’s me, Nina, here by your side.” I don’t know how often I said those words, rubbing my face over those foam-smeared lips—however, nothing now seemed capable of drawing him out of the torpor into which he was sinking. I made one last effort and tried to lift his head, repeating: “Can’t you hear me? It’s me, Nina, here by your side.” But his head fell back so limply then that I knew he was dead, and I again clung to him, saying: “Goodbye, Alberto, goodbye.”

  His body stiffened beneath my hands, his head drooped to one side, and that was how the doctor found us moments later.

  16.

  Father Justino’s First Account

  I saw her even before I had finished giving the benediction; she was half-hidden behind one of pillars in the nave. Since my eyesight is poor, and her dark silhouette was easily confused with that of many other women in the congregation, I looked again, and that is when I realized she was hiding from me. This confirmed me in my belief that it was indeed her, for what other woman in the parish would be capable of such conflicting impulses, simultaneously seeking me out and fleeing from me? It could only be her—she had come specifically to see me and yet she was avoiding me, lacking the courage to show her intentions openly. That lack of spontaneity was one of her fundamental traits, and seemed to me representative of what I called the “Meneses spirit”: a desire to stay safe within the bounds of solid realism and never go beyond a certain sphere of common sense so essential when dealing with worldly practicalities. As soon as I had finished saying the rosary, and the murmur of accompanying voices behind me had stopped, I made my way to the sacristy, certain that she would follow me there. And indeed before I had even removed all my vestments, I became aware of someone softly opening the door and standing there, presumably waiting for me to turn around. I could easily imagine how difficult it must have been for her to do such a thing and so, to allow her time to compose herself and prepare an explanation for her visit, I kept my back to her while I carefully folded up the chasuble and stowed it away in the large chest. Only when I heard a dry, somewhat impatient cough did I turn around.

  “Oh it’s you, Dona Ana,” I said, trying to sound as natural as possible.

  She was leaning against the doorframe, a black shawl over her head, and she seemed even paler than usual, if such a thing were possible. Or perhaps not pale exactly, but wan, with the dull, greenish complexion of someone suffering from a liver condition. Contrary to my expectations, she did not appear agitated; indeed with her frank gaze and head held high, I would go so far as to say that I had never seen her so calm. She exuded an air of forthright determination, which, for some reason I found most troubling. I had the distinct impression that the struggle within her was over and that what was driving her now, far from being the clash of opposing forces, was the sense of certainty that she had reached her final destination, like a swimmer at last touching dry land. What that destination was scarcely mattered—her face, like a land laid waste, showed very clearly the price she had paid and the kind of serenity she had found through that process of pacification. She did not respond to my words, which I had tried to make cordial and friendly, nor did she make the slightest attempt to enter the room, merely leaning more heavily still against the doorframe, waiting for whatever kind of invitation I might make. “Ah,” I thought to myself: “She’s come only to tell me that it’s too late.” And as I searched in vain for something to say, realizing that whatever I did say would inevitably bump up against the wall of her hostility, I heard her say, precisely and firmly:

  “Yes, it’s me, Father Justino.”

  I stepped toward her:

  “Won’t you come in?” I asked, and then, pointing toward the vestments: “I haven’t quite finished putting these things away.”

  She shook her head:

  “No, thank you. I won’t stay long.”

  I did not press her, fearing that she would prove still more elusive or, in her embarrassment, lie about the real reason for her visit. Noting my silence, and possibly realizing that there was not much I could do without her help, she took two steps toward me, but still she said nothing and merely stood there, breathing faster than normal. In the sunlight streaming in from one of the side windows, I once again noticed that green, bilious tinge to her skin—everything about her, as if she had been very hastily thrown together, was excessively gloomy, to the extent that, seeing in her face all that suppressed rage and disappointment, I could not help but shudder.

  “Have you come to confess?” I asked.

  Once again she shook her head, and so, setting aside all caution, I asked what had brought her there. She answered in a low but perfectly natural voice that she had come to ask me to accompany her to the Chácara. I was surprised and told her that I couldn’t just go like that; I had, at the very least, to wait for the sacristan to return—he had gone home for dinner and would not be long. This seemed to upset her and she muttered several times: “Oh, really!” as if I could have no other choice but to go with her immediately. She added that it was a very grave matter, indeed extremely grave (which I took to imply that I was needed in extremis), but she did not provide any further details. To see if any more information might be forthcoming, I asked if it was someone else who had sent for me, and she simply answered: “No, no one else.” However, I could tell from her manner that she was not going to leave without a formal promise from me and, with a deep sigh, I promised that as soon as I had finished changing my clothes and locking up the church, I would go and meet her. She agreed to this, saying that she would wait for me at the Chácara’s main gate.

  And only a short time later, that is where I met her. She was waiting impatiently, leaning on the fence, her eyes fixed on the road. As soon as she saw me, she hurried toward me.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” she said. There was a note of irritation in her voice.

  “Why?” I asked good-humoredly as I dismounted.

  “Because it’s getting late.”

  I looked at her and there was something about her that only increased the sense of disquiet that she always provoked in me. I did not reply and we walked together up the avenue, with me leading my horse by the reins. Neither of us said a word, but I knew perfectly well that something was troubling her. Night was coming on, and the clumps of trees cast patches of deep shade over our path, even though, up in the sky, there were still great swathes of blue. To my surprise,
instead of continuing up the main avenue, we turned down a side path bordered by a hedge and followed the course of a stream burbling over its stony bed. Along with the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, the sound of frogs and crickets began to fill the gathering gloom. We carried on walking for some distance until we reached a kind of gazebo plunged entirely in darkness, with low branches covering the entire façade; there was absolutely no sign of life. I assumed we would go up the steps, but once again I was mistaken: Dona Ana skirted around the front of the building and made her way toward a low, barely-lit side door. (The weak wavering glow coming from within suggested that the only light was an oil lamp.) Dona Ana finally turned toward me and pointed to the door:

  “In here.”

  I must admit that, at that moment, I was unsure whether to enter or not, for that whole adventure struck me as extremely odd. However, having come that far, how could I waver now, especially since my assistance had been sought as a minister of God? I entered and, from the very first second, I was taken aback by the suffocating air of that dank cellar. Turning to the left, Dona Ana led me to an open door, from where the light was evidently coming. Without a word, she stood to one side and motioned for me to enter. I obeyed the commanding look in her eye and found myself in a smaller, even narrower room with an even lower ceiling (I could almost touch the beams), and which was ventilated by a single, circular window that gave onto the garden. (Later, much later, other circumstances would take me back to that same unbreathable atmosphere—and the most extraordinary thing is that, all those years on, the new episode would attach itself to the first to make a single whole, like two parts of the same tree. And on both occasions it was the absence of God, rather than His work, that I was to witness.) Looking down, I saw a body stretched out on a miserable pallet bed. It was a young man, covered in blood. Moving closer, I saw that he was dead. I was gripped by confusion and doubt: it had clearly been a violent death. But how? How had it been spilt, all that still-fresh blood staining the walls and darkening the floor where I stood? I turned to Dona Ana, unable to contain my feelings.