Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  “Senhor Valdo, I think what people say about her is a gross exaggeration. How could the poor . . .”

  He brusquely stopped me in my tracks, and only then did I realize how ill-disposed he was toward Dona Nina:

  “Don’t tell me, Betty, that you’ve already taken her side.”

  I slowly shook my head:

  “No, I’m not taking her side or anyone else’s.”

  I watched his eyes slide away from me and, for a moment, there was a glint of madness in them, as though he were losing his grip on reality and no longer recognized his surroundings, as if his head were spinning. However, the silence calmed him, his will resurfaced, and he added:

  “Don’t be angry with me, Betty, but I need to know . . . Forgive me, it’s just that I find myself in such a very painful situation.”

  “I understand, Senhor Valdo.”

  And he shot me a grateful glance.

  “I have my suspicions about several things. Nothing positive, but if they proved to be true, it would be truly horrible.”

  “May I know what those things are?”

  He turned to me so abruptly that the heavy table shook:

  “Betty, what is going on with my son?”

  We had reached the nub of the matter, and the as yet unnamed thing floating thinly about inside me like a tattered cloud suddenly came into sharp focus, took on form and name, and I shuddered, not daring to face that now confirmed suspicion. For a moment, I considered running away, escaping the unbearable pressure of feelings that did not belong to me; after all, I was of no importance in that house, so why should I get mixed up in things that would weigh so decisively on the fate of people who were my betters? Guessing my thoughts, Senhor Valdo touched my arm and shook me:

  “Betty! Betty!”

  Then I covered my face with my hands and remained like that for some time, turned in upon myself, on my shame, on the wild beating of my heart. Suspicions, yes, but what are suspicions worth, what do mere doubts mean when it comes to making a judgement against which there can be no appeal? Senhor Valdo, meanwhile, must have understood what my response, or lack of it, meant, because he kept repeating in a low voice, like a moan:

  “Oh, Betty . . .”

  I let my arms drop and, slowly, despite the shame burning my cheeks, I told my very first lie:

  “There’s nothing going on with your son, Senhor Valdo, nothing at all.”

  27th – I spent a horribly agitated night. Yesterday, when I told Senhor Valdo that there was nothing going on—and this was the second time in recent days that he had asked me such a question—my mind had been flooded with memories. It was almost as if they had been waiting for me to say those words in order to rise up and reveal their true meaning. I went back to work, helping the servants wash and fill the sausages, but I was so troubled, my hands so shaky, that I was hardly aware of what I was doing at all. I was remembering not just gestures or snippets of conversations, but actual scenes, real events that had occurred in my presence, and that were now causing me such concern. A day before—exactly one day before—I had found André lying face down on the sofa in the drawing room, sobbing his heart out. He had always been a nervous, sensitive boy, but I had never seen him cry before. I was even more surprised to find him there alone on the sofa. I sat beside him, stroking his hair, and he did not react at all. Such was his pain that I felt a pang of animosity toward “her”: there had never been any tears in the house before “she” came. Still stroking his hair, and in as neutral a voice as possible, I asked if “she” was to blame. He shuddered and, when he turned to look at me, I saw that his eyes were still wet with tears. I don’t know what turmoil he was going through at that moment, but, instead of the flat denial I was expecting, he began to talk, and I saw that nothing had actually happened and that what was hurting him was merely an impression, but one strong enough to make him open his heart to me, so great was his need for help and understanding. Whatever others may say, I understood him and believed everything he was telling me, which was nothing coherent or palpable, but rather a feeling of emptiness and futility, a lack that he did not know how to dismiss or to fill. It had begun the very first time he saw her. Whenever Nina spoke to him, she seemed absent, as if she were merely going through the motions, without really being aware of the person she was speaking to. “I feel,” he said, “that I could talk about anything at all, and she would respond in the same way, not even conscious of what she was saying, because she’s never really present when she speaks.” I myself had noticed such absences, like spaces through which her words slipped, not strong enough to fix on the matter in hand. Is that what she was really like, was she putting on an act, or did she inhabit a world to which we had no access? That was what he found so troubling, and as he described his distress, I felt, too, that he was moved by a need, a desire, to exist, to be real and to be part of the emotions she embodied. He felt canceled out and, worse still, he was sure that no power in the world could make her see him as a real physical being. Torn apart by his own feeling of powerlessness, he, at one point, grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, saying: “Betty, is that woman really my mother? Is there no chance there could have been a mistake, some monstrous mistake?” “No, there’s no mistake.” And I was truly sorry that there was no mistake and I could not offer him even the tiniest crumb of comfort. Whichever way he turned, he would always bump up against the same four walls of that reality, the limits of his prison. And now, as I felt the foundations of that drama growing around us like a dark jungle, I was trying to imagine what it must be like in that world only she could penetrate, and I could not help but recall what people said about her, about her past, and her turbulent life in Rio de Janeiro. When she spoke, what images lay behind her words, what men, what places, what guilty secrets lay behind the façade she went to such pains to present to us? As I stroked André’s hair—he was still such a child, still so inexperienced—I myself drifted into thoughts of those far-off days—about which I had promised Senhor Valdo I would never speak—summoning up some forgotten face or an expression, the key to which I had already lost, and which, in the light of new events, might take on a new aspect, perhaps a clearer meaning. Was it those bloody scenes, Dona Ana’s reaction, and the rumors I had heard on my occasional visits to Vila Velha or Queimados—rumors that I tried to drive from my mind like someone pushing her way through a bramble patch—was that what bubbled up to the surface, insidious and indestructible? No, I refused to believe that the beautiful creature who so fondly called me her friend could possibly be a woman of such base appetites, such unbridled, shameless feelings. No. If it were true, the world would take on a new and terrible meaning. Would it not be better to withhold judgement and allow time to clarify what seemed so obscure? And that is what I did, telling André that perhaps he was mistaken; that Dona Nina had always been a little vague, and that, had he known her for as long as I had, he would not find this in the least strange. André shook his head and did not answer, but I could see that my words had failed to convince him. At least I had succeeded in making him stop crying, which was a more than satisfactory outcome. Everything else would, possibly, calm down of its own accord.

  When I left him, though, something odd happened: I began to feel a weight on my conscience, not because of my silence when Senhor Valdo had spoken to me, nor because I had not told him all that I knew. No, for the first time, and in an insistent, insinuating way, I understood what that woman’s presence really was—a seething, rotting ferment. She herself may not have been aware of this, she simply existed, with the blithe exuberance of certain poisonous plants; but the mere fact that she did exist as an intrusive, disruptive element filtered into the atmosphere and gradually destroyed all vital signs of life. And just as those ardent, beautiful plants spring up from arid soil, later on, she would flower alone in a parched, sparse terrain ravaged by death. And there was no point in hiding: everything in that house was impregnated by her presence—the furniture, day-to-day life, the passing hours and minu
tes, even the air itself. The normally calm, untroubled rhythm of life in the Chácara had altered completely: there was no shared timetable, no general law to which everyone submitted. It was as if we were living under constant threat of some extraordinary event, which could happen at any moment. In the peace of my room, where I had taken refuge in order to think freely about these things, I realized that the whole spirit of the house had changed. And all my efforts to justify Dona Nina and find reasons for what she represented seemed futile, for she was, like a scandal, beyond justification. And up until then, I had always felt there was nothing worse than scandal—it was like the summation of all evil. That at least is what my mother had taught me, and she, too, had been brought up according to strict puritan teachings. At the same time, though, the graceful image of Dona Nina would rise up before me, and I would shake my head incredulously and wonder fearfully if I, too, had fallen under her spell.

  28th – I have been thinking and thinking about these things for two days now, and there is one idea I cannot shake off: André will be the one to suffer most. If only I could find some way of making him speak and thus influence his behavior . . . I can’t forget that I was the one who brought him up and so am directly responsible for him. Everything that happens to him is the result of my teachings. In my defense, I would think, well, that’s easy enough to say, but who can stop a plant from growing and spreading freely? How could I possibly imagine the germs at work deep in his nature, the poisons that might predispose him to do who knows what? I had no doubt what my duty was, but what about everything else, himself, the consequences of his total lack of experience? Dear God, how difficult and complicated everything was. Not really knowing what I would say, I went looking for him and found him in his room, lying on the bed, a pillow covering his face. I sat down beside him:

  “André,” I said, “what’s wrong?”

  He removed the pillow and stared at me, his hair all disheveled:

  “Nothing’s wrong. Why do you ask?”

  “What you told me . . .” I began. Then I stopped, imagining how difficult it would be to resume that conversation.

  He reacted immediately and with unexpected brutality:

  “What’s it to do with you anyway? Why are you meddling in my life?”

  That was the first time he had ever spoken to me in that tone of voice, and I instinctively thought of Senhor Valdo and the question he had asked me that day in the kitchen. The person who had alerted him to this change in the boy was probably Senhor Demétrio, who was always quicker to notice such things. In this case, he had been right, because clearly something very serious was troubling André.

  “It’s not me,” I said after a while, “it’s the others who find your attitude strange.”

  “Who, for example?” and he looked at me defiantly.

  “Your uncle, your father.”

  For a second, the light in his eyes grew dim, and his voice sounded sadder and less certain:

  “Oh, Betty, don’t tell me you’re on their side too.”

  So it was true. There were different sides. Those words more than confirmed all my suspicions. Some corrosive action was at work, the family was being torn asunder. Suddenly, in the midst of my shock at this realization, I thought of Senhor Timóteo—what part would he be playing in all this? Because I had no doubts now: if there were different sides, if the dividing lines had been drawn, Senhor Timóteo would never ally himself with his brothers, whom he had always hated, but with the others, and he would be one of their biggest supporters. I stood up, horrified:

  “No, André, you’re wrong. I’m not on anyone’s side, a mere servant can’t take sides. Because you’re right, I am just a servant.”

  He merely shrugged:

  “So what the devil did you come here for?”

  “I came to help you.” I saw him shudder. “But not like that . . . not like that.”

  I left the room, feeling that I could say nothing more. However, I could not drive from my mind the image of that house being torn to shreds, as if it were a living body. And I, alas, knew where the attack was coming from.

  24.

  The Doctor’s Third Report

  . . . I am now happy to recount the things I witnessed back then, even though those events are now so old that it’s unlikely any of the people involved are still alive. That, perhaps, is why I have agreed to take up my pen again, and if my writing is sometimes a little shaky, that is because age no longer allows me to write with the ease I once did, nor is my memory as quick to come when I call. However, I believe I do recollect the day you mention. In fact, your enquiries have proved very useful to me, since they oblige me to pin down facts from the past that would otherwise be left to drift on the tides of memory.

  It was shortly after the return of the woman we all knew as Dona Nina, and although I can still recall every detail, the truth is that, despite my being the Meneses’ family doctor and having often been called out to attend the Chácara’s inhabitants, I had not been there for a long time because no one had required my services, as if life and its ills had called a truce up in those parts. So the sudden summons from Senhor Valdo took me by surprise and, for the reasons I have just given, that visit stands out among all the many others I made to the Meneses family during my time as a doctor.

  It was, I recall, a rainy morning, and I was looking through the open window at the trees being buffeted by the wind. Senhor Valdo drove up to my house in a buggy, and I noticed at once that he was extremely agitated. He was always so calm and so impeccably dressed—his outward appearance a perfect match for his inner feelings. On that occasion, however, he seemed extremely flustered, his hair unkempt, and—a detail which, on its own, would have been enough to reveal his state of mind—he wasn’t even wearing a tie. Now I could accept many things, but not, I confess, the notion of a Meneses without a tie. Despite the rain, I rushed out to meet him, since I was already imagining some grave event at the Chácara. I opened the door even while he was still reaching for the bell.

  “Ah,” he exclaimed with relief, “I thought you might not be at home.”

  “But you hadn’t even rung,” I replied.

  “Well, I don’t know,” he answered. “I always assume that you’ll be out attending to some other patient.”

  These opening words reassured me, and I assumed that the reason for his visit was not so urgent after all, and so I said jokingly:

  “Patients are getting few and far between—nobody falls ill in this town any more.”

  He sighed and, since the rain was getting heavier, I invited him to come in. He accepted and while we stood rather close together in the cramped hallway, I could see he was wondering how best to explain his reasons for coming. He turned suddenly, and I saw his lips trembling, evidently from the nervous effort of having to explain his mission.

  “You have often come to our aid at various difficult times in the past,” he said.

  And he paused again and stood staring into space. Perhaps he was remembering all the many times I had gone to the Chácara ever since my very first visit there to attend his poor departed mother. For a moment, I, too, allowed myself to drift back into the past, and we both stood there silently facing each other, as if we could see those potent shadows circling around us. It was he who broke the spell, moving closer and placing one hand on my arm:

  “Come with me,” he said. “We have need of a doctor at the Chácara.”

  By the way he spoke, he did not appear to be referring to an illness as such, but to some sort of incident that required a doctor’s help and advice, and which was grave enough in itself to take on the characteristics of an illness. It would be pointless to set down here all the words we exchanged—and I certainly don’t think it would help you in your objective. Besides, I don’t remember all of them, which have become so mixed up in my memory with the echoes of other words, and because so much time has passed since they were spoken. I remember only that I tried to get him to explain why exactly they needed my help, and that he
gave me a somewhat garbled explanation about someone in the family suddenly falling ill and that my help was urgently required. I hesitated no further, and took my place beside him in the buggy. And so we set off toward the Chácara, the old Chácara that had always been a source of legend and of pride for the little town where we lived. I recalled fights, quarrels, and rivalries—the Baron, for example, richer, nobler, and more illustrious than the Meneses, who lived on a large estate far from the town, but whose house and name, despite everything, did not have the same romantic prestige as the house of the Meneses. Where did it come from, the prestige that lent their decadent mansion its enduring fascination, like a poetic inheritance undimmed by time? From its past, purely from its past, all those masters and mistresses who had been the aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents of the Senhor Valdo sitting beside me in the buggy—every one of them a Meneses, who through their affairs and escapades, their myths and marriages, had created the “soul” of the house which would always survive intact, as if hanging in the air, even if its representatives were to sink forever into obscurity. Those were my thoughts as the buggy entered the main gate and slithered down the soggy, sandy paths. And yet I still felt a pang of nostalgia as, even in the rain, I could make out the distinctive scent of the Chácara’s garden; little did those Meneses know what they meant in the imagination of others, the value of the legend surrounding their name, its mysterious, dramatic force, the poetry that illuminated them with a dim, bluish light. Yes, those old houses kept alive an identifiable spirit, capable of pride, of suffering, and (why not?) of death too, when dragged down into mediocrity, down to the level of mere mortals. And was that not exactly what was happening with the last dregs of the Meneses, who could no longer live up to the prestige of their ancestors? Peering ahead through the heavy rain, I could almost sense the gaze of the old building seeking me out, streaks of blood running down its martyred stones.