Chronicle of the Murdered House

by Lúcio Cardoso

  Seeing him so agitated, he who was always so calm, seeing him so different from his usual self, so strange, I could not help but study him and silently come up with the most bizarre conjectures. Perhaps “agitated” is not quite the right word; no, that typical, cold, reserved Meneses male was simply allowing me a glimpse of what was going on in his heart. As with most people, it was no longer hard to read his face, because he had lowered his defenses and did not even attempt to simulate a different emotion. He was struggling against the power of a sudden, brutal experience. When I say he seemed strange, let me give an example. I had never known him take any interest in domestic matters or in what the servants were up to; I had never even seen him go into the kitchen, an area of responsibility he left entirely to Betty. At most, and almost in secret, he would occasionally send for her to ask about or issue orders regarding his brother Timóteo. Otherwise, he remained completely aloof. Now, however, the situation had changed; because of all the comings and goings, the smell of medicines and the many other things that are part and parcel of dealing with a serious illness, the windows in the house were now left wide open, and this enraged Demétrio, who demanded that the windows be closed, saying that there was absolutely no reason to expose the Chácara to prying eyes.

  “It’s necessary, Demétrio,” I said. “Aren’t you aware of how hot it is?”

  “It’s always hot,” he said, “but we’ve never gone to such extremes before.”

  “But there wasn’t anyone ill in the house then,” I protested.

  “Exactly. You want to turn the place into some kind of hostelry.”

  You might think he was prompted by an excess of modesty at the prospect of being exposed to the world’s inevitable curiosity, but he was equally intransigent about other matters too. For example, once or twice, he himself went to the main gate to see if it had been left open.

  “There’s no need for that,” he said, “we’re not holding a party.”

  I explained that there was no point in locking the gate, because there were always people coming in and out, and that we could not forbid the neighbors from visiting. He shrugged dismissively: “Busybodies more like”—and standing on the verandah, with an energy he had never shown before, he threatened to sack the first servant who forgot to lock the gate. “I don’t want any visitors. Close all the gates and the windows and tell any visitors there’s no reason for them to come sniffing around.” He came back in, then, an angry gleam in his eye. However, it wasn’t only the windows and the gate he was worried about; his vigilance extended to other parts of the house too, even the kitchen, a place where he normally never set foot, alleging now that the service was not what it used to be, that the servants were neglecting their duties and that there was no reason why normal routine should be disrupted. He cross-examined the servants, opened cupboards, even went so far as to rummage about in the trash cans, saying that the staff were being careless and throwing away valuable items. I couldn’t understand why he was so upset, and so I kept a careful watch on him, while he, his forehead dripping with sweat, said to me: “Do you see? If I let them, they’d turn this place into a hospital.”

  When everything had been closed, the gate securely padlocked, and there were no further checks to be made, all his energy drained away, and, mopping his brow, he looked at me so intensely, so pathetically, as if asking me for help. I understood this, and I also understood that he found my silence particularly irritating, but he could do nothing to vent his fury since he had no legitimate complaint to make against me. At such moments, I clearly saw his lack of humanity. He did not, as other people did, have the possibility of confessing or opening up to someone else about all the accumulated feelings inside him; and since he did not know how to free himself from them, he was doomed to wander restlessly about, waiting for someone to bring him a word of peace or to assuage his torment with a kind or forgiving gesture. And I did nothing, absolutely nothing, because I, too, had been lost for a very long time, but no one had come to my aid or shown one iota of interest in or pity for my sufferings. I merely observed him, and there was no compassion in that, no impulse to console—I watched him in an almost jeering fashion, imagining what secret infernos he would be inhabiting, without the courage to reveal himself, unable to confide in anyone, as hard and cold as a stone ghost in whose existence no one believes.

  “Bring me some coffee,” he said, sitting down on the sofa.

  He sat glumly for a few minutes, staring at his feet. I could almost hear his imprisoned blood roaring inside him.

  I brought him his coffee, but he pushed me angrily away:

  “No, no, I don’t want coffee. Coffee makes me ill.”

  I stood waiting, and he again looked at me in that pleading way, as a child might do at someone about to punish him.

  Just once, hearing a noise, he turned to me and I could see that his heart was almost in his mouth.

  “Do you think . . . ?”

  I turned to face him, utterly calm:

  “What?”

  “It’s her, Ana.”

  To disguise my smile, I turned toward the hallway:

  “No, it’s not the end yet. It will take a while, I should think; after all, she’s still young and strong.”

  He stood up and began once more to patrol the house. His shoes creaked, and that grating noise was all that could be heard. Since everything was closed, and the night outside brought with it a still more oppressive heat, he undid his collar, saying he was suffocating, and wiped the sweat from his brow with his hand.

  “It smells terrible in here, Ana. We’d better open the windows.”

  He flung them open so nervously and impatiently that they slammed against the wall; then he leaned out and took desperate gulps of the warm, still air in the garden. Voices could be heard in the distance, the gate squeaked open, and he screwed up his eyes trying to make out who was coming down the main avenue.

  “I can see someone carrying something on their head,” he said, turning to me, his eyes bright and staring.

  “You’re imagining things . . .” I began, lacking the courage to complete my thought.

  “It’s the coffin, Ana, it must be,” and he again stared into the shadows so eagerly that I felt almost nauseated and looked away, wanting to avoid his eyes.

  “Ah,” he said after a moment, “it’s not the coffin, it’s a washerwoman with a bundle of washing on her head. Is today laundry day?”

  And abruptly abandoning his lookout post, he added:

  “They’ve no business coming here, it’s pure nosiness.”

  He resumed his pacing, his shoes creaking, now louder, now more softly, a dull, rhythmic sound. No noises came from within, the hallway lay in darkness, and the whole house remained immersed in its restorative slumbers. Succumbing to weariness, I lay down on the sofa. He came over, grabbed my arm, and shook me:

  “How can you sleep at a time like this?”

  Then, hearing dogs barking outside, he left me and ran out onto the verandah. I got up and saw lights flickering in the dark. Leaning on the balustrade, he was peering into the garden.

  “Anastácia?” he called.

  Receiving no reply, he stayed where he was, his breathing irregular, his eyes fixed on those errant shapes. They must have been servants or local people who insisted on coming in, despite the orders given to the man on the gate.

  “They never give up, do they?” he said.

  He turned and now his expression was one of utter exhaustion. He walked slowly back into the house and slumped down on the sofa. He gave off a sense of mute despair, his arms hanging limply, head bowed, feet together. I looked at him, and I say again, I felt no pity; coming from the far end of the hallway, I thought I could hear the beating of that other heart still stubbornly clinging to life, and so powerful was that impression that its feeble pulse sounded louder than the ticking of the clock, shrill and imperious above our heads, not like a farewell but an order, calling for resistance and peace.

  48.


  André’s Diary (x)

  When I heard Ana’s words, announcing that Nina had died, I did not believe her, and I ran to the room from which I had been absent for several hours. I could see that Nina had just received the last rites, because Betty was removing the various things that had been used for the ceremony, and every face bore the peaceful expression that comes with a duty fulfilled, consoled by the certainty that the dying woman would not leave for the next world unaided. After all the agitation around her bed—there were so many people there, some sorting out medicines, others trying to maintain order, and others simply minor players in that important chapter now reaching its conclusion—as I say, after all that agitation there was, at last, a truce. Father Justino asked permission to resume his other duties, and the various visitors went back to their houses. Ana returned to her husband’s side, and even Betty, who had proved tireless during those last few days, seemed to succumb to a momentary weariness and asked me to keep watch at the bedside. I agreed—for that was precisely what I wanted—and as soon as the door closed and I was alone in the room, and even though I was standing some way from the bed, I had to press my hands to my chest to still my furiously beating heart. So she was going to leave, and I could do nothing about it, this was our farewell, our final farewell. This was the last time we would be together, the last chance for me to say anything to her and for her still to hear me with human ears, still sensitive to the language of the living, and to respond with her equally human lips. This would be the last time, on this side of the grave, when we might yet be able to understand each other, and when the images and values I knew would still be images and values she might recognize. And whatever happened afterward, when her lips and ears could no longer speak or hear, would be the result of what happened in that moment, of what we had said and sworn, like a final act of defiance in the face of silence and the void.

  I went over to the bed and knelt down beside it. I saw that she was still breathing, not in the hoarse, distressing way she had been breathing over the last few days, but almost serenely, as if the sacrament really had brought her relief. Then I took her pulse and felt it beating, rather irregularly, but beating nonetheless, and that was enough to assure me that she was still there. Finally, I carefully tried to prize open her eyelids, so that she could, if possible, see me, or so that I could at least see her, even if she could not see me. If my image could no longer penetrate the place where she now found herself, and I was, for her, merely a dull, meaningless thing, I wanted at least to be able to see my own image in those opaque pupils and feel myself floating on the surface of that world that had once been mine and which, now that it was lost, would bear me up as indifferently as a wave washing over a dead body. And I was thinking this even as I was trying to open her eyelids, which insisted on closing, while, meanwhile, everything inside me rebelled against being made an outcast, an exile, and I wanted her to see me, for my presence once more to illumine her inner world, which was, at that moment, heading into endless night, the desert where she would know nothing about me. I confess, that while I was thinking these painful thoughts, I began to cry; the tears ran silently down my cheeks, and I could not even say that they were real tears, because they were neither warm nor salty, but merely the result of the sadness filling me, of the conscious sadness that so pained me, and which, for some time, had been clinging to me like a weed to a ruined wall. I leaned over and placed my lips close to her ear and called softly—“Nina”—and I repeated her name once, twice, five times, now louder, now more softly, now gently, now more urgently, now more like a moan, in the hope that the sound would penetrate her unconscious state, like a signal from the outside world, and plant deep in her spirit a tiny spark, the merest shred of a desire to live. “Nina,” I said, and, at the same time, with my face almost pressed to hers, I was struggling to open her eyes and wrench her from that lethargy. Seeing her still deep in torpor, I again took her pulse, which seemed even fainter, as if it were trying to slip away. Desperately, I began to rub her arm to warm her. I didn’t want her to leave me just yet, but to stay by my side for a moment longer, just a moment. There was no doubt now that she was dying, for I could feel her pulse beating not at her wrist, but just above her elbow. Yes, she was dying, and, in a sudden panic, I felt I had to wake her somehow, to do whatever it took to snatch her from that force destroying her before my eyes, while I sat helplessly by. I looked around me for some idea, some inspiration. Time was running out. I decided to try one last thing. I pressed my lips wildly to her poor, shrunken arm and sucked at it, hoping to hold on to that faint pulse, and, in the process, leaving a dark bruise. I did the same again, and, for a few seconds, that fugitive pulse seemed to vibrate inside my mouth, to beat like the heart of an imprisoned bird. It vanished then, and I greedily went in search of that still throbbing, still captive pulse, which would then break away and rebelliously appear elsewhere. My lips moved up and down her arm, trying to return that pulse of life to its proper place. I don’t know for how long I did this, her arm lying inert in my hands; I know only that at one point, looking up, I saw a strange thing: from her closed eyes, which I had tried in vain to open, flowed a kind of dense, thick broth, which ran down her cheeks in two large, dull drops. Dear God, she was crying too, and that meant she was alive and still present and could feel my warmth and hear my pleas. So great was the joy filling my heart that I feared I might not be able to get to my feet. I had won. I again put my lips to her ear and called—“Nina, Nina”—and this time, so crudely insistent was my passion, that she shuddered, literally shuddered, and it felt as if a miracle had occurred and she was beginning to come back. Her whole lifeless body now gave off a dull, sluggish aura, like a piece of music suddenly striking up again, strident this time and out of tune. “Nina” I called more loudly and, then, slowly, she opened her eyes and gazed at me, not in a way I recognized, but with a profound look of bewilderment, although no less eloquent for that, for I could feel she was still conscious.

  “André,” was the word that made her stiff lips move, “André,” and the hand lying on mine attempted a pressure it could not manage, “André,” and I lowered my head until it was almost resting on her shoulder, “André, why did you do that, why did you call me back?”

  A single mighty sob rose to my lips:

  “No, I can’t let you . . .”

  “André,” she said, as if she would run out of breath with every word she uttered, “you have to let me die.”

  And as I bent over her, trying to fold her in my arms and wrench her from that state of apathy, she spoke these terrible words:

  “I had already gone, why did you bring me back?”

  And there was such suffering in her eyes, such detachment from all things human, that I cried out and leapt to my feet, trembling, and I said, as if someone else were speaking the words through my lips:

  “Is this how you love me, you who so often said how you adored me? You lied then, and there can be no rest for you, because you were lying all the time, and never really loved me at all. No, you never loved me, Nina. Why did you do that, why did you mock me like that, why do you want to go away and leave me alone in the world? Take care, Nina, for if God exists, He will allow you no rest on the other side. You can’t be allowed to get away with toying with other people’s lives. And I will pray every night for Him to torment your soul and never allow you a moment’s peace.”

  I was, as I say, standing up now, and my voice sounded so strange, so full of discordant, jarring sharps and flats, that I myself was terrified.

  “André . . .” and that was the last thing she said. Very slowly her eyes closed, and seeing that she really was dying now, I knelt down beside her again. And at the precise moment when I was blindly clinging to the last hint of warmth in her body, an extraordinary thing happened: I thought I heard her say a name, just one—Alberto—and it was said in a quite different tone, as if spoken not in this world, but on the threshold perhaps of the next. (That tone of voice was completely different from any
she had ever used when speaking to me, and I never forgot it, nor will it ever leave my memory or my thoughts: it wasn’t she who spoke that man’s name, or, rather, she wasn’t the woman I had known, or perhaps she was, very much so, a real and secret person whom I had never known, but who had resurfaced in death, having been buried all those years, deep in her mystery, her despair, and her memory of a time when she, too, had trembled with love—a different love. I had finally caught her out, as one might an animal in a trap. Too weak to withstand invading death, which breaks down even the most securely locked of doors, she was surrendering and allowing that name to reemerge in her last moment of consciousness. Ah, I swear I was dying a kind of death too, and a deathly sweat was leaking out of every pore of my horror and indignation, because I was being forced to accept that my suspicions had been true, and I would never find a soothing balm for that wound, which would inevitably and eternally shape the wretched love consuming me.)

  I took a step back, and then I clearly saw the dark shadow creeping over her body, beginning at her feet, moving up to her waist, burying her breasts and surrounding her face which, for a moment, stood out, solitary, cold, and pure, like a flower sculpted out of the air, and finally wrapping about her whole body, leaving her abandoned on the bed like a piece of debris washed up by the night. And I was alone.

  It was then, after contemplating her body for a time without really comprehending its meaning, that I felt she really was beginning to die, because, like a fluid gradually draining away, her presence was beginning to remove itself from things, from objects, as if sucked up by a vast, invisible mouth. All her human warmth was flowing out of the objects she had touched when alive and which had retained, up until then, the unforgettable mark of her passing. As if under the influence of some drug, everywhere I looked I could see her presence leaving the furniture, the bed, the windows, the curtains, like slender threads, small, mournful streams, then bubbling up like a spring, solemn and mighty, curling about the curtains, joining forces with all the other waters and, finally, forming part of one great river made up of memories and experiences that would now flow out into the immense estuary of nothingness. (There was a moment when, half-mad, I tried to catch hold, first, of a shadow slipping across the wall—it dissolved silently before my eyes—then of a last surviving sign of life on the carpet—it died between my fingers—and lastly, a breeze that lifted the veil of the window—it became nothing but a piece of crumpled cloth—in short, everything that could have stayed as a reminder of her existence was leaving, flowing silently away, disappearing as if in obedience to a law from on High.)