Then Carvalho began:
‘We have come here about a very serious matter. . .’
His friend interrupted him, calling out for the manservant. He wanted to know whether a letter had arrived that morning. The youth brought it in his pocket. Sitting up in bed, with his hair dishevelled, Medeiros opened it nervously, glanced quickly over it and, with a sigh of relief, put it under his pillow.
‘My goodness, I was almost caught out yesterday. A matter of a moment. . . And if her husband had come into the kitchen, which is immediately next to the door, he would have discovered just how faithful his Maria is. Well, didn’t I have a shock!’
Carvalho and Alves exchanged glances, and Carvalho uttered this pregnant phrase:
‘Well, it’s about something of that kind that we have come here. . .’
And he went on:
‘Alves has had an unfortunate experience.’
And under Medeiros’s staring gaze, Alves suddenly found himself choked by the feeling of his ridiculousness. He saw himself as belonging to the grotesque tribe of betrayed husbands who cannot come home without some lover making his escape. . . And it was like that throughout the city, scandal in corners, lovers fleeing and lovers caught. . . He had caught one of them. This fellow Medeiros would have been caught out if the husband had come into the kitchen—and he seemed to see throughout the city a sarabande of lovers and husbands, some of them escaping, husbands pursuing them, a hide-and-seek of men chasing each other around women’s skirts! And again he felt the weariness, dread of having yet again to tell his lamentable tale.
But Medeiros’s eyes, his face, were expectant, questioning, so with a peculiar expression he said at last:
‘It was yesterday. I caught Ludovina with Machado.’
‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Medeiros, starting up in the bed.
And putting out his cigarette, quickly taking another, he wanted to know the details. But it was Carvalho, now the spokesman, who gave them, relishing his part, giving details of the affair, with all the confidence of the husband of a rich nincompoop, whom no one had ever tempted. . . He told it all, while Alves, slumped in an armchair, with his top hat still in his hand, went on nodding his head in confirmation.
In the end, Medeiros said: ‘Let me see the letter.’
So Alves once more took it from his wallet, and yet again heard a stranger’s voice murmur those words of his wife’s: ‘Darling of my soul, what an afternoon that was. . .’
Medeiros, in his nightshirt, recalling Ludovina’s dark eyes, her heavenly body, excitedly repeated the phrase, fingering the paper, with all his senses visualising what had happened. And he too was immediately seized with a terrible rage against Machado. Deuce take it, he must indeed be a vile wretch! In fact, he already had some faults on record. . . deuce take it, when the ladies wanted something, one could not be a Joseph of Egypt. . . but never with the wife of an intimate friend, let alone of a colleague. . .
‘That calls for blood,’ he said excitedly, jumping into the middle of the bedroom in his nightshirt and his slippered feet.
At once, salvaging his courage, Alves exclaimed:
‘I was wanting a duel to the death, but this chap says no. . .’
Carvalho then appealed to his friend Medeiros. Was the idea of a single loaded pistol, chosen at random, by any chance reasonable?
Medeiros looked at them in astonishment. No! Certainly not! There was no justification for that, nor. . .
It was the second time that Alves had heard there was no justification. And he burst out, excitedly:
‘So there is no justification? No justification! So what sort of justification would be sufficient for two men to kill each other?’
‘Spitting in one’s face or some such thing,’ said Medeiros authoritatively, still in his nightshirt, as he began rapidly to comb his hair.
Alves wanted to argue, but the other, turning round with the comb in his hand, put an end to his questioning.
‘Even if there had been justification, I would not take on a thing like that. I do not meddle in such matters.’
‘There you have it!’ exclaimed Carvalho, in triumph. ‘What did I tell you? No one wants such a responsibility. More especially myself, with a wife who is expecting. . . I say, what a mess. . .’
Alves was downcast. And yet, in his innermost heart, he began to feel relieved, as though some of the indecision which he had had since the previous evening had vanished and something definite had emerged. Now it had been settled that there would be no lots or chances, that there was not to be the death of a man; and in the confused state in which he had been until then, this made a fixed point, a basis, a decision on which he could rely. Nor was it he who had so decided, it was his closest friends, who had reasoned it out in cold blood. . . But, anyhow, leaving aside the death of one of them, something still had to be done.
‘So what do you two advise? What is to be done? I cannot stay like this, with my arms folded. . .’
Medeiros, standing in the middle of the room, in his shirt, showing his thin legs with his feet in his big slippers, solemnly exclaimed:
‘Do you wish to place your honour in my hands, in our hands?’
Obviously, he was willing; he was there for no other purpose.
‘Very well,’ said Medeiros, ‘then you have nothing more to worry about. Let yourself be guided: we shall arrange everything.’
And he withdrew into a little cubicle, where they heard him cleaning his teeth, rinsing his mouth, making a great noise in the wash basin.
Still Alves seemed unsatisfied; he went to the door of the cubicle, wanting to know. . .
‘There’s nothing you can know,’ shouted the other from within, noisily washing himself with sponge and water. ‘Nor can we know. . . We have first to go to Machado, see what he has to say, consult with his seconds, and so on. . . Go home and don’t go out until we come. And leave us the cab, do you hear, to make all these journeyings. . . On Sundays, one brushes one’s black morning coat, with black shoes, everything in black. . .’
Hearing this, Carvalho glanced at his own light tweed suit. But he did not agree with these sartorial niceties; with a clean shirt on his back, a man was fit to go anywhere.
Meanwhile, Alves was pacing the room, deep in thought. And at last he told Carvalho what was worrying him:
‘It is essential that you lay down firm conditions. And apart from using pistols at twenty paces, I. . .’
‘Leave all that to Medeiros,’ Carvalho broke in.
Medeiros, coming in at that moment, with the towel in his hand, his hair dry, went on:
‘Look here, you know about business affairs. But I understand about affairs of honour. From now on, you have only to wait until we come and tell you—it is at such a time, in such a place, with such and such weapons. And then, on the following day, off you go! You don’t even have to worry yourself about a doctor. I shall ask Gomes, who knows a lot about wounds. . . He is not a man to panic if one of you is badly wounded.’
Alves felt a shudder go down his spine and his chest tighten. But from one side, Carvalho was saying to him:
‘So go home, if you have anything to do, papers to put in order, or anything else. . .’
He did not mention a will but the allusion was so clear that it annoyed the worthy Alves.
Certainly, he had at first wanted the duel to be serious, even to the death, but after all, those two—his best friends, his cronies, one of them already talking about wounds and the other pushing him out of the door so that he might go and make his will—it seemed to him tactless and needlessly cruel. Without a word, he went downstairs and left. And flinging himself into the back of the coupé, his spirits dampened and his body wet, he had this profound reflection:
‘And it is for this that people marry, for this that one wishes to have a family! . . .’
7 That evening at six o’clock, Alves was in his slippers, having just finished sealing up a bundle of papers in his study, when the bell rang and his two friend
s appeared.
Despite his indifference to convention, Carvalho had gone and changed his suit, was wearing a black frock-coat, and they both looked very solemn. Medeiros, now very correct with his waxed moustache, sat down on the sofa and began slowly to take off his black gloves as he peered at Alves. Then he said:
‘So you are bursting with curiosity? Well, look here, nothing has yet been settled.’
Very pale and with staring eyes, Alves seemed to breathe more easily. But he suddenly flared up: why had nothing been settled? So had the scoundrel refused him reparation?
‘No!’ Carvalho retorted. ‘To everyone his due; in this matter, Machado is behaving well.’
‘So?’
‘It was the seconds who had reservations,’ said Medeiros. ‘This is what happened.’
It was a long story that Medeiros told, long-windedly, relishing the details. They had spoken to Machado, who had promised that two of his friends would be at his, Medeiros’s, house at four o’clock. And punctually, Nunes Vidal, whom Alves knew well, had turned up there—a young man of experience in affairs of honour—accompanied by Cunha, Albert Cunha, who had little to say, was there only to make up the number. They came in, there were the usual greetings, etcetera. . . all very serious but everything very friendly. Then they came to the question. Nunes Vidal began by affirming that Senhor Machado was in principle ready to accept all the conditions proposed by Senhor Alves—all of them, whatever they might be, in their entirety. But he, Nunes Vidal, and his friend Cunha understood it to be the duty of the seconds in a dispute first of all to seek peace and reconciliation. If, however, their principal, Senhor Machado, through an excess of self-esteem and pride, was in principle disposed to allow himself to be killed, his seconds, who had taken his interests into their keeping, were there, and had come there not merely to seek, as far as possible, to avoid disaster happening to their friend in the field, but also to avoid any scandal which might be prejudicial to his name.
‘All this was very well stated,’ Medeiros added, ‘all very well explained, in well-chosen words. . . Frankly, I liked Vidal.’
‘Ah! a young man of great talent,’ murmured Carvalho.
Finally, Vidal had wound up by saying that, all things considered, he did not think there was any justification for a serious duel with pistols.
Again that absence of justification! Alves demurred:
‘A thousand devils! Then what more damage would this ass have wanted Machado to do to me?’
With a gesture, Medeiros restrained himself:
‘Don’t excite yourself, man, don’t get worked up. . . Let it suffice that I have told you everything. Vidal is most experienced, but, mind you, I did not take it in silence. Ask Carvalho. . .’
‘He behaved like a hero,’ said Carvalho.
‘But what the devil did Vidal say after that?’ Alves insisted.
Vidal had said that there was no excuse for bloodshed, because what had happened between Machado and the lady had been a mere flirtation. . .
Alves made a furious gesture. And Medeiros, also getting to his feet, said:
‘Don’t get excited, man! Listen! Then I told him the whole story. I told him how you had caught them, and the letters, “My darling, what an afternoon yesterday”, and the rest. I put before him all the facts in order to convince him that adultery had been complete. . . Isn’t that the truth, Carvalho?’
‘Absolutely!’
‘I told him plainly: my principal, our friend Alves, is in every sense of the word a husband who. . . in short, he wants amends. Isn’t that the truth, Carvalho?’
Carvalho made a gesture of agreement.
‘But Vidal proved the contrary to me; he, too, read the letters, Machado told him everything; and after conferring, thinking it over, they arrived at the conclusion that it had not gone beyond a flirtation.’
In the room, silence reigned. Alves paced about hurriedly, his hands in his pockets. Carvalho looked absently at a picture representing Leda and the Swan. Suddenly, Alves stopped, and speaking slowly in a muffled voice, said:
‘There, on that sofa, I saw them with their arms around each other. What does Vidal say to that?’
‘That is the crucial point,’ exclaimed Medeiros. ‘It is a fact that cannot be denied, because you saw it with your very eyes. But Machados gave an explanation to Nunes and Nunes explained it to us. It was a joke, it was in fun, he did it to tickle her!’
‘And the letter: “What an afternoon yesterday”?’, Alves exclaimed.
‘Nunes said that it refers, of course, to a walk you took to Belem. . . You did go to Belem?’
Alves thought for a moment. Yes, they had been to Belem. . . It was quite true that all three of them had gone together to Belem.
‘Then there you are. It was to recall the pleasure of having gone, all three of you, for an outing, for a stroll. . .’
‘So that was all there was in it?’ said Alves. ‘It was nothing; I have to put up with the insult!’
Medeiros, indignant, stood up. Well now, so what did he take him for? Had Alves or had he not placed his honour in his hands and in Carvalho’s? He had. Then surely he could not suppose that they, his friends, would have left him wretchedly in the mire. . .
‘But. . .’ persisted Alves.
‘But what? It is clear that you must fight. That is what was decided. There is no justification for pistols, for it was a mere flirtation. But since Senhor Machado has no right to flirt with your wife, there is every reason why it should be with swords, a simpler kind of duel. . . We are to meet them soon, at my house at eight o’clock, and settle everything.’
‘And we have little time to lose,’ said Carvalho, taking out his watch, ‘for it is half past six and we still have to dine. I am hungry. . .’
So Alves invited them to dine with him. Moreover, he had assumed that they would turn up at dinner time and had given orders for a larger joint to be prepared.
‘There won’t be more than a bite of meat,’ he said, ‘but after all, during a campaign, anything suffices. . . And we are at war!’
It was the first time he had smiled since the previous day. But the company of his friends at dinner made him happier, postponing the loneliness that he so dreaded.
And dinner was almost jolly. It had been agreed that they would not discuss the duel, nor the affair; but soon after the meat course, whenever Margarida was not there, they returned to the ruling topic, in brief phrases, vague allusions. In the end, Alves told the maid that she was not to come in again unless she heard the bell; and then the conversation did not flag. Alves described how he had got to know Ludovina, his courtship and his wedding day. Then he spoke about Machado, yet without rancour, even going so far as to say that he was a decent young fellow.
He himself used to go and fetch him from school when he was a youngster, and would sometimes take him to the theatre. And such memories touched him. He ended with a sob, begging them to talk no more on such matters. He rang the bell and Margarida brought in the joint. There was a brief silence. Medeiros praised the Colares wine. And Carvalho, referring to the Colares that he used to drink at Cape Verde, remembered a duelling case in which he had been a second. And as soon as the maid left the room, he recounted it; it was a case like that of Alves, also on account of a woman, but this one was black! To Medeiros, that seemed incredible, but Carvalho, a sparkle in his eye, praised black women:
‘People who are accustomed to them want no one else. . . A black woman is a fine woman!’
‘Deuce take it, let us not discuss women any further,’ said Alves.
And in this plea, accompanied by a wan smile, there was a sort of resignation to his misfortune, an emergent idea of still enjoying life in the company of friends, the cares of business, without the vexations or complications which a passion for a skirt inevitably brings. . . Then they talked about Nunes Vidal.
In a situation like this, Medeiros was glad to have encountered Nunes, an upright young fellow, experienced and honourable. At first, h
e had feared that Machado intended to nominate as second that idiot Sigismondo that he went about with. And that brought Machado back into the conversation. Then, somewhat excited by the Colares, Medeiros confessed that he had ‘fixed one’ on Machado; he had been the lover of the French girl that Machado had been involved with. And he began to talk about himself, about his conquests. He returned to the story of the previous day when he had narrowly missed being caught in the kitchen. . . Carvalho also had had such an experience in Tomar. On that occasion, he had been obliged to jump out of a window and had fallen into a hotbed. . . Medeiros knew of a case much worse than that: a friend of his, Pinheiro, not the thin one but the other pock-marked one, had hidden in a pigsty for six hours. He had nearly died! And now, when he saw a pig, he turned as white as chalk.
Then, between Carvalho and Medeiros there was a whole string of anecdotes about infidelities. Only Alves, a faithful married man, had none of these stories. His life had been entirely domestic, without adventures; and he listened, sipping his coffee, enjoying this merry conclusion to the meal, smiling now and then.
And he ended up, feeling a warm breath of youthfulness and said:
‘It is better that folk should amuse themselves at their own cost than at ours!’
Eight o’clock was approaching, and Carvalho began to put on his black gloves. Then Alves mentioned his accompanying them. He would stay in Medeiros’s room, whilst they held their meeting in the lounge; that way, they would be spared the trouble of coming back to São Bento Street to report the outcome to him.
And although Medeiros considered that this would be contrary to etiquette, they finally agreed ‘because it was not a very serious case!’
They ordered a carriage, and with all three of them crammed into the back of it, set off for the Estrela.
At Medeiros’s house, the manservant had already lighted the candles in the chandelier and they had scarcely gone upstairs when the doorbell rang. It was the seconds, very punctual. And while Alves went and hid himself in the bedroom, the others went into the lounge, where the sound of voices soon began to rise.
The Yellow Sofa Page 6