And if he did continue living in the same house as her, the constant presence of those dark eyes, of the warm smile that dimpled her chin, the curve of her breasts . . . then his secretly growing passion, constantly provoked, driven deep inside him, would send him mad, and he might ‘do something foolish’.
He decided then to speak to Canon Dias: his naturally weak character always required the sustenance of someone else’s reasoning and experience, and the ecclesiastical discipline was so ingrained in him that he usually consulted the Canon, judging him more intelligent simply because he was his superior in the hierarchy, for Amaro still had the dependent nature of a seminarian. Besides, if he wanted to live somewhere alone, he would need Canon Dias’ help to find a house and a maid, for the Canon knew Leiria as well as if he had built it himself.
He found the Canon in his dining room. The wick in the oil lamp glowed a dull red. In the brazier, the embers too glowed red amongst the ashes. The Canon sat dozing in an armchair, lulled by the heat of the fire, his cape over his shoulders, his feet wrapped in a blanket, his breviary on his knees. His dog Trigueira was dozing too, stretched out on one of the folds of the blanket.
When the Canon heard Amaro approaching, he very slowly opened his eyes and grunted:
‘Hm, must have dropped off!’
‘It’s still early,’ said Father Amaro. ‘They haven’t even sounded the retreat. Why so tired?’
‘Ah, it’s you,’ said the Canon, giving an enormous yawn. ‘I got back late from the priest’s house, had a cup of tea, and tiredness got the better of me . . . So, has anything happened?’
‘No, I was just passing.’
‘Well, the priest at Cortegaça certainly did us proud. That stew was superb! I think I may have overindulged,’ said the Canon, drumming his fingers on the cover of his breviary.
Amaro, sitting near him, was slowly stirring the embers.
‘You know, Father,’ he said suddenly. He was about to add: ‘Something odd has happened,’ but he stopped himself and muttered: ‘I’m in a funny mood today; I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts lately . . .’
‘Yes, your colour’s not good,’ said the Canon, looking at him. ‘You need a good purgative.’
Amaro said nothing for a moment, staring at the fire.
‘I’ve been considering changing my lodgings.’
The Canon looked up, opening wide his sleepy eyes.
‘But why?’
Father Amaro moved his chair closer and said in a low voice:
‘You see . . . I’ve been thinking, it is a bit odd being in a house with two women, with a young girl . . .’
‘Oh, that’s just gossip! As I see it, you’re the lodger, and that’s that. Don’t worry, man. It’s just like staying at an inn.’
‘No, Father, you don’t quite understand . . .’
And he sighed; he wished the Canon would question him and make it easier for him to confide his problem.
‘Is this something you’ve just thought of today, Amaro?’
‘Yes, I have been thinking about it today. I have my reasons.’ And he was about to say: ‘I did something foolish,’ but he lost his nerve.
The Canon looked at him for a moment:
‘Be honest with me, man!’
‘I am being honest.’
‘Is it that it’s too expensive?’
‘Of course not!’ said Amaro, shaking his head impatiently.
‘So it must be something else then . . .’
‘Well, what do you expect?’ And in a jovial tone which he thought would please the Canon. ‘After all, we priests like the good things of life too.’
‘I see, I see,’ said the Canon smiling, ‘I understand. What with me being a friend of the family and all, you’re trying to tell me in the nicest way possible that you can’t stand living there!’
‘No, no, that’s not it at all!’ said Amaro, getting to his feet, irritated by the Canon’s obtuseness.
‘Well,’ said the Canon, opening his arms, ‘if you want to move, you must have your reasons. It seems to me that it would be better . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ Amaro said, striding about the room, ‘but I’ve decided. Can you see if you can find me a cheap house with a bit of furniture . . . You know more about that kind of thing than I do . . .’
The Canon said nothing, sunk in his armchair, slowly scratching his chin.
‘Hm, a cheap house,’ he muttered at last. ‘I’ll have a think . . . possibly . . .’
‘You understand, don’t you?’ said Amaro urgently, approaching the Canon. ‘São Joaneira’s house . . .’
But at that point, the door creaked open, and Dona Josefa Dias came in. Having discussed the lunch, Dona Maria da Assunção’s cold, the liver disease that was eating away at dear Canon Sanches, Amaro left, almost glad now that he had not unburdened himself to the Canon.
The Canon remained by the fire, pondering. Amaro’s decision to leave São Joaneira’s house was actually most welcome; when he had brought him as a guest to Rua da Misericórdia, he had agreed with São Joaneira to reduce the allowance he had been giving her for years now on the 30th of every month. But he had regretted it immediately; when São Joaneira had no lodgers, she would sleep alone on the first floor; the Canon could then enjoy the affections of his lady freely, and Amélia, in her bedroom upstairs, was completely unaware of this cosy arrangement. When Father Amaro arrived, São Joaneira had given up her room and now slept in an iron bedstead next to her daughter; and the Canon realised then, as he himself mournfully admitted, that ‘this had ruined everything’. In order to savour fully the joys of the siesta with his São Joaneira, they had to ensure that Amélia was having lunch somewhere else, that Ruça had gone to the well, and to make various other troublesome arrangements; and he, a Cathedral canon, in selfish old age, when he most needed to take good care of his health, found himself forced to wait and watch, having to take his regular, necessary pleasures when he could, as if he were a schoolboy in love with his teacher. Now if Amaro left, São Joaneira would go back to her bedroom on the first floor, and there would be a return to the old comforts, to those tranquil siestas. He would, it is true, have to increase her allowance again . . . But, yes, that’s what he would do!
‘Why not! The important thing is that a man should feel comfortable,’ he said to himself.
‘What are you mumbling to yourself about?’ asked his sister, Dona Josefa, waking from the slumber into which she had fallen in her chair next to the fire.
‘I was just racking my brains as to how best to mortify my flesh during Lent . . .’ said the Canon with a crude laugh.
Ruça always called Father Amaro for tea at the same time, and that day he went slowly up the stairs with quavering heart, fearing that he would find an angry São Joaneira, already informed of the insult to her daughter. Instead he found only Amélia – who, when she heard his footsteps on the stair had snatched up her sewing and, with head bowed low, was stitching furiously away, her face as red as the handkerchief she was busily hemming for the Canon.
‘Good evening, Miss Amélia.’
‘Good evening, Father.’
Amélia usually greeted him with an amiable ‘Hello!’ or ‘So there you are!’; her formality terrified him, and he immediately blurted out:
‘Miss Amélia, please forgive me . . . It was wrong of me . . . I didn’t know what I was doing, but please, believe me . . . I’ve decided to leave. I’ve even asked Canon Dias to find somewhere else for me live . . .’
He did not look up as he spoke and so did not see Amélia raise her eyes to him, surprised and utterly disconsolate.
Just then, São Joaneira came in and, standing in the doorway, opened her arms wide and said:
‘There he is! Now, I’ve already heard from Father Natário what a wonderful lunch it was, so tell us all about it!’
Amaro had to describe the different courses, Libaninho’s jokes, the theological discussion, and then they talked about the farm; and Amaro went back
downstairs without having dared tell São Joaneira that he was going to leave, which to her, poor woman, meant a loss of six tostões a day!
The following morning, before going to prayers, the Canon went to Rua da Misericórdia. Amaro was standing at his window, shaving.
‘Hello, Master! Any news?’
‘I think I’ve found a new home for you. It happened by chance this morning. There’s a little house near where I live, which is a real find. Major Nunes has been living there, but he’s moving to number 5.’
The suddenness of this displeased Amaro; he continued glumly shaving and asked:
‘Is it furnished?’
‘Oh, yes, it’s got furniture, china, bed linen, everything.’
‘So . . .’
‘So you just have to move in and start your new life. And between ourselves, Amaro, I believe you’re right. I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s best if you live alone. So hurry up and get dressed, and we’ll go off and see the house.’
Amaro, dumbstruck, was still desolately shaving.
The house was in Rua das Sousas, a very old, one-storey building with worm-eaten timbers; the furniture, as the Canon admitted, ‘had seen better days’; a few faded lithographs hung gloomily from large black nails; and the disgusting Major Nunes had left behind him broken windows, gobs of spit on the floor, the walls covered with marks where he had struck his matches, and, on a window sill, there was even a pair of faded black socks.
Amaro took the house. And that same morning, the Canon arranged a maid for him, Maria Vicência, a very devout person, tall and thin as a pine tree, and previously cook to Dr Godinho. And (as Canon Dias remarked) she was sister to the famous Dionísia.
Dionísia had once been Leiria’s equivalent of La Dame aux Camélias, of Ninon de Lenclos or Manon; she had enjoyed the honour of being the mistress of two district governors and of the terrifying owner of the Sertejeira estate; and the frenzied passions she had aroused had been a cause of tears and fainting fits in nearly every wife and mother in Leiria. Now she took in other people’s ironing and starching, acted as an intermediary with pawnbrokers and knew pretty much all there was to know about childbirth; she facilitated ‘the odd little adultery’, to use the words of old Dom Luís da Barrosa, known as ‘Wicked Dom Luís’, she procured young female farmhands for gentlemen civil servants, and knew everything about the love life of everyone in the district. Dionísia was always to be seen out and about, wearing a check shawl fastened over her immense bosom, which trembled beneath the grubby blouse she ordinarily wore, and she trotted discreetly along, with, as before, a smile for everybody except that now her two front teeth were missing.
The Canon told São Joaneira of Amaro’s decision that very afternoon. It was a great shock to the excellent lady. She complained bitterly of Amaro’s ingratitude.
The Canon coughed significantly and said:
‘Well, actually, I was the one who arranged it. And I’ll tell you why; it’s because this business of you sleeping upstairs is ruining my health.’
He gave other reasons of prudence and hygiene and added, tenderly stroking her neck:
‘And don’t you worry about losing any income! I’ll make my usual contribution, and since the harvest was good this year, I’ll chip in a bit more to pay for any of Amélia’s little fancies. Now give me a big kiss, Augustinha, you naughty thing. You know, I think I’ll dine here tonight.’
Amaro, meanwhile, was downstairs packing his clothes. But he kept stopping and sighing sadly, looking round the room at the soft bed, the clean white cloth on the table, the big upholstered chair where he would sit reading his breviary while he listened to Amélia singing to herself upstairs.
‘Never more!’ he thought. ‘Never more!’
Farewell to those sweet mornings spent at her side, watching her sew. Farewell to those after-supper gatherings by the light of the oil lamp! Farewell to the cups of tea round the stove, when the wind howled outside and the rain dripped from the cold eaves. All that was over.
São Joaneira and the Canon appeared at the door of his room. The Canon looked radiant, but São Joaneira said in wounded tones:
‘I know all about it, you ungrateful boy!’
‘Yes, it’s true, Senhora,’ said Amaro with a sad shrug. ‘But there are good reasons . . . I’m so sorry . . .’
‘Look, Father,’ said São Joaneira, ‘please don’t be offended by what I’m about to say, but, you see, I’d come to love you like a son . . .’ And she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed the Canon. ‘Surely he can still visit, come and have a chat in the evenings, drink his coffee here. The man isn’t going to Brazil!’
‘I know, I know,’ said the poor woman tearfully, ‘but it’s not the same thing as having him here with us.’
But she knew that people were better off in their own homes . . . She recommended a good washerwoman and told him that he only had to ask if he needed china or sheets . . .
‘You just have to ask, Father!’
‘Thank you, Senhora, thank you.’
And as he finished packing his clothes, Amaro bitterly regretted the decision he had taken. Amélia had clearly said nothing. Why then leave that cheap, comfortable, friendly house? He hated the Canon for his hasty zeal.
It was a sad supper. Amélia, doubtless to explain her pallor, complained of a headache. Over coffee, the Canon demanded his ‘ration of music’, and Amélia, either out of habit or intentionally, sang their favourite song:
Ah, farewell, farewell!
Gone now are the days
When I lived happy by your side!
The fateful moment now draws nigh
When we must go our separate ways!
The tearful melody transfused with the sadness of separation so moved Amaro that, afterwards, he had to get up, go over to the window and rest his face against the glass to conceal the tears running unstoppably down his cheeks. Amélia’s fingers fumbled so over the keys that even São Joaneira said:
‘Amélia, please, play something else.’
But the Canon got wearily to his feet and said:
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time we were going. Come along, Amaro. I’ll walk with you to Rua das Sousas . . .’
Amaro asked to say goodbye to São Joaneira’s idiot sister, but she was very weak after a bad attack of coughing and was asleep.
‘Leave her be then,’ said Amaro. And squeezing São Joaneira’s hand, he said: ‘Thank you for everything, Senhora, and please believe . . .’
He stopped, a lump in his throat.
São Joaneira was dabbing at her eyes with one corner of her white apron.
‘Come on, now,’ said the Canon, laughing, ‘as I said before, the man isn’t setting sail for the Indies!’
‘It’s just that one gets so fond of people . . .’ whimpered São Joaneira.
Amaro tried to make a joke. Amélia, deathly pale, was biting her lip.
Then Amaro went downstairs; and the same João Ruço who, very drunk and singing the Benedictus, had carried his trunk to Rua da Misericórdia when he first arrived in Leiria, now took him off to Rua das Sousas, equally drunk, but this time singing ‘The King has come . . .’
That night, when Amaro found himself alone in that gloomy house, he was filled with such intense melancholy, such black despair that, in his weakness, he felt like crawling into a corner to die.
He stood in the middle of the room and looked around him at the narrow iron bedstead with its hard mattress and red bedspread, at the tarnished mirror gleaming on the table; there was no washstand, but on the window ledge stood a small basin and jug, with a tiny bit of soap; everything in the room smelled musty, and outside, in the black street, the sad rain fell ceaselessly. What a life! And that was how it would always be!
With clenched fists, he raged against Amélia: he blamed her for the comforts he had lost, for the lack of furniture, for the expense to which he would be put, for that icy solitude! Any woman w
ith a heart would have come to his room and said: ‘Why are you leaving, Father Amaro? I’m not angry with you.’ She, after all, was the one who had provoked his desire with her flirtatious ways and her tender glances. But no, she had allowed him to pack his bags and go down the stairs, without so much as a friendly word, instead wildly pounding out that waltz entitled ‘The Kiss!’
He swore then never to go back to São Joaneira’s house. He strode up and down the room thinking of ways in which he could humiliate Amélia. What, for example? He could spurn her like a dog! He could become an influential figure amongst Leiria’s devout society, a close colleague of the precentor; he could lure the Canon and the Gansoso sisters away from Rua da Misericórdia; he could conspire with the ladies in the best circles to snub her at the high altar during Sunday Mass; he could let it be known that her mother was a prostitute . . . He would discredit her, spatter her with mud! And as he left the Cathedral after Mass, he would relish the sight of her slinking by in her black cape, scorned by everyone, while he stood chatting to the wife of the district governor and being gallant to the Baronesa de Via-Clara! Then, at Lent, he would preach a brilliant sermon, and in the main square and in the shops, she would hear people say: He’s a great man that Father Amaro!’ He would become an ambitious intriguer and, protected by the Condesa de Ribamar, he would climb the ecclesiastical ranks: what would she think when one day he became Bishop of Leiria and, looking pale and interesting in his golden mitre, he walked down the Cathedral nave past a kneeling, penitent congregation, followed by the censer-bearers and accompanied by the strident music of the organ? What would have become of her by then? She would be a scrawny, wizened figure wrapped in a cheap shawl. And what of João Eduardo, her chosen one, her husband? He would sit hunched over his papers, a poorly paid clerk with nicotine-stained fingers and wearing a threadbare jacket, a barely perceptible figure always quick to flatter, but inwardly envious. And he, as Bishop, on the vast hierarchical stairway that reaches up into Heaven, would be far above mere men by then, in the zone of light cast by the face of the Lord our God! He would be a member of the Upper Chamber and the priests in his diocese would tremble when he frowned.
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 13