that it would be just the same if not worse with his wife: she hadn’t the slightest notion of how to run a house, especially one as large and complicated as this. And then he was so jolly, so full of joshing and jokes, that old Anastácia, who never normally leaves the kitchen, said, her eyes full of tears: “It’s a real treat to see the master so cheerful . . .” When the telegram arrived, the atmosphere changed, just like that; Senhor Valdo didn’t say another word, but simply folded up the telegram, put it in his pocket, and went to his room. I felt so sorry for him, because Senhor Demétrio had been making fun of him, saying that he had already been to fetch his bride once and come back alone, and that now he might have to resort to violence to drag that “beauty” away from Rio de Janeiro. But then that’s what this family is like, always going into a sulk and hiding away in their rooms when things don’t go to plan. A great silence descended on the house and, finding myself alone again, I was just getting started on another task when I heard a very insistent “psst” and a voice calling me: “Betty! Betty!” At first, I thought it was Senhor Valdo with some further piece of advice, but soon realized that it was only Senhor Timóteo. I still did not move, for I had been given strict instructions to ignore him, but then from the hallway came another cry of “Betty,” this time sounding so urgent and anxious that I could not simply turn my back on him. Ever since the rift between Senhor Timóteo and the rest of the family, one famous evening when he smashed half the family’s glass and china, I had only rarely entered his room, firstly, because I had been made to promise not to help him in any way as long as he persisted in his eccentric ways, secondly, because I found his sad obsession so upsetting. Personally, I think people should be allowed to do what they like, as long as they don’t offend others. Senhor Timóteo’s behavior seemed to me more of an oddity than a perversion—or whatever other term the others chose to use.
That occasion was further proof of the bizarre habits that had essentially become the norm in his world: when I turned, I saw that Senhor Timóteo, fat and sweating, was wearing a fringed and sequined dress that had belonged to his mother. The bodice was far too tight around the waist and here and there a little imprisoned flesh was bursting out of the seams, tearing the fabric and making any pleasure he might take in dressing up seem like a real torment. He moved very slowly, setting the fringes swaying and, all the time, fanning himself vigorously with a sandalwood fan, which wrapped him in a cloud of sickly perfume. I couldn’t quite say what he had on his head, it looked like a turban or a brimless hat, from beneath which emerged lush blond curls. He was, as usual, wearing make-up—taken, like his clothes, from his mother’s room after she died, for she, in her day, had also been famous for her extravagant way of dressing—and make-up only highlighted his enormous nose, so characteristic of the Meneses family. His nose, however, was his only markedly masculine feature, because although he wasn’t yet as plump as he later became, the excess fat smoothed and softened his features, reducing any lumps or bumps and creating new dimples and indentations in his rose-pink flesh, so that he rather resembled a vast, splendid china doll, shaped by the hands of a rather incompetent potter.
“Sit down, Betty, sit down,” he said, pointing at a chair with his fan. “Do sit down—if, that is, you still care about me.”
“Why wouldn’t I care about you, Senhor Timóteo? As far as I know, you have never done me any harm.”
He shrugged and his whole heavy body shuddered:
“No, I haven’t, but oh, I don’t know . . .” he said with a touch of nostalgia.
And coming over to where I was sitting, this time pointing his fan at me, he said:
“When I decided to be independent . . . Betty, do you believe that one should listen to the voices in one’s blood?”
“What do you mean, Senhor Timóteo?” and there was not a hint of pretense or false surprise in my voice.
His eyes grew suddenly very serious.
“I am ruled by the spirit of Maria Sinhá. Have you never heard anyone speak of Maria Sinhá, Betty?”
“Never, Senhor Timóteo. Don’t forget, I’ve only been employed here for a few years. Besides, talking isn’t exactly one of the family’s strong points.”
“Yes, Betty, you’re right, you’re always right. That’s the good thing about you simple folk.”
“Who was Maria Sinhá?”
“Oh,” he began, and his voice was filled with genuine emotion, “she was the purest, most noble, most misunderstood of our forebears. She was my mother’s aunt and the marvel of her age.”
He fell silent for a moment, as if trying to damp down the enthusiasm provoked by the thought of Maria Sinhá—and then, in a calmer voice, he went on:
“Maria Sinhá used to dress like a man and go for long rides on horseback—why, she could ride from Fundão to Queimados faster than any of the best riders on the estate. They say she used a gold-handled whip to beat any slaves she encountered on the way. No one in the family ever really understood her, and she died alone in a dark room in the old Fazenda Santa Eulália up in the Serra do Baú.”
“Well, I’ve never heard anyone speak of her,” I said, convinced that this was all pure invention.
“Well,” he said with a laugh, “who but I would dare to speak of her? For many years, when I was a child, there was a portrait of her in the drawing room, immediately above the large sideboard, with a black crepe ribbon tied around the frame. The times I would stop and imagine her swift horse galloping through the streets of Vila Velha and envy her outrageous behavior, her freedom and her whip . . . When I began to reveal what the others so delicately term my ‘tendencies,’ Demétrio ordered that the painting be hidden away in the basement. I, however, feel that Maria Sinhá would have been the pride of the family, a famous warrior, an Anita Garibaldi, had she not been born in this dusty backwater in Minas Gerais . . .”
His voice shook with anger, as if he were not quite in control of it—and since the whole story seemed very strange to me, I remained silent, thinking of the family’s long history of failures. He noticed my silence and went back to fanning himself, saying in a different tone:
“What do they say about me, Betty, what do they accuse me of?”
And with a touch of childish pride, he added:
“I’m in the right, though, as you’ll see!”
I looked at him, as if expecting some explanation. He sat down heavily beside me:
“Yes, one day you’ll see, Betty. The truth will out.”
And he laughed again, for longer this time and with a certain relish, his head back.
“After all, what does it matter how I dress? How can that possibly change the essence of things?”
I couldn’t help but admire him in a way: there he was, complete with plump, padded bosom and glittering sequins. The sequins were like a symbol of him: rather splendid and completely useless. What could have brought him to his present state, what contradictory, disparate elements had shaped his personality, only for it to explode, unexpectedly and forcefully, under the pressure of the inherited prejudices of the entire Meneses tribe? Because that strange sexless being was a true Meneses—and who knows, one day, as he was predicting, I might well see the old family spirit resurface, in its profoundest, most rustic form, the same eternal wind that had driven the fate of Maria Sinhá.
Senhor Timóteo got up and, as he did, his dress unfurled about him in majestic folds.
“There
