the same path as other people. It seemed criminal, almost foolish to obey my own law. The law was a shared domain from which none of us could escape. I wore throttlingly tight ties, mastered the art of banal conversations, imagined I was the same as everyone else. Until, one day, I felt I couldn’t possibly go on like that: why follow ordinary laws when I was far from ordinary, why pretend I was like everyone else when I was totally different? Ah, Betty, don’t look at me, dressed as I am, as a mere allegorical figure: I want to present others with an image of the courage I lack. I wear what I like and go where I like, except, alas, I do so in a cage of my own making. That is the only freedom that is entirely ours: to be monsters to ourselves.”
He fell silent, overcome by emotion. Then, more quietly, as if talking to himself:
“That is what they have done with my gesture, Betty. They have turned it into a prisoner’s maniacal obsession, and these clothes, which should constitute my triumph, merely adorn the dream of a condemned man. But one day, do you hear, one day, I will break free from the fear holding me back, and I will show them and the world who I really am. That will only happen when the last of the Meneses lets fall his arm in cowardly surrender. Only then will I have the strength to cry: ‘Do you see? Everything that they despise in me is the blood of the Meneses.’”
He spoke these last words rather more loudly than usual, but he quickly recovered, fixed me with an intense gaze and, doubtless overcome by a sudden wave of embarrassment, hid his face behind the fan.
“But, my dear Betty, what mad things I’m telling you, eh? How could you possibly understand what I mean?”
“I don’t understand everything,” I said, “but some of those things seem very real.”
“Real!” and he went back to pacing the room, and as he fanned himself, the scent of sandalwood grew still stronger. “Betty, don’t tell me that the only real things are those that exist in my blood. Shall I tell you something? I believe I was born with my soul in a ball gown. When I used to wear those throttling neckties, when I wore the same clothes as other men, my mind was full of sumptuous dresses, jewels, and fans. When my mother died—she, who in her youth, was famous for her extravagant clothes—my first act was to take over her entire wardrobe. And not just her wardrobe, but her jewelry too. Locked away in that chest of drawers I have a box containing the most beautiful jewels in the world: amethysts, diamonds, and topaz. When I’m alone, I take them out of their hiding place and, on sleepless nights, I play with them on the bed, I roll them around in my hands, jewels that would be the salvation of the whole family, but which will never leave this room, not at least as long as I live. That’s why I said to you that the spirit of Maria Sinhá is in my blood: she was always dreaming of the different outfits she would wear. They say that on moonless nights, she would go out into the streets dressed as a man, smoking a cigarette and with a dark cape over her shoulders.”
I confess that I was finding this whole conversation deeply troubling, especially since I did not believe what he was telling me and could see that it was leading nowhere. I sighed and stood up.
“This is all a bit over my head, Senhor Timóteo. But if it makes you happy . . .”
He turned around almost violently, and his face grew dark:
“No, Betty, it has nothing to do with happiness. I wouldn’t bother to defy anyone if it was merely a matter of my personal happiness. This is about the truth—and the truth is what matters.”
“I believe so too, Senhor Timóteo.”
Then something like a long tremor of pleasure ran through his voice:
“Well then. Truth cannot be invented, it cannot be distorted or replaced—it is simply that, the truth. However grotesque, absurd or fatal, it is the truth. You may not understand what I mean, Betty, but that is what is there at the heart of all things.”
He again fell silent and stood next to me, breathing hard. Then, as if he had revived old, possibly painful memories, he went on in a voice full of an insinuating nostalgia:
“As a man—or, rather, as a shadow of a man—nothing aroused any passion in me. It was as if I didn’t exist. And what is this world without passion, Betty? We must concentrate, we must squeeze every drop of interest and passion that we can out of things. But if there’s nothing inside me, if I am merely a ghost of others . . .”
I wasn’t following his reasoning at all now and felt slightly bewildered by these vague ideas. I saw only the sequins that glittered as his chest rose and fell with emotion. And he must have noticed my distraction, because he placed one hand on my shoulder.
“Whereas now,” and his voice lit up, “my free spirit embraces everything. I love and suffer just like anyone else, I hate, I laugh, and, for better or worse I stand among the others as a truth, not as a mere fantasy. Now do you understand me, Betty?”
I nodded, fearful that he would get even more carried away. What was the point of all those justifications, where did they get us? If it was the truth he was after, and if he had, as one of God’s creatures, managed to find a place within the mechanism of the universe, why then boast about what he considered to be his victory? And how could I, a poor housekeeper, used only to running a household, how could I comprehend such paradoxes? As he stood before me, breathing hard, he must have followed the arc of my thoughts, for, like someone coming down to earth again after some transcendent vision, he shook his head and said:
“No, you don’t understand. No one understands. The truth is a solitary science.”
He shrugged and laughed:
“And how absurd it would be, Betty, if they did understand, not everything, but at least what I represent. The fact is, my reasons are secret reasons.”
His laughter, like a fragment of brief, inconsequential music, hung in the air—I felt that the last word had been spoken. Slowly, still fanning himself, he went over to the window, which was permanently covered by thick curtains. What would he see, what landscape would he unveil behind those eternally closed curtains? He merely held up one finger, as if repeating an automatic gesture made dozens and dozens of times, before, as if mortally tired, he lowered it again. Then he turned and started slightly, as if surprised to see me there:
“But we’re friends, aren’t we, Betty?”
“Of course, Senhor Timóteo, we’ll always be friends.”
His whole face lit up with a look of great pleasure—no ordinary pleasure either, but a great, dense exhalation of pleasure, a kind of belated, silent flash of lightning that dissipated the continual gloom of his isolation—and he came closer and leaned over me, saying:
“For those words I will be eternally grateful,” and he kissed my forehead, a soft, warm, prolonged kiss. And while his lips were touching my skin, I could hear the beating of his heart, like the murmur of an ocean kept under lock and key.
“Senhor Timóteo . . .” I began to say, unable to hide the tears filling my eyes.
Then he stood up, took two steps back and said almost gruffly:
“But that isn’t why I asked you here, Betty.”
If I had hurt him, that had certainly not been my intention. I wanted to say something that would show him I had understood, but the words stuck in my throat. I felt like taking him in my arms and murmuring tender words, the words one says to children. But with his back to me, he had become a silent, impenetrable block of ice.
“Senhor
