Valdo. Senhor Demétrio and Dona Ana were already seated at the table, and perhaps because they had been kept waiting, the ensuing conversation was not exactly animated. When Dona Nina praised the flowers in the garden, Senhor Demétrio commented vaguely that Alberto was, indeed, a good gardener, but rather too young for the job. He lacked the necessary experience for dealing with certain more difficult plants. Dona Nina mounted a rather lively defense, saying that precisely because he was so young, he was more likely to be open to adopting new methods. Talk turned to the Pavilion, and for some reason, Senhor Valdo suddenly began to list some of the Chácara’s shortcomings.
“The facilities here are far from perfect, Demétrio, and have long been in need of renovation.”
I saw Senhor Demétrio first stare at him in some amazement, then slowly put down his knife and fork.
“You astonish me, Valdo. Since when have you taken any interest in ‘the facilities’?”
“I was looking around with Nina today and . . .” Senhor Valdo began tentatively.
“Today!” and Senhor Demétrio’s voice was ripe with irony. “Only today, and yet the house has been falling to pieces for a very long time! I congratulate you, Nina, on your miraculous powers. Really, only someone totally irresponsible . . .”
Quickly and as if wanting to prevent his brother from going any further down that route, Senhor Valdo broke in with:
“We need to do some work on the house, Demétrio. For example, as I mentioned, the Pavilion . . .”
Senhor Demétrio glanced first at Dona Ana, as if to make sure that she, too, was aware of the absurdity of what they were hearing, then at Senhor Valdo, who was trying to look as unruffled as possible, and lastly at Dona Nina, who was the only one following the conversation with visible interest—then he gave a soft, delicious gurgle of laughter:
“Work! On the Pavilion in the garden . . . That’s ridiculous, Valdo!”
It was Senhor Valdo’s turn to put down his knife and fork.
“I don’t see why.”
“Don’t you?” and Senhor Demétrio’s laugh, which continued to light up his face, suddenly stopped. “You really don’t see why? You know perfectly well what we are: a bankrupt family living in the south of Minas Gerais, a family that no longer has any cattle to graze, that lives from renting out the pastures it owns, although only when they’re not parched dry, a family that produces nothing, absolutely nothing, to replace sources of income that long ago dried up. Our one hope is that we simply disappear very quietly here under this roof, unless, of course, some generous soul”—and he shot a quick glance at the mistress—“comes to our rescue.”
“You’re joking, Demétrio,” murmured Senhor Valdo, turning pale.
“No, I’m not,” retorted his brother. “I assume that in order to carry out such work, repairs on the Pavilion in the garden and who knows what else, you’re counting on a loan from your dear wife.”
Dona Nina remained utterly impassive—she merely raised her eyebrows and said coolly:
“I married a wealthy man.”
“Wealthy? Is that what he told you?” cried Senhor Demétrio.
“Yes.”
He had been leaning forward across the table, but he fell back now, so violently that I feared he might take the chair with him.
“He doesn’t have a penny to his name! We owe money to the servants, to the pharmacist, to the local bank . . . No, really, this is too much . . .”
Only then did the mistress appear to lose her composure. Throwing down her napkin on the table, her lips trembling, she said:
“Valdo, this is too humiliating!”
I thought for a moment that she was going to get up and leave the room, but after a few seconds, with the atmosphere still just as tense, I heard Senhor Valdo say:
“Don’t worry, Nina, my brother always exaggerates.”
I had my back to them, pretending to be preparing the plates for dessert—this was a special day and on such occasions, among my other tasks, I would serve at the table. And so while I couldn’t see the look on Senhor Demétrio’s face, I heard him laugh again, his laughter muffled this time by the napkin pressed to his lips.
“So I exaggerate, do I?” he said. “It should be easy enough then to explain why you didn’t send Nina the money she was expecting, and why you didn’t order the room she’ll be occupying to be painted, a room that is, by the way, merely a cubbyhole at the far end of the hallway.” He stopped, almost hesitated. Then he added more quietly, but very firmly: “And where will you find the money to pay for all the dresses and hats she’s brought with her?”
“Oh, Valdo!” I heard Dona Nina exclaim.
I turned and began serving dessert, not that anyone noticed me. Something was clearly about to explode—a struggle, a misunderstanding that could last a lifetime—and only Dona Ana was indifferently stirring the cream sauce I had set before her.
“Oh, Valdo,” Dona Nina said again, and suddenly hid her face in her napkin.
“Don’t you meddle in my affairs,” roared Senhor Valdo, almost out of control. “I’m perfectly capable of paying my own bills, and it won’t be with my wife’s money.”
Then, more softly, and emphasizing every syllable, as if to savor the pleasure of what he was about to reveal, Senhor Demétrio murmured:
“That’s just as well, Valdo, because then I won’t have to dip into my wife’s savings, as I have on other occasions.”
I heard a stifled cry, and Dona Nina sprang to her feet, trembling. A few tears glittered on her eyelashes—the easily provoked tears I would often see later on—and in a gesture of impotent rage, she was still clutching her crumpled napkin. I realized then that we had reached the critical moment and that, whatever followed, nothing would be as potent or as far-reaching as what was happening at that very minute, because it was the kernel from which everything else would subsequently emerge. With a bold movement, which appeared to be a declaration that she would never submit to the economic strictures of the Meneses family, she pushed back her chair and was about to leave the room when Senhor Demétrio stopped her:
“I’m sorry, Nina, but all those hats and dresses of yours will be of no use to you in the country. Because this is the countryside, you know. Here,” and he pointed casually at his wife, “women dress like Ana.”
The mistress had no option but to look at the person indicated, and the enmity that sprang up between them had its beginnings there and then, I think, in the haughty, horribly scornful look that Nina bestowed on Ana. As she stood there, a few steps away from the table, a venomous smile appeared on her lips. Dona Ana, still seated, endured that examination with head bowed: she was wearing a faded black dress, entirely unadorned and entirely out of fashion. This rapid examination must have been enough to satisfy Dona Nina, because, without responding, without even turning to look at Senhor Demétrio, she stalked out of the room, her chin defiantly lifted. Senhor Valdo shot a glance at his brother—a glance of pure hatred—and followed his wife. Alone at the table, Senhor Demétrio and Dona Ana drank their coffee and, in that shared silence,
