later, when I went out onto the verandah to shake the table cloth, I found the mistress there, lying in a hammock. She looked completely exhausted. She appeared to have been crying too, for her eyes were still red.
“Come here, Betty,” she said.
I went over to her, and she took my hands in hers.
“Dear God, what a dreadful start. Did you see how they treated me today?”
“Senhor Demétrio is always like that,” I said, trying to offer her a small crumb of comfort.
She let go of my hand and set the hammock swinging slightly.
“And yet Valdo really did tell me that he was a wealthy man and that here, in this house, I would want for nothing. Why did he do that, why did he deceive me like that?”
“Perhaps he didn’t want to lose you, Dona Nina. And Senhor Demétrio does tend to exaggerate . . .”
She again took one of my hands and said:
“I’m surrounded by enemies here, Betty, but I don’t want you to be one of them.”
“Of course not, Dona Nina,” I protested warmly, thinking how beautiful she looked, lying there in the hammock. (Note written in the margin: Such an odd impression. There was still a remnant of warm, golden evening light on the verandah. Her pale skin and her almost auburn hair emphasized her shining, liquid eyes, and yet everything about her spoke of a certain strength. I would never have said that she was, overall, a real beauty: no, she was beautiful in every detail, every line, almost exasperatingly perfect in every respect.) “I would never be your enemy,” I concluded after a brief pause. “But aren’t you yourself perhaps exaggerating too?”
She gave me a sharp, enquiring look.
“No, I’m not exaggerating.”
Perplexed, I asked:
“But then why, Senhora, why?”
She let go of my hand and once more set the hammock gently swinging. When she leaned her head back, the branch of an acacia tree cast a shadow over her face.
“I don’t know, I really don’t,” she murmured. “These old families always have a kind of canker at their heart. I don’t think they can bear what I represent: a new life, a different landscape.”
And as if on a sudden inspiration, she added:
“And maybe they’re afraid too.”
I said nothing, doubtless hoping she would explain what she meant. The shadow came and went on her face, and a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes.
“The family may be bankrupt, but this house must be worth a lot, Betty. I noticed that around back there’s open pasture as far as the mountains.”
“It’s the grazing land that belonged to the old Fazenda Santa Eulália,” I said.
And half sitting up in the hammock, Dona Nina asked:
“And what would they say, these ancient Meneses folk, if I were to give birth to an heir to all this?”
I nodded silently, because I felt she was quite right. Senhor Demétrio, who was older than Senhor Valdo, and who, because of the latter’s incompetence and indifference, had always been in charge of the business side of things, would lose all rights to the Chácara, since he had no heir. Yes, it was quite possible; and beneath the pressure of that inquisitorial gaze, I forgot about the wear and tear inflicted by time and suddenly saw the garden and the Pavilion, and even the surrounding mountains, as a great hope of wealth and resurrection. Dona Nina read my thoughts and, leaning toward me, she clasped my hands in hers, saying:
“Don’t leave me, Betty, be my friend, I need your friendship. At least as long as I’m living here.”
Those were almost the very words I had heard in Senhor Timóteo’s room. I remembered my visit there on the previous day and the favor he had asked me. Then, seizing the opportunity, I said:
“A person wishes to see you as soon as possible, about a matter of extreme importance.”
Those, I believed, had been his exact words.
I don’t remember exactly what day it was, and I couldn’t even say what time, but I can say that the call came as no surprise to me, for it had been evident for some time, even to outsiders, that all was not well at the Chácara. Perhaps I should rather say that our little town, and even other towns in the district, were full of gossip, ranging from the naïve to the scurrilous, about what scandals might conceivably be engulfing the house of the Meneses. For example, Donana de Lara, who had come to consult me about her son and, in the last few days, had been even more agitated than usual, had even suggested that Father Justino should be summoned to ask for God’s blessing for the Chácara: according to her, the evil was deeply ingrained in the misdeeds of all those past Meneses, who had poisoned the whole atmosphere of the house. But to return to the incident in question, I assumed, and soon found out how wrong I was, that the call was to attend Dona Nina, whose more or less recent arrival had aroused everyone’s interest. While I was getting dressed, I kept imagining what might have happened. People said she was dangerous, fascinating, capricious and imperious, and having seen our little circle come to the boil and then cool off over so many other different people, I asked myself what it was about her that made her such a lasting topic of conversation. “Perhaps it’s just because she’s an outsider, and a beautiful woman at that,” I thought. And as I prepared my medical bag, I sensed deep down a certain pleasure, because I was, at the time, extremely curious to find out what went on at the Chácara.
It was not, however, Dona Nina who needed my attention—and this was the first of my disappointments. The second, which followed immediately afterward, was that there was no scandalous scene for me to witness, for what I found was a fait accompli. I shrugged and tried to hide my dismay. As I climbed the steps from the garden, I was immediately informed that Senhor Valdo had injured himself while cleaning an old gun. I was accompanied by an old negro woman by the name of Anastácia, one of the long-time servants at the Chácara, and I had great difficulty in understanding her half-African, half-country dialect. In any event, I soon found myself in a room plunged in darkness, where the wounded man was lying on a couch. The first thing I noticed was the strange atmosphere; the second was that the man seemed more gravely wounded than I had been led to believe. The only person with him was Senhor Demétrio, and, perhaps in order to feign indifference and thus inspire me with a confidence I did not share, he was sitting on a low chair, his legs crossed, pretending to read a newspaper. I saw at once that he was extremely irritated; indeed, that sense of irritation was the most noticeable thing about his attitude, which one would normally have expected to be one of concern and anxiety. He stood up as soon as I entered, greeted me with the customary reserve of the Meneses, and asked if I wanted him to turn on the light. “Naturally,” I replied, and he went over to turn the switch. As in almost all country districts, our town lacked a reliable electricity supply, but at the Chácara, which had its own generator, things were even worse: the yellowish, flickering light brightened and dimmed according to the strength of the current. I saw instantly that the room was not exactly a bedroom, but one of those storerooms they have in large houses, and which get used
