no time to prepare anything: he had been thrown in among the furniture like just another useless object. He was lying on a tattered couch that they had covered with a faded red shawl. One of his shoes was missing and he was wearing a rather worn linen dressing gown. Beneath that loosely fastened gown I could see his white, blood-soaked shirt. The wound itself wasn’t immediately visible because they had covered it with ice, from which the water, mingled with blood, was trickling from the couch onto the floor. He showed no signs of life and his eyes were closed. I asked if that was the only place he had been wounded, and Senhor Demétrio said “Yes,” although he did not believe that the bullet had affected any vital organ. He spoke quickly, as if to dismiss the matter as one of little importance. I started by removing the ice and cleaning the surrounding area, which was covered in thick, coagulated blood. It did not take me long to find the wound itself: it was just beneath the heart, and the bullet must have grazed his ribs. It had clearly missed its target but, despite this, he must have lost a lot of blood, which is probably why he had fainted. I asked if anyone had heard the shot, and how they had found him. Senhor Demétrio appeared somewhat annoyed by these questions, which seemed perhaps more appropriate to a police investigation than a medical inquiry, but he nevertheless told me that his brother had been cleaning the revolver since early that morning; that he, Demétrio, had several times voiced his fears that something untoward might happen with a rusty old gun like that; that he didn’t know who the gun belonged to; that he hadn’t heard the shot nor indeed had anyone else; and that, shortly before my arrival, puzzled by Senhor Valdo’s prolonged silence, he had found him, in his dressing gown, stretched out on the drawing room floor. He also told me that there had been a pool of blood on the floor, which he had told the housekeeper to clean up, while he carried the wounded man to this, the nearest bedroom. Senhor Valdo had not opened his eyes since then, and he, Demétrio, who found such recklessness inexcusable, was waiting for his brother to regain consciousness so that he could explain himself. I asked whether he really had been cleaning the gun since early that morning and, barely containing his irritation, Senhor Demétrio repeated: “Yes, since early this morning,” while I thought how very odd it was for a man to spend an entire day cleaning a rusty gun. But then the Meneses are capable of anything. Seeing me hesitate, Senhor Demétrio declared:
“Everything points to it being an accident plain and simple. Any other explanation would, frankly, be a betrayal of the facts,” and he shot me a furtive glance to see if his words had convinced me.
At that precise moment—and it was as if he were doing so deliberately to annoy his brother—Senhor Valdo opened his eyes—and I confess that I have never seen so absolute an expression of revulsion, anger, and discord as in that first exchange of glances between the two brothers. There was no doubt about it: the accident, or whatever it was, had enraged Senhor Demétrio. This troubled me and, while the wounded man groaned softly (for I was probing his wound), I found myself staring at Senhor Demétrio somewhat unguardedly. He must have realized what was going through my mind, for he placed one hand on my shoulder, in a gesture at once amicable and commanding:
“My brother is not yet able to speak about the incident,” he said. “He has lost a lot of blood in this silly stunt of his, and is probably still not capable of thinking very clearly. But soon . . .”
I watched the wounded man make a great effort to draw himself up into a sitting position, sweat pouring from his brow:
“Yes I am,” he murmured. “And you know very well, Demétrio, what I have to say.”
Although spoken with difficulty, his words were entirely audible.
“What? Speaking already? Well, I’m delighted,” Senhor Demétrio said with feigned pleasure, as if he had not heard what the wounded man had said. And he added somewhat scornfully: “Do you really mean to say it wasn’t just a reckless joke?”
Senhor Valdo gave him another long look as if formulating an accusation, but, overcome by weariness, he groaned and let his head fall back on the couch, at the same time clawing at the blanket in a gesture of rage and impotence. I waited for his temper to cool and his strength to return, but he merely turned his face to the wall in a gesture of utter exhaustion. I then began the medical treatment proper, applying gauze and bandages, even though I was not entirely sure how effective they would be, since, in emotional crises such as these, the mood of the patient often counts for more than any form of palliative care. When I had finished, I saw that there was nothing more for me to do: the patient, his chest now swathed in bandages, appeared to be sleeping. Much as I may have wanted to, I could not justifiably prolong my presence there. So I covered the wounded man with a sheet and was about to leave when I felt him grasp one of my hands. It was an unexpected and extraordinarily significant gesture: I leaned over and saw his pleading eyes, in which I saw an evident cry for help, insisting that I stay. Not knowing what to do, I stared first at the wounded man and then at Senhor Demétrio, until the latter decided for me what path I should take:
“Come,” he said, “I think that more than anything else the patient needs rest. There will be plenty of time for talk later.”
He slightly tightened his grip on my shoulder as he said this. After making a few further recommendations, I left the room, ignoring the supplicant look in Senhor Valdo’s eyes. I confess I found the calm, silent atmosphere in the house very strange. No one would have thought that such a serious incident had occurred only a short time before, one that could so easily have turned into tragedy. I met no one else as I passed through the various rooms, and since I could think of no rational explanation for this—other than its being a very large house with spacious rooms in which each inhabitant could be alone—I imagined that it was probably due to orders issued by Senhor Demétrio himself. He felt under no obligation to show me to the front door and, after asking a few banal questions about the patient’s general state of health, he bade me farewell and, unprompted by me, declared that he felt entirely at ease regarding his brother. “It’s no more than a minor disaster brought on by his own recklessness,” he concluded, and as he spoke, it was clear that he was utterly incensed by this incident, which he insisted on describing as “reckless.” What he said next was further proof of this: “He shouldn’t have gone poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.” Alone, I passed through the drawing room and walked across the verandah as far as the steps down into the garden. It was only there, when I turned to take a last look back at the house, so crammed with secrets, that I noticed a few lights coming on; then a door slammed, a voice rang out, probably from the kitchen, as if normal life were returning to the house, leaving me, a curious onlooker, standing on its forbidden threshold. Once again I shrugged—what else could I do?—and went down the steps, which seemed about to be overwhelmed on either side by the encroaching greenery.
Just when I thought my visit was at an end, I noticed a figure appear from behind the shrubbery, as if whoever it was had been waiting for me. Straining my eyes—for my sight never was very good—I saw that it was a woman and, I confess, I couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction at the thought that I might perhaps leave the Chácara knowing a little more about the mystery than I had expected. For, right from the start, I had been in little doubt that there was a mystery to be unveiled, and that behind what appeared to be a simple accident lurked the kind of grave and painful feelings that churn away in the hearts of all families. The woman drew closer, and I saw that she was dressed for a journey. (Let me be more precise: she was wearing a black woolen cape, gloves, a green scarf around her neck, and one of those berets women used to wear when traveling.)
“Doctor,” she said, stopping a few feet away from me, “I need to speak to you urgently.”
Her voice was calm and somewhat imperious.
“Of course, Senhora. How can I help?”
And I bowed, quite certain that before me stood Senhor Valdo’s wife, whose beauty was already legendary. Even in the darkness, I knew that I was in the presence of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my whole life.
