before given the matter serious consideration. It was, she said, a difficult feeling to describe: irritation mingled with fear and a touch of fascination. To her, Senhor Valdo represented many things she had not had: a family, a house, the kind of upbringing she had never known. But she was perfectly aware that she needed to leave and return to the little room where she had lived before she was married, to the friends she had left behind, before she and Valdo became mortal enemies—which was sure to happen sometime soon. While she was dressing, her cases already packed and waiting on the bed, Betty, who had been told to order a cart to transport her luggage, heard a shot ring out. And it was Betty who had burst into her room, crying: “Senhora! Senhor Valdo has shot himself!” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t imagine him capable of such an act. So much so that she did not even unpack her suitcases. Ah, she was still very far from imagining what mad lengths her husband would go to in order to keep up their little charade. She was still too stunned even to leave her room, imagining Valdo dying or perhaps already dead in a pool of blood. She paced up and down, unable to decide what to do. It was then that Senhor Demétrio had appeared, even stiffer and more formal than usual. “Nina, it is my duty to inform you of what has happened. My brother has committed a reckless act, but from what I can see, it’s of no great consequence. A mere graze. If you still wish to leave, please do not feel you have to stay.” She could see that he was extremely angry, and that he would never forgive Valdo for something he considered to be utter foolishness. She knew very well what he wanted, and what those words uttered with such calculated slowness meant. Everything about that man was studied and false. And turning to face him, she was about to apologize and say she wasn’t going to leave after all, when she caught in his eyes a gleam so fixed, so cold, that the words died on her lips. She was sure, beyond any doubt, that Demétrio was concealing some criminal intent. For some moments they stood in silence, he accusing her with all the force of his hostile presence, she doing her best to defend her helpless self, ready to grasp at any straw. Steeling herself, however, she asked: “Suicide? Did he try to . . .” Senhor Demétrio grew even more distant, even stiffer and colder: “Yes, he did, but, as I say, there were no serious consequences.” There was a faint note of irony in his voice. When she did not move, he opened the door and left. From that point on, she had felt unable to stay in that room a moment longer and leaving her bags packed and ready on the bed, she went down into the garden, looking for a servant from whom she could obtain more information. Finding no one, she had summoned up all her courage and gone to the small room where Senhor Valdo was lying. Her hands were trembling, her whole body was trembling. What if Demétrio had lied and Valdo was gravely wounded, how could she possibly face him? She found Senhor Valdo on the couch, his shirt stained with blood. Unable to bear the sight for more than a second, she ran from the room, certain that she had indeed been the cause of that absurd tragedy.
For a while, she remained absorbed in her thoughts, not speaking, her hand resting on my arm. We had reached the fence, beyond which lay the road leading to Vila Velha. Fireflies glowed in the darkness, and not far off, an invisible stream sang and babbled.
“Tell me, Doctor,” and she turned to me again, her voice noticeably softer, as if she were about to give voice to the heavy matter weighing on her heart, “is he really not in any danger?”
“None,” I confirmed.
“Is it possible,” and by now she was almost whispering in my ear, “is it possible that it was . . . an attempted murder?”
I have to say that her question, far from surprising me, found an echo in my own thoughts. I remembered the look the brothers had exchanged when Senhor Valdo came around, his threat to reveal all that he knew and, as there seemed to be no proof that it really was an “accident,” I had no qualms in affirming that the possibility of a crime could not be entirely dismissed.
“In that case, everything changes,” she said. “If this isn’t some new charade of Valdo’s, then I won’t leave. I shall stay, and I shan’t rest until . . .”
A bright, decisive light appeared in her eyes—I saw that she had finally reached a decision. The mimosa-covered fence blocked our path and we could go no farther. What’s more, we were bathed in moonlight and thus easily visible from the windows of the Chácara. It was then that Dona Nina seemed to remember that this was the first time we had met and that, with her customary impetuosity, she had just entrusted her secret to a man whom her family did not even consider to be a friend of the household.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, taking my hands for the last time. “Forgive me for everything I’ve said.”
I declared with a certain warmth that there was absolutely no need to apologize, and said goodbye. The moon was shining brightly, the stream was singing close by. I took a detour to reach the gate. I was feeling somewhat uneasy, sensing a new element in my life. Well, perhaps only for an instant, but it had been like a poetic ray of light. A remarkable woman and a remarkable story. From a distance, I turned again and saw her walking resolutely through the darkness toward the Chácara.
Second Letter from Nina to Valdo Meneses
. . . An era, all that I suffered while living in utter penury. Ah, Valdo, I became so disillusioned that I almost came to believe that the love between us had been but a dream. I spent days and days in a state of utter despair, slumped on a sofa, unable to move my legs. The doctor, who diagnosed a form of nervous paralysis, said I might never return to full health, that the illness was very difficult to treat, and then he rattled off a string of complicated names I can no longer remember. I wept copiously, indeed, my eyes are still swollen from crying. These were not the easy tears you always found so irritating, these were the genuinely desperate tears of a poor paralytic. If only I had simply died and put an end to my suffering once and for all, then I would not have to rely on other people’s charity in order to live. Sitting in my room, looking around at the few pathetic objects that are a testament to my penury, I realize that I am surrounded by strangers, that I am no longer any use to anyone, that no one even bothers to ask after me. Yes, Valdo, I must finally give in and acknowledge the truth I have tried so hard to avoid: in the face of your silence, I have no alternative but to consider you a stranger. However much thought I have given to our situation—and I have thought about it endlessly, tossing and turning in my bed—however hard I have tried to find a solution to the painful times we are going through now, and for which neither of us is actually to blame (and I say again, and will continue to say until the end: there are malevolent influences at work, on the part of our enemies, people who have nothing to do with our problem, which should be left to us alone to resolve. On the night of the “accident,” and in view of the happy days we had spent in the Pavilion, I had decided to stay—and I would have stayed, if, in addition to his crude accusations, Demétrio had not then produced his so-called proof . . . He was the one who forced me to leave the Chácara. And you and I were too innocent, too trusting of loyalties that did not exist.) I have studied and examined our situation from every angle, but have found nothing that could help us in our affliction. We are condemned to a hatred we did not want. As far as I am concerned, Valdo, I have never harbored any cruel feelings for you in my heart. And there was a time when we loved each other ....... ............................................. the ingratitude of others, the evil of the world. They are the real culprits, and were we to appear in court, what judges would we see before us, what hypocritical faces, what false friends revealed at last as the liars and slanderers they really are? As I write, my eyes again fill with tears. Everything around me is so ugly, this apartment with its tiny windows, the concrete courtyard where children play, this mean little room—I have never been any good at being poor. Meanwhile, Valdo, in order to retrace the path of that old story, we need to probe certain secrets and rummage around in the ashes of that sad night. Up until now, out of a kind of foolish scrupulousness, I have always refused to comment on what happened. Largely because that would mean naming someone who no longer exists,
