sent to fetch our son. And it was to her, all in black, that I gave the only possible answer: “I would never keep a child belonging to the Meneses family. He’s there somewhere, in the hospital where he was born.” But I wasn’t being honest when I said that, and Ana, who had come to Rio for that express purpose, had no right to take my son from me. But that, alas, is what happened . . .) Believe what you like, but I can guarantee that I will never again seek to justify myself or beg you on bended knee to listen to me. No, Valdo, my strength is at an end. Listen carefully, so that you are not taken by surprise later on and cannot tell me off or accuse me of having acted frivolously and hastily: I am ready to return to the Chácara to take up my rightful place, until I die and for as long as I have the strength to do battle with Demétrio and possibly with all the other Meneses too.
There is no point in refusing me, because by the time you receive this, I will already be on my way. I have the right to live out peacefully the little time I have left. I know I did nothing to offend you, and I will not allow you to keep me away from my son because of a mere calumny. Are you listening, Valdo, do you understand what I’m saying? ....................................................................................................... ....................................................................................................................
The Pharmacist’s Second Report
It was around this time that the most disparate and divergent rumors concerning the Chácara began to circulate. Nobody knew for certain what was going on, but all manner of things were suspected, even an actual crime. (Dr. Vilaça, the doctor who attended the Chácara, had even let slip something to that effect . . .) It has to be said that the general atmosphere was highly conducive to such gossip, and the more intrepid of the local busybodies even took to strolling along by the fence surrounding the grounds, in the hope of seeing something. In vain: the trees filling the garden prevented any clear view of the Chácara, and the most they could report was that they had seen Dona Ana, or even Senhor Demétrio, strolling along the avenues. Any mention of the Meneses was accompanied by a wry smile, a shrug of the shoulders, a knowing shake of the head; and the old house that had for so long been the pride of the whole municipality soon began to be tainted by that aura of suspicion and drama. Despite this, less and less was seen of its inhabitants. At one point, it was said that Dona Nina had been spotted with a stranger, close to the old slave cemetery on the road to the Chácara; then it was reported that Senhor Demétrio had his bags packed ready to go traveling, that he was going abroad and that no one knew when he would be back. However, none of these reports was confirmed, for the Meneses kept themselves to themselves and rarely called on any of their neighbors. Even so, it is fair to say that they remained immensely important in the locality, and there were no festivities, charitable occasions, or public ceremonies to which they were not invited. In short, while they were neither friendly nor kind, they were, nonetheless, indispensable to the life of the town.
Now, it was in this climate of high drama that Senhor Valdo one day appeared at my pharmacy, even though the shop was having work done to it and was partly closed to customers. He came not once, but two or three times, always trying to look as nonchalant as possible and pretending there was nothing he was looking for, but all the while paying close attention to everything around him. I was not surprised by this, not least because I was accustomed to that family’s curious manners. His pretext for coming was in order to have a wound dressed, for he had sustained a gunshot wound to his chest, which was not healing well. (I believe, moreover, that this was the origin of the rumors filling the town.) As discretion required, I asked no questions, but he told me he had wounded himself “accidentally.” I said nothing, even pretending that the story did not interest me in the slightest. It was, I believed, the only way of putting him at his ease, and thus more inclined to talk. On the other hand, it occurred to me that he may simply have been sounding me out, as a way of gauging the extent of the townspeople’s curiosity. In any event, I kept my silence, which is another way of saying that I asked nothing and presumed everything. Since they were in the habit of summoning me whenever they needed anything, I assumed that, this time, they wanted to keep me away from the house precisely so that I would not see whatever it was they wanted to hide from me. I have no idea what it was, but it clearly existed, and those visits to the shop by Senhor Valdo were the proof, breaking as they did with such a well-established modus operandi. There was also, I must say, a certain nervousness about his movements, and he, unaccustomed to my cool demeanor, occasionally shot me a worried, searching glance.
On his last visit, he unceremoniously sat down on a pile of bricks next to the counter, resting his hands on the crook of his umbrella. (He had come on foot from the Chácara, even though a storm was brewing; to the south where the railroad tracks stretch off into the distance, thick black clouds were gathering.) As I’ve already mentioned, his wound was a minor one, and the dressings could well have been changed at the Chácara itself. Perhaps, since the departure of Dona Nina, he was unable to find anyone there to help him, and it was this, among other things, that had brought him to the shop. He was, like all the Meneses men, a man of few words, but on this occasion, so as to break the silence into which we were gradually sinking, he let out a sigh and said:
“Ah, yes, the good old days.”
Which probably meant nothing at all, or at least, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see what he was referring to. He said it several times, though, and hearing the words repeated so often, I ended up thinking that they must contain some deep meaning, which I, in my ignorance, could not apprehend. He spoke with his chin resting on his hands, which were, in turn, resting on the handle of his umbrella in a pose that struck me as particularly characteristic. He was gazing into space, as if he really was traveling incalculable distances. Such theatricality, whether feigned or not, must have concealed some purpose, and I waited patiently for that purpose to become apparent. But looking at him, I felt troubled—his suffering seemed so disturbingly real. I had often seen the suffering on men’s faces, but nothing like that, hemmed in by so much reticence and scruple. It must be said, however, that there was a certain dignity in everything to do with Senhor Valdo, and at the same time, a feeling of such sadness, such constant loneliness, that those attributes, by their very force, became factors of indisputable prestige. Women, who are particularly sensitive to such refinement, can sense it from a distance, and never fail to be captivated: “How manly, how romantic, such refined manners!” And it was undoubtedly the case that almost all of them considered him their very own small, personal god.
I always hoped he would tell me some clear, concrete fact about the Chácara and its goings-on, because it was precisely those facts, and the enigma surrounding them, that most interested me and the rest of the town. Even the most restrained of men have their moments of weakness, but during all those visits (for I deliberately lengthened the period of his treatment, and the visits lasted for over three weeks), he was always very discreet, and I never heard him utter a single word to deny or confirm the myths swirling around the Meneses.
He did speak to me once, on one single occasion, and with the exuberance and emotion of the very timid, who, in the depths of their heart, feel the wall of ice imprisoning their most cherished feelings suddenly break. He spoke to me not because it was me, but merely because he had a need to speak to someone, indeed anyone. Listening to him, the story seemed so much his own and so disconnected from any Meneses family business, that I wondered whether that wasn’t his real reason for coming to my pharmacy: an excuse to relive those events, to ponder them in the presence of someone else, and thus escape from the siege and isolation imposed on him by the other inhabitants of the Chácara. I must stress that this was the only time I saw a Meneses in a confiding mood, and what he did confide to me was only remotely connected to the Meneses. (Indeed, perhaps before telling you what he said, I ought to revive an old recollection of my own, for it fits with everything I heard later on, and agrees with what is known of the person in question. I cannot emphasize enough the impression that Senhor Valdo’s unexpected marriage caused in Vila
