easy, however, to gauge the impact of this without bearing in mind the almost universal esteem in which Senhor Valdo was held and the deep interest felt by everyone regarding the Meneses. By the time he married, he was no longer what could be termed a boy; saucy tales and anecdotes abounded concerning him and his adventures, whether true or not, with all sorts of women. There was even one, a certain Raquel, who worked at a place called “Half Past Midnight” and who was said to have received a large sum in payment for several hours of her favors. Indeed, to put it plainly, he was assumed to be an accomplished womanizer: silent and arrogant, of a kind very common among wealthy provincial folk. His manners, his noble bearing, his immaculate elegance, albeit somewhat old-fashioned, contributed greatly to this reputation. Half of these affairs were quite possibly invented and he may never even have set foot in that place called “Half Past Midnight,” such were the tales and imaginings the Meneses men aroused. But then, as they say, there’s no smoke without fire. To the outside world, Senhor Valdo, with his faintly supercilious air, cut a figure that perfectly fitted the legends that circulated about him. On many occasions I saw young girls of marriageable age leaning out of their window whenever he passed by, flashing him sly looks or giggling, and this trail of excitement would last at least as long as his stroll around the town.
When it was finally announced that he was to marry, there was general excitement, and the only topic of conversation was who the lucky woman might be. It was said—by those recently returned from Rio de Janeiro—that she was the most beautiful of women, rich and endowed with all the attributes one might expect in a wife chosen by a Meneses. Someone who swore he had seen them together in a smart coffee-house in Rio, said: “They make the perfect couple.”
So there was great expectation when Senhor Valdo left to bring her back to the Chácara: for days and days, when the train from the capital was due to arrive, our little railroad station was packed with people. And this expectation turned into a great torrent of whisperings and mutterings when he returned alone after several days in the city. It was reported that she did not want to come to such a backwater and that she hated the thought of leaving Rio de Janeiro.
And so, before they even knew a single positive fact about her, the majority already felt hostile to the new bride, declaring her to be a conceited woman who would neither look at nor speak to anyone. However, this was all mere supposition, and it all changed on a certain afternoon when Dona Nina stepped off the train at our little station, which by that time was completely deserted. She may well have merely been waiting for interest in her to wane so that she could arrive peacefully and quietly. She arrived laden down with luggage and, I swear, I have never seen a more beautiful woman in my entire life. She wasn’t particularly tall and was perhaps slightly too thin, and she was clearly of a highly-strung disposition and accustomed to being treated well. The purity of her features—only her nose was perhaps a little too aquiline—combined to create a strange, tempestuous atmosphere that, even at first sight, made her an irresistible creature to behold. The whole town—for as news of her arrival spread from house to house like a lit fuse, every window filled up with onlookers—wondered what it was that simmered inside her to make her gaze so melancholy and her attitude so warm and irresolute. And everyone agreed that the delay, and her subsequent arrival when everyone had forgotten about her and the station was deserted, all worked in her favor. Many rashly proclaimed that she deserved an apology from Vila Velha, and since there was no means of delivering such an apology, they instead heaped her with exaggerated praise, declaring her “a queen who did not deserve to be exiled to this dull, dusty place.” So from the moment she set foot in the town, she became the focus of attention, driving the Meneses themselves discreetly into the background. Little by little, however, this interest, for lack of nourishment, became gradually corrupted—and what had previously been unalloyed praise turned into a game of doubts and probabilities. From calling her a queen, they judged her to be, rather, a failed cabaret singer, and there were even those who recalled seeing her face in certain “specialist” magazines. Others, more romantically, persisted in considering her to be a mysterious blue-blooded heiress.
But the majority obstinately countered with: “No, she’s a singer, and in a revealing pose that leaves little to the imagination . . .” The truth is that nobody really knew anything about her, and so it remained for a long time.)
“I can remember perfectly the moment I first saw her,” he told me, his chin still resting on the handle of his umbrella, eyes still gazing into the distance, as if pursuing a vision he feared might break up on the rocks of time. “It was a hot summer’s afternoon, and I was walking along the shore at Flamengo. I was looking for the address of a friend, who I was told was living in a luxurious guesthouse somewhere near Glória. But we country folk always seem to go astray when we get to the city. And so that’s how I came to be knocking at the door not of a luxurious guest house, but of a very modest hotel. It was situated in a vast old two- or three-story building with a wide, steep, dark staircase with wooden banisters. The doorman was half-deaf and pointed me in the direction of a room on the second floor, and as I went up, I was assailed by the characteristically tepid smell of food and ill-disguised poverty. I couldn’t find the room number I was looking for and was about to turn back, when I overheard the sounds of an argument coming from one of the rooms off the hallway. I stopped, out of curiosity and a desire to see for myself how people lived in such confined surroundings. They were discussing a marriage. One of the speakers had the hesitant, fitful voice of an elderly, ailing man, possibly an asthmatic. Each sentence was interspersed with gasps and coughs and choking. The other speaker was female, and she had the warm voice of a young girl. Listening to her replies I instantly wanted to know who she was, and as I stood there, I imagined her to be small, blonde, and blue-eyed. When the door was flung open following a particularly angry riposte, I saw just how wrong I was: she was dark-haired, almost a redhead, of medium height and with bright, shining eyes. I was immediately struck by her appearance, or rather, by her pallor and her nervous, pitiful tone. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and was dressed very modestly. My first thought was: ‘So beautiful, and yet she will never be happy.’ Why? What led me to prophesy such a dark future? Then I asked myself who she could be, and before I could answer, I heard the argument coming to an end. ‘I can wait until tomorrow,’ said the old man. I was hiding behind one of the newel posts on the staircase, and I peered around it to see who the speaker was. He was indeed an old man, his hair and moustache entirely white, and he had a very kind face, but he was, alas, sitting in a wheelchair. ‘Paralyzed,’ I thought to myself. There was still a glint of anger in his eyes.” (Ah, I thought, while Senhor Valdo continued talking: what a strong impression this incident must have made for it to remain so clear after all this time!) “I saw the woman turn around and say with extraordinary passion: ‘Never. I would rather die.’ The old man started to move his wheelchair, trying to catch up with her: ‘You’ve always done exactly what you wanted, you’ve never once considered your father. Perhaps now . . .’ She slammed the door shut without answering, rushed past me and went down the stairs. Suddenly everything in the old building went quiet. Cautiously, I followed, breathing in the trail of perfume she left behind. It was growing dark and the sky, still blue over toward the sea, was beginning to glow a fiery red. I walked along distractedly, thinking about what I had just heard, when I saw her standing beneath a lamppost. She must have been waiting for a bus or some other means of transport. I stopped and saw her take a handkerchief out of her handbag to wipe her eyes. I felt a searing pang of pity. I kept my distance, though, not knowing whether or not to approach her in her present distraught state. At that moment, a car stopped by the curb and I saw a man’s hand push open the door. She got in and the car drove off. I caught a sudden gleam of stripes on a uniform, shining in the darkness. I assumed therefore, with some disappointment, that she was the lover of some soldier.
“On an impulse, I returned there at the same time the next day. Throughout the night, during which I endured the exhausting, sleepless rigors of a Rio summer, I could not drive from my mind the image of that beautiful stranger. I hoped to find her under the same lamppost, and sure enough there she was, clutching her handbag and waiting for the car. It did not take long to appear and everything happened exactly as before. It was clearly a regular occurrence, and, as if they were of crucial importance, the same questions kept going around and around in my head: Fiancée? Lover? Wife?
