a sad thought!” protested Senhor Timóteo.
“Sad or not, it’s the truth. And I want you to promise me one thing.”
“Of course, anything,” he said. “But tell me, why would you die now?”
“I’m not talking about now, but we all have to die one day, don’t we?”
He tried to lighten the tone:
“Yes, but I’m likely to go before you do.”
“No, no,” she said firmly. “I’ll go first. And I want you to promise that you won’t forget me and will place some violets on my coffin.”
At this unusual request, Senhor Timóteo was touched and took her hands in his:
“I will do anything you wish, my angel. But you mustn’t think like that. I bet it was my brother who . . .”
She covered his mouth with her hand and the conversation moved on. It was hot, and the sun was visible through the closed shutters. In some dark corner of the room a bee was buzzing. Dona Nina got up, kissed her brother-in-law and left, saying that she needed to write a letter to Rio. Senhor Timóteo and I were left alone, and I was just about to leave too, when he called me back.
“Betty, do you remember Father Justino? When my mother was alive, he often used to come to the Chácara.”
“Of course I remember, sir,” and I was surprised at the abrupt shift from unaccustomed frivolity to his more usual grave, reserved manner.
“Father Justino,” he went on, “sometimes said some very true things. Nothing very profound, you understand, because a provincial priest can’t be expected to know very much, but one day . . .”
He paused as if trying to recall the priest’s exact words, then went on:
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