that the money should be sent by Lloyd’s internal post. I tried to insist that he should run the firm, but he refused: he wouldn’t be coming to live in Vila Bela for a few years. I was the heir, I should take over . . .
I have neither the experience nor the desire, I interrupted.
Amando trusted the manager. You could live in Vila Bela and spend a few days in Manaus. And look after the Boa Vida plantation.
I came to live here, but I couldn’t go two months without a visit to Manaus. I spent them in the office, looking at the pile of papers on the desk and getting irritated with problems of all kinds: parts for machines, the dismissal or hiring of employees, missing merchandise, customs dues, taxes. The manager responded to my doubts with few words, or with a haughty silence. I was the boss before time, which confounded him. When he cornered me to make a decision, I asked Estiliano for help. The lawyer sat in my father’s chair, looked at the documents I was to sign and questioned the price of transporting goods. With the voice of a croaking dog he would complain: If Amando was here . . . Sometimes he criticised me because I was sharp with the manager. I couldn’t divine his thoughts, and I didn’t have the serenity of Estiliano to withstand the cold look that sought out my father’s portrait on the office wall. Why did he look at his dead boss so often? In Vila Bela, I only thought about the manager and the firm when I saw the Eldorado some hundred yards from the white palace, and then I thought my life depended on that cargo-boat plying the Amazon. But I forgot the ship on the day I encountered the girl I’d seen at Amando’s funeral. The woman with two ages. Dinaura. I couldn’t remember her face in detail; her eyes, yes, the look in her eyes. To see again what memory has erased is a great happiness. Everything came back to me: the smile, the sharp look in the angular face, eyes more almond-shaped than mine. An Indian? I tried to find out where she was from, but never did. I found something else; something that depends merely on chance, on a single moment in life. And I saw it was too late to undo the work of destiny.
When Estiliano heard me talk of Dinaura, he was contemptuous: That’s a good one, a Cordovil infatuated with a girl from the jungle. And Florita, without knowing the orphan, said that her look was just a spell: she looked like one of those madwomen who dream of living at the bottom of the river.
The look in Dinaura’s eyes was what most attracted me. Sometimes a look has the force of desire. Then desire grows and wants to penetrate the flesh of the beloved. I wanted to live with Dinaura, but I put off the decision for as long as vanity would allow me. I don’t know if my life was less unhappy than hers then. It was certainly more futile. Empty. Since I’d moved here, I’d waited anxiously for the ships that came from Europe up the Amazon; when one of them berthed at Vila Bela, an officer in the port gave me the ship’s menu and informed me about the passengers. His name was Arneu, a gossipy, sycophantic man, so much so you felt sorry for him. If he said he’d seen pretty girls on deck, I’d go to dine and dance in the boat’s saloon. Sometimes I embarked for Manaus and had a good time at the dances in the Ideal and the Luso, went to the matinees at the Alcazar, the Rio Branco and the Polytheama, and to the operas in the Opera House. Then I’d go to the Chalet-Jardim to meet the Italian singers. One afternoon, while I was having a beer in the High Life, I saw one of the lads from the pension in the street—Juvêncio. And the worst of it was that he recognised me and came into the bar.
The young gentleman from the Saturno, he said, stretching out his hand.
I was going to shake his hand, but Juvêncio didn’t want affection or courtesy, he wanted money. I gave him money and he laughed, revealing his toothless gums, and went right back to the street. Years later, I saw Juvêncio in a fight near the same bar. He was a grown man, and the High Life had gone bust.
Back at Vila Bela, I’d spend the night drinking wine and reading opera librettos, the latest Pathé-Journal and old newspapers. I would grow melancholy before sunrise. Then I’d go out at dawn through the dirt streets of this neglected town, as far as the Fishermen’s Steps, where I saw the shapes of heads looking out of windows in the darkness—old people unable to sleep; I don’t know if they were laughing or waving at me. Near the jungle, I saw the miserable shacks of the Aldeia, heard words in indigenous languages, murmurs, and when I went back to the river bank, I saw fishing boats moored by the ramp to the Market, boats laden with fruit, a steamer going down the Amazon to Belém. I had my breakfast in the Bar do Mercado, then I prowled round Sacred Heart Square, climbed up into the tree on the Ribanceira and thought about Dinaura until the sun lit the orphanage dormitory. If a Carmelite saw me sitting on a branch, I’d ask after Dinaura. The nun wouldn’t answer, would look as if she’d seen the devil, and I’d say: She’s going to leave the orphanage and come and live with me. Then I’d give a laugh which shocked the nun, a laugh that sounded obscene but in fact was just pure desire.
It might have been lunacy and not a caprice. I went back and forth between this idyll and my journeys to Manaus. The idyll won out. And my high life died out, along with the euphoria of an epoch. How everything changes in a short time. Some years before my father’s death, people only talked of growth. Manaus, rubber exports, jobs, business, tourism, everything was growing. Even prostitution. Only Estiliano showed signs of scepticism. And he was right, that was the worst of it. In the bars and restaurants the news in the Belém and Manaus papers was repeated with alarm: If we don’t plant rubber tree seeds, we’ll disappear . . . So much corruption in politics, and taxes are on the increase.
At home, the words were no less bitter. One day Florita came into my room to pick up the dirty washing and said:
I’ve had a bad dream. Something with your enchanted woman in it.
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