Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) (16 page)

“Regards to Palha,” he murmured, hat and cane in hand.

“Thank you! He had to make a call. I think I hear steps. Maybe it’s he.”

It wasn’t he. It was Carlos Maria. Rubião was startled to see him there, but he immediately thought that the presence of the plantation owner and her daughter probably explained everything. They might even be related.

“I was just leaving when you came in,” Rubião told Carlos Maria after he saw him sitting next to Dona Maria Augusta.

“Ah!” the other man answered, looking at Sofia’s portrait. Sofia went to the door to take leave of Rubião. She told him that her husband would be sorry he hadn’t been at home, but he’d been obliged to make a call. Business … He’d ask to be forgiven.

“Forgiven?” Rubião replied.

It appeared as if he wanted to say something more, but Sofia’s handshake and the bow she made were the signal for him to leave. Rubião bowed and crossed the garden, hearing Carlos Maria’s voice coming from the parlor.

“I’m going to denounce your husband, my dear lady, he’s a man of very bad taste.”

Rubião stopped.

“Why?” Sofia asked.

“He’s got this portrait in the living room here,” Carlos Maria went on. “You’re much more beautiful, infinitely more beautiful than the painting. Just make a comparison, ladies.”

“T
he natural way in which he says those thingsé” Rubião thought at home, recalling Carlos Maria’s words. “Negating the portrait in order to praise the person! The portrait is obviously a good likeness.”

I
n the morning in bed he had a surprise. The first newspaper he opened was
Atalaia
. He read the editorial, a letter to the editor, and a news item. Suddenly he came upon his name.

“What’s this?”

It was his very name in print, bold, repeated, nothing less than a report of what had happened on the Rua da Ajuda. After surprise, annoyance. What kind of a devilish idea was that, printing a personal matter told in confidence? He didn’t want to read anything. As soon as he saw what it was, he dropped the newspaper onto the floor and picked up another. Unfortunately, he’d lost his calm and he read cursorily, skipped lines, didn’t understand others, or he’d find himself at the end of a column without knowing how he’d slipped down to that point.

When he got up, he sat down in an armchair beside the bed and picked up the
Atalaia
, He cast his eyes over the article: it was more than one column. A column and more for such a minor matter! he thought to himself. And with an aim to see how Camacho had filled up the page, he read everything, somewhat hurriedly and annoyed at the adjectives used and the dramatic description of the incident.

“A fine job!” he said aloud. “Who told me to be such a blabbermouth?”

He went into the bathroom, dressed, combed his hair, not forgetting the chitchat in the newspaper, embarrassed at the publication
of something he considered unimportant and even more at the exaggeration the writer had given it, as if it were a matter of evaluating something political. At breakfast he picked up the paper again to read other things: government appointments, a murder in Garanhuns, the weather, until his unfortunate eye fell on the item, and this time he read it slowly. Here Rubião confessed that he might very well believe the writer’s sincerity. The enthusiasm of the language was explained by the impression the deed had made on him. It was such that it didn’t allow him to be more circumspect. Naturally, that’s how it was. Rubião remembered going into Camacho’s office, the way he spoke, and from there he went back to the act itself. Relaxing in his study he brought back the scene: the boy, the cart, the horses, the cry, the leap he made, carried along by an irresistible impulse—even now he couldn’t explain it. It was as if a shadow had passed over his eyes … He threw himself onto the child and onto the horses, blind and deaf, without considering the risk to himself… And he could have ended up there, under the animals, crushed by the wheels, dead or injured, any kind of injury… Could he or couldn’t he have? It was impossible to deny that the situation had been serious … The proof was that the parents and the neighbors …

Rubião interrupted his thoughts to read the item one more time. It was well written, that it was. There were parts he reread with great satisfaction. The devil of a fellow seemed to have witnessed the scene. What narration! What a vivid style! A few points had been added—the confusion of memory—but the addition didn’t detract. And didn’t he feel a certain pride as he saw his name repeated? “Our friend, our distinguished friend, our brave friend...”

At lunch he laughed at himself. He thought he’d been too mortified. After all, why shouldn’t the man give his readers a news item that was true, that was interesting, dramatic—and certainly—uncommon? As he left he received some compliments. Freitas called him Saint Vincent de Paul. And our friend smiled, thanked him, played it down, it was nothing …

“Nothing?” someone replied. “I’d like to have a lot of nothings like that. Risking your own life to save a child’s ...”

Rubião went along agreeing, listening, smiling. He retold the
scene to a few curious people who wanted to hear it from the mouth of the man who’d done it himself. A few listeners replied with deeds of their own—one who’d saved a man, another a girl about to drown in the estuary by the Passeio where she was swimming. There were also unsuccessful suicides because of the intervention of a listener who took the poor man’s pistol away and made him swear … Every little hidden glory pecked at the shell of the egg and stuck its head out, eyes open, featherless, all around Rubião’s maximum glory. There were also envious people, some who didn’t even know him except from hearing him being praised aloud. Rubião went to thank Camacho for the item, not without a bit of censure for the abuse of confidence, but gentle censure, out of the corner of his mouth. From there he went to buy some copies of the newspaper for his friends in Barbacena. No other paper carried the item. On the advice of Freitas he had it reprinted in the letters to the editor in the
jorna do Comércio
, in boldface type.

M
aria Benedita finally consented to learn French and piano. For four days her cousin pressed her at every moment and in such an artful way that the girl’s mother resolved to hasten their return to the plantation in order to avoid her accepting in the end. The daughter resisted mightily. Her mother’s answer was that they were superfluous things, that a young woman from the country had no need for city accomplishments. One evening, however, when Carlos Maria was there, he asked her to play something. Maria Benedita turned beet red. Sofia came to her aid with a lie:

“Don’t ask her that. She hasn’t played anything since she got here. She says that she only plays for country people now.”

“Well, it’s all right. We’re country people,” the young man insisted.

But then he changed the subject to the ball at the Baroness of Piauí’s (the same that our friend Rubião had met in Camacho’s office), a splendid ball, oh, splendid! The baroness thought highly of him, he said. The following day Maria Benedita declared to her cousin that she was prepared to learn piano and French, fiddle, and even Russian if she wanted to. The difficulty was in winning her mother over. The latter, when she learned of her daughter’s decision, put her hands to her head. What French? What piano? She roared no, or she’d cease to be her daughter. She could stay and play and sing and speak Cabinda or the language of the devil himself, who could take them all. Palha was the one who finally persuaded her. He told her that no matter how superfluous those accomplishments might seem to her, they were the minimum embellishments of an education for society.

“But I raised my daughter in the country and for the country,” the aunt interrupted.

“For the country? Who knows what children are brought up to be? My father had me destined for the priesthood, which is why I can manage a little Latin. You’re not going to live forever, ma’am. Your affairs are all a jumble. It could happen that Maria Benedita will be left destitute . . . I don’t mean destitute as long as one of us is alive, but isn’t it better to be prepared? It could even reach the point that if there were none of us left, she could earn a good living just by teaching French and piano. Just by knowing those things she’ll be in better circumstances. She’s pretty, as you were at her age, and she has outstanding moral qualities. She’s capable of getting a rich husband. Did you know that I’ve already got someone in mind, a proper person?”

“Oh, yes? Then is it French, piano, and love–making that she’s going to learn?”

“What do you mean, love–making? I’m talking about a secret thought of mine, a plan that I think is just right for her happiness and that of her mother … Because I’d ... Come now, Aunt Augusta!”

Palha seemed a bit mortified that the aunt’s tone had gone from harsh to dry. She was still resisting. But that night he gave her some good advice. The state of her affairs along with the possibility of a son–in–law with means overcame other arguments. The best sons–in–law in the country had linked up with
other plantations, other prominent families with solid wealth. Two days later they reached a
modus vivendi
. Maria Benedita would stay with her cousin. They would go to the country from time to time, and the aunt would also come to the capital to visit them. Palha went so far as to say that as soon as the state of the market allowed, he would arrange a way to liquidate her holdings and bring her here. But the good lady shook her head at that.

It mustn’t be thought that all this was as easy as has been written. In practice, there were obstacles, vexations, longings, rebellions on the part of Maria Benedita. Eighteen days after her mother had gone back to the plantation, she wanted to visit her, and her cousin went with her. They spent a week there. The mother, two months later, came to spend a few days here. Sofia skillfully got her cousin accustomed to the amusements of the city: the theater, visits, walks, gatherings at home, new dresses, pretty hats, jewelry. Maria Benedita was a woman, even though a strange one. She liked things like that but she kept in mind, to herself, that as soon as she felt like it she’d break those ties and go to the country. The country would come to her sometimes in a dream or in wandering thoughts. After the first soirées, when she returned, it wasn’t the sensations of the evening that filled her soul, it was a longing for Iguafu. It became greater at certain times of day when house and street were completely quiet. Then she would fly off to the veranda of the old house where she drank coffee next to her mother. She would think about the slaves, the antique furniture, the pretty slippers sent her by her godfather, a wealthy plantation owner from Sao Joao d’El–Rei—and which had been left behind at home there. Sofia wouldn’t let her bring them.

The piano and French teachers were men who had a good knowledge of their fields. Sofia was especially fearful about telling them that her cousin was bothered by learning at so late an age, and she asked them never to talk about such a pupil. They promised not to. The piano teacher only mentioned the request to a few colleagues who found it amusing and recounted other anecdotes about their pupils. What was certain was that Maria Benedita was learning with singular ease. She studied hard, almost constantly, to such a point that her cousin herself thought it best to interrupt her:

“Take a rest, my dear!”

“Let me make up for lost time,” she answered, smiling. Then Sofia would invent outings at random in order to make her take a rest. Now to one neighborhood, now to another. On certain streets Maria Benedita wouldn’t waste her time. She would read signs in French and ask the meaning of new nouns, which her cousin sometimes couldn’t tell her as her vocabulary was limited to matters of clothing, salons, and flirtation.

But it wasn’t in those disciplines alone that Maria Benedita was making rapid progress. The person had become adjusted to the milieu much quicker than her natural taste and life in the country would have made one believe. She was already in competition with the other woman, even if there was an effrontery in it and a sort of strange expression that in a way gave color to all the lines and movements of her figure. In spite of that difference, it was certain that she was observed and noticed to such a degree that Sofia, who’d begun by praising her everywhere, didn’t disparage her now but would listen in silence when she was being praised. Maria Benedita spoke well—but when she was silent it would go on for a long time. She said they were her “moods.” She danced the quadrille lifelessly, which was the perfect way to dance it. She liked to watch the polka and the waltz very much. Sofia, imagining that it was out of fear that her cousin didn’t waltz or polka, tried to give her some lessons at home, all by themselves, with her husband at the piano, but her cousin always refused.

“That’s still a bit of your country shell,” Sofia told her once.

Maria Benedita smiled in such a strange way that the other woman didn’t insist. It wasn’t a smile of annoyance or of resentment or of disdain. Why disdain? In any case, what’s certain is that the smile seemed to come out of the blue. Not the least was the fact that Sofia polkaed and waltzed eagerly, and no one could cling better to her partner’s shoulder. Carlos Maria, who rarely danced, would only waltz with Sofia—two or three spins, he would say—Maria Benedita counted them one night: fifteen minutes.

T
he fifteen minutes were counted on Rubião’s watch as he stood beside Maria Benedita, and she asked him what time it was at the beginning and the end of the waltz. The girl leaned over herself to take a good look at the minute hand.

“Are you sleepy?” Rubião asked.

Maria Benedita looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She observed his placid face where there was neither malice nor merriment.

“No,” she answered. “All I can say is that I’m afraid Cousin Sofia will want to go home early.”