Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) (31 page)

Rubião listened seriously and nodded yes, that it must be that way out of necessity. Then he felt he was Emperor of the French, incognito on a stroll. Going down the street he went back to what he was. Dante, who saw so many extraordinary things, states that in Hell he witnessed the punishment of a Florentine who was embraced by a six-footed serpent in such a way that they blended so closely that in the end it was impossible to tell if they were one or two entities. Rubião was still two. There was the mixture in him of his own persona and the Emperor of the French. They took turns. They grew to forget about each other. When he was only Rubião, he was no different from the usual man. When he rose up to emperor, he was only emperor. They were in equal balance, one without the other, both integral.

“W
hat kind of a change is that?” Sofia asked when he appeared at the end of the week.

“I came to find out about your knee. Is it better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

It was two in the afternoon. Sofia had just finished dressing to go out when the maid came to tell her that Rubião was there—with his face so changed that he looked like somebody else. Curious, she came down to see him. She found him in the parlor standing, reading the calling cards.

“But what kind of a change is that?” she repeated.

Rubião, without any imperial feelings, replied that he thought he would look better in a mustache and goatee.

“Or do I look uglier?” he concluded.

“You look better, much better.”

And Sofia said to herself that perhaps she was the cause of the change. She sat down on the sofa and began to put her fingers into her gloves.

“Are you going out?”

“Yes, but the carriage hasn’t come yet.”

She dropped one of her gloves. Rubião leaned over to pick it up, and she did the same. Both grabbed the glove, and as they insisted on picking it up, their faces met up above, her nose touching his, and their mouths remained intact, laughing, oh, how they laughed.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No! I’m the one who should ask you …”

And they laughed again. Sofia put on her glove, Rubião stared at one of her feet that was moving surreptitiously until the servant came to say that the carriage had arrived. They stood up and laughed once more.

S
tiff, his hat off, the footman opened the door of the coupé when Sofia appeared in the doorway. Rubião gave her his hand to help her in. She accepted the offer and got in.

“Well, until…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. Rubião had got in after her and sat down beside her. The footman closed the door, climbed up onto his seat, and the carriage left.

I
t all happened so fast that Sofia lost her voice and her movement, but after a few seconds:

“What’s this? … Mr. Rubião, have them stop the carriage.”

“Stop? But didn’t you tell me that you were going out and were waiting for it?”

“I wasn’t going out with you … Can’t you see that? … Have them stop ...”

At her wit’s end, she tried to tell the coachman to stop, but the fear of a possible scandal made her halt halfway. The coupé turned down the Rua Bela da Princesa. Sofia once more asked Rubião to be aware of the impropriety of going like that in the sight of God and everybody. Rubião respected her scruples and suggested they lower the curtains.

“I think it’s all right if people see us,” Rubião explained, “but if we lower the curtains no one will see us. Shall I?”

Without waiting for an answer, he lowered the curtains on both sides, and the two of them were all alone, because if on the inside they could see one or another person pass, from the outside no one could see them. Alone, completely alone, as on that day when also at two o’clock in the afternoon at her house Rubião had thrown his despair into her face. There, at least, the young woman was free; here, inside the closed carriage, she was unable to calculate the consequences.

Rubião, however, made his legs comfortable and didn’t say anything.

S
ofia huddled in the corner as much as she could. It could have been because of the bizarre situation, it could have been out of fear, but it was mainly out of repugnance. Never had that man had made her feel such aversion, such disgust, or something less harsh if you wish, but which all came down to incompatibility—how shall I put it so as not to injure any ears?—skindeep incompatibility. Where had the dreams of a few days ago gone? At the simple invitation to a ride to Tijuca by themselves, she’d gone up the mountain with him, dismounted, heard words of adoration, and felt a kiss on the back of her neck. Where had those imagined things gone? Where had the large, staring eyes, the loving, long hands, the restless feet, the bashful words, and the ears filled with pity gone? It was all forgotten, it had all disappeared now that they both found themselves alone, isolated by the carriage and by scandal.

And the horses went along kicking up their hooves, slowly pulling the carriage along over the stones of the Rua Bela da Princesa. What would she do when they got to Catete? Would she ride downtown with him? She thought of going to the house of some friend, leaving him inside, telling the coachman to go on. She would tell her husband everything. In the middle of that agony, some banal memories crossed her mind, or ones strange to that situation, like a jewel theft she’d read about in the morning papers, the wind storm the day before, a hat. Finally, she centered on one concern. What was she going to say to Rubião? She saw that he’d kept on looking straight ahead in silence, with the knob of his cane under his chin. The position didn’t look too bad on him, tranquil, serious, almost indifferent, but, then, why had he got into the carriage? Sofia tried to break the silence. Twice she moved her hands nervously. She was almost irritated by the quietness of the man, whose act could only be explained by his old and fervent passion. Later she imagined that he himself was repentant, and she told him so in a pleasant way.

“I don’t see that I have to be sorry for anything,” he answered, turning. “When you said it wasn’t right to travel like this in full
view of everyone, I lowered the curtains. I didn’t agree, but I obeyed.”

“We’re coming to Catete,” she put in. “Do you want me to tell him to take you home? We can’t ride downtown together.”

“We can go along drifting.”

“What do you mean?”

“Drifting, the horses will go along, and we’ll go on chatting, with no one hearing us or guessing what we’re talking about.”

“Good heavens! Don’t talk like that. Leave me, get out of the carriage, or I’ll get out right here and you can take it over. What are you trying to say? A few minutes are enough … Look, we’ve already turned toward downtown. Tell him to go to Botafogo, and I’ll drop you at the door of your house …”

“But I only left my house a little while back. I’m going downtown. What’s wrong with taking me there? If it’s because we shouldn’t be seen together, I’ll get out anywhere—on the Praia de Santa Luzia, for example—on the side by the shore …”

“The best thing would be for you to get out right here.”

“But why can’t we go downtown?”

“No, it can’t be. I ask you by everything you hold most sacred. Don’t make a scandal. Come, tell me what it takes to get something so simple from you. Do you want me to go down on my knees right here?”

In spite of the narrowness of the space, she started bending her knees, but Rubião quickly made her sit again.

“You don’t have to kneel,” he said softly.

“Thank you. Then I ask you in God’s name, for your mother in heaven …”

“She must be in heaven,” Rubião confirmed. “She was a holy woman! All mothers are good, but everyone who knew that one could only say that she was a saint. And skilled like few others. What a housekeeper! When it came to guests, whether five or fifty, it was all the same to her, she took care of everything at the right time and in the right place and was famous for it. The slaves gave her the name of
Missy Mother
because she really was a mother to them all. She has to be in heaven!”

“Fine, fine,” Sofia put in, “so do this for me out of love for your mother. Will you?”

“Do what?”

Get out right here.”

“And go downtown on foot? I can’t. It’s a notion of yours. Nobody’s going to see us. And, besides, these horses of yours are magnificent. You’ve seen how they pick up their hooves, slowly, clip … clop … clip … clop …”

Tired of asking, Sofia fell silent, folded her arms, and withdrew even more, if possible, into the corner of the carriage.

“Now I remember,” she thought, “I told the driver to stop at the door of Cristiano’s warehouse. I’ll tell him how this man got into the coupé, how I begged him, and the answers he gave me. That’s better than having him get out mysteriously on just any street.”

In the meantime Rubião was quiet. Every so often he would twirl the diamond ring on his finger—a splendid solitaire. He wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t saying anything or asking her for anything. They went along like a bored married couple. Sofia had begun not to understand what motive could have made him get into the carriage. It couldn’t have been a need for transportation. Nor vanity; he’d drawn the curtains at her first complaint of being seen in public. No word of love, as remote an allusion as it might have been out of fear, full of veneration and beseeching. He was an inexplicable man, a monster.

“
S
ofia. . .,” Rubião said suddenly and continued without a spause. “Sofia, the days pass, but no man can forget the woman who truly loves him and deserve the name of man. Our love will never be forgotten—by me, that’s for certain, and I’m sure not by you either. You gave me everything, Sofia. Your very life was in danger. It’s true that I would have avenged you, my lovely. If vengeance can bring happiness to the dead, you would have had the greatest possible pleasure. Luckily, my fate protected us, and we could love without blood or bounds …”

The young woman looked at him with astonishment.

“Don’t be frightened,” he went on. ‘We’re not going to separate. No, I’m not talking about separation. Don’t tell me that you would die. I know that you would shed many tears. Not I—I didn’t come into the world to weep—but my grief would be no less because of it. On the contrary, sorrows kept in the heart are more painful than others. Tears are good because a person can open up. My dear friend, I’m talking to you like this because we have to be careful. Our insatiable passion might make us forget that need. We’ve run a lot of risks, Sofia. Since we were born for each other, we think we’re married, and we run risks. Listen, my dear, listen, soul of my soul… Life is beautiful! Life is great! Life is sublime! With you, however, what can I call it? Do you remember our first meeting?”

As Rubião said those last words, he tried to take her hand. Sofia drew back in time. She was disoriented, she didn’t understand, she was afraid. His voice grew louder, the coachman might hear something … And here a suspicion shook her: maybe Rubião’s intent was precisely to let himself be heard, to oblige her through fright—or so that people would slander her then. She had an urge to throw herself against him, shout for help, and save herself by the clamor.

He, very softly, after a short pause:

“I remember as if it were yesterday. You came in a carriage. It wasn’t this one, it was a public cab, a calèche. You stepped out, fearful, with a veil over your face. You were trembling like a green reed. But my arms protected you … The sun must have come to a halt that day the way it had for Joshua… And still and all, my lovely flower, those hours were devilishly long, I don’t know why. They really must have been short. Perhaps it was because our passion had no ending, never ended, would never end … On our return, we didn’t see the sun again. It was sinking behind the mountains when my Sofia, still fearful, went out onto the street and took another caleche. Another or the same one? I think it was the same one. You can’t imagine the state I was left in. I looked foolish, I kissed everything you’d touched. I went so far as to kiss the doorsill. I think I already told you that. The doorsill. And I was on the verge of crawling down the stairs and kissing every step . . . I didn’t. I held back. I closed the door so
that the smell of you wouldn’t be lost. Violets, if I remember well…”

No, it was impossible that Rubião’s intent was to make the coachman believe some lying adventure. His voice was so muffled that Sofia could barely hear it. But if it was difficult for her to understand the words, she never got to understand their meaning. What was the purpose of that story that had never happened? Anyone who heard it would have accepted everything as the truth, so sincere was the tone, the sweetness of the terms, and the likelihood of the details. And he went on sighing over the beautiful reminiscences …

“But what kind of a joke is this?” Sofia finally cut in.

Our friend didn’t answer her. He had the image before his eyes, he didn’t hear the question, and he went right on. He mentioned a concert by Gottschalk. The divine pianist was making the piano sing. They were listening, but the demon of the music lifted their eyes to each other, and they both forgot the rest. When the music stopped the applause broke out and they woke up. Oh, unfortunate ones! They woke up with Palha’s eyes on them, the look of a fierce jaguar. That night he thought he would kill her.

“Mr. Rubião …”

“Not Napoleon, call me Louis. I am your Louis, isn’t that so, you charming creature? Yours, yours … Call me yours. Your Louis. Oh, if you only knew the pleasure you give me when I hear those two words: ‘My Louis!’ You’re my Sofia—the sweet, loving Sofia of my soul. Let’s not lose these moments. Let’s call each other tender names. But softly, very softly, so that the scoundrel on the driver’s seat won’t hear us. Why must there be coachmen in this world? If the carriage could only go along by itself, people could say whatever they wanted, and it would go on to the ends of the earth.”