Chronicle of the Murdered House. Lúcio Cardoso
the Colonel’s disinterested friendship and concern. I know he’s not handsome or cultivated, and certainly not young, but there is genuine warmth in his gestures and sincerity in his words. We went everywhere together and, because he considered it to my advantage, he always introduced me as his niece. He would say: “She’s been living in Europe. She’s an artist.” For my part, I didn’t much care what anyone said. I knew I was being looked at and whispered about, but felt I had gone beyond worrying about what other people might think of me. Time seemed to pass infinitely slowly, and I would sigh, looking at people and things with equal indifference. But I made new acquaintances, even a few lasting friendships. I can see you smiling scornfully and murmuring: “Riffraff.” But what do I care about riffraff or dubious friendships: friendship can be a flower blooming on a dung heap, from which it draws its color and its sap. My whole life gradually changed. During that time, I must confess, not a day passed without the Colonel visiting me bearing gifts: “a souvenir, a memento of our friendship.” Now, Valdo, we come to the crux of the matter. If I were a free woman, I would have no hesitation in accepting gifts from this stranger. His courtship, because the truth demands that I call it that, would be justified, and I would not have the nagging sense that I’m leading someone on whose feelings I cannot reciprocate . . . I keep remembering that I have a legitimate husband—and I find the Colonel’s constant attentions troubling and vaguely humiliating. Despite this ............................................................................................. ................................................................................................................... ................. unable to continue in the same tone. I find myself in a ridiculous position and, thanks to your lack of foresight in not paying me my agreed allowance, I have to resort to various stratagems and hope that other kind folk will take pity on me. No, a thousand times no, I cannot go on like this. When you swore those oaths of eternal love, little did I think this was the path that awaited me. Now it’s too late to shed any tears. What I want is for you to come to my aid and send me the promised money, to do something so that I can at last disabuse the poor Colonel and live in peace with my conscience. You have the right to expel me—when I think about it, my departure was precisely that, an expulsion—to deprive me of my son’s affection and deny me your name, and, as you have been doing, even expose me to public execration. But you cannot deny me the help you owe me, indeed, to do so now would be an act I could only describe as the lowest of the low. If, as I expect, you claim to have no money, then sell one of those useless bits of furniture cluttering up the Chácara, yes, sell one of those dead artifacts and come up with the necessary money to feed someone who is still living. Some things are worth more than mere furniture, and they could even be the bringers of justice. Remember that when I left your house, having been accused of the most horrible of crimes, I took nothing with me but a few handkerchiefs with which to dry my tears as I wept over my misfortune. It is time, then, for you all to think of me other than as someone to be accused and insulted. I am not alone in the world, thank God, and I know how to stand up for myself, even if that takes my last ounce of strength and my last drop of blood. Take heed, Valdo, and don’t force me to take extreme measures. (Again I tremble and my eyes fill with tears: no, Valdo, I feel that I can still trust in the memory of the love that once united us. I know that everything will be resolved quietly, that you will send me the money I need in order to live—and thus an act of justice and understanding will give succor to a woman who was once so ignominiously forced to abandon her own home.)
My name is Aurélio dos Santos, and for many years I have been established in our small town with a business selling medicines and pharmaceutical products. Indeed my shop could be considered the only such establishment in the town, for there is little competition from the stall selling homeopathic remedies on the Praça da Matriz. Thus, almost everyone comes to me to make their purchases, and I have even written prescriptions for the Meneses family.
I well remember the night he came looking for me. I was sitting with a lamp immediately beside me so as to make the most of its poor light (our town’s electricity supply leaves much to be desired), consulting a dictionary of medicinal powders printed in excessively small type. Night had just begun to fall and the shop was filled with moths circling ever closer around the lamp. This bothered me and, since both my hands were occupied in holding the thick volume, I had to keep shaking my head to chase them away. I had left the door ajar, just in case a customer should appear even at that late hour. Hearing a gentle creaking, I raised my head and caught sight of a hand pushing the door open; then a face slowly emerged, not with the intention of producing any dramatic effect, but merely to avoid startling me. The person stepped forward and I then recognized who it was. He looked paler than usual, his movements hesitant, his eyes distrustful.
“Good evening, Senhor Demétrio,” I said, naturally somewhat surprised by such a visit.
I should perhaps explain why his arrival did not strike me as an everyday occurrence. The reason is simply that they, the Meneses, whether out of pride or conceit, were the only customers who never set foot in my establishment. Any errands or prescriptions or bills to be paid were dealt with by their servants. I would see the men of the Meneses household passing by reasonably frequently, distant and disdainful, and almost always dressed in black. I would say to myself: “It’s the Chácara brigade,” and content myself with tipping my hat in the time-honored manner. Furthermore, I should add that Senhor Valdo and Senhor Demétrio were almost always together. At home they may well not, as rumor had it, be very close, but in the streets they were always to be seen side by side, as if there were in this world no better brothers. On one solitary occasion I saw Senhor Demétrio in the company of his wife, Dona Ana, who, again according to rumor, remained obstinately confined to the house, weeping over the mistake she had made in marrying Senhor Demétrio. She wasn’t a Meneses—she came from a family that had once lived on the outskirts of Vila Velha, and little by little she had been worn down by the dull, dreary life led by the inhabitants of the Chácara. Her fate was widely lamented and some even said that, although somewhat lifeless, she was not entirely devoid of beauty.
“Good evening,” replied Senhor Demétrio and stood there, quite still, no doubt waiting for me to initiate the conversation. I don’t know what strange malice took hold of my heart at that moment—oh, those Meneses!—and out of sheer capriciousness I remained silent, with the dictionary open in my hands, staring at the face before me. I should first of all explain that it belonged to a man who was short rather than tall, and extraordinarily pale. Nothing about his physical appearance stood out, for nature had charged itself with molding a series of flat, featureless contours, all somewhat randomly thrown together around a central point, for the only object discernible from a distance and the only one to attract immediate attention was his nose—large and almost aggressive, an authentic Meneses nose. The most noticeable thing about him was, I repeat, his sickly appearance, appropriate to those who live in the shadows, cut off from the world. Perhaps this was due merely to his wan complexion, but the truth is that he immediately gave the impression of being a creature of unusual habits, a night bird dazzled and laid bare by the sun.
“I would like your advice,” he said at last with a sigh.
I nodded and set the book down on the table, indicating that I was at his disposal. He did not attempt to elaborate on what had brought him there, preferring perhaps to be asked, and he continued staring at me, his beady eyes darting from side to side.
“Of course, if I can be of any assistance . . .” I ventured.
These simple words seemed to lift a great weight off his mind. Something in his face flickered dimly, and he leaned over the counter in a gesture of greater intimacy. I would not say his voice was entirely steady, but it gradually overcame its difficulties to the point where he was able to speak with relative calm. He confessed to me that his wife had lately been much concerned by a strange occurrence at the Chácara. Then, after a brief digression about the perils of life in the country, he stopped and scrutinized my face to see if I believed what he was saying, and I don’t know why, but in the unexpected silence that arose between us, I had the instinctive feeling that he was lying, and that he