Chronicle of the Murdered House. Lúcio Cardoso
her freedom and her whip . . . When I began to reveal what the others so delicately term my ‘tendencies,’ Demétrio ordered that the painting be hidden away in the basement. I, however, feel that Maria Sinhá would have been the pride of the family, a famous warrior, an Anita Garibaldi, had she not been born in this dusty backwater in Minas Gerais . . .”
His voice shook with anger, as if he were not quite in control of it—and since the whole story seemed very strange to me, I remained silent, thinking of the family’s long history of failures. He noticed my silence and went back to fanning himself, saying in a different tone:
“What do they say about me, Betty, what do they accuse me of?”
And with a touch of childish pride, he added:
“I’m in the right, though, as you’ll see!”
I looked at him, as if expecting some explanation. He sat down heavily beside me:
“Yes, one day you’ll see, Betty. The truth will out.”
And he laughed again, for longer this time and with a certain relish, his head back.
“After all, what does it matter how I dress? How can that possibly change the essence of things?”
I couldn’t help but admire him in a way: there he was, complete with plump, padded bosom and glittering sequins. The sequins were like a symbol of him: rather splendid and completely useless. What could have brought him to his present state, what contradictory, disparate elements had shaped his personality, only for it to explode, unexpectedly and forcefully, under the pressure of the inherited prejudices of the entire Meneses tribe? Because that strange sexless being was a true Meneses—and who knows, one day, as he was predicting, I might well see the old family spirit resurface, in its profoundest, most rustic form, the same eternal wind that had driven the fate of Maria Sinhá.
Senhor Timóteo got up and, as he did, his dress unfurled about him in majestic folds.
“There was a time,” he said, almost with his back to me, “there was a time when I believed I should follow the same path as other people. It seemed criminal, almost foolish to obey my own law. The law was a shared domain from which none of us could escape. I wore throttlingly tight ties, mastered the art of banal conversations, imagined I was the same as everyone else. Until, one day, I felt I couldn’t possibly go on like that: why follow ordinary laws when I was far from ordinary, why pretend I was like everyone else when I was totally different? Ah, Betty, don’t look at me, dressed as I am, as a mere allegorical figure: I want to present others with an image of the courage I lack. I wear what I like and go where I like, except, alas, I do so in a cage of my own making. That is the only freedom that is entirely ours: to be monsters to ourselves.”
He fell silent, overcome by emotion. Then, more quietly, as if talking to himself:
“That is what they have done with my gesture, Betty. They have turned it into a prisoner’s maniacal obsession, and these clothes, which should constitute my triumph, merely adorn the dream of a condemned man. But one day, do you hear, one day, I will break free from the fear holding me back, and I will show them and the world who I really am. That will only happen when the last of the Meneses lets fall his arm in cowardly surrender. Only then will I have the strength to cry: ‘Do you see? Everything that they despise in me is the blood of the Meneses.’”
He spoke these last words rather more loudly than usual, but he quickly recovered, fixed me with an intense gaze and, doubtless overcome by a sudden wave of embarrassment, hid his face behind the fan.
“But, my dear Betty, what mad things I’m telling you, eh? How could you possibly understand what I mean?”
“I don’t understand everything,” I said, “but some of those things seem very real.”
“Real!” and he went back to pacing the room, and as he fanned himself, the scent of sandalwood grew still stronger. “Betty, don’t tell me that the only real things are those that exist in my blood. Shall I tell you something? I believe I was born with my soul in a ball gown. When I used to wear those throttling neckties, when I wore the same clothes as other men, my mind was full of sumptuous dresses, jewels, and fans. When my mother died—she, who in her youth, was famous for her extravagant clothes—my first act was to take over her entire wardrobe. And not just her wardrobe, but her jewelry too. Locked away in that chest of drawers I have a box containing the most beautiful jewels in the world: amethysts, diamonds, and topaz. When I’m alone, I take them out of their hiding place and, on sleepless nights, I play with them on the bed, I roll them around in my hands, jewels that would be the salvation of the whole family, but which will never leave this room, not at least as long as I live. That’s why I said to you that the spirit of Maria Sinhá is in my blood: she was always dreaming of the different outfits she would wear. They say that on moonless nights, she would go out into the streets dressed as a man, smoking a cigarette and with a dark cape over her shoulders.”
I confess that I was finding this whole conversation deeply troubling, especially since I did not believe what he was telling me and could see that it was leading nowhere. I sighed and stood up.
“This is all a bit over my head, Senhor Timóteo. But if it makes you happy . . .”
He turned around almost violently, and his face grew dark:
“No, Betty, it has nothing to do with happiness. I wouldn’t bother to defy anyone if it was merely a matter of my personal happiness. This is about the truth—and the truth is what matters.”
“I believe so too, Senhor Timóteo.”
Then something like a long tremor of pleasure ran through his voice:
“Well then. Truth cannot be invented, it cannot be distorted or replaced—it is simply that, the truth. However grotesque, absurd or fatal, it is the truth. You may not understand what I mean, Betty, but that is what is there at the heart of all things.”
He again fell silent and stood next to me, breathing hard. Then, as if he had revived old, possibly painful memories, he went on in a voice full of an insinuating nostalgia:
“As a man—or, rather, as a shadow of a man—nothing aroused any passion in me. It was as if I didn’t exist. And what is this world without passion, Betty? We must concentrate, we must squeeze every drop of interest and passion that we can out of things. But if there’s nothing inside me, if I am merely a ghost of others . . .”
I wasn’t following his reasoning at all now and felt slightly bewildered by these vague ideas. I saw only the sequins that glittered as his chest rose and fell with emotion. And he must have noticed my distraction, because he placed one hand on my shoulder.
“Whereas now,” and his voice lit up, “my free spirit embraces everything. I love and suffer just like anyone else, I hate, I laugh, and, for better or worse I stand among the others as a truth, not as a mere fantasy. Now do you understand me, Betty?”
I nodded, fearful that he would get even more carried away. What was the point of all those justifications, where did they get us? If it was the truth he was after, and if he had, as one of God’s creatures, managed to find a place within the mechanism of the universe, why then boast about what he considered to be his victory? And how could I, a poor housekeeper, used only to running a household, how could I comprehend such paradoxes? As he stood before me, breathing hard, he must have followed the arc of my thoughts, for, like someone coming down to earth again after some transcendent vision, he shook his head and said:
“No, you don’t understand. No one understands. The truth is a solitary science.”
He shrugged and laughed:
“And how absurd it would be, Betty, if they did understand, not everything, but at least what I represent. The fact is, my reasons are secret reasons.”
His laughter, like a fragment of brief, inconsequential music, hung in the air—I felt that the last word had been spoken. Slowly, still fanning himself, he went over to the window, which was permanently covered by thick curtains. What would he see, what landscape would he unveil