Chronicle of the Murdered House. Lúcio Cardoso
element in Demétrio that I never quite understood: he hated me in a way that verged on the abnormal, as if he were constantly accusing me of a crime, but what that crime was I never knew. He hated me with a hatred that veered between exalted enthusiasm and utter repugnance.) When I realized this, I became convinced that you and I could only stay together if we lived apart from the rest of the family. Time proved me right, but in those early days, I still had no way of knowing just how right I was. You were not opposed to my idea, on the contrary, you supported me, certain that we would be happy, despite the Pavilion’s isolated location, away from the main house. And it was there, if you remember, that we spent the happiest days of our married life. There, in that abandoned, ivy-clad Pavilion, with its tall windows—their glass panes mostly intact—which glowed in the afternoon sun and lived in intimate contact with the surrounding greenery; it was there that I learned about love and waited for our son to be born. Ah, Valdo, you only have to close your eyes to recall those summer nights, with the cicadas whirring away among the ancient tree trunks and the scent of jasmine filling the air—the peace of a tranquil, old estate, belonging to an old and very wealthy family, and which was exactly as I had dreamed it would be when I still lived in the city. Long, slow, sleepy nights and days . . . and it was only later in my pregnancy that I began to think it impossible to continue living in that place where I felt so happy, because it was so far from any medical help I might need and because of the lack of comfort, well, the Pavilion was not exactly luxurious. But only then did I fully understand the peace that surrounded me and the sober beauty of those walls. I can honestly say that only then did the Chácara, at whose heart lay that haven, the Pavilion, only then did it take on a different meaning.
But all was not silence and happiness, one might say that adverse forces, jealous of our quiet lives, were watching and waiting for an opportunity to burst aggressively in upon us. And so it was that Demétrio—who never visited us—one day abandoned his various tasks to come down to the Pavilion and to find kneeling at my feet, as if in a carefully staged act of adultery, the poor lad who looked after the garden. I had often seen the boy before, had even noticed his submissive manner, the strange way he looked at me—but to think that I, especially in my heavily pregnant state, would allow him to be so bold—no, that really is too much. (I can go further in my recollections, because they are still so vivid it seems like only yesterday. The most he had dared to do, and I swear this is true, had been to plant a bed of violets for me—a modest little bed, surrounded by white stones, and which, being not far from the Pavilion, was watered by the nearby stream.) He was indeed kneeling before me, Valdo, but I swear and swear again and will always swear that this was the first time it had happened.
It was Timóteo who told me everything that night. (I was in my room, lying on the bed, with a damp cloth on my forehead—the only thing that helped relieve the constant waves of nausea. I heard someone scratching at the window pane and sat up, startled, afraid it might be the gardener again. After the scandal of that afternoon, when Demétrio had openly accused me of choosing to live in the Pavilion as a cover for my criminal love affair, I did not want to see the boy ever again, feeling that I lacked the necessary courage, even though he was not in the least to blame and even though I had already decided to leave. When I opened the window, I heard an insistent “psst” and leaned out, trying to see who it could be. If it was the gardener, I would tell him: go away, never cross my path again, you have already disgraced me forever in the eyes of the Meneses. And at the mere thought I began to tremble and burn up with fever. But it wasn’t the gardener, nor would I ever have an opportunity to say those urgent words to him—to my surprise, it was Timóteo. He was still wearing women’s clothes, but had a man’s jacket draped hastily over his shoulders. He whispered: “Open the door, Nina, I have something very important to tell you.” I never did find out how he had managed to cross the whole garden dressed like that—just as I never found out what mysterious reason had made him leave his room that night. True, there was the reason he gave during our conversation, but I sensed, like a tune playing secretly and incessantly in his soul, another reason that he was not telling me, but which was equally important. For some reason, when I saw him, I instantly distrusted him, fearing that he might deceive me—after all, he was a Meneses too—and while he was speaking to me, I tried in vain to guess the real motive for his visit. But that was probably one of those secrets I would die without knowing. When I opened the door, having turned on the light, I saw the sweat running down his face, and he looked utterly exhausted. “You shouldn’t have come here,” I said. He embraced me, then fell into a chair: “Ah, Nina,” he said with a laugh, “imagine my brother’s expression if he were to find me here . . .” He was still breathing hard and it was clear that he was unaccustomed to exercise of any sort. Before he began to speak, and as if he were recovering from his exertions, he looked around him with great interest. “What a good idea coming to live in the Pavilion, far from everyone . . .” And then he sighed and added: “But I miss you. Ever since you moved, everything seems so much darker somehow . . .” I sat down near him: “I couldn’t go on living up at the house, Timóteo.” And, at the same time, very discreetly so as not to frighten him, I observed the change that had come over him since last we met. He was not the same person at all. I had first known him when he was still young, before he had become so fat, before his face had taken on that ravaged look. I wasn’t in the presence of a human being, but a swollen, amorphous mass. I knew he had taken to drink, as if to blot out some terrible memory, and that he gave all his money to the servants (I don’t know if I ever talked to you about that, Valdo, but I always thought it was a mistake to allow him to keep his part of the inheritance in his room) so that they could buy him the drink he needed, but I had no idea his decline had been so rapid nor that the alcohol had had such a devastating effect on him in such a short time. And then, and I say this with no desire to shock, there was the way he used make-up, not as a woman would, but in an excessive, intemperate way, furious and uncontrollable, like someone who has lost all sense of taste or moderation—or worse still, someone bent on debasing himself still further. The sight of that poor, strange, crazed creature moved me to tears. There was always plenty to cry about at the Chácara, Valdo, where happiness was a rare commodity. Timóteo placed his hand on mine: “I think they’ll kill me if they find out I’ve left my room.” And suddenly changing the subject, he added almost brusquely: “Nina, why did you leave me? If you knew how it upset me . . .” I looked at him, bemused: “As I said, Timóteo, it was better for me.” He groaned: “The things that are better for others are always worse for us . . .” I took pity on him and said: “But Timóteo, you could still come and visit me now and then . . .” He stared at me, almost panic-stricken: “No, no, what would be the point? Besides, Nina, I came tonight to talk to you about an extremely serious matter.” I again tried to distract him: “I’m really worried about you, Timóteo.” He gave me a long, tender look, and again I was aware of his breathing, but this time his breathlessness was caused by something other than weariness. “Thank you, Nina, but I didn’t come here to talk about my life . . .” “About what, then?” Again he sighed deeply: “I don’t know if you realize, Nina, but they want to send you away.” His voice sounded calm and not in the least angry. We sat in silence for a while, until I asked: “But why?” He thought for a moment, then said: “Because of a young man, a gardener, whom they found kneeling at your feet.” I turned to face him: “And you . . . do you think that’s true?” His whole being seemed to tremble: “Oh, Nina, why ask me that question? You have no right, you can’t, that is the one thing I refuse to answer.” I asked coldly: “Why?” And falling to his knees, he said: “Nina, I don’t judge you, I accept you exactly as you are, good or bad. Besides, in my opinion, all the kings of the world should fall at your feet.” I helped him up and made him sit down on a chair again. He was confused and upset. “What else did you find out?” I asked. And he said: “Betty told me everything. I asked her to come and tell you herself, but she said she didn’t have the right, that it was her masters’ secret, but that I . . .” “But what did she tell you?” I demanded impatiently. “That Valdo and Demétrio were talking in the study—that’s where they get together whenever there’s something important to discuss—and that Demétrio was the one who spoke most loudly. He said ‘I always warned you to be careful with that woman. She should have left already, she has no place in this house. Besides, we don’t have the right facilities here for her to give birth. Whether you like it or not, Valdo, she has to leave. I would never tolerate . . .” “Ah!” I exclaimed,