Chronicle of the Murdered House. Lúcio Cardoso
First Letter from Nina to Valdo Meneses
. . . Don’t be alarmed, Valdo, to find this letter among your papers. I know you haven’t expected any news from me in a long time, and that you essentially consider me to be dead. Ah, how things change in this world. With an effort of will that paralyzes the hand I’m writing with, I can even see you sitting with your brother and your sister-in-law on the verandah, as you used to do, and in between two long silences, I can hear you saying: “Poor Nina ended up taking the only path that lay open to her . . .” And Demétrio, who has never taken any interest in other people’s problems, folds up his newspaper and looks out at the garden with a sigh: “I warned you, Valdo, but you wouldn’t listen to the voice of reason.” (Yes, “the voice of reason,” those would be his exact words, with his usual lack of modesty when it comes to talking about himself.) Ana perhaps says nothing, her abstracted gaze fixed on the sky growing gradually dark as night falls. And so it has been for years and years, because the Meneses family is very sparing with its gestures and has rarely ever instigated anything. And suddenly, on the usual dust covering your bedside reading, you will find this letter. It might take you a while to recognize the writing and it might also take you a while to think: “It’s that poor woman Nina again,” while your heart beats a little faster.
For once in your life, Valdo, you will be right. That “poor woman Nina,” even poorer now, is once again standing humbly at your door, having sniffed her way home like a dog abandoned on the road. I should perhaps warn you that women like me are very hard to kill off, and you’ll have to make a few attempts before I actually disappear. But don’t worry, my dear, my objective this time is very simple, and once I’ve gotten what I want, I will return once more to the silence and distance to which the Meneses family relegated me. I don’t intend to return to the Chácara (although I do, sometimes, on a wave of nostalgia, remember the quiet drawing room, the imposing sideboard laden with dusty silverware, and above it, the painting of The Last Supper, which does not quite cover the obvious mark left by the portrait of Maria Sinhá that used to hang there long ago), nor, indeed, do I intend ever again to use the name of which you are so proud, and which for me merely marked the beginning of a series of errors and mistakes. No, I want only to reclaim what I judge to be rightfully mine. You once said to me that people who are always demanding their rights show a lack of love, which might be true in part, because despite all the love that may perhaps still exist between us, time has not changed me, Valdo, and although you may often have misinterpreted both me and my actions, I believe there is still a remnant in your heart of the sentiment that first brought us together—and, given my current situation, I feel it only right that I should demand the things I believe to be my due. You are doubtless looking a little alarmed now, asking yourself what those things could be—and I should, at this point, remind you that we are only separated, that there has been no legal separation, something so repugnant to your brother Demétrio, always so wary of anything that might tarnish the honorable family name. It is, therefore, only logical that I should enjoy the same help I would expect were I still by your side. Now do you see what I’m getting at? In the eyes of the law, I am still your wife, and while, during all this time, I haven’t received a single penny from you and you have proved tight-fisted almost to the point of propelling me into poverty, it is still your duty to watch over me and help me in difficult times.
I can see your furrowed brow, the suspicious expression you always adopt on these occasions, and the false accusations you’re storing up in your mind. I can foresee the suppositions and suspicions you have about the life I lead and my current situation. Don’t worry, Valdo, I’m not coming to you in order to satisfy mere whims or so that I can afford things that you deem to be luxuries and therefore unnecessary. I can guarantee that in this respect I am more than fortunate, because I do not lack for male friends who help me and give me what I need, and who are, to be frank, sometimes surplus to requirements. Yes, I do have male friends, I won’t hide the fact, and some of them occasionally say of me: “Nina has never looked lovelier”—men whom, I’m pleased to say, and you will be pleased to hear, I keep at a distance and even treat with a certain disdain. No, my problem is of quite a different nature. Imagine, for example, always assuming you’re capable of imagining such things, and that those things are capable of touching your heart, that a woman of my status, married into such a family—and what higher status could I have in the eyes of a Meneses?—finds herself obliged to live in a cramped apartment that reeks of poverty and of that unmentionable thing: the life of a woman abandoned by her husband. By now, you, who were always trying to second-guess my motives, will have said to yourself: “It’s as clear as day what she’s trying to get out of me!” I can’t deny it . . . ah, Valdo, how we honest souls do suffer, how we cover ourselves in unnecessary shame when it comes to dealing with certain of the world’s material values. On the other hand, consider that in the Chácara, where you enjoy a life of relative plenty ........................ ................................................................................................................... ...................... and of all my friends, the person who takes the fairest view of the matter is the Colonel. He says that, even when legally separated, a wife deserves the full consideration of the man who was her husband—even more so when there is no legal separation. I can see Demétrio leaning over your shoulder like a shadow and roaring: “The lengths that woman will go to . . .” May God forgive me, but I very much doubt that any sensible person would take your brother’s opinions seriously, for they are fueled by prejudice rather than by any kind of fair, reasoned judgment. So think carefully, Valdo, especially since I am really not asking for very much at all. And even if I were, right would be on my side, I would have my reasons and my justifications. For example, the allowance you promised—do you remember?—and that never materialized, and for which I waited in the hope that the family situation would ease, even though, deep down, I was sure you would never get out of the cul-de-sac you have chosen to go down. I say this because I know now that building the Chácara, not to mention maintaining it, has been a complete waste of money, and could have been avoided if you weren’t all convinced that abandoning Vila Velha and this mansion of ours would be an act discrediting the family. The fact is that rather than dismembering the old Fazenda do Baú and dividing up the lands among creditors who could perfectly well have waited a little longer, you would have done far better to accept the situation and simply refurbish the old house that is now moldering away in the hills. I have to say that on the occasions when I rode up there, I felt it had a poetry and a dignity I did not always find in the pretentious mansion where you live today . . . If you had done what I always advised and sold the house, auctioned the furniture, dismissed some of the servants, divided the land up into lots and come to an agreement with the rest of the creditors, we wouldn’t be in this state of ................................................................. ......................................... which are the same as before. This increases the not inconsiderable amount I’m having to pay out. I actually think that, at times, I might have gone hungry had it not been for the zealous male friends I mentioned earlier. Among them, Colonel Amadeu Gonçalves, who never lets a day go by without visiting me, encouraging me to despise men’s evil nature and, at the same time, bringing me a word of comfort. It’s hard to believe such men still exist: the devotion of the man, the constancy of his friendship, his selflessness; I sometimes find such qualities frightening. What would become of me were it not for his paternal zeal? Sometimes he arrives and finds me in tears, and then he says: “Nina, I don’t want to weigh you down with any more suffering, you have quite enough to cope with as it is, I just want you to know that I come here as a father and that you can depend upon me as if you were my daughter.” He was, of course, the only real friend my late father had, and I cannot but feel grateful, especially when he goes still further and often leaves lying about, as if absentmindedly, varying sums of money that have been my sole source of income. I sometimes say to him: “Please, Colonel, don’t do that, because I really don’t know that I’ll ever be able to repay you . . .” He smiles and shakes his head: “Don’t be silly, one day you’ll pay me back in full.” I feel ashamed, Valdo, because I know that day will probably never come. And I feel sorry for that quiet, humble, helpless man at my side. He, for his part, rails against the way you have