Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) (24 page)

“They haven’t done anything to me. I’ll come by tomorrow night.”

“Come to dinner.”

“I can’t come to dinner. I’ve got some friends coming to my
house. I’ll come at night.” And, trying to laugh, “Don’t punish them, they haven’t done anything to me.”

“Somebody’s working on him,” Palha reflected as soon as Rubião had left, somebody envious of our relationship . . . It could also be that Sofia did something to him to keep him away from the house ...”

Rubião appeared in the doorway again. He hadn’t had time to get to the corner. He was coming back to say that since he needed the money early, he’d come by the warehouse and get it. Then he’d go visit them at night. He needed the money by two in the afternoon.

T
hat night Rubião dreamed about Sofia and Maria Benedita. He saw them on a broad terrace, dressed only in skirts, their backs completely bare. Sofia’s husband, armed with a cat–o’–ninetails with iron tips, was lashing them pitilessly. They were shrieking, begging for mercy, twisting, dripping with blood as their flesh fell off in clumps. Why Sofia was the Empress Eugénie and Maria Benedita one of her ladies–in–waiting I can’t say for sure. “They’re dreams, dreams, Penseroso,” a character from our Álvares exclaimed, but I prefer old Polonius’s reflection right after hearing some crazy talk from Hamlet, “Though this be madness, yet there is method in ‘t.” There is also method here in that combination of Sofia and Eugénie and even more method still in what followed and which looks even more extravagant.

Yes, Rubião, indignant, immediately ordered the punishment to cease, for Palha to be hanged, and for the victims to be cared for. One of them, Sofia, accepted a place in the open carriage that was waiting for Rubião and off they went at a gallop, she elegant and unharmed, he glorious and dominating. The horses, which were two at the start, were soon eight, four handsome pairs. Streets and windows full of people, flowers raining down
on them, cheers … Rubião felt that he was the Emperor Louis Napoleon. The dog traveled in the carriage at Sofia’s feet…

It all finished without any ending or disaster. Rubião opened his eyes. Maybe a flea had bitten him or something: “Dreams, dreams, Penseroso!” Even now I still prefer the words of Polonius: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in ‘t!”

R
ubião took care of the two loans and the undertaking. The undertaking was a Program for Improvement in Embarkation and Disembarkation in the Port of Rio de Janeiro. One of the loans was destined finally to pay a certain overdue bill for paper at the
Atalaia
, an urgent debt. The newspaper was threatened with closure.

“Perfect,” Camacho said when Rubião brought the money to his house. “Thank you very much. You can see how our organ could be silenced by a trifle like this. They’re the natural thorns along the road. The people aren’t educated. They don’t recognize, don’t support those who are working for them, those who go down into the arena every day in defense of constitutional freedom. Just imagine, that at some given moment, if we didn’t have this money, everything would be lost, everyone would go about his own business and principles would be left without their loyal interpreter.”

“Never!” Rubião protested.

“You’re right. We’ll redouble our efforts.
Atalaia
will be like Antaeus in the legend. Every time it falls it will rise up with greater life.”

Having said that, Camacho looked at the bundle of banknotes. “One
conto
two hundred, right?” he asked, and he put them in the pocket of his frock coat. He went on to say that things were safe now, the paper was going along at full sail. He had certain material reforms in mind. He went even further.

“We need to develop the program, give a push to our coreligionaries, attack them if necessary …”

“How?”

“What do you mean, how? Attacking. Attacking is a way of saying correcting. It’s evident that the party’s organ is slackening. I say party’s organ, because our paper is the organ of the party’s ideas, do you understand the difference?”

“I understand.”

“It’s slackening,” Camacho went on, squeezing a cigar between his fingers before lighting it. “We need to stress principles, but frankly and nobly, telling the truth. You have to believe that the leaders need to hear it from their own friends and supporters. I never rejected the conciliation of parties, I fought for it. But conciliation isn’t a game. To give you an example, in my province the Pinheiros people got the support of the government just to get rid of me, and my coreligioniaries in the capital, instead of fighting, because the government gives them their strength, what do you think they do? They also support the Pinheiros.”

“Do the Pinheiros have some influence, then?”

“None at all,” Camacho replied, slamming shut the matchbox he was about to open. “One of them’s an ex–convict and another was nothing but a barber’s apprentice. He studied, it’s true, at the Faculty of Law in Recife, in 1855, I think, on the death of his godfather, who left him something, but the man’s career has been so scandalous that as soon as he got his diploma he got into the provincial assembly. He’s an animal, the man, and as much a lawyer as I’m pope.”

They agreed on the political changes in the paper. Camacho reminded Rubião that his candidacy had run onto the rocks precisely because of the opposition of the leaders. Of some of them, he corrected himself immediately. Rubião agreed. That was what his friend had told him at the time, and the memory revived his resentment over the disaster. He could have been, he should have been in the chamber. That bunch hadn’t wanted it. But they’d see, Rubião thought, they’d taste the bitterness of what they’d done. Deputy, senator, minister, they’d see him all of those, with twisted and frightened eyes. Our friend’s head, even though it was the other man who’d provided the spark, was burning by itself, not out of hate or envy, but with ingenuous ambition, with
heartfelt certainty, with the anticipated and dazzling vision of great things. Camacho thought he was in agreement.

“Our people are of the same opinion,” he said. “I think a small threat to our friends would be just right.”

That same night he read him the article in which he warned the party of the advantage of not giving in to the perfidies of power by supporting certain corrupt and unworthy people in some provinces. Here is the conclusion:

“The parties must be united and disciplined. There are those who claim
(mirabile dictu!)
that this discipline and union cannot reach the point of rejecting the benefits that fall from the hands of their adversaries.
Risum teneatis!
Who can come out with such blasphemy without having his flesh tremble? But let us suppose that this is how it is, that the opposition can, again and again, close its eyes to the irregularities of the government, to contempt for the law, to excesses of authority, to perversion and sophistry.
Quid inde?
Such cases—even though rare—could only be allowed when they favor good elements and not the bad. Every party has its rowdies and sycophants. It is in the interest of our adversaries to see us slacken, which boosts the spirits of the corrupt elements in the party. This is the truth. To deny it is to provoke intestine war among us, that is, the tearing asunder of the national soul … But no, ideas do not die. They are the labarum of justice. The vendors will be driven from the temple. Those who believe and are pure will remain, those who place the indefectible triumph of principles ahead of petty local and passing interests. Anything other than this will find us in opposition.
Alea jacta est.”

R
ubião applauded the article. He found it excellent. Perhaps it wasn’t strong enough.
Vendors
, for example, was fine, but
vile vendors
would be better.

“Vile vendors? There’s only one problem,” Camacho pondered. “It’s the repetition of the
vs. Vi–ven…
Vile vendors. Doesn’t it sound unpleasant to you?”

“But up above there you’ve got
ves vis…”

“Vae victis
. But that’s a Latin phrase. We could arrange something else: vile traders.”

“Vile traders
is good.”

“Even so,
traders
doesn’t have the impact of
vendors.”

“So why not leave it vile vendors?
Vile vendors
is strong. No one will pay any attention to how it sounds. Look, I was never any good at this. I like strength. Vile vendors.”

“Vile vendors, vile vendors,” Camacho repeated in a low voice. “It’s beginning to sound better to me. Vile vendors. I accept,” he concluded, making the change. And he reread it: “The vile vendors will be driven from the temple. Those who believe and are pure will remain, those who place the indefectible triumph of principles ahead of petty local and passing interests. Anything other than this will find us in opposition.
Alea jacta est.”

“Very good!” Rubião said, feeling himself partial author of the article.

“You think it’s all right?” Camacho asked, smiling. “There are people who see the freshness of my student days in my style. I don’t know, I can’t say. My disposition is the same, yes, I’m going to castigate them. We’re going to castigate them.”

H
ere’s where I would have liked to have followed the method used in so many other books—all of them old—where the subject matter of the chapter is summed up: “How this came about and more to that effect.” There’s Bernardim Ribeiro, there are other wonderful books. Of those in foreign tongues, without going back to Cervantes or Rabelais, we have enough with Fielding and Smollett, many of whose chapters get read only through
their summaries. Pick up
Tom Jones
, Book IV, Chapter I, and read this title:
Containing five pages of paper
. It’s clear, it’s simple, it deceives no one. They’re five sheets of paper, that’s all. Anyone who doesn’t want to read it doesn’t, and for the one who does read it, the author concludes obsequiously: “And now, without any further preface, I proceed to our next chapter.”

I
f such were the method of this book, there would be a title here explaining everything: “How Rubião, satisfied with the correction made in the article, composed and pondered so many phrases that he ended up writing all the books he’d ever read.”

There is probably some reader for whom this alone is not sufficient. He will naturally want the complete analysis of our man’s mental operations, not noticing that Fielding’s five pages of paper wouldn’t be sufficient for all that. There’s a gap between the first phrase saying that Rubião was co-author and the authorship of all the books read by him. What certainly would be the most difficult would be going from that phrase to the first book—from there on the course would be rapid. It’s not important. Even so, the analysis would be long and tedious. The best thing is to leave it this way: For a few moments Rubião felt he was author of many works by other people.

O
n the other hand, I don’t know if all of the next chapter could be contained in a title.

R
ubião was keeping to the plan of not seeing Sofia again. At least he wasn’t going to Flamengo. He saw her one day as she passed in a carriage with one of the ladies from the Alagoas committee. She nodded with a smile and waved a greeting to him. He returned it, tipping his hat, a bit flustered, but he didn’t stand stock still, the way it used to happen to him. He only cast a glance at the carriage as it went on its way. He also went on his way—and as he thought about the episode of the letter, he didn’t understand that gesture of a wave, which had no hate or annoyance in it—as if nothing had happened between them. It might have been that her work on the committee and the companion she had with her explained Sofia’s gracious benevolence. But Rubião wasn’t thinking along those lines.

“Can she have such a lack of self–esteem?” he wondered. “Doesn’t she remember the letter I found, which she’d sent to that fop on the Rua dos Inválidos? It’s a lot, it’s too much. It looks like a challenge, a way of saying it doesn’t matter, that she’ll write all the letters she wants to. Let her write them, but she should spend some money and send them by registered mail, it’s cheap …”

He found a touch of malice in himself, and he laughed. That and a man who passed and was excessively polite to him pulled him out of the bitterness of his memories, and he forgot the matter and thought about another, the one that was taking him to the Banco do Brasil.

Entering the bank, he ran into his partner, who was coming out.

“I think I saw Dona Sofia just now,” Rubião told him.

“Where?”

“On the Rua dos Ourives. She was in a carriage with another lady I don’t know. How have you been?”

“You saw her, and you didn’t remember?” Palha observed, not answering the question. “You didn’t remember that Wednesday’s her birthday, the day after tomorrow? I’m not asking you to come to dinner, I don’t dare that much, it would be inviting you to be
bored. But a cup of tea doesn’t take too long to drink. Will you do me that favor?”

Rubião didn’t reply immediately.

“I’ll even come to dinner,” he said finally. “Wednesday? You can count on me. I’d forgotten, I confess, but I’ve got so many things on my mind … Wait for me a half hour from now, at the warehouse.”

Before half an hour was up, he was there, asking him for two
cantos
. Palha no longer resisted the crumbling of his assets, and if he’d spoken some weak little word once or twice before, now he gave him the money, unconcerned. Rubião didn’t go home before buying a magnificent diamond, which he sent to Sofia on Wednesday, along with a calling card and a few words of good wishes.

Sofia was alone in her boudoir putting on her shoes when the maid gave her the package. It was the third present of the day. The maid waited for her to open it to see what it was. Sofia was dumfounded when she opened the box and came upon the expensive jewel—a beautiful stone in the center of a necklace. She was expecting something pretty, but after the last two events she could scarcely believe that he’d be so generous. Her heart was pounding.