Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) (38 page)

“He’s eating now, yes, ma’am. As soon as my master went away he wouldn’t eat or drink—I even thought he was done for.”

“Does he eat well?”

“Not much.”

“Does he look for his master?”

“He seems to be looking for him,” Raimundo replied, covering a smile with his hand, “but I locked him in the bedroom so he
wouldn’t run away. He doesn’t whine anymore. At first he whined a lot, he even woke me up ... I had to pound on the door with a stick and holler at him to make him quiet down …”

Dona Fernanda scratched the animal’s head. It was his first petting after long days of solitude and neglect. When Dona Fernanda stopped petting him and raised her body up, he stayed looking at her and she at him, so steadily and deeply that they seemed to be penetrating each other’s intimacy. Universal sympathy, which was the soul of that lady, forgot all human consideration as she faced that obscure, prosaic misery, and she gave a part of herself to the animal, which enveloped him, fascinated him, and attached him to her feet. In that way the pity she’d had for the master’s delirium was now extended to the dog himself, as if they both represented the same species. And, sensing that her presence was giving the animal a good feeling, she didn’t want to deprive him of the benefit.

“You’re getting full of fleas,” Sofia observed.

Dona Fernanda didn’t hear her. She continued looking at the animal’s sad and gentle eyes until he dropped his head and began sniffing about the room. He’d caught his master’s scent. The street door was open. He would have fled through it if Raimundo hadn’t run to grab him. Dona Fernanda gave the servant some money so he could wash him and take him to the hospital, recommending the greatest care, that he carry him or take him on a leash. Sofia became involved at that point, ordering him to come see her first, at her home.

T
hey left. Sofia, before she set foot on the street, took a look around to see if anyone was coming. Luckily the street was deserted. On seeing herself free of that pigsty, Sofia recovered the use of fine words, the suave and delicate art of captivating others, and she lovingly took Dona Fernanda’s arms. She spoke
to her of Rubião, of the great misfortune of his madness, and, in the same way, about the mansion in Botafogo. Why didn’t she come and see how the work was coming? It was only a question of taking a peek, and they’d leave right after.

A
n event took place that distracted Dona Fernanda from Rubião. It was the birth of a daughter to Maria Benedita. She hurried to Tijuca, covered mother and child with kisses, gave Carlos Maria her hand to kiss.

“Always exuberant!” the young father exclaimed, obeying.

“Always dry!” she retorted. In spite of her cousin’s resistance, Dona Fernanda stayed on for Maria Benedita’s convalescence, so cordial, so good, so merry that it was a delight to have her in the house. The happiness of this place made her forget the unhappiness of the other, but when the new mother was fully recovered, Dona Fernanda turned her attention to the sick man.

“I
’m counting on his recovering his sanity at the end of six or eight months. He’s coming along very nicely.”

Dona Fernanda sent Sofia that reply from the director of the hospital and invited her to go with her to see the patient if she thought it wouldn’t be bad for him. “What harm could there be?” Sofia replied in a note. “But I don’t feel up to seeing him. He was such a good friend of ours, and I don’t know if I could
bear the sight and the conversation of the poor man. I showed the letter to Cristiano, who told me he’d liquidated Mr. Rubião’s holdings. It amounted to three
contos
two hundred.”

“S
ix months, eight months pass quickly,” Dona Fernanda reflected.

And they went along, leaving events behind—the fall of the government, the accession of a new one in March, her husband’s return, the debate over the law freeing the children born to slaves, the death of Dona Tonka’s fiance, three days before the wedding. Dona Tonica shed her last tears, some out of love, others out of despair, and she was left with eyes so red that they looked ill.

Teófilo, who enjoyed the same confidence of the new cabinet that he’d had from the old, took a major part in parliamentary debates. Camacho declared in his paper that the law of freeborn children made up for the government’s sterility and crimes. In October Sofia inaugurated her salons in Botafogo with a ball that was the one most talked about that season. She was dazzling. She displayed all of her arms and shoulders without any show of pride. Fine jewelry. The necklace, which was one of Rubião’s earliest presents, showed that in the case of this type of adornment, style stays the same for long periods. Everybody admired that fresh-looking, robust lady in her thirties. Some men spoke (sorrowfully) of her conjugal virtue, of the deep adoration she had for her husband.

T
he day after the ball Dona Fernanda woke up late. She went to her husband’s study. He’d already gone through five or six newspapers, written ten letters, and put some of the books on the shelves in order.

“I got this letter a while ago,” he said.

Dona Fernanda read it. It was from the director of the hospital. It notified them that Rubião had been missing for three days, and they’d been unable to find him in spite of all the efforts on his part and that of the police. “I am all the more startled by this flight,” the letter concluded, “since there had been great improvement, and I was sure that he would be entirely well within two months.”

Dona Fernanda was aghast. She pressed her husband to write the chief of police and the minister of justice asking them to order the most thorough investigation. Teófilo didn’t have the slightest interest in finding Rubião or in his cure, but he wanted to serve his wife, whose charity was well known to him, and, perhaps, he was pleased to be in correspondence with people high in the administration.

H
ow could they find our Rubião or the dog, however, if they’d both left for Barbacena? Rubião had written to Palha to come see him. The latter went to the hospital and saw that his reason was clear, without the slightest shadow of delirium.

“I had a mental breakdown,” Rubião told him. “I’m well now, perfectly well. I’m asking you to get me out of here. I don’t think the director will be against it. In the meantime, since I want to give some remembrances to the people who’ve taken care of me, and Quincas Borba, too, I’d like you to advance me a hundred
mil–réts”

Palha opened his wallet and gave him the money without hesitation.

“I’m going to see about getting you out,” he said, “but it may take a few days [it was just before the ball]. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be out of here within a week.”

Before leaving, he consulted the director, who gave him some good news concerning the patient. A week isn’t much time, he said, in order to get him well, completely well, I still need two months. Palha confessed that he found him sane. In any case, the person who knew was in charge, and if six or seven months more were needed, there was no reason to hurry his discharge along.

R
ubião, as soon as he reached Barbacena and began to go up the street that’s now called Tiradentes, exclaimed, stopping:

“To the victor, the potatoes!”

He’d forgotten the formula and the allegory completely. Suddenly, as if the syllables had remained intact in the air, waiting for someone who could understand them, he brought them together, recomposed the formula, and brought it forth with the same emphasis as on that day when he took it for the law of life and truth. He didn’t remember the allegory completely, but the words gave him a vague feeling of struggle and victory.

He went along accompanied by the dog and stopped in front of the church. No one opened the door for him. He didn’t see any sign of the sexton. Quincas Borba, who hadn’t eaten for several hours, stayed close to his legs, downcast, expectant. Rubião turned and from the top of the street cast his eyes down and into the distance. There it was, it was Barbacena, his old home town was becoming familiar out of the deep reaches of his memory. There it was. Here was the church, there was the jail, beyond it the pharmacy from which the medicines for the other
Quincas Borba had come. He knew that this was it when he arrived, but, as his eyes looked all about, reminiscences kept coming along, more and more, in droves. He didn’t see anyone. A window on the left seemed to have someone there peeping out. Everything else was deserted.

“Maybe they don’t know I’ve come,” Rubião thought.

S
uddenly there was a flash of lightning, clouds were piling up fast. A stronger lightning flash and a peal of thunder. It began to rain heavily, more heavily still, until the storm broke. Rubião, who had left the church with the first drops, was walking down the street, always followed by the dog, famished and faithful, both dazed, in the cloudburst, with no place to go, with no hope of rest or food … The rain was beating down on them mercilessly. They couldn’t run because Rubião was afraid of slipping and falling, and the dog didn’t want to leave him. Halfway down the street the pharmacy returned to Rubião’s memory. He turned back, going against the wind, which was hitting him in the face, but within twenty paces the idea was swept out of his head. Goodbye pharmacy! Goodbye shelter! He no longer remembered the reason for changing direction and he went on down again with the dog behind, neither understanding nor running off, both of them soaked, confused, to the sound of the strong, continuous thunder.

T
hey wandered without any direction. Rubião’s stomach questioned, exclaimed, hinted. Luckily, delirium came on to deceive necessity with its banquets in the Tuileries. Quincas Borba was the one who didn’t have any recourse like that. And he began to walk back and forth. Rubião, from time to time, would sit down on the flagstones, and the dog would climb onto his legs to sleep away his hunger. He found the trousers wet and dropped back down, but he would climb up again. The night air was so cold, late night now, dead night now. Rubião ran his hands over him, muttering some sparse words.

If, in spite of everything, Quincas Borba did manage to fall asleep, he would wake up immediately and start going up and down the hill again. A sad wind that was like a knife was blowing and made the two vagabonds shiver. Rubião walked slowly. His very weariness wouldn’t allow him the great strides he’d made at the start when the rain was falling in buckets. The halts were more frequent now. The dog, dead with hunger and fatigue, couldn’t understand that odyssey, was ignorant of its reasons, had forgotten the place, didn’t hear anything except his master’s dull words. He couldn’t see the stars that were twinkling now, free of clouds. Rubião discovered them. He’d come to the door of the church, as when he’d arrived in the town. He’d just sat down when he discovered them. They were so beautiful. He recognized them as the chandeliers in the main salon and he ordered them to be extinguished. He was unable to see his order carried out. He fell asleep right there with the dog at his feet. When they awoke in the morning they were so close together that they seemed glued to one another.

“T
o the victor, the potatoes!” Rubião exclaimed when his eyes hit the street, without night, without water, kissed by the sun.

I
t was Rubião’s old friend Angelica who took him in along with the dog when she saw them pass by her door. Rubião recognized her and accepted her shelter and breakfast.

“But what’s this all about, old friend? How did you get this way? Your clothes are soaked. I’m going to give you a pair of my nephew’s pants.”

Rubião had a fever. He ate little and without any relish. His friend asked him questions about the life he’d led in the capital, to which he replied that it would take a long time and only posterity could finish it. Your nephew’s nephews, he concluded magnificently, are the ones who will see me in all my glory. He began a brief account, however. At the end of ten minutes his old friend didn’t understand a thing, the facts and ideas were so confused. Five minutes later she began to feel afraid. When twenty minutes had passed, she excused herself and went to tell a neighbor woman that Rubião seemed to have lost his mind. She came back with her and a brother, who only stayed for a short time and went out to spread the news. Other people came by in twos and fours, and before an hour had passed a great crowd of people was there looking on from the street.

“To the victor, the potatoes!” Rubião shouted to the onlookers. “Here I am, the emperor! To the victor, the potatoes!”

That obscure and incomplete expression was repeated in the street, examined, without anyone’s making any sense out of it. A few of Rubião’s old enemies were going in, uninvited, the better
to enjoy it. And they told his old friend that it wasn’t good for her to have a crazy man in her house, it was dangerous. She should have him put in jail until the authorities could send him away. A more compassionate person suggested the recourse of sending for the doctor.

“Doctor? What for?” one of the first put in. “This man’s crazy.”

“It could be delirirum from a fever. You can see he’s running a temperature.”

Angélica, at the urging of so many people, took his pulse and found him feverish. She sent for the doctor—the same one who’d treated the late Quincas Borba. Rubião recognized him, too, and answered that it was nothing. He’d captured the King of Prussia and didn’t know as yet whether to have him shot or not. It was certain, however, that he would demand an enormous monetary indemnification—five billion francs.