Ressurreição, a short story by Domingos Monteiro

At her age getting a job had been difficult, so she was proud as well as grateful to be the housekeeper of a celebrated artist. She ran his household efficiently. She planned his meals, balanced meals with the right amount of greens and proteins; she crushed his sweet tooth with enthusiasm. The house spotless, sadly she was not allowed in the Master’s atelier.

But what she really was good at was fending off those unwelcome visitors. Whenever she opened the door, she put on an icy mask of hauteur; she always peeked into the mirror before she opened the door. Yes, hair in place, white collar straight, her apron stiff with starch and in place, only then did she open the door.

Her surprise was great; there in front of her stood a man, was he a vagrant? Was he a vagabond? His hair hacked out in clumps, the scalp showing deep cuts, coagulated blood in them, his face battered and bruised, patches of bristle here and there. It was the face of someone who had been slapped around.

She sniffed carefully and delicately, was there a trace of alcohol on his breath? No, in fact for a vagrant he smelt rather clean, no smell of alcohol, no smell of piss.

Then she looked into his deep set eyes, there was something deeply unsettling there.

                ‘Yes, what is it you want? Haughtiness replaced her curiosity, ‘the entrance is on the other side, the service staircase’.

But the Man did not move he had the stubbornness of the very poor, not-moving -what are-you –going-to-do attitude.

                ‘I need to speak to the Master...He has sent for me...’

                ‘Sent for you? For you?’ There was a tone of utter dismissal in her voice, such disdain. ‘Oh the Master? He sends for people... does not entertain them... dismisses them.’ ‘You will be surprised at the number of people who come here... multitudes.’

For a moment she was silent, looking at him. Goddamit, his eyes had that strange quality, they looked down into her very being, they probed her secrets, but with such tenderness, such sweet compassion. Goddamit, for Christ’s sake this man, with his torn suit, patched under the armpits, patches on his knees, torn sandals on his calloused feet, this man shivering with cold, this man was looking at her with compassion, with pity, why?

She was shocked; it was not supposed to be this way. This was not going the way it was supposed to be. For a moment a spasm of shame shook her.

                ‘Have you come in response to the advertisement? That’s it; you have come in response to the advertisement’

                ‘Yes, an advertisement requesting me to come here...I never read it...I do not know to read or write... Somebody showed it to me...

                ‘And who should I tell you are?’

                ‘Just say it is Jesus Christ.’

The housekeeper moved away hastily, she left the door partially open, which was really strange for her; she was an extremely careful person.

The man could hear her retreating footsteps, a knock on an inner door.

                ‘Sir, there’s a man who wants to talk to you?’

                ‘Who is it?’

                ‘He says he is Jesus Christ.’

                ‘I do not know him?’

There was a moment of silence, and then a shout from somewhere inside;

‘Oh, just a minute.....wait a second....let him in’

‘This way...’

She led him up to a door at the end of the corridor.

                ‘He is here ...’

                ‘Come in ...’

The painter glanced at the man who had entered the door and burst out laughing’

                ‘That’s a good one...that’s really a good joke...So you believe that...’

The artist always dressed trendily, much like those artists of Montmartre – a velvet coat, a pipe at the corner of his mouth, a palette in one of his hands, and a brush in the other.

Light filtered in through the glass cupola of the atelier and fell directly on the model posing below. She was nude, only a delicate shawl draped her waist; her deep black hair cascaded down her front, covering the tips of her breasts. It was no doubt an artificial pose.

With a sneer, the artist introduced the two.

‘Jesus Christ....Mary Magdalene...’

‘Hey man, cut it out...For Christ’s sake shut the door, I am freezing my arse off here’

 She smiled cheekily

‘Hey can I wear some clothes now?’

‘Yes you can’

With a languid gesture, an affected one, the artist shut the door.

‘Surely you have come in response to my advertisement? The ad which said I needed a model for Jesus Christ, for my painting ‘Has Jesus Christ returned to our World?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘And you think you would suit then? With your hair hacked out in clumps? With hardly a beard? Or do you think it is just enough to be hungry, just enough to have sunken cheeks, just enough to have dreamy eyes? The artist came closer and peered at the man curiously but angrily. I guess it is hunger that drove you to this atelier? If I would have placed an ad to walk my dog you would have come too, isn’t it?

The artist’s tone softened a little.

‘Hey come on, I know how hunger drives people to do anything. In any case... Just a minute... Zulmira come here...’

The girl peered out from the behind a screen

                ‘Just a minute...’

She approached carefully; she was just a common girl from the city, a girl of no consequence. But she seemed a little ashamed.

‘Come here, he called out to her impatiently. Have you ever seen such eyes?...

He felt so impressed.

‘It is bizarre... look at those eyes... they have a life of their own...they are the eyes of the prophets... Look at that mouth, goddamit just look at his mouth... What energy, what innocence...Observe the lines of the jaw? Observe the contour...Suddenly his enthusiasm fell away, fizzled away. But look at this hacked out hair, this shaven beard. I say vehemently I will not have artificial hair, I will not have a false beard...I am a realist, you know that, got it a realist...I need to see, I need to touch... I need to feel, I only know how to paint realistic stuff, with hair, with flesh, with blood...

He was furious.

‘You imbecile, you cretin...why the hell did you decide to chop away your hair and shave off your beard?’

‘It was not me, it was they...’

‘They? Who they?

‘They the guards...’

He spoke in a clear voice, an amiable voice, a voice more suitable for speaking of biblical parables.

‘They arrested me...they said it was prohibited to just amble down the roads, prohibited to walk the streets without doing anything. They mocked me, they hacked off my hair, they shaved my beard. Then they said that I was a vagabond, a wastrel and that if they ever caught me again they would just get rid of me. It was then that you, Sir, wanted to speak to Jesus Christ. I came because you called...

‘Why would you come then especially?’

‘It is because...you know...I am He.’

‘What...You are Jesus Christ in person?

‘I am He, although you may not believe me...But I am not angry that you do not believe in me. I already knew this would happen...This has already happened once before. Nobody believed me in Judea. It was because of this that they arrested me...crucified me. But I have forgiven them. It was precisely for this reason that I requested my Father to permit me to return...’

‘As though I care...Can you believe this load of garbage Zulmira?’

The girl had approached without uttering a word. There was a strange intensity in her eyes; she had folded her hands in a respectful attitude of prayer.

The painter had contemptuous smile.

‘Oh Magdalene, don’t tell you are tempted to wash his feet with oils and unguents, then rub his feet with your luxuriant hair, hmm. I really do not recommend it.’

She glared at him with an angry glance, did not reply. Then in a voice of supplication she urged:

‘Go on...Do not listen to him. He is a soul that is lost...And then?’

‘My Father did not want me to return.

‘No, no My Son’ he said, it is of no use, it will be much as it was before...And this time, believe Me it is going to be worse. Instead of crucifying you, they will make you drag a Cross all your life. There will be misery. There will be ridicule. You will suffer unimaginable hunger. You will know the torture of being jailed. There will be beatings. You will be admitted in a Mental Asylum, they will insist you are mad.

But worst of all My Son, they will never believe you. No, no said my Father, I will not allow it.’

But I pleaded, ‘Father, Father, but the fault is not theirs, it is ours, particularly Yours...’

‘Mine?’

There is nothing I fear more than my Father’s anger, but I was determined to put my point across.

‘Yes, my Father...’

Surprisingly He spoke to me most calmly with a degree of resignation, ‘My fault, why is it my fault my Son’

‘Yes your fault Father because You saw to it that I would be born without sin... because you did not allow me to feel what it is to be a man, besides you gave me the power to do miracles. These are not the qualities that any human being has, were it not for these qualities I would be like any other man.’

‘If that is the case, if that is how you feel, he spoke to me sternly, Go’. ‘But after this, do not invoke My Name.’

‘No my Father, come what may. I will not invoke your name...’

And the girl asked anxiously

‘And Your Mother...the Blessed Mother? Did she not try to stop you?

‘My Mother wept without a stop, she could not calm, nor contain herself, as all mothers are when they see their sons go on a dangerous adventure. But she did not stop me, she did not discourage me.

‘Go my Son, it is your duty. It is a job that you should complete, complete it till its end. You had just begun it...I will always be with you.’

 Now I feel as though she speaks to me in your voice...’

The painter could not take his eyes off them, the two in deep conversation. The brush trembled in his hand, a savage emotion coursed through his body. Ah, he well understood this emotion...it was the restlessness of inspiration. Slowly and silently he moved away from the two and began painting.

The canvas below his brush slowly underwent a change; it was getting filled with people, as though emanating from deep within him. They were so human, so very human that he was afraid to touch them, afraid that he would hurt them.

His was a strange Christ, a very different Christ indeed, bending and curved under a heavy load, His hands without stigmata but covered in thick hard calluses. His eyes radiated a mysterious brightness. Sweat poured down His body in torrents, His rigid and tense muscles strained, His sweat more brilliant and vibrant than any blood could ever be.

In front of His Christ, a woman stroked His brow, wiped His sweat, all the while breathing her tenderness on Him, a promise of kisses to come, more pure than rain.

The painter lifted his eyes, saw only the girl.

‘He, where is He?’

‘He went away, He left, left us without disturbing you, His mission accomplished. He said, Your faith had been restored and more than that you had believed in Him...

Biography of Domingos Monteiro Pereira

Was born on 6 November 1903. Died on 17 August 1980

Was a poet and a writer as well as a lawyer.

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0599198/bio

O Primo Basilio...........Eça de Queiroz

What a pleasant breakfast, Luísa stretched her arms indolently; she could see Jorge watching her cleavage where her robe had fallen open. Jorge liked her looks, although not beautiful in a conventional way, her masses of beautiful brown hair and her wide brown eyes were good to look at, her curvaceous figure was delicious add to it a pleasant nature and Luísa was what every man would dream and want in a wife.

But Luísa was bored, her day yawned before her, what to do? How to get the day to move faster? Go to the milliner, she had dozens of hats of every hue. Dresses by the dozens to match her numerous hats, so a visit to the dressmaker was really unnecessary.  

Library, that again tedious, she had read piles of those milk-and-water romances, they were turning to be oh so predictable, the lovers most of the times from nobility, feigning dislike for each other only to marry ultimately, the settings always opulent, the situations decadent, tea parties, balls, hunts everything catered for a life of hedonism, which only royalty and nobility could afford. Luísa smiled, when had she gone for a hunt, those novels were a far cry from her life.

As for sex, the novels ignored it, sex just did not happen, if the couples so much as exchanged a kiss that was bold.

Now what Luísa really liked were her conversations with her friend Leopoldina, that woman was something, dozens of lovers and such erotic stories. You make me blush Leopoldina, no, no how can one do such things. Angel, my angel, Leopoldina would laugh with a superior air born of experience and knowledge. Of course Luísa had to pretend that such eroticism  scandalised her, horrified her, but they both knew that was a façade, of course Luísa had to pretend not to like those racy stories, act as though sex was not for her, didn’t you know a lady of society never likes sex? Just grins and bears it. Come now we know better, who in their right mind can resist sex?

And then one fine day in conversation with that stick-in-the-mud Sebastião, Jorge decides that she, Luísa was not to talk to Leopoldina, was to stop her from visiting, a total embargo on Leopoldina. In their opinion Leopoldina was destroying her innocence, Luísa had no problems if her innocence was in tatters, she wanted her purity to be sullied, she was a full blooded woman after all. Of course Jorge wanted her to be the perfect, demure wife, but what Luísa really wanted was excitement, romance and most of all to experience what Leopoldina did, oh yes that was a thrilling prospect. She sighed, what a bleak existence she really led. What was she to do? Vaguely she heard Jorge blabbing, oh how he would miss her, his little treasure, his little heart. Jorge was going on a field trip. Luísa would miss him too but she knew that Jorge would not be sad for too long, he would find women, he would have his flings.

She breathed in deeply, and then a snippet in the corner of the newspaper caught her eye. Her cousin Basilio was visiting the country.  She was excited, went red and warm, remembering those moments of awakening when Basilio visited her so often and they would go on those long, long walks stealing kisses and caresses whilst Mama broke her duties as a chaperone to have little naps. Oh how she had loved Basilio. Loved him intensely with all he passion of a young girl. And then all of a sudden he had gone away to make his fortune. Had he? She wondered made his fortune? Would he visit her? Suddenly her day did not seem endless, in fact it seemed shorter and she had so much to do. A hat for instance.

Of course Basilio would visit her; he could never resist a woman besides he already knew her, those walks, those luscious kisses all under Mama’s very nose. He was sure she had turned delectable, a red plum waiting to be picked.  Basilio thought of women as fruit to be nurtured, to be picked when ripe and savoured. Plums, peaches, nectarines he loved them all, just waiting for him. Visit her he did and was not surprised that she was not at all averse to his attentions, she was coy, she flirted with him and yes as Basilio had foreseen she was ready to fall in his arms much like a ripe peach.

On suggesting that they rent a room for more privacy, Luísa never balks, never even bats an eyelid, oh to experience everything that Leopoldina was talking about, she imagines the setting for the idyll to be congenial, opulent perhaps, but to her surprise it is just a shabby little room in a derelict area. Despite the sadness of the room the affair continues.

Although Luísa has to travel a long distance to get to the shabby room, which now seems home, she does not pull back. She is feverish at the thought of not meeting Basilio.

Even when Juliana, the wretched servant catches hold of some of Luísa’s letters and blackmails her, Luísa hangs on to the sordid liaison.

Then Juliana not only blackmails Luísa but treats her with utter disdain, wears Luísa’s clothes, lazes around not doing a jot of work whilst Luísa slaves the entire day, except when she escapes for her rendezvous. Juliana lords over Luísa, how sweet can revenge be? Does Luisa stop her affair? Oh no, it only increases her passion for Basilio.

Despite the fact that Luísa now realises that to Basilio she is just a toy, is not even courteous, treats her badly, but she hangs in there.

Jorge prolongs his stay; he is away for so long that we wonder, does he have a relationship of his own?

Then Jorge returns and Basilio flies the coop, no more promises of Paris, no more endearments, it’s too murky a situation for Basilio, why tangle with Jorge over a piece of skirt, anyway there were no more surprises to be had from Luísa, he was done with her.

Things go from bad to worse for Luísa; her guilt weighs on her so heavily that she falls ill. Just when she is about to recover Jorge shows her a letter that Basilio has written, accuses her, but Luísa so traumatised falls apart, never recovers  and dies of an unnamed illness.

Now questions arise.

Why did Eça de Queiroz who was writing a novel of realism ‘kill’ Luísa?

What was he afraid of?

Did he want to show that the sin of ‘adultery’ in a woman, can never be forgiven, can never be condoned, a woman can never go scot free; so did Eça punish Luísa by killing her?

Or was Eça afraid of a much more devastating situation, was he terrified that women would begin to like their sexual freedom? Had Luísa lived would she have taken more lovers, much like the wanton Leopoldina? Did he fear was that he had created a monster, much like Frankenstein which he did not know how to rein in?

Oh Eça you opened a can of worms which was very difficult to close……….

Marido a short story by Lídia Jorge

She crouches behind the pigeon’s coop, the wire netting pressing hard against her face, makes herself as small as possible, as invisible as possible, oblivious to the stench, dares not breathe, listens for the step, his step ... there.

The metallic elevator door is pushed open, it shuts rapidly with a huge clang, actually it needs to be held in place whilst you get in, he curses heavily, he never manages to get in before the door clangs shut, it is an old elevator, at last he gets in, and closes it with a metallic bang. Heavy footsteps on the landing, fumbles at the lock, key falls at his feet as it always does.

                                Hail Mary Full of Grace, save me, protect me,

cover me with your grace, Mother Mary protect me,

protect him, please save me,

Oh! Mother, please, please save me.

The door opens...

Lucia! O Lucia,

The sound reverberates, bursts up and down the ten floors, bounces off every wall, ruthlessly penetrating every home, distorting the quiet and the blessed peace of the dewy morning. Unsteadily he moves to the terrace, past the pigeon coops, palpates the air hazily, searches, searches, she stifles a scream, his unsteady hand brushes past her face placed so close against the wire netting, then he staggers into the living room, falls at the foot of the sofa fast asleep. He sleeps snoring loudly; the room reeks of cheap wine, she tiptoes to their room.

Mother Mary, Thank you, You in your Blessed Goodness have saved me

She is Lucia the caretaker of a small apartment complex, ten apartments; her work is to clean the apartments, check for payments, verify if any repairs need to be done. Every day, very early in the day she starts at the very bottom of the apartment complex, works her way through to the top, cleaning, vacuuming, all the while humming a cheerful hymn. The Owner likes her work, she gets a salary but the owner also allows her the use of a small apartment at the top of the building with a little terrace where she breeds pigeons.

Actually, her vigil and her tremendous fear begin at a quarter to five when she knows that he at his garage would be packing his lunch box, his serviette in a bag he always carries. She knows he will then leave the garage where he works; actually he should reach home, it is but a short distance …

It is six…

It is seven…

He should have been home, reading a magazine, feeding the pigeons, maybe just relaxing on the sofa tired after a long day at the garage, talking to her about his colleagues, narrating stories about Mario who really is very fond of women.

They should be eating a thick broth with fresh vegetables that she has bought at the market, dipping chunks of bread in the delicious hot broth. Or eating a pigeon casserole with a dainty salad but….

Of course there are days when he does return home at six, those are the happiest days of her life. The house is filled with laughter; a delicious aroma of hot broth permeates the house. Yes, sometimes…

It is nine…

If he does not return till ten, then she knows he will not come home till dawn…

Lucia! O Lucia…

Mother Mary help him,

Mother Mary intercede for me,

Oh! Sweet Jesus through the intercession of Mother Mary come to my aid.

Mother Mary help him, let him not fall under the wheels of a car,

let him not knock his head on the corner of the pavement.

Lucia is a cheerful person; most of the times she is filled with a deep serenity and sweetness that helps her go on with life, at other times she is filled with dread.

How she would have loved to have lit her Jesus and Mary candle sung her hymns out loud just like Father Romão does in his baritone voice. Sadly, the moment she starts singing in her sweet, humble voice there are complaints, she is singing too loudly.

She thinks, the apartment complex surrounded by traffic, how would one little hymn matter so much? But look at it from the tenant’s point of view she thinks,

There is the pilot, who flies at all odd hours,

There is the surgeon, who operates sometimes through the night,

There is the old man who needs his rest, the colicky baby; yes they all need their sleep. 

And who is she, but a lowly caretaker.

Oh yes, she does sing her hymns in a quiet composed manner, not the full throated voice that she would have loved to, much advocated by Father Romão.

But one day her calm and sweetness changed to bitterness and anger. It all began when the solicitor from the fifth floor approached her on the pretext of a lost receipt and said;

‘Dona Lucia, how are you?’

‘Fine, Senhor Doutor, how may I help you Sir?’

 ‘Oh it’s nothing, just a receipt I have misplaced; I need it for audit purposes’

And while she is looking for it, in the tiny office at the bottom of the apartment complex, he just blurts it out.

‘Dona Lucia, if ever you want a divorce I will do whatever I can for you’. ‘After all, it is just a matter of paperwork.’

Before she can even recover her composure, the solicitor continues without any hesitation.

‘Do let me know Dona Lucia, when you need any certificates for your divorce or any

witnesses to testify on your behalf, believe me there are two witnesses on each floor willing to testify in your favour.’

 But what really got her incensed was the Social Worker on the second floor.

‘Hello Dona Lucia, how are you? Ummm I know you have a terrible time at home.’

Before she could even take a deep breath, the Social worker continued.

‘O Lucia, these are modern days, women Do Not have to be subjugated, we women

have Rights you know, there is something called Individual Rights of a Woman.’ ‘Think about it’

It was then that it struck her; the realization came as a shock. They all had got together and discussed her!

How could they have done that?

How had they dared do that? 

Did they not realise that she was an individual in her own right?

How could they tear her self-respect in shreds just because she was a poor caretaker?

Just because they were financially well-off?

And what about her alliance before God? Was she not a part of an alliance made on

 Earth but blessed in Heaven?

What fate awaited her if she got divorced, what respect did she have in Society?

How would she go to church alone on Sundays? 

Who would push those heavy cupboards when the need arose?

Who would blast those random shots in the air when there were sounds and threats

from burglars trying to rob cars?’

 There was so much she could not do on her own. Say what you may, her husband was after all a quiet man when sober, did he interfere with Them? Had he ever said anything to Them?

Tell me which husband handed over his entire pay packet to his wife, although sadly

after the binges there was not much left , but Men will be Men, whatever was there she had it safely hidden.

There were so many husbands who did not allow their wives the liberty of going to

Church practically every day, but did he ever stop her? Did he even care if she spoke to Father Romão constantly about the Blessed Virgin Mary and the Blessed Sweet Jesus? No he did not. He did not bother her.

So how dare they plan for her, collude, talk about her small problems, which wife did not have problems tell me?’ ‘Most of all how dare They, what audacity to plan and decide a life full of loneliness for her.

They knew nothing about her, nothing at all…. and yet they had decided for her, had it all figured out for her without even asking her. She was so consumed with rage. She could spit on their faces; imagine trying to get her to divorce her husband, trying to give her a life of endless loneliness. …..

And then a strange calm descended upon her, the Blessed Virgin Mary was helping her to be strong. The Blessed Virgin Mary would cover her with Her own mantle. The Blessed Virgin Mary would intercede with the Blessed Sweet Jesus on her behalf.

A strange peaceful smile shone on her face. No more hiding behind the pigeon’s coop, no more would those tenants hear the deafening yells

Lucia! O Lucia

because as soon as he opens the door he would see her, she would be sitting there waiting for him…….

                And that is what happens, the metallic elevator door opens, then rapidly shuts with a huge bang, he curses heavily, he never manages to get in before the door closes, he gets in at last, and closes it with a metallic clang, heavy footsteps on the landing, fumbles at the lock, key falls at his feet as it always does.

As she expects, he is stupefied, blearily he blinks at her, even through the alcoholic haze he just stares at her, he just cannot believe himself …

She runs to him, gently pulls him to the bedroom, he follows her meekly, hypnotised by her presence, she removes his grease stained clothes gently, as if undressing a baby.

She smiles, no ear splitting, deafening bellows,

Lucia! O Lucia.

Feverishly, with glazed eyes he stoops down to pick up his brown coat. He searches his coat pockets hurriedly. Triumphantly he removes his lighter from his front pocket. His eyes glaze over as he glances at the lighter. He licks his lips in anticipation. He smiles. This is something he has looked forward to for such a long time, and then he whirs and lights it….

He breathes in sharply when he sees the flame, inhales the sharp pungent odour, savours it...

Then he reaches across to her...

She decides, even if he brings the flame close to me I will gently move away...

No, he reaches over and picks up the Jesus Mary candle. Her precious candle, given to her by Father Romão. Lights it. Savours the sight, licking his lips gently.

Then he grabs her nylon nightdress and gently touches it to the blazing Jesus Mary candle.

The nylon burns for a moment, then it dies down...

She rubs herself against the wall, the fire dies, dies a little more...

And then flares up suddenly, bright orange like the dying Sun...

She rolls on the living room carpet...

She runs down the service staircase, fire engulfing her in a bright orange...

At the fifth floor the flames crackle loudly as she falls in front of the solicitor’s apartment...

Salve Regina mãe de misericordia, vida doçura,esperança nossa,  

Mother Mary be the mantle that covers her in the purple haze of the dawn.

Open your wings sweet Mary, oh Advocate of Justice

Fly, take the gentle caretaker with You oh sweet Blessed Virgin Mary

Take her to the waiting stretcher, Sweet Jesus; raise Your eyes to the tenants, silently weeping for this precious life, lilac shadows at their windows on her last beautiful dawn.

Carry her Oh Sweet Jesus and Blessed Virgin Mary from this Valley of Tears.

Take her gently silently, with tender care Oh Sweet Jesus, Oh Blessed Virgin Mary with no screech of the siren, with no sounds, with no nylon nightdress, with no hair, with no skin

And let her live with You, Oh Sweet Jesus, Oh Blessed Virgin Mary, in Heaven forever and ever Amen.

O Vale da Paixão…………..Lídia Jorge

It is raining hard, water beating on the roof with ferocity, no one can hear anything, silently oh so silently, we feel Walter climbing the stairs, at the landing he removes his shoes, like a shadow flat on the wall, prepares to enter the room, the young girl inside looks forward to seeing him and we scream, No, No, it is dark, it is silent, why are you entering that room so furtively, Walter replies, to meet my daughter and you scream louder, no, no you cannot enter a young girl’s room at night, even if she is your daughter. Walter replies, I am not allowed to meet her, everyone guards me, I need to meet her just once, you see I disowned her a long time ago…..we realise that much like the Irmãos Dias we too have terrible thoughts of Walter.
All that Walter’s daughter knows about Walter is from gossip of others, gossip of the grandfather, Francisco Dias; gossip of the uncles, gossip of the aunt, gossip of the servants, the pact of silence, deep silence insisted by Maria Ema, no she admonishes Walter’s daughter, you are not to talk, not to call him father, you are his ‘niece’, do you understand says Maria Ema the mother of the girl.
Do you remember, asks Francisco Dias of his cronies, how Walter repaired that old carriage and roamed the countryside painting birds? Sketching birds, can you believe that? Selling them like a roadside vagabond, can you believe that a son of Francisco Dias would make money selling sketches? Francisco Dias would shout.
Do you know shrieks Alexandrina, all the while stabbing the potatoes brutally, that Walter got the nineteen year old Maria Ema Baptista pregnant, oh, oh screams Alexandrina all the while stabbing at the potatoes, do you know that one evening, the Baptistas, mother, father and Maria Ema came to the house and said, our daughter is pregnant, when Francisco Dias asked the age old question, how do you know it is my son, the Baptistas took out a folder with dozens of sketches of Maria Ema, the Baptistas turned around, without a word mounted their carriage pushing Maria Ema aside, no, no they did not allow her in, she ran, ran behind the carriage, crying, pleading for them to stop, hair in disarray, losing her hat, her punishment and humiliation started on that day.
Do you know, narrated Adelina the aunt hysterically, Francisco Dias, Paizinho, a man of principles wrote to Walter, you have to marry Maria Ema, no reply, dozens of letters, no reply, Francisco Dias then visited the Commandant, leave the Army to marry? Asked the incredulous Commandant, he is our best soldier. So Francisco Dias, hat in hand returned to Valmares, what to do? What to do? Marry her off to Custodio, his oldest son, his lame son who would never manage to marry otherwise, how brilliant, what a move to save the family honour….
And Custodio did marry Maria Ema, but Custodio loved Walter, loved his rebellious nature, loved that he did everything that he Custodio would never be able to do with his lame leg. Custodio was there to protect when Walter defied his father and refused to cart manure for their vast fields, Custodio was there to unyoke the mule whenever Walter returned from his long trips, sketching birds? Who knows? Custodio just loved Walter.
And Walter’s daughter collected her material of Walter, thread by thread, skein by skein, should she keep this thread, maybe, should she snip that one, yes. Yes Walter’s daughter wove her own fabric of Walter in her mind. But in the huge deep cupboard in her room, where she had always slept alone even when tiny, Walter’s daughter had his uniform, rough and scratchy but so comforting when things got lonely. When scared of the dark, as she often was, hidden between the mattresses Walter’s daughter had his Smith revolver, it protected her, she had figured out long ago how to arm and disarm it, the revolver kept the monsters of the dark at bay.
Actually on one of his visits home, when his brothers were trying to pay off Walter, so that he would never return to Valmares, Walter had flung a huge wad of money and the revolver on the table. Oh how everyone in the family wanted him to leave, leave they said, go said the father, die please die hoped Francisco Dias silently.
And then strangely, like thieves in the night, os Irmãos Dias started leaving Valmares, spreading all over the world, much like Walter, doing strange back breaking jobs in odd places, Caracas, Vancouver, where are these places? Why is it so cold there? Why is it so hot and dusty there? And most of all why have they squandered their inheritance for such menial tasks? A son of Francisco Dias herding and milking cows? A son of Francisco Dias a miner deep in the bowels of a mine covered in black dust wearing a miner’s hat? A son of Francisco Dias dismantling wooden houses? A son of Francisco Dias running after wagons? What sort of jobs were these? Come back, come back he wrote endless letters, please come back, please please come back he pleaded, but the only one who showed signs of returning was Walter, Walter is returning, no, no, let him die, everything is in a mess here in Valmares, don’t come back Walter, once lush fields lie fallow, olive trees not pruned for ages, cattle dying, your mule long dead. No Walter do not come this is not a place for you, come back, come back please come back he wrote to the Irmãos Dias, all pieces, all threads, all skeins for Walter’s daughter fabric of Walter.
And Walter returns, why? Everyone in a tizzy, Maria Ema dressing and pursing her skilfully painted mouth in a cupids bow, don’t speak, please don’t speak; Walter’s daughter has to collaborate with her mother, the pact of silence. Days of wonder, days of laughter, Custodio’s sons in wonder at the speed at which tio Walter sketches his birds, do one more tio Walter, just one more please, go to bed says Maria Ema their mother…and the rain, rain beating ferociously on the roof, no one can hear a thing……… Maria Ema can take it no longer; the strain is much too much, Walter, Walter, Walter.
And then Walter leaves knowing he will never return, come with me he says to Walter’s daughter, no, no she replies silently.
Come back, come back, writes Francisco Dias to the Irmãos Dias, endless letters, please come back, please please come back he pleads, how can we? write the Irmãos Dias, we have businesses to attend to, they write, dairies, sawmills, real estate, travel agencies, os Irmãos Dias have now moved on, they are respected members of society in those far away countries……but something is bringing them down, dragging them down in squelchy mud, ruining their reputation for which they had worked so hard, so very hard…Walter deep in debt, Walter defrauding his business partners, Walter closing his office, opening another one elsewhere, Walter impregnating a Polish girl, Walter fleeing to Brazil, running to Caracas, letters pouring from os Irmãos Dias, most importantly the terrible way the Soldier’s Blanket has been put to use, women tumbling all over it, the Soldier’s Blanket filthy, smeared, stained, deeply ingrained with Walter’s sins, is it any way to treat a Soldier’s Blanket , a Soldier’s Blanket is the Symbol of a Nation, a deluge of letters driving Francisco Dias to a nervous breakdown. And then terrible, terrible accusations, oh Custodio you are such a fool, so innocent, an affair was going on right under your nose, Maria Ema and Walter of course, you just stayed looking on, sad. Do you know that Walter even threw his own daughter on the Soldier’s Blanket, visited her one night when it was raining so very heavily, oh the scandal, oh the horror, tell us the truth Custodio, the truth, we have a right to know. And Walter's daughter is filled with anger, how could he, how could have told them about his one and only visit to her room. But then maybe, he could have just said, you know I just wanted to be near her, my daughter, and I was guarded, prevented from talking to her, my daughter who I had seen as a toddler. Filled with anger Walter’s daughter decides to confront him, collects, collects and collects information about Walter, writes terrible stories about Walter, goes to meet Walter, surprises him, confronts him only to realise that she loves him deeply, it was always him, always her only comfort when everything was lonely and bleak, his army coat, his revolver were her security against a hostile world.
Walter’s daughter, why don’t you have a name like everyone else does, a name is the most common thing and one’s most sacred possession, even the poorest of the poor have a name Walter’s daughter; yes, you do not have a name, because nobody respects you, you once said to yourself, if had I pointed the Smith at and killed Maria Ema, everyone would have pounced on me, if I had shot Maria Ema’s sons, they would have killed me, but if I point the revolver at Walter’s daughter and kill her no one will even know, they will let my body rot. Who would have allowed a little girl to keep a loaded revolver hidden below the mattress? Yes Walter’s daughter you were an accident, and like accidents unwanted, Maria Ema or her mother should have gotten rid of you in time and then you would have saved the house of Francisco Dias a great deal of embarrassment.
Strangely but, Walter’s daughter, you are the only one who knows how to look after the land that os Irmãos Dias abandoned, you are the only one who can recognise agricultural implements even in the deep of the night just by touching them as you did when you found the right spade to dig a deep hole for Walter’s blanket, the Soldier’s Blanket which was his legacy to you when he died, a clean, sweet smelling blanket that came to you passing through a hundred countries, you buried the Soldier’s Blanket much as one buries her own father with love and respect.

Amor de Perdição.........Camilo Castelo Branco

Amor de Perdição, written by Camilo Castelo Branco in 1861, follows the pattern of all tragedies, passionate love stories, amazing love stories where lovers have absolutely lost all sense of reality; the lovers surmount dreadful obstacles just to be with their loved ones, to achieve happiness in their complex love. Most of the times, this quest for happiness is extremely frustrating; even when together the lovers endure such suffering that you wonder is it worth it?
Camilo Castelo Branco wrote this love story in the space of a fortnight, when he was in prison, facing charges of adultery. Amor de Perdição a tragedy has all the ingredients that turn it into a perpetual heart-rending story with teachers moaning ‘Ai que lindo’, ‘Ai que lindo’ at suitable moments.
Most tragedies focus on the impossible love of two people; Amor de Perdição is no exception it pursues this well trodden path.
Simão Botelho falls passionately in love with Teresa de Albuquerque, both belong to aristocratic families who live in Viseu but all is not roses for the these two families, in fact, the Albuquerques and the Botelhos, detest each other intensely. Why? It all started when Domingos Botelho, a judge passed a judgement against Tadeu de Albuquerque, after that there was no looking back, they hated each other with vehemence. One day as luck would have it, Teresa de Albuquerque was taking a breath of clean, fresh Viseu air at her window; across the narrow street she sees the strapping figure of Simão Botelho, breathing the very same air, could there have been a bigger sign from above.
Passionate love ensues, such long conversations, back and forth, across the narrow street, but the Viseu wind is treacherous, one fine day someone heard these passionate sweet nothings as the wind carried them. All Hell breaks loose. Domingos Botelho cannot believe his son has fallen for that skinny fifteen year old Albuquerque girl, daughter of his sworn enemy. ‘You could do better than that, you idiot’ he says. Domingos Botelho forgets his aristocracy when he yells with his powerful pair of lungs. ‘Tadeu de Albuquerque KEEP YOUR DAUGHTER LOCKED, IF I CATCH HER TALKING TO MY SON I WILL …I WILL, …..words failed him he could not imagine what he would do.
Tadeu de Albuquerque, was smart, he kept his mouth shut, when all he wanted to do was to wring Simão’s neck. Of course I too would want to wring Simão’s neck, that useless lout did nothing, drank, gambled and caused endless trouble for his family. Tadeu de Albuquerque called for his nephew, Baltasar, who was supposed to marry Teresa. Pssst said Tadeu de Albuquerque, ‘you better get here as fast as you can, Teresa loves the guy across the street’, ‘my inheritance’ thinks the chivalrous Baltasar.
Domingos Botelho dispatches Simão to Coimbra, here Simão transforms himself into a model student, all because of Teresa, who writes reams of letters to him. In the meantime, Baltasar does try to win Teresa back, but Teresa stands straight, looks him in the eye and says ‘I love someone else.’ Poor Baltasar in his misguided fashion tries and tries to explain how terrible Simão is. Baltasar, Baltasar my dear could you not see that Teresa is dreadfully in ‘love’ with this guy. Nothing works in the Albuquerque household, no amount of cajoling, bribes; even a lovely party thrown in so that Teresa ‘could forget the lover’ and marry her suitor Baltasar, but NO! Teresa will marry only Simão, Simão, Simão. Fortitude says our Professora, look at the young girl; she knew her mind, forgetting that Teresa had known no other men.
‘Convent’, says Tadeu de Albuquerque, ‘Convent is what is best for you’, pssst thinks maybe she can learn some excellent ‘doçaria conventual’ he had a sweet tooth you see. ‘If that is what you want for me, so be it’ says the dutiful daughter, Fortitude says our Professora wiping a tear from her eye.
Letters to Simão, who like a rabid bull, paces his room.
DO NOT DO ANYTHING RASH SIMÃO, KEEP COOL
SAVE ME! SAVE ME!! I CANNOT STAY HERE ANYMORE
So when Teresa is being transferred from one Convent to another, Simão rushes to her rescue, seeing the unfortunate Baltasar in his way shoots him.
Simão, tells the Police, ‘I have committed this crime, do what you will, I seek no pardon, I desire no help, nor do I desire any money from ANYONE. Psssst by then Simão had acquired a willing slave to do everything for him, procure food for him, wash his clothes and even spend her savings on him, a besotted creature so in love with him knowing deep in her heart that her love would never be repaid, not even acknowledged, for she came from humble, humble origins, daughter of the village blacksmith, Mariana the selfless soul.
Like many rich people, with loads of influence, Simão is not convicted, rather the thug is sent to us here in India so that he can start a new life. It is curtains for the passionate love, Mariana rejoices as she accompanies Simão to the land of heat and dust, he is all mine she thinks, but lovers are lovers and as Teresa waves out a tiny scrap of embroidered linen to Simão from the terrace of the Convent, she collapses O Simão, Simão meu amor she weeps and her soul lifts effortlessly to heaven, O que tragédia weeps our very own Professora, taken up by her own thoughts of love and romance. Simão, gets to know of the terrible but unavoidable occurrence, gets a high fever and dies. And Mariana what of Mariana the selfless soul? Not being able to bear the terrible tragedy, Mariana, flings herself into the sea, in her hands the packet of letters…….

On the face of it we have a tragedy like so many others but is this all that an erudite author like Camilo Castelo Branco wants to put forward? To not delve deeper into this book beyond the sentimental story, beyond the ‘ai que lindo’ is in my opinion a greater tragedy.
Camilo Castelo Branco starts by emphasising the fact this is autobiographical story, Simon was a relative of the family. He goes to great lengths to tell us about how he came to know the story, backed by dates and historical facts, he narrates about a stay at an aunt’s house when he was orphaned at ten.
What Castelo Branco really wants to convey is the environment of the aristocracy during the XVIII and XIX centuries. Teresa takes great pains to explain how empty and full of vice life in Convents really is. In this context the tragic story takes on a different hue, it becomes a sort of a compendium of how aristocracy behaved in the XVIII and XIX Centuries.
We are shown how aristocracy behaved in villages how disparagingly city aristocracy treated village aristocracy.
We realise how much reputation and family traditions were meant to be, much above such mundane sentiments as love. The tragic consequences of what happens when ‘love’ takes precedence over age old family traditions and sentiments, Simão turns into a criminal and dies of unexplained fever, Teresa cloistered in a convent dies because she just refuses to live, Mariana a sensible girl goes mad when she falls in love with Simão and ultimately commits suicide.
Strangely Castelo Branco writes
‘Os poetas cansam-nos a paciência a falarem do amor da mulher aos quinze anos, como paixão perigosa, única e inflexível. Alguns prosadores de romances dizem o mesmo. Enganam-se ambos. O amor aos quinze anos é uma brincadeira; é a última manifestação do amor às bonecas [...]. (p.26)’
Strangely in our hurry and myopic vision we have catalogued Amor de Perdição as just another tragic love story, we refuse to waste our time looking beyond the sentimentalism and finding the true essence of this book and that is the tragedy.

Are the heterónimos coming ?

Do we want to lose track of the heterónimos. Are we going to forget all those hours spent grappling with Ricardo Reis, Alvaro Campos, Alberto Caeiro?
Of course not….Never
Then do meet Dr. José Carlos Seabra Pereira from the Centro Interuniversitário de Estudos Camonianos, University of Coimbra, who will give a talk about everything to do with Fernando Pessoa, Sá-Carneiro and the Generation of Orfeu”.
The talk “Amizade e estratégia modernista no campo literário - Fernando Pessoa, Sá-Carneiro e a geração de Orfeu”is to be held on the 29th August 2011, at 6.30 pm, at the premises of the Instituto Camões, Agva House, 9/32 Dr.Dada Vaidya Road, Panaji.
The talk is preceded by a film, ‘Conversa Acabada’ directed by João Botelho (1982), to be screened at 5.00 pm.
What’s this movie all about? Well you have to see it, but a brief introduction to whet your appetite

Complete Cast of ‘Conversa Acabada
Juliet Berto
Isabel Ruth
Manoel de Oliveira
Isabel de Castro

It was meant to be a documentary, but took twists and turns and evolved into a fictional film. The film, deals with the poems and letters exchanged by the two most outstanding names of the Modernist Movement in Portugal, Fernando Pessoa, who lived in Lisbon and Mário de Sá-Carneiro who lived in Paris. And suddenly, their long intercâmbio stopped, we who have spent endless nights studying Pessoa, know why…..

A chance to listen to a talk given by Dr. José Carlos Seabra Pereira from the Centro Interuniversitário de Estudos Camonianos, University of Coimbra, is a once in a lifetime experience. So do not miss it.

‘ Histórias da Terra e do Mar’ by Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen

A tiny break from the adventures of the Intrepid 10. One windy evening when the sun was shining brightly, it was just 20.30hrs. Maureen lent me her copy of 'Histórias da Terra e do Mar’ by Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen. Now I am a sucker for Sophia, her stories hardly have well constructed plots, but her descriptions leave me breathless, every pormenor, every sight, every smell are there for you to savour. This book is no different.
Just five short stories which transport you to a land where you can hear waves crashing, feel the sand between your toes, see the dunes and even smell the salt in the air.
"História da Gata Borralheira" is a take on the story of Cinderella and the glass slipper, but unlike Cinderella this Gata Borralheira does not live happily ever, frankly who does. For every joy, for every new dress a price is extracted from her. Makes you wonder if all the riches were worth it.
"O Silêncio" is heart breaking; you hear the scream much after it has died down.
"A Casa do Mar" my favourite, here Sophia excels, there is no plot just the description of a house which opens all its corners, nooks and crannies. Reveals all its secrets for you. You live the story of the house.
"Saga" the story of Hans and his burning desire to be a sailor, his triumph as well as his bitter loss.
"Vila d'Arcos" narrates the story of a once palatial house now in disrepair but a house that still manages to keep its respect and its grandeur.
Sophia the realist tells you that nothing in life comes for free. Sophia the lover of sea takes us to a world where you can feel the sea and all its power around you.