If I Close My Eyes Now (11 page)

‘I bet she did, Paulo.’

‘Not washing the clothes.’

‘All right then, so she had a washerwoman who went there to wash the clothes for her, and iron them. But she had to look after the house.’

‘All women look after their houses.’

‘All women have help. It’s only if they’re very poor that they don’t. My mother has someone who comes twice a week.’

‘And they know everything that goes on in the house.’

Eduardo paused, thinking he had made a great discovery. Paulo went into the changing room on his own. He dived into the chaos of a couple of dozen sweaty, noisy boys who had just come in from a game of football. They were too busy shouting opinions and insults to notice the arrival of a dark-haired boy with crumpled clothes, or of another skinny, pale-faced one a few moments later.

‘What did they get up to that they didn’t want even a maid to know?’ Eduardo wondered.

‘Black magic. Spells with the teeth he pulled.’

‘If you were the lover of rich men …’ Eduardo went on, ignoring Paulo’s suggestion, ‘wouldn’t you ask them for things?’

‘Money?’

‘No, not money. Presents.’

‘What kind of presents?’

‘The old man mentioned jewels. Rich men give their lovers jewels.’

‘She didn’t have any. We talked about that yesterday, remember?’

A new group burst into the changing room: a volleyball team. Some were laughing, others pushing and shoving, all of them shouting. They were pleased they had just won their game. Eduardo was tying his running shoes when a big, tall boy almost knocked him over on his way to the showers. The boy didn’t even notice.

Eduardo finished changing. Now he was wearing blue shorts and running shoes with a white T-shirt and stockings. He folded his other clothes and stowed them in one of the yellow Formica lockers lining the wall. He locked it, put the key band round his wrist. Paulo, who was wearing identical sports kit, threw his clothes into the bottom locker, but didn’t bother to lock it. As he was heading to the exit, Eduardo took him by the arm:

‘You say you’re poor …’

‘I am. You know that.’

‘But you want to be rich …’

‘Don’t you? Everybody does.’

‘That’s right! Can’t you see? That’s why we can’t understand Dona Anita.’

‘Aparecida.’

‘Dona Aparecida. Everyone wants to be rich, and yet she … She only went with rich people; she even changed her name – she changed it from a poor person’s to a rich woman’s name … she must have wanted to be like them. She must have
wanted to have things of her own, nice things, things every woman wants. She was the lover of the factory owner, the mayor, of the …’

‘Rich people.’

‘So she ought to have wanted … things, shouldn’t she? She ought to have …’

But yet again he couldn’t complete his reasoning. Yet again he came up against the brick wall of the adult world, behind which operated rules beyond his comprehension. They walked on in silence.

‘There are people who don’t want anything,’ said Paulo. ‘My father’s like that. He’s got no ambition, no desires, nothing.’

‘But he’s old. He’s at least forty.’

‘Forty-six.’

‘There’s no point wanting anything by the time you’re forty-six. You’re not going to change anything at that age. But the dentist’s wife was twenty-four. She wasn’t old yet. So why … ?’

‘Have you noticed that all we do is ask questions and more questions?’

By now they were out in the corridor again, indistinguishable from the other boys in sports outfits pushing their way along to the yard. They mixed with their classmates. The girls were lined up in an orderly fashion, in pairs, threesomes, quartets. They were giggling or whispering in each other’s ears, while the boys glanced at them out of the corner of their eyes and gathered on the far side of the yard. The PE teacher’s assistant soon came to organize them in groups according to how tall they were. This always annoyed
Paulo, because he was inevitably put with younger boys.

‘We could go back to the scene of the crime and …’ said Eduardo. ‘And …’

He couldn’t think how to finish his sentence.

‘Again?’

‘How about the dentist’s house then?’

‘Once more?’

‘The orphanage?’

‘What for?’

‘To find a lead.’

‘What lead?’

‘That’s where she was brought up.’

‘That’s not a lead. She was a child. She was still called Aparecida. The blonde woman the rich men knew was born later. And besides, they wouldn’t let us in.’

‘Perhaps we could go back to the municipal archive. Maybe there’s some secret document about the dentist?’

‘If it’s secret, how are we going to know it exists?’

‘We could look.’

‘In which bit of the archive?’

‘In the … in the …’

‘In the what?’

No argument could outweigh Paulo’s annoyance at the sight of their younger classmates lining up spontaneously like a trained flock of sheep.

A burly adult in a tracksuit came out of the corridor and trotted over to them. Everyone fell silent.

‘What if our old man …’ Eduardo started to say, when he saw the assistant coming over. He had to be quick, before
he and Paulo were separated. ‘Have you taken your first communion?’

Paulo didn’t understand.

‘First communion, catechism, religious studies? Do you know Father Basilio, the one from that little church near your house?’

Lined up with the smallest pupils, Paulo had to keep his eyes to the front, as all the boys in the line were doing. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Eduardo whisper something more about that ridiculous question concerning catechism classes.

The nun took two glasses from the tray with the liqueur bottles, filled them with the golden, sticky liquid, and brought them over to the armchair where the white-haired man was seated.

‘Rose liqueur,’ she explained, holding out one of the glasses. ‘Prepared by our sisters here in the orphanage.’

He hesitated. Do priests drink? Could he accept it?

‘You’ll like it,’ she insisted, without being sure exactly which direction his eyes were pointing in. ‘It’s very smooth.’

The cassock was uncomfortable. The coarse material was itchy, and made him sweat. There was not much furniture in the director of the Santa Rita de Cássia orphanage’s windowless office. Faded paint was flaking off the walls. There were four battered metal filing cabinets with patches of rust on them.

‘We depend on donations,’ said the nun, noticing him gazing erratically around the room. ‘As you can see, there haven’t been that many.’

‘I wasn’t …’

‘Everything has become very expensive since they built Brasilia. The inflation in recent years has hit us badly. In hard times, charity is the first thing people cut back on.’

She brought the glass closer to him.

‘It has a very delicate flavour, Father …’

‘Basilio!’ he quickly added, using the name of the priest whose cassock Paulo and Eduardo had stolen.

He took the glass, sipped the liquid.

‘Father Basilio da Gama. As I was saying, I was her confessor. Dona Anita’s, that is.’

The bloom of youth and health on her black skin was emphasized by the starched white bandeau round her face. She was still standing next to him.

‘I never knew the lady. Anita. Or Aparecida. That’s her name in our files. As you perhaps were aware. Were you? I imagine so. I never saw her. I don’t know many people in the city. Not yet. I’ve only been director here for five months. I came from Andrelândia: do you know it? It’s about three hundred kilometres from here, in the state of Minas Gerais. I know few people here. I go out very little. We go out very little. Our work is inside the orphanage.’

‘So you don’t know anything about her?’

The liqueur was sweet, cloying. He drank it down in one gulp: it was easier that way.

‘On the contrary. I think I know a lot. Would you like a little more?’

Without waiting for a reply, she took his glass and walked over to the drinks tray. She filled it, and brought it to him. She had not touched her own.

‘As her confessor, you must have heard of the … In confession that lady must have told you the … hmm … let’s say the … most physical part of the life she led. The carnal aspect. I’m not judging, Father Basilio. Let’s be clear. I’m not doing that. That’s not for me to do. And I wouldn’t do so. No, absolutely not. Besides, I never even saw her.’

‘But you said that …’ he suggested, after downing his second glass of liqueur.

‘That I know a lot about her. Yes. Apart from all the inevitable gossip that has reached me since the murder. Yes. I think I do. Some more liqueur?’

She served him without waiting for his agreement. She had still not touched her own glass.

‘Have you ever had to deal with orphans?’

‘With orphans? Really, I …’

‘The girl inmates learn to sew, embroider, darn, wash, iron, clean, cook … They also study, of course. But the aim of a girl’s education in an orphanage is to make her useful. Useful. That’s the word most often heard in here. Useful. A useful education. To turn her into a useful woman. So that she can survive in the outside world when she has to leave here.’

He picked up his glass, and let the liqueur roll round his tongue before swallowing it. It didn’t seem so cloying any more.

‘The world is a frightening thing for a girl brought up in here, Father Basilio. I imagine you’ve never had to cope with children from homes like this, have you?’

Not knowing what he should say, he held out the empty glass. The nun took it, but didn’t move.

‘To anyone brought up in a home, the world outside …’

She twisted the glass in her fingers, as though measuring it. Placing it on the table by his armchair, she brought the bottle over and filled his glass again.

‘To a girl from an orphanage, Father Basilio, all the people out there seem rich. Well educated, well dressed. All of them. Sure of themselves. Sure of their place in the world. All of them. Better prepared for life. More deserving. More worthwhile. Prettier, healthier, happier. In short, they seem …’

She handed him the glass.

‘Better.’

She smiled wanly at him.

‘Faced with life outside, a girl has two options. One is to leave here. To go out into a world that enchants and terrifies her. Entrusted to one of those people who are better than she is. To protect her. Give her a home. Look after her. Transform her. To reveal this world full of pleasures and possibilities to her. The other …’

She hesitated.

‘The other … ?’

‘The other is never to leave.’

She fell silent, standing still in front of him. An awkward silence filled the room.

‘Sister, you …’

‘I was brought up in an orphanage, near Belo Horizonte.’

She raised her glass to her lips, tilted it slightly, took a little sip.

‘I’m not ashamed of that. On the contrary.’

‘You said before that—’

She interrupted him.

‘This is a strange city. Have you been here long?’

‘No, not long. I came to the St Simon home a little more than …’ He paused, realizing the mistake he had made.

‘Ah, you work with elderly people. Are they part of your parish?’

‘You could put it like that,’ he replied, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. ‘But you were saying that …’

‘This city. I don’t know if you are aware of it. Here people are … Not all of them. It’s simply an impression. That I had. Have. Not everyone. No. Here they are a bit … Some of them. A little … In this region, you know … Before the textile factory existed. Before that. When this region was one of the main coffee-producing regions in Brazil. As you know, there were big coffee estates here. In the last century. Throughout this region. During the first and second empires. The coffee barons. Huge fortunes. Large plantations. With lots of … slaves. They depended on them. On slaves. On slave labour. All this region. It was one of the biggest purchasers of … what did they call them? Specimens. That was what the estate owners called the men and women bought in Africa and shipped here. Like my grandparents. Or great-grandparents. Specimens. When slavery finished, these specimens and their owners …’

What was she driving at? Why was she saying all this? Why didn’t she look at him? Why was she hesitating?

‘Anyone who has bought specimens,’ she said, transferring the glass to her other hand, ‘possibly doesn’t much like the idea of living alongside them. As equals. Not here. In this city. I don’t think they are accustomed to it. As if it had never happened. Never happened to them … A chattel, a possession, isn’t a person. A specimen isn’t a person. Will never be seen as one. Don’t you agree?’

She shifted her glass back to her right hand. Stiff, her body not moving in the slightest. Only her shoulders seemed to have lifted a little.

‘You’re dark-skinned, Father Basilio. That’s acceptable. Please, don’t be offended.’

‘I don’t …’

‘A dark skin is acceptable. There are dark-skinned Portuguese. People with Moorish ancestors. Africans, as you know. But their descendants were born in Europe. They mixed with Romans, Spaniards, Goths, Visigoths, who knows what? But “specimens” are different. They’re still not accustomed here to living alongside people of my colour. With people of my colour in a position such as mine. You, for example. No, don’t deny it. You’re obviously not comfortable in my presence. I can tell. Your reluctance to take the glass I offered you. The way you’re shifting in the chair. The cassock you’re constantly fidgeting with. And you’re sweating.’