If I Close My Eyes Now (18 page)

‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Maria Rosa. Sister Maria Rosa.’

‘A pretty name.’

‘It’s not the name I was baptized with, obviously. You know we have to choose one when we take our vows, don’t you?’

He nodded.

‘I chose Rosa, because that is St Teresa’s flower. Maria because it’s the name of the mother of God.’

‘Of Jesus,’ he replied automatically, before realizing what he had said.

‘Of Jesus,’ she agreed. ‘In other words, of God.’

He restrained himself. Sister Maria Rosa continued on her way out.

‘Wait!’

The nun halted.

‘My name …’

She looked at him expectantly.

‘My name is Ubiratan.’

‘I know. See you later, Mr Ubiratan.’

‘Until this evening, Sister Maria Rosa.’

‘Ah!’ She seemed to remember something, before she disappeared among the other inmates. ‘There’s no need to wear your cassock.’

THE BELL RANG
for the end of lessons. Mademoiselle Célia, as the French teacher demanded to be called, ignored the loud ringing and the hubbub in the classroom as the pupils gathered up their books, textbooks, pencils, rubbers and pens, stuffing them into their briefcases and bags, anxious to leave as quickly as possible. Her young audience might be indifferent to Corneille’s sonorous verses, but Mademoiselle had no intention of breaking off her reading of
Le Cid
. She had reached Act Two, Scene Eight, which never failed to move her: Chimène’s father has just been killed by Don Rodrigue, the man she loved. With her arm stretched out towards the class in the way she imagined Don Gómez’s daughter must have done to the King of Castille, she went on:

‘ “
Je l’ai trouvé sans vie. Excusez ma douleur, Sire, la voix me manque à ce récit funeste
.” ’

She shut the small, blue-bound book, and closed her eyes. She wiped away a tear before it ran down her cheek.

‘ “
Mes pleurs et mes soupirs vous diront mieux le reste
.” ’

She opened her eyes, and clutched the book to her meagre chest.

‘In the next lesson,’ she told them, ‘we’ll discuss the following question:
comment Chimène et Don Diègue cherchent d’abord à émouvoir le roi avant de presenter des arguments
. And bring today’s dictation properly translated.’

Those pupils who owned real leather briefcases – a rare and unmistakable symbol of the economic power of the children of a higher social class in this state school – displayed them proudly on their desktops.

‘
Très bien
, class dismissed,’ Mademoiselle announced, turning her back on them, gathering up her bag, books and class register from the desk, and leaving the classroom as well.

Eduardo was still sitting there, head down. The room emptied. A short while later, Paulo came running back in.

‘Aren’t you going home? What’s the matter?’

Without raising his head, Eduardo tried to answer. He wanted to explain how confused he felt by all the things beyond their control, to ask for help to understand Dona Madalena’s death, the headmaster’s threat of expulsion, the risk of their futures being destroyed, his mother’s moans and his father’s growls the night before, the horror of discovering the existence of a poverty far worse than he had ever imagined or read about in books. All he managed to say was:

‘We’re in a really tight spot.’

He looked up. Paulo didn’t seem any more worried than if his team had just let a goal in, and there were still thirty minutes of the game left.

‘We’ll find a way,’ he said.

‘But you don’t understand, Paulo! They want to get rid of us!’

‘Who are “they”?’

‘Them, Paulo. Them. The headmaster, the factory owner, the mayor. The … Them! Them!’

‘Who are they, Eduardo? It was only the headmaster who threatened to expel us. We didn’t do anything wrong. All we did was go and talk to Aparecida’s grandmother.’

Again, Eduardo tried to say more than he actually understood. But all he could translate into words was:

‘Let’s go. My mother’s expecting me for lunch.’

They greeted one another with strict formality. They called each other by their first names, but said ‘Mr’ and ‘Sister’ first. They would have liked to feel more at ease, but found it impossible. Out of shyness, or from being unaccustomed to finding themselves alone with someone of the opposite sex, or because they knew this was far more important than a mere friendly visit, because they were aware that they both knew far more about the other than they admitted, yet did not know how to deal with this involuntary familiarity.

She pointed to an armchair, and he sat down. She went to the drinks tray, poured two glasses, gave him one, put hers on the side table and sat opposite him. Then she immediately stood up, went back to the drinks, took the bottle and put it beside his glass, next to a pile of papers.

‘Serve yourself whenever you like, Mr Ubiratan.’

He nodded his head, thanking her.

‘We were honoured with a visit from our pastor, Mr Ubiratan.’

‘Please just call me Ubiratan, without the “Mr”.’

She didn’t even seem to be aware of his request.

‘His worship the bishop paid us the honour of a visit very early this morning, Mr Ubiratan.’

‘You don’t need to call me—’

‘We were on our way to the refectory for breakfast,’ Sister Maria Rosa went on, ‘with the young girls in the orphanage, when we were informed that the monsignor was waiting for us.’

‘This morning?’

‘Very early. Straight after the first prayers in the chapel. He was waiting for me in this very room. Dom Tadeu was accompanied by a young man. A nephew: I think he was a nephew; the fair-haired youngster who always accompanies him and acts as his chauffeur.’

There was nothing malicious about the way she said this, but Ubiratan noticed that for some reason the information about the bishop’s companion was emphasized. He could not think what that might be.

‘The youngster went out of the room as soon as I came in. He left without even saying hello.’

Ubiratan drank his drink and served himself another one, waiting for Sister Maria Rosa to go on.

‘Above and beyond the unusual honour of a visit at that time of day, the bishop wanted to give me those papers.’ She pointed to the pile of mimeographed sheets next to the drinks tray. ‘Would you like to take a look at them?’

‘
Mater
…’ The old man tried to read what was written on the top sheet of paper.

‘…
et Magistra. Mater et Magistra
. “Mother and Teacher” in Latin. Do you understand Latin?’ she asked, picking up the sheets.

‘No, sister. And I don’t see the link between—’

‘It’s the new papal encyclical,
Mater et Magistra
,’ she explained, leafing through the papers. ‘Mother and guide is what the Catholic Church aims to be under Pope John XXIII. Welcoming, protecting and guiding. I imagine you are familiar with the ideas and changes Pope John XXIII is proposing.’

‘Don’t be offended, sister, but I’m not interested in anything that comes from the Vatican. I am still disgusted at Pope Pius XII’s indifference to the extermination of Jews, gypsies and homosexuals under the Third Reich, which seems to me just as criminal as—’

‘I’m not talking about Pius XII,’ she interrupted him, ‘but about his successor, John XXIII.’ She searched through the papers again. ‘The new pope is the son of poor agricultural workers, a very different background to his predecessor’s. His ideas are also radically different from those of Pius XII. This encyclical,
Mater et Magistra
, was issued by the new pope and clearly shows the difference. That is, it will be issued by the new pope, and will show … because it has not yet been published outside the clergy. Ah, here it is! Can I read this passage for you?’

She went on immediately, giving him no chance to answer:

‘It says as follows: “In some of these lands the enormous
wealth, the unbridled luxury, of the privileged few stands in violent, offensive contrast to the utter poverty of the vast majority.”’

She looked directly at Ubiratan.

‘Do you know our bishop? He comes from a family of wealthy landowners. One of his uncles was the state governor appointed by Getúlio Vargas, and he had a decisive influence over Dr Diógenes’s career.’

‘Dr who?’

‘Diógenes. The father of the current city mayor.’

‘So there’s a link between their families …’

‘The bishop and the mayor were in a seminary together,’ she said, looking down at the bundle of papers she was now holding against her chest. ‘Let me read you this other part: “Clearly, this sort of development in social relationships brings many advantages in its train. It makes it possible for the individual to exercise many of his personal rights, especially those which we call economic and social and which pertain to the necessities of life.”’

She paused.

‘You seem astonished.’

‘So that pope of yours is preaching the benefits of socialism? He’s talking about human rights? Have I understood correctly, sister? How did that passage about luxury you read earlier go?’

‘ “In some of these lands the enormous wealth, the unbridled luxury, of the privileged few stands in violent, offensive contrast to the utter poverty of the vast majority.” ’

‘The Vatican recognizing the poverty of the majority?
Criticizing the luxury and wealth of the few? It’s hard to believe a prince of the Church wrote that.’

‘More than a prince. The pope himself. John XXIII. Angelo Roncalli. A man from a poor background. Extremely poor.’

‘Why then did the bishop … ?’

‘The bishop is part of what we might call the more conservative wing of the Holy Mother Church.’

‘Yet he came to bring you …’

‘The bishop brought us the new papal encyclical, which has not yet been published, and you are wondering what made him do that.’

‘Yes, especially as he is not part of the …’

‘Progressive wing of the Church?’

‘Exactly.’

Sister Maria Rosa shrugged her shoulders, still holding the by now jumbled papers. Some of them fell to the floor. Ubiratan made to pick them up, but she stopped him with a hand gesture.

‘These pages, Mr Ubiratan, serve to remind me of the goodness and charity that have always characterized our Church and, shall we say, the Catholic elite. Virtues that made possible the survival and education of abandoned children. Children like me. Like Aparecida. You know that this orphanage was founded by the mayor’s grandfather, don’t you? The boys’ orphanage, where Renato was brought up, was also established thanks to donations made by that grandfather. A pious man, devoted to St Rita de Cássia, as the monsignor reminded me. He was a bosom friend of another good Catholic, the emperor Dom Pedro II, and of the military leaders who proclaimed the Brazilian
Republic in 1889. He was one of the first senators of the so-called “milky coffee republic”, thanks to his friendship with President Afonso Pena. His son Diógenes followed in his footsteps and also became a senator. And, as you are aware, a close collaborator of Getúlio Vargas.’

‘From what you’re telling me, the Marques Torres family has been close to the seat of power for a very long time.’

‘Ever since the Second Empire. Even before that. Yes. And more so during the New State. Of course, the secondary school is an initiative of Senator Marques Torres, when Getúlio was still alive, at the start of the 1950s. So too is the asphalt road linking us to the capital. The family has been public-spirited for many years. It began with the construction of the first electricity power plant here, thanks to the mayor’s grandfather, so beloved of the emperor. A power plant that led to the arrival of the textile, lace and lathe factories, which in turn directly created hundreds of jobs and, with the passage of time, thousands more indirectly. Industries and jobs that helped promote the lengthy political career of Senator Marques Torres and his support for Getúlio Vargas.’

Ubiratan took a box of matches out of his jacket pocket, and then a rolled-up cigarette. He showed it to the nun, as if asking her permission to smoke. She went over to the table, took an ashtray out of a drawer and gave it to Ubiratan, before sitting down again.

‘The history of this region’s progress is intimately linked to the history of the Marques Torres family. The arrival of the first Italian settlers in Brazil is also due to them. The emperor’s wife, Dona Teresa Cristina, was from Naples, and she made sure that
the immigrants, many of them from her father’s kingdom of Sicily, were brought here to work on the coffee plantations owned by her husband’s friend and his friends.’

‘The bishop told you all this,’ Ubiratan concluded, blowing out smoke.

‘Yes.’

‘Making it very clear that …’

‘In short, Mr Ubiratan, the Marques Torres family is responsible for so many and such a variety of benefits enjoyed by the people of this region over so many years, and in particular the most needy among them, that the monsignor believes – thinks – that where certain matters concerning important members representing the best in our community, the monsignor thinks – and so he told me – that certain matters should be left to the competent authorities.’