The Double Death of Quincas Water-Bray (3 page)

It was with scant pleasure that the daughter and
son-in-law listened to those details about the black woman and the herbs, the gropings, and the
candomblé
. They nodded their heads as they hurried the image vendor along. He was a calm man, and he liked to tell a story in full. He was the only one who knew about Quincas’s relatives, revealed to him once during a night of heavy drinking, and that was why he’d come. He put on a remorseful face and proffered his heartfelt condolences.

It was time for Leonardo to leave for the office, so he told his wife, “You go on ahead over there. I’ll stop by the office and won’t be long in joining you. I’ve got to sign in. I’ll talk to the boss.”

They invited in the image vendor and offered him a chair in the living room. Vanda went to change her clothes. The vendor was talking to Leonardo about Quincas. There was nobody on the Ladeira do Tabuão who didn’t like him. Why did he take up that life of a tramp, a man from a good family and property, as the vendor could see after having the pleasure of getting to know his daughter and son-in-law? Some kind of trouble? It must have been. Maybe his wife had been two-timing him; that happens a lot—and the vendor put his forefingers to his head in an imitation of horns, his way of asking a lewd kind of question: Had he guessed right?

“Dona Otacília, my mother-in-law, was a saint of a woman!”

The vendor scratched his chin: Why then? But Leonardo didn’t answer. He went to take care of Vanda, who was calling him from the bedroom.

“We’ve got to notify—”

“Notify? Who? Why?”

“Aunt Marocas and Uncle Eduardo…the neighbors. Send out invitations to the funeral…”

“Why do we have to let the neighbors know now? We’ll tell them later. If not, there’ll be a damned lot of talk.”

“But Aunt Marocas…”

“I’ll talk to her and Eduardo…after I stop by the office. Hurry up or else this guy who came with the news will go spreading it all over town.”

“Who could have thought? Dying like that, with nobody—”

“Whose fault is it? His own, the damned nut.”

In the living room the image vendor was admiring a color photo of Quincas. It was an old one, from some fifteen years before. A dignified gentleman in a stiff collar, with a black tie, a mustache with pointed tips, shiny hair, and ruddy cheeks. Next to it, in an identical frame, with an accusing look and hard mouth, was Dona Otacília, wearing a black lace dress. The vendor studied her sour face.
She doesn’t have the look of someone who’s been cheating on her husband. On the other hand, she must have been a tough bone to gnaw.…Sainted woman? I don’t believe it.

Only a few people from the neighborhood were there looking at the corpse when Vanda arrived. The image vendor informed them in a soft voice, “This is his daughter. He had a daughter, a son-in-law, a brother, and a sister. Distinguished people. His son-in-law is a civil servant. He lives in Itapagipe in a fine home.”

They drew back to let her through, waiting with curiosity for her to fling herself onto the corpse, to embrace it and cover herself with tears, perhaps even to sob. On the cot, Quincas Water-Bray, in his old mended pants, his tattered shirt, a grease-stained vest that was too large for him, was smiling as though enjoying it all. Vanda stood there, motionless, looking at the unshaven face, the filthy hands, the great toe coming through the hole in his sock. She had no tears left to weep or sobs to fill the room. Both had been used up in the early days of Quincas’s madness, when she had made repeated attempts to bring him back to the home he’d abandoned. Now all she could do was look, her cheeks blushing with shame.

He didn’t make a very presentable corpse: the body of a tramp who’d just happened to die, with no decorum in his death, no respect, lying there and cynically laughing at her, at Leonardo certainly, at the rest of the family. A cadaver for the morgue, to go off in the black police hearse and later
serve students at the medical school in their practice sessions, to be buried finally in a shallow grave with no cross or headstone. It was the corpse of Quincas Water-Bray, drunkard, scoffer, and gambler, with no family or home, no flowers or prayers. It wasn’t Joaquim Soares da Cunha, a proper civil servant at the State Bureau of Revenue, retired after twenty-five years of good and loyal service; a model husband whom everybody tipped his hat to and whose hand everybody shook. How could a man at the age of fifty abandon his family, his home, the habits of a lifetime, his circle of friends, to wander the streets, get drunk in cheap bars, frequent houses of prostitution, go about filthy and unshaven, live in a disgraceful hovel, sleep on a miserable cot? Vanda could find no valid explanation. Many times at night after the death of Dona Otacília—not even on that solemn occasion had Quincas deigned to return to the company of his people—she had discussed the matter with her husband. It wasn’t insanity, at least not insanity of the asylum kind—the doctors were unanimous in that. How could it be explained, then?

But now all that had come to an end—that nightmare over the years, that stain on family dignity. Vanda had inherited a certain practical sense from her mother, a capacity for making quick decisions and carrying them out. As she stood staring at the dead man, that unpleasant caricature of what had once been her father, she was deciding what to do. First, call the doctor for the death certificate. Then, dress the body decently and have it carried to their home. Bury it beside Otacília after a not too expensive funeral (times were hard), one that wouldn’t make them look bad in the eyes of friends, neighbors, or Leonardo’s colleagues. Aunt Marocas and Uncle Eduardo would help. As she was pondering all this with her eyes fixed on Quincas’s smiling face, Vanda wondered what was going to
become of her father’s pension. Would they inherit it, or would it just go back into the pension fund? Maybe Leonardo could find out.…

She turned toward the onlookers, who were staring at her. They were part of that rabble from Tabuão, the riffraff in whose company Quincas found pleasure. What were they doing there? Didn’t they understand that Quincas Water-Bray had ceased to exist the moment he exhaled his last breath? That he had been nothing but an invention of the Devil? A bad dream? A nightmare? Joaquim Soares da Cunha would once again return to be among his people for a short time, in the comfort of a proper home, reinstalled in his respectability. The time for his return had arrived, and this time Quincas couldn’t laugh in the face of his daughter and son-in-law, telling them to go peddle their potatoes, bidding them a sarcastic “bye-bye” and going off whistling. He was lying there on the cot, not moving. Quincas Water-Bray was all through.

Vanda lifted her head, took a victorious look at those present, and demanded, in that voice of Otacília’s, “Is there something you want? If not, you can leave now.” Then, speaking to the image vendor: “Would you please do me a favor and call a doctor? It’s for the death certificate.”

The vendor nodded. He was impressed. The others slowly left. Vanda was left alone with the corpse. Quincas Water-Bray was smiling, and the great toe of his right foot seemed to be growing larger in the hole in his sock.

She looked for a place to sit down. All there was beside the cot was an empty kerosene can. Vanda stood it up, blew the dust off, and sat down. How long was it going to take the doctor to get there? And what about Leonardo? She imagined her husband at the office, clumsily explaining to the boss the unexpected death of his father-in-law. Leonardo’s boss had known Joaquim during his good days at the State Bureau of Revenue, so how could someone who’d known and respected him have imagined his end? These would be difficult moments for Leonardo, talking about the old man’s madness, trying to find some explanation for it. The worst of it would be the news spreading among his colleagues, whispered from desk to desk as faces took on wicked little smiles, uncouth tales told, tasteless comments made. That father had been a cross to bear, making their lives a calvary, but now they had come to the top of the hill, and all that was needed was a little more patience. Vanda got a glimpse of the dead man out of the corner of her eye. There he was, smiling, finding all of that exceedingly amusing.

It’s a sin to get angry at a dead man, especially so if he’s your father. Vanda restrained herself. She was religious; she attended the Bonfim church. A bit of a spiritualist too, she
believed in reincarnation. Besides, Quincas’s smile didn’t matter all that much now. She was in charge at last, and he would shortly go back to being the proper Joaquim Soares da Cunha, the irreproachable good citizen.

The image vendor returned with the doctor, a young fellow, obviously a recent graduate, as it was still hard for him to appear as a full and competent physician. The image vendor pointed to the dead man, and the doctor nodded to Vanda, opening his shiny new leather satchel. Vanda got up and moved the kerosene can away.

“What did he die of?”

It was the image vendor who explained: “They found him dead, just the way he is here.”

“Was he ill?”

“I don’t know. No, sir. I’ve known him for maybe ten years, and he was always healthy as an ox. Unless, doctor…”

“Yes?”

“…you can call cachaça a sickness. He could toss off a good bit of it. He was pretty good at drinking.”

Vanda coughed, concerned.

The doctor addressed her: “Did he work for you, ma’am?”

There was a brief, heavy silence. Her voice came from afar. “He was my father.”

A young doctor, still inexperienced in life, he took measure of Vanda with his eyes, noted her proper attire, her neatness, her high heels. Then he looked back at the dead man and the indescribable poverty of that absolutely miserable room.

“Did he live here?”

“We did everything to get him to come home. He was…”

“Crazy?”

Vanda shrugged. She felt like crying. The doctor didn’t
go on. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began his examination. He leaned his head over and said, “He’s smiling, hah! The face of a jokester.”

Vanda closed her eyes and clutched her hands, her face red with shame.

The family conference didn’t last long. They discussed matters over the table of a restaurant in the Baixa dos Sapateiros. Along the busy streets the crowds were passing, happy and hurried. Right opposite was a movie theater. The corpse had been turned over to an undertaking establishment owned by a friend of Uncle Eduardo’s. A 20 percent discount.

Uncle Eduardo was explaining, “What’s really expensive is the coffin. And the cars, if there’s a big turnout. A fortune. They won’t even let you die today.”

In a shop nearby they bought some new clothes (the material wasn’t all that great, but, as Uncle Eduardo said, it was still too good to be eaten by worms): a pair of black shoes, a white shirt, a tie, and a pair of socks. There was no need for any underwear. Eduardo was jotting down every expense in a little notebook. He was master at cutting corners; his business prospered.

In the skillful hands of the specialists from the funeral parlor, Quincas Water-Bray was going back to being Joaquim Soares da Cunha while his relatives were eating fish stew in the restaurant and discussing the funeral arrangements. The only matter open to argument was one detail: Where would the coffin leave from?

Vanda had planned to bring the body home and hold the
wake in the living room, serving coffee and drinks for those present during the night. Calling Father Roque to bless the corpse. Holding the burial early in the morning so that a lot of people could come: colleagues from his office, old acquaintances, friends of the family. Leonardo was against it. Why bring the dead man home? Why invite friends and neighbors, inconveniencing a lot of people? So everyone could remember the wild things he had done in his unspeakable life of the last few years? To expose the family’s shame to the whole world? That’s how it had gone in his office that morning. They didn’t talk about anything else. Every one of them knew some story about Quincas and would tell it with gales of laughter. He himself, Leonardo, had never imagined his father-in-law could have done so many and such wild things. Every one was enough to make your hair stand on end.…Not to mention that a lot of people thought Quincas was dead and buried or maybe living in the interior of the state. And what about the children? They had venerated the memory of an exemplary grandfather who was resting in God’s holy peace, and all of a sudden their parents would be coming home carrying the corpse of a tramp, tossing him under the nose of the innocent children. And what about all the hard work they would have to do, and the mounting expenses of a funeral in addition to those of the burial and the new clothes, the new shoes. He, Leonardo, was in need of a pair of shoes. He’d sent out his very old pair to have half soles put on in order to save money. Now, with this splurge, how could he even be thinking about a new pair of shoes?

Aunt Marocas, a rather plump lady, in adoration of the fish stew they served in the restaurant, was of the same opinion. “The best thing would be to spread the word that he died in the interior, that we got a telegram. Then people could be invited to the seventh-day mass. Anyone who
wants to can come, and we won’t be obliged to provide transportation.”

Vanda stopped eating. “In spite of all the trouble he’s caused, he
is
my father. I don’t want him to be buried like some tramp. If he were your father, would you like it, Leonardo?”

Uncle Eduardo wasn’t all that sentimental. “So just what has he been, if not a tramp? And one of the worst in Bahia. Even though he’s my brother, I can’t deny that.”

Aunt Marocas belched, her belly full, her heart too. “Poor Joaquim…He had a good nature. He never did anything out of meanness. He liked that life. Everyone has his own fate. He was like that ever since he was a child. Once—do you remember, Eduardo?—he tried to run off with a circus. He got a whipping that would have curled your hair.” She patted Vanda, who was sitting next to her, on the thigh, as if to excuse herself. “And your mother, my dear, she
was
a bit bossy. So one day he just took off. He told me he wanted to be free, like a bird. He really was a funny man.”