My first love had been the beautiful Judith who
had taught me my letters as I sat on her lap. Now my eight year old heart beat
even more violently. Some relations from Recife had come to stay with us on the
plantation. They were people who never took their socks off from morning to
night. They spoke French to one another, and talked about the theatre; such and
such a tenor was such a handsome man. Madamoiselle So and So was a wonderful
actress, so chic!
Uncle João’s daughters upturned the peaceful
habits of the main house. They lived on warm baths, giving plenty of works to
the maids. They read books whilst sitting on the swing. Cobwebs were swept from
the ceilings. All creepy-crawlies expelled. The black boys spent the days
occupied in chasing away toads from the off the flagstones outside. If these
girls saw a cockroach they ran about screaming.
Their presence even got to us. We began taking
our shoes off when we came in the house. Aunt Maria bent over backwards to
please them, fearing the criticism of our civilized relations. One of them
wrote a letter to a friend telling them that Santa Rosa was inhabited by
bumpkins. They filled the house with their swooning and their perfumes. On a
Sunday they put their hats on and went to mass at Pilar. And on the way they
ticked off the workers because, although they were only a couple of miles from
church, they preferred to stay at home.
“José Paulino is a heretic and brings up these
people here like beasts. Clarisse’s little boy hasn’t even taken his first
communion.”
My grandfather would listen to these cousins
with the serene smile of the just. With his good heart he felt himself to be
the friend of God. The complaints of these devout cousins did not prick his
conscience.
Santa Rosa, with Uncle João’s daughters, was a
different place. The visiting room was open all day long, the kitchen maids
talked quietly, Aunt Maria dressed as if she herself were visiting and the
black boys were all clothed, not a bare buttock was to be seen. In the
afternoons there were visits to other plantations and, in the evenings, games
of forfeit and conversations about fashion. The best cheese was on the table.
My grandfather even cut out cursing and swearing at the boys.
As for me, the visit came to torment my boyish
heart. Maria Clara, older than me, walked with me in the garden. Child of the
city, she had found a lovesick shepherd to show her the corners of the Santa Rosa.
She wanted to see it all, the river, the plum trees, the enclosures. Maria
Clara, with her hair in bunches and her large round eyes made me forget my
sheep and my solitary meanderings. We played together, ate together, and
everyone noticed our constant togetherness. She told me about her voyages at
sea, described the ship for me, the cabins, the deck and the sea splashing
against the glass up on the bridge.
“There wasn’t any danger. It was like we were
at home. There was a table for the children and one for the adults. And a
shower in the bathroom. We spent whole days seeing nothing but sea and sky.”
We used to sit in the shade of the branches
while we had these long conversations. I told her about my experiences on the
plantation, about the fire, about the flood that covered everything with water.
I exaggerated to impress my well-travelled cousin. Right there, where we were
sitting, the river had flowed. A canoe had passed over the top of the branches.
We talked about all sorts. Maria Clara asked me
about António Silvino, the bandit. I surpassed myself with my stories. I told
her how the bandit always rode Indian file, with him at the head and his troop
following on behind him. Once he had slain an onyx in single combat; when he
had just about succumbed to the wild beast he remembered his dagger. He shoved
his hat in the onyx’s face and thrust a dagger in its heart. This animal’s hide
was the one that my grandfather had in his living room.
Sitting in the shade of the plum trees, we
talked, sitting on the dry leaves that covered the ground like a great green
carpet. The sweet perfume of flowers filled the air.
“Let’s have a picnic under the plum trees.”
We took the food, the bread and the cheese
(that the ants liked to eat so much). Maria Clara looked at me seriously, took
hold of my hands and asked what we would do should António Silvino suddenly appear.
“He would marry us together”
And she would tell me, scene by scene, about
the films that she had seen at the cinema, about the loves of her favourite
heroes, and their beautiful weddings.
The wild fowl cooed nearby. Little birds picked
at the plums, chirping with pleasure.
“The plantation is nicer than Recife,” Maria
Clara told me. “Mummy says that if we stay here we’ll turn into animals. She
wants me to play piano and talk French. I like it here because there are no
teachers and no classes.”
On one occasion, when we were lying on the
grass in each other’s arms, and she was finishing telling me about a film, I
grabbed Maria Clara and kissed her hard on the mouth. Then I ran like a man
possessed to the house, my heart banging like thunder.
“This boy’s been up to tricks. See how he’s
gone red!” the maids mocked me when I ran into the kitchen.
I hid from my beloved for the rest of the
afternoon. At dinner, there she was with her eyes dark and round, looking at
me. All night long I dreamt of Maria Clara. I dreamt that I was on the ship
with her, going who knows where. And the sea was pounding my ship. It was
raining and water began to fill the hull. All you could see was sea and sky. I
was afraid that we would sink to the bottom of the ocean. Maria Clara told me
there was no danger. And somehow we managed to reach the plum trees and we lay
down to sleep, exhausted, upon the dry leaves.
One day she called me to show me something; the
cattle were indulging in some free love, in a corner, by the fence. I took my
love away from there. All this filth was not for her pure eyes. My love grew,
swelling my childish heart.
Uncle João’s daughters were about to go. Within
the week they would be returning to Recife. They spent their days at different
plantations saying their farewells. And they received presents wherever they went;
lace, embroidered blankets, handkerchiefs. The uncouth plantation people liked
my irritating cousins. The journey was marked for Tuesday. After tomorrow I
wouldn’t see my cousins again.
We enjoyed our last idylls going to our
favourite spots like a pair of lovers in a film.
The following morning the ox-cart was leaving
for the station, the girls giving money to the Negresses. Old Generosa was
crying, everyone was in the living room hugging and kissing. Uncle Juca and
Aunt Maria were going to the station to see them off. There was no room for me.
Maria Clara did not look like she loved me, sitting up there on the cart,
looking pleased with herself. I thought that she would be as sad as I was. But
no, not at all! She was excited about the journey, happy to be in the middle of
all the bustle of farewells.
Now they had left the yard, and were on the
track. I ran as far as the enclosure to keep the cart in view. I climbed the
fence until the wagon had disappeared taking away my heartless love. When I got
back, someone in the kitchen said,
“So you’re without your girlfriend, hey?”
Tears filled my eyes, and I burst out crying.
It was the big joke in the house for the rest of the day. At the dinner table
they told my grandfather. Old José Paulino laughed and said,
“I don’t know where he gets all this
lovey-dovey stuff from.” And they all discussed my puppy love.
At night I slept with the image of Maria Clara
in my head. The dreams of a lovesick boy are always the same. I woke up,
experiencing a lover’s anguish for the first time. The birds sang happily in
the tree tops, for they did not know of my pain. In my heart there was a
sorrowful emptiness. I had lost my companion of the plum trees. And I cried
there, my head buried under the sheets, tears that, in the future, would fall
from my eyes all too often.
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