So Many People, Mariana - Tanta Gente Mariana - Maria Judite de Carvalho

Estrela and António were married one June morning. It was a religious wedding, of course. I, as Luís Gonzaga was in the habit of telling me, had only had a civil ceremony. An old schoolmate from Maria Amália College, Alice Mendes, rang to tell me the news. She had not phoned to tell me about the wedding, it just came out logically, through association of ideas. At least that’s what she made out.

“What a dummy I am!”

Maybe.

Alice was always full of news and amongst it all she mentioned an old acquaintance from school , someone not all that nice, who she had bumped into a few days before in Versailles.

“And would you believe it! Guess who she is marrying this very day? Your husband! Yes, António!”

I would have preferred to learn about it the next day, in a week’s time, a month later. But Alice had been unable to resist. Poor thing! She just had to talk. She already suffered from that defect when we were at school. At heart she wasn’t a bad soul, just a victim, like all of us, no? It was the fault of her genes that she liked to talk so much. In reality she’s a bit unhinged.

And so she made other people suffer.

That evening I went to look for Luís. I couldn’t be alone with Estrela and António, and they wouldn’t go away. I had rung Lúcia but she had gone to the cinema with her mother. Many times I had been to Luís Gonzaga’s room to get books or to bring one that I had promised him. It was a small self-contained studio at Conde Redondo. It was a man’s room, tidy and undecorated, giving it the impression of being uninhabited. The narrow iron bed had a crucifix fixed onto the headboard. When I left that evening night had long fallen. Looking me firmly in the face he had told me that he couldn’t marry me.

“I know.”

“Because it’s almost certain, almost inevitable, that I’m going to be a priest.”

Just as I was about to leave, my hand on the door knob, I asked him, I don’t know why, “Tomorrow, early, you’re going to confess yourself, no, Luís, no?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Yes, why am I asking?”

We met up many times. One night he telephoned me. He wanted to talk to me. It was urgent.

Next morning I met him. He looked tired, his eyes dark from the sleepless night he had spent. Finally he had decided. Everything had been arranged. He would leave two days from today.

I put my hand on my belly where my son was not as yet moving. Then I gave him my hand. I said something (I don’t know what), and I remember that my gestures and in my words were bad theatre, but I played my part with all the self-consciousness and ardour of a bad actress.

“So, it’s goodbye,” I finally conceded, “We’ll never see each other again.”

“We can always see each other again, Mariana. We were friends before.”

“We’re not anymore?”

“I didn’t mean that, but yes, we can be friends like before. If you need anything…….”

“I’ll get in touch……What’s the point of these phrases, Luís? Goodbye means goodbye. It doesn’t mean anything else.”

My whole world hadn’t collapsed, not like when António first looked deep into Estrela’s eyes. Luís was just a screw that had worked loose, a small beam that had broken, and it was possible to put such things right. Also, I didn’t feel alone because I had my son with me, my son who was only mine.

I moved a little closer to Luís Gonzaga, and coldly, I thought that considering the circumstances a tear might make him happy, but there was no way I was going to shed one.

To begin with I felt sad, disconsolate, but now I was beginning to feel a strange sense of liberation that was really quite disturbing. Luís seemed to be expecting something from me. I found myself saying to myself, in silence, phrases like ‘abandoned with a child in my arms’ and ‘what a terrible situation I am in,’ and even, ‘where am I going to find the money for the birth?’ The phrases that came into my head made me want to laugh.

“Are you all right, Mariana?” Luís said, “You don’t have to be brave. Cry if you want.”

The vanity of men! Why was I supposed to cry? What reason was there to cry when I had my son with me? Because he was leaving, he reckoned. The vanity of men, the incredible, ridiculous vanity of men!