D’Azevedo arrived at the port of his chief destination as evening was falling. The voyage, not far, but over unusually turbulent seas, spent him. The heat, heightened by the approach of summer and the shoreline humidity, drained him more. He had vowed, however, to launch, like an arrow aiming for its target, into the heart of his new position as soon as he touched upon land. Though you had ostensibly sent word of his imminent arrival, it apparently had not reached Alagoas, so the house there had not dispatched an emissary to meet him. Rather than lodging at an inn, as was the custom for people arriving so late in the day, he hired a driver and cart and, after explaining his destination they headed there, climbing an undulant escarpment along the bend of the river, along whose southern banks spread a town of indeterminable size, bracketed by pockets of forests and, to the north and east, the immense lagoon, at this hour dark as mourning cloth, from which the city took its name, and then further west, inland and upland until the landscape bowled into pasture, amidst which stood the monastery’s main gate as the wall of the nearby forest and the moonless night’s utter blackness, from all sides, enfolded them.
The Brotherhood’s House in Olinda, which D’Azevedo had just left, rose up in two windowed rows with bracketed latticed balconies, its walls white, its rooms commodious, its doors hewn of the finest Brazil wood, a vision of order, with a church of estimable beauty at one end, and a dining hall and kitchen at the other, with a library, a balneary, and comfortable lodgings for guests, all ringed by ample, well-tended fields, as well as a number of smaller, skillfully constructed structures. The structure that D’Azevedo now faced, presumably the monastery, lit by a single lantern suspended from a pole midway between the gate and the façade, down a curving, rutted, sandy path, leaned mean and squat, a single long storey. It was impossible at that hour to discern its color, though it hardly looked as if it could even under the brightest light be considered white. Its shutters, the ones he could make out, listed from their hinges; bushes and small trees bowed, trailed by monstrous shadows, away from its walls; its large battered wooden front door appeared to have been cut by someone little acquainted with doormaking. Almost invisible in the black cloak spreading from the lantern’s penumbra, what he took to be buildings shimmered like foxfires in the landscape round it. He could not, however, spot the monastery gate’s farther rims. Though he had not initially noticed it, when he looked around and up to take it all in, he spotted a crucifix, barely lit by the lantern’s dim light, which tilted off one end of the main building’s roof. A heavy sea breeze, it seemed to D’Azevedo, might easily topple it. Not a soul, priest or layperson, broke his line of sight.
He opened the gate, which promptly tumbled from its hinges. The driver, a withered type who had passed the entire trip in a barely controlled tremor, did not help him unload his coffer, nor accompany him to the door, but as soon as D’Azevedo had done so, the man sped off into the darkness at a clip far faster than during the entire journey from the port. D’Azevedo stumbled down the path, dragging his bindle and the heavy wooden box filled with other necessities behind him, and knocked gently on the main door, so as not to wake anyone but the person who might be keeping watch. When, after a great while had passed, there was no answer, he rapped harder. Still, no one responded. He began to wonder if he had been brought to the right building, for there were no addresses in this part of the world nor was there any proof, save the lantern, that a living soul still occupied or visited this building.
Out of the corner of his eye he detected movement — a human? an animal? — in the distance, the darkness wavering as if it were trying simultaneous to conceal and reveal the perceived entity to him, and he turned, only to see nothing but the shadows of shadows. Whether it was a person, a wild creature or a mere phantasm he could not be sure, though it was common knowledge that although the Portuguese had made great strides in civilizing the wilds of this vast terrain, creatures beyond the knowledge of the wisest men in all of Europe still circulated throughout it. He called out to the area where he had spotted, or thought he spotted, someone passing, but there was no response, save a light echo of his own voice. He considered walking around the building, but was unsure of its dimensions, fearing he might get lost or plunge into a ditch once he left the lighted façade, so he seated himself at the base of the main door, his luggage on either side of him, and prayed, until even his sight, against his wishes, surrendered to the dark.
He awoke on a cot in a room just larger than a cubicle, a shuttered, unpaned window just above his head admitting thin razors of sun. The barest minimum of stones paved the floor; the rooms walls sat barren of any adornment except a table, a chair, a battered chamber pot, and a crude crucifix, carved from tulipwood, that hung above the door. Brownish-black mold engendered, he imagined, by the dampness that plagued the region, licked its tongues from the corners to the ceiling. He had been undressed — he had not undressed himself, he could not recall having done so — and placed on the cot, a thin knit blanket, fragrant with sweat and mildew draped over him. He sat up and looked around for his personal effects. The coffer, already pried open, sat in the corner, atop it his bindle, also untied. His doublet, cassock and cincture hung from a hook beside the table. Beneath them, his sandals. How had he not immediately noted them there? He felt heavy in the head, as if he had downed a potion, though he had not eaten or drunk anything, save two cups of coconut water to refresh himself, since arriving at the port. Yet he did not feel even the slightest pang of hunger.
On the desk he saw a small clay bowl, a pitcher of similar material (filled, his nose confirmed, with plain water), a second, smaller fired pitcher (filled with agua de coco), a tin cup, and a rag. He was sure when he had looked at the table just seconds ago these were not there, and this led him to pinch his hand to ensure he was not still wandering about in a dream. The flesh stung between his fingertips. He drank a bit of the coconut water, relieved and washed himself, dressed, reviewed his menagerie to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be, and it was. He gathered his papers then left his room to meet the men over whose lives he had been entrusted with spiritual and earthly command.
As he stepped into the hall, one of his brethren, Dom Gaspar, a short, skinny, sallow man, of the type that abound in the hinterlands, approached him, and embraced him, offering greetings and inviting him out into the cloister, open to the sky as was the tradition, where the other members of the House, having finished morning prayers, were already assembled and seated. Dom Gaspar said that he had hoped to bring the new provost to morning prayers, which took place at 4, and then provide a tour, but D’Azevedo had been so soundly asleep he did not dare wake him.
Following Dom Gaspar, D’Azevedo tried but could not get a sense of the geometry of the house; from outside, the night before, it had not appeared to be even half as large as the building in Olinda, yet they proceeded down a long hall, without hard angles or corners, and far longer than he would have imagined, until they finally reached a large wood door, which he saw faced what appeared to be the monastery’s front hall and main door.
“This leads to the cloister?” D’Azevedo, trying to get his bearings, asked the brother who, he realized, was only a year or two older than him.