Her persistence soon paid off. The cousins from Campolide came to visit them, a return visit for the one made sometime before by Cândida and Amélia. It was a Sunday. They spent all afternoon there, drinking tea and chatting. The usual memories were trotted out, always the same ones, which they all knew by heart, but to which they listened politely as if hearing them for the first time. Adriana had never been so lively and her sister had never made such an effort to appear to be contented. Cândida, deceived by her daughters’ gaiety, forgot all about the “situation.” Only Amélia did not. At an opportune moment, she got up and went to her nieces’ room. Heart pounding and hands shaking, she opened Adriana’s purse and took out the keys. There were five. She recognized two of them, one for the street door and the other for the door to their apartment. There were two other medium-sized keys and a smaller one. She hesitated. She didn’t know which of them was the key to the drawer, although she felt it must be one of the medium-sized keys. The drawer was only a few steps away. She could try one of the keys in the lock, but was afraid that any noise might attract her nieces’ attention. She decided to make a drawing of all three, which she did, although not without some difficulty. The pencil slithered from her fingers and refused to follow the exact shape of the keys. She had sharpened it to a long, sharp point to make the drawing more faithful, but her hands were shaking so much she almost gave up. From the next room came the sound of Adriana’s giggles: the story about her boss tripping on the carpet, which the cousins had not heard before. They all laughed uproariously and their laughter drowned out the tiny click of the purse closing.
That night after supper, while the radio was murmuring a Chopin nocturne — the radio having been turned on in the warm afterglow of that jolly afternoon — Amélia said how pleased she was to see her nieces getting on so well together.
“You see, it was all in your imagination,” said Cândida, smiling.
“Yes,” said Amélia, “it must have been.”
31
With her monthly allowance safely stowed away in her handbag, the notes neatly folded up inside her greasy purse, Lídia’s mother was drinking a cup of tea. She had placed on the bed the knitting with which she occupied her evenings. She always visited twice a month, once to collect her money and again in order to show a friendly interest in her daughter’s life. Familiar with Paulino Morais’s habits, she appeared only on Tuesdays, Thursdays or Saturdays. She knew she wasn’t wanted, on those days or any others, but she turned up nonetheless. In order to “live decently” she needed that monthly subsidy. Given her daughter’s good financial position, it would seem wrong simply to abandon her. And because she was sure that Lídia would not, of her own volition, go out of her way to help, she felt it wise to remind her regularly of her existence. And so that Lídia would not think that she had purely venal reasons for coming to see her, she would call again about two weeks after receiving her allowance to inquire after Lídia’s health. Of the two visits, the first was the more bearable because it had a real objective. The second, despite that display of affectionate interest, was tedious for both mother and daughter.
Lídia was sitting on the sofa, a book open on her lap. Having interrupted her reading to pour herself a coffee, she had not yet gone back to it. She was staring at her mother without a glimmer of affection in her eyes, as coldly as she might look at a complete stranger. Her mother did not notice or was so inured to her daughter’s icy gaze that it had no effect. She was sipping her tea with the cool, composed air she always adopted when in her daughter’s apartment. The only less-than-delicate gesture she allowed herself — one demanded by her sweet tooth — was using her spoon to scrape up the sugar from the bottom of the cup.
Lídia looked down again at her book as if she could no longer bear the disagreeable sight of her mother, whom she disliked intensely. She felt exploited, but that wasn’t the reason for her enmity. She didn’t like her because she knew she did not love her as a daughter. On several occasions she had considered sending her packing. The only reason she hadn’t was because she feared some terrible scene. The price she had to pay for keeping the peace was fairly high, but hardly excessive. She had grown accustomed to those twice-monthly visits. Flies are a nuisance too, but you just have to put up with them.
Her mother stood up, placed her empty cup on the dressing table, then returned to her chair and resumed her knitting. The wool was distinctly grubby and her work advanced at a snail’s pace. Indeed, so slowly did the work progress that Lídia had not as yet been able to ascertain what the finished garment would be. She suspected that her mother only brought out her knitting on those visits to her apartment.
She tried to immerse herself in her reading, having first glanced at her watch to calculate how much longer her mother would stay. She had decided not to utter a word until it was time to say goodbye. She felt irritable. Paulino had grown distracted again, however hard she tried to please him. She would kiss him ardently, something she did only when absolutely necessary. The same pair of lips can kiss in many ways, and Lídia knew them all. The passionate kiss, the kiss that involves not just lips but tongue and teeth as well, was reserved for important occasions. Lately, seeing Paulino growing ever more remote, or so it seemed, she had made liberal use of such kisses.
“What’s wrong, dear?” asked her mother. “You’ve been staring at that page for ages now and you still haven’t finished it!”
She spoke in the mellifluous, ingratiating tones of an employee thanking the boss for his Christmas bonus. Lídia shrugged and said nothing.
“You seem worried. Have you quarreled with Senhor Morais?”
Lídia looked up and asked ironically:
“What if I have?”
“That would be most unwise, dear. Men can be very odd. They get annoyed over the slightest thing. There’s no talking to them sometimes…”
“You speak as if you’d had a lot of experience of men.”
“I lived with your late father for twenty-two years, what more experience do I need?”
“If you lived with my father for twenty-two years and never knew any other man, how can you speak of experience?”
“Men are all the same, dear. If you’ve known one, you’ve known them all.”
“Yes, but how?”
“You just have to open your eyes and look.”
“You must have very good eyesight, then.”
“Oh, I do. I don’t wish to boast, but I just have to look at a man to know him!”
“Well, you know more than I do, then. And what do you make of Senhor Morais?”
Her mother put down her knitting and said warmly:
“Ah, you really landed on your feet when you met him. However nice you are to him, you could never repay him for what he’s done for you. Just look at this apartment! Not to mention the jewelry and the clothes! Has anyone else ever treated you like this? When I think what I suffered…”
“Oh, I know all about your suffering.”
“You say that as if you didn’t believe me. All mothers suffer. And what mother wouldn’t be pleased to see her children doing well?”
“Yes, what mother wouldn’t be pleased?” echoed Lídia mockingly.
Her mother took up her knitting again and said nothing. She completed two rows, very slowly, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. Then she resumed the conversation: