Sitting with the notebook open on her lap, Amélia felt cheated and, at the same time, pleased. There was nothing terrible, only a secret love turned in upon itself, a failed love like the one recorded in that bundle of letters tied up with green ribbon. So where was the secret? Where was the reason behind Isaura’s tears and Adriana’s pretended good humor?
She leafed through the diary again to find the entry for March 23: Isaura’s eyes were red… as if she had been crying… she was in a nervous state… the book… the pleasurable pain or the painful pleasure…
Was that the explanation? She put the diary back in the box. She locked it. She locked the drawer. She could get no further information from it. Adriana, it seemed, had no secrets, and yet there clearly was a secret, but where?
All paths were blocked. There was that book, of course… Now what was the last book Isaura had read? Amélia’s memory resisted and closed all doors. Then suddenly it opened them again to reveal the names of authors and the titles of novels, although not the one she was looking for. Her memory kept one door shut, a door to which she could not find the key. Amélia could remember it all. The small package on the table next to the radio. Isaura had told her what it was and the name of the author. Then (she remembered this clearly) they had listened to Honegger’s The Dance of the Dead. And she recalled the ragtime music coming from the neighbors’ apartment and the argument with her sister.
Perhaps Adriana had written about that in her diary. She opened the drawer again and looked for Adriana’s entry for that day. Honegger and him were there, but that was all.
Having closed the drawer again, she looked at the keys in the palm of her hand. She felt ashamed. She was certainly guilty of having committed a grave fault. She knew something she was not supposed to know: Adriana’s thwarted love.
She left the room, crossed the kitchen and opened the window of the enclosed balcony. The sun was still high and bright. The sky and the river were bright too. Far off, the hills on the other side were blue with distance. Her throat tightened with sadness. That was what life, her life, was like — sad and dull. Now she, too, had a secret to keep. She clutched the keys more tightly in her hand. The buildings opposite were not as tall as theirs. On one of the rooftops, two cats were lazing in the sun. With a sure, determined hand, she threw the keys down at them one by one.
The cats scattered beneath this unexpected onslaught. The keys rolled down the roof and into the gutter. And that was that. And it was then that it occurred to Amélia that one other possibility remained: she could open Isaura’s drawer. But no, what would be the point? Isaura didn’t keep a diary, and even if she did… Amélia felt suddenly weary. She went back into the kitchen, sat down on a bench and wept. She had been defeated. She had tried and she had lost. Just as well. She hadn’t discovered her nieces’ secret and now she didn’t want to. Even if she could remember the title of that book, she wouldn’t go to the library to find it. She would make every effort to forget, and if that closed door in her memory should ever open, she would lock it again with every key she could find, apart from the “stolen” ones she had just thrown out of the window. Stolen keys… violated secrets… No more! She was too ashamed ever to repeat what she had done.
She dried her eyes and stood up. She had to get the supper ready. Isaura and her mother would soon be back and would wonder what had delayed her. She went into the dining room to fetch a utensil she needed. There was a copy of Rádio-Nacional on the radio set. It had been such a long time since she had listened properly to any music. She picked up the magazine, opened it and looked for that day’s program. News, talks, music… then her eyes were drawn irresistibly to one particular line. She read and reread the three words. Just three words — a whole world. She slowly put the magazine down again. Her eyes remained fixed on some point in space. She appeared to be waiting for a revelation. And the revelation duly came.
She quickly untied her apron and put on her shoes and coat. She opened her own private drawer, took out a small piece of jewelry: an old gold brooch in the form of a fleur-de-lis. She scribbled a note on a scrap of paper: Had to go out. Make your own supper. Don’t worry, it’s nothing grave. Amélia.
It was almost dark by the time she returned, and she was so tired she could barely walk. With her she had brought a parcel, which she took to her room. She refused to say why she had gone out.
“But you’re exhausted!” cried Cândida.
“I certainly am.”
“Has something happened?”
“It’s a secret — for now anyway.”
Sitting down, she looked at her sister and smiled. Then she looked at Isaura and Adriana and continued to smile. And her gaze was so gentle, her smile so affectionate, that her nieces were touched. They asked more questions, but she silently shook her head, still maintaining that same gaze and that same smile.
They ate supper, then settled down for the evening. Trifling tasks filled the long, slow minutes. A woodworm could be heard gnawing away somewhere. The radio was silent.
At around ten o’clock, Amélia suddenly got up.
“Are you going to bed?” asked her sister.
Without responding, Amélia turned on the radio. The apartment filled with sounds as an inexhaustible torrent of chords burst forth from an organ. Cândida and her daughters looked up, surprised. The expression on Amélia’s face intrigued them. The same smile, the same gaze. Then, after one last phrase of baroque eloquence, the organ fell silent, like a cathedral collapsing in on itself. The silence lasted only a few seconds, then the presenter announced the next piece of music.
“Beethoven’s Ninth! Oh, how wonderful, Auntie!” exclaimed Adriana, clapping her hands like a child.
They all settled back in their chairs. Amélia left the room and returned a moment later, when the first movement had already begun. She had brought the parcel with her and placed it on the table. Her sister shot her an inquiring look. Amélia took down from the wall two of the portraits decorating it. Slowly, as if performing a special ritual, she unwrapped the package. Relegated to the background, the music continued to play. The rustle of paper drowned it out. Then the paper slipped to the floor and the mask of Beethoven appeared.
It was like the end of the final act of a play, except that the curtain did not fall. Amélia looked at Adriana and said, as she fixed the mask to the walclass="underline"
“Ages ago, I remember hearing you say that you’d like to have a mask of his face. I wanted to surprise you!”
“Oh, Auntie, that’s so sweet of you!”
“But how could you afford it?” asked Cândida.
“That doesn’t matter,” said her sister. “It’s a secret.”
When they heard that word, Adriana and Isaura glanced furtively at their aunt, but there was not a hint of suspicion in her eyes. There was only great tenderness, a tenderness that shone through what would have resembled tears — if Aunt Amélia had been the crying type.
35
“Abel’s taking a long time. Do you want to start your supper?”
“No, wait a bit longer.”
Mariana sighed:
“He might not come. I’m not sure that two people should wait for one…”