She left him lying there; she would not wake him for the time being, perhaps never. Tomorrow the stupid fisherman was coming. He could take him with him in his empty sampan and set him down somewhere on a deserted beach, so that he could get on with dying, if he wasn’t dead already. She saw nothing cruel in this: think of all the people you saw die by the wayside, already covered in bluebottles that they could no longer shoo away! Even death was nothing but change.
But when morning came she wanted to see his face again. Now it had a half-resentful, half-attractive expression. He could not be like the others. Now she was curious to see his eyes open too. She put down food and water beside him, so that he could see it when he woke up, and let the boatman leave without him, however much the nurse insisted and pointed to the dangers. She herself didn’t know what she was supposed do with him: he was probably a fugitive and would want to keep hidden and could help them keep watch, but he might also betray them…
She stopped, bent over a flower and picked its petal. When she stood upright again, he was standing in front of her, looking at her at first happily and then reproachfully. Then he burst into a hectic tirade, a torrent of words, half of which she did not understand; though he spoke the words of her father’s language, the sound, the sentences, everything was different. Pilar closed her eyes so as to hear nothing but the voice, so as not to see the battered, emaciated man in front of her, his thin arms sticking out of his robe, the bloodshot eyes, the scab-covered lips open wide. The voice was also hoarse, yet not broken, and even seemed to be speaking contemptuously of everything across the water in Macao and of those who ruled it.
She went on listening. The voice became sad and reproachful again, and finally, because he was repeating himself, she realized that he was talking about her and blaming her for something.
This annoyed her; she laughed loudly, leapt aside among the bushes and observed him through the leaves. He lost his balance, tried to find her, but in vain, put his hand to his head, stamped his foot and suddenly turned. He went down the path, but did not get very far; after a few steps he slowed down, steadied himself on a tree trunk and leant his head against it. Slowly Pilar went towards him and waited patiently until he looked up. She treated him the way a child treats a wounded animal. But he just stood there. She made the branches crack, nudged him, laughed. Finally he looked up again, helpless and silently now, but still with a bitterly reproachful expression.
When he started talking again, Pilar was once more astonished; she had never heard this tone before: her father’s voice was always loud and imperious, Ronquilho’s boastful and shrill, while the monks spoke unctuously and full of devotion as if they were talking missals. But she suddenly realized that the stranger was delirious and had mistaken her for someone else who resembled her but had different eyes, obviously Portuguese. She now tried to calm him, but since she spoke Macao dialect, he had difficulty in understanding her. Still, he eventually allowed her to take him to the room he was occupying. She called the nurse, who knew of a remedy against fever.
The next morning he seemed calmer and Pilar went to see him again. When she opened the door, she had the momentary feeling that she was returning to her own room, from which she had fled. She was about to close the door again, but it was too late: he made straight for her, went down on one knee and took her hand in gratitude. He asked her who she was and for want of a house and a sword put his life at her disposal. She asked him to make himself known first. He did not give his name, but told her that he was a Portuguese nobleman who had fallen out of favour.
“You’re a strange kind of knight to say such things about her face to a woman whom you have known for less than a day: that it would be as beautiful as that of a former lover, if only the position of the eyes were different. I don’t know what you’ve been through in Portugal; perhaps your mind is confused. Anyway, I’ll tell you who I am: Dona Pilar, the daughter of the Procurador of Macao. Because Portuguese women do not venture so far from the fatherland, my father chose his bride from a Chinese family. That is why I have my mother’s eyes. She is dead, and my father wants to force me to marry a man I hate; I have no protectors but the Dominicans and they themselves are open to persecution. So I fled here, in the hope that no one will look for me in this place. The nurse and I take turns watching for an attack. We are tired; you can help us. I think you are also afraid of danger from across the water; keep your eyes open and don’t think of mine. I’m only here to escape from a man and I don’t want anyone else. Don’t keep comparing me with your former sweetheart or with a phantom. Keep watch at night and stay in your room during the day, and then you can stay.”
Camões was left alone, sad at learning of a truth that left no room for any more hope. He stayed in the room, sometimes dizzy as if his life were about to explode and plunge into events that were unconnected with that life. When it was dark the nurse came in, motioned him to follow her and took him to the wall where he was to keep watch. The old woman put wine and fruit down beside him and left him alone. He kept a sharp watch over the bay; though some sails slid past, they never came close. The town was still in darkness, with only a faint beam from the lighthouse. In the middle of the night it was extinguished, and shortly afterwards a fire flared up in the same place on the dark cliffs which stayed alight all night. At sunrise, before he got a clear view of the town, the Chinese woman came to relieve him.
IV
SO IT CONTINUED for many days and nights. Sometimes the moonlight was so clear in his thoughts, so calm that he started writing, but he never got very far, and it was as if Diana and Pilar were looking down mockingly at him from each side. He had kept watch twelve times perhaps — the moon was on the wane — when one night the wind had turned and was blowing from the town to the island. He thought he could hear a commotion; the bonfire had not been lit, but on the other side of the town a wide column of smoke rose up, which gradually turned to flame. Should he warn Pilar? It occurred to him that he might find her with her eyes closed. He walked round the house, saw a faint light and pulled open the closed blinds. Pilar was lying undressed under a mosquito screen but was not asleep; she was not alarmed by his arrival, but got up calmly and wrapped a cloak around her.
“Are they close by?”
“They’re not coming.”
“So why have you disturbed me?”
“There’s a big fire in town.”
Without saying another word she went with him to the shore. At first she saw nothing; had the blaze been extinguished? Camões pointed in the direction of the smoke: at that very moment the fire reappeared and flames flared up. Pilar grabbed his arm.
“It’s the monastery. The Dominicans are being driven out. That must be because of me. Go across and see what’s happening.”
“Must I leave you unprotected then?”
“No one will come tonight and you can be back before morning.”
Camões took the sampan that was moored by the wall and in an hour and a half had crossed the bay; on the way back, with a following wind, it would be quicker. He forced his craft among a huddle of junks, so that it would be hidden, and committed the location to memory; then he climbed ashore. All the streets were empty. He hurried along, sometimes losing his way, but then he saw the smoke and fire rising above the houses again.
The monastery was situated in a wide open square; both wings were on fire, but the central section was still untouched. In front of the heavy locked gate he saw a hole with earth beside it, as if it had been freshly dug. A detachment of troops kept back a throng of ordinary Chinese. Amid the cries of mourning that rose from their midst, he heard the call for revenge and torture. Gradually Camões was able to make out from the conversations of the colonialists around him that the Dominicans had been accused of a murder for ritual purposes; the bodies of two children had been found in the monastery garden, and had been recognized as the children of a Chinese merchant. The people were yelling for revenge. If the Dominicans went unpunished, it would mean the end of the colony. The authorities had put a guard on all approaches to the monastery; tonight it had nevertheless been set on fire, and the rabble were waiting until the Dominicans had been smoked out in order to vent their anger on them. It was doubtful whether the weak guard would suffice to keep them in check.