He reached out to shake hands with Custódio, who mechanically tipped his hat with his other hand. Custódio’s dull stare revealed the state of his soul, barely recovered from its fall, which had drained him of his last ounce of energy. No mysterious ladder and no heaven; everything had vanished at the snap of a notary’s fingers. Farewell, needles! Reality once again gripped him with its bronze talons. He would have to return to his precarious, unplanned existence, to his old account books with their goggle-eyed zeros and wiggly-eared $-signs, that would continue to stare and listen, listen and stare, dangling before him the implacable numerology of hunger. What a fall! And into what an abyss! Realizing the truth of his situation, he looked at the notary as if to say goodbye, but an idea suddenly lit up the dark night of his brain. If it were a smaller amount, Vaz Nunes could provide it, and willingly. So why shouldn’t it be a smaller amount? He had already given up the idea of the business adventure; but he could scarcely do the same with his rent arrears and his various other creditors. A reasonable sum, five hundred mil-réis, for example, would do nicely, if he could only persuade the notary to lend it to him. Custódio’s spirits rose; he would live for the present and have nothing to do with the past, no regrets or fears, no remorse. The present was all that mattered. The present was the five hundred mil-réis that he would watch emerging from the notary’s pocket like a certificate of emancipation.

“In that case,” he said, “why don’t you see what you can give me, and I’ll go and ask some other friends as well. How much do you think you could afford?”

“I hardly dare say, because it can really only be a very modest amount indeed.”

“Five hundred mil-réis?”

“No, impossible.”

“Not even five hundred mil-réis?”

“No,” said the notary firmly. “What’s so surprising about that? I won’t deny that I own several properties, but, my friend, I don’t walk around with them in my wallet; and I have certain obligations incumbent upon me . . . Don’t you have a job?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Look, I’ll give you something better than five hundred mil-réis; I’ll have a word with the minister of justice. I know him well, and—”