Their interest in what they heard soothed the pain of death. It was a book worthy of being published. It was filled with political and social observations, philosophical reflections, anecdotes about public men such as Feijó and Vasconcelos, others of a rather racier nature, the names of ladies, among them Leocádia’s; an entire repertoire of events and comments. They all admired the dead man’s talent, his graceful style, and the fascinating subject matter. Some were in favor of having it printed; Benjamin agreed, on condition that they excluded any elements that might be unsavory or excessively personal. And they continued reading, skipping whole sections and pages, until the clock struck noon. They all stood up. Diogo Vilares had been due at his office hours ago; João Brás and Elias also had to be elsewhere. Galdino went off to his shop. Fragoso had to change out of his black clothes and take his wife shopping on Rua do Ouvidor. They agreed to meet again and continue their reading. Some of the details had given them an itch for scandal, and itches need to be scratched, which is precisely what they intended to do, by reading.

“Until tomorrow, then,” they said.

“Yes, until tomorrow.”

Once he was alone, Benjamin carried on reading the manuscript. Among other things, he marveled at the portrayal of the Widow Leocádia, a masterpiece of painstaking observation, even though the date coincided with the time when they were still lovers. It was proof of a rare impartiality. The deceased, it turned out, was a master of portraits. The notebooks were full of them, stretching back to 1873 or 1874; some were sketches of the living, others of the dead, some were of public men like Paula Sousa, Aureliano, Olinda, etc. They were brief and to the point, sometimes only three or four lines, drawn with such confident fidelity and perfection that the image seemed almost like a photograph. Benjamin carried on reading. Suddenly he came across Diogo Vilares, about whom he read the following: