“When I asked him why he hadn’t been seen for over a month, he told me he was undergoing a transformation, and that the Gomes he was will live on only as a memory. Incredible though it may seem, he appeared to mean it.”

“I don’t believe him. He’s having a joke at our expense. Any other news?”

“None, not unless you’ve heard any.”

“Not a peep.”

“Come on! Didn’t you go to the Jardim yesterday?”

“Yes, there was a supper on there . . .”

“A family do, eh? I was at the Alcazar. What time did that ‘family supper’ end?”

“At four in the morning.”

Vasconcelos lay down in a hammock, and the conversation continued along the same lines, until a houseboy came to tell Vasconcelos that Senhor Gomes was in the parlor.

“Ah, the man himself!” said Batista.

“Tell him to come up,” ordered Vasconcelos.

The houseboy went back downstairs, but Gomes only joined them a quarter of an hour later, having spent some time chatting with Augusta and Adelaide.

“Well, long time no see,” said Vasconcelos when Gomes finally entered the room.

“You haven’t exactly searched me out,” Gomes retorted.

“Excuse me, but I’ve been to your house twice, and twice they told me you were out.”

“That was pure bad luck, because I hardly ever go out now.”

“So you’ve become a hermit, have you?”

“I’m a chrysalis at the moment, and will reemerge as a butterfly,” said Gomes, sitting down.

“Poetry, eh? Watch out, Vasconcelos.”

This new character, the longed-for, long-lost Gomes, appeared to be about thirty. He, Vasconcelos, and Batista were a trinity of pleasure and dissipation, bound together by an indissoluble friendship. When, about a month before, Gomes stopped appearing in the usual circles, everyone noticed, but only Vasconcelos and Batista really felt his absence. However, they did not try too hard to drag Gomes out of his solitude, in case there was some ulterior motive on his part.

Nevertheless, they greeted Gomes like the prodigal son.

“Where have you been hiding? What’s all this business about chrysalises and butterflies? Who do you think you’re fooling?”

“No, really, my friends. I’m growing wings.”

“Wings!” said Batista, trying not to laugh.

“Only if they’re the wings of a sparrow-hawk ready to pounce on its prey . . .”

“No, I’m serious.”

And Gomes seemed absolutely genuine.

Vasconcelos and Batista exchanged a sideways glance.

“Well, if it’s true, tell us about these wings of yours and where exactly you want to fly,” said Vasconcelos, and Batista added:

“Yes, you owe us an explanation, and if we, your family council, think it a good explanation, we will give our approval. If not, there’ll be no wings for you, and you’ll go back to being what you’ve always been.”

“I second that,” said Vasconcelos.