Not only were relations between us becoming increasingly strained, I was also keen to return to Rio. At forty-two I wasn’t yet ready to become a complete recluse tending to a petulant old invalid in the back of beyond. To get an idea of my isolation, suffice it to say that I didn’t even read the newspapers; apart from the odd piece of news that reached the colonel, I was totally cut off from the rest of the world. I therefore decided to return to the capital at the first opportunity, even if it meant crossing swords with the local priest. Seeing as I’m making a general confession, I should perhaps add that, since I was spending nothing and saving up all of my wages, I was eager to come and squander them here in the city.

Such an opportunity seemed imminent. The colonel’s health was steadily deteriorating and he had drawn up his will, managing to offend the notary almost as much as he had me. His manners became ever coarser, and the brief lapses of peace and affability were now rare. I had already lost the meager dose of pity that had made me overlook the sick man’s excesses; inside, I was seething with hatred and revulsion. At the beginning of August, I resolved definitively to go; the priest and the doctor, while accepting my reasons, asked me to stay just a little longer. I granted them one month; at the end of the month I would leave, no matter what the patient’s condition. The priest took it upon himself to find my replacement.

Now here comes the event itself. On the evening of the twenty-fourth of August, the colonel fell into a fit of rage and knocked me down, calling me all sorts of vile names, threatening to shoot me, even ending up by throwing a bowl of porridge at me because he said it had gone cold. The bowl hit the wall and shattered into pieces.

“You’ll pay for that, you thief!” he bellowed.