MR. DIPLOMAT

THE BLACK SERVING WOMAN entered the dining room, approached the table where all the guests were seated, and whispered to her mistress. It must have been something urgent, because the lady of the house immediately got up.

“Shall we wait for you, Dona Adelaide?”

“Do carry on, Senhor Rangel; there’s no need to wait. I’ll take my turn when I get back.”

Rangel was reading from the book of fortunes. He turned the page and read out another question: “Is someone secretly in love with you?” There was general fidgeting; the young ladies and gentlemen smiled at each other. The year was 1854, it was the eve of São João, and we were in a fine house on Rua das Mangueiras. João was also the name of the host, João Viegas, and he had a daughter named after him, Joaninha. Every year, the same group of friends and family gathered, a bonfire was lit in the garden, potatoes were roasted as custom required, and fortunes were told. There would be supper and sometimes dancing or parlor games to follow; it was all very convivial. João Viegas was a clerk at one of the civil courts in Rio.

“Come on, who’s going to start the ball rolling?” he said. “Dona Felismina, surely. Let’s see if you have a secret admirer.”

Dona Felismina gave a somewhat forced smile. She was well into her forties and had neither money nor looks, and beneath her veil of piety she was constantly on the lookout for a husband. It was a rather cruel joke, but understandable. Dona Felismina was the perfect example of those gentle, forgiving creatures who seem to have been born to be the butt of other people’s jokes. She picked up the dice and threw them with a patient but skeptical air. “Number ten!” cried two voices. Rangel ran his eyes down the page, found the corresponding box, and read: Yes, it was someone she should seek out at church on Sunday, when she went to mass. The whole table congratulated Dona Felismina, who smiled dismissively, but was secretly rather hopeful.

Others took the dice, and Rangel proceeded to read each person’s fortune. He read in a pretentious, affected manner. From time to time, he removed his spectacles and wiped them very slowly with the corner of his cambric handkerchief—either simply because it was rather fine cambric or because it gave off a delicate scent of jasmine. His fondness for such airs and graces had merited him the nickname “Mr. Diplomat.”

“Go on, Mr. Diplomat, do please continue!”

Rangel started; he was so absorbed in perusing the row of young ladies across the table from him that he had forgotten to read out one of the predictions. Was he in love with one of them? Let us take things from the beginning, step by step.