João Carneiro did not want to go, but neither could he stay. He was caught between two opposing forces. He really didn’t care if the boy ended up being a cleric, a lawyer, or a doctor, or something else entirely, however useless, but he was being asked to do battle with the father’s deepest feelings and could not guarantee the result. If he failed, that would mean another battle with Sinhá Rita, whose final words had a threatening note to them: “your godson is not going back to the seminary.” Either way, there was sure to be a ruckus. João Carneiro stood there, wide-eyed, his eyelids twitching, his chest heaving. He kept shooting pleading glances at Sinhá Rita, glances in which there was just a hint of censure. Why couldn’t she ask him for something else, anything? Why couldn’t she ask him to walk in the rain all the way to Tijuca or Jacarepaguá? But to persuade a father to change his mind about his son’s career . . . He knew the boy’s father well, and knew that he was perfectly capable of smashing a glass in his face. Ah, if only the boy would just drop down dead of an apoplectic fit! That would be a solution—cruel, yes, but final.

“What do you say?” demanded Sinhá Rita.

He made a gesture as if asking for more time. He stroked his beard, looking for some way out. A papal decree dissolving the Church or, at the very least, abolishing all seminaries, that would do the trick. João Carneiro could then go home and enjoy a quiet game of cards. It was like asking Napoleon’s barber to lead the Battle of Austerlitz . . . Alas, the Church was still there, so were the seminaries, and his godson was still standing waiting by the wall, eyes downcast, with no convenient apoplectic fit in sight.

“Go on, off you go,” said Sinhá Rita, handing him his hat and cane.

There was nothing for it. The barber put away his razor, buckled on his sword, and went off to battle. Damião breathed more easily, although, outwardly, he remained grave-faced, eyes fixed on the floor. This time, Sinhá Rita pinched his chin.

“Come on, don’t be so glum, let’s have something to eat.”

“Do you really think he’ll succeed?”

“He has to,” retorted Sinhá Rita proudly. “Come along, the soup’s getting cold.”

Despite Sinhá Rita’s natural joviality and his own naturally playful self, Damião felt less happy over supper than he had earlier on. He had no confidence in his spineless godfather. Nevertheless, he ate well and, toward the end, was once again telling jokes as he had in the morning. Over dessert, he heard the sound of people in the next room, and asked if they had come for him.

“No, it’ll be the ladies.”