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Chapters (32)
  1. Cover
  2. Title
  3. Foreword by Michael Wood
  4. Introduction
  5. Augusta’s Secret
  6. Luís Duarte’s Wedding
  7. The Alienist
  8. How to Be a Bigwig
  9. Dona Benedita
  10. The Loan
  11. The Most Serene Republic
  12. The Mirror
  13. A Visit from Alcibiades
  14. The Devil’s Church
  15. Final Chapter
  16. Posthumous Picture Gallery
  17. The Chapter on Hats
  18. Ex Cathedra
  19. The Academies of Siam
  20. Fame
  21. The Gentleman’s Companion
  22. Mr. Diplomat
  23. Life!
  24. The Canon, or the Metaphysics of Style
  25. The Cane
  26. Midnight Mass
  27. Canary Thoughts
  28. Father Against Mother
  29. Maria Cora
  30. The Tale of the Cabriolet
  31. About The Author
  32. About The Translators

I looked at her and rather doubted the truth of this. Her eyes were not those of someone who had been asleep, but of someone who had not yet slept at all. However, I quickly dismissed this observation—which might have borne fruit in someone else’s mind—never dreaming that I might be the reason she hadn’t gone to sleep and that she was lying so as not to worry or annoy me. She was, as I said, a kind person, very kind.

“It must be nearly time, though,” I said.

“How do you have the patience to stay awake while your neighbor sleeps? And to wait here all alone too. Aren’t you afraid of ghosts? I bet I startled you just now.”

“I was a little surprised when I heard footsteps, but then you appeared immediately afterward.”

“What were you reading? Don’t tell me, I know: it’s The Three Musketeers.”

“Exactly. It’s such a good book.”

“Do you like novels?”

“I do.”

“Have you read The Dark-Haired Girl?”

“By Macedo? Yes, I have it at home in Mangaratiba.”

“I love novels, but I don’t have much time to read anymore. What novels have you read?”

I began listing a few titles. Conceiçao listened, leaning her head against the chair back, looking at me fixedly through half-closed eyelids. Now and then, she would run her tongue over her lips to moisten them. When I finished speaking, she said nothing, and we sat in silence for a few seconds. Then, still gazing at me with her large, intelligent eyes, she sat up straight, interlaced her fingers, and rested her chin on them, her elbows on the arms of the chair.

“Perhaps she’s bored,” I thought. Then, out loud, I said:

“Dona Conceição, I think it must be nearly time, and I—”

“No, no, it’s still early. I just looked at the clock and it’s only half-past eleven. You still have time. If you ever do miss a night’s sleep, can you get through the next day without sleeping at all?”

“I have in the past.”

“I can’t. If I miss a night’s sleep, I’m no use for anything the next day and have to have a nap, even if it’s only for half an hour. But then I’m getting old.”

“What do you mean, ‘old,’ Dona Conceição?”