Chapters (32)
- Cover
- Title
- Foreword by Michael Wood
- Introduction
- Augusta’s Secret
- Luís Duarte’s Wedding
- The Alienist
- How to Be a Bigwig
- Dona Benedita
- The Loan
- The Most Serene Republic
- The Mirror
- A Visit from Alcibiades
- The Devil’s Church
- Final Chapter
- Posthumous Picture Gallery
- The Chapter on Hats
- Ex Cathedra
- The Academies of Siam
- Fame
- The Gentleman’s Companion
- Mr. Diplomat
- Life!
- The Canon, or the Metaphysics of Style
- The Cane
- Midnight Mass
- Canary Thoughts
- Father Against Mother
- Maria Cora
- The Tale of the Cabriolet
- About The Author
- 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?”