This talk of prayer niches reminded me of mass, and it occurred to me that it might be getting late, and I was just about to mention this. I did, I think, get as far as opening my mouth, but immediately closed it again to listen to what she was saying, so gently, touchingly, softly, that my soul grew indolent and I forgot all about mass and church. She was talking about her devotions as a child and as a young girl. She then moved on to stories about dances, about outings she’d made, memories of Paquetá, all woven almost seamlessly together. When she grew tired of the past, she spoke about the present, about her household duties and the burdens of family life, which, before she married, she had been told were many, but which were not, in fact, burdensome at all. She didn’t mention that she was twenty-seven when she married, but I knew that already.

She was no longer pacing up and down as she had been to begin with, but stayed almost frozen in the same pose. She no longer kept her large eyes fixed on me, but glanced around at the walls.

“This room needs repapering,” she said after a while, as if talking to herself.

I agreed, simply in order to say something and to try to shake off that strange, magnetic sleep or whatever it was trammeling my tongue and my senses. I both wanted and didn’t want to end that conversation; I made an effort to take my eyes off her, and I did so out of a sense of respect, but then, fearing that she might think I was bored, when I wasn’t at all, I quickly brought my gaze back to her. The conversation was gradually dying. Out in the street, utter silence reigned.

We sat without speaking for some time, I don’t know for how long. The only sound came from the study, the faint noise of a mouse gnawing away at something, and this did at last rouse me from my somnolent state; I tried to speak, but couldn’t. Conceição appeared to be daydreaming. Then, suddenly, I heard someone banging on the window outside, and a voice shouting:

“Midnight mass! Midnight mass!”

“Ah, there’s your friend,” she said, getting up. “How funny! You were the one who was supposed to wake him up, but there he is waking you. Off you go. It must be time.”

“Is it midnight already?” I asked.

“It must be.”

“Midnight mass!” came the voice again, accompanied by more banging on the window.

“Quick, off you go. Don’t keep him waiting. It was my fault. Good night. See you tomorrow.”