The Double Death of Quincas Water-Bray Read Free Page B

the contradictory acts of the tramp he had been transformed into toward the end of his life. The time for a bit of deserved rest had arrived. Now they could speak freely of Joaquim Soares da Cunha; praise his conduct as a civil servant, a husband and father, a citizen; point out his virtues as an example for the children; teach them tolove the memory of their grandfather without fear of any upset.
    The image vendor, a skinny old man with close-curled white hair, went into details: A black woman who sold
mingau
,
acarajé
,
abará
, and other culinary delights had had some important business to transact with Quincas that morning. He had promised to get her some herbs that were hard to find but that were indispensable for the obligations of
candomblé
rites. The black woman had come for the herbs. It was urgent that she get them because it was the holy season for festivities in honor of Xangô. As usual, the door to the room at the top of the filthy stairway was open—Quincas had lost the great and ancient key a long time ago. It was said that he’d sold it to some tourists on a day that was lean from his bad luck in gambling, as he coupled it to a tale, with dates and all, that elevated it to the status of a holy key to a church. The woman called out but got no answer. She thought he was asleep and pushed open the unlocked door. Quincas was there smiling as he lay on his cot—the sheet was black with filth, and a ragged blanket covered his legs—but it was his usual smile of welcome, so she thought nothing of it. She asked him for the herbs he’d promised her, but he smiled without answering. The great toe of his right foot stuck out through a hole in the sock, and his beat-up shoes were on the floor. The black woman, a close friend and quite accustomed to Quincas’s monkeyshines, sat down on the bed and told him to get a move on. She was surprised he hadn’t reached out a libertine hand, addicted as he was to pats and pinches. She stared again at the great toe of his right foot, found it strange. She touched Quincas’s body and jumped up in alarm, dropping the cold hand. She ran down the stairs and spread the news.
    It was with scant pleasure that the daughter andson-in-law listened to those details about the black woman and the herbs, the gropings, and the
candomblé
. They nodded their heads as they hurried the image vendor along. He was a calm man, and he liked to tell a story in full. He was the only one who knew about Quincas’s relatives, revealed to him once during a night of heavy drinking, and that was why he’d come. He put on a remorseful face and proffered his heartfelt condolences.
    It was time for Leonardo to leave for the office, so he told his wife, “You go on ahead over there. I’ll stop by the office and won’t be long in joining you. I’ve got to sign in. I’ll talk to the boss.”
    They invited in the image vendor and offered him a chair in the living room. Vanda went to change her clothes. The vendor was talking to Leonardo about Quincas. There was nobody on the Ladeira do Tabuão who didn’t like him. Why did he take up that life of a tramp, a man from a good family and property, as the vendor could see after having the pleasure of getting to know his daughter and son-in-law? Some kind of trouble? It must have been. Maybe his wife had been two-timing him; that happens a lot—and the vendor put his forefingers to his head in an imitation of horns, his way of asking a lewd kind of question: Had he guessed right?
    “Dona Otacília, my mother-in-law, was a saint of a woman!”
    The vendor scratched his chin: Why then? But Leonardo didn’t answer. He went to take care of Vanda, who was calling him from the bedroom.
    “We’ve got to notify—”
    “Notify? Who? Why?”
    “Aunt Marocas and Uncle Eduardo…the neighbors. Send out invitations to the funeral…”
    “Why do we have to let the neighbors know now? We’ll tell them later. If not, there’ll be a damned lot of talk.”
    “But