Good Offices

Because he was getting ready to leave the office when he heard Sabina’s almost inaudible voice call his name. She was still behind the black desk, not looking in his direction. She was holding a stack of white paper. He went over to her. “Here are some leaflets for you to distribute around the neighborhood,” Sabina said. They were not leaflets; there was nothing written on the sheets of paper. Sabina’s nervous glance, her white lashes tipped with gold, darted toward the door, confirming that she and Tancredo were alone. For the first time she looked into his eyes. Her voice was tinged with reproach and resentment.

“You’ll have noticed, will you not,” she whispered, “that I’m wearing the blue headscarf today?”

“Yes.”

“I wore it last Tuesday too,” she said with tremendous effort, “and last Sunday. Didn’t you see that I was wearing the blue scarf?”

“Yes,” Tancredo replied. “It was blue.”

Sabina’s extremely white hands suddenly dropped the sheets of paper beside the typewriter.

“So” — she spoke rapidly — “why didn’t you come either of those nights? Perhaps you’re thinking of not visiting me tonight either? I’m not begging you to visit me, I demand that you do, understand? Haven’t you realized that?”

She was suffering, wringing her hands over the stack of paper. They both kept glancing at the door, fearful that Father Almida might enter, or Sacristan Machado.

“Sabina,” Tancredo whispered, “I was coming up to see you on Sunday, but I bumped into Almida in the library.”

“What time was that?”

He felt that Sabina was interrogating him, just like the sacristan.

“It was late,” he sighed. “Three in the morning. I was surprised to find the Father awake at that hour. He was surprised to see me too. I told him I was looking for a book, and. . we ended up working on our Latin until dawn.”

“And Tuesday?”

“On Tuesday I was just about to. . and I heard noises coming from Machado’s room. He must have been awake.”

“What time was that? Three in the morning again?”

“Yes.”

“What does it matter if Machado is awake?” Sabina’s voice rose involuntarily. “We both know the old devil’s as deaf as a post.”

“He’s deaf, Sabina, but not as a post. And he’s not just deaf, he’s your godfather, and not just your godfather, but your next-door neighbor. .”

“Oh yes?” Sabina interrupted him. Her voice became hoarse. “So I have a keeper too, like the whores?”

“For God’s sake, Sabina. I’m just saying he could hear us at any moment.”

“Of course he couldn’t.” Sabina’s expression turned scornful; her fingers crumpled and messed up the stack of paper. Her fury was boundless, but so was her fear. She went on looking alternately at Tancredo and at the door. “That’s why I put the mattress on the floor,” she said. “So we won’t make noise. It’s the bed that’s noisy, but we don’t use the bed. Just the mattress. We don’t worry, my God. We never worry.”

She stopped, frightened by her own words. She was a little girl explaining the rules of a game. She wore her blue scarf to show, silently, that she wanted to be visited that night. She took a deep breath.

“I want you to come today,” she said finally, as if issuing an order. “Today, right?” Her voice cracked. Then, gently, she added, as if pleading with him: “Tancredo, come up tonight, I beg you, for God’s sake, I need you.” Her trembling fingers grazed the hunchback’s fingers. Her yellow eyes looked directly into his. She had half risen in order to murmur this to him, their faces very close. If at that moment Almida or Machado were to come in, thought the hunchback, it would be difficult to explain that nearness, like the imminence of a kiss.

“No,” he said, “I’m not coming.”

“Why not?” Sabina Cruz burst out, falling back into the chair, defeated. She did not let go of the hunchback’s fingers although he remained standing, his back to the door, his body concealing that entwining of hands in case somebody came in. Night settled in the garden. Now Sabina’s pale mouth dared to do the worst; brazenly kissing Tancredo’s hands. For the first time (the first time with Sabina), the hunchback was overcome by distaste, as if the cold, slippery skin of the old people were still brushing against him. “You must come today,” she told him.

“No, Sabina.”

“Why not, if I plead with you? Forget the order. I’m begging you.”

“I’m not coming. I don’t want to.”

Sabina’s mouth fell open in a silent cry. She let go of his hands. Tancredo closed his eyes.

“I won’t be coming any more,” he said.

They were interrupted by one of the Lilias bringing in a jug of coffee and a tray of little cups, which she began to arrange too slowly around the oblong table. Sabina Cruz bit her lips. Tancredo silently welcomed the old woman’s arrival, which extricated him from that dangerous, absurd conversation.

“Father Almida and my godfather are in the sacristy,” Sabina said to the old woman.

“I know,” she replied, and went on setting out the cups, spoons, sugar.

“Take them their coffee in the sacristy,” Sabina snapped.