For Isabel, Page 2

  Second Circle. Bi. Lisbon. Orientation.

  Since I never saw you at the house in Amarante, and you claim you knew Isabel, that means you met her later, when she was already a woman, even if for me she was never a woman, she was always my little girl. My name is Beatriz, Beatriz Teixeira, but she called me Bi, and I was always her Bi, like she called me when she was little and kept calling me: Bi. I can still hear her little girl voice, when she was ill: Bi, Bi, I want you, I want you to keep me company, I want my Bi. And then I’d climb the stairs and bring her a toy, a glass of orange juice, a little homemade treat. From the time she was little she was always ill, she suffered from asthma. It was a predicament, because asthma’s not curable, it’s more a symptom than a disease, and there was really nothing to be done. Her mother was desperate. Then I took it upon myself to consult a homeopathic doctor, my cousin’s son, a good boy who worked at Santa Maria Hospital and practiced regular medicine, but in the afternoons he cured patients by his own methods. He came and saw her and said: it’s psychosomatic asthma, this child has psychological problems, I couldn’t tell you what sort, you’d need a psychologist, but she definitely has mental problems. I could diagnose her: for someone like me who knew her, it didn’t take much. Her father wasn’t around, was never around during that time; he was always in Paris, and when he was home, it was more like he wasn’t. Isabel would pester me: Bi, did Papa write?, Bi, did Papa call?, Bi, when’s Papa coming home? She missed her father, she was a little in love with him, like all girls are at that age. Poor man, you had to understand: there was more debt than revenue from the property in Amarante, a friend of his in Paris had proposed that he get involved with a French import-export company that had dealings with Portugal, he’d sold off some hectares of land and was working hard to get by. You could really feel his absence. And Isabel’s mother wasn’t exactly a great help to the child. She was too involved with her parish. During those times, there happened to be a priest in one of the most elegant parish churches of Lisbon who’d got it into his head to go against the rules of the patriarch, the Cardinal, who was an important fascist, God help us. In those times, going against these rules was madness, because the Cardinal and Salazar were one and the same, they’d grown up together, Salazar was even the Cardinal’s sexton, and this parish priest – a good man, certainly, but also rather full of himself – started tilting at windmills. And so one day, the secret police arrived in the parish and told him: if you’d please come with us. In some circles in Lisbon, people grew anxious, because any harm to that priest meant harm to certain Catholics who counted a great deal in public opinion. How is it, these Catholics wondered, how is it that a parish priest like this can wind up in prison because from his pulpit, he preached against the Pharisees? It’s in the Gospel. And they started to form committees in his defense. And heading one of these committees was Isabel’s mother. Perhaps she had a weakness for that priest, he was a handsome man, I have to admit: tall, olive-skinned, jet-black, pomaded hair, he’d sometimes come to our home for tea and Isabel’s mother would shower him with attention. When he was arrested, madam treated the news as a catastrophe. Dear madam, I told her, what’s one more arrest, Peniche Fort is filled with political prisoners, half the country’s in prison, dear madam, maybe a priest is just what’s needed, he can hear confessions and comfort the prisoners. But she wouldn’t listen to reason. All day long on the telephone with friends, with the committee, with the patriarchate secretary, and then in the evenings, endless gatherings at a women’s club along Avenida Duque de Loulé, where all the elegant ladies in Lisbon went. Isabel stayed home alone with me every night, she was afraid to go to bed, and I’d put her to bed. But she didn’t want fairy tales or stories to fall asleep to, besides, she wasn’t a baby anymore, she was a girl now, a very beautiful girl. She told me the strangest things. She told me: grownups always find a lover, who knows, maybe Papa found a lover in Paris, but my mama, she found an ideal lover, but she’d never have the courage to make love with him, because he’s a priest who only thinks about the Pharisees, in my opinion, that priest’s a total idiot. And I’d tell her: Isabel, a girl like you mustn’t say such things. And she’d answer: Bi, you’ve always lived with us and I’m sure you’ve never been with a man, you’ve never had a lover, but when the time comes, I’m going to find myself a lover, I’ll pick a man who’s full of himself, like the men Mama knows, I’ll make him fall head over heels in love with me and I’ll make him die from unhappiness. And I’d tell her: you mustn’t talk about such things, you’re just a girl, these things are for grownups, you’re my little one, don’t think such things, Isabel. And she insisted: that’s not true, I’m almost grown, I’ll find a lover and I’ll make him die from unhappiness. And there you have it: that was my Isabel.