Bocage in Lisbon at the end of the century as I did. That was something! The ease! And such lines of poetry! We had battles that went on glossing for an hour or two in the midst of applause and bravos in Nicola’s bar. Bocage had a tremendous talent! That was what I was told a few days ago by Her Grace the Duchess of Cadaval…”
And those last three words, expressed quite emphatically, produced a flutter of admiration and amazement in all assembled because so cordial and so simple a man, in addition to competing with poets, was close to duchesses! A Bocage and a Cadaval! Contact with such a man made the ladies feel superrefined. The males looked on him with respect, some with envy, no few with disbelief. He, meanwhile, went along piling adjective on adjective, adverb on adverb, listing everything that rhymed with
tyrant
and
usurper
. It was dessert time. No one was thinking anymore about eating. During the intervals in the glosses a merry murmur went about, the chatter of full stomachs. The eyes, sluggish and moist or lively and warm, lounged or leaped about the table loaded with sweets and fruit—pineapple wedges here, melon slices there, the crystal dessert dishes displaying the thinly shredded cocoanut sweets, yellow as an egg yolk—or the molasses, thick and dark, not far from the cheese. From time to time a full, jovial, unbuttoned laugh—a family laugh—would come along to break the political gravity of the banquet. In the midst of the great and common interest, the small and private ones were also moving about. The girls spoke about the
modinhas
they were going to sing to the accompaniment of the harpsichord, the minuets, the English airs. Nor was there any lack of a matron who promised to perform an eight-beat dance just to show them how she had enjoyed herself in the good old days of childhood. One fellow, next to me, was passing on to another a recent report on the new slaves who were on their way according to letters he’d received from Luanda, one letter in which his nephew told him that he’d already made a deal for about forty head, and another in which … He had them right there in his pocket but he couldn’t read them on that occasion. What he guaranteed is that from this one shipment we can count on some hundred and twenty slaves at least.
“Shh … shh … shh …,” Vilaça was saying, clapping his hands. The noise quickly stopped, like a pause with an orchestra, and all eyes turned to the glosser. Those farther off cupped their ears in order not to lose asingle word. Most of them, even before the gloss, had already given a chuckle of approval, mild and sincere.
As for me, there I was, solitary and out of it, making eyes at a certain dessert that was my passion. I was happy with the end of each gloss, hoping that it would be the last, but it wasn’t, and the dessert remained intact. No one had thought to say the first word. My father, at the head of the table, was savoring the joy of the guests with deep swallows, he had eyes only for the jolly fat faces, the dishes, the flowers. He was delighted with the familiarity that bound the most distant spirits together, the influence of a good dinner. I could see that because I dragged my eyes away from the compote to him and then from him back to the compote, as if begging him to serve me some. But it was in vain. He didn’t see anything; he was seeing himself. And the glosses went on one after the other like sheets of water, obliging me to withdraw the desire and the plea. I was as patient as I could be, but I couldn’t be for long. I asked for some dessert in a low voice. Finally I roared, bellowed, stamped my feet. My father, who would have given me the sun if I’d asked for it, called to a slave to serve me the sweet, but it was too late. Aunt Emerenciana pulled me out of my chair and turned me over to a slave girl in spite of my shouts and shoves.
The glosser’s crime had been only that: delaying the compote and bringing about my
And those last three words, expressed quite emphatically, produced a flutter of admiration and amazement in all assembled because so cordial and so simple a man, in addition to competing with poets, was close to duchesses! A Bocage and a Cadaval! Contact with such a man made the ladies feel superrefined. The males looked on him with respect, some with envy, no few with disbelief. He, meanwhile, went along piling adjective on adjective, adverb on adverb, listing everything that rhymed with
tyrant
and
usurper
. It was dessert time. No one was thinking anymore about eating. During the intervals in the glosses a merry murmur went about, the chatter of full stomachs. The eyes, sluggish and moist or lively and warm, lounged or leaped about the table loaded with sweets and fruit—pineapple wedges here, melon slices there, the crystal dessert dishes displaying the thinly shredded cocoanut sweets, yellow as an egg yolk—or the molasses, thick and dark, not far from the cheese. From time to time a full, jovial, unbuttoned laugh—a family laugh—would come along to break the political gravity of the banquet. In the midst of the great and common interest, the small and private ones were also moving about. The girls spoke about the
modinhas
they were going to sing to the accompaniment of the harpsichord, the minuets, the English airs. Nor was there any lack of a matron who promised to perform an eight-beat dance just to show them how she had enjoyed herself in the good old days of childhood. One fellow, next to me, was passing on to another a recent report on the new slaves who were on their way according to letters he’d received from Luanda, one letter in which his nephew told him that he’d already made a deal for about forty head, and another in which … He had them right there in his pocket but he couldn’t read them on that occasion. What he guaranteed is that from this one shipment we can count on some hundred and twenty slaves at least.
“Shh … shh … shh …,” Vilaça was saying, clapping his hands. The noise quickly stopped, like a pause with an orchestra, and all eyes turned to the glosser. Those farther off cupped their ears in order not to lose asingle word. Most of them, even before the gloss, had already given a chuckle of approval, mild and sincere.
As for me, there I was, solitary and out of it, making eyes at a certain dessert that was my passion. I was happy with the end of each gloss, hoping that it would be the last, but it wasn’t, and the dessert remained intact. No one had thought to say the first word. My father, at the head of the table, was savoring the joy of the guests with deep swallows, he had eyes only for the jolly fat faces, the dishes, the flowers. He was delighted with the familiarity that bound the most distant spirits together, the influence of a good dinner. I could see that because I dragged my eyes away from the compote to him and then from him back to the compote, as if begging him to serve me some. But it was in vain. He didn’t see anything; he was seeing himself. And the glosses went on one after the other like sheets of water, obliging me to withdraw the desire and the plea. I was as patient as I could be, but I couldn’t be for long. I asked for some dessert in a low voice. Finally I roared, bellowed, stamped my feet. My father, who would have given me the sun if I’d asked for it, called to a slave to serve me the sweet, but it was too late. Aunt Emerenciana pulled me out of my chair and turned me over to a slave girl in spite of my shouts and shoves.
The glosser’s crime had been only that: delaying the compote and bringing about my
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