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By Root 141 0

hand; her thigh was trembling, her feet were tapping the ground. Suddenly, she let go of me, ran to the bandstand and began to dance. The shouting that burst out had nothing to do with religious devotion. She imitated the movements and rhythm of the other woman, her shoulders bared; she wasn’t looking at me, but at the sky. I don’t think she saw a thing, nobody at all. She was blind to the world, possessed by the dance. They danced together as if they had it rehearsed. At the end they embraced, and Dinaura left, behind the bandstand. She disappeared. How was I to understand such a changeable woman, with such an unstable soul? I went to talk to the musicians and the dancer, but they didn’t know Dinaura. The orphans and the boarders went into the school, the pilgrims went back to the boats or to their homes. I stayed alone in the square . . . You want to understand someone, but all you find is silence.

I still remember the afternoons of longing and desolation, the slowly passing days and the nights of broken sleep. The four or five telegrams sent from Manaus, which I tore up in a rage without reading, without even opening them. Florita’s nervous voice asking: What if it’s something urgent?, saying: I bet Dr Estiliano wants to speak to you, and her searching for the bits of paper, trying to put words together, to decipher their meaning. One afternoon in December, I got to the square earlier, lay down on the warm seat and went to sleep. As I was awoken by the clock striking five, Dinaura’s face appeared against the sun. I had no time to ask about the dance, or to get up; I saw her black eyes, large and frightened. Could it be a dream? But I didn’t want a dream, I wanted her there, clear as day. Then I stroked Dinaura’s mouth with my fingers, felt her anxious breathing, the tremor and the sweat on the open lips as they brushed against my face. In the pleasure of the kiss, I felt a ferocious bite. I let out a cry, more out of fright than pain. I tried to speak; my tongue was bleeding. In the confusion, Dinaura escaped.

In the Carmo College, one of the boarding girls claimed I’d forced Dinaura to kiss me. One Friday morning, Florita heard that she wanted to journey to the submerged city.

Who told you that crazy story?

Iro. The messenger that lives in the square.

I went after Iro, but Estiliano caught me on the ramp going up to the Market and took me to the quay. He was on board the steamship Atahualpa and was going to spend some days in Belém before moving to Vila Bela. He asked if I’d not read the telegrams, adding: The manager wants to speak to you. He can’t pay the employees any longer, or send your money.

Is the firm in trouble?

Rubber exports have plummeted.

I was suspicious: Estiliano hadn’t told me everything. I was more anxious than he was, and struggled to swallow my curiosity.

Tomorrow the Anselm will berth in Vila Bela and then go on up to Manaus, he said.

I looked at Estiliano in annoyance: Tomorrow? Saturday? I can’t.

That girl’s intoxicated you, Arminto.

Again I heard his hoarse voice, insisting that I should go. Estiliano was right: I was drunk on Dinaura; I wanted to know why she hid her past, why the dance, the kiss, the ferocious bite that drew blood from my tongue. I didn’t have dinner with Florita or try to get her to talk. Saturday dawned cloudy, and the Anselm, in the harbour, was taking wood on board for fuel. Arneu came by the white palace to ask if I wanted to take lunch on board ship. I told him I was going to eat at home. Were any passengers going to stay in town?

Arneu pointed to three passengers: an old man, a woman and a lad.

The Becassis, a family from Belém, he said. The woman’s name is Estrela, the son is Azário. It’s said they’re going to live in Vila Bela.

For the first time I saw, in the distance, Estrela’s curly hair; she was hand in hand with her son. The older Becassis was behind the cart carrying the luggage. The vision of Estrela made me forget my deranged state. Arneu was staring stupidly at the stranger’s body; he began saying that she was the prettiest woman on the Anselm,