Orphans of Eldorado - Milton Hatoum [35]
It was some time since we’d seen each other. Neither of us ever went out. Estiliano sat right there, on that little bench given me by a sateré-maué. He was very old but still robust. And a little hunchbacked, his head inclined to the earth. He wore the same white jacket, with the emblem of the scales of Justice on the lapel. He believed.
We were silent for some time, until he said these words:
I’m going to die.
So are we all.
I’m going to die before you, he went on. What is it you’re going around saying in town?
I no longer go to town, Estiliano. I say the same things without moving an inch. The Greek poem. Your translation of the Greek poet, the translation you never finished.
I repeated the words, looking at the Amazon and the islands.
He shook his head and sighed:
Useless words, Arminto.
Why useless?
Because, if you go away, you’ll not find another town to live in. Even if you do, your own town will go after you. You’ll roam the same streets until you come back here. Your life has been wasted in this corner of the world. And now it’s too late, no boat will take you anywhere else. There is nowhere else.
Estiliano took from his jacket pocket an envelope with guaraná powder in it, the colour of blood. He put a little of the powder in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.
A life with Dinaura, I said. That’s the only thing that gives me courage. Dinaura had a secret to tell. She believed . . .
In this time of war, hunger and abandonment people believe in everything, said Estiliano. But Dinaura’s secret . . .
He put the envelope into his pocket, slowly looking up at me with a tenderness I found embarrassing. Because it wasn’t just tenderness—it was as if he was looking at my father. Then he said in a low voice: Dinaura came back to the island.
I got up and went towards him: Island? What do you mean?
He asked me to sit down and not get excited. He said he wanted to tell me before he died. It was a secret between him and my father. But he didn’t know everything.
I know that Amando depended on connections with politicians, said Estiliano. He wagered everything on the bidding in 1912, and lost to a big shipping company. But that wasn’t why he died. It’s a long time ago, and you were still living in the Pension Saturno, and studying to get into the law faculty. Your father wanted to speak to me in the house in the Ingleses neighbourhood. He was nervous, worried. I hardly recognised the man. He said he was supporting an orphan girl. Out of pure charity. Then he said it wasn’t just charity. And he asked me not to tell anyone. He didn’t tell me if she was his daughter or his lover. At her age, she could have been either. At first, I thought she was his daughter, but then I changed my mind. I was never certain. It was the only time your father left me confused and hurt. He brought the girl here, said to Mother Caminal that she was his goddaughter and that she was to live with the Carmelites. She asked the headmistress to keep that secret. I know that Dinaura lived alone in a wooden house Amando built behind the church. She lived with privileges, good food, and I sent books because she liked reading. It was a mistake on Amando’s part. A moral error. But he wanted to live here and be near her.
Dinaura, my sister? I said, choking.
Half-sister, Estiliano corrected me. Or stepmother. That’s what I’m not sure about. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I promised your father I’d look after her, if he died before me. To this day I don’t know who she is. I discovered that her mother was born on an island in the Rio Negro. Dinaura wrote me a letter, asking to live there. She wanted to leave Vila Bela. When I came back from Belém, I spent two days here. You were in Manaus. It was at the time of the wreck of the Eldorado. I spoke to Mother Caminal and helped Dinaura.
We had one night of love, I said.
That’s why she wanted to go