Goodbye.”

V

 

Rubião had a rival for Quincas Borba’s heart—a dog, a hand-Some dog, medium–sized, lead–colored with black markings. Quincas Borba took him everywhere. They slept in the same room. In the morning it was the dog who would awaken his master by climbing onto the bed, where they would exchange their first greetings. One of the master’s eccentricities was to give it his own name, but he explained that it was for two reasons, one doctrinal, the other personal.

“Since Humanitas, according to my doctrine, is the principle of life and is present everywhere, it also exists in the dog, so, therefore, he can have a human name, be it Christian or Muslim …”

“Fine, but why don’t you give him the name Bernardo?” Rubiao asked, thinking of a political rival in the region.

“That brings us to the personal reason. If I should die first, as I presume I shall, I will survive in the name of my dog. It makes you laugh, doesn’t it?”

Rubião made a negative gesture.

“Well, you should be laughing, my dear fellow, because immortality is my lot or my spot or whatever name you can come up with for it. I will live in perpetuity through my great book. Those who can’t read, however, will call the dog Quincas Borba and …”

The dog, hearing his name, ran to the bed. Quincas Borba, touched, looked at Quincas Borba.

“My poor friend! My good friend! My only friend!”

“Only?”

“Pardon me, you are, too, I know that quite well and I thank you very much. But you’ve got to forgive a sick man everything. Maybe my delirium is starting. Let me see the mirror.”

Rubião gave him the mirror. For a few seconds the sick man studied the thin face, the feverish eyes that revealed the suburbs of death, towards which he was walking with a slow but certain step. Afterwards, with a pale and ironic smile:

“Everything on the outside there corresponds to what I feel inside here. I’m going to die, my dear Rubião … Don’t wag your finger, I’m going to die. And what is dying, for you to look so horrified?”

“I know, I know, you have your philosophy… But let’s talk about dinner, what will it be today?”

Quincas Borba sat on the bed letting his legs hang down and their extraordinary thinness could be imagined through his trouser legs.

“What is it? What do you want?” Rubião came over.

“Nothing,” the sick man replied, smiling. “Philosophy! You use such disdain when you say that to me! Say it again, go ahead, I want to hear it again. Philosophy!”

“But it wasn’t disdain … Am I capable of disdaining philosophy? All I’m saying is that you can believe that death isn’t anything because you’ve got your reasons, your principles …”

Quincas Borba searched for his slippers with his feet. Rubião pushed them over to him. He put them on and began to walk to stretch his legs. He petted the dog and lighted a cigarette. Rubião tried to dress him and brought him a morning coat, a vest, a dressing gown, a cape, whatever he could find. Quincas Borba rejected them with a gesture. He had a different look now. His eyes, turning inward, saw his own brain thinking. After several steps he stopped for a few seconds in front of Rubião.

VI

 

“In order for you to understand what life and death are, it’s enough to tell you how my grandmother died.”

“What was it like?”

“Have a seat.”

Rubião obeyed, trying to look as interested as possible while Quincas Borba kept walking about.

“It was in Rio de Janeiro,” he began, “in front of the Imperial Chapel, which was called the Royal Chapel then, on a day of great celebration. My grandmother came out, crossed the churchyard in order to get to the sedan chair that was waiting for her on the Largo do Paço. People were thick as ants. The masses wanted to see the entrance of the great ladies in all their finery.