The Alienist and Other Stories of Nineteenth-Century Brazil by Machado de Assis Page B

responding to his wife’s kisses. Thoughts fluttered around in his head like startled birds in a cage. Everything was so devilishly, life-threateningly expensive! And his earnings never increased! If something did not change, he had no idea what might happen. It simply could not go on like this. He mentally added up the debts, so much here, so much there, so much wherever, and he lost count, perhaps on purpose, in order to avoid knowing the awful sum. Along the way, he looked at the big houses, without resentment—he did not resent the wealth of others—but rather, with a sort of nostalgia for a life he had never known, a life of ease, bright satisfactions, and infinite delights.
    When the church bells rang for evening prayers, Porfirio got home to find Gloria depressed. Her godfather had told her that they were a couple of spendthrifts and that he would not give them anything more until they stopped acting crazy.
    “What did I tell you, Gloria? Why did you go there? So we’re crazy, are we? He ’s the crazy one!”
    Gloria calmed him down and spoke to him of patience and resolve. The best thing now was, after all, to find a cheaper house, request an extension on what they owed, and figure out how to pay for everything later. And they had to be patient, very patient. For her part, she was counting on her godmother in heaven. Porfirio listened to her and calmed down. He did not ask for anything more than a ray of hope. Hope, they say, is the poor man’s wealth, and for a few days he was a wealthy man.
    On Saturday, on his way home with his wages in his pocket, he was tempted by a lottery vendor, who offered him the very last two tenths of a hot ticket. Porfirio felt something in his heart, a twinge of intuition, and he stopped, then started walking again, and finally turned around, went back, and bought it. He figured that at worst he could lose a few milréis, and at best he could win, win quite a lot, get himself out of the quagmire, pay off everything, and maybe even have money left over. Even if there were no money left over, winning would still be a good deal, because where on earth was he going to find money to pay so many debts? Winning the lottery, on the other hand, would come precisely out of nowhere, or rather, from heaven. The ticket number was very nice, too, and he had quickly memorized it, even though he did not usually have a head for math! The digits were well distributed, somehow, with nicely repeated fives and a nine in the middle. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that this ticket just might be a winner.
    Getting home to São Diogo Street, he was going to show his wife the lottery ticket, but he changed his mind and decided to wait. The lottery would not occur for two days. Gloria asked him if he’d found a house, and on Sunday she told him to go look for one. Porfirio went out and found none but returned in a good mood. That afternoon he asked his wife laughingly what she would do if he brought her a silk dress that week? Gloria shrugged, silk was not for them. And why shouldn’t it be? Who was more deserving than she? Why, if he had the means, he’d see that she went around in a coach!
    “But that’s just it, Porfirio. We don’t have the means.”
    Yes, but God sometimes remembers everybody, okay, that’s all he could say for now. He’d have to explain later. He was superstitious and did not want to tempt fate by revealing that he held the winning ticket. And mentally he removed his wife’s faded, wrinkled, cotton print dress and replaced it with another of blue silk—it had to be blue—with lace or something else that would show off her beautiful body … and he forgot himself and said aloud:
    “There can’t be too many other bodies like it.”
    “What bodies, Porfirio? Have you gone nuts?” asked Gloria in confusion.
    No, he wasn’t nuts. He was thinking about that body that God had given her … and Gloria writhed hilariously in her chair because she was always ticklish, and