By Epitácio Pais

as translated by Paul Melo E Castro

Conceição had been happy once, but nothing in this world could bring that feeling back.

What did return were her memories, of João’s savage kisses, his strange way of loving, animal-like but gentle, harsh but tender, veering between the platonism of words and the basest passion, his magic touch that brought either pain or maddening ecstasy, she was never quite sure which. His velvety words and jealous Cyclopean rages. His blazing eyes and tears of feeble subservience. As she dwelt upon these recollections, a caravan of images trooped before her mind’s eye, each one more absorbing, more captivating than the last: the wicked thrill of parading herself in his company and drawing pointed looks from everyone around, their nights of love, an infinity of minor and major acts which lit up her nerves, sending her into the wild, convulsive hyperesthesia of a pleasure that cannot and will not envisage the slightest consequence.

But what did consequences matter, when the intoxication of the moment was such a delight and the future so uncertain? Her dour, austere mother said that each instant of joy brought in its wake a moment of suffering. But the facts of the matter debunked the old woman’s certainties. Pain fled into the distance, to the house of Andrade’s widow or Casimiro’s cowshed, for it quailed before João’s handsome figure. Pain had nothing to do with the hot blood coursing through her veins or the fierce covetousness of men.

‘Do you love me?’ she asked João on one of their escapades. 

‘I do. As the sea the beach.’

She didn’t understand the simile. She hesitated, wary of such oblique words. It was plain talk she wanted, not these ambiguous riddles. Did the sea love the beach? Or was this just his devious way of shirking a clear answer?

And then he would take her off to dark corners where they wouldn’t be disturbed, to explain a symbolism that soon became obvious. It wasn’t all as clear as day, though, especially the sweetness exceeding all possible limits. She kept her mouth clamped shut so the happiness possessing her entire being wouldn’t slip away and allowed herself to sink back into the good, warm sensations of life.

Then came expectancy, intense at first, painful following certain letters from the adventurer. Terrifying developments were taking shape that she had simply never considered, bringing with them a languid weakness which was new. Pains that led her on, leaving only anguished suspicions, rebellious tears that streamed down her cheeks, briny like the sea, that accomplice in her chronic euphoria, symbol of a man detached in his emotions. She was unable to say whether her friends fled from her or vice versa, but in the eyes of everyone around she saw a question mark that pierced like a dagger. Barely veiled comments followed in her wake and a harsh bitterness took deeper root in her soul.

The tangible consequences arrived in short order. Her shocked mother, that guardian of morals, gave up the ghost. Her brothers, abroad, cut their remittances. No more did young men’s gazes linger over her enchanting figure, which had begun to warp. The loose roof tiles, the wilting plants and flowers in her garden and on the veranda gave her house an air of death and abandonment. And then the baby inside, the decisive, visible cause of her misfortune, always demanding more nourishment, indifferent to the storm without, gleefully despoiling the weak flesh of its mother with filial entitlement, the wretch.

She would have killed the foetus by punching herself in the stomach or overexertion were it not for Isabel. It showed her guilt for all to see. She hated it. Without it, life might yet smile. With it, everything was lost.

Kill the baby? Do you even realise the crime that would be? It’s a human being, one of God’s creatures, innocent of man’s sin and the accusations of the world. Such a crime would stain your entire life. You can still be happy with the little one. How do you know João won’t have a change of heart, realise his mistake, come back and marry you? Stranger things have happened. Banish these thoughts from your mind. I know you’ll be happy one day.

Upon which the good-hearted girl gathered up the laundry, gave the house a quick sweep and left.

But Conceição was overwhelmed, felt as if she were drifting down a grim river with no return and no escape, her last moorings to hope snapping behind her. She tore at her hair and writhed in anguish. Her eyes burnt with tears as she sat with distended belly brushing the floor. She was taken by veritable fits of madness from which she emerged into a dead calm empty of thought or reason, her eyes inert, lost in an endless, unreactive stupor. On other occasions her mind revived, countering Isabel’s poorly thought-out sermons with Franciscan guile, spurred on by a desperate wish to live without cumber and to the fullness of her own innate qualities.

‘I don’t want to hear your lectures, Isabel. I don’t. I don’t! I can’t take them anymore. You say suffering is the consequence of our acts. You mean I deserve this never-ending, life-long suffering. But then you say God only makes suffer those he cherishes. What’s the truth? I don’t understand any of it. You give the example of António, who’s paying for past sins. But what about Afonso? A whole life spent double-dealing and paid damn all for it! The man lives like a king.’

‘Who’s filled your head with this stuff? João?’

‘Just take a look around. See for yourself.’

‘But everyone pays for their misdeeds. If not now, in the next life. Don’t you want João to be punished for the wrong he’s done you?’

‘No!’ she screamed, bursting into floods of tears.

*

The bells pealed for midnight mass.

Lamps were lit, brightening all façades. Everyone defied the cold and took themselves out to adore the infant king born in a stable and the images of Joseph and Mary, accompanied by violin strains and the heartfelt song of men of good will. Only Conceição wasn’t able to go. She was confined at home, overcome by intense pain and the bitter distress plunging her into the abyss.

Her son came into the world as bells rang out for the birth of Christ. Isabel washed and swaddled the child and lay him in his mother’s arms.

A great joy flooded Conceição’s heart, freed her from pain, allowed her refuge in the consoling realm of peace. She felt that nothing now could touch her and rose triumphant from the ashes of her own ruin. The past? Not even a memory, just a shapeless mass receding fast behind her unfolding destiny, becoming a speck in the darkening distance, untouched by the pure light cast by her human miracle, this little body nestled against her own which replenished her soul, opening up a future filled with marvellous perspectives.

Paul Melo e Castro is an academic and lecturer in Comparative Literature and Portuguese at the University of Glasgow. His publications include Lengthening Shadows: An Anthology of Goan Short Stories translated from the Portuguese Volume I and II (Goa 1556, 2016), and Monsoon by Vimala Devi (Seagull, 2020) translated from the Portuguese.

First published as ‘Milagre de Natal’ in O Heraldo, 25th December 1967. Epitácio Pais (1924–2009) was a Goan writer and novelist who wrote in Portuguese. Born to a bhatkar, or landowning family, Pais was a primary school teacher by profession. He contributed short stories in Portuguese to newspapers such as Diário de Goa and O Heraldo from the 1950s to the 1980s. He also participated in the Portuguese-language programme Renascença, which ran on All-India Radio until the 1980s. For José Pereira, Pais was “one of Goa’s prominent writers of fiction in Portuguese."

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