Free Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis Page A

on.
    Carlos Maria was the name of the first, Freitas that of the second. Rubião liked both of them but in different ways. It wasn’t just age that linked him closer to Freitas, it was also the man’s nature. Freitas praised everything, greeted every dish and every wine with a special delicate phrase, and he would leave there with his pockets full of cigars, thus proving that he preferred that brand over all others. They’d been introduced in a certain shop on the Rua Municipal, where they dined together once. They’dtold him Freitas’ story there, his good and bad luck, but they didn’t go into details. Rubião had turned up his nose. Freitas was some castaway whose acquaintance wouldn’t bring him any personal pleasure or public esteem, of course, but Freitas soon softened that first impression. He was lively, interesting, a good storyteller, as jolly as a man with an income of fifty
cantos
. Since Rubião had mentioned his pretty roses, Freitas asked permission to go see them. He was crazy about flowers. A few days later he appeared there, saying that he was coming to see the beautiful roses, just for a few minutes, if it wasn’t inconvenient, if Rubião didn’t have something to do. The latter, on the contrary, was pleased to see that the man hadn’t forgotten their conversation, and he came down into the garden where the man had been waiting and went to show him the roses. Freitas found them admirable. He examined them so carefully that it was necessary to pull him away from one rosebed to take him to another. He knew the names of all of them, and he went along mentioning species that Rubião didn’t have and didn’t know—mentioning and describing, like this and like that, this size (indicating it by making a circle with his thumb and forefinger), and then he would name some people who owned good specimens. But Rubião’s bushes were of the best species. This one, for example, was rare, and that one too, etc. The gardener was listening to him in awe. When everything had been examined, Rubião said:
    “Come have something to drink. What would you like?”
    Freitas was happy with anything. When they got inside, he found the house nicely furnished. He examined the bronzes, the paintings, the furniture, he looked out at the sea.
    Yes, sir!” he said. “You live like a prince.”
    Rubião smiled. Prince, even as a comparison, was a word that had a nice sound to it. The Spanish servant came with the silver tray holding various liqueurs and some goblets, and it was a good moment for Rubião. He himself offered Freitas this or that liqueur. He finally recommended one that they’d told him was the best of all its type on the market. Freitas smiled in disbelief.
    “Maybe it was to raise the price,” he said.
    He took the first sip, savored it slowly, then a second, then a third. Finally, amazed, he confessed that it was a beauty. Wherehad he bought it? Rubião replied that a friend, the owner of a large wine shop, had given him a bottle of it as a present. He, however, had liked it so much that he’d ordered three dozen. It didn’t take long for their relationship to grow close. And Freitas came to have lunch or dinner there many times—more times even than he wanted to or could—because it’s hard to resist a man who’s so accommodating, so fond of seeing friendly faces.

XXX
     
    R ubião once asked him: “Tell me, Mr. Freitas, if I got it into my head to go to Europe, would you be able to come along?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’m a free friend, and it might happen that we’d start off disagreeing about the itinerary.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, because you’re a jolly sort.”
    “You’re mistaken, sir. I wear this smiling mask, but I’m a sad person. I’m an architect of ruins. I would go first to see the ruins of Athens, then to the theater to see
The Poor Man of the Ruins
, a weepy drama. Later on to bankruptcy court, where ruined men are found …”
    And Rubião laughed. He