Short Story originally in Portuguese

Ferdinando Fernandes, single, 28 years of age, an administrative assistant or aspirant officer, I’m not entirely sure which, in one of our countless Civil Service departments, needed no interview to obtain his post. Rather he was appointed through the influence of a relative, a canvasser of votes of the craftiest sort. Though Ferdinando initially gained a reputation as one of the most boneheaded employees of our State, he was not exactly a numbskull. In less than a year he had learnt the ropes of his job, without ever attempting, however, to gallop faster than his horse.

Such a state of affairs should come as no surprise. I know spokesmen of the Legislative Council who only learnt Portuguese after their election; journalists who wrote only four piffling editorials after taking the helm of their papers; advocates who only studied the Civil Code after receiving their charter, barbers who only learnt to shave after skinning the cheeks of a hundred clients.

It is no wonder, therefore, that Ferdinando only learnt his job after the Public Purse had spent several months paying out for his wages and for the reams of special letter paper and service notes he used – the sole occupation of almost all the lavish herds of Ferdinandos our Financial Autonomy keeps in clover.

After being justly rewarded with a salary upgrade, Ferdinando turned his mind to marriage, to finding a helpmeet as he termed it. Following the hallowed tradition of his department he went to consult his director, a friend and protector who, when need be, had always saved the young man’s neck and enlightened him with his know-how.

Senhor Teodoro was an assiduous, zealous and intelligent civil servant, as testified by an official commendation that, according to scuttlebutt, had been written by his own hand. As he had no paperwork to sign that day, Teodoro was in good spirits when Ferdinando shuffled in, planted himself by his desk and asked:

“Vossa excelência, I would like some advice on a certain matter…”

His Excellency The Boss frowned, fearing some administrative snarl-up that would require his oh so active and zealous intelligence to resolve. Ferdinando allayed his fears forthwith:

“It’s a private matter, sir. Concerning my domestic arrangements.”

Senhor Teodoro, his curiosity piqued, like any boss that gets a whiff of an underling’s private affairs, offered Ferdinando a seat and prepared to listen with rapt attention.

“As you know, sir, my life is pretty much settled now: I’ve made my way in the world. But I would like to complete my existence by getting married. And since I have no idea how to find a bride, no idea even of how to court, not the slightest clue as to what love might be, I wondered if you could give me a helping hand, sir.”

“What? You don’t know what love is?” exclaimed Senhor Teodoro with great surprise. “Love is… Love is…” on Teodoro went, groping for a definition. “Love is the desire we feel when we see a rich and beautiful girl. The desire to hold her in our arms, to hug her close, to kiss her lips, and to pocket the seven or eight thousand rupees in dowry that she must surely have.”

Ferdinand’s eyes widened in astonishment at the wisdom and intelligence of his boss, who continued apace, sure in the mastery of all fields of human existence:

“Now, the courtship itself depends on the circumstances and conditions of your intended. If, for example, you meet the girl at a ball, what you should do is invite her for a waltz, or a one-step, or a foxtrot. You then whisper in her ear that she’s the most beautiful girl in the city, that you’re crazy about her, and that you’re going to ask her parents for her hand. If, however, you’re lucky enough to find yourself alone with her, forget the preamble. Flash her two or three smiles and make your move. Ka-pow! You declare your love! It’s not indispensable to give warning. Modern girls, from fourteen up, are always ready to accept declarations of love from well-placed young men. But be careful. Sometimes difficulties arise that cause sweethearts heartache. Keep your chin up: love and suffering have always gone hand in hand. To love is to suffer.”

Now fully appraised by his boss on the subject of acquiring a helpmeet, Ferdinando began to cast his eyes around.

Mademoiselle Teresinha, the daughter of an accredited merchant named Coutinho, pleased him greatly. And Ferdinando was certain of his love. Every time he saw Teresinha all he wanted to do was to clasp the girl madly in his arms, kiss her furiously on the neck and, as she had mightily impressive hips, slip his hands down into her dress pockets and grab her seven or eight thousand rupees in dowry, which she must surely carry hidden under those luscious curves in wads of notes from the Banco Nacional Ultramarino.

There was no doubt about it. He loved her; it was love - with all the symptoms his canny boss had described – that Ferdinando felt for Teresinha. But how could he set their courtship rolling? The first time he had the good fortune to find himself at the Club at the same soirée as Teresinha, Ferdinando tried to make his move.

The band was playing a waltz. Ferdinando, however, who was gazing at the sweet girl from afar and angling over timid little smiles, didn’t dare approach. A student swept Teresinha away into the whirl of dancers. The band played a foxtrot. No change from Ferdinando: waltzes and foxtrots were so tricky to dance!

At length the band played a one step and Ferdinando stiffened his resolve. He walked over to his belle and, without so much as a by your leave, began to dance, dragging himself around nervously and awkwardly. At that moment a flood of couples appeared and the floor filled with revellers. In the mêlée, Ferdinando took a hefty kick to the shin that made him yelp. He never did know if it was the foot of a gentleman, a lady or a sofa that stopped him whispering his sweet nothings to Teresinha. What is certain is that the poor lad had to interrupt both the dance and the courtship. Thinking that this was one of those difficulties that arose, as his boss had described it, and muttering philosophically to himself that to love is to suffer, off Ferdinando limped to await another occasion for conquest. A few days later, there was Ferdinando prowling around Coutinho’s house. His plan was to catch the merchant’s daughter in the second situation outlined by his boss, to wit, out somewhere on her own.

As the girl was almost always either accompanied by friends on her trips abroad or at home with her mother, Ferdinando had to circle back and forth so many times that not only Teresinha but the whole neighbourhood soon realised the sly devil had designs on the daughter of the house.

At last the day came when Teresinha, either indisposed in body or mind, or wanting to give Ferdinando the opportunity for a romantic tête-à-tête, stayed at home alone whilst her parents and siblings went off to a party. Ferdinando took his chance.

He waited until the street was almost deserted and then marched resolutely into the Coutinho house. He found the girl in the front room. In her parent’s absence she had dressed elegantly for her tryst and was atremble with agitation and curiosity.

Ferdinando bid her good evening, asked after her mother and father and siblings, and, without further ado, mindful of his boss’s instructions and theories, kapow!, clasped the girl in his arms and began to kiss her furiously on the neck. Now, it seemed the girl was prepared to accept his fiery demonstrations of love, as, startled and fearful that the domestics might hear, she didn’t kick up a fuss. However Ferdinando, remembering the dowry he had to get his hands on and which, according to his calculations, the girl must have hidden on her person in banknotes, set about rifling through her pockets with such eagerness that Teresinha, when she felt her beau fiddle with her skirt, began to scream for help.

A bevy of neighbours and a military policeman came to her aid. They gave Ferdinando a good hiding before carting him off to the barracks under accusation of displaying ill intent towards an unmarried girl.

As luck would have it, an officer at the barracks, an expert in affairs of the heart, was on hand to clear up the mystery: Ferdinando had misunderstood his boss and made a terrible fist of carrying out his instructions. The official reconciled the parties involved and arranged for Ferdinando and Teresinha to marry. Thanks to the police, today Ferdinando is happy and soon to be a father. All the same he think his happiness has come at no little cost.

From time to time, he assumes the air of an important civil servant and, imitating the demeanour of his boss, intones in a deep, philosophical voice “To love is to suffer” as he recalls the beating he took when he first met his wife.