I remember from the earliest times of my existence a ritual that took place every Sunday. Around eight o’clock in the morning, if we weren’t already up, Cecília would knock on the bedroom door of the more lazy ones and exclaim: «Come on, rise and shine! You’ll be late for church!» Although for me Sunday Mass was something utterly boring as I was a child – something I only went to because Cecília would never let me escape – it soon ceased to be a sacrifice. Not only because I did indeed take comfort in the enraptured words of Father Ricardo but because it was probably the only moment when Diogo, Luz and I could be together without the stern look of D. José Ávila casting a shadow on our friendship. Not out of respect for the house of God, but simply because since my Mother’s death he hadn’t been on good terms with Him, and although he was still catholic enough to be friends with Father Ricardo, he only bothered to go to church on religious holydays and little else. And so Diogo would drive us – Luz, Cecília and I – to church, to attend Father Ricardo’s Mass, who despite having had quite a few years to get used to the idea that my Father wasn’t much of a catholic, still felt disappointed every Sunday when he saw us arrive without him.
Sunday was not only church day, it was also market day. The merchants would set up their stalls in the square and wait for the housemaids and humble housewives coming out of church to go there and purchase whatever products were needed in their homes.
Cecília was one of those women. Immediately after church, Diogo would drive the carriage to the market square, so that his Mother could shop for the Roseiral. Once there, we would give a coin to a kid so that he’d watch the carriage, and while Cecília looked for the food that was needed in the Roseiral, Diogo, Luz and I would stroll through the market, talking and laughing cheerfully and, for half an hour, we were again three children without an identity, just like Luz had said, without social codes coming between us.
But those were the only moments when Luz was able to let go and be herself. As soon as we were back in the Roseiral, under the sombre look of D. José Ávila, again Diogo became to her the faithful servant whom she respected but for whom she could nurture no real affection.
In the two years that followed D. João’s death, D. Pedro – unlike what many people thought would happen – did not desert his country and although from afar, he still took the necessary steeps to prevent his brother from arriving and imposing his absolutist regime. However, Portugal was far from having achieved a solid and stable peace. D. Pedro’s moderate measures, which again included D. Miguel in the nation’s political picture, although in a small and controlled manner, did not satisfy either party.
At the Roseiral, arguments were igniting. I no longer sought to speak about Liberalism only out of my Father’s view and ears’ reach. I loved the cause too much to hide it, to whisper its name in the dark instead of proudly shouting it, to not use it as a banner for everything I believed in.
At dinner, one of us would invariably bring up the subject and we’d end up arguing and throwing at each other insults not very elegant between any two human beings, let alone Father and son. Sometimes, Luz managed to stop us before we became aggressive but usually our fights would develop into real word battles and each of us wanted to be the one to use the thinnest and sharpest blade to hurt the other. When that happened, neither of the three could finish dinner and I would hear Luz softly sobbing in the night in the next room and regret having lost my temper, which did not stop the same from happening all over again the next day.
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