Dom Casmurro Chapter 137


If I hadn’t looked at Ezequiel it is probable that I should not now be here writing this book, because my first impulse was to rush to the coffee and drink it.

I even picked up the cup, but the boy kissed my hand, as was his custom, and the sight of him and his gesture brought second thoughts – thoughts that I am ashamed to confess to; but what does it matter, the truth can be told. I may even be branded murderer; who am I to protest or deny it? My second impulse was criminal. I leaned down and asked Ezequiel if he had had coffee.

‘Yes, Papa. I’m going to mass with Mamma.’

‘Have another cup. Half a cup.’

‘What about you, Papa?’

‘I’ll send for another. Come on, drink up.’

Ezequiel opened his mouth. I put the cup to his lips, trembling so much that I almost spilt it but determined to pour it down his throat should he complain of the taste or the temperature, for the coffee was now cold. But something, I don’t know what, held me back. I put the cup on the table and fell to kissing the child’s head madly.

‘Papa! Papa!’ cried Ezequiel.

‘No, no, I’m not your father.’