What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (12 page)

the old lady never had anything worth anything, they’re poor, we’ve already taken the clock, the veneer ashtray, the case that wasn’t ivory at all, was fake, they would examine the place where things had been without saying a peep to me, not afraid of me, afraid that I’d leave, last week I caught the old woman kissing my jacket before hanging it up, at first they tried to drag me into their daughter’s room to try on the Panama hats and the bibs with the smell of the closet and I

—
No

everything ancient, threadbare, if I’d had the car with wooden wheels at least, a wardrobe I could pound on with my fists, Mr. Couceiro to me, no, to the picture, to the iron box where there was a bouquet of chrysanthemums

—
Noémia

even today sometimes when I enter the apartment, before I get to the living room

—
Noémia

Noémia Couceiro Marques with no eyes, with no mouth, with no face, reduced to a bicycle with flat tires, the petals in the vase that evaporate when you touch them, a little bell on the handlebars that would arouse the whole building, Rui with the bath towel under the headlights of the Jeep

—
Noémia

son of a bitch

while the mastiff with a bow leaped to avoid a policeman and came back whining, my father begging them to hide the scars on his chest, to stop the serum, to sit him up on the bed, and his husband mother

—
Rui?

since she doesn’t see either of us, Rui, why is she throwing me out, not letting me come in, telling the man with the napkin

—
Send the faggot’s kid away

and the breathing of the horses mingled with the echo of the waves not from the water side, in the pine grove, me at the bus stop the way he was before and nighthawks and owls and mother and father and Dona Helena and Mr. Couceiro and don’t abandon me here

the one who wasn’t my son at the bus stop like my husband at some other time but without a suitcase or a topcoat and finally nobody, just a stick, so I could open the blinds, take away the broom I’d jammed against the doorknob, turn the key in the door, go out, settle down on the doormat with a pint

no, not with a pint, take a bath, fix myself up, find the vial of perfume that Carlos gave me and that I haven’t used in twenty years

twenty-two years

behind the rice tin, I mean not really perfume, what’s left of some perfume, half a dozen drops, turn it upside down, touch the stopper to my ears, the back of my neck, try on a dress from my younger days, the old pink and brown one, not really brown, maroon

maybe brighter than maroon, purple with a green sash

lilac with a green sash

purple with a green sash, the purple dress with a green sash that I only wore once after I was married, before I got pregnant, a year after school, holding it up to my breast and my breasts were too big, stopping with the dress, throwing it onto the bed, why was I insisting on the dress, getting rid of it and going back to cooking, what’s the use if you’re not going to caress me, hug me, look at me crossing my fingers, knotting them, twisting them, your shoulder getting away from my hand and me the dummy the blind woman

—What was it Carlos?

—What’s wrong with me Carlos?

—Why not with me Carlos?

detesting me

I’m ugly

not Cristina, not Elisabete, not Márcia, I’m ugly, what don’t I have, Carlos, for heaven’s sake tell me what you don’t like and I’ll change it, it’s my fault, I’m to blame, I don’t know how to get it right, teach me, don’t hide in the pillow, don’t sink into the mattress, a creaking of springs

—It’s not your fault Judite

when it’s obvious that it is my fault, don’t ask me to forgive you, put your head on my breast because I’m not asking for anything, see, I’m not laughing at you, the desk clerk making fun of you, don’t worry about it, noticing something I don’t know what

—He noticed Judite

he didn’t notice, he’s already forgotten about us, the school supervisor noticed, the other teachers noticed, nobody noticed, everything’s normal Carlos, anxiety, shyness, don’t be frightened I’m waiting

—Waiting for what, Judite?

don’t talk, don’t worry, I’m waiting

—What’s that racket Judite?

it’s the Gypsy wagons, the horses, the sea, it’s my father

—What kind of devil are you bringing me Judite?

it’s the gulls on the bridge, don’t look at me as though you were saying good-bye to me, don’t take all the pills again and me in the hallway of the clinic, the mulberry trees deconstructing the sun on the avenue, sweeping the sidewalk with the gleam of their leaves

—Hasn’t he died yet gentlemen?

Elisabete calling me aside where there was a smell of iodine and a sign No Smoking, a cigarette with an X across it

—Forget about him Judite let’s go they told me that

an X across it and me

—Beat it I don’t want to see you anymore

they let me go where you were while they muffled their laughs, showing me a lace handkerchief more expensive than my own

—The guy’s handkerchief, imagine

asking me with charming surprise

—You’re his girlfriend aren’t you?

and behind my back the signals, the expressions, you putting on your shoes, fixing your collar, the pups’ teeth

—I’ve got money Dona Judite

the clerk’s teeth growing out of his gums

—There’s plenty of time to settle our accounts, girl

the comb missing your hair and slipping through your fingers

—Your husband never gave you anything, right?

a little old man hoeing weeds and the blade slicing me, cutting me, emptying me of what I have

I don’t even have a single intestine left

my giving you the comb

don’t push me I’ll lie down, don’t hit me, I’m willing, don’t cover my mouth I won’t report you

—Of course he did, sir

a pine cone on the roof, the pups or the electrician or the owner of the café

—Judite

and telling them no, not today, putting on his shoes today, fixing his collar, parting his hair, putting the handkerchief in his pocket

—Your handkerchief

taking a scab off his lip

—It’s a scab, wait

I can’t today

I’m sorry

I have to help my husband we’re coming out of the clinic, the mulberry trees deconstruct the sun on the avenue, the bus only the driver and us

to Bico da Areia, yellow clouds on the water side and blue ones on the pine-tree side, the horses chasing gulls on the beach, my brown dress

lilac

maroon

purple

my purple dress with the green sash, the door open, the dwarf from Snow White greeting you

—Mr. Carlos

the plates in the sink, the floor mopped, not a single bottle peeping out of the oven, the bed made and waiting, a bouquet on the windowsill

—Good morning

bushes where the wild geese and the sea swallows were, sit down on the beach with me not thinking about anything, not feeling anything, not looking at anything, don’t answer if they call me, I’m staying here, I’m not going, I’m not packing my bag, I promise you I’m not packing my bag

—Stay with me Carlos

stay with me Carlos, I’m forty-four years old, I don’t believe you, that’s strange, you don’t have to hug me, caress me, we didn’t do any hugging remember, standing up, two figurines on a cake and the photographer motioning us in with his hand, so elegant, so healthy, do you want to see what we were like Carlos

—Nice and quiet

one beside the other until night and morning and the sea swallows getting away from high tide, just let me take off the cold cream and the wig

an entertainer, a singer

let me look at you before you leave, before

—I’m not capable Judite

before the owner of the café with a pint of wine and me imagining it’s you, me imagining it’s you, me certain it’s you and saying

—Yes

agreeing

—Yes

closing my eyes under your weight and feeling happy.

—What am I supposed to call him?

During the times he was a woman or a kind of woman and I’m not sure

I’m not sure

I’d turn my head away and I’m not sure, people my father lived with didn’t know either, sometimes they treated him like a man who wasn’t a man and sometimes like a woman who wasn’t a woman even though he paid for their clothes, their upkeep, cooked for them with all the humility of somebody asking to be forgiven

forgiven for what?

he’d get mad over the remorse I represented for him

—Get out of my sight

let me have something, anything, a train ticket, Dona Helena’s hand, a horse from Bico da Areia so I can get out of here

the fingers that seemed to be trying to touch me and didn’t touch me, the voice that was suddenly masculine

—Didn’t I tell you to get out of my sight?

sorry, folding up into pleats of tears where there weren’t any tears, the perfume that he would give off and when my father’d gone away would still linger in the living room, stagnant, thick, accusing him

a horse from Bico da Areia will do, not a train ticket because the horses at Bico da Areia never leave the woods unless the Gypsies sell them or finish them off with a shot and trains disappear into the night for good, even as you hear them go off beyond the houses

I didn’t dare ask

—What’s father blaming himself for?

while he was getting dressed for shows with his eyes enlarged with makeup and liner, maybe the sound of a faucet or a glass in the kitchen, his eyes growing smaller investigating, the antennae on the back of his neck deciphering the sounds

—Did you hear that Rui?

under the metal lamp where two bulbs were missing

maybe Dona Helena could help me leave, Noémia had left, Mr. Couceiro will reach the vestibule any day now, lift his cane

—
Good-bye

and which when I went into Príncipe Real today was missing all its bulbs, a van at the door, guys carrying out the wardrobe, the chairs, the cane rack with enameled mouse ears, everything scattered about on the street, cheap, poor, with decorations and bindings that made things look even poorer although they looked almost new and rich behind the curtains

be patient Dona Helena put me to sleep now, the bed too, the dressing table with a mirror swaying on the stairs where I thought it was looking at me and ignoring me, me in the glass for one instant and then nobody, Mr. Couceiro lowering his cane

—Diabetes, lad

wrinkles and bones pretending to be happy, Dona Helena in the doorway

—Jaime

the cane rising up again

—I feel fine Helena

The dignity of sick people aspiring for a sudden recovery with death living underneath it, at Príncipe Real, the workers with the washing machine that hadn’t worked for years push a button and it sobs out some water along with dust, the landlord

—What do you want, boy?

putting little cases with tubes and brushes in a cardboard box, sometimes I’d go to Fonte da Telha with my father and Rui

and before Rui, Mário, and before Mário, Dino

to the spot where three months ago the policeman and the body were, my father in a bra and earrings, his lips so thick, soft gestures, curves, the hair on his thighs tingling from the hair wax, me ashamed of them swearing to everybody, to the fishermen tarring their boats that is

—I don’t know them I never saw them before

the landlord pointing to the van where the Spanish doll and the shells on the bracelets were

—Seven months’ back rent, boy, I’ve come to collect what’s owed me

he’d appear every month with the bill and my father, after peeking out the window, would signal Rui

or Mário or Dino

changing shoes, replacing the blonde wig with a black one

give me anything, a train ticket or a full syringe in order to get away from here, the maid from the hospital dining room who went to Chelas with me

—
I loved you, did you know that?

—I don’t want to, it hurts and I don’t want to hurt, people think it hurts and it doesn’t, just try a little bit you’ll see, the jackdaw on the broken-down wall agreeing with me

—You’ll see

you don’t feel heat she said, you don’t feel that you’re not moving and you’re flying, better than Dona Helena, than the horses at Bico da Areia, than a train ticket to Spain or Paris

my father in a black wig

—Come in come on in hey

a song on the radio, a liqueur, Rui

or Mário or Dino

shut up in the closet where the ironing board was

—Come in come on in hey

and sit down here beside me, what’s that piece of paper, let me guess, don’t tell me, I bet it’s a love letter, a proposal, a poem, didn’t anyone ever tell you you have a romantic look, if you could only guess how many things a woman can spot, the rent bill, what a surprise, but written like it was a poem, a businessman poet, good heavens, all those qualities, I wonder if your wife has even thanked the angels for all the luck she’s had, my father’s voice now flat now a thread that didn’t settle into any tone, his knees uncovered, his forefinger and thumb removing a speck from the landlord’s lapel, studying it tenderly and dropping it into the ashtray as carefully as he would a diamond, his ear on the closet, don’t screw things up Rui

or Mário or Dino

don’t breathe, don’t move, at Fonte da Telha, when we got back to the car, insults on the glass

faggot

one of the headlights shattered

Isn’t it true that you’re flying, isn’t it true that you’re flying?

the mudguard dragging against the stones, my mother

my father making a show of folding up the rent bill and tucking it into his pocket, with so many important matters to be resolved between us why waste time talking about money, take this note Paulo, buy me some cigarettes at the stand and stay out for a bit playing in the park I’ll call you in a little while

and the sunset and trees, and the darkness and trees, and fear and trees, rain beginning in the trees, the pinky touch of a drop on the back of my neck

—Paulo

and how do I answer the drop, the bench by the cedar tree and me curled up on the bench, the bulb in the ceiling replaced by the lampshade on the small table, a silky halo, a violet light, the branches of the cedar stretching out toward me with a challenge of leaves, a second pinky on the neck and a third on the forehead blinding me, the bench wet, a branch on my shoulder

—Get away fast Paulo

our stopping the car, looking at the mudguard, my father on his knees

not a kind of woman, a man ordering Rui

Let go

fixing the mudguard and cleaning the windshield, getting to the house the landlord beside the van next to the radio, the lampshade, the shoes from times gone by

—Seven months in arrears, boy

my father not a man, a kind of woman adjusting her neckpiece and the landlord confused, pleasant

me to the maid from the dining room

—
Isn’t it true that you’re flying, isn’t it true that you’re flying?

the voice that finally found its range, slow glycerine that was dressing and undressing him

—I never could have imagined that a poet

releasing Rui

or Mário or Dino

from the closet with the ironing board where I’ll bet there were rats, sometimes I imagine feet, scurrying, the maid from the dining room flying on the broken-down wall and cold and heat and cold

not right now, heat right now, everything so clear, so simple, that’s life after all, I understand everything, I know, I can’t explain it but I know, amusing myself with the jackdaw’s whistling, my job, the hospital, the German shepherd before I got to my place, when I was a little girl I’d always change my route and keep looking back when I heard it barking, my sister who got married five months ago on the twenty-fifth, don’t run, when you run they bite you, the seat at Príncipe Real empty except for half a dozen fashion magazines, a poster of my father making his thread of glycerine stand out with touches of mockery in it

—I never could have imagined that a poet

Dona Helena without stopping her crocheting to repair a stitch that had become broken from rubbing her back, as she got older her twisted spine, a growing hump

—You never could have imagined what, Paulo?

why can’t she leave me alone and not make me holler at her, Mr. Couceiro noticing my annoyance and I

Don’t get involved in what’s none of your business be quiet

maybe he still gets up in the middle of the night to take a look at me sleeping, he’d realize I’d noticed him and would go back to the door stumbling on the sill, we’d place the fork in his left hand and the knife in his right, we’d tell him this is the knife, this is the fork, we’d lay out his food, the napkin wrapped around his neck

—There’s your chicken Jaime

the fork picking at the tablecloth, the knife hitting the pitcher, someday going into the Anjos building, other dressers on the stairs, a different landlord in the building

—Seven months in arrears, boy

and looking for my father I’m not sure

I’m not sure

I go round and round and I’m not sure, staying on the bench by the cedar tree or with the maid from the dining room on the wall in Chelas, all the horses at Bico da Areia motionless on the beach, all the trains halted in the station

—There aren’t any tickets, boy

the cellar club where the clown worked right off the Praça das Flores, a woman in a gray smock who during the shows sold the customers candy, cigarettes, perfume, gifts for the performers which nobody bought, waxing the floor among the tables, a small window almost at ceiling level where a difficult day poured in where sometimes there were legs, a three-wheeled cart with vegetables, the instantaneous

hint

of a cat, the doorman lining up imitation champagne bottles along shelves behind the bar, the reflecting ball that spun from the ceiling announcing whatever it was that no one was listening to, the woman picked up a crushed camellia and threw it into a bucket, my father crossed the room with little tango steps

—Hello Paulo

a current of air coming from somewhere puffing out some draperies that shook and he was silent, never hello son, always hello Paulo, he would introduce me to his colleagues

—My nephew

or

—My cousin

and now that the woman in a gray smock was beginning to wax the floor around him, with a pirouette of unimaginably worn velvet

—Hello Paulo

—Hello nephew

—Hello cousin

during the fall when I had the flu he visited me grudgingly at Anjos accompanied by a fellow with a mustache whom he introduced to Dona Helena with a baroque flourish

—An engineer friend

and whom I recognized as the worker who handled the lights at the club, he looked disdainfully at the furniture that had no gilt or spangles or ribbons, a beat-up door disguised by the cupboard and behind the cupboard the neighbor

—Cecília

Mr. Couceiro offered him a spoonful of my syrup, realized his mistake with a nervous leap

—What could have got into my head how stupid of me I’m sorry my father on a corner of the mattress after checking the firmness of the bed mistrustfully and a whiff of cologne embalmed my nose, his ruffles

so cruel

they made the age of things stand out along with the defects of the plaster, the neighbor

—Cecília

sharper, closer, the clock in the church dislodged the silence tossing its sparrows at the window frames, my father smoothed and rumpled the quilt as at Bico da Areia but I was in Lisbon, there were no horses, there was no beach, there were no Gypsies, somebody where there couldn’t be a gate because an old fourth-floor flat