What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (15 page)

my fork poking about on the patty was answering for me

—I lost it

a silver ring in the shape of a snake taking the place of the wedding ring, Alcides who seemed to have dyed hair

—It’s too big for you isn’t it?

the owl with folded wings, reproving, peevish, while I was fixing the pendulum

—
What are you doing Mr. Carlos?

my co-workers Pedro, Felipe, Francisco, me Mr. Carlos and the pendulum I could swear not inside the wood, the owl one afternoon a sob, a

—
Mr. Carlos

detesting me but only slightly, it seemed to be sighing, whacked against the cash register, a vein of coins bled from the drawer, Francisco lifting up his chin

—
He’s done for

one of the Gypsies’ horses was gasping in the alley just when the glass of water came back to the tablecloth and the fork tormented the patty, I buried the wedding ring at the beach

I remember the forefinger that was digging, digging, after the forefinger the hand, after the hand the forearm, after the forearm the arm, after the arm the shoulder, withdrawing the shoulder, the arm, the forearm, the hand, the finger and the ring on the other side of the world, the memory of the wedding cake appeared and went away, the photographer moving us closer together on the steps of the church, me happy and unhappy, me not knowing whether happy or unhappy, me thinking

—What now?

and with the wine and the food the embraces the best wishes and congratulations Carlos, me cutting the cake

which we were to return the next morning without a tear, without a lump, intact, to the photographer who’d rented the marriage ornaments, me almost happy, I think almost happy, me happy, the toasts, the winks

—Watch out how you behave don’t screw us up tonight

the certainty of screwing them up tonight, I’m sure

—Of course I won’t screw you up tonight

and I didn’t look for the ring, maybe with the wind always shifting dunes, changes because of tides, or some tramp looking for debris with a bag, a stick, it was lost

I miss the marigolds father, I miss the gentian and the way we used to be

the glass returning to the tablecloth, the fork on the patty

—Why Carlos?

not angry, every day why Carlos in a soft voice, colleagues at the school had warned me that you, and it’s not true, swear that it’s not true Carlos, they wanted you to marry them, they were jealous, they were lying, and me putting out the light from lethargy, from sleepiness

—They were lying

missing the marigolds father, the mirror on the wardrobe that laid out the world, the great big world, remember, woods, sea parrots, the never-ending Sundays

—
What time is it?

—
Two o’clock

always two o’clock, the hands not moving, do you miss us?

Alcides and through Alcides Jácome, Licínio, Hernando, the Praça das Flores, clubs with clowns where the clowns would hold back a laugh that wasn’t a laugh for a minute, there was a casting of fishhooks that scratched the skin and they’d stare at him without any envy or interest or with envy and interest

—Who’s that?

yellow kerchiefs, yellow braids, yellow bracelets, a spring almost snapping inside the breast, a spring snapping and a disappointment, a diminishing

—Oh! Carlinhos

the marigolds father, now that I’ve died in your place I remember the marigolds, maybe if I spoke to Dona Helena I don’t know maybe if Dona Helena

Mr. Couceiro maybe, a box of marigolds on the balcony that the next bunch of sparrows from the tolling of the church bells would devour I bet

Camilo and through Camilo music, applause, the lights, Licínio who put on his show masquerading as Cupid, hanging from a rope pretending to be flying, they would lower the rope with a squeak of the pulley and Licínio, with a great show of joy, would throw paper arrows at the performers, the manager’s nephew pulled the rope from backstage, the pulley seemed to let go, Licínio’s look of joy as he waved his arms up by the ceiling when one of his little wings came unscrewed, fell apart with a surge of fright

—Be careful I’ll break a leg

a singer skipped about on stage, now behind the music now ahead of it, Cupid brushing up against the lights, getting burned, protesting to the manager’s nephew

—Arménio

who landed him on the stage too quickly, an expression of relief, testing his ankle bones one by one, the gulls settled on the bridge beams, young gulls, small ones

—Which woman gave you that ring Carlos?

sometimes I think it’s me who’s dead, I died instead of you and you’re alive at Bico da Areia, the dwarf and all that, the terrace café and all that, the pine grove and all that, you’re not going to believe it but I got a job in Lisbon, Judite, I always wanted to be a performer, how can I make you understand

I’m not complaining, word of honor

because strange as it may seem I still love you, your waiting for me surprised after all those years of absence, getting up from the bed where an empty bottle

several empty bottles

kissing me on the cheek

we never kissed on the mouth

finding me thinner, letting your hand linger on my arm and me with my eyes lowered because of your hand on my arm, I haven’t got the silver ring anymore Judite, I’ve got several gold rings on this finger, on that one, which Dona Amélia sold me

for the customers candy, cigarettes, perfume, gold as loans to us which the manager takes out of our pay and at this moment a pine cone and at this moment

—Dona Judite

you looking at me hoping that I’d understand and leave but I don’t want to leave Judite, maybe I’ll find the ring at the beach in spite of winter, the shifting of the dunes, the coming and going of the tides, holding my hand out to you so happy more empty bottles in the yard, a dress I don’t recognize and since I don’t recognize it I’m hurt, a wrinkle by the mouth that upsets me because I hadn’t seen it develop

—I’ve brought the wedding ring Judite me slowly understanding, slowly accepting legs slowly walking, first this one, then the other, then this one, take it easy I’m going and a pine cone on the windowpane and

—Dona Judite

it hurts, you think it doesn’t but it hurts, you on that step that belongs to me, is mine, do you remember when I repaired it with cement, a whole afternoon repairing it with cement, I added the tiles, the sand, I went to get more sand to make it dry fast and it didn’t dry, stepping over it without hurting it, don’t hurt it

the step that I can see isn’t mine today, I wonder who repaired it with cement, who was on his knees with a mason’s trowel, what I went through to find the ring Judite, trying to orient myself on the beach which was all alike everywhere, more this way, more that way, near the thistles maybe, I remember the thistles when Alcides

don’t think about Alcides

he took it off my finger, two or three pine cones at the same time, one of them rolling on the roof and my wife to the outside

—Just a minute

steps on the other side of the wall, a shadow at the gate, I can hear the steps here on Príncipe Real, I can hear the trees in the woods

not the cedar

complaining about October, the proof that it’s not the cedar is that I can make out the gulls and the horses in spite of its being night, the mare that ran off from the tents and was wandering about the terrace café, a huge shape knocking things over, turning around and more tables tipped over, don’t knock over the tables on the terrace father, go away with little duchess steps like the old lady with the fur cape, don’t pay any attention to

—I have money Judite I’ll pay

go away with little duchess steps with your remnant of makeup and your slow walk, Alcides getting him to use makeup, Licínio all you have to do is grab the microphone, dance a little and remember that you’re singing, the wig was squeezing his head, the long hair swept across his nose, one of the false lashes hurt him to the point of tears, he tried a casual step, stumbled on a step, a woman in a gray smock not Dona Amélia yet, not a friend yet, asking the manager while she was polishing the floor

how sad the club was in the afternoon, those scratches on the floor, the curtain not holding any mystery, the window up above driving the sun away

—Did you hire a new performer Mr. Sales?

stuffing that changed my body and no pine cone now, no step that was mine, no thinking about you, no feeling myself, no getting annoyed that

—Dona Judite

—I’ve brought money Dona Judite

—I’m not like the others Dona Judite I pay

not getting annoyed with the owner of the café who made fun of me, the electrician, the pups all around you sniffing you, biting each other, going into our house with a pint of wine or some money in their hands

—Good afternoon

not getting annoyed that you got pregnant with my child, that the teachers

—I could have told you Judite

pointing me out with my belted jacket, my neckties

what’s wrong with the ties?

my ways, it doesn’t bother me that you don’t notice me Judite, I’m dancing take a look, the manager applauding me, Licínio and Alcides applauding me, I don’t belong in Bico da Areia, my wife

—Just a minute

waiting for me to leave so you can receive them and I’m leaving, you have my word, the gauze glove cutting the cake under my hand and the forefinger that wraps around mine, noticing that it was wrapping around and getting away from the photographer, the guests, the wig that stopped feeling tight and that I’m beginning to like, the teachers showing you a breast without any stuffing since the woman in the gray smock injected me with a liquid, since I injected the liquid

—Did you notice Judite?

my face, thin once, full now, the round behind that holds up my pants, pills that the orderly sold me with mystery and looking all around

—If they ask you don’t you even dream about my name

to get rid of hair and lighten the voice, maybe in that way the owner of the café, the electrician, the pups with pine cones

—Dona Soraia

but the pups with pine cones with you, not with me and an absurd haze

—Such stupidity Soraia

a kind of dampness inside the eyes as though I were jealous

—Such stupidity Soraia

or remembering the step, not you, as if all that was making me suffer, you must believe that it doesn’t make me suffer, what makes me suffer is sitting down one day with a bag of corn on Príncipe Real waiting for I don’t know what since I’m waiting, what would happen if I said

—Hello

if I said

—Here I am

if I said

—I’ve come the little myopic look running over the boxwood trees, the hesitation of a little girl in the timid question

—Cesário?

no, the hesitation of a little girl in the question

—Rui?

putting down the flatiron whenever the doormat or the key, getting up from the bed and trotting out into the hall adjusting the wig, the quilt I keep smoothing and rumpling

—Where were you Judite?

which because of you I keep smoothing and rumpling, a face wrapped in scarves, where were you Judite what nonsense, almost smiling at the idea that a pine cone

—Where were you Rui?

Rui passing him, running away, something that doesn’t belong to him breathing in his mouth, on summer afternoons, for example, you get the notion that the heat is breathing us, Rui

—Let go of me

puffs of dead leaves come out of our throats, Judite I don’t know who I fixed a step for in days gone by

—Just a minute

and almost smiling about the pine cone

do you think there are pine cones in Chelas?

Rui as though his stomach was upset

—Let go of me

I followed him into the bedroom where he doesn’t go to lie down, stays looking at the saint

and the street cleaners’ truck with its hose on the street, workers in orange coats washing down the dawn

stays looking at the saint, taking in things, looking me over the way you look over an intruder

Dona Soraia

squatting down on the rug

—I’m cold