What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (16 page)

and I was blankets, my dressing gown, the new mantilla that they brought me from Spain, convincing him he should lie down, a cup of coffee, a brandy, Dona Aurorinha’s mother respectfully studying the crack in the wall as though gods and nymphs

—Don’t touch anything Aurorinha

only my father and I visited her when she had her attack, Dona Aurorinha tiny on the pillow saying good-bye with her eyebrows, Dona Aurorinha’s mother

confused, grateful, shaking her by the arm

—At least say thank you, where are your manners?

with a pillowcase to be ironed in her hand which

one of us is telling this, father, I think it’s you, I think it’s me, I think both of us together even if we were never together, I died in your place and you’re alive on Príncipe Real, the park and all that what’s the good of descriptions, what’s the good of details, we know everything so well

the cedar tree and all that, the café and all that, a statue where I read the name and I can never remember, there I go getting close to it to make it out and I forget it, there’s a metal letter missing on the base, the ground-floor flat empty today and no landlord to receive me, you annoyed with me, disheveled, without earrings, with an old faded vest

—Is that you?

remnants of remnants, a piece of curtain on the railing, a broken-down brush, your junk pointing in the direction of Estrela, you defeated, you all alone, Rui not wanting the blanket, the shawl, the Spanish mantilla, living somewhere else, in some other time, in a dimension that rejects you father and to which you’ll never have access

—I’m cold

while at Bico da Areia

I could bet on it

a man with my mother, not the owner of the café, not the electrician, not the pups, that fellow with the napkin who interrupted his dinner to look for me at the entrance or on the wall, his clothes in the closet and you kissing a camellia at the club pretending that you were dancing, his razor on the shower shelf and you accepting the invitation of a customer, receiving the glass of bubbly that the manager

—A bit of champagne for the lady

placed on the table, the customer whimpering his feelings on your neck following a sigh that summed up his life, venturing to lay an arm that weighed a ton on your shoulder, my mother on the other side of the river brought more wine from out of the cistern, the customer choosing a perfume from Dona Amélia’s tray and putting it in my purse

—A small token from a friend, girly

the lights going on and off announcing closing time, the signal from the manager to the worker and from the worker to me to ask the fur cape giving corn to the pigeons

an egg candy all wrapped in paper Dona Aurorinha with the paper in her mouth

—How do I eat it mother?

—For your little girl, Lucinda

where can the gods and the nymphs be, the friend of Dona Aurorinha’s mother, hairy and with horns, playing the flute on a rock, the manager handing me the fur cape

—Remember my ten percent Soraia

leaving the club with my little duchess steps, collar up to protect me from the vulgarity of the street, the customer

—Where are we going, girly?

and somebody I don’t know where, I think over an oilcloth table cover in São João da Caparica or in Alto do Galo, in Trafaria or in Cova do Vapor

don’t lie father, the lying’s all over, what’s the good of lying, no matter how much it’s hard on you

and it is hard on you isn’t it, and you’re surprised that it’s hard on you

the oilcloth table cover at Bico da Areia, green and white checkered squares, I can still see the green and white squares, the burn marks that always bothered you

such a nice tablecloth

and no matter how many attempts or cleaners we couldn’t get it really clean, somebody in my house in Bico da Areia, somebody besides the owner of the café and the electrician and the pups

—Dona Judite Dona Judite

capable of giving you what I never gave you, treating you the way I never treated you, not humiliating you in front of your colleagues at the same time that the customer with me in the little room in Beato, the bellboy

—Sixteen is taken Soraia you can have twelve but it’s a dump

tiled walls because it used to be a kitchen, the marble square where the stove used to be, the stove itself pushed up against the bed and the stove legs four rusty things, pothooks serving as a clothes rack and in the middle of all this a lamp shade with fly specks and the floor made of bricks, the window blocking out whatever was beyond the window casement, somebody in my house in Bico da Areia and Judite was hugging him, somebody in my chair using my knife and fork but that wasn’t it, what do I care about the knife and fork, what mattered to me was your way of looking, my nonexistence in you, my not mattering, the customer struggling with his shirt

—Give me a little help here, girly

without noticing that one of the buttons had popped off

I noticed it and I’m so clumsy, and I’m sorry, to myself

—Shut up

what could there be beyond the window panes, the marks of the stove that seemed to be calling me talking about you, about your plans for a bigger house with a proper living room, if my wife would give up the owner of the café, the electrician, the pups, the bottles of wine and me there, I don’t see how but there, can’t you see, my wife

—Carlos

and I swear to you I won’t stay silent like that smoothing and rumpling the protection

the quilt

I don’t stay silent like that smoothing and rumpling the quilt, I lie down beside you, for the first time in my life I lie down by you without any fear and the design of your legs doesn’t change on the sheet, I’m not sleepy, I don’t invent excuses, I’m not frightened, beyond the windowpanes of the boardinghouse the woods, the Gypsies’ tents, the gentian that I’m going to take care of tomorrow in spite of the customer’s clothes on the hooks all orderly, topcoat, pants, in spite of the

—Girly

the

—Don’t squeeze so tight, girly

it surprised me that it wasn’t him I was squeezing, how could I squeeze him if I’m not with him, I never was with him, I’m with your abandonment, your contentment, your thankful peace and the marigolds

so close by

glowing for us.

or was I just thinking older

thinner judging from the way the fabric hung loose around his waist and over his shoulders, taking longer than usual to get ready, every so often a wince I didn’t give much importance to, a pause as he gathered his strength while he pretended absentmindedness, he wasn’t absentminded, isn’t that right father, he’d move his hands about among sprays, brushes, dropping pieces of lacework that slipped

how come I didn’t notice that?

from his fingers, not wanting us to turn on the radio or talk to him, telling us to be quiet with a gesture that wasn’t a gesture or an order or a request, which maybe wasn’t whatever it was supposed to be except

—I feel so tired

(but you’ve felt tired so many times, daddy)

and he would accompany it all with a yawn that made his teeth larger and that frightened me, finally standing up as though he didn’t see us and I think in fact he wasn’t seeing us, his eyes weren’t blinking outwardly but inwardly, my father realizing that the music was waiting for him, his colleagues were on stage, the manager’s nephew

—You’re the only one missing Soraia

one of the plumes falling off beside the door and his shoulders hunching over annoyed

his shoulders not hunching over annoyed, a lie, that’s not the way it was, he was concerned, he turned back, tied it on, studied himself in the mirror asking

—How’s that?

as the sound of his heels went off Rui went to the table to filch a cigarette, sneaking open my father’s bag as though he were still there with us, they say your old man’s sick, they say he’s going to die Paulo, like that or with other words

it’s doesn’t matter

it’s hard for me to remember but it was something like that I think

—They say your old man’s sick, they say he’s going to die Paulo and objects became different all at once, my father’s comb, my father’s watch, his key case, things worth nothing suddenly frightening, Rui with the cigarette hidden in his hand even though he’s not there, dancing down below

—Your bronchitis Rui

waving the smoke away with his hand, they say your old man’s sick and a song the loudspeakers were distorting, they say he’s going to die Paulo and ashes on the floor I study my face in the mirror to see if I’m surprised, if I’m sad, Rui scattering the ashes with his shoe, unscrewing the top of a cold-cream jar and putting out the cigarette, the grand finale with the whole cast dancing off the stage, cardboard hats, laughter like shattering glass, my father back here in a rush, not sick, obviously not sick, taking off his shoes, sighing, undoing the fasteners on his back that were scratching his spine

—Hurry up and get these plumes off me

Rui and I pulling on his hairdo, the wig coming off with the plumes in a tug and my father furious, hating his baldness

—Can’t you people be more careful?

and me I don’t know whether I’m relieved or sorry for him, for that very old face coming out from under the painted one as he cleaned off his jaw, his cheeks, his mouth, under the jaw, the cheeks, and the mouth were another jaw, other cheeks, a different mouth, underneath the others still others maybe and which of them was you, the father I knew or a man I don’t know emerging from the woman who was hiding him

I don’t know how to explain this

a woman

in the end a woman, explain that to me

replacing purple lipstick with red lipstick, a pearl vest with a black dress, tin bracelets with a gold bracelet

no, Rui had pawned the gold bracelet, or they’d pawned it together

tin bracelets with a silver bracelet, not genuine silver, the kind where street jewelers carve their mark with a jackknife, wanting to ask him

—Aren’t you glad to be dying and putting an end to all this aren’t you glad to be free of all this?

when really I was the one who was glad to be free of all this, of the people who turned to look on the street

—Father

and my father adjusting his skirt offended

—Don’t call me father

running his hand through the air petting an invisible lap dog or Persian cat, we didn’t have any lap dogs or Persian cats, we had a mastiff dragging his leash between his legs, the one from Fonte da Telha on that night when Rui and the headlights of the Jeep and the policeman

—Do you know him?

the doctor removing his white fingernails, the sound of the waves coming from somewhere and the smell of the sea in front of me or next to me

next to me I think even if the water wasn’t next to me, farther off, and its glow by which I mean a lot of little scattered glows, the policeman

—Do you know him?

and me

—I don’t know him

while my father was arranging the bangs of his wig over his forehead

—Can’t you people be more careful?

while a muscle in his poor arm was trembling, the wish for a place somewhere I could escape to and walk among the trees down to the river

to Chelas because in Chelas we

or maybe it wasn’t Rui one night at the club, it was Mr. Couceiro in Anjos as though he were still carrying my suitcase from the hospital, we were in Campo de Santana where the question-mark swans slipped along with idle questions, weightless but making painful wounds

—What about you Paulo?

—What about tomorrow Paulo?

—What are you going to do with your life Paulo?

me, obviously, crushing a leaf from a bush

—You people stop tormenting me, shut up and

while at Anjos

—Paulo

while fearfully

—Paulo

and Dona Helena setting the table in silence, no flower in Noémia’s vase, the picture in need of cleaning, the neglected bed

—Have you forgotten your daughter Dona Helena have you grown tired of her already?

the clouds not just in the window but here inside too brown, I mean in the window I can’t remember, here inside brown, opaque, Dona Helena and Mr. Couceiro slower, more resigned, more useless, a Japanese was spying on us from the trunk aiming his rifle and on taking a better look it was an umbrella sticking out of the cane rack with a cap on top, as always when the clouds were like that I thought about the bicycle in the laundry room, the bell that for weeks now

or months?

I hadn’t touched it, I looked at it and didn’t feel like touching it

what in hell made me not feel like touching it?

the bicycle and I we don’t need any heroin, me to the Mulatto with the jackknife, to the maid from the dining room, to Dália, to all of them

—I don’t need any heroin

pedaling through the Baixa not to Príncipe Real, not to Bico da Areia, just pedaling through the Baixa, I didn’t touch her, I looked at her and I didn’t feel like touching her

why in hell didn’t I feel like touching her?

the bicycle and I didn’t need any heroin, I said to the Mulatto with a jackknife, to the maid from the dining room, to Dália, to everybody

I don’t need any heroin

pedaling through the Baixa, not to Bico da Areia, just pedaling through the Baixa, the cane feeling along the carpet and all those corpses in the rice paddies of Timor, all those names in Latin, all those strange bushes when Mr. Couceiro

—They say your father’s sick they say he’s going to die Paulo

Dona Helena putting dinner onto the plates

there were times when I liked seeing her putting dinner onto the plates, peaceful almost, a conviction that I belonged to a home, the questions from the disenchanted swans

—I have a home do you hear?

or maybe it wasn’t Mr. Couceiro, Mr. Couceiro not daring to tell me, what’s the use just another buffalo corpse, those nostrils, those open eyes, it was my father one Sunday when I found him lying there with no makeup, bald, talking to the ceiling, still talking to the ceiling even when he knew I was there, that tasteless ceiling

the idea of talking to the ceiling would never have occurred to me

the lumps and the stucco rosettes of an aged ceiling, I remember sheets on the balcony clothesline, clothespins on the floor, the garden and etc., the cedar and etc., the café and etc., the mastiff with a bow that I pushed away with my knee, a lozenge of sunlight dragging its snot across the mattress and then my father

—They say I’m sick they say I’m going to die Paulo

not to me because he was reaching up to every spiral in the stucco in that void of past times, on the other side of the river when he was running away motionless and my mother was suspicious of I don’t know what

—Carlos

my mother a minute earlier

—Carlos

and I was imagining my mother a minute earlier

—Carlos

when Carlos, because Carlos interests you, ma’am, in Lisbon, on this side of the Tagus, uninterested in everything with a cup of soup warmed for him by someone I don’t know who and that he’ll never drink, making me come closer in order to hear his voice as though he were talking about someone else in some other place, in some other time

—They say I’m sick Paulo

and when you come to think about it, he was talking about someone else in some other place, in some other time, a piece of news that had nothing to do with him, a piece of news of no interest, what’s so important about

—They say I’m going to die Paulo

compared to the bathtub that had been out of order for a long time and that he was using as a storage bin, the washbasin propped up by a broom handle with only the left faucet giving out a stingy trickle and all the while chandeliers, damask bedspreads, the hole into the cellar by the baseboard where mice were all moving about when you put your ear to it and scurrying and squeaking, the mastiff with a bow making the hole bigger with his claws, it rained on him in the bedroom and the living room, because there wasn’t enough money to keep up the apartment, because they paid him so little, why that notice from the court about the rent

because as a matter of fact you are sick, because as a matter of fact you are going to die father

have the saint on the dresser and the candle in the saucer been of any use to you?

and as the trees in the park evaporated and the park evaporated into a filthy dome where streetlights and shadows fluttered about, helping him get ready for the night’s show, painting his mouth and eyes which the Easter candle filled with tremors as they reached me in a tidal fluctuation while my mother in the garden thought she’d spotted the clown on a corner along with the wine and the pups, taking her inside, looking for a blouse in the wardrobe and fixing up both of them, the collar button that was slipping out of my fingers and their annoyed faces in the mirror, existing only in the mirror because for me they were only hands grabbing mine, the heads of both in one single head, their voices in one single resignation

—I never saw anyone so clumsy damn it

putting on their stockings and long gloves, knocking over the picture of an actress or the dwarf from Snow White while choosing a vial with some perfume among dozens of empty vials, empty jars, empty tubes, getting confused over the earrings in the jewelry box where there were also shells, rubber bands, a stamp from the Congo

a zebra I think

with a piece of envelope, my father rejecting the earrings dropping a brush

—It’s the white ones, ninny

and for an instant we’re in Bico da Areia and Príncipe Real at the same time because you could hear the waves and the cedar and I seemed to be hearing horses

—Do you hear the horses Rui?

Rui putting out his cigarette in the cold-cream jar and covering it with the lid, I think my mother is looking at us and finally the curtain or maybe my mother making excuses to her colleagues

someday I’m going to get Rui and take him to see the horses

—I’m not going with him anymore

my father’s not sick, they were wrong, a lie that he was sick, tired, and the cup of soup

—They say I’m going to die Paulo

horses and more horses coming back from the sea, sometimes along with the herons on the bridge beams at other times running on the Alto do Galo with the cadence of dreams, my father doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t lose his balance on his high heels, from the Rua da Palmeira, practicing a curtsy or a polka step

horses and more horses Rui, dozens of horses

he bows to a performer from a neighboring club, and the two of them linger fluttering and twittering discussing lovers, sandals, and nylons, the performer takes the picture of her stepdaughter from her purse

what do you mean dozens, hundreds of horses, thousands of horses, billions of horses