What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (23 page)

he would chat with Mr. Couceiro about Timor because during his time in the navy his ship sometimes, he would suddenly interrupt himself, make a sign to Mr. Couceiro to wait and pinch his face

—When will you stop lying, you scoundrel

they would serve him two portions at mealtime

—For you and for your friend Mr. Pompílio

Mr. Pompílio furious, refusing one of the plates

—That blockhead my friend?

snorting with disdain at the empty chair, he would refuse to lie down on the bed to avoid sleeping with someone else

—Am I some kind of fairy or what?

and a battle under the blanket, a shout for the orderly

—Get me out of here this son-of-a-bitch hit me

stable sounds in the nearby rooms, the dribbling faucet that was turning the porcelain brown, the son-in-law to the doctor

—Why in hell do I have to take who in hell knows who home? draw me a house

and leave my father-in-law in his mirror and really, after the taxi went off, I had the impression when I was shaving of someone on crutches on the other side of the glass, a silhouette getting ready to check and the movement of the pieces, the other one’s plate and chair, in the dining room, waiting, the redhead leaping away from the solitary place settings shaking something or other

—Oh your sneaky little hand Mr. Pompílio your flirty little hand

one afternoon I followed up on a move and he beat me

pushing the plunger of the syringe into my skin with all my strength

the daughter in the hospital bathroom

—Get out of the mirror right now

as soon as I began to fly dozens of horses galloping on the beach

no, dozens of clowns dancing on stage

no, a girl on a tricycle

no, Gabriela with me on the broken-down wall I’m afraid, don’t tie my arm

no, where I am now

until finally

I took so long

on the carousel with my parents, riding the hippopotamus, the zebra, the antelope, happy and afraid until my father’s hand on my shoulder and then only happy

carnival lights on the trees

draw me a tree

and all along the river, the lights on the river too dancing on the mud, sometimes a wave and the lights were shattered, then no wave and the lights whole again, a section of shadows on the vacant lot to the right

but don’t look, don’t look

where a man in a bed and an empty wardrobe

what section of shadows, no damned section of shadows, the colored lights, the Indian who was walking on broken glass, he drank some gasoline, pointed his nose at the moon and gave off flames, the old woman telling fortunes by shaking seashells in a bag

—You’re going to be a lieutenant, little one

and above it all the carousel with a creaking of boards, the owner moved a lever and the hippopotamuses, the antelopes, the zebras gave a jerk, every time it passed by the side of the vacant lot that man in bed asking for something or other or not asking for anything, just stretched out on the bed in wordless terror but don’t look, don’t look, fortunately right afterward the Indian, the old woman, the maps that exploded in the Tagus all perfectly settled in the trees

—
What the hell kind of tree is that?

—
A cedar, doctor sir, and me on the bench in the rain until the signal on the curtain

I told you not to look didn’t I, don’t upset me, don’t look

the Indian dressed like us eating a pork sausage sandwich without any flames in his esophagus, was wiping the grease off his face and turning white, my mother protecting her hairdo and me noticing how smooth her neck was, how green her dress was, she wore it at a cousin’s wedding and the following year it was transformed into a portiere and the next year into drapes to cover the window and the year after that the drapes disappeared, the owner of the carousel pulled the lever, the animals and the planks stopped with a screech, the animals scared you but when they weren’t moving like that they didn’t startle anybody, you went off down some iron stairs stumbling on every step, my mother testing the stairs cautiously the way back home she would use her finger

—
Draw me a real house what the hell kind of house is that?

—
Marigolds a clay dwarf who’s missing his pickax bottles in the laundry tub in the backyard

maybe if I mentioned the pine cones maybe if I told him I have money Dona Judite I can pay

cautiously to test the soup, right after we’d left the river, the small wall that separated us from the water, leaning forward and finding my father and my mother in the shattered light, my father in a blonde wig and my mother fixing her hairdo, dozing off on the bus to Bico da Areia and the certainty of their never growing old, or not exactly sleeping, crouching against the broken-down wall in Chelas and on the broken-down wall the Indian, the old woman impressed by soldiers, if you behave yourself you’ll get to be a lieutenant, boy, I’m going to be a lieutenant and in command of a whole lot of people Gabriela, coming through the spinning of the carousel was the motor of the bus and the bumps in the road, garages, workshops, the campground with fireplaces by the tents, the halo around a drugstore cross

beloved father beloved husband

finding our way in the dark by the trawlers and their coughing, when I had trouble getting air near dawn they’d wrap me in a blanket, my father

—It weighs a ton

and the cross was always running away from us, not this corner, the corner up ahead, not the corner up ahead, the arch at the factory entrance, counting your steps helps, three hundred ninety-eight, three hundred ninety-nine, four hundred, a goat lost like us grazing on a slope,

my wife

—Is Paulo going to die Carlos?

before the drugstore a scattering of pipes, a darkness of pipes and roots that can’t drink me in and over which my mother is flying, my father hanging on the bell bringing out sounds all around, protests, shades, the crying of a child and maybe the accordion player who wasn’t there

—How about a little tune Gabriela?

deformed fingers modulating the air, Noémia on her bicycle on an Easter Sunday

no, Noémia sick and pale in bed before turning pale in the picture

don’t look, you’re happy don’t look

until the nut-cracking of a lock and along with the nut-cracking the druggist in his undershirt, the goat hazy, dirty hair, it can’t reach you and you’re flying over it Paulo, the jackdaw doesn’t even bother you, my wife perched him on a corner of the bar, not my son, the son of the café owner or one of the pups or

not my son because I’m not a man, I’m not interested in being a man, I never felt myself a man, every time Judite kissed me I

my son four or five years old, four years old, the week before turning five his mother

I loved his mother

Judite

I wanted so much to be capable

my son

I said my son

who didn’t whine, didn’t cry, didn’t ask for help, I remember

—Is Paulo going to live, mister druggist?

his feet in a single wool sock of mine, his neck getting thin and getting fat

just like you at Príncipe Real, just like you now

the goat spying on us from the show window as they put the oxygen mask on him

—He might not die

on his mouth, the drugstore cross on the Tagus along with the carnival lights and the hippopotamuses, zebras, antelopes, the Indian who was drinking gasoline with nails through his ears, the hairpins on the head of the druggist’s wife let’s get you better little fellow, the fish bowl

with a fish opening and closing its lips and reciting the multiplication table silently and me along with it eight times five, eight times six, eight times seven, eight times eight, each eye a little sleepwalking pearl with a red seed inside, my wife

—Paulo

wait father don’t get tired, the words are so hard aren’t they, don’t stay in bed chatting with the cedar tree

draw me a tree, what the hell kind of tree is that

and I warm up his soup, fix him a cup of tea, cut an apple into little pieces or break it up with the fork, my mother

—Are you going to die Paulo?

with the brooch at her neck, one afternoon after my father had left I tried to pin it to my shirt, the pin tore the fabric and pricked my shoulder, my mother appeared out of the kitchen with something in her hand that at the time didn’t look like a bottle

—Take that off, stupid

I remember a man I never saw again on the front steps, maybe the Cape Verde an opening and closing his jackknife, maybe the policeman at Fonte da Telha under the headlights of the Jeeps

—Do you know him?

maybe a Gypsy or the café owner

—If you don’t have any money, it’s not worth the trouble coming in

a man I never saw again who?

waiting for the bottle to drop to the floor, for my mother to snatch the brooch off my shirt tearing it some more

—Take that off, stupid

the mirror on the wardrobe empty and I in the yard where the gentian was disappearing branch by branch into its wire supports and with it my father and the hand on my shoulder, just the hooks and the bridge with the gulls with their cries and eggs were left, just the stones of the broken-down wall were left crumbling in the sunlight, an old man on crutches limping in a yard, me drawing houses, families, and trees, a person

who?

calling

—Paulo

like my parents

—Paulo

in the drugstore

and even though the faces were close to mine it wasn’t me they were talking to, it wasn’t me they were speaking with, they laid me on a couch separated from them by a bedspread hung on a wire, in the windowpane beyond the bedspread the woods that mingled with the sounds from the bed, my mother was an arm looking for a body and finding only sheets because my father was at the kitchen table

—I can’t I can’t

two parallel lines descending down his face, hands that covered his eyes, a curiosity to know about the electrician, a teacher at the school, and in a panic for my mother to answer him

—Which one of them is Paulo’s father, Judite?

hippopotamuses, zebras, and antelopes on the carousel with gaudy lights at the same time that a clown with a blonde wig dances for customers who toss him candy, cigarettes, and camellias

and me, Judite, at Bico da Areia while my son was flying and no man with me, a pebble on a flagstone and it could be the scent of the mimosas

with luck it could be the scent of the mimosas

answering

—I don’t know

the days that were so much the same and the men so much the same that I didn’t know, there was another child afterward how many years after?

for only eleven days, I hid it on my mattress almost under my body, so they wouldn’t hear it cry, with my breast, my milk, the sound of my steps on the floor, a girl only eleven days old, without any name, almost without any life, that I separated from me, fed, hid, when they visited me I’d cover her with my bathrobe and

—What’s that Judite?

or

—What’s that Dona Judite?

or simply

—What’s that?

and I

—Nothing

they were a little intrigued looking at the bathrobe because there was movement, a tiny little breathing, I was protecting my daughter by not letting them find out about her, older than I used to be when during the day I sometimes would take dolls to the cemetery and set up homes inside the tombs, older than I am now

—Nothing

allowing them to make use of me without finding her, hugging her in the mirror after they’d left and calming her with my warmth, my stomach, calming myself with a pint, two pints, three pints until my lips stopped trembling, until my fingers grew steady

—They’ve gone away now you can rest easy

the pups at the windowpane, the electrician

pushing the syringe plunger down, only water and no spiral of blood on the glass pushing the syringe plunger into the skin

lighting a small fire in the woods and shadows on the red tree trunks because it was winter and rain and the shack had lost half its roof, the café owner pretending he was annoyed with me, he who was never annoyed with anyone, you never know with women and the customers agreeing

—You never know with women