What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (24 page)

especially with sluts Mr. Figueira, you never know with women, his wife as though she hadn’t heard, on one occasion the two of us at the greengrocer’s and she said leaving

—I feel sorry for you

you start thinking about it and life is so strange

the café owner unsure when he came in

—You’ve lost some weight you’ve got thinner are you sick Judite?

the impression of a different kind of weeping, a different kind of sob, a different kind of calm because my daughter was sleeping so you must be wrong, I haven’t lost a single pound, I’m not sick sir and the door closed, my back to the door listening to the calm, one of the pups calling me from the wall, the chair propped against the doorknob so that don’t look Paulo don’t look

—I have money Dona Judite

they couldn’t come in, lifting up the blanket from the bed, not understanding my daughter’s silence, understanding her silence, thinking that when they bury children bells ring in the village all morning long, the little coffin open all the way down the street, so many spikenards, my mother and the neighbor women in the midst of the brass band, the sexton carrying the coffin lid carefully like a tray

don’t look Judite don’t look, the little pink dress, the fingers holding a spikenard that’s too big, you’re going to dream all night about corpses Judite, you’re going to wake up without daring to ask yourself

—Am I alive?

don’t look my back up against the door and the little coffin to the right and to the left on the square, the blind man from Cardal putting his nose forward without anyone answering him that there aren’t any clouds of course not, the acacias coming together up above, the café owner

—Judite

outside

—You’ll be sorry if I get sick because of you Judite

not understanding my daughter’s silence, understanding her silence, not lifting the sheet from the bed, lifting the sheet from the bed, the bells, one after the other, chasing away the finches, the brass band deafening me, my mother lifting her head and noticing me, signaling me to stay home, the post-office clerk

without any cuff-holders on his pants

stopping his motor scooter, taking off his cap, turning older and I’d never imagined he was bald, playing hopscotch and leaping on all the chalk squares without stepping on the lines, looking for a clean tablecloth for my daughter, the one they gave us when we got married, with lace trim and my name in blue thread on one corner, wrapping her in the cloth, sitting down to wait on the bed, getting the bottles from the cistern, draw me the cistern, draw me your daughter, hungry and not hungry, sleepy and not sleepy, not eating, not lying down, waiting for tricky little hands to darken the balconies, for lewd little hands at the windows, the electrician who nobody cared about looking at the waves

there

and as soon as the Gypsies were quiet in the woods walking diagonally with little fox steps to the place on the beach where there are weeping willows and reeds

for a few days or maybe for a few minutes I was still a patient in the hospital and now I’m here with her, go over there mother I’ll dig the grave in the sand, go back to the house

you never drew a house for me, why didn’t you ever draw me a house? don’t look

the breast that’s on fire because the milk hasn’t dried up, the shoes that were wide once which made it hard for her to walk, the swollen ankles, covering the blanket that lies waiting with the remains of high tide, a little murmur right here but don’t be frightened it’s the river, take a bottle out of the stove
,
sit down by the wardrobe mirror so as not to drink all alone, get happy with the scent of the mimosas mother
,
act as though you were still wearing the brooch at your neck and in a little while go to sleep, your arm on your forehead like the necks of swans that ask questions

ask questions?

and mother doesn’t hear the questions, she’s descending inside herself, she’s forgetting and not forgetting, it seems to her that there’s a character masquerading as a clown singing and not singing, her blood at rest, the swaying of the cedar

me on the bench

the little coffin open, Noémia in the niche in the cemetery with her wilted flowers, a knock and nobody inside, Mr. Couceiro tapping with his cane and hollow and empty, Noémia on her bicycle without paying any attention to you all, look at her bangs, her thin little legs, her refusal to live in all that junk, the cane insisting or the doctor’s pen on his fingernail fine fine

—
Noémia isn’t here Helena

just as I’m not mother, I’m not spying on you from the outside entrance, I don’t trot around the wall in the middle of the pups, I push the plunger down and I fly, leave the cloth ma’am, don’t stay down on your knees scratching in the sand and getting caught up in the reeds, get yourself a little spoon, warm it up with Mr. Vivaldo’s lighter, I’ll help you tighten the rubber band and then, word of honor, mother

as soon as the Gypsies were quiet in the woods I walked diagonally toward the beach the way my uncle said foxes did, we would only get wind of them when the chicken-yard wire had been lifted and there were half a dozen feathers on the ground, the tablecloth that my colleagues at school gave us when we got married and no weight at all and silence, so expensive a tablecloth that we didn’t dare open it up on the table, guiding myself by the gleam of the Tagus and past the settlement, where an invisible hollow had been cleared out, the weeping willows, the reeds, what you could guess at was the bridge from the sighs of the herons, sometimes on Saturdays I’d be sitting on the beam and the trawlers, today I’m sitting on the beam with my daughter in my arms, a daughter who wasn’t a daughter, the cloth with lace trim and my name in neat letters

Judite

opening a grave in the sand and burying her, why, because there was nothing to bury except a soft little sob, a moan, why, get rid of the cloth because I could trade it for some wine in case the café owner wasn’t interested in me, his wife checking the quality of the cloth, the embroidery, a way of undoing my name from the back of the linen

—I’ll give you two pints for it

or one pint or half a pint or the cloth handed back with the lack of interest of someone turning down a rag

—What do I want with this?

the mouth not toward me, toward far away

I don’t know who I am, I don’t exist

checking for stains and putting it away in the drawer, closing the drawer, today the weeping willows, the reeds, the bridge beam where my daughter and I

where the cloth and I, where they didn’t spot us, little by little in the darkness the gull nests, the little piggy-bank slosh of the water, pennies that some hand

what hand?

was spreading out and bringing back together again, gave the idea of three o’clock, four o’clock, five o’clock, that soon

-soon?

tomorrow, I was sure that soon tomorrow one last owl, the lights of Lisbon out, buildings that were hard to make out in their wrapping of haze, what looked to me like a hill, what looked to me like trees

—
What the hell kind of a tree is that?

—
A cedar and me on the bench waiting

soon the tents of the Gypsies, a girl turning the horses loose, the faucet on the tap open, soon the gulls scolding me, the electrician or the pups in circles on the beach spying on me, wrapping up the empty cloth, pointing at me barking, teasing one another, asking

—Dona Judite

and me receiving them satisfied, adjusting the copper brooch and smiling the way I always smile when people show an interest in me.

of course

an old woman watching the funeral as she was putting knitted socks on a cat, one of the clowns, Marlene I think, straightened my tie, the one on his knees be patient straighten out his tie again so they can snap the both of you miss, Marlene showing her teeth to him while she tugged at my neck and the photographer all twisted, with a strip of belly showing between his shirt and his pants, great great now put your arm around him miss, Vânia left the cortège to lay her black lace glove on my shoulder, the photographer as his belly got wider perfect, Marlene in a low voice to Vânia still showing her teeth beat it you tramp, her arm wrapped around my arm pulling me toward her and face powder, perfume, a trace of lipstick on my ear, Vânia’s glove gripping the back of my neck, her forehead up against mine, swaying her hips to accentuate her waist, beat it you bitch, the funeral attendants working hard to place my father’s and Rui’s coffins side by side crushing purple ribbons and wreaths of flowers with me obediently looking at the buildings in the background, the ones beyond the churchyard that is and the roofs on the next street where it seemed to me my mother

obviously not, only the mastiff with a bow wandering about aimlessly, the photographer-s

each one with his own face now

were putting their cameras away having forgotten about me, five or six mastiffs with a bow barking in one last outburst at the coffins or at Rui’s aunt who years before had chased him away from up on the steps with her huge forefinger, Rui said good-bye to the giraffe float in the swimming pool and the giraffe with a sorry expression visible on its face

—Aren’t we ever going to see each other again old friend?

he thought of taking it with him, went over to the tiled edge of the pool, changed his mind, limited himself to taking out his syringe and puncturing its belly in order to shut it up and the giraffe grew thin with a little whistle, the sentence broken off

—Aren’t we ever

silent, turning into a rag the gardener would throw into the garbage along with the leaves, maybe if I’d stuck an adhesive plaster over the hole, blown into the animal I could have put it on the hearse on top of the flowers, with the float pointing toward the cemetery

—This way this way

Marlene and Vânia went with me in the taxi in hopes of more newspapers and photographers, I was the dead woman’s best friend gentlemen, don’t pay any attention to my colleague here, don’t waste your time with her she’s only lying, I tell you, so absentminded, so blind they were

—A giraffe where?

incapable of seeing the swimming pool on the morning when Rui went away, without any luggage, any bag, any suitcase, his aunt you’ve got your gall haven’t you close the gate on your way out you ingrate and when I got to the street I looked behind maybe

maybe?

and how strange there wasn’t any light in my room, the light was on in my uncle’s study, my aunt on the telephone I’ll bet with thank God we’ve got that burden off our back Pilar, when her friend would visit her

—It’s something you couldn’t ever imagine my dear

shock, indignation

—Are you sure?

they’d brought me from my grandmother’s at the time my father had died, just look at my bad luck Pilar, my sister-in-law pregnant and right after that her husband, the child getting up at all hours and coming into our bedroom not crying, no tears, all of that at the time my mother-in-law was getting everything all mixed up, me

—Hello mother

and she to Pedro

—Who’s this João?

João dead of course, Pedro ever so patient he was always very patient with his mother

—I’m not João I’m the older one Pedro

she puzzled echoing

—Pedro

there were moments when she would stumble into some distant episode and a sweetness with which she would recall vacations, bees in the cherry grove, the swing in the garden and my mother-in-law in a white hat pushing the swing

—Pedro

and right away her fingers on the hat that wasn’t there, her glasses surprised that there were no roots coming out of the floor, an adult without a pacifier near her

—What Pedro?

Pedro in despair shaking her bones remember the bees all around us mother, remember Alenquer, don’t rob me of that time, father used to come on Saturdays

—Leave me be I’m sleepy

and lying down all afternoon, remember how we found a sparrow in the fireplace and we fixed its leg with toothpicks and thread, uncle an important man, very successful, with no children, shouting remember how we fixed its leg with toothpicks and thread, a sparrow from forty years ago that wasn’t worth a penny, more important than his business, the rise in value of his stock, his deals, his whole existence, depending on a sparrow, his raised fist turning into a childish sob

—Don’t rob me of that time

instead of the country place buildings and yet, in his reasoning, the cherry trees Pilar, sometimes even with visitors and in the middle of dinner he’d go over to the fireplace almost scurrying like a salamander, stir the ashes with a poker gleefully at first, then with disappointment, I said

—What’s wrong Pedro?

he was always so careful but he dropped the poker onto the rug that cost a fortune to get cleaned not to mention the live coals, that hole there, for example, look at the fringe on the sofa, he would glare at the guests as though he hated them, hated me

—It wasn’t anything

on one occasion when I was going through his clothes looking for signs of lovers, telephone numbers, notes, a comment in his date book, I came across half a dozen toothpicks and a roll of thread, if he could have imagined what I found he would have killed me, we paid a nurse to take care of his mother who doesn’t recognize us at all, mute in her easy chair and Pedro dragging a stool over next to her

—Who am I mother tell me who am I?

so if you paid attention you’d hear the bees, see the flowers on the cherry trees dropping to the ground, catch the squeak of the swing that needs oiling, my husband’s mouth by the sick woman’s ear waking up all of Campo de Ourique

—Tell me who am I mother?

my mother-in-law’s eyes staring at him, stopping their stare, hopefully

—Who are you?

hopefully

—Mother?

having a hard time getting back from a useless trip, lost, exhausted

—I don’t know

while right then and there sharing some candy with the poor lady, the prolongation of Alenquer, of his brother, and of the white hat in the garden, my idiot nephew, Pilar, who wasn’t interested in who he was in spite of what my mother-in-law said to us, accepting the piece of candy that Pedro was unwrapping for her and pointing to him with her chin, puzzled

—Who’s this?

this one that we had with us and who had no connection with the sparrows, accustomed to my mother-in-law’s apartment where it was February all the time with the dust, a decorated little garden extended out from the kitchen, a linden tree, herbs, giving me the picture of a pedal car and somebody going around a flower bed

the notions we get, isn’t it so, the fantasies we get

and just as I was about to call him

—Pedro

Pedro watching the car too, I took a better look and nothing but a bucket dark with rust, no girl in a white hat in the frames, brigadiers, an adolescent in a sailor suit

my father-in-law?

some prince or other with what was left of a date and a dedication

With my best wishes Afonso

rubbed out, Pedro waving a picture book

Pharmacies of Portugal

with the useless illusion of finding what had been stolen from him, my mother-in-law in the easy chair squeezing the same pair of glasses hours on end saddened by some meaningless annoyance, when we would say to Rui

—Give your grandmother a kiss

the flurry of a little parrot flapping its muddy wings

—Who’s this?

after the wings a lack of interest that mingled with the cushions and the shadows, with no garden, no cherry trees, no bees, Rui not even looking like Pedro’s brother getting up at all hours and coming into the bedroom with eyes like my mother-in-law’s glasses, like a pair of abandoned lenses, two circles that

—I don’t know

with a throat clearing and a sigh, angry because never any beehives or any revelation of who he was, only a child

not João, not him, an intruder

going into the bedroom, she wouldn’t let me help him get dressed, take him to school

—He’s not João don’t bother with him

I’d find the kid in the pantry with the maids or by the edge of the pool talking to the giraffe until seven or eight years ago my mother-in-law got up from her easy chair, I could see a white hat on her and it started up the motions of catching a sparrow and right away my husband pulled out some toothpicks and thread from his pocket, right away the swing began to dance

now yes, dozens of cherry trees in the orchard and the breeze from the hives, my brother catching a toad

—A present for you Pedro me with my hands behind my back

—They’re poisonous I don’t want it

the blacksmith so far off and the hammering so close by, you could see the man pounding, our waiting for the sound and after a bit the sound right beside us as though we were at

will you please explain the reason to me

the entrance to the smithy, Alenquer a mile and a half away, the well covered with planks where we were forbidden to play,

you lifted up a board and echoes, you dropped a brick and the gleam of the water at the center of the earth gobbling it up, the caretaker’s stepson swore that his cousin had drowned and when they fished her out with a pole, all covered with slime, her blue lips were saying

—I committed suicide

my mother was ready to push me on the swing that time, I was steadying myself on the small seat and holding the ropes tight

—So?

I was sure I’d knocked over the glasses with my sandals, I caught the smell of the medicines, the nurse’s nervousness

—Madame

and she, selfish, with no love at all for me to sustain her, she paid his rent, bought his medicine, slipping out of the easy chair, the blacksmith

far away

hammering away at my blood and after a little

will you please explain the reason to me

the white hat rolled into the orchard and I lost sight of it, the bees were possessed, I was possessed, kneeling at her feet

—You’ve got no right to go away without telling me who I am

at the funeral when Pedro’s employees shook hands with him they were surprised to find a small child’s fingers and a piece of thread, cherry trees instead of poplars, beehives instead of crosses, my father-in-law dressed in old-fashioned style

a topcoat with a velvet collar, spats

—Leave me be I’m sleepy

bursting into the chapel looking for his siesta couch, Alenquer two miles away, my brother-in-law with a toad in his hand not dead, with a toad in his hand

—Buddy

as night fell the garden full of ghosts and the howling of dogs, Pedro poor thing running away from the cemetery shielding himself with the arms of his employees, from his father, from his brother who was coming back to torment him with animals

—Get me into the farmhouse quick

you have no right to bother me just because you died before me, just because mother deboned your snook for you while for me

—You’re old enough to take care of your own fish

just because you weren’t rich, didn’t study, worked in a bank

did you work in a bank?

you worked in a bank for one week of rest between trips to Spain, chorus girls, gambling houses, you came looking for me at work without waiting for the secretary to announce you, you listened to her excuses you can’t go in you can’t go in and you looked as if you were about to pat her on the behind I’m not going in, sugar, nobody went in, showing me some sheet of paper aware that I understood you were showing me some sheet of paper you requested from the receptionist, the switchboard operator, a third employee who was wrapping packages surrounded by rubber stamps or maybe a crumpled label, a page from a pad with idle scribblings knowing I wouldn’t read them, that I would pretend not to see it, you picking a hair off my jacket, praising the secretary to me