What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (28 page)

the boss red-lined this part

—You were doing so well with your description but you’re spreading out too much here

and right there we got back onto retirement

—You’ve ruined this piece of writing for me with your mania for details, old man

while, in order to avoid details, old man, I suggest

no, I’d try to avoid any unnecessary tendency toward factual exaggeration that could cost me my job

be concise

that the Mulattoes around the ground floor of Soraia’s place, the funeral of someone you’d describe a year later and the boss wiping out a whole afternoon’s worth of my work with the simple stroke of a pencil

—If you keep on with this stuffy mishmash we won’t get anywhere, old man

with a parallel series of red lines, do you think anyone is interested in the funeral of a drag queen, nobody is interested in the funeral of a drag queen and, therefore, in hopes of hanging onto my job and avoiding their laying me out on a chaise longue on a balcony to enjoy the skimpy March sun

—Make good use of the skimpy March sun on the balcony

I changed the thrust of the paragraphs, I proclaimed with two ballpoint scribbles and the boss

—Not too far in this direction and not too far in that, old man

the Mulattoes around Soraia’s ground-floor apartment while the small white woman fixed her eyelashes, paying no attention to them, with the help of what looked to me like a small brush

and finally a pair of tweezers

in a small mirror framed in tortoise shell, a small one like the one I had when I was a kid

maybe the same one

and after four and a half months he exchanged me for an actor in radio soap operas, I went over to the car because upsets are hard to smooth over even after thirty-five years

I’m lying, thirty-seven

and the boss with his finger over what I’d written do you think anyone’s interested in your life, old man, will you please take that out?

I felt like answering that even if you take it out of the piece you won’t be taking it out of me but I kept quiet and the boss to my colleagues, he’s getting senile poor fellow, the only reason I don’t fire him is because I feel sorry for him, handing me back the piece, indifferent to the best part which, in spite of its being short, cost me hours of work and deals with the moment Soraia gets home, I wrote it with the memory of the feelings I had as a way of seeing that I wouldn’t lose it

time has taught me that there’s nothing as volatile as sorrow

and as proof that there’s nothing as volatile as loss is the fact that the doctor, during my first consultation, when he announced glaucoma, declared with fraternal solemnity let’s both fight it with courage and these drops in the morning and at night and during the eighth or ninth visit I heard him at the door of his office sighing to the nurse to send in weak-eyes, the nurse before smothering her giggles in the bathroom, come in mister weak-eyes, while I went off with the articles in my hand, back to my desk farthest from the window where there wasn’t even a hint of sky, a horizon of desks, staplers, erasers, and newspaper clippings on the wall, the boss to my colleagues, the poor devil is trying hard but sixty-two years is a long time, just look at his typewriter, falling apart and with keys missing, practically the whole alphabet, he gives us flounders all covered with the flotsam and jetsam of half a dozen vowels floating about at random and I don’t understand his thread of eloquence, the corpses of consonants all adrift, the detritus of emotions and sentiments with which he’s overstocked in his old age, great, people read it and it’s like they were at the scene, where are you going to get so many ideas, old man, only a few more days, don’t carry it any further

and in your case you can go way back because the depths of age are infinite

don’t clutter up my desk with that tale of some Mulattoes and a drag queen all mixed in with a turkey in the oven, a slum of a house in Bico da Areia with a defunct gentian, a damsel four or five years old playing hopscotch on the gravestones of a provincial cemetery

don’t you catch the confusion?

saturated with the smell of mimosas, going back and forth across the newsroom and he almost landed in my lap, with that drive senile people have in their wheelchair-cradles, repeating over and over to the reporters it’s nothing but a stack of pages with the vowels missing, the person’s name is Soraia sir, she was buried the day before yesterday, we could narrate her life in episodes and then circulation, do you want to bet, will take off, he was showing me pages with the transvestite, the turkey, and the girl and her game of hopscotch, a shipwreck, I could go back and forth there in a lifeboat without finding the slightest trace of people and yet there was the old geezer with the hopes that parents have waiting right up to their last day, the child devoured by squids, look at this episode on page fifty-seven sir, the Mulattoes waiting in Príncipe Real, a square where in my story it’s quite clear that it’s raining because the drops are fluttering down, I wrote it just like that, not bad I think, look at this line, the tenth one from the bottom and there was no line as was to be expected, a question mark a third of the way down on the left, a comma an inch or so farther on and he was proud there it is, drops fluttering down off the cedar, see, the light of the café turned off and the cigarette machine up against the counter and on a hook the jacket with yellow buttons that belonged to the owner, see the trees in Latin, see the cedar and the cedar bench where the transvestite’s son was sitting waiting for his father

see Soraia on that corner

an accent mark and a capital letter missing because the ribbon didn’t print them

coming home from the discos on the Rua da Imprensa Nacional, basement clubs with steps down into the darkness and at the bottom of the stairs music, dancers, lots of beer, the candy woman

Dona Amélia

with a tray of candy, perfume, and American tobacco, the paradise of the pure of heart, homosexuals, addicts, depressives, transvestites, lesbians, and lonely people like me who’d lost their ideal thirty-five years ago

who’d lost their ideal thirty-seven years ago and think it’s only a matter of eyelashes, not noticing me, finding again in a small mirror a small girl fixing them with a touch of powder and a tortoise-shell frame

page one hundred sixteen

an accent mark or capital letter, completely lacking except for a grease stain from an index finger maybe the boss’s or mine even though the boss said

scandalous

—It’s yours

and even so it was completely lacking from the very beginning

and it’s not true

missing, any unprejudiced reader, any reader

because we’re so used to fawning on them

being strictly objective, any reader

because we’re so used to sugar-coating their intelligence

minimally missing as will be seen in my complete, detailed story, without any breaks, Soraia’s son

—What’s the matter Rui?

and Rui on the cedar bench, not Soraia’s son, Rui on the cedar bench while a piece of lead pipe or a switchblade or the neck of a bottle, since you won’t pay what your boyfriend owes, faggot, and the faggot

the character I’d toss a camellia to on Fridays that is, and the faggot

my father, that is, without any protest, without any complaint, without calling for help

one of the pure of heart, understand?

covered with what at first I thought was lipstick on the doormat, let them take off his wig, tear his dress, crush his ring with their heels, to my grandmother approaching with a knife and terrifying the hens

page two hundred

with a sprinkle of lime, she stuck its head in a burlap bag, the roost fell a notch squashing eggs and straw, with blood on her skirt, her apron, her blouse, a rope

or a roll of wire

on the turkey’s ankles to stop it from running with its head chopped off, so they could cut out its liver, its stomach, its intestines and my mother

the mother of his son

—I don’t want you out in the rain Paulo

at the same time as I put my pages away in the drawer, took my jacket off the rack, went out, crossed over by the taxi drivers waiting for fares by the easy chair next to the garbage containers in hopes of meeting Eveline again fixing her makeup in the parked car, asking her to

—Come with me Eveline

confessing that

—I set your plate on the table every night Eveline

and I don’t have to look at your picture because we’re together again, you’re silent as always, impatient, nervous with me wanting to say

—I love you

(isn’t it true that I’m not all that old, isn’t it true that I’m not so bad off for someone sixty-two?)

and I was silent too, not saying anything, so happy, squeezing your hand.

—Paulo

I’m sure she called me, she said

—Paulo

in the bedroom at Príncipe Real or in the laundry room in Anjos

in the laundry room in Anjos

and yet I’m sure I didn’t hear her just the same as I’m sure she didn’t have her hand on my shoulder worried that I’d be annoyed

—Don’t touch me

my elbow moving away

—Leave me alone

my eyes lingering on her fingers, not fingers, slugs, the thimble on the middle finger, the forefinger with a cracked nail

—Get that off me please

I heard her and I didn’t hear her since the fact is I’m not at Príncipe Real, I’m not in the Anjos laundry room. I’m watching the audience at the club, following the spotlight that was moving up to the curtain while the drums were announcing the music, the tape

and one of my father’s legs

came to a halt and my father’s leg was waiting, I’m going back, I’m not going back, starting to go back

I’m going back

when the tape started started up again, the music was too loud and the leg that was already dancing stopped, the sound man lowered the volume and the leg was dancing again, Dona Helena in the laundry room in Anjos

no, at Príncipe Real grabbing my arm

—Don’t worry about him Paulo

the second leg, a fan making his hair wave, it seemed to me that his knee had lost its strength, was putting his body off balance and my father leaning over onto the other hip, the thimble

—Why do you stay here watching him die, let’s go Paulo

his mouth or not his mouth, the lipstick on his mouth, the authentic mouth at Príncipe Real to Mr. Couceiro, to me, to Dona Amélia who kept repeating don’t wear yourself out, nobody’s stopping you from taking it easy dammit, the authentic mouth

—Rui

always

—Rui

I don’t exist isn’t that right father and at the club mimicking the words while he rehearsed in the mirror, one same song one afternoon after another which even when he was finished would chase after us hollering at us like certain children, certain bits of remorse, certain pups, the memory of the blind woman inspecting my face

—Are you my grandson?

and I was on the verge of tears

—Don’t hurt me please

how many times, with the maid from the dining room, do I think about my grandmother, sense her moving in the darkness beside me, the sigh from the mattress or the stool in the kitchen

from the stool in the kitchen, you’ve turned into my grandmother Gabriela, her bones creaking like a beam, asking you don’t hurt me please and you

—Why Carlos?

don’t get upset, I thought that you

—Why Carlos?

and you in a shawl with white hair and a jar of plum jam in your lap

—Why Paulo?

not in Bico da Areia, in the rented room where we’re living now, a boarded-up window, it makes me think of pigeons, Mr. Couceiro and Dona Helena whom I haven’t seen again

—Why Paulo?

dead maybe, so many months have gone by, so many years, two weeks ago I passed by the place in Anjos and the building had a board fence around that was saying dead, just as long as they don’t put their hand on my arm

—Leave me alone

I’ll go look for them I promise, playing hopscotch on the stones but during the time I’m talking about, Marlene is saying to my father as he adjusts his clothes with some pins

—You’ve gotten so thin sweetie

only half-clowns or one eyelid green and the other normal that’s because it’s inflamed you see, I got a speck in my eye, half in dresses, skirts that is, the other half men, the shape of their feet, unshaven chins, their voices

—Can’t you hear their voices Gabriela?

and the maid from the dining room

—Take it easy I’m not going to hurt you it’s a dream

my father to Marlene during a precarious bow, thanking the audience

—Hold me up

tiptoeing to the curtain, taking off a garter and offering it all around, the medicine bottles and his frightened question, drumming up courage from word to word

—I’m still fine don’t you think?

drumming up courage from word to word and losing interest in the answer, what do I care what the answer is, they replaced my poster with Vânia’s but I’m getting the show ready here, lying in bed, spinning around the living room, Marlene’s helping me, the doctor’s helping me because I’m still fine don’t you think and candy, cigarettes, perfume, on stage the camellias from the gentleman in the first row and Dona Amélia with a calling card, happy for me, did you spot his big expensive ring

—Table nine Soraia

help me up Rui, fix my wig, close the fastener on my tourmaline necklace, table nine is waiting, the herons were leaving the bridge for the backyards of the houses, I found them pecking at the marigolds with their breasts puffed out, croaking at people or chasing weasels in the Gypsies’ pine grove, the wind from Alto do Galo was rattling the windowpanes calling me

—Carlos

pointing to it, happy for me

—Table nine Soraia

corpses of abandoned herons to the disgust of the pups behind the house and which the electrician buried in a ditch in the woods, Dona Helena was alive at the time

the building wasn’t boarded up, my bed, the couch where Mr. Couceiro would curl up in the afternoon with his malaria reciting the Latin names of the trees in the rice paddies of Timor

Dona Helena was alive at the time grabbing my arm for some reason or other you can stay here and watch him die if you want we’re going Paulo, but he wasn’t going to die because the manager was announcing his song, they turned on the lights and got the spots wrong, not that one, the yellow one and the yellow one searching for him offstage, finding a thigh that was rising up out of the sheet, the tip of a fan, a sigh, the gentleman with the calling card changing his place

—Sit on my right side because I can’t hear out of this ear

Marlene

—Soraia

taking her home while she kept on asking me to come up

the doctor

or the transvestite disguised as a doctor with huge glasses and a fake belly, covering my father with the blanket don’t worry friend the manager’s waiting for you and then him among the dead herons waving to nobody

—Judite

sit down by my right side because at the age of sixty-two and with the typewriters at the newspaper all afternoon I can’t hear out of this ear, they told me they call you Soraia and the boss gave me an article about a drag queen you’re out of your mind

he was waving to nobody as night came up over the lake in Príncipe Real and invaded the park

—Judite

not in the trees like I’d thought, on the lake, if I light the lamp our submerged bodies, weightless, Marlene and more pins, more catches, my father worried

—I’m still fine don’t you think?

you’ve gotten so thin, sweetie, when I took Marlene home she would always ask me up, a building in Alcântara with the trains down below

how long ago was it

an oak tree on the corner

don’t you feel like relaxing a little Paulo, Gabriela and me in Algés and the old woman who rented rooms demanding money in advance, I hope you’re married, Marlene who liked me or felt sorry for me

—Don’t you feel like relaxing a little Paulo?

the picture of a man she’d turned around

—He tricked me

clearing a chair of articles of clothing, socks, blowing away a dried-up beetle along with its dusty remnants, leaning over to cough, straightening up flushed and fanning herself with a newspaper

—Sit down

pay me in advance too Miss Marlene like you do with the rent, Dona Helena who understood everything

I’ll get it I promise

excusing herself be patient ma’am he’s just a child don’t ask any questions Paulo, all those fringed pillows, all those Japanese knicknacks, all those glass forget-me-nots, I looked at her building, Dona Helena and nobody, a piece of shelving, bricks, the bicycle in the laundry room that wasn’t the bicycle, it was the sewing machine in a mess of debris, so when you tell me in Príncipe Real

—Let’s go Paulo

where to since you haven’t got a home anymore, while Marlene is passing me a fringed pillow

—I’m your friend don’t you know?

and my father

—Marlene

a second floor in Alcântara, if you went onto the balcony you could touch the oak tree, a man with his chin in his plate having soup in the next room swallowing hurriedly and hiding the bread as though we were going to steal it from him, Marlene

—My stepfather

wearing workboots and the satin shawl from an old show, when he finished the soup he sat staring at the empty plate leaning forward, his eyes hidden by a dirty straggle of hair

—He was a dockworker and the crane hit him on the head years ago

the stepfather circling about aimlessly pulling off pieces of crust that he put into his mouth along with his fingers chewing on his knuckles with a kind of shiver, Marlene following him with the drops from the drugstore all right it’s not bitter, saying over her shoulder to me

—He hasn’t got a tooth left, poor devil

he didn’t have a tooth left and over the years he must have swallowed the muscles that were missing, he squatted down tightening the shawl around his neck, brooding over the drops, his hanging hair muffling a complaint

—Tough luck tough luck

until I figured he’d fallen asleep because the shawl was all entangled, Marlene not a penny of pension did he get and only

—Not a penny of pension did he get

one of the glass forget-me-nots agreeing as it fluttered in the light, a worker was roasting some finches on the scaffolding at Anjos, no place for Mr. Couceiro to go up unfortunately, no landing where he could rest his emphysema unfortunately, bricks, plaster debris, the old buildings in the next alley, what can Mr. Couceiro do now to get up there, what cane will give him some help, what jacket not too worn can he put on for Sundays, Marlene wiping her stepfather’s chin with the shawl, the stepfather tough luck and Dona Helena

—Who are you talking to?

the scaffolding replaced by Japanese knicknacks and fringed pillows, Mr. Couceiro from the grave

—Nobody

how many times in Lisbon, when at dawn the municipal van heads toward Beirolas, I watch the shifts in the tide at Bico da Areia, the maid from the dining room who only understands what’s going on in the bedroom and doesn’t notice the wind and the agitation of the mares, doesn’t hear the albatrosses at Cova do Vapor barking at the rain and therefore shakes me by the shoulders, brings the lemon and the syringe worried about me

—What’s wrong Paulo?

and in spite of the syringe I’m pecking at the forget-me-nots incapable of flying, the pups that grab me by a wing and drag me into the woods, what’s wrong Paulo, tightening the rubber band, picking the vein and while the plunger it was nothing what an idea

—It was nothing what an idea

except for the treetops all puffed up with leaves every time a lightning flash, in the village the fever of the pots as they shook on their hooks and my grandmother to my mother looking for her where she wasn’t

—Was that lightning, daughter?

her nose probing in the air from one side to the other, the eyes that think we’re up on the ceiling, the faraway look of her expressions that told her nothing while she was cooking, Marlene intrigued

—Don’t you see me Paulo?

I don’t know if I told you that when Soraia was sick her nephew, or maybe her cousin, or maybe her younger brother, or maybe her son, that’s it put down son because it can’t bother her anymore

I sit down by your right side, wait

he wasn’t paying attention to anyone, the dame who raised him

—Let’s go Paulo

and he was shaking his elbow away

—Leave me alone

every so often inviting him here to my place to get his mind off it

don’t pay any attention to the mess I just haven’t had time

he sat in the chair where you’re sitting now except he was sitting up straighter and not trying to kiss me, my stepfather worked his whole life unloading ships and one afternoon the crane dropped a crate, he couldn’t be seen under the crate, only his boots

—Tough luck

just like right now in my shawl

not him he doesn’t say anything, he goes from room to room with his pockets stuffed with bread, the shawl from an old show

—Tough luck

when Soraia and I, Paulo poking through the makeup and the wigs