What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (4 page)

in the back of the apartment a balcony facing the Anjos church, a stretch of river and almost never any ships, I was sitting on the flowerpot with the lemon and the syringe, I tightened my fist the way Rui had taught me to find the vein, he would come with a ring or a bracelet or the money from last night’s show toward payment for the washing machine or repairs on the stove

—Don’t worry about it, it’s your father who’s paying

my father’s name is Mr. Couceiro, my mother’s Dona Helena, the clown who Rui thought was my father isn’t my father I swear, I don’t know anything about him, I don’t know him, my father went away or maybe I didn’t have one or maybe he vanished into thin air and materialized years later so I could lean over his coffin laughing, the old man with the little dog fluttering with indignation

—Good heavens

the clown who wasn’t my father fussing with containers, bottles of silicone, cotton balls

—What about the envelope with the money, Rui?

searching through the blouse rack, pushing waistbands, headdresses, capes aside, my father’s a man, he knows everything about the Japanese, he knows the names of trees in Latin, he killed buffaloes in Timor, his name is Mr. Couceiro

—You scared him and he started crying who’s going to quiet him down now?

we came to a broken-down wall as we left the Cape Verdeans not

along the road, on a path through the weeds, pieces of a garden fence, what had once been a statue

Neptune or Apollo?

but without any arms, a battered mess kit begging

—Hit me

I understood her quite well

—Please hit me

the same with the oranges falling off the fruit cart and I said

—We haven’t got time now

we unfolded the newspaper and there was some white powder, stop it from slipping all the way down the crease, separate part of it, put the other part away, on the broken-down wall a whole lot of lighters, rubber bands, footprints, writing carved with a jackknife impossible to read, we handed over the money through a small door without seeing anybody, we waited a little, received the newspaper, a Mulatto stood guard at the corner opening and closing a jackknife, the palms of his hand were softer than mine, pink with black wrinkles. I thought I was afraid but I wasn’t or maybe just less afraid than I thought I was, studying the powder, maybe it was chalk dust, maybe limestone, how do you do it Rui, show me how you do it, my father’s husband

not my father’s husband, the clown’s husband, they slept in the same bed and therefore they were married, there’d been others before this one, Alcides, Fausto

the clown

—Let me introduce you to Alcides let me introduce you to Fausto up against the Chinese chest where my father was doubled over moaning

look, my father said, I made a mistake

—You shitty fag

he snatched the chain from him, put the chain in his pants and the clown

—I’m sorry

Rui’s wife came to Príncipe Real once, railing at them while the tenant on the third floor

Dona Aurorinha said

—Miss

she walked slowly, she never got excited, a half hour for each floor with her bag of groceries, she was breathing hard as her chest tightened

—It’s all right I’m fine

she insisted that I taste her guava jam, the rooms were dark because the light bill hadn’t been paid, she lighted a candle

—Electricity upsets me

you opened the faucets but not a drop came out

—I don’t need water I keep myself clean

the furniture white with mold, a desperate flight of cockroaches, in April an aneurysm carried her off, Rui’s wife at the empty door

—Come out of there you slimy worms

she tried to force the lock with a piece of tile and Dona Aurorinha

—Don’t hurt yourself, Miss

she kicked the garbage can which rolled down the alley, and went away

—Slimy worms

my father

Mr. Couceiro

my father?

my father holding the artificial lashes from one eye in the tweezer, the other one quivering with annoyance

—Such a bother

and something else quivering on his face, a tendon or a muscle, his eyes cloudy with cataracts like my grandmother’s, almost falling against the chest without Fausto even hitting him, Dona Aurorinha offering him some guava jam

—Mr. Carlos

coming down step by step with heroic difficulty, the clown, arching his pinky, was consoling his annoyance with camomile tea, holding out a cup

—Would you like some, Dona Aurorinha?

he was sticking on the artificial lashes before the mirror where

years before he used to comb his mustache, Alcides or Fausto then, yes, with

mustaches and my father frying cutlets, wearing an apron, while he gave them his wristwatch, gave them necklaces, hopeful, submissive

—A remembrance from a friend

Alcides or Fausto suspicious of the gift examining the treasures

—Is this worth anything at all?

shawls, sashes, poppies, plastic vicuñas, my mother trampling those splendors I thought belonged to her

—Do you wear this, Carlos?

we came to a broken-down wall as we left the Cape Verdeans not along the road, on a path through the weeds, pieces of a garden fence, what had once been a statue

Neptune, Apollo?

but no arms, no arms at all, we unfolded the newspaper and a bit of white powder, on the ground by the broken-down wall a lot of lighters, rubber bands, footprints, Rui squeezes the lemon like that way, mixes it in with the water that way, does it that way with the spoon, heats it that way and as soon as it’s boiling a little he ties a rubber band around above his elbow that way, it seemed to me there was a jackdaw in a stone niche

its head bobbing, spasms in its tail, in just a few minutes I’m a bird, I reach the top of the fig tree all excited but then I’m calm, contented, the needle by the widest vein, don’t be in a hurry with the shot, that way, a kind of heat, a kind of cold, the broken-down wall, the jackdaw, heat in my belly again, inside my chest where my heart wasn’t beating, I was spreading out, losing weight, breaking away from myself, I caught a glimpse of it almost purple in the bird’s nest, what’s your name, what’s my name, tell me what my name is and Rui tightening his rubber band, that way

—Shut up

wind where there’s no wind, thirst where there’s no thirst, I can understand everything with the powder Rui, I can understand everything, the words from the jackknife possible to read now, do you want me to read them to you Rui, you’re cold too, you’re hot, you’re

a jackdaw too, don’t lie down in the mud, head bobbing, tail in spasms, the little bitty fruit on the fig tree, look how my leaves cross over each other, look how I’m growing, don’t lie down by the weeping willows, get up, what’s the reason for your scolding me Rui, don’t scold me, don’t tell me to shut up, the jackknife words say

—They don’t mean anything they say

—It’s hard to get them to feel

They say

—Go see if the faggot’s kid is still out there

not one fig tree, two out of the same trunk, Rui covered up the hole the needle had made and the crimson drop

darker than crimson, crimson is what people think blood is, garnet

—Shut up

the Mulatto was going over to a pickup without any tires opening and closing his jackknife, a small click when the blade came out, a small click when it went back in, Dona Helena with me in her arms going off toward the pantry

—You scared him and he started crying who’s going to quiet him down now?

the Mulatto rested his sandal on the landing where there was a speck of rain, those remnants of October and the remnants of October while I was counting the gratings in the garden fence, sixteen

—Not here

counting again, I wasn’t sure whether it was fifteen or sixteen, I was right, four near us plus seven and plus five, the Mulatto pointing to the city down below

—Not here

sure that I’d dreamed this dream yesterday or the day before

yesterday

and for that reason, not waking up, I thought

—Stop worrying I know all that already

not interested in any episodes I knew weren’t real, the jackknife at my throat, the sandal stepping on me

—I’m asleep

and since I’m asleep I don’t worry, everything’s a lie, aware of the pillow sliding between the mattress and the trunk they were slamming me against

—I don’t have any necklace you can take from me

Dona Aurorinha with her bag of groceries

—Paulo

half an hour for each floor, her huge, exhausted feet

—Don’t worry you’re doing fine

walking ahead of me lighting a candle and me following the candle in the dark until Dona Aurorinha tells me

—Sit down

in an invisible chair and the two of us stay there, not talking, listening to the sounds of the building and something distant that was mocking me

A jackdaw?

that was mocking me.

—Why Carlos?

and her

—Why Carlos?

wasn’t in the living room, it was going from tree to tree and mingling with splotches of light in the haze, the dwarf from Snow White going from one side to the other on the refrigerator and my mother’s question without my mother

—Why Carlos?

that same question even today

even yesterday even today in the hospital by the row of plane trees, looking at their trunks and at every branch those same sounds, pounding on the clothes rack, not hearing the pigeons, the maids in the dining room, the man in the next unit lying belly-up in a whisper, his navel

yesterday

today, he said today

—
They’re not attuned to time

—Why Carlos?

I am so attuned to time, I know how to tell time on clocks, five minutes to six, seven-twenty, eight-twelve, where did the doctors get the idea that I’m not attuned to time, show me your wrist and I’ll tell you instead of having me draw a family and the person in skirts, dressed as a bride, with pearls in her hair, bigger than the husband, and the son, the husband next to the refrigerator, the son smashing the car on the straw mat and the mat torn

—Why Carlos?

the bride grabbed the dwarf from Snow White and stopped it from dancing, my explaining to the psychologist who gave me paper and pencil that it’s not a question of a watermelon or anything like that

—It’s not a question of a watermelon or anything like that

it’s a question of the dwarf from Snow White that the bride is moving away

—Stop messing with that, it makes me nervous

she was stopping her husband from touching it, this is the husband, this is the son, this is the son’s car with wooden wheels, I had a big one, if you don’t ask the plane trees to be quiet I’m leaving, the man’s navel on the wall, I didn’t hit him, I hit the clothes rack and the orderly as though I’d hit someone and I hadn’t hurt him, I was the one hurt out there by the horses and the sea

—Let go of it

where the voices didn’t reach, the shower out here too and the dripping on concrete all night long, a puddle where there were yellow jackets in August, you’d turn the faucet on and the soap was on the windowsill, or rather it was with my parents that the soap was on the windowsill, with me I’d hold it for a second and then because I was a child and couldn’t control anything, it would slip down to the ground and I’d grab it quick before the yellow jackets, on Sundays they’d come in through a hole in the window screen which would put the waves into squares, beyond the soap my father

deodorant, perfume, my mother’s cold cream on the sly, I peeked and my father stopped rubbing it on and looked at me, there’s something strange about the person in the sketch, not him, timidity, bashfulness, a kind of qualm, the psychologist making an oval mark and an arrow, cream on the buttocks, on the shoulder blades, on the chest

—Is he your father?

one of the neighbors, the one who owned the terrace café, perched on the wall to prevent him from seeing him and telling the customers I elbowed the clown out of the way and there I was all alone by the corner of the house spying, the horses were trotting along under the whip, one of my feet was unfinished in the sketch and it stopped me from running, I picked up the pencil and made a shoe, as I got out of the sketch and into the yard, the hospital fence, the river

—Take care of yourself

the river tomorrow as I say goodbye to the doctor, today the yard and the fence, a friendly cigarette, a coin for a friendly cup of coffee, I’m not a patient, friend, they’ve imprisoned me here, the basket of peaches abandoned by the plane tree, Mr. Couceiro helped me with my suitcase, clothes, slippers, a poster of my father in an evening gown that I hadn’t even remembered bringing with me

—Why Carlos?

—No

—Why father?

and Mr. Couceiro quickly folded it up and it disappeared in among the shirts, if I asked

—Why father?

my father would be mute, it looked as though he was going to speak and he was mute

speak to me tell me

I’d wake up in Bico da Areia with the bedsprings moving on the other side of the partition, with the springs my mother’s leg

ever so slowly on top of a sleeping leg, an endless pause during which the horses

the sea

a silence, the sleeping leg escaped with a creaking of boards, my father’s voice

—No

—Why father?

and the horses or the sea or neither sea nor horses, my mother’s slippers on the floor and the grumbling bedsprings moved back into shape, I could tell that she’d hurt herself bumping into the clothes closet, we always hurt ourselves bumping into the clothes closet, our house tripped us up, startled at first and then angry, we’d grab our knee with both hands, the furious reflex before our mouth came out with

—God damn it

I could sense her going down the steps, her hands on the outer door from the creaking of the hinges, no moon no pine trees, only the scaly surface of the water, I sensed her strange breathing, her nightgown pulled up, something white that was leaping about and I said

—Don’t cry

no sea no horses, blowing her nose on her sleeve, her hands half embracing me and half pushing me away

—Go inside you’ll catch cold, dummy

finally embracing me, gathering in her nightgown more, her body so warm, tears that didn’t belong to me that became mine now, don’t cry Paulo don’t cry, and Dona Helena would pick me up and take me away, maybe Mr. Couceiro would talk to me about Timor, maybe they’d fill my mouth with spoonfuls of guava jam, when I lifted my head I saw my father at the window

oh to trot with the horses

when he saw that I’d seen him he disappeared from the window frame and the frosted glass, when I went in I saw him crucified up against the wall far behind me there, not in a nightgown, in pajamas

—Do you want to borrow my hose father?

the nightgowns only at Príncipe Real, red, silvery, not cotton, silk, if I happened to catch him without his wig a small irritated cry, little fingers that shooed me away

—Oh! Paulo

and without the wig the bald head, the freckles, he’d put on a kerchief when he went to bed, the cedar at Príncipe Real said to me

—Don’t stare at cripples it’s not nice

Dona Aurorinha in the vestibule with her shopping bag, her cheap ring, two potatoes, wilted vegetables, feeling her way upstairs

—Let me give you a hand

pondering her worries as she put her foot on each step

—How’s Paulo’s father, Dona Aurorinha?

her uncle a sergeant

—My uncle was a sergeant

and consequently an important matter for Dona Aurorinha, poor thing, if people didn’t show her respect she’d threaten them with the Army

—I’m going to report you to headquarters

she’d introduce herself to the sentry with her ring, the potatoes, her rundown blouse, she’d raise her umbrella in a solemn salute, take the photo of an old man in uniform from her purse, clean it with the hem of her jacket with dignified pomp, examine the flag with the familiarity of a relative

—I’m the niece of Sergeant Quaresma of the Second Infantry sure that the colonels, fearful

—She’s the niece of Sergeant Quaresma and that makes everything all right

Sergeant Quaresma’s niece coughing all night long, at the funeral no colonel, no sentry, no military honors, some sparrows in the cypresses but inattentive and few, my father and I accompanied the casket, he was wearing pants fortunately and didn’t have any polish on his nails, almost a man except for some vestiges of a clown on his eyebrows, from last night’s show, my mother pointing it out to him with her finger

we had a crystal lamp with a painted shade

—Who is she, don’t lie

words in the mirror in front of his mouth, the light of the lamp on the most expensive, prettiest wardrobe, like a trim or a caprice, broken garlands of flowers in a lilac fringe, fell onto his reflection soundlessly and as it fell, an eternity followed

—Who is she, don’t lie

a storm of flashes, congealed time waiting, the horses in suspense despite the whip, a wave reaching out its arms along the beach and gathering debris

I was a piece of debris, take me with you, not these baskets, not these algae, me

my mother

—Get away Paulo

throwing the pieces into the pail, reliefs, that ruffled part

hand-painted they told me

—It was hand-painted keep away don’t touch it

not throwing me away, my father was washing his face in the basin, Dona Helena stopping her cooking

—Throw you away, Son?

she called me son, see? she called me son

she smelled of fried food, starch, goodness, I could go to sleep on her lap, Mr. Couceiro after hesitating put a finger to my forehead, his cane idly tapping

—Have you got a fever?

their wardrobe never bothered me, a large, benign mirror, with the whole room inside it, the mirror on the dressing table in front and three Dona Helenas, three of me, three Mr. Couceiros, corporals in the Timor rice paddies, leave your finger on my forehead, it doesn’t bother me, I like it, Dona Helena

—Don’t frighten him be careful

I let him take off his earrings, change the position of his hairpins, when they brought me in, the doctor spoke to Mr. Couceiro, while the paramedic released my wrists, cramps from a lack of heroin, my father dead and even so laughter

laughter

explaining to me that if I didn’t laugh, if I didn’t keep on laughing

—I need to laugh so much, do you understand? I need to laugh doctor

the doctor to Mr. Couceiro

—Is he your grandson?

Paulo leaning on the coffin of his own father how awful on the coffin of his own father between embracing him and rejec…

the light on the roof of the ambulance was swinging from wall to wall

—Paulo

I stole money from Dona Helena and Dona Helena didn’t report me, I broke open the strongbox with the Minho chains and not a single earring, clasps and powder on it so she could tell if someone had been stealing, asking for a loan in her name at the grocery store, at the butcher’s, the grocer gripping his broom

he didn’t hit me

—Get out of my sight you little sneak thief

making more holes in my belt because the pants are too big and Dona Helena soup, quinine extract, syrups

—Take your tonic, Paulo

put your finger on my forehead, Mr. Couceiro, while you keep it on my forehead the cramps grow less, all those needle marks on my arms, the hard, black veins, they’re not arms, they’re tree branches, I’m a bush, Dona Helena, my gums are dissolving, I hide my missing teeth with my lips, the ashtray on the doctor’s desk, desperate, anxious

—Break me now

while the light on the ambulance obliged him to exist, I sold the wall clock and from Dona Helena not a word, from Mr. Couceiro

—
Is he your grandson?

not a word, the naked hook accusing me, a second hook on the left, the cane looking as though it was going to move but not angry at all

for God’s sake get mad, shout, get mad at me

Dona Helena held him back with her eyes

—Jaime

Jaime Couceiro Marques

she pulled out the hook so it wouldn’t accuse me, facing me at dinner time, Mr. Couceiro in his easy chair, Dona Helena in the cotton velvet upright chair, sometimes I’d find her in the kitchen putting the touch of a smile over a mask of pain

—It’ll go away

the smile was smaller than the mask as could be seen from the corners of her mouth, when she thought I’d left the smile would disappear, she’d come along leaning herself on the backs of the chairs

the toaster was taken too, the meat grinder, I stood in front of where they’d been pointing at the hook

—It wasn’t me

no

carnations in the unbroken vase, starflowers

—It was me, kick me out, it was me