What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (41 page)

Mr. Couceiro left the stove on his way back to the bedroom, his knees wobbly, his mouth twisted, the church radiant through the elbow with which he was resting on the table

—Can it be this one, Paulo?

but it was only many years later when I wasn’t living with them, they never got to know that

they never got to know that I loved them

I loved them, I won’t say a lot

I’d rather not say a lot, why say a lot, I loved them, half past four, a quarter past four, four, a quarter to four, half past three

I loved them

what’s happened to my parsley, my napkin ring with the Big Bad Wolf printed on it, which I would scratch with my fingernail, whenever the Big Bad Wolf would look at me a little drop of gluttony dripping from his jaw, who could swear to me that he hadn’t eaten Noémia, one bite and that was that, that he’s not going to eat us, pulling up the covers, the silence hurting me or maybe my father at Príncipe Real sewing a hem while I was on the sofa with my legs stuck out in front knocking one foot against the other waiting for something to happen, the chandelier to start getting detached and a festival of glass on the floor, my father waving to me with a clown’s good-bye

—Paulo

saying without saying

—Paulo

saying

—Paulo

not in the voice I remember from Bico da Areia and in October the gulls, a sharper voice, Micaela’s voice

—I’m your friend didn’t you know?

Marlene’s, Vânia’s, Sissi’s arguing in the dressing room over lipstick, powder, glue for the wig that should have been here and isn’t, who stole my gold lashes you sneak thieves, who ruined my heel, look at this heel, the bottle of perfume without a stopper that smells only of alcohol, wax flowers reduced to the wire of their stems, the prayer card of a saint who protects against illness on which they’d drawn a mustache and glasses with eye pencil, Marlene indignant

—Was it you Rui?

and Rui to whom Vânia gave what looked to me like money taking the lemon out of his pocket and studying the lemon, my father in the small living room at Príncipe Real where the prisms on the chandelier were quivering, with every bus that went up the cross street

—Why can’t they let me be a woman like other women Paulo?

my grandmother running her hand over his face puzzled, winter was coming down from the mountains whistling in the roof tiles

—
Did you bring along a lady friend Judite?

look at my man’s hands Paulo, my man’s neck, the falsies that slip down on me ever since I lost weight, the first time that he visited me at Anjos masquerading as a clown I didn’t recognize him, feet together beside the chair that Dona Helena was offering him without daring to sit down, from one foot to the other fighting the cold even though it wasn’t cold

—I won’t stay long madame I just wanted to see my son

taking candy out of his purse and giving me the candy, that is not daring to give me the candy that was melting in his fingers, putting it down on the tray on the sideboard with a little smile of apology that seemed to slip off his lips and fall withered to the floor

—If you put it in the refrigerator it will get hard again

something in Mr. Couceiro’s belly jumping, Dona Helena straightening a mat, my father leaned over for a kiss, a breath of cologne came close to me

Dona Helena clutched the mat

and he didn’t get to kiss me

Dona Helena let go of the mat

the whiff of cologne grew fainter and the belly was quiet, my father in the vestibule

—Don’t bother, I know the way

threatening a vase, putting it in a place that wasn’t where it should be

—I’m terribly clumsy aren’t I?

and as he put it in a place where it shouldn’t be, the cane was in a frenzy, Dona Helena turned the dragon around frontward and the cane was quiet, in spite of being out in the street already, my father remained there in the candy on the sideboard, picking it up with thumb and forefinger, as far away as possible, and dropping it into the garbage, by the door of the closet with its plastic bag meant for leavings and the lid that opened when the door of the closet opened, the candy in the midst of milk containers and bones and rinds, closing the closet and now yes, the house without any clown, we were in peace, everything in order, Mr. Couceiro moved the vase two millimeters and Dona Helena, the critic, judging perspectives

—Not quite

Mr. Couceiro with his head back examined things with her, rolling the vase, cleaning the dragon with his sleeve, trying one millimeter, Dona Helena

—I think it’s right now

and still the dragon wasn’t exactly right, I don’t know, maybe the tongue, maybe the scales, maybe the wings, Dona Helena with her nose over the animal

—Don’t do anything more to it

during dinner when one of them got a whiff of cologne a panicked glance at the vase, Dona Helena serving me my soup and Mr. Couceiro not counting the spoonfuls

fifteen, fourteen, thirteen

fearful that my father would take me away in spite of my father’s straightening his hair, checking his earrings, lowering his décolleté, making an effort not to seem he was asking and yet asking, playing horseback with me on the beach

you were ordering him

—
Gallop

don’t forget

hooked around his shoulders grabbing him around the head, his cap, his ears, your thinking

—
I’m going to fall

while your father was stumbling over the uneven sand, you could tell he was tired from the way his hands slipped down along your sandals, from his panting mouth and yet

—
Gallop

the bridge getting closer, a wave that wet his pants and went off, one of the pups summoning its comrades that were looking for mussels on the beams

—
The faggot’s playing he’s the kid’s mare

and at a gallop, a trot, and not a trot, an exhausted stumbling, if you’d had a stick, a whip, some barbed wire wrapped around a pole, if you could have whipped him, ordering him

—I order you not to stop galloping

and your father reached the bridge, leaned against the railing, stared at you the way

my father stared at Dona Helena looking for a hook that wasn’t there to hide the stuffing in his breast

—I won’t be long madame I only wanted to see my son

the lack of courage, the shame, like the coldness underlying I won’t be long madame I only wanted to see my son

—Why won’t they let me be a woman like the others, Paulo?

the comic book under the schoolbook, in order to avoid the dragon vase shattering they’d take me to Príncipe Real on Saturdays, wait for me on the bench by the cedar tree where I would wait later on, the bell on the ground floor was pushed with a dull plea that gave the impression of an echo in an endless chain of caverns

dust, cobwebs

a man who wasn’t my father with his watch on his wrist and his ring on his finger looking at me on the doormat

—A miniature person to see you Soraia

the man would vary from Saturday to Saturday but the watch and the ring always belonged to my father, through the window I saw Dona Helena and Mr. Couceiro on the bench with the cane leaping between them impatient, annoyed, my father dressed as a clown the rustle of lace and the fateful cologne, broad gestures with rings on his fingers, the impatience that he was trying hard to turn into merriment

—Have you met my godson Eliseu?

or Eurico or Agostinho or Ernesto or Floriano

—Have you met my godson Floriano

the ground floor of an ancient building among ancient buildings without any Gypsies or sea, a broom stuck up against the wall supported the washbasin, there’s no gentian, father

I mean godfather

there aren’t any marigolds here, the usual candy going soft in his hand, afraid that Eliseu

or Eurico or Agostinho or Ernesto or Floriano

would suspect, guess, look down on him because of me, a whisper that looked like we were having some fun

—Call me godfather, Paulo

the mastiff with a bow relieving itself against corners, wouldn’t you rather be in Bico da Areia, wouldn’t you rather be with my mother, do you remember the pine trees, the albatrosses in June, having sardines for lunch at Cova do Vapor and mother cleaning you off with her napkin, laughing at you

—You’re a bigger baby than your son, Carlos

the old man with the mouth organ stopping his playing and saying nice things about us

—What a lovely family what a lovely family

the customers clapping for the music and with the clapping you didn’t notice the sound of the water that was rising, rising, the reed roof made the sun print lines on the ground, if I held out my arm over the necks of bottles and smoke from the fish

sea breams, conger eels

my arm caught the black and yellow stripes and my mother wasn’t saying anything, my father stuck out his arm, his arm caught the black and yellow stripes and my mother laughed

—You’re a bigger baby than your son, Carlos

don’t you remember that, father?

—Call me godfather, Paulo

—Are you sure you don’t remember that, father?

his eyes showing annoyance, the rest of his face motionless, my father’s friend was combing his mustache with a toothbrush and my father gave me a hard pinch, a few hours later the mark was still on my back, a pair of brown spots that were turning blue, the next day the blue became skin again

—For the love of God call me godfather, Paulo

it’s all right by me if you want to be a woman like the others, godfather, I’ll forget about Cova do Vapor, the sardines, my mother picking bones out of your plate to put in hers, picking out the best fish for you, giving you the roe, taking the onions out of your salad because you don’t like onions, if a little piece was left in the tomatoes and the lettuce she’d beg your pardon

—You’re so picky Carlos

if

—You’re so picky Carlos

annoyed with me, if

—You’re so picky Carlos

tender, happy, she’d serve him the oil, the vinegar

—Don’t dirty yourself, wait

if his napkin fell off she’d take mine

—Use the tablecloth Paulo

not noticing that the water in the river was rising, rising and the fishing boats were at eye level, the old man with the mouth organ was dozing, a toothpick in his gums, the man who was combing his mustache with a toothbrush was moving his mouth from right to left arranging the hairs

—How old are you, my little man?

picking up a small enameled box that I didn’t remember from Bico da Areia, lifting the lid, lowering the lid, putting it in his pocket, whispering to my father

—I haven’t got any bus money Soraia

a woman’s bag, a woman’s change purse, a bill, two bills, three bills, the man

—That’s still not enough Soraia

four bills, a knife of wrought copper added to the small box

—I’ll give you back the change later

if only my mother had been with us to forgive him, to call as a witness the old man with his music but the old man was deep in discussion with a glass of berry brandy to which he was telling secrets, misfortunes, calling me as a witness but I was wiping myself with the tablecloth, proud of my black and yellow arms, trying to guess the number of toothpicks in the toothpick holder and emptying out the holder to see if I’d gotten it right, my mother with no witnesses, with a resigned murmur

—You’re a bigger baby than your son, Carlos

the man disappeared into the café, Dona Helena was nudging Mr. Couceiro

—Did you see?

the cane pecking at the ground, the cedar

what do you expect from cedars?

agreeing with her

—Yes indeed

its upper branches so broad they had to support it with iron braces, even in August it was always October on the bench, I couldn’t play piggyback with my father because there wasn’t any sand or any bridge so we shared the candy on a settee that has imitation gold arabesques whose paint, as it peeled, showed dark zinc, both of us idle, bored, if only a gentian on the wall at least, some marigolds maybe, a car with wooden wheels to smash on the floor, we finished the candy and I went about counting the breaks in the baseboard