What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (44 page)

—Ruben

when we were going down to Príncipe Real to the aunt’s apartment, the godmother’s, the cousin’s

why pretend, Paulo’s father’s

vacant

he wasn’t even an artiste, he pretended to be singing, in spite of rehearsing in front of the mirror, the repetition, the efforts, his lips didn’t keep time with the violins, he’d stand in front of the mirror again, hold out his hand to catch the sounds sometimes slow, sometimes fast, they were determined to humiliate him, he’d drop onto the sofa, ask for his fan

—The fan, be patient

my grandfather my mother’s father in Peniche, if you asked my mother about him she always watched out for the neighbors, footsteps, chinaware, her breathless panic

—
Shut up

he’d grip the fan to stop it from flying away from him and instead of the fan it was his face that was fluttering its eyebrows behind the ribs

—I’m not capable

I don’t know anything about my grandmother, I don’t think I had one

—
What about grandfather’s wife, mother?

and my mother like a secret because of footsteps, because of chinaware, because of ears on the other side of the wall

—
She died

no photograph, no letter, my grandfather’s friends would cross over when they saw us, every now and then an explosion, a ship sunk and their photographs, those, yes, in the newspaper opened up at the table and as soon as the photographs appeared my mother, pointing to the page

—
Burn that, Ruben

a tiny flame and the picture curling up in the washbasin, rising up out of the letters around it and trying to stay alive, and then yellow and then black and then ashes and then the faucet sending them down the drain, the water kept on running with nothing to carry along with it now, on one occasion, before Peniche, there was a knock on the door, my mother hid the crack in the door with her body along with furious whispering aimed at the empty landing

—
Don’t mess up my life father, go away

as far as I could think there was nobody at the door at all but we were never sure because she’d lean against the doorknob looking at us, terrified for us, she would lean over the windowsill, go back to the doorknob, one of her knees was moving all by itself

just her knee, her hip and her ankle were motionless

—
He wouldn’t rest until he killed my mother with his politicking and now he won’t rest until he kills me

and yet, in spite of my grandfather’s wanting to ruin her life, there was a loose plank in the pantry floor where there were notebooks, packages, tubes wrapped in a piece of oilcloth and tied with string, my mother would send us into the bedroom before she lifted up the board

—
Stay in there for a while

a creaking of wood, a muffled sound, my father on the stairs leaving his soup half eaten, his knee toward us, with an affliction that prevented us from saying anything

—
He went out to buy some cigarettes

my father, who didn’t smoke, who detested tobacco, he’d come back and settle down at the table with his pockets empty, he’d pick up his spoon and the spoon would slip away from him, his knee was scared too, the napkin not touching his mouth

—
There it is

one of my grandfather’s friends

—
Isn’t he the one in the newspaper mother? and my mother

—
What newspaper?

I pulled whatever it was out of the garbage can, the accordion without any little tune, the apartment seemed to be all knees too, the calendar, the faucets, my mother that is to the apartment

—
No noise, dammit

until a few nights later a bomb in a munitions factory, this burned, that burned, some

the fan closing as though its life had ended, Paulo’s father rising up from behind the ribs with a sparrow chirp

—I’m not capable Rui

airplanes destroyed, burned, the waves at Peniche pounding on the wall, my mother to the doormat in a whisper that everybody heard

—
This finishes it, what do I care about the dictatorship, I’m not

the ground floor at Príncipe Real vacant, even the chandelier, just imagine

helping you anymore

the apartment that had quieted down a bit was getting all agitated again, I had no idea that the glasses in the cupboard could jump about like that, my father didn’t try not to say anything and he was trying hard not to say anything, my mother going to the door

—
I’m the one who’s talking to that fool of an old man of mine, understand?

on the ground floor at Príncipe Real a tube, all rolled up on the dressing table, squeezed by fingers

my grandfather

that fool old man

was rowing out on the Tagus straight up to the frigate, his friends knew where they were supposed to be going, the sandbars, the currents

women’s makeup and clothes I wouldn’t dare wear, maybe he wasn’t a man, Paulo was playing with me, lying to me, it couldn’t be a man, if it wasn’t your aunt or your godmother, it’s your father, who’s your mother, you were fooling me weren’t you, you were lying, weren’t you, how could it be your father

don’t fool around with me

if she lives with her husband, her name is Soraia, do you know any man named Soraia and then her friends, Dona Micaela, young Sissi, those men who visit them, the engineer, the doctor

the friends knew the sandbars, the currents, the places where smugglers or Navy launches

Paulo showing me the syringe, the spoon, tying my wrists to the bed without any force tying my wrists to the bed

—Where’d you connect for the heroin Gabriela?

—What are you talking about Gabriela?

—What kind of a story is that about my father your grandfather how long have you been this way Gabriela?

incapable of understanding that his aunt

—I’m not capable

that my grandfather and I rowing in a boat, stopping me from rowing

—Don’t tear the sheets

I won’t let you stop me, nobody can stop me, if your aunt is your father, show me your mother I dare you and he said

—Gabriela

unable to bear the fact that I had no nausea, no pain, maybe a touch of chill but everybody knows how the Tagus is in February, don’t lie on top of me, don’t cover my mouth, don’t cry

—I’m not crying

there’s no reason to cry because the friends know the sandbars, the currents, and my picture in the paper tomorrow, in February I’d go walking with my father along the wall by the river and my father would tighten the scarf around my neck, he wouldn’t squeeze me the way you squeeze me

—I’m not squeezing you I only want you to rest a little, who squeezed you Gabriela?

he tightened the scarf around my neck, no need to talk, we never had any need to talk, not even by the closed box that the police prohibited me from opening, it wasn’t a coffin, a box with no crucifix or any handles, with hinges nailed down at random, with a number in chalk on the wood and my mother with her knees together, stiff

—What proof do I have that my father’s inside there?

calm, not upset, not angry

—What proof do I have that my father’s inside there?

not at home, in the chapel at the cemetery, at the entrance some flower beds and a character taking care of them with the calm of someone tidying up a yard, there was no priest, there were two guards and the box on the brick floor

more than two guards my sister swears

what does it matter

there were two guards

or three or four or five

with a document for us to sign, my father with a black band on his arm, my mother in mourning, my sister and me, I can’t remember, we didn’t have any black dresses so most likely black bands on our sleeves too, fastened to our arms with a safety pin and me proud of the black band

—I’m grown up

the guards laid the documents on the box

coarse men, not in uniform, if you ran into them on the street you wouldn’t notice them, my mother not picking up the pen

—Who says they have my father in there, I want to see him first

and the guards we haven’t got time for that, don’t make any work for us, look at the seal, the warden’s initials so my father signed, not quickly, letter by letter learning the words, I have received from the Director General of Security, he paused looking at the box and the guards who were getting to be more, seven now, ten now, twelve now

my grandfather not dead, rowing in a boat on the Tagus toward the anchored frigate

a chapel with a platform and on the platform a table that served as an altar, the stained-glass window that they’d repaired with a piece of tape, the black band slipped down to my wrist, I showed it to my mother who fixed the pin and it must have been one of those few times when I felt her hands, you couldn’t hear the waves pounding on the rocks, the guards took the document away, to my father

—That’ll do for a signature

I said you couldn’t hear the waves beating on the rocks or the oarlocks or the hinges or the boat getting close to the frigate or Paulo’s father

or aunt, godmother, cousin

—I’ve got to take care of him, there’s nothing else to do, so small trying to get rid of his worries with the fan

—I’m not capable

you could hear the cart on the cemetery path, my mother was going to kiss the coffin but my father stopped her from leaning over

don’t hold me onto the bed, don’t cover my mouth

one of the guards helped her, mocking

—Go ahead and kiss the little box, lady

thinking my mother didn’t like her father, the way you don’t like your father, why should she like her father since he screwed up her life

didn’t your father screw up your life Paulo?

a path alongside the wall, not just the February cold on the Tagus, the February rain, the detonator’s all set, it’s in the oilcloth wrapping

—
Your father screwed up your life Paulo don’t come to me with the story of your father not screwing up your life your mother the marigolds Bico da Areia Dália paid no attention to you

you’re rocking in the boat, you hold out the package and a magnet holds it up against the hull, I think they helped me to walk in the cemetery because my legs ached, I think they lifted me up, I think my father lifted me up Paulo

you were hitting him on the forehead, on the shoulders, on the ears

—
Don’t stop galloping don’t lean up against the railing of the bridge I forbid you to lean against the railing

and the gulls, isn’t it true, you hated them and yet you haven’t forgotten the gulls, the way they devour fish, their babies squalling in the afternoon

and then no tombs or angels, a hole all ready beyond the other graves, not among them, a rake that asked me

—Please, Gabriela

asking me I don’t know what, wanting I don’t know what, my mother turning away from the coffin for a moment

—Don’t listen to him, Gabriela

and maybe, because she was distracted, the cemetery workers dumped it into the hole with something rattling inside those cookie tins we keep empty and when we pick them up it sounds as though there’s still a cookie inside