What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (48 page)

—Rui

and no one there, eyes hazy, a pinky that stopped a trace of lipstick from reaching his cheek, squeezing his shoulder hard, kicking the chest where there was a piece of paper, I’m sorry

—Don’t make a scene father

don’t kneel down, dammit, and clear up those eyes for me

noticing he’s sick, the back of his neck thin, something on his skin, they’ll do the tests again and it won’t be anything you’ll see, labs make mistakes, give me the note you were folding into your bra

—For you

the landlady was suspicious, smelling the perfume, it spread over her, she crinkled her nose

—Is he a fake, young man?

getting to your building at ten to five in the morning

I was dead in the campground and dead in your life and by being dead and since the dead don’t feel suffering anymore, what nonsense, what I needed was a little suffering, it doesn’t bother me that it’s raining, it’s not raining, there’s not the tiniest drop hanging from my eyelid or fogging up my glasses, ten to five in the morning when the first small trucks were going through Lisbon

fish, poultry, vegetables

my father was coming back from the club, staggering on his high heels, you were with Daniel

or Eduardo or Gonçalo

still on the pillow with two or three fingers not going over the shape of their features but a face that might be mine

I was another man who seems to give you

gives you

the tenderness and peace

people change, why won’t you believe that I’ve changed?

that they never gave you, today at ten to five in the morning I’m in the building where I’ve lived for sixteen months with the maid from the dining room and the Marina & Diogo by the mailboxes with the numbers of the floors in the middle, I’m the one who could have written our two names

I thought about writing our two names

I decided to write our two names

I would have written our two names if I’d had in my pocket and I should have brought it but childhood was so far away you understand, the pleasure of putting letters together had been lost such a long time ago

a pencil, a piece of charcoal, a stub of chalk instead of the ballpoint they’d guaranteed me was dirt-resistant and whose tip, after no time at all, began to get clogged and later got bent on the plaster, preventing me from making us eternal with a heart and an arrow, why not a heart and an arrow, there are thousands of hearts and arrows on the walls of Lisbon but never us, never us, I stuffed the useless ballpoint angrily into my pocket, I tested the light switch in the vestibule, sure that it wouldn’t work, and it didn’t, it’s never worked, I lingered, getting used to the stairs again sometimes too high, sometimes too low, answering my unsure steps with too much noise and vibrating with warnings I never got to understand, starting with the third floor the skylight showed me the outline of doormats, a demijohn, bags of garbage with a rancid smell, on the fourth floor the skylight wasn’t black, it was lilac, the Marina and the Diogo were larger, enclosed in a rectangle of little blue flowers, the first pigeon or the last bat was soiling the windowsill, a light that reminded me of the sea on Sundays when we’d have lunch at Cova do Vapor, my parents and me, and the whistle of a freighter would fall over us with the slow drift of its ashes, the memory of my parents, almost happy, almost interested in me, gave me the drive to climb the remaining steps more quickly

two steps, the insignificance of two steps and right away disorder and poverty

I’m not afraid to say it, you can make fun of me if you want

which I scorned at the time and, right now, strange as it seems

and it seems strange to you

I like it, I want it, the brass lamp stolen from the hospital that wouldn’t turn on with the switch but with a whack on the table, the blanket made from the screen the doctors opened up

—Get away from here

around a bed where someone was dying, Gabriela’s father playing the accordion and Gabriela nodding her head to the rhythm of the tunes that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t manage to hear

—My father

two steps, two little steps covered with a leap, two stinking steps and I was there, and all set, it’s over, I’ve freed myself from you and I’m home again, the skylight was almost within reach, the pigeon up there

not a bat

preening its wings over my head and helping me to read a second rectangle of little blue flowers

roses, jonquils, lilies

inside the rectangle not Marina & Diogo, Gabriela & Paquito, what a horrible name, Paquito, so hair-tonic and tie-pin, so suburban-slum, so cheap

not Daniel, not Eduardo, not Gonçalo, Gabriela & Paquito, the file clerk who’d linger in the dining room sometimes to chat with you, knowing about me, with respect and distance, Gabriela & Paquito, how impossible, what a foolish idea, repeating Gabriela & Paquito to the closed door behind which, who knows, a huffing little tune, repeating Gabriela & Paquito going down landing by landing while the vestibule and the mailboxes came up to me, repeating Gabriela & Paquito endlessly, monotonously, mechanically on the sidewalk in front of the building, fighting off a raindrop between my eyelash and my glasses while, because of the cold, I stamp my feet on the pavement, raise my collar, blow on my hands or dance to the rhythm of the accordion, those little tricks that help.

I don’t believe it

it makes no sense for my father to be only this, a clown changing things around at Príncipe Real asking me to help him drag the sideboard over to the other corner of the living room with all that glassware shaking inside, to hang the print in a place where the afternoon light as it passed through the curtains transformed the trees into movements of water that flowed endlessly across the wall, the lines of the branches where a fish that was a pigeon or the old men on the benches also went back and forth, it makes no sense for my father to be in the manager’s office, a cubbyhole on the first floor

P
RIVATE

newspaper clippings, posters from shows, the manager not inviting him to

—Sit down

concentrating on his pinky, he removed a piece of skin, went back to his observation, took the scissors out of the drawer

—We’ll have our talk in just a minute

and trimmed the edges, he shuffled the file folders protesting to the cleaning woman that she kept getting them out of order, barking

—Not now

when there was a knock on the door, with a movement that consisted of fingers disappearing into the drawer, he picked up an invisible speck of dust from the desk and shook it off, no substance to it but enormous when it went into the wastebasket, he concentrated on a spot over my father’s shoulder with such fierce intensity that the blonde wig took a quick peek and caught sight of a picture of Marlene, the blank square of a missing photograph with the rectangle of a poster announcing Soraia, the eyes of the manager fastened on the ledger with figures he wasn’t looking at, his hands had more knuckles than they’d had before, were arguing for him, at the same time as he looked at the woman waxing the floor of the club

—We have to accept old age, Soraia, I’m getting old too but I’m not a dancer

as I thought why should I listen to him, all I had to do was look at his knuckles and understand right there, they would pick up an eraser and drop it, they would move a glass from right to left quickly and from left to right slowly, they would get in between his collar and his neck, they would disappear into his pocket, they would reappear out of his pocket with a ring of keys, they would rise up with a friendly wave, pulling out a chunk of air and offering it to me, you could go on the road Soraia

as though I was all through, as though I could go on the road and Paulo, seeing me sitting up in bed, it can’t be

I don’t believe it

it makes no sense for my father to be just a clown, just that, imagining who the hell knows what, telling him there’s no way for you to understand that I’m no good for you, telling him go look for your mother and leave me alone, telling him go back to those people in Anjos, don’t bother me anymore, and he moved around me wanting to help without being able to help, I don’t need any help, the knuckles cut out a second chunk in the air and held it out to me, going on the road means emigrant workers’ festivals, means campgrounds, Paulo got all worked up about the campgrounds

—Campgrounds father?

as though I was above that and I’m not, never was, at least they’re not putting me into any hospitals, I’m not going after any people and giving them hopes, how many times when I came out of the show did I find him leaning against a tree or a shop window or something like that, thinking that just because I’m nearsighted I didn’t see him, following me from a distance if I was alone, from farther back if there were people with me, I’d go to the window and he’d be outside, I’d tell him to go away, he’d pretend to obey me, he’d drop back thirty feet and stay there because I could sense his presence quite well even without my glasses, I couldn’t be sure whether by the lake or by the statue or by the newsstand, he was looking after me he thought, worrying about me as if there was some reason for him to worry about me and there isn’t, look at all this air, all for me, that the manager’s holding out to me, bouncing it in the palm of his hand because on the road, festivals, campgrounds

—You’ve grown old, Soraia

the month when I started at the club, filling in during breaks and waiting on tables

my name was Luci at the time

I came across Dona Soraia packing her accessories in her suitcase without folding her clothes, piling them up any old way, forgetting a shoe, a sash, a veil, I asked what’s wrong Dona Soraia, Marlene said nothing, Micaela said nothing, the makeup mirror with its rim of light bulbs sending back the silence, nobody in the frame, I leaned over to find myself and it was empty, the club workers were putting the chairs onto the tables, Dona Amélia was turning over her candy and perfume money at the bar, they’d put out the lights, a kind of dirty morning outside, there were no trees or workmen

a dirty morning outside

Dona Soraia pushed her knee onto the suitcase to close the snaps, cleaned off her makeup with the beard starting to show

—I’ve been let go

the doorman was arranging the bottles on the bar, the music played for two or three seconds on stage and stopped, Marlene tried to help with the baggage but the mirror or Dona Soraia answered her

—No

so the three of us were left in the middle of clothes racks, open wardrobes, the irises from a customer from Beja, every so often Judite would telephone from the café and I had trouble hearing her because of the gulls that were screeching at her

—You’re a fool you’re a fool

—Aren’t you coming home Carlos?

as though I had a home, as though there was a home, as though it was possible for the two of us and it wasn’t possible, so with the receiver at my ear I went along counting the waves

—I know you can hear me Carlos

or the in-and-out of her breathing, the dice game the pebbles were playing back and forth with the coming and going of the foam

—Don’t hang up

and I hung up, I drowned the cats in a tank, they say, it’s so simple, you knot a cord, you watch the frenzy subsiding, the animals in the bag trickle off into inert arms and legs, my wife was silent, facing the doorman

—Some crazy woman

had killed it and along with it the sea and the gulls that kept pounding in my ear, we saw Dona Soraia dragging her suitcase at the club without saying good-bye to Dona Amélia, we saw ourselves in the mirror that had decided to notice us sizing up defects, freckles that we disguised with creams and sashes, the mirror said to us

—You’re no good anymore, you’ve grown old too and they don’t invite you to table nine after the show

pointing out imperfections, scars, this problem of my back that kept me from taking a bow, thinking better of it, I do have a home, maybe there is a home, with a little luck they’ll take me back at the jewelry store, Paulo won’t have any need to spy on me from a shop window, from a tree trunk, Dona Soraia on her way to the train or the river, at first we thought it was the train but the mirror showed us the direction of the river, Marlene grabbing at the dressing table and trying to turn her away, Micaela fogging up the glass and asking her not to, in the windows there were buses, trolleys, street vendors spreading out their goods on the station steps, the telephone ringing and I’m not going to answer, I don’t answer, I’m not interested in the waves, it’s some crazy woman complaining, marigolds, horses, the sea stirring up pebbles and I won’t talk to the sea, Dona Soraia laid the suitcase down next to the little wall by the Tagus, Dona Amélia

—Soraia

taking her by the arm and the arm got away, the manager arrived at the door just as the suitcase was falling without any sound, one circle, two circles, a small change in the water, maybe it wasn’t a suitcase, we were wrong, Dona Soraia was thinking about absences, my wife

—I know you can hear me Carlos

I, who’d stopped listening, because I’m deaf now, one of the peddlers at the station standing there, a tugboat with its smokestack cigarette in its mouth and a package to deliver over its shoulder by the river mouth and coming back with a whistle of contentment, Micaela, even though in the dressing room, was trotting along the dock and holding her hip

—Dona Soraia, wait

I was sure she’d caught her, we all saw that she’d caught her, thank God, but Dona Soraia’s jacket slipped away from her, Marlene was staring at the jacket that was heaped up on the stone, leaning over into the mirror in the direction of the oil stains that were quivering there below, what looked to me for an instant like a floating body, mouth, nose, ears, the vending woman who was calling to her fellow worker, someone with a pole I think, the tugboat with its hands in its pockets filling up the mirror

—Good morning

everything in the mirror getting larger except Dona Soraia, a screw, two linked circles and the river indifferent, Dona Amélia

—Micaela

Micaela who was coming back to the dressing room and dropping scarves, her legs piled up on the floor like scarves, my wife was seasoning my salad at Cova do Vapor and her laugh

—Carlos

a telephone that was wailing in the club, when the Gypsies’ mares got sick they would complain like that, and Paulo it can’t be

I don’t believe it

it makes no sense for my father

the way it makes no sense for the three of us in the mirror that was ringed with colored light bulbs and notes from lovers who were never lovers

—They were robbing us Paulinho

between the wood and the glass, we were there at the club with Dona Soraia, who was being taken off the wall, a torn dress, a piece of dirt, a wound on the forehead that I couldn’t look at, the oil stain had disappeared from the water and was clinging to her neck as Marlene cleaned it off, Micaela was twisting open her lipstick and trying to paint her lips, asking Dona Amélia for the silk blouse, give me the silk blouse and the stockings please, the spangled tiara she liked so much, Dona Soraia all naked in the funeral parlor at that time and being dressed as we helped without eye shadow, powder, hair curlers, the doctor adjusted the light over the body on a marble table and she said to Dona Amélia without noticing the little knife that was opening up her ribs

—Paint my nails blue, Dona Amélia, I feel good in blue

I think

it can’t be, I don’t believe it

other slabs, other dead people laid out, in just a little while it would be eleven o’clock at night and the doorman would be putting on his uniform, the curtain, the music, Dona Soraia putting on her rings while a song and the dancers were on stage, looking at herself in profile in spite of a little knife that was tearing at her lungs, adding folded newspapers to her waist

—It’s your turn, girls, I’m old I’m not good for anything

and don’t call me because I won’t answer the phone, why should I worry about that sound of pebbles, those pines, the woods, my wife at the café

—I know you can hear me Carlos

one time she caught me coming out of work, she must have put our son to bed in Bico da Areia, taken the same bus that I’d taken ages ago, crossed Lisbon, got the streets mixed up, found the place by chance and found me with a Sevillian comb in the middle of the poster, and waited hours on end with the cameo on her throat, clutching a small bundle with a sandwich maybe, a slice of apple, a bunch of grapes that she didn’t know where to put, I was kissing the doorman, leaving with Alcides and that scarecrow was staring at me, just as gawky as in the village mooning over the mimosas, her mother was going through the backyard with the slowness of blind people alert for a misplaced scythe or a branch that was too low

—Judite

in the village cemetery the viscount’s grave with a basalt angel weeping for us all, the tree where the sun dragged itself through the leaves and rose quickly to meet noon, my wife as a bride speaking to me and me behind a smile, while the priest was turning the pages of his missal

—And now?

a worker at the funeral parlor washed Dona Soraia and Marlene was stopping him, getting all excited in the mirror

—You’re going to take off the lipstick

after the burial, Dona Amélia’s hydrangeas, the manager calling me aside at the moment when they were lowering the coffin, smothering her again except that instead of oil stains and a circle, two circles, the earth swearing I haven’t got anybody here, good-byes from handkerchiefs with a life of their own, wanting to leave, and if we didn’t grab them they would have kept on going into the neighborhood nearby and mixed in with the birds

—You’re going to take her name, Luci, you’ll call yourself Soraia and we’ll build it up in the ads

her name, her fripperies, her table drawers, her way of going down the steps with plumes and fur pieces, Dona Amélia insisted on leaving one last hydrangea and she didn’t know where, since there was no gravestone, no cross, a small mound with a shovel on top, Dona Amélia waiting for some voice to help her

—Soraia

if you needed help my grandmother would find you, I was in the green bean patch and right then and there boots marching around me