What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (5 page)

two tulips

no, pretended indignation, the open hands of innocence

—I wasn’t home today, how could it have been me?

two tulips and some geraniums, don’t answer, please don’t argue with me, Mr. Couceiro knew the names of trees in Latin, he would stroke their trunks and they’d answer him, the huge hook, maybe I could ask the Cape Verdean for the clock back

—Lend me the clock for a week, I’ll bring it back

the jackknife opening and closing, the sandal nudging me

—Are you still there?

a labyrinth of alleyways and no way out, old walls, small cracked windows, where is the city, there was a statue but what statue what square, at night my father in his wig looking for Rui, the clown in a ball gown and high heels that lifted him up over the cobblestones, I didn’t even exist

—Rui

Rui on the muddy ground

—You shitty fag

and the clown, my father, cleaning his wound, getting his scarf dirty, he

did I say kissing him, mother?

kissing, the pair of them

sorry

in the same bed, my father with a kerchief on his head, I don’t even exist, he laid Rui down in the car, fixed the blanket around him, the headlights quivering over the bumps, me in Chelas all by myself

can’t you see that you’ve scared him, who’s going to calm him down now, the jackknife changing tone, interested

—That shitty fag is your father?

in Príncipe Real the pond in darkness, the trees that Mr. Couceiro knows the names of and I don’t, the key in the lock stopping me from getting in, the garbage trucks were collecting boxes under a spotlight

two

on the roof too

yellow, not blue pointing me out and then hiding me, going away and coming back

and I was going away and coming back

Dona Aurorinha’s shopping bag with the potatoes, which she, dead in the cemetery, certainly wouldn’t be cooking, suffocating from her bronchitis, the Anjos balcony so clear before I got to the doormat, Dona Helena stumbling about in her insomnia, relieved, content

—Son

with me thinking, hating her, I could steal her vacuum cleaner, the bronze inkstand, her in-laws’ wedding rings on a cotton cushion, take the toolbox

—Can’t you see that I despise you, that you make me sick, that I detest you?

and the thumbing of the radio rosary program as she accompanied the priest without interrupting her crocheting, praying for me, Mr. Couceiro from the clothes bin where there was a smell of lime

—Is it the boy, Helena?

don’t let me hear the cane, God help him if it’s the cane, luckily it’s just his slippers on the floor and the throat-clearing of old people, emptying out the teapot

burn everything, destroy everything, Dona Helena said

—Paulo

not son

—Paulo

I’m not her son, never was her son, the key in the lock of my father’s door stopping me from getting in, fake chinchillas on a wire hanger, muslins, fans, Rui and the clown who pay no attention to my presence playing checkers, if Dona Helena dares say

—Son

I’ll break the soup tureen right then and there

—You’re not my mother

heat at first, followed by cold, followed by an urge to crush myself, I don’t know what dying is like but they’re disentangling me from my body, conversations that get away from me, scarecrows in smocks holding a basin up against my chest

—Vomit

while I was a jackdaw incapable of flight, a sick bird, a bundle tied together with a cord of nerves asking for a needle, a lemon, a rubber tube to help the needle, when I was a wet bundle that toppled and fell, Mr. Couceiro’s Japanese or orderlies or doctors pushed me under, shouting into the rice paddy of Timor, the drifting buffaloes prevented me from breathing, the heads with dead empty eyes watch, asking for the borrowed clock to sell again, if I can recite the table of sevens or the tributaries of the Guadiana I’ll get better, the hospital orderly

—You’re back in school dummy

once I offered to accompany Dona Aurorinha upstairs and carry her shopping bag, the potatoes, the wilted vegetables, a small bottle of olive oil dripping green tears, we went one behind the other quietly up the steps, she was nothing but some disconnected rattles of bronchitis, me with the Cape Verdeans on my mind

—Don’t die on me now

the rattles came together with a struggle, a shudder, a falling apart and more bronchitis, it seemed to me that some loose screws were releasing her from her flesh, her neck was so thin, the cartilages of an insect, every so often the question in the form of a wheeze

—Aren’t you tired, boy?

not a question, a hope

—If you’re tired you can lean up against the wall I’ll wait for you and accompanying the invitation with the sound of a dozen

screws in a tin tube, and the skylight farther and farther away, the endless banister, the coin purse gleaming with age and its small chrome clasp

—How many coins have you got, old woman?

no wristwatch, no ring, a parasol that wasn’t worth shit, if you were only a rich old lady, silver flatware, watercolors, crystal, instead of watercolors and crystal flower boxes on the landing, just boxes, no flowers, with dirty sand that stank of cat, a pigeon on the skylight or a jackdaw walking across the glass

I could swear it was a jackdaw walking across the glass

the key coming out after some difficult maneuvers

another screw falling out

from the depths of her skirt, with a muddy little laugh that drenched her with joy, the left corner of her mouth sliding down toward her jaw

if you fell apart, who’d care?

the key was searching for the hole and scratching the paint

—Thieves can’t find it, boy

the hinges sounding like the click of a switchblade and the latch leaping out, the same cat smell that was intriguing because there wasn’t any cat, Dona Aurorinha fluttering around I don’t know where, the location of furniture guessed at in the dark, me with my hands out before me in fear that a dresser or a side table might attack me, maybe if she said something to me, if she took me in her arms

she used to take me in her arms

if she said

—Boy

I’m not robbing you, help me, the orderly at the hospital with a pitying push

—The boob got a notion to call for help

jackdaws not just on the skylight, but on the cedar in Príncipe Real, on the trees that Mr. Couceiro knew, jackdaws, don’t you cry, jackdaws, get inside you’ll catch cold dummy, jackdaw waves, jackdaw horses, jackdaw orderlies, the boob got a notion to call for help, jackdaw doctors ordering them to tie me to the bed

—Is he your grandson?

Mr. Couceiro’s cane rising up with some strange arabesques and going off to confront the Japanese

—He’s not my grandson he’s my

if he calls me son I’ll smash the tureen right here and now

jackdaw four times seven, five times seven, six times seven, you’ve gone back to school, dummy, colic, vomiting, this coldness in the belly, a spoon, the match, don’t give me any medicine and I won’t smash the car with wooden wheels, he’s not my grandfather he’s my father, who’s going to keep him quiet now, my father, the clown

—
Why Carlos?

in his wig with no lipstick on his lips, the straps of the dress not on his shoulders, on his arms, through a chink in the window

the drapes, the chandelier, a metal frame and the light bulbs in a circle, three of them lighted

how much is seven times three?

the rest of them dark

—Go back to Dona Helena’s you’ll wake up the neighbors

a voice so different from the songs in the show, jewels that don’t get to shine without light bulbs, there was no bathtub, a stucco washbasin and Spanish perfume instead of cat smell, the water was heated in pans, wobbling in the midst of the fumes, a handle on both sides, the steam spreading, the clown

—I scalded myself

Rui lying down reaching for the newspaper

—Did you scald yourself, sweetie?

a scarlet splotch with blisters, my father looking for the tube of sunburn lotion and lavender, acetone, pictures of him as a redhead, as a blonde, as a Sevillana with a great show of castanets and mantillas, Rui between two pages, checking his cigarette

—Can’t you find the lotion, sweetie?

on the stone lid a cluster of woolen forget-me-nots, Dona Aurorinha nowhere to be found, a tenuous presence in the distant past, days like nostalgia for the dead, the bronchitis rattles breaking apart elsewhere, a palsied claw have a hard time gathering them together

—Come here

the Venetian blinds rose with a creak of bones that showed an empty cage holding a rubber stamp, would someone clear up for me whether or not rubber stamps can sing

how much is a rubber stamp worth?

a small trunk open just for me

thank you, trunk with a couple of postcards where grease stains have dissolved some letters

M ss Aurorinha, please believe that if I live a housand years I’ll not for et that Saturday, yours orever Rosendo

the boyfriend dead any number of years from some undefined illness, July sunsets in which he kept getting thinner

gently

at the baths drinking cups of bicarbonated water while the musicians quavered out waltzes on a bamboo bandstand

M ss Aurorinha, tonight the fever went down and I’m no longer spitting blood

lilac messages, dried herbs in books, declarations of love, a complete sentence that the Cape Verdeans wouldn’t swap with me for anything

—Why do I want this?

crowned with a star-shaped smear

As soon as I’m cured and if you’ll have me, let’s get married

and in the end he wasn’t cured, the waltz was inaudible, doctors in top hats prescribed cupping glasses, baked chicken, naps

With the rest I feel almost strong and I took a wa k this afternoon, I kiss yo r hands Rosendo

Dona Aurorinha in a hurry with her trousseau, linking initials, convincing her sergeant uncle to accompany her to Luso, trains slower than oxcarts, linden trees, mists, cottages, characters who were nothing but eyes and mouths wrapped in shawls in wicker lounge chairs and the creaking of the wicker prevented us from understanding who was complaining, not just one Rosendo, ten or fifteen Rosendos in their unknown beards, in their empty boots, in the softness of their asthma, the spring of bicarbonated water was weeping in the woods, kites were hanging down from the sky in a line swaying wires, ten or fifteen Rosendos

If Miss Aurorinha could only dream how much I love her, my odfather has promised me a partnership in his firm and a share in a house in Arroios

those who recognized her couldn’t remember her, then recognized her, elated

—Miss

the return train broke down in Coimbra, the sergeant uncle on the platform consulted timetables with the kites hanging down from the sky in his mind and no more delicate passion, no more postcards, and the man with the jackknife jeering at me

—What am I going to do with this?

what am I going to do with If I live a housand years I’ll never for et that Saturday please accept y sincere best ishes Rosendo, what am I going to do with legitimat ly happy I can tell you that I am almost back in shape I only ost one pound during the past eek and I go to the dining room with the help of the attendant, what am I going to do with a beautiful day oday in the hot baths remembering a certain unforgettable Su day in Alges during which

I swear it

I valued her as I never had, arguing with the Cape Verdeans while the cold, the heat, an itching that made me keep scratching myself all the time, pulling off my skin with my nails, pulling me out of myself, freeing myself from the impossibility of not moving, from this apartment in the dark, from this cat smell with no cat, from these invisible pieces of furniture that watch me, threaten me, attack me, take a good look they’re expensive postcards, a lot of collectors would give a fortune for them, they’ll sell like hotcakes in those stores where rich people go and Dona Aurorinha coughing on the stairs with her shopping bag, her two potatoes, her skeletal vegetables and the screws and their thread

—Aren’t you tired, boy?

so nice to me, always so attentive

—If you’re tired, rest on the landing I’ll wait for you

Rosendo accompanying her up the steps with his polite ways,

discreet about his illness, and his painstaking handwriting, my father had a nib like that, he’d put it in the penholder and write with it, making no mistakes

if you will allow me a bold expression of my daring I adore you

the teacher asked for the names of the kings of the first dynasty and the penholder