What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (51 page)

—Didn’t they find me years ago in Fonte da Telha?

because my father must be on his way, he was delayed by a rehearsal and his body was lying there, the lights from the police car making it all the more naked, an almost adolescent body, where I got the impression that flies

and as soon as I write

flies

the flies are there, if only I could stop writing, wash the dishes, forget

the police, who put up some sticks and yellow tape as they kept the sea away

—Keep away from the body, keep moving keep moving

and the sea, poor thing, in an ebb tide that didn’t dare come back in, tiny little waves, that sound of pennies as the water obeys, a man picking up the syringe, showing something, preventing Rui from seeing the writing about a blonde wig there in the garden

—Do you see a blonde wig there in the garden?

summoning my father and still Rui was examining the body, keep moving keep moving

—Doesn’t it look like me?

cursing the pen’s deceits, changing pronouns, multiplying ellipses, it doesn’t look like you, it’s not you, that’s silly, a tramp, some poor devil, one of those unfortunates who was looking for mussels on the cliffs and, all of a sudden, a slip, a weak heart, a drunken argument, and someone with a club, you’re younger, better put together, we missed you, didn’t you know, see how happy my father is to see you, thank God for the words that sketch out my father and the street door, heels on the stairs, the lock that groaned before its final turn

I haven’t forgotten the lock that groaned before its final turn

so I can relax for a bit, think about the switchboard operator who pierced me with the eyes that didn’t stop on me, extension one twenty-six, it was really a kind of cocoon with an old array of wires and plugs

—Extension one twenty-six, good morning

that I didn’t dare connect with, displeased with my uncomfortable bachelor’s furniture, the flotsam from the shipwreck of a relationship after Gabriela that I won’t go into because it will invade my prose with a lot of bitter arguments, jealousies back and forth, and end up with a hefty brother-in-law taking her out to the elevator and calling me a bum and coming back with a van that carried off all the household appliances and left me with this trash, the last word

—Bum

falling thunderously from six feet of flannel and disdain and all of which the neighbors heard, thinking about the girl from accounting in the same way, washing away what had been washed away already or picking up her mother’s wedding ring and wondering how it would look on her ringless finger, wondering about someone like me in the café at that time, available, sincere, proper, a matter of great seriousness, please abstain in case you are unable to fulfill the required conditions, please reply to this newspaper at Box 472, remembering the maid from the dining room, remembering you, picking up my pen again

because there are things that weigh heavily on me

where the ink dries up, drawing some spirals

bringing the tip back to life

clearer and clearer, the scribbling as the metal gets rid of a piece of dirt or something and the piece of dirt is imprisoned in a blue stain, another way of writing, telling a story

what story?

mine too maybe mine or the reverse of mine which I’ll never read, and no sooner does the thing start a capital letter in its meanderings to get working again than my father

the words were calling for Vânia but I held them back in time

my father

I looked and my father was still there, still

on the ground floor that didn’t go away so long ago, sitting on the sofa, taking off his wig checking whether some pigeon because the pigeons used to, not like today when there are almost no birds in Príncipe Real because there’s almost no old man with leftover bread in his pockets, you’d wake up in the morning and all those wings in the treetops, when Dona Aurorinha with her little jacket that was missing buttons and missing color, sentimental, emotional, and nothing but bones now

—Thanks for remembering me, Paulinho

Rui staring at my father paying no attention to him, holding his stomach where a pain, an indisposition

—I swear by my mother I’m not on drugs, Soraia

the trembling of his hands, not counting the money my father was giving him on the first week of the month and the rest of the time he stole things, that rigamarole about a friend with a radio in hock, medicine for a classmate in school and you can be sure that tomorrow, without fail, if only the letters could help my father rumple and smooth a quilt, if I could only let him know through the notebook with the same clarity as when I jot down his little items of glass jewelry, if it could only explain why, could show me how to help him and because I didn’t know how to help him, this remorse that I disguise as indifference, distance, during the times I ask myself what I feel for him, the pen is busy sniffing out Dona Helena in the rubble or the Cape Verdeans in Chelas, sinking me into a page where a Mulatto in dark glasses is opening and closing a jackknife on the riverbank, if I try to make him out, behind him it’s not the heroin district, not the wall, not the jackdaw, it’s the Tagus, somewhere in the Tagus is what I’ve been looking for all these years, half a gate, a plaster dwarf on the refrigerator, peace, a difficult peace now that Rui

—Soraia

now that my father notices him and slips a bill into his open neck, getting to the

—Would you mind waiting outside a bit, Paulo?

and me

today nobody is there for me

—Would you mind waiting outside a bit, Paulo?

back to the cedar and its night like shadow on a March afternoon, trying to find out without Mr. Couceiro

everything is all mixed up without Mr. Couceiro

how do you say cedar in Latin, adding up the number of white cars, betting that before twenty

twenty-five at most

a fold in the curtain and my father calling me, not dressed, in a bathrobe and with his wig at an angle, thanking Rui, annoyed with me

—What are you looking at?

and on his face not me, my mother protesting in silence or picking off a drop of disappointment from inside her eyelid with her pinky

—Carlos

the words trotting along among us with the exaltation of discovery

we’ve brought them together, we’ve brought them together

pulling him, pulling me, bringing us closer together, bringing me closer to him, that is

and I with no desire at all

clutching my sleeve with exclamation points, the molars of ellipses, the tittles in the shape of lips, my father working on his makeup, the stockings that my sloppy son

I never saw anything like it

is sure to tear on me

—I hate for you to grab me

you never liked me to hug you, isn’t that right, father, if I sit on your lap you stiffen up, not moving, your head turning away from me complaining about the wrinkle in your pants, my mother always taking your part, don’t annoy your father Paulo, at most a pat on the head, excuses, lies

—I’ve got a cold and I’ll give it to you

the mole on his ear that intrigued me and I had the urge to touch it, I’d reach out my finger and he’d say not now you’re dirty, careful with my shirt, dummy, running to the mirror on the wardrobe, what a pest this kid is, checking the damage, bawling me out because of a stain and in the end a defect in the mirror that he would check with his fingernail, and then he’d move a bit and his nose was now fat now thin, a big gap between chin and mouth and right after that no gap at all, my father annoyed with the house and the marigolds that were withering

—Not even the mirror’s any good

two men came from Costa da Caparica with a new mirror all wrapped in newspapers, the one who seemed to be in charge, take a look and see if you like it, ma’am, as his partner studied the dwarf, my mother’s reflection and the one of the man who seemed to be in charge with the window behind him, the café to the left instead of to the right, the herons that were arriving in the reflection and going away outside, the bed with the pillows was changed, my mother’s was on top with my father’s underneath, the man from Costa da Caparica, so young and already married, ma’am, is the kid yours, I got the idea of somebody touching somebody and they weren’t touching me and just the three of us in the room, the one studying the dwarf, come here boy, the one who seemed to be in charge, such a young woman, such a young woman, Rui told me that in his aunt and uncle’s house the maid would hold her daughter up against the desk by the ankles as she protested and struggled

—Don’t get the doctor mad, Matilde

so the uncle could touch her, she’d lead her into the study the way you lead a lamb, unbutton her blouse here she is, mister architect, she’d pinch her belly telling the

—A thirteen-year-old skin, mister architect, nice and firm

a slap for the first refusal

—Show some respect for your boss, Matilde

Rui told me that the girl would stop resisting, crying, she’d look at me all the time and not ask for anything, she helped out in the kitchen, served us at table, if she happened to get the plates mixed up my aunt, right away, would say clumsy, the one who seemed to be in charge to my mother

—I can give you a little discount on the mirror

as soon as they’d left the café owner said

—You don’t look all that ashamed

Rui, proud of his family, said the old man wasn’t up to it, admiration, envy, the pen all aroused too

—The old man wasn’t up to it?

asking Rui to hold the legs of the girl from accounting, lifting up her clothes struggling with the cheap fabric

—They don’t pay you very much do they, how long has it been since you’ve bought a blouse?

in an apartment I suppose was like mine, little pieces of store-bought furniture, framed prints of kittens and flowers, a mouse masquerading as a peasant girl flirting with a mouse masquerading as a soldier leaning on his rifle like a dandy on his cane, I want to be your mouse, I want to be your soldier, be quiet, don’t cry, you’ll be sorry if you hurt me, Rui was furious with teeth marks on his hand, you almost drew blood you idiot, look at this, look, pulling the picture off the wall

—Show some respect

and smashing it on the floor, his shoe broke the glass, he turned on the faucet in the bathroom to wash off the wound, searching in the closet for some iodine, a tube of lipstick and there wasn’t any lipstick, if you could only smile at me, really say hello

—How are you Mr. Paulo?

have lunch with me in a restaurant with tiled walls that smelled of cooking, the menu on the blackboard halfway erased from the previous day, yesterday lamb stew, swordfish, vermicelli, the black waitress, the busboy with a pimple on his chin

—I’ll bet you hurt him too

the girl was skinny, withdrawn, demanding that we split the check, fishing through the patent-leather change purse where there were subway tickets, pieces of paper, the photograph of a man

—Your boyfriend

her finger covered the picture of the man, she wasn’t offended or upset, I haven’t got time for any love affairs

—My brother, Mr. Paulo

asking me to leave first not for her sake, for mine, I don’t want to get you hung up, Mr. Paulo, there are a lot of pretty girls in the office, Belmira, Susana, have you talked to Susana yet

I wonder which one is Susana?

I’m not worth a cent, quick legs on the stairs, bumping into the busboy and I’m sorry, the second shoulder of my coat that’s hard to get into and then the whole afternoon over the books, my shoelaces get undone without my realizing it, the ballpoint gets tangled in hair, wanting

who can explain it for me?

to torment her, upset her, make fun of her brother

—Your brother’s really ugly

off in the provinces somewhere, Venezuela, Paris, and revulsion with myself inside, a surge of guilt

—My brother’s dead, Mr. Paulo

not sad, her normal tone of voice, just information

—My brother’s dead, Mr. Paulo

a fork slashing in my insides, slicing and before I’m obliged to continue, a coffin in a hearse with a mother or a godmother all upset and rosaries and her, twisting her hair on Castelo Branco or Lagos, buying her a print with

why not?

a pair of puppies looking at each other with liquid tenderness, aren’t they cute, my father to Rui, which the pen wrote down, stronger, in a checked vest

—There’s something different about you, I don’t know what

my father is a puppy with liquid tenderness and inside the liquid tenderness mistrust, suspicions, a sneaky glance at the notebook that he couldn’t see because he’s at Príncipe Real, not here

—What have you done with him, Paulo?

hiding the girl from accounting, the prints, the brother, discreet with an expression that was asking forgiveness for having lived thirty years, he would have liked the mice, the needlepoint pillow on the leather easy chair, the girl straightening out her skirt, a reproach that wasn’t a reproach