What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (52 page)

Mr. Paulo

and was making me hate her

—I hate myself

I was surprised with the mistake she didn’t hear, desolated by the mouse masquerading as a soldier in a useless little rag, the teeth marks on her hand, did you see this, silly, did you see this

—I hate you

and yes, I spoke the truth

—I hate you

I don’t hate myself what an idea, why should I hate myself, if you lived with me you’d wash the dishes on Sunday, you’d put up a little picture in the living room, another one in the bedroom, you’d pretty up the house for me, maybe we could talk every so often, me who doesn’t talk much but even without talking I’d feel you close by and calm down, do you understand, with a bit of luck I’d forget my father, Príncipe Real, this notebook where the past becomes the present and comes after me, smothers me, my father, pointing to Rui’s place on the sofa

—What have you done with him, Paulo?

the café that’s probably finished lighting up outside, Marlene and Micaela who’ve also finished or gotten so old then, my God, calling from the street

—It’s us, Soraia

music from a loudspeaker hidden, certainly, but where, in what place, I search behind the curtain, in the shadow of the end table, in a vase that was supposed to be Egyptian

—It’s Egyptian, Paulo

Egyptian my foot, it was missing its top and had been bought in a flea market, an orange spot crossed by a grayish spot, Dona Amélia crossed the room with her perfume tray

—Aren’t you ready, girls?

I found it last week or two weeks ago

it’s just a matter of looking in my datebook

leaving a church near the dentist’s, she was too busy with the trouble in her ankles to pay attention to me and I’d lost the left half of my mouth because of the anesthesia, up to the neck a complete person, from the neck up a fragment of a face with no cheek or tongue, tongue and cheek were missing

—Dona Amélia

according to the photograph, of course

—Paulo

not getting to hear them, the dead brother’s, I suspect

—Mr. Paulo

interceding for the girl, a

—Mr. Paulo

useless in the patent-leather purse while Dona Amélia’s leg was searching through the emptiness of the steps, a small jacket that looked like mourning wear

the husband?

some colorless shreds of hair, remains of old makeup whitening her cheeks, she limped slowly into the room with the tray from which perfumes were sliding off

—Aren’t you ready, girls?

the words were mocking me, they dispersed and went back with Mr. Couceiro and while Mr. Couceiro said

—Son

before I could say

—Don’t call me son

I’m your son, I’m your son

they left him in the laundry room with the lack of interest of someone throwing away an empty overcoat, they were changing him into my grandmother, smothered in mimosas or God ruling the world up on the roof of a boardinghouse, the orange spotlight

or the gray one?

lingered on him and left him, went on to a girl playing hopscotch in the living room

—Mother

the girl standing and the words placing a grave close by and waving laurel branches

—It’s the wind, pay no attention

and I guess that it was the wind because the clouds on the mountains were growing longer, the curtains at Príncipe Real were wrapping up my father, dragging him far away, Micaela, Sissi, Marlene with a tone of censure

—We could have been friends, Paulo

not seeing the cedar or me on the bench waiting, my father got up from the sofa to lock the window

—It’s all over, Paulinho

Paulinho finally, not Paulo

—It’s all over, Paulinho hiding his face on his chest, the falsies don’t upset me, the spangles don’t upset me, you’re my father aren’t you, tell me that you’re my father, play piggyback with me do you remember playing piggyback with me? toward the bridge, show me the gull eggs, Alto do Galo, remember that time on the carousel at the fair, the animals shaking as they went around, gallop faster, don’t let me fall, don’t worry about the pups, their laughing, the pine cones that don’t bother us, see there, written in the notebook, how they don’t bother us, you don’t have to disguise yourself as a clown, lip-synch the singers, accept table nine

—Did they want to talk to me? sit down on a beam, relax, I closed the notebook didn’t you see, the customers are all finished, we’re going home, going by the reeds, the Gypsies

—Mr. Carlos admiring you, high regard for you, people have a high regard for you, father, they don’t belittle you, all you have to do is not make yourself up with those ridiculous things, there should be a place for us next Sunday

—No problem, friends, stay here on the terrace in the restaurant at Cova do Vapor, mother seasoning your salad, me running on the float, in September we’ll take the train to the village, we’ll get up in the morning when the wasps are swarming, remember mother sleeping with her arm over her head in the position of a dancer, with the look of a little girl, if we tickled her

—What is it what is it? not recognizing us, recognizing us, sitting up in bed, not recognizing the room, recognizing it, asking what time it was

—Nine o’clock, really? the words are so quiet in the notebook

I’ll never again let them out, I promise the window is opened and the chestnut trees, the vine no sentence contradicting me, getting away

the backyard really here no sentence contradicting me except for an instant, a tiny instant, don’t be frightened, Marlene from the street, her plumes, her tiara

—Where have you been, Soraia? that my mother didn’t notice, I pretended not to notice, don’t be afraid, father, Marlene in the notebook forever, it’s all over, look, mother

—Nine o’clock, really?

Looking for her sweater

—Turn your back, Paulo

fixing her hair, tightening it into a braid like in the days when she played hopscotch on the gravestones, all you had to do was draw the squares, toss the pebble, leap on one foot up to the last one you’d drawn, pick up the stone, go back to where we are, aim at the next square and leap again and, meanwhile, the smell of mountains that she

—The mimosas and in the meantime the two of us on our way to the sluiceway because sometimes a little fish or a frog or a bird, whoever catches the little fish or a frog or a bird wins, and the last one to get there it’s well known is a faggot.

the beach house, Anjos, Príncipe Real, the club a place where we wouldn’t be the ghosts of now but the people from before, the ghosts are you, people that I’ve lost and a ghost is me, looking for you in the shadows, talking to you the way dead people talk and with my own words answering, not yours, what do I expect you to say, knowing that you wouldn’t be talking like this, if you could only tell me what I don’t know or maybe what I’d rather not know, what happened before I was born or when I was too small to understand what was going on and all I can do is invent, the way old letters invent the past they don’t explain anything about him to me, they invent the way the lemon tree in the yard invents maybe

—Paulinho or I invent for it because whenever I was in the village, the lemon tree was silent, watching along with me the druggist in the cemetery as he held out a bowl over his daughter’s crucifix

—I’ve made you a little soup, Luísa

lifting the lid off the bowl, filling a spoon, blowing on it as he offers her the spoon

—A little bean soup the way you like it, Luísa

and staying there with his arm out in the shadows from the sun

—Bean soup, Luísa

ending up by putting the bowl down into the grass that was smothering the chrysanthemums

—Have it when you feel like it, there it is and she must have had it when she felt like it, at a time when there was no one there except a lamb munching thistles in the distance, because when I went over, there was no soup in it, talking to you two from this fifth floor where I’m living and I call you, seeing you coming from the balcony, not at the age you’d be today, at the age I remember you both, the branch of a mulberry tree making your smiles bigger

—Son seeing the three of us in the wardrobe mirror which I suppose was sold when you sold the house, mother, and when I asked the ones who’d bought it, they didn’t know anything about you, I was next to the small entrance where there was a new porch

I mean, just a porch, we never had a porch, an attic we didn’t have either and a child who wasn’t me, with a locomotive, looking like me or a car with wooden wheels? hugging it to his chest, staring at me not just the child staring at me, the whole house staring at me

—Is there something you want here?

not our house, how strange, a different house, the refrigerator without the dwarf from Snow White on top, the supports that held up the gentian showing, but with an unfamiliar vine growing that had little blue flowers and that my father hadn’t watered, no gulls or pups, the remains of the bridge, a woman not like you, fatter, protecting the child

—Is there something you want here, mister?

she probly idn’t ask me that, she answered

if you could have been here, mother, you wouldn’t have told the man to send me away, don’t play with your cameo, answer me

—Send the faggot’s son away

my father without any quilt to rumple and smooth, rumpling and smoothing his skirt, moistening his fingers with perfume and touching his neck with them, taking off the right earring that was hurting his earlobe

—I don’t believe it, Judite

with the shrug of his shoulders accepting the applause, the invitation from table nine that Dona Amélia

—Table nine, Soraia his uncle’s wife taking off his pants, shirt

—Bath time, Carlos if we could only talk, it doesn’t matter where his uncle’s wife, he searched for her to get his revenge many years later

To get my revenge on her, can’t you see, my reluctance to ask her to

—
Pet me unable to stand her petting me and asking her

—
Pet me and when I asked

—
Pet me as the towel came off my body and her hands were on my belly, the twisting of her mouth which I’ll never forget, her breast weighing down on me

I don’t know if it was weighing down on me weighing down on my knee

—
Such nice skin such nice skin
his uncle’s wife, he searched for her many years later to get his revenge on her, asking her to

—Pet me or confessing to her

—You’re the only woman I let pet me and I can’t stand you because of it the aunt was an old creature peeking through the little crack in the door without releasing the chain, looking for her glasses to see things better, deciding that a beggar, a thief, a door-to-door salesman

—I don’t need anything pushing on the doorknob to get rid of you and you, father do you remember? father was so comical on the landing, with no makeup on, no earrings, the polish off his nails and his nails trimmed don’t keep insisting that it wasn’t like that, it was like that the old creature through the crack in the door

—I don’t need anything going back twenty years all of a sudden
twenty-five, twenty-seven years
her mouth twisted like before, shucking off her old age
hovering over me
hovering over my father, all red, enormous, her arms wet with soap and water
one afternoon, kissing my uncle in the yard, the same twisting of her mouth, the same arms, pruning shears in her hand, the tip of the shears against my uncle’s back, she stood on tiptoes to reach his throat and yet, so big

I found myself telling her

—
Kill him
her arms were wet with soap and water and instead of

—Such nice skin such nice skin the short robe, a button instead of a pin, a soft stomach that was quivering

—I don’t need anything suspicious of the beggar or the thief or the door-to-door salesman, unable to make out his features and if she did, not asking

—Do I know you? my father looking for the pruning shears that weren’t there, aware of his voice

—I’m going to kill you and unable to get angry, tiny, naked, lying on a towel if only we could talk, it doesn’t matter where in the same tone of voice as hating her, asking her to

—Pet me my uncle was hunting wild doves in the bedroom, in pajamas, resting on the pillow with the shotgun, he would fire as soon as there was a flock in the window, he would lay down the shotgun, linger for an eternity flicking his cigarette lighter, another eternity putting it out with the first puff of smoke and it went out with the first puff of smoke not him, the little beacon light on the cigarette

—Go get the doves, Carlos and my father

if only we could picking up the handkerchiefs with dirty wings talk, it doesn’t matter where in the brambles, by the walnut trees, at the godmother’s feet as she came back from the well with her buckets, my father to the aged creature, convinced he’d been aiming at her with the shotgun which they later sold to the sacristan because of thieves in the church, the sacristan, we’ll show them

—I’m Carlos the creature’s expression was stagnant her arms were wet with soap and water and taking away the towel, give me your arms, aunt, she’d pick me up, lift me out of the tub do you remember

—Bath’s over carry me into the next room and I’d smooth and rumple the quilt, waiting for her, smoothing and rumpling the quilt until my wife

—Why Carlos? until you, ma’am

—Such nice skin such nice skin the creature wasn’t looking at me her mouth was twisted, a muscle stretching out, the head of thin hair that leaped up into my nose

—Carlos?

Carlos, the faggot, the clown dancing in a club, taking care of customers in the boardinghouse in Beato, the one who’s living with a boy his son’s age and Dona Aurorinha

—God forgive her, poor thing remember undressing me at night, turning out the light for me, I’m sure of you, ma’am, looking at me from the door

—Sleep well going away having forgotten me why have you forgotten me? toward the conversations and coughs of the grownups
the crazy man who lived in the station robbed me and tomorrow my corpse

the little that’s left of me in a bag, still asking for help
the voice of my uncle’s wife knowing that they were going to kill and yet diluted by the voices of the godmother, the druggist, the cousins, hastier, quicker, telling them it was obvious

—The crazy man at the station is going to take Carlos out of the bedroom he comes in through the window in spite of the fact that nobody at all could fit in the window and Carlos, unable to scream, see how he’s carrying him on his shoulder, the way he trots with him through the lettuce patch, the way the leaves can be heard telling us

—They’ve taken Carlos away and us with our little hands over our ears

—What? my uncle’s wife not in the living room, through a crack in the door
if only we could talk, it doesn’t matter where the beach house, Anjos, Príncipe Real, the club a place where we wouldn’t be the ghosts of today but the people from before, we wouldn’t be ghosts, people
looking at the oversize jacket, the too-long pants, the almost-empty vest

—I’m Carlos a child lost in adult clothes, not wanting to be sent away, not wanting to be scorned, moving closer on the doormat do you want me to take care of you, father, do you want me to stay with you?

—I’m Carlos forgetting about the pruning shears, the shotgun for doves that he brought to his uncle and his uncle with his eyes closed on the bed

—I’m not interested in birds today, beat it my father giving in, going down the steps, thinking

—Carlos? but maybe not the old woman, his hope that the old woman

—Carlos?

would undo the bolt and invite him in

—Come in a tub in the kitchen, Vânia helping his uncle’s wife

—Let me take your shoes off, Soraia the manager to the ceiling where the light man

—The green spot now a second spotlight on the audience, Mr. Couceiro, Gabriela, my mother, the father of the maid from the dining room holding out the accordion at arm’s length

—How about a little tune, young fellow? the pups throwing pine cones on the beach and the pine cones they were throwing on top of you, add the pine cones they were throwing on top of you the Gypsies’ horses that Dona Amélia was ordering to gallop on stage, his uncle’s wife repeating to herself

—Carlos? and it was at that moment that you died, father, not later, not when the doctor was feeling sorry for you because, after all, nobody wants them, a hard life, poor things

—We’ll start the treatment tomorrow it was knowing that you were dead in her, you’d always been dead in her, you never touched my mother or any other woman because of her convinced that one day in Bico da Areia, Príncipe Real, in the lodging houses where they still accepted you, the old woman leaning over you, taking you by the wrists

—Bath time, Carlos

—Sleep time, Carlos

—Petting-me time, Carlos
if only we could talk, it doesn’t matter where
or I preferred thinking that maybe I was telling him that because by telling him that my father isn’t a faggot, a clown, he’s an urchin looking for wounded doves in the brambles and his uncle in pajamas turning the shotgun toward him, firing and instead of the sound that he expected, silence, the pain that would certainly be coming, nothing, the music interrupted, the lights out, the Gypsies’ horses in the middle of their trot, the same wave curved eternally over the beach of days gone by and the same bridge where I piggyback on your shoulders, slipping down, the tables in the club deserted, Dona Amélia’s tray abandoned on the bar, the first light coming down through the small window hidden by a piece of calico and if I say coming down I mean lighting up the platform they called a stage or an oval of boards with drapes around, the workers’ jackets on the cane stand for the customers, no one except you father rehearsing a step, another step, disappearing into your fan and emerging out of the fan, mimicking a song that’s not playing, look, the posters announcing

Soraia announcing Soraia, Micaela’s nervousness

—Don’t hurt him, Paulo and as I turned toward Micaela a trace of cologne or not a trace, an absence, it was the absence who said

—Don’t hurt him, Paulo a faggot sorry for another faggot, isn’t that funny, father, a clown sorry for another clown, isn’t that amusing, father, if we went to the circus they’d enlarge your face, paint it with lipstick into an endless howl, and I believed in them the way I believed in you, the way my mother believed in you, in your night job, in your excuses, in your silence

—Carlos asking herself, facing the wardrobe, what’s wrong with me, what have I done, buying new blouses, new sandals, the necklace she bought on time behind my father’s back and the jeweler saying

—There are other ways of paying, miss with me sitting on the floor and my mother to me in front of the jeweler
if only we could talk, if only we could talk at least, if I could talk to Dona Helena she’d listen to me