What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (56 page)

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Sissi my son

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Father the judge

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Do I have your permission to leave, Alberto? my uncle’s shotgun rose up from his belly to his head and went back to his belly the gleam of the oranges in an acid light while my grandfather’s coffin, decorated like the king’s ships, was on the mule cart, my uncle got up from the rock, calling me

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Carlos he crossed over the wire fence beside me, knocking down another post, without even a side glance at the cap that lived all alone in the big house

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You can go to shitty hell, judge and as we walked back home, accompanied by the creaking of the trees, I realized that I was ceasing to exist for him, my mother was looking at me, my younger brother, held by the hoe

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You hurt me

so I stopped to watch the ants in a crack in the tile

my father was opening the door grudgingly and looking over his shoulder at someone or other who was disappearing into the bedroom, he received me while hiding I don’t know what he’d picked up from the rug

a pearl, a brooch

that showed what he was, in his pocket

—Come in my wish, spotted right away, of not being there accusing him reproaching him

I wasn’t reproaching him

I’m not reproaching you father, you’ve got your bamboo poles too, your plates that spin horizontally and fast at first and afterward right afterward spin slowly and wobbly, about to fall and you spin them again, there are always one or two slipping now and you picture them in pieces on the floor and in spite of that, all of them saved in a matter of seconds

—Who’s in the bedroom, father? the bamboo poles go faster faster

—Nobody in the same way that nobody’s dead in Almada, a pickup truck took him away just as the police lieutenant

—You made a mistake, lieutenant, there’s no informer here

—Who’s in the bedroom, father? my father rumpling and smoothing the pillow on the sofa for lack of a cap he could clean

—What do you mean bedroom? keeping all those tears spinning
what my son calls all those tears
the one from the maid from the dining room for example

—Are you really leaving, Paulo? not stopping me, not getting mad, the covered window uncovered and in the window was a small hill with a crown of cabbages, and beyond the crown of cabbages the Jewish cemetery, marble tombs without names or flowers, a six-pointed star on the gate keeping watch over the deceased, the blouse with anchors helped me fold the clothes in two parallel lines two plates had fallen off the poles onto her cheeks, onto her chin, onto the overcoat where she hadn’t sewn the hem

—Are you really leaving, Paulo? yesterday I thought I saw my father just the way I seem to run into Gabriela sometimes, that is, Gabriela I’m sure in the distance, her way of walking, of tilting her head, maybe Gabriela when she’s gotten a few steps closer, she’s gotten a bit fat, she’s dyed her hair darker and, a few seconds later, the skirt is maroon instead of scarlet, the nose is changing, it’s pointed, long, not Gabriela, a stranger startled by my extended hand, visiting you in the hospital dining room, seeing you without your seeing me

God damn it, pretending you don’t see me with the cart of pots and pans, getting you mixed up with the redhead who works with you or wanting you to be the redhead and seeing that it is you, the way you push the cart, wave to a patient

—Are you really leaving, Paulo? no quivering lip showing as it covered her lower teeth, holding back the tip of her tongue and her upset in the same way that she would hold the knife cutting bread, the blade on the board and the tongue on alert, giving orders, you’re back in the dining room and you notice me you don’t notice me the

—Hi Paulo no suffering or parallel tears or even surprise you’re faking, I don’t believe it, you’ve got to be faking a jolly camaraderie, the naturalness that crushes me

—Hi Paulo and you’re not faking, you’re sincere, I’m dead in you, how unjust, please explain to me how a person can forget so fast, that camaraderie, that naturalness, that I didn’t treat you all that bad did I?

—Hi Paulo when just a few months ago six, seven, fewer than seven? stopping me from looking into your face, the pillowcase whispering don’t say anything, I’m fine, relax, I’d never noticed your mole or that gleam in your hair, the mole maybe, at first, because people do lose those things, but the gleam in your hair, and now the gleam in your hair, your scorning me, the casual way with which the rich dribble out their alms while

I don’t know who to

—Just a minute, I’ll be right back your alms

—Hi Paulo staring at me in a hurry, with no pillowcase, lighting up for a patient

—Carmindo the little folds of your eyes aren’t for me, they’re for him, you, filling out your smock, emptying out for me

—It’s been a long time hasn’t it? your taking a step, two steps, to hide this thing here in the throat, attempting a happy expression that doesn’t come, calling to you before you stop hearing me, insisting that I, guaranteeing that I, that both of us, that the mole, that the gleam in your hair, four steps, five steps, the tree trunk where Mr. Vivaldo swung all night, it’s funny the way he was empty and wasn’t, seven steps, I mustn’t forget eight steps and right away it’s impossible, the hole in Mr. Vivaldo’s sole and through the hole his sock, I’ll tell you about the hole not about the hole

I’ll tell you anything at all, eleven steps, twelve steps, which will make you leave the patient and you stay there, it could have been that you’re still in the bedroom, my suitcase is still in the closet, beside the mailbox and on the wall of the stairway Marina & Diogo, replace the Marina & Diogo with Gabriela & Paulo, don’t you like Gabriela & Paulo, don’t you think it’s better than Gabriela & Carmindo, Gabriela & Carmindo sounds funny, there’s no ring to it, it’s off, it doesn’t fit, the cart twenty steps away and good-bye going into the dining room with a clatter of aluminum, who’s in the bedroom father, and my father smoothing and rumpling the sofa for lack of a cap he could clean, for lack of a quilt

—What do you mean bedroom? the redhead waiting for you to help with the dishes, crates could be seen, heads of hair, the glow of a stove, quite clearly you could see the chalk, the charcoal, the pencil, I was going to swear that with my blood too, how stupid since I was the one who was through, not she, I got tired of you, on every plane tree, even on Mr. Vivaldo’s, you noticed Gabriela & Carmindo and I’ll almost bet Gabriela & Carmindo while the two of us together, women’s lies, women’s little betrayals, I’m fine, relax, such a rigmarole, don’t say anything what an act, so credulous, so dumb, Gabriela at the door to the dining room too many steps, it was over

—It was nice seeing you, Paulo just like that, from a distance, not Gabriela, somebody else, I really don’t know who, but somebody else, some stranger because only a stranger

—It was nice seeing you, Paulo not Gabriela, Gabriela’s waiting for me of course and I’m emptying the suitcase, giving in to weakness, to pity, not to weakness, to pity settling into the chair facing the window where there’s the small hill with a crown of cabbages, the marble tombs of the Jewish cemetery, listening to you bustling about the room with a basin or a scrub brush, setting up the ironing board on its lame legs and Gabriela & Paulo, an indulgence on my part, Gabriela & Paulo, the oil lamp spitting out bits of anger that could have been mine

—Who’s in the bedroom, father?

I mean

—Who’s in the bedroom, Gabriela?

Gabriela surprised at me, the bamboo poles faster, faster pretending

—Nobody like my father

—Nobody his eyes were so easy to understand

—Have pity on me, Paulo

just like the eyes on the judge burying the setter in the gleam of the oranges, he diverted my great-grandfather’s water to his orchard, his cornfield, my great-grandfather set fire to his barn, he was having dinner when they came for him

I wonder if the orchard still exists my father’s uncle, little at that time, silent in a corner and twelve years in Zemza do Itombe from where an ivory doll yellow with age was left, a black woman with a little black boy on her back, unwrapping it, my father’s uncle was almost a man by then, silent in a corner, the doctor with the return of the fevers the orchard existed then increasing the injections, an oil wick in the shadows, cousins who were playing checkers under the trellis waiting, in their Sunday suits which served as mourning clothes

—Is he dead? the judge, without taking off his cap, following the funeral from his balcony

Gabriela & Carmindo, Carmindo’s suitcase instead of mine, a bronze mermaid decorating the radio the next morning my father’s uncle

—Go get the doves, Carlos

I say to my father, pointing to the door of the bedroom that didn’t open on Príncipe Real, it opened on the Travessa do Abarracamento in Peniche, an office building where there were desks, file cabinets, telephones

—Go get the dove, father every time the dove moved, even muffling its cough, even on tiptoes, a floorboard telling me

—It’s there if only I’d waited for Gabriela and followed her and even if I hadn’t waited for Gabriela, hadn’t followed her, I spent the night on the street, I saw Marina’s window lighted and ours was out, climbing up the little hill with cabbages nothing but an old man heating a coffeepot on the third floor left and every time the floorboard creaked my father’s eyes

—Have pity on me, Paulo

as if I could have pity that I didn’t have on him, I was holding a setter by the leash, lick my pant legs, go ahead, weep with pleasure, go ahead, see what I do to dogs that don’t obey, doctor, my father’s eyes

—I make so little at the club and why should it bother me that he makes so little at the club, tell me, don’t draw back, stop pissing, stop wetting my legs cut out that pissing on my legs putting the butt against my shoulder, turning the barrel toward you as you were starting to understand, understood, trying to get away with a whisper

—Paulo

I didn’t wait for Gabriela, didn’t follow her, I went back to the hospital a month later no, a week later no, three days later the psychiatric section, the emergency room, a butt friend, a coin for a cup of coffee friend, the plane trees where Carmindo wouldn’t hang himself, why not, if Mr. Vivaldo, who was more important, hung himself, the cart with pots and pans, bowls, let me help you, let me take it, and instead of

—Hi Paulo a gesture of annoyance, a patient sleeping in a flower bed with pieces of paper sticking out of his pockets, the redhead taking your part

—What do you want nosing around here, you dope, beat it

I was swinging on that plane tree with the hole in the sole of my empty shoe my father at Príncipe Real just like on the rock with his uncle while the judge was burying the setter, not a doctor of laws with his authority and his black robes, a peasant in a cap afraid of people, which was obvious from the way his jaw was muttering fear, the stones in the dirt on which the shovel was sliding

—How’d you like an ivory black woman, judge? his foreman, farther on, forgetting about his repairs on the tractor, watching them

—Because you need a black woman, judge, an ivory statue to fix your lunch my father with no blonde wig but with false eyelashes no, my father in shorts with a bandage on a healthy knee because he liked bandages, when I think about myself I think about those performers who set up a table in the center of the stage

—What happened to the bandage, father? and the false lashes blinked in surprise, as he opened the powder box and used his little fingers to fix the corner of his eyelid, you can rest easy, father, they’re not falling off

—The bandage? the small living room was intact in my memory, traces of ashes on the yellow sofa, the answering machine where there were never any messages, the start of some breathing and the sound of hanging up, the customer apologizing to reporters, recognize the voices Soraia and just imagine the little present they’d get for free, it’s not that I don’t trust you but put yourself in my place, don’t get all worked up the posters, the bottles, almost always near empty one of them without a stopper the pot where they left the money, bills slowly extracted from a wallet, spit on the finger and I thought there were two and in the end just one, it’s the same price, isn’t it, ridiculous little gifts, key rings, datebooks, Peruvian earrings that weren’t worth a cent

—Take a look at the silverwork, all hand done with a chisel, it’s some Inca god from down there the drapes held by tasseled cords and gilded hooks, the cigarette burn that a fold meant to hide it only made larger, the Persian rug that high heels and the mastiff with a bow were making fray on the edges

—Who’s in the bedroom, father? in spite of the cough and the creaking floorboard, my father was blocking the hallway on me

—Don’t go in there, you’ll only get him all excited, it’s the mastiff clean yourself with a cloth like the judge, father, don’t be a coward, the small living room is intact in my memory, every crack, every cranny, every smell of leftover smoke, the pond in the square was filling up with shadows, just like the Tagus at Bico da Areia, my mother at the age when she played hopscotch, holding back, looking at it, a pebble in her hand, almost forgetting about the chalk scratchings, picking me up in her arms, tightening her fingers, and the shadow of her fingers