What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (58 page)

not allowing her to die

—Would you like your bicycle, Noémia?

and the eyes that weren’t hers, much larger than hers, my father’s, for example, checking his stamps, the rhinoceros from the Belgian Congo, the Mexican snake, shaking Noémia until my husband stops me, wagging my finger at her, scolding her

—Where did you get those eyes?

the first time my husband and I did it, his eyes were like that, words weren’t coming out of my mouth, were coming from the hand on my throat and I was getting to see that I had cartilages and muscles, just like the chart at the Health Center with a person displaying his insides with numbers, I’ve got numbered insides, how awful, twenty-seven biliary vesicle, thirty-two spleen, forty-one ovaries, my husband was hurting my number seven, pharynx, where did you get those eyes

—How many men, Helena, tell me how many men, hurry up

there was no laundry room or fluorescent light, we had the balcony that faced the Anjos church and a weak bulb, night came so fast into the bedroom, Paulo’s father, his face covered with the cousins’ powder, and a voice like theirs

—I’m a performer, ma’am, it’s my theater costume

the piano was open, notes coming and going with no keys touched, pictures of Paulo’s father and others from the show, I said to my husband, not understanding

—How many men?

at that time night came so quickly into the kitchen, my mother was standing by the stove, tasting what was in the pot and stirring again, paying no attention to Paulo’s father

—I’m a performer, ma’am

begging me to come in, not take his son away, it’s all right, you’re a performer, Mr. Carlos, we’ve brought you your son

—We’ve brought you your son

Paulo was on the bench in the laundry room while I starched or ironed shirts

—My father works as a clown, Dona Helena

a jaw was getting bigger, snapping shut over him and over me

—Paulo

taking him in my arms

—What’s that?

a door slammed in the hallway, not in my room, not in Noémia’s room, in some other room, but what room was it and where, the invisible beach, coves, bays, small compartments I don’t know about, where maybe there’s a stamp album, my parents, my daughter doing her homework, not under the laurels, right here, my daughter thirty years old

thirty-two in September

holding out a bit of oil to me, pleased to see me

—Don’t you stir the soup like grandmother, mother?

she works in a law firm, maybe she’ll get married, she worries about us

—Aren’t you stronger than grandfather, father?

walking with her over to the cousins’, the porcelain dolls in a frenzy of joy

—So proper, so grown up

they had a little machine that could tell you what the weather was if you were too impatient to look out the window, a small house with two people taking turns, one in a raincoat and hat, the other with a basket of flowers, if it was raining, the one in the coat would come jerking out, if the sun was shining, the one with the basket would struggle out, if the weather was in between, both at the doorsill, you first then me, maybe two lady cousins worried about the clouds, today I don’t even know which room Paulo had been living in when he went away, maybe if I ask him

—Paulo

a sound of people and, please tell me where, he didn’t leave, he’d never leave, who’ll put another blanket on him in winter, who’ll wait up for him at night

—Who’s there?

who’ll make cookies for him to nibble on while I pretend going to bed, my husband, from under the sheets, says

—Is it the boy?

and I say

—Be quiet

because I’m not going to let him die the way Noémia did, you’re not going to die, Paulo, no laurel tree on the hillside in Chelas with a piece of netting over you, no drawer, I won’t allow it, I followed him up there

no, a wall on a hillside and the magical jumping-about of a jackdaw all around, something like what was left of a trunk in the weeds, it was my grandmother’s that my mother had tripped over as she left the soup for a minute

—Don’t leave the soup, mother, keep on stirring, I’m still here

clamps, needles, spiders

—What do I want with all that?

with its gold catches and leather all faded, the cover was off and I searched for it in the weeds and a gleam of jaws was snapping at me

—Hurry back to the stove, Helena

the corpses of cars, alligators lying in wait and among the alligators were people tying their arms up with pieces of cord, I followed him to the hill in Chelas where a Mulatto with a jackknife helped me up the embankment that led to some shacks, more people with their sleeves rolled up, a black woman piercing eggs with a toothpick, sucking out the insides, and tossing away the shells, my grandmother used to darn socks by putting a wooden egg inside, looking for the egg the way I was looking for the trunk lid, and my grandmother saying

—I got you

I don’t remember her, I remember her voice

—I got you

and if I don’t remember, nobody else will anymore, time an alligator that’s different from these

has gobbled her up, it’s all over, quit your

—I got you

because you’re not giving me orders anymore, you don’t even have a name you can see, you’re giving orders to anyone who’s around now, the Mulatto with the jackknife said

—Go ahead, auntie

I was all stuck-up with my copper brooch and its arabesques

—
You’re all stuck-up, Dona Helena, what’s this all about?

—The faggot’s son, it’s the old dame who’s paying

giving them the brooch that they took to be bronze, Paulo, pointing to a girl who was wearing a man’s coat and studying her hands beside a broken-down wall

—Don’t you think Dália does well on her tricycle?

the way Paulo used to study his hands, not in Chelas, not with us in Anjos, at Príncipe Real, at Bico da Areia piggyback on his father

in a restaurant at Cova do Vapor

in a restaurant at Cova do Vapor, chasing after the herons that went hopping off

watching Dália pedal

watching the girl in

a small white skirt

a man’s coat studying her hands from out of my grandmother’s trunk that she’d found in the weeds, just the way she’d found a brooch, a box of pills, pebbles

wearing a ring, did you know that?

and convinced that her hands could save her from I don’t know what, I don’t know how, studying them, all caught up in them, saying

—Dália

saying it louder

—Dália

and Dália nothing but slippers and caked with mud or scabs, Paulo said to me

—She’s going to marry a doctor

the Mulatto with the jackknife taking me back to Olaias, worried about me

—Be careful you don’t get robbed, old girl

the doctor’s bride was going down the hill ahead of us, dragging what once had been a scarf and that made her steps look longer, we were invisible

I was always invisible for Dália, Dona Helena, never a hello

the spiders, the packages of pills, and the trunk all far away, the Mulatto with the jackknife summoning up all his good manners

—Did anyone do anything to offend you, old girl?

my husband offended me

—How many men, Helena?

back in the days when there was no laundry room or fluorescent light, the balcony looking out on Anjos church, a weak bulb and here and there on the floor tiles there were jaws lying in wait, Paulo’s father, introducing us to Rui

—A cousin of mine, ma’am

a cousin, a nephew, a younger brother, a godson, ma’am, say hello to my little boy’s godmother, a brandy glass lost in his fingers, Noémia thirty years old

thirty-two

—Are they your friends, mother?

my husband who even today without speaking asks

—How many men, Helena?

Noémia works in a law office, she’ll be here any minute now, where did you get those eyes

—How many men, Noémia?

Paulo’s father passing out little glasses of anisette, his wife in Bico da Areia wasn’t talking to us, talking to the mirror and the mirror, yes

—Paulo has no father, he only belongs to me

up on the bicycle in the laundry room while I iron, while I sew, my husband lifts his cane a bit

—I wasn’t the first, Helena, confess that I wasn’t the first

because Paulo has no father, he only belongs to her, a poor woman looking for bottles on the floor, dragging herself along, puffing her cheeks out at no one

—I was pretty once, you know

if Paulo doesn’t have a father, who’s Noémia’s father, features without an echo of mine, the one we’d visit on Saturdays, the one on whose grave there’s

the one who won’t be here in just a minute now

that carved name, those flowers, the one who’s fading away in the picture frame, disappearing, we never got to talk, we didn’t have an opportunity to talk, maybe I only thought you were going to talk, even after so many years, even today, Paulo’s father in the middle of all his posters and paper stars, worried that maybe we wouldn’t let him see his son

—Wouldn’t you like a little drink?

and he bustled about, a theatrical gesture, maybe I’m growing old waiting for an answer, I go on ahead and I don’t find the kitchen

—It needs a touch of oil

and my husband tells me to wait, tells me to be quiet, puts his finger to his lips

—Just a minute

I say to my husband

—Be patient, just a minute

and there’s a light on a stage, there’s some music starting up, the manager says

—Soraia

Paulo’s father’s in the small living room with posters and paper stars at Príncipe Real where a mastiff with a bow was rubbing against our knees

—I’ve been dancing for thirty years now and I’m tired, you see

and I brought him his son from Chelas, I was so stuck-up, the copper brooch with arabesques, my husband said

—Who gave you the brooch, Helena?

Paulo was quiet for a moment, he wasn’t hollering at his father

—Clown

getting indignant

—Why did you abandon us, clown?

meaning himself and the woman in the wardrobe mirror

—I was pretty once, you know

wasn’t listening to us the way he never listened to anyone, busy looking out the window, not at the café, not at the beach, not at Lisbon, at something that was floating in time, I could have sworn it was a wedding picture, a wedding cake with two figures on top, a village set into cliffs, a blind peasant woman

—Judite

I could have sworn she was in Almada and there were the king’s ships, I could almost have sworn about my age, just the way I could almost have sworn that Dália and the people in the weeds in Chelas were my age too, a horror of skin and bones draped in threadbare clothes, shapeless vests, shirts, frock coats, great laughing gums, scarred cheeks, imagining a yard for them, telling them

—Pedal, pedal, keep on pedaling, pedal

and they go along spinning in front of me with their bony shoulders, their skinny little necks, their swollen ankles that make it hard for them to move

—Pedal

Paulo says

—Why did you abandon us, clown?

pedaling along with them, the same dark teeth, the same aimless movements, the same obedience, not humble, indifferent, sleeping on market benches with open eyes, on overhangs by the Tagus, in empty containers up against a fruit crate or a garden fence that hadn’t been knocked down yet, not just Paulo, Paulo’s mother, Paulo’s father with his red lipstick

—I’ve been dancing for twenty years, I’m tired

in a ground-floor apartment where some floorboards are missing, underneath the boards is the center of the earth, the same as my grandmother’s trunk, which would turn up in the Mulattoes’ garbage heap any day now, feathers, fake fox furs, makeup cases and skinny necks poking in the trash, spotting a necklace or a tulle rose and dropping them while a palm tree stood there in the wind, while the storks of April, while my mother said

—Pass me the oil, Helena

the ground-floor flat was all topsy-turvy in its abandonment, its silence, all that was left were the cedar tree and the ducks in the pond that would have to be lined up, three on the right and three on the left, they aren’t moving now, Paulo, who wasn’t with us when I, my husband looked at me saying