What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (59 page)

—How many men, Helena?

and I was helping the orderly

—Be patient, just a moment

propping him up in bed so he could see the mountains of Timor, hazy rice paddies where buffaloes were sinking in, my mother was stirring the soup in the kitchen, the cane I’d given my husband so he could rise up an inch

—Helena

and it slid onto the floor, his face was fading away

feature by feature

leaving his face with no eyebrows, wrinkles and other things, the orderly took out his false teeth and the wrinkles were bigger, he was looking for me in the room at places where I wasn’t until I got to understand that he wasn’t looking for me because he’d forgotten me, I was lost in the midst of waves, bays

—Noémia

dark waters were coming and going, the cousins were charmed, happy

—So proper, so grown up

stiff and straight on the coverlet, porcelain faces that mold not time

had frozen, asking my age with a drawn-out surprise

—Good heavens

my husband’s face asking

—How many men?

one of the alligators drew back chewing, and the orderly

—It’s over

the wrinkles I was leaving behind and Paulo wasn’t

—Dona Helena

leading me, my son Paulo, my son because he’s not my son and I had

—It’s the old lady who’s paying

brought him from Príncipe Real, from Bico da Areia, from Chelas, and he was laughing, he was returning from the cemetery laughing, I shook his arm and Paulo said

—What’s that for?

and he was laughing at me, thinking I hope I can keep on laughing, I hope I never stop laughing, I hope I can laugh until I’m left all alone with my mother, my father, Rui at Fonte da Telha encircled by police headlights, Paulo said

—Dona Helena

and before I

before I could lay down the iron on the board

—Don’t call me son

and he was laughing, Paulo was saying to me, you can’t know, you don’t know, but when I’m laughing and hating I’m capable, you don’t understand

don’t understand

how much I hate my laughing and what comes after my laughing, your husband, my father, my mother, you, it makes me so damned uncomfortable having you love me, Paulo was at the window looking out on the Anjos church and the sparrows and the trees

—Clown

Paulo said to the afternoon on Avenida Almirante Reis, to the shops, to the newsstands, to the furniture stores

—Faggot

turning back inside and laughing again, Paulo said to the bicycle or to the basket of clothes

—A clown, a faggot

grabbing my arm, no I was grabbing his arm, he was grabbing my arm

—Do you remember my mother, Dona Helena, do you remember coming to get me?

he backed off, up to the washbasin, laughing

—How long ago was it that you came to get me, Dona Helena?

they were the movements a body makes when somebody’s laughing, the eyes that aren’t his, where did you get those eyes

—Was I happy, Dona Helena?

with the voice of the dolls masquerading as old women who asked me my age with great surprise

—So proper, so grown up

porcelain faces that mold, not time, had hardened, opening the piano that was protected by a felt mat and then, yes, the waves, not Paulo, the waves

—Was I happy, Dona Helena?

you could tell they were coming and going and not touching the keys, transparent swans in time to the music on the varnished wood, when the sun went down they probably sat on the bed together and summoned up the dead, name by name, and the dead, with their celluloid collars saying

—Here we are, girls

while the waves got bigger and cats escaped out of sideboards, my father, so aged and suddenly so young, how strange that people born before you can exist, father, Paulo’s voice was a candle about to go out, along with his laughing, and there were just the two of us at home

nothing but the coves, the beach, the jaws dragging along the floor, alligator jaws lying in wait

—Tell me if I was happy, Dona Helena

not

—Tell me if I was happy, Dona Helena

a more urgent request, his body wasn’t moving, waiting

—Please tell me if I was happy, Dona Helena

of course you were happy, how could you not be happy, your parents, the gentian

—Am I a gentian maybe?

the car with wooden wheels, all those things, lunches at Cova do Vapor, for example, the ships of the king, a great friende of merrymente wast he, when you’d get close to the bridge

—Gallop, gallop

all those things, how could you not be happy with all those things, Paulo, the rooftops along Avenida Almirante Reis were almost pink now as the sun sank lower over the Tagus, the church was getting bigger with sparrows, at any moment now the chimes would ring

—Seven o’clock

just as stone still as when my daughter

I told you, I already said to you, I told you

and there was a piece of leftover sky between the buildings, a fragment of cloth after the curtains have gone with the hope that we can use it in some future that won’t be happening

—You were happy, Paulo

they finally fade away, picking up dust and chimney ash, dusk is painful on your fingers and I forget him in just the same way that the apartment has forgotten us

—Who are these people?

you were happy, you are happy, I’m happy, don’t move, don’t turn on the light, don’t see me now, it would be hard on me if you saw me now, I couldn’t stand it if my husband or my daughter saw me now

—What happened, Helena?

take me by the elbow and turn me toward where my mother is stirring the soup and pass me the oil, boy, instead of words, pass me the oil, boy, if you liked this home

I don’t like this home

if we’d liked this home

—
It’s not home, ma’am, it’s a different home here

if we’d liked this home maybe we could have come around to staying, living in it, sitting in the little living room while my husband lifts his cane and Noémia, with her nose in the book doing her homework from school, the place where my mother stirred the soup

stirs the soup, look at her by the stove tasting, stirring again, in those days night came on earlier

there was the balcony, a weak bulb, I seem to see the alligator jaws in wait on the tiles, my mother

—Helena

like me

—Paulo

like me to you

—Paulo

I’m happy because you’re happy and yet

—Paulo

an invisible beach, a cove of echoes where the furniture was quivering

was quivering

where the furniture was quivering and the furniture also said

—Paulo

the furniture said

—Paulo

just the way I say to you

—Paulo

the two of us at home, sitting in the dark across from each other without seeing each other because we won’t be seeing each other anymore, it’s impossible for us to see each other, you went away for good, a room with no window and a maid from the hospital, they told me, and I died, it was all over, the way it was all over on Príncipe Real, at Bico da Areia with no terrace café, no Gypsies, no horses, where you don’t recognize

I don’t recognize

whoever it was or whoever it is doesn’t recognize you, not the electrician, not the pups, not Dália

—Pedal, Dália

you hesitate

—Which street did we live on?

—Aren’t there any marigolds?

—Which was our wall?

and no street, no marigolds, no wall, the pine grove, if even that, the woods if even that or no pine grove or woods, nothing, you think the outline of a medlar tree is a mare, a flight of pelicans is a whinny, the bridge is in ruins, you think you catch sight of him coming home with a suitcase and a smile and it’s only some suspicious woman hanging wash on a line

—
Paulo has no father, he only belongs to me

it’s all over, Paulo, it’s all over, don’t ask me if you were happy because I can’t tell you, I can only hope along with you that dawn will be coming

but it doesn’t dawn anymore, the clock stopped at seven o’clock today, next week, a month from now, what does my age matter to you since someday when you’re my age, Paulo, you’ll

—So proper, so grown up

remember this in some room I can’t imagine where, writing your copy work with your nose in the notebook, erasing what you wrote, getting desperate because it wasn’t that way, there are missing sentences or I put in too many sentences or I was wrong or I’m not capable or Dona Helena so different dammit, it wasn’t that way

not that way

and in the end it was so simple Paulo, so much simpler than you think, just your asking me

—Was I happy, Dona Helena?

—Tell me, was I happy, Dona Helena?

—Please tell me, was I happy, Dona Helena?

and you were surprised because night comes on earlier

there’s no laundry room or fluorescent lighting on the ceiling

there’s the balcony looking out on the Anjos church and a weak bulb and my mother stirring the soup

I like this place because it was where my mother stirred the soup

she would stand beside the stove, tasting it from the window, and she was still stirring while here and there on the tiles there were no reflections of that weak bulb write that, no reflections of that weak bulb

write no reflections of that weak bulb but alligator jaws that stopped lying in wait for you and went off, annoyed, dragging along, disappearing into the mud on the floor below, the wood in the stove stopped turning and there was the sound of the sea on an invisible beach and I said

—Of course you were happy, Paulo

I was sincere

—Of course you were happy, Paulo

and we dissolved into the frame together along with Noémia, two shapes with no features beside an empty vase.

I drop in on them from time to time

but, naturally, all these things are nothing but ideas of mine, pure fantasy, with me ringing the old folks’ bell and a smile on my face while I wrap up a present, tying it tighter with my teeth, Dona Helena wiping her hands on her skirt, signaling to her husband

—It’s Paulo

our son, as she liked to say, all they had left if they’d ever had anything, still wiping her hand on her skirt after the door’s been opened, taking the package with her fingertips, undoing the string with a smile, a painted mug that she held out, turning around to show it to the living room

—Look what our boy’s brought me

where Mr. Couceiro was starting his operation of getting up old when he was sitting down, old as he hesitated over his armchair, old when he was almost on his feet, old, thank God, when he was standing and putting his hand to his ear asking

—What did you say?

Dona Helena placed the mug on the center of the sideboard and pushed aside the mugs from previous Saturdays, letting me know by signs that Mr. Couceiro was hard of hearing, repeating in a louder voice, shouting, syllable by syllable, in the vocal tone we reserve for the deaf

—Look what Paulo’s brought us

Mr. Couceiro staggered around his armchair with every part of him going its own way as he fell into long, aimless steps, one ear keeping in touch with the world

—What?

not understanding about the present

stumbling and unaware that he was stumbling, examining the mug that Dona Helena was holding tight by the handle, afraid she might drop it too

—He’s gotten so clumsy, you know

Mr. Couceiro arriving at my jacket, my shirt, as I was being gathered together into a person, my features possibly, my legs maybe, the shape of my arms, my nose

almost a nose

opposite mine, the space under the nose

was it a mouth?

where a vague look of surprise was swimming about

—Paulo

and I was doubtful

—Can it be me?

Dona Helena was all a-flutter, praising the mug to the sky as she apologized to me with a shrug of her shoulders that was asking me to be patient

—He gave us this, Jaime

Mr. Couceiro was baffled by the combination of me and the mug all mixed up in his mind and bewildering him, aware that it was bewildering him and scratching the space under his nose, covering up

—Of course

while some part of him was moving away from us, we could make out a woman

his mother?

waving from the window of a railroad car and Mr. Couceiro, eight years old, was waving too, Dona Helena brought him back, annoyed at her mother-in-law

—Aren’t you going to say hello to Paulo?

the space under his nose said

—Mother

angry with Dona Helena, who was taking her away from him, the train went around a bend and the car was lost, what was left was the mug that had no meaning at all, what was the mug to him

what mug?

a man he knew and didn’t know or maybe there were still moments when he knew who it was

the friend of his parents who’d take him for a walk in Abrantes, a comrade from Timor?

maybe it was Paulo, but what does Paulo mean, a connection inside him was breaking off, his gums were going on all by themselves

—Paulo

the woman who was talking to him, his wife

—What’s your wife’s name, Mr. Couceiro?

the question aroused dusty echoes, his daughter was calling him, a blonde wig that passed by in a dance, Dona Helena answering for him, eager for a place in that opaque desert

—Her name is Helena

Mr. Couceiro, satisfied, made use of the information

—Her name is Helena

even though it was meaningless information, what does Helena do, what’s Helena made of, there was his mother waving to him, he caught sight of the railroad car, caught the smell of coal and as soon as he began to wave back, the car disappeared, a sudden gap, his nose was close to mine, his eyes were finally clear, his hand was on my shoulder with its former strength, his face was the one from before

—Paulo

capable of reciting the names of trees in Latin without a single mistake, my wife is Dona Helena, my daughter is Noémia, my godson is Paulo, the cane, explaining

—There are moments when my memory

our boy, Paulo, Paulo, of course, how foolish of me, Dona Helena’s voice rising

—He brought us a present, look

Mr. Couceiro moved his cane from one hand to the other in order to take the present, some of his fingers were dead but one or two were in working order, not connected to the defunct knuckles, we don’t need you for anything

—Yes, gentlemen, yes, gentlemen

his mouth was like ours for an instant, it had lips, a tongue

—Yes, gentlemen, yes, gentlemen

and, right away, good-bye mouth, fragments that were breaking apart, hair, forehead, cheeks all running about the living room, his mother was waving, I think, the sound of a locomotive moving the rug out of place, the space under his nose showed no surprise

—Did I say, yes, gentlemen

my mother waving to those strangers I know

don’t know

who assure me that I do know them and I don’t know who they are, she brings in a bowl and a napkin at night, puts a spoon into the bowl and comes toward me, dribbling porcelain drops and asking me to swallow them

—
It loses its taste if it gets cold

not soup, not vegetables, not rice, it’s the design on the plate that she’s asking me to swallow after she blows on it because there’s steam in the design

—
It loses its taste if it gets cold my mother, not this one, the one who’s dribbling drops of skin

—
Now you’ve made me cry

she didn’t treat me like this, she waved to me from the railroad car with her furled umbrella, a man in a derby

my stepfather

—
All mushy and sentimental, Isabel

Isabel went away, that is the light on the end of the train faded over a bridge and I to Isabel

—
I’ll see you later, mother

but going over things slowly because I won’t get lost if I go slowly, Isabel did exist, my stepfather, the station, the bowl, they all existed and the napkin and the strange woman asking me to eat

It loses its taste if it gets cold

the one they swear to me is Paulo is staring at me with a sorrowful look and why is he sorrowful because I

but why is he sorrowful because I’m fine, the train that’s going off, they’ll take care of me, my brother-in-law took care of me

—
You’re going to work in the store

why is he sorrowful then, the strange woman talking to Paulo is shedding pieces of skin

I know Paulo, he lived with me, I know him

—
He was so smart that it made you feel sorry, didn’t it?

I also know the strange woman, my wife,

Helena, obviously Helena, going back over it slowly

I was sure, I was smart, wasn’t I?

things fall together, they fall into shape, perfect or orderly, the apartment in Anjos, Helena, Paulo, I had a daughter, Noémia

I have a daughter

slow down, I said, say I had a daughter

I had a daughter Noémia, the impression that at some time I’d shed drops of skin for her just like

I suppose

I shed pieces of skin for that one here, my brother-in-law in the store was piling up boxes one on top of the other, furious with the boxes as though every box was my mother

—
Quit that bawling, dummy

Paulo was leading me to the sofa, handing me my cane, calming me down, picking up the mug and handing it to

—
I’m your wife, Helena

Helena?

—
Don’t worry about the present, Mr. Couceiro

my mother’s name was Isabel Lopes Martins, my mother’s father was Abel Lopes Martins, my mother’s mother was Maria da Soledade, the glove that stroked me as she got into the railroad car had trimming at the wrist, Paulo said to Dona Helena, covering my knees with a blanket

she wasn’t Helena to him, she was Dona Helena

—
It’s sad, isn’t it?

and I laughed

—
Sad?

I laughed and my brother-in-law, box on top of box, with every box he was crushing my mother

—
Quit that bawling, dummy

shoeboxes with my mother inside waving, still waving today, and Paulo taking my arm

—
I’m not leaving, Mr. Couceiro, don’t say good-bye to me

I think it made me sad that my mother

I’m their son, as she likes to say, all they have left, I say, if they ever had anything, boosting Dona Helena’s spirits

—On my next visit I’ll bring him a bigger mug

if they ever had anything except the trees in Latin and the grave in the cemetery where they always took in a deep breath of air from the laurels as they faced it

if I could only crush all the shoeboxes, crushing you mother, crushing you

and they’d forget about Avenida Almirante Reis where everything grows old along with them, even the sparrows on the church limping between the clock and the balcony, not even sparrows almost, dry leaves maybe, little twigs for legs, cedilla marks for wings just like me maybe

no, not me yet

and yet there are moments when I think, yes, I can think whatever I want and what I think is true, for example, everything is going along just the same, nothing’s happened, we’re fine, but these are ideas of mine, pure fantasy of course, Príncipe Real without these buildings where there are American companies and insurance firms, buildings that were put up later, there’s a fellow who helps park cars wearing a military cap he found in the morning trash

God, if I could only talk someday about the night’s garbage that piles up on sidewalks, boots, pots and pans, statues of saints, encyclopedias even, washing machines even, even psyches, whole lives there and yet no people to bring them to life, only their absence like a fold in things or voices that stay on through fingerprints, a footprint on a pillowcase, a key that opens doors in the emptiness if it’s turned and after the doors, I’ll bet, me, the time when night spits us out, sends us away, deposits us into the street