What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (6 page)

if you will allow me a bold expression of my daring I adore you

the notebook exhibited to the circle of schoolmates

—Get a look at this

Ricardo spelling it out, following the syllables with the tip of his finger

if you will allow me a bold expression of my daring I adore you, the Mulatto torturing his ears and fighting off the thorny consonants of I adore you, coming down off the postcard toward me

all those fixes in his pocket, all that peace, the broken-down wall, the needle, the rubber hose that woke up the veins, a stone where I could fold up my topcoat and rest my head

—What am I going to do with this?

I put them back in the trunk, I don’t put them in the trunk, drawers and in the drawers no clothes, one last postcard

Now that I’m saying good-bye to you I’m tire

just what I’m saying

Now that I’m saying good-bye to you I’m tire

on the other side a lady and a gentleman with painted lips like the clown’s, girlish smiles, cheeks that are too rosy, if you put a wig on him

—Good morning father

the lady and the gentleman in chaste modesty, framed in a heart of flowers, now that I’m saying good-bye to you I’m tire

another clay whistle, another trolley ticket, holiday jaunts to Belém and Graça, the gentleman with cheeks that are too rosy

—Miss

and all this even though the apartment was just like ours, the same tiny rooms, that is, the same narrow hallway with missing floorboards, Dona Aurorinha in distant areas where spices were boiling

no, tasteless little herbs, leftover vinegar, remains of coriander, maybe the Cape Verdeans would accept some coriander, a heroin fix for a bit of coriander, would accept a trolley ticket, a holiday, a heart of flowers, would accept this bronchitis, these screws, this solicitous little squeak

—Would you like some soup, boy?

searching in the bedroom and in the bedroom a rundown bed with no sheets, a rag doll with only its left leg and inside the doll what looked to me like an inlaid cigarette case, a silver medallion, gold that

Miss Aurorinha I ask of you the favor of keeping in your possession as a token of affection and legitimate respe t this simple keeps ke of my late mother’s

my classmates gathered around clustered in astonishment, the teacher exhibiting the notebook and the pen

Miss Aurorinha I ask of you the favor of keeping in your possession as a token of affection and legitimate respe t this simple keeps ke of my late mother’s

—Read

the walnut tree in the playground that I never saw give any nuts, berries the size of peas that just as soon as they appeared would fall off the branches and swarms of horseflies in a hole in its trunk, would you like some soup, boy, and I bet the shopping bag, brought back to life, was sailing about in the pot, the eye that my uncle’s fork was offering me

—Don’t you like eyes, Paulo?

so

—Have you got a fork you can lend me Dona Aurorinha?

tugging it out of the dishrack

from the fluted drain beneath the faucet where a teacup, a bowl, the cluster of peas that passed for a glass, a saucepan, a teapot, Yours forever Rosendo, cheeks that were too rosy, long hair that was too black, the ring finger arched

—You shitty fag

elegantly kissing the forehead of the lady inside his heart of flowers or my mother’s forehead in Bico da Areia excusing the lipstick

remnants or the traces of eyebrow pencil and she followed him over to the refrigerator

the dwarf from Snow White wobbled and was silent

—Don’t you even dream that I’m going to forgive you Carlos hurry up and pack your bag

the horses were trotting in the pine grove and with the pounding of their hooves you couldn’t hear the sea, you heard the person who wasn’t me

was

me blowing his nose on his sleeve by the doorway and in order to stop being me blowing his nose I tore Dona Aurorinha’s doll just the way I’d smashed the car with wooden wheels flinging it onto the floor, the doll’s stuffing was straw and sawdust, let me have the inlaid cigarette case, the silver medallion, the gold, last night my temperature went down and I didn’t have any sweats, as soon as I’m cured, two three weeks at most, they assured me we’ll get engaged, please accept my greetings with indul ence Rosendo, Dona Aurorinha at the bedroom door with the can smelling of soup

of cat

of soup

of her mouth

—Paulo

without saying

—Paulo

her blouse more frayed than my mother’s apron in Bico da Areia

—I’m not forgiving you Carlos

I was hanging from my perch on her shoulders as we watched him leave on the Lisbon bus, the trace of eyebrow pencil, the pink cheeks, what looked like a woman’s jacket over his arm

—Why Carlos?

smashing the car with wooden wheels, tearing the doll with the fork and finally straw and sawdust that crumbled in my hands, where do you keep your money old woman, confess to me where you keep your money, don’t invent things like it’s only trash, a clay whistle, don’t stay silent, don’t forgive me, don’t touch me

do stay silent I mean, do forgive, do touch your puppet, your clown, your dead faggot, feel this cold in me, this heat, these cramps

Miss Auro inha if I’m lucky and with God’s intervention my lungs

I mean Dona Aurorinha I can’t handle it, help me

I mean Dona Aurorinha even old the way you are, even sick the way you are, even incapable of moving the way you are, let me sit down on this broken-down wall for a while, sit down on the ground for a while, light the lamp, find the needle, help me tighten the rubber hose on my arm, push the plunger, and then if it’s all right with you, stay with me for a while until I

I’m sorry

fall asleep.

not yet Rui at that time, Luciano, Tadeu

would retreat to the rear

naked I think

without a good morning or a hello, in my memory I can see a man with graying hair slipping a banknote under the lamp, glancing at the telephone, my father, saying

—Are you sure your wife doesn’t know? the billfold coming out of the jacket, two bills, three bills, my father calming him down covering the telephone with his hand

—She doesn’t know

Mr. Couceiro bothered about something or other picked me up on the way back to Anjos, lifted me up an inch or two and Dona Helena

Jaime

the man with graying hair, pretending he was a visitor, was putting on a toothy, complicated smile calling my father madame, checking his chest for the mascara the clown wasn’t wearing, begging our pardon as the drops from his eyes stained the knot of his necktie, the mastiff with a bow nuzzled intimately against his legs and the man with graying hair was sort of begging, believe me, if it’s not too much to ask please believe me

—I’ve never crossed paths with this beast in my life

at Bico da Areia, in December, the rain mournful like that against the windowpanes, I’d watch the clouds arrive one by one, storming out of the east over the crest of the mountains, clouds afraid of their comrades, their friends, their wives

—If it’s not too much to ask please believe us

I went over to the window where the sea was close to the house, when the waves withdrew, a drowned horse on the beach and an albatross keeping watch over us from up above, the Gypsies tied the horse’s legs together with a rope, attached the rope to a van and dragged it off with the wind to the pine grove, my mother was leaning against the door after she’d covered the windows, fussing with some towels and with fear covering her face too, legs and arms tied together by the rope, the slippers and stockings left behind, the horse buried, my mother buried, and winter chasing me into the house, maybe it was the dwarf from Snow White or one of the bedsprings

—He’s there

they never discovered me, the springs on my father’s side where he’d be rumpling and smoothing out the quilt, checking the folds of his shirt, thinking there was a stain, protesting, bustling, checking his hair with cupped hands, everything in place father, don’t be so concerned about yourself, studying himself in profile with the posture of a bullfighter or an Egyptian frieze and no trace of a belly, father was satisfied

did he quiet down?

stop rumpling and smoothing out the quilt, returning to the stain that stood out on the cloth

—I could have sworn that a scab

once my mother’s buried who’s going to take care of me, feed me, put me to bed, not my father, always smoothing out the quilt, pushing away an invisible hair or feather, holding them up against the light, the suitcase on the step outside, the wardrobe open, the mirror toward the wall and yet we

what a mess

nowhere unless it’s here, when I’m in the mirror I’m far away and left-handed, I’m living among things in reverse, which don’t tell me anything, my name isn’t Paulo, the clown at the bus stop beyond the pine grove carrying the coat like a living thing, still checking to see that there was no stain, at Príncipe Real headdresses, top hats with satin ribbons, gold berets, plumes, not Rui during those days, Luciano, Tadeu, the skinny Indian clerk in a jewelry shop, motionless on the threshold watching Dona Helena, giving back the money to the man with graying hair

—Keep this

a voice I didn’t know, her lip quivering, what could there have been in her gestures

—Be quiet

I touched the headdress, pulling it down so as not to see it, only the floor and on the floor the ankles of the barefoot Indian, my mother at Bico da Areia rumpling the quilt without ever smoothing it, going to get some scissors in the dresser to cut it up, every twenty minutes the Lisbon bus would pass by on the highway and the rubble in the living room got more scattered, a dim bulb gave us the shadows that the scissors were cutting up, the shadow of the chandelier, the shadow of the dwarf

—Cut up the dwarf, scissors

the bulb grew brighter and the dwarf was whole even today, twenty years later, I’d smash him if I could on days when he had a cold Mr. Couceiro would fold up the newspaper like an accordion as little pieces dropped onto the floor, then he would open up the page and there was a string of people holding hands, the church clock fluttered through the curtain

the curtain was all right, it was the clock that fluttered, its hands, the Roman numerals

and right after eight o’clock a rush of birds, Dona Helena saying

—It’s five o’clock

she and Mr. Couceiro came to pick me up at Bico da Areia I don’t remember the sea or the horses on that day, I remember the car with wooden wheels, pounding and pounding on the wardrobe, not out of hunger because I wasn’t hungry, because

my mother offering them chairs, the two we had, that is, and the canvas couch held up by the stepladder because it was missing a leg, the house was looking more and more modest with their visit, the social worker, a strong woman, and a man with a cane waiting by the outside door and if they’d let him would have pounded on the sideboard like me, the terrace café, a wooden shack with tiles and bags of cement and a deserted bar, with spirals of scallops the waves had rejected, pounding on the wardrobe while my mother shaking a teacup with a fly inside and the fly

enormous

on the rug announcing

—I’m a fly

I don’t remember the sea or the horses

none of them were gray, all of them chestnut, growing old

on that day, I remember my mother with no quilt to rumple and smooth

—Sit down, sit down

covering the fly with her heel, pushing it under the stove and the fly

—I’m not leaving

if only December and its rain at least, if only we could die so we wouldn’t die of sickness at least, the social worker was signing papers on the oilcloth table cover, the strong woman was signing papers, my mother’s name came out of the bent-over head, the lips tightened as when threading a needle

Judite Claudino Baptista

my mother Judite my father Carlos me Paulo

my mother is the strong woman, my father the man with the cane scratching marks on the flower bed and then erasing the marks, if I could have imagined the newspaper dolls, the Japanese, the trees

the month of July and butterflies in the woods, I remember the butterflies, they’d alight on the wall with a single eyelid waving back and forth, the top of the wooden car a few strips of wood and some nails

smash what’s left, step on the fly that’s accusing us under the stove

—Weeks go by without their cleaning the place

maybe a horse, the lame one that didn’t go along with the others but no, it was Mr. Couceiro on the step, the eyelid, the transparent mustache going back and forth, an instant later the mustache flying over the wall good-bye

pounding on the wardrobe

—
What’s your mother’s name?

—
I don’t know

—
The poor devils lose every notion of things, some aren’t even capable of remembering their birthdate or where they are

that’s not true I’m under the plane tree by the hospital, have you got some change for a cup of coffee, a butt, have you maybe got a butt you can spare, friend
and keeping on pounding so that the hospital no, the social worker to my mother

—What about the child’s vaccination booklet?

Mr. Couceiro’s mustache as he stood on the step kept going off and coming back, give me a butt friend just when they were looking for the vaccination booklet in the sewing case, in the bread box, in the envelope with photographs, give me a butt friend where the social worker has just found the picture of my father with a coat on his knees rumpling the quilt

—Don’t send me away

and smoothing it out immediately after, my father at the bus stop for Lisbon, abandoned, orphaned, give me a butt, the doctor to the orderlies in the hospital

—Tie him down

stop the Gypsies from tying his arms and legs, tying the rope to the van and dragging him off with the wind to the pine grove, folding him like an accordion, dropping little pieces onto the floor, and a garland of people holding hands, some change for a cup of coffee friend, a butt, the man with the cane waiting for me on the step

my father’s name isn’t Carlos because the clown’s name isn’t Carlos, it’s Soraia, my father up to his neck in the rice paddies of Timor, Dona Helena

—Don’t scare him with your tales

they’re not tales

your Japanese, your buffaloes, who’s going to quiet him down now?

he knew the names of trees in Latin, he seemed to feel sorry for my mother, looking at the waves, coming to the door, closing the door on us and when she closed the door on us she never knew us, never knew me

did she know me?

what will become of the bride’s pearls, I can describe her smell when she held me in her arms, my mother looking at the green morning waves, almost brown in the afternoon and it was the first time I noticed the bottle, a second bottle behind the stove, a third empty in the sink

no, decorating the grass that was replacing the flowers, dirty water and sand in the sink

no, dirty water and trash and a bottle in the sink

two bottles

Mr. Couceiro put the vaccination booklet in his jacket and that was the end of home, I didn’t have one, it might be one roof in the midst of a lot of roofs, but which roof, oh God, I’ll bet my mother didn’t see me because the bottle, the glass, the dark kitchen or maybe the scissors cutting something or other, the quilt, newspaper dolls, the clown, send the faggot’s kid away before he stays there hanging around the outside door and knocking for us, the Lisbon bus stop came up to meet us and dissolved into the pine trees, the doctor or the Mulatto with the jackknife, Dona Helena to the social worker

—He’s fallen asleep poor thing

the orderly telephoned my mother at the same time that six pigeons alighted on a single branch of crutches and she said

—It must be some mistake, I don’t know who he is

she drinks a lot, mother doesn’t drink, how long ago did she start drinking?

and the scissors cutting me, there are pictures of my father, there are pictures of her, as far as I know there aren’t any pictures of me except on Dona Helena’s dresser hugging the car with wooden wheels that Mr. Couceiro repaired, my mother locking herself in the bathroom with the wine

—He’s gone away

a sour smell through a crack in the boards and a motion of her arm, a different smile as she looked at me again, not my mother’s smile, a different one that had the look of swallowing me and spitting me out right after, the floor had an unexpected tilt, the furniture hindered her walking

—Beat it

the owner of the café snarled the way dogs snarl if a bitch…stuck his hand in the openings of the knit jacket

five or six pups sniffing her, obstinate, ferocious, always a small dog me?

five or six pups also means the owner of the café, the electrician who lives three shacks down, boys not much older than I was at that time, throwing pine cones, chasing each other, pulling each other to the ground

—I won, ma’am did you see how I won?

I watched them go down to the sea after my mother, the gulls not moving from their heads up and dancing from their heads down on the sheet of the water, the owner of the café was barking and the electrician and the pups were taking shelter in the skeleton of the trawler, a compartment with engines where they step along a stretch of lead, the small dog

—Mother

not in the trawler, in the backyard near the Bakelite tub or the

umbrella that was in shreds, small ripples not even waves almost, like fish scales, picking up a stick, my mother naked and the whistling of the pups, she straightened up, chatted with the owner of the café and dressed again and the pups silent, they followed her up to the house threatening and biting each other in an urgent little trot, the electrician with a sore on his loins was examining weeds, it seemed to me there was a howl and the shudder of a pack of hounds in the Gypsy encampment, skinny, dark, barking in the pine grove, my mother was buying undershirts from them and taking a lot of time in the store, everything silent except the thicket of broom weeds, the old powder storehouse, the Alto do Galo, the thicket of broom weeds