What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (60 page)

the beggar in the military cap salutes

—I was a lieutenant

showing the leg he called wounded but there’s no scar, only the swellings from wine, the marbling of varicose veins showing over his sock

—A stray bullet, friend

and since I can think whatever I want to and what I think is true, there you have Dona Aurorinha with her plastic shopping bag, fussing through shoes, pots and pans, statues of saints

—You never know, Paulo

you never know what?

—You never know what, Dona Aurorinha?

and she was fishing through the trash where tin cans clinked, cans that at one time had meant tea, cereal, almonds, had been pots of clover for rabbits on the doorsill of the laundry room, Dona Aurorinha was telling the whole universe about it or about the X-ray of her spinal column, which the doctor hadn’t shown her yet, that had splotches swirling about in a great big envelope

—You never know, Paulo

the beggar lieutenant, Dona Aurorinha, who leaves the trash and heads for home, the lady in the Persian lamb coat on her bench

it’s been months since I’ve thought about her

throwing crumbs to the pigeons and if I take to following Dona Aurorinha, my father in the ground-floor flat, because I’m grown up now and I’m quite capable of rapping on the window

I can think whatever I want to and what I think is true, so number twelve is here

the printing that’s faded from the wood on the crates where the dough is oozing out

rapping on the window and through the window was a chandelier that was missing its hooks, the open wound was

suppurating plaster

from the previous chandelier, ideas of mine, things you invent and still, what can my father be like after fifteen years

fifteen is just a fantasy, sixteen, seventeen

fifteen years gone by, the cedar tree is just the same, the pond where a worker was cleaning out the slime, first pouring the fish into a bucket

when the water went down, they’d been left thrashing on the cement, a tiny motor made up of gills, while in the bucket only peaceful knives, every so often the wiggle of a blade

rapping on the window and

like before

silence, distance, the wound from the previous chandelier with a nail twisted into a hook, the back of the sofa protected by a cloth and on the cloth an eyeglass case that was missing its top and a teacup that was spilling barley broth, Dona Aurorinha

in the cypresses ages ago

struggling with the brass doorknob that was missing some screws

—Aren’t you coming in, child?

the keys from the night’s garbage, on the contrary, turn so easily in the air

her little head, what must have been a body, the satin slippers from a youth with town bands as saxophones and drums began their concert

—I had lots of boys after me

and characters in velvet collars, not lots of them, three or four, with me there looking at her

the light from the bulb in my father’s apartment making the doormat curl up

—It’s me, father

and breathe

ideas of mine, just fantasies

no angry exclamations, no footsteps, a tiny motor made of gills or a knife in a bucket

you’ve turned into a fish, father

checking the wig, the dressing gown or no dressing gown or wig, those pajamas for lounging and dozing in chairs on Sundays and the pajamas, ashamed of having been found in last night’s garbage, maybe one of the spotlights from the stage, maybe Dona Amélia with her tray of candy and cigarettes half hidden in a sideboard

I don’t want my son to see me in last night’s garbage

the breathing said to me

—I’ve got no openings, beat it

he couldn’t have been dancing anymore, his fat, his age, he’d walk through the club during breaks in the songs also carrying a tray, he’d call to Vânia or Sissi, waving the invitation from a customer, and the manager said you’ve got to accept it because it’s an important job, champagne, friends who get the police to close their eyes

—Table nine, girls

Rui far away, years ago

ideas of mine, the things people invent

the mastiff with a bow inside a bag on the sidewalk, he couldn’t see anymore, poor thing, he’d bump into furniture, we’d stick his food under his nose, from time to time my father with

(with his breath chasing me away

—I have no openings, beat it)

an old customer to talk to about gout and glory, so you remember that Argentine number, Mr. João, me as a tango dancer, and Mr. João

—As a tango dancer, I haven’t the least notion, Soraia

actually more than a customer, company, they’d go over names, Alcides, Micaela, Marlene, that other one

—What was the name of the one who lost her leg in an accident?

and the two of them searched, beaming as they came up with it

—Samanta

they shared the remains of some egg brandy in a cocktail glass that was a water glass, because as far as cocktail glasses were concerned

—How do you like your drink, Mr. João?

I never saw anything more delicate, a kiss on the cheek, a bill in the ashtray

—Give it to the parish priest and have him say a little mass for me

a farewell with recommendations back and forth to keep warm and take some calcium for the bones, as soon as he was alone my father took another drink that would serve him as dinner since the toaster oven wasn’t working

—
As far as toaster ovens are concerned, I’ve never seen anything so fragile

maybe when I left I’d catch sight of him from the cedar with him catching sight of me from the curtain, not the blonde wig, a bald head on which the chandelier was being reflected in little gold spots

(he thinks you invent things or maybe that you don’t invent things)

and I said from the cedar

—Good-bye, father

things I invent or maybe don’t invent, if he hadn’t died it would have been just like that, more or less, Rui with Vânia, my father a bit of afternoon in the park, it’s not hard for me to imagine that furtive little pat at the employees’ exit, it’s not hard for me to imagine the telephone operators

—How about that?

(you were always a clown and you’d end up a clown wouldn’t you?)

so it’s not hard for me to imagine your hanging around the club at night, with the rags you had left fluttering around you and a few daubs of makeup put on haphazardly

(a genuine clown)

under the eyes of the doorman as he called over his chums

—Do you still know how to dance?

and my father

(—Be careful, I’m not interested in seeing you, thanks)

convinced that the chandeliers were turning red, yellow, purple, were searching for him on the asphalt pavement, convinced that they were turning on the music

the crackling of the speakers before the needle took hold

a ballad, a
pasodoble
, a fado, the doorman signaled to his friends

—Well, Soraia?

(—I said I wasn’t interested in seeing you, didn’t I)

and my father was stomping out
alegrías
, bouncing, stopping, doing a spin

for moments he was almost a woman, almost young, the rags were a real dress, the daubs of makeup a perfect base

and I said for moments because my father was waiting for applause, the doorman called the manager

—Soraia’s back

the dress rags, the daubs of makeup, the manager, who wasn’t coming, the doorman calling a cab

—Good night, engineer, sir

whispering to my father

—Now that you’ve shown us what you can do, beat it

posters of that imbecile Vânia, of a ludicrous Mulatto, of others who’d been nothing in my time, one of them, I think he was the messenger boy whose mother would bring him and pick him up before Alcides, artistic, taking care of things, his mother, thankful, was shaking both of Alcides’s hands, Alcides quite a bit older, but with his generosity intact

—
We’ve got to take care of each other, ma’am, I was made to help young people

the same kerchief around the neck, the ring on the pinky with the setting of a Libra held by three silver clamps, the messenger boy photographed from an angle

beautiful Cristiana

bare-shouldered, smiling

—
The engineer at table nine, Cristiana

if they’d only let me sit in the audience for a bit, if they’d only let me watch, I won’t interrupt, I won’t misbehave, if only my son

—
A clown

I pretend I don’t hear, I don’t answer, I remain quiet

—
I don’t have any openings, beat it

and he was by the cedar observing me while I was at the curtain watching him

I haven’t got the strength to carry him piggyback from the yard to the bridge, with him digging his heels into my ribs, forgetting about the

—
Now that you’ve shown us what you can do, beat it

pointing out the gulls and the pups throwing pine cones at us, he was demanding

—
Giddyup

when I could barely hear myself, my heart, my lungs, the sand was throwing me off balance, going forward, still running

if that could be called running

with all my strength gone

—
I can’t

the way I can’t dance if they ask me to, my body not used to it, no rhythm, certain that my mouth is out of sync with the lyrics, mouthing the words when the words are finished and there are only saxophones, violins, certain that the manager’s in the wings making furious signals to me, the light man turning the spot off me, Vânia with plumes I’d bought for her, they were mine

—
Didn’t I tell you, didn’t I tell you?

or maybe it was my wife who said

—
Didn’t I tell you, didn’t I tell you?

the day she was waiting for me at the entrance to the club, prettier than in my memory of her, taller, and along with my wife the gentians in front, the screeching of herons, the wind from the pine grove bringing along the hoof-beats of the mares, wanting to ask about Paulo, and instead of asking

—
How’s Paulo?

growing impatient

—
I haven’t got any openings, beat it

while the moving van was outside and a hunchback was carrying out my junk

—
Eight months and no rent, you’ve used up all your credit, girl

the ducks on the pond, the cedar, the woman in the fur jacket moved over on the bench to make room for me next to her, and the two of us were there all afternoon, with no need for conversation, watching the pigeons

even though you can think whatever you want to and what you think is true, that everything is still the same, for example, that nothing’s happened, we’re fine

(ideas of mine, nothing but fantasies)

it wasn’t my father on the other side of the door hinges, quickly checking his wig, his robe, my father was probably in the night’s garbage piled up on the sidewalk, boots, pots and pans, statues of saints, even encyclopedias, even washing machines, psyches even, a key that turns to open doors to emptiness and behind the doors him, not in the hospital, not in the cemetery, what place, where