What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (61 page)

—Papa

with Micaela, Marlene, in the kitchen, where his uncle’s wife was unbuttoning his clothes

—Bath time, Carlos

my father in the newspapers from long-ago days where the pictures are losing their clarity and turning black in the drawer, you can make out a top hat, a walking stick, a knee, Marlene in profile

with a wire mustache and rabbit ears

throwing a kiss to the readers, pages that leave me with Soraia in the form of carbon on my fingertips and some of her that still hasn’t changed into carbon

maybe there’s still some part of her that hasn’t changed into carbon after so many years under a gravestone

I think

(I can think whatever I want to and what I think is true)

that somewhere Micaela, too, on the other side of the river, São João da Caparica, Trafaria, Alto do Galo, is coming slowly toward me, not seeing me

not seeing me?

from Bico da Areia or from a little provincial village where the mimosa scent wafted down from the mountains

no, just from Bico da Areia, the small yard, the wall, my father and Micaela in the house my mother left

(the things you invent, nothing but fantasies)

two clowns caught by the waves and I understood that in Bico da Areia it wasn’t them, it was me, duplicated in the wardrobe mirror almost beside the bed

beside the bed

asking me

—Why?

and worried that I’d answer myself, the suspicion that it was the maid from the dining room, maybe

—Why, Gabriela?

nervous because of Carmindo’s jealousy

—I’ll only take a minute of your time, I’m sorry

the protection of a plane tree so that nobody would notice I was upset

not really upset, curious

—Why?

Gabriela fixing her hair, because there are times when if you fix your hair, your brain will become clean, asking me

—Hold the tray

so she could fix a hairpin, taking back the tray, making up her mind and leaving me

—I haven’t the slightest idea

while I was swaying up against a tree trunk like Mr. Vivaldo, a gray cat, all eyes, was slipping away, all liquid and solid

solid at rest and liquid going away

behind the bushes, the redhead with her freckles glowing, saying to Gabriela

—This isn’t the…

scratching a knee, forgetting me, the feeling that not even my shadow was left, searching for names and people without any shadow, too

names or a recollection of names, people all dissolved into a fold in time

the name of a clown, or a woman looking for bottles in the kitchen, the stray dog of my love for them who follows me at a distance, if I get close to him he’ll run away, leaping off, if I forget him, he’ll come back, repeating

—Your father, your father

until he lingers beside the trunk of a tree or a tire, noticing that the dog is missing, I go back and I’ve lost him, the performers with silver garlands, in just a little while Dona Amélia

the one who replaced Dona Amélia

the manager

they didn’t replace the manager

if I wait long enough in this café I’ll be sure to see him, picking out a table from where you can see the street and as soon as he comes down the street I’ll spot him, a quarter after six on the wall clock that’s shaped like the rudder of a fishing boat, guessing the number of milk cartons on the counter, how long it took the guy on the left to smoke his cigarette

he put it out too soon, mumbling three minutes

a kid was hopping on one leg by the door and with every five hops he’d look at us with pride and switch legs, the waitress annoyed with his hopping

—Leandro

Leandro with a bracelet of glass beads and traces of gouache on his forehead started hopping again, hands on his hips, with the obstinacy of an Indian chief

—I’m stronger than you are

from my place the number of cartons was twenty-five, getting up to check, thirty-one, I was wrong, the guy with the cigarette was watching me counting them as I held out my finger, Leandro asked me, interrupting his Redskin challenges

—What’s your name?

when I sat down his interest in me vanished, he was busy taking a turn about the room, avoiding stepping on the cracks between the floor tiles, when he finished his turn he picked up the wastebasket, where there were napkins and fruit rinds, threatened to throw it at the girl, the girl threatened to use the meat cleaver

—How’d you like me to slice you up, Leandro?

bungling a cut, almost slicing off her little finger, sucking the finger with eyes full of tears

—When I get home I’m going to tell mother, Leandro

identical noses, the shape of the mouths, the dimples on the chins, the girl was fifteen, sixteen years old, seventeen at most, still almost a child and yet, sandwiches, beer, change, her father at the end of the day wrote down figures on a piece of paper

—There’s some money missing here, Matilde

six-forty, six-forty-one, the second hand was about to stop and the mechanism was annoyed

—I won’t stand for any loafing

Leandro, who didn’t care about little fingers

—Come off it

sneaking a sugar cube and rolling it around in his mouth, some of the crystals rolled down his shirt front, shining, he squeezed the cube into a ball, threw it at me, missing

—How old are you?

the second hand pretended to move and it wasn’t moving because it was six-forty-one some time back, taking the clock down from its hook in case some cog had decided not to work, the cog reacted and it was immediately six-forty-two, one of the sugar cubes fell onto the table next to me, I picked it up with my thumb and it didn’t taste like anything

—Do you also suck like my sister?

with the sun gone and night coming on

not night, the clouds that announce it

the squares of the tiles were turning gray, one by one, Dona Helena and I were in the laundry room with the clouds all gilded and brown on the church side, if they got any closer, Dona Helena could have picked up her crochet needle and turned them into the fringes of a sheet or sofa coverings, so they disappeared into the neighborhood, outlining chimneys, attics, Mr. Couceiro, who hadn’t paid any attention to the clouds, was pounding his cane on the floor and asking for his medicines, Dona Helena

six-fifty

was releasing the clouds, unwillingly

—Have you seen his syrup, Paulo?

a medicine that must be related to Leandro, always changing places, we were sure it was on top of the fruit bowl and there it was among the aluminum pots in the kitchen, Dona Helena said

—Are you alive or something?

to the sticky label, the spoon that’s hard to pull off the instructions as the print stuck to the handle, the clouds out of reach of her needles were slipping along over the rooftops, heading far away from us, the sugar crystal of a star was halfway between the church and a slanted building

—Can’t you get it, Dona Helena?

you wet your thumb, lift it to your mouth and there you have it the hands on the clock

how about that?

seven-fourteen, Leandro was calm all of a sudden with the arrival of his mother, he did attempt one more turn around the café without stepping on the cracks between the tiles and hopping over three, lifting his shoe almost to face level, his mother said

—Leandro

and the Indian chief, humiliated by the tyranny of the white men, took himself off muttering resentments, to the rear where he hid, surly, turning a flashlight on and off

the flashlight in his hand was now pink, now white, his mother opened the cash register, calculated the profits and closed it again, a sharp piercing glance at

seven-thirty-nine

the daughter

—Have you got it all together here, Matilde?

folds of disbelief on the corners of her mouth and my father wasn’t coming, he used to get so worried about being late

—Close the snap for me, hurry up

Sissi with her hair in a net, Samanta escorted and protected by Alcides who was clumsy but a gentleman, no cloud was showing, some sugar crystals but they were lost on other tables where my thumb couldn’t reach, my hand couldn’t grasp anything except the oh-so-slow hands on the clock that were mocking me, thirty-one milk cartons

no, thirty, the girl was emptying one of them into a glass, thirty milk cartons, twenty-six bottles on the shelf, with nineteen turned frontward and the rest to the side, seven-fifty on the dot, another tick, almost seven-fifty-one-seven-fifty-one

a pair of unknown clowns, in costume already, the doorman was kissing them and gushing, one of them took off a shoe to have a look at the heel and she straightened it out on the step, Dona Helena with the spoonful of syrup in the laundry room

—What’s that about the clouds, Paulo?

I would have liked so much to have given you a cloud, Dona Helena

—Take it

and yet

are you watching?

I haven’t got any, a round, pretty one to decorate the sideboard, if the roof tiles scratched it, you can give it a stitch, she’d made hundreds of stitches in my mufflers, my sweaters

—Be careful with the hooks, don’t tear it again

don’t worry, I’ll be careful, Dona Helena, I’ll keep away from hooks, I won’t tear it again, and I won’t let my father run away on me, the clown was testing the heel with a prudent step and smiling at the doorman, coming home with a cloud for her birthday and Dona Helena showing it to Mr. Couceiro, holding it carefully so it wouldn’t rain

—See what our boy’s brought, a cloud

hesitating between the back of the armchair and Noémia’s room

—Don’t you think it would go well with

the bridge at Bico da Areia, where the herons sleep, invisible in the dark, Leandro’s mother closing the shutters

—Let’s close up

Leandro was lying on the chair opposite me, softened by sleep, his sister was washing the beer glasses, sweeping the floor, appearing with a mop, asking me to lift my feet

—Please

and the floor under me was gleaming with reflections, the clock on the floor said nine-thirty-eight and I leaned over to look at it

while Leandro’s mother closed the glass door to the water meter

my shoulders, my neck, my face were lowered, these ears, this mounth

nine-forty

ten o’clock

the bucket on top?

Mr. Couceiro checked it, bringing it closer, and Dona Helena said

—Careful

careful with the mufflers, careful with the clouds because there are so many treacherous hooks, good heavens, the club sign was lighted

pink

the light was growing stronger in the neon tubes, the square of bulbs was out of balance, with one burned out, stumbling on and continuing its spin

—With so many bulbs burned out, there won’t be enough lights in this place someday

the laundry room was lighted up, the kitchen was lighted up, ten-twenty

those eyes, that hand touching the chin

no, the cheek

no, the earlobe

no, past the earlobe, that hand adjusting a blonde wig and staying up in the air, opening and closing, greeting, hi Paulo.

these people, these years, my life

is ending like this, it’s not even an ending, just a halt, a pause, an absurd misunderstanding with me looking for myself in the place where I ought to be

—Paulo

and there’s nothing, the house, the other houses, the small café, the mother and her two children have left now, after setting padlocks and the little lights that alternate

one white, one red

on the alarm which the police paid no attention to because the wind would set it howling away, the mother is in front, putting the keys in her pocket, the girl holds Leandro asleep in her arms as she complains about his weight, the Indian chief is hugging her around the neck, I imagine that they can’t live too far away because they’re walking in the opposite direction from the bus stop, the mother is fatter, smaller now, but with the same nose, the same mole, turning around

—Matilde

maybe they live near Príncipe Real without my ever having run into them

Leandro hopping around the pond

maybe they ran into my father and the girl would have been jealous of his wig, his dresses, scandalizing her mother

—What do you think you’re looking at?

Leandro shooting imaginary arrows at the mastiff with a bow

—I got him in the heart

the same nose, the same mole, the same chin, I don’t look like my parents, when they’d ask about them saying

—Who does he look like?

my mother would make a motion like closing a curtain to hide a corner in the past that they were ashamed of

—He takes after his father’s family

behind the curtain was a voice that was bent over in defeat, not even a voice, some inert creature

—I can’t do it, Judite

and she pulled the curtain a little tighter so the creature wouldn’t be visible and they wouldn’t hear the voice, muffling both by repeating loudly

—He takes after his father’s family

and the bedsprings can’t be heard, it could be the sea rattling the pebbles on the beach, but what do I care about pebbles because they don’t give me away, they stay where they are, moving around aimlessly, who’s going to believe the sea

—Don’t believe the sea

when a teacher friend from school pointed toward the waves and asked me

—What did he say, Judite?

the usual falsehoods, lies, forget about it, what interest can there be in the gossip of castaways, the ebb tide goes out, you forget about them, and that’s that, they have to talk about something, don’t they, my friend didn’t believe me, looking at the bridge or at a flock of herons

in August there were swallows, toucans

amused by the gentian’s nodding, yes

—Since when have you put any trust in gentians, Dolores?

the girl, putting down Leandro

—I haven’t got the strength, ma’am

and Leandro was crying, if their mother would only let me help him and she won’t, she’s suspicious of me, a customer who counts milk cartons in a café

a nut, a thief?

something’s got to happen before tomorrow morning, in order to clear things up, to explain to me, the river

—Explain what to you?

was all ready, if I could only believe the river, falsehoods, lies, the gossip of castaways, forget about it, tomorrow morning

no, before tomorrow morning, tonight, the mother and her children had disappeared into a small doorway on the Rua do Século and the lights went on in a second-floor apartment, Matilde or the friend from school while the pebbles were unsuccessfully trying to whisper the truth to her

—What are they saying to you, Judite?

my father appeared on the balcony and he must have spotted me because he pulled the shade down just the way Carmindo would if he spotted me from your place and he’d pull the shade down, Gabriela, the diamond of light that would draw me out of the darkness disappeared and I don’t exist anymore, I’m a piece of masonry, the branch of a tree, my mother’s friend, interested in me, must have asked

—What did he say, Judite?

getting me all confused with the pebbles and the bridge beams, my mother would check the curtain so it wouldn’t let the past be seen, he takes after his father’s family

—Don’t believe that, Dolores

but who was my father, outside the bar on the next block were the municipal workers with hoses over their shoulders, women waiting, a tank with spider crabs on a base of sand, my mother was contradicting the waves

—He takes after his father’s family

and my father was agreeing, pretending with pride, Rui with an ant in his ear at Fonte da Telha, the scratchy pebbles all piled up, the municipal workers hosing down the sidewalk, one of the women waiting called me and I used the pretext of the sea, saying

—The sea, you know

saying

—I’m sorry, I didn’t hear, I’m sorry

saying

—What’s that?

and the sea really was stopping me, my mother was at the window facing the wet wind that was mussing her hair

—Sleep is impossible

telling the woman that my mother, at night, while the unseen waiter in the beer parlor next to the treetops in the woods said

—You’re paying the lady’s bill, aren’t you?

my mother, acting as though she didn’t see me, was looking at the wardrobe mirror

—Aren’t you going to bed, Judite?

one afternoon we found the electrician dead, one of the Gypsies had spotted him because the mares were running away from the house and the door was open, he’d slipped off his bed, the woman came up to me because Dona Amélia was giving her candy and whispering messages

—The customer at table nine is waiting, Micaela, the customer at table nine is waiting, Sissi

and an orchid as a remembrance of this meeting, an order of champagne to help conversation, which is a bit flighty, as is well known, champagne loosens it up

—Here’s your present, Mr. Paulo, take good care of it, take a look at it

less timid, a knee shaking off bashfulness as it touched my knee and applause for the old man who’s adjusting the microphone on stage, getting ready for a bolero, the manager plucking a hair off my neck

no, a grain of sand no, nothing and crumbling at the nothing in his fingers

—You’ve picked the best of my dolls, congratulations, you have a good eye

and Dona Amélia agreed, familiar with my fine qualities

(the doctor, without looking at the electrician

—His heart, obviously)

another orchid, cigarettes, my mother at the burial, maybe a hopscotch on some gravestones, and yet no trace of chalk for my mother, her nostrils got big, not because of the mimosas, there weren’t any mimosas or any mountains from where the mimosa scent could come, there were half a dozen crosses, a few words into her handkerchief in the tone you use when you talk in your sleep or when you’re out of touch with everything

—Poor devil

she’d lent him one of my father’s suits, a necktie, a sweater, if only she could have taken one of Dona Amélia’s orchids and given it to the dead man

—It’s for you, take it

after the burial

from remembering the mimosas, I think

a pint of wine under the archway of a tomb, my grandmother appeared with her look

—Grandmother

and as soon as I said

—Grandmother

she went away without a word, my mother saying to me

—I’ll tell you someday, Paulo

you’ll tell me what, someday, what is it you want to tell me, there’s nothing to tell, is there, in the electrician’s house there was broken-down furniture, a toolbox that the pups carried off, a bundle of letters that he never got to send, they began with Judite and my mother burned them

—I’ll tell you someday, Paulo

as soon as she guessed what the bundle was and yet while my mother was undoing it, there were letters, a picture

—Of you, mother?

a small lead heart painted once and faded now, she folded her handkerchief with the word inside

—Poor devil

looking into the handkerchief and the word wasn’t there anymore

—What happened to the word, mother?

something has to happen before tomorrow morning, I can’t believe that it’s all going to end like this, not even an ending, just a halt, a pause, an absurd misunderstanding with me searching for myself in the places where I ought to be, the woman in the beer parlor

or Marlene or Sissi

—Is it today or what?

my father in the hospital, asking for his glasses, feeling around for the night table, the nurse was changing his serum, the manager was giving him his glasses

—My best doll, Mr. Paulo

and my father was unable to get hold of the frame

—I want to see myself, leave

a match and the picture that belonged to the electrician had been transformed into a gray square

I never got to decipher it

that fluttered for a few seconds, turned black, disappeared, before it had become a gray square it looked to me like a girl or something, but maybe I was presuming things, I’ll tell you someday, Paulo

—Was it you, mother?

where could Sissi or Marlene be living, on what block, how old, the customer at table nine, girls, Mr. Paulo, a friend, two bottles of champagne, a bit of French perfume, whose picture was that mother, the woman who was calling to me, standing

—Your time has begun its countdown

my countdown began ages ago and there’s not much time left to the end of my story, say, for example, that the woman

—Dina

the usual lie, they always lie about their names and I never catch the reason why, they hide them the way they hide their lives, their childhood, their age

—I’m whatever age you want, don’t let it worry you

they make us stop the car a long way from where they live, they point out the wrong building, any old apartment house

—Let me out here, you go on

and as soon as they think we can’t see, they open up their umbrella, start running and it’s a different building on a different street, if we kept their purse we feel something hard, a sap, a knife, their body is always on guard, the eyes of someone looking out for them

only eyes and the tip of a polished shoe

two lamp posts farther on, Rui is in the park watching the blinds for a signal light, before Rui it was Eurico, Fernando, the electrician is standing staring at me, the car with wooden wheels, not bought in a store, carved by a jackknife with passengers drawn on the windows, an electrician had been drawn, a child

me?

a woman beside the electrician, my mother was blocking my view of him

—He’s the one who sent it

and he had a bag for mussels on the bridge, leaving us, he never came to call

never came to call?

I never saw them talking, I don’t believe him

women always lie

they would pass each other without saying anything, the owner of the café made him get out from under the awning

—I’ll tell you someday, Paulo

he told him not to come there

—You stink

tell me what, mother, there’s nothing to tell, whatever it might be, a mania, when at night you say

—Sleep is impossible

he was squatting on the beach warming himself over a small fire of pine cones, for the last few months something had been wrong with his back, he had a crutch to help him walk, I was on the steps with the car, ready to throw a stone at him if he tried to steal it from me, and he was next to me, not saying anything, he looked as if he was going to say something and no words came out, the impression

it must have been an impression

that my father was avoiding him, he’d disappear into the flower beds or gallop off with me on his back to get away from him, his neck was bent over as though

—What’s wrong, father?

as though nothing

—It wasn’t anything

the usual lies, I lie all the time too, don’t stumble, don’t slow down, keep on straight ahead, straighten up, the electrician was beside me with a crutch, in the house along with the cheap furniture and the mattress, a car with wooden wheels with no passengers drawn on it, I mean, he’d drawn the woman, the child and the man were missing, the woman with her nose in the air

—Do you smell the mimosas, Paulo?

I’m sorry, the woman was dripping a few words onto her handkerchief

—Poor devil