What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (63 page)

—
Judite

and Judite and Paulo at the cemetery or in the market, I was the one going around the sideboard, avoiding the loose tile because if I stepped on it she’d catch on

my steps were wider, my weight

setting myself down on the stool noiselessly, almost without breathing, when the blind woman said

—
Judite

reaching out and missing me, every finger was an antenna or those claws lobsters have that people tie up, her arm knowing, stopping, returning to her lap

—
You’re Carlos

the disappointment with my name

—
You’re Carlos

her blank eyes toward me

—
You’re Carlos

not angry with me, scorning me, if I was sitting in Judite’s place and passed the dinner plate to her, she wouldn’t accept it, if Judite was in my place

—
Thank you

her arm knew, stopped, went back to her lap

—
You’re not the father of my grandchild

and I said in a whisper so we wouldn’t be heard

—
I’m nobody’s father

taking her by the wrist, whispering into her ear, while the electrician was approaching from the bridge, scattering the gulls, the horses of the Gypsies, and the horses on the carousel were spinning around in my head and colored lights and music and customers and Paulo waving to us

—
He takes after his father’s family

I whispered into her ear

—
I’m nobody’s father, you can be satisfied with the fact that I’m nobody’s father

the two wrists, the neck, the throat of the old woman so easy to squeeze until a muscle, a bone, a cartilage so easy

That it gave way, broke, withered in the palms of my hands

So easy

—
I’m nobody’s father

the man from the boardinghouse appeared for a moment under a streetlight where municipal workers were hosing down the sidewalk, I tried to pick him out and I couldn’t, a beam from some scaffolding, I thought it was Joana on the balcony and it wasn’t, a gutter, the quivering of some blinds, I can’t believe it’s all going to end like this, not even an ending, a pause, a rumble from the direction of the docks, derricks, a corvette, the breeze is slower now because something’s about to happen, is happening, happens, Bico da Areia slowly emerging, moments from now the owner of the terrace will unfurl his awning, a heron

six herons

their bills asking me

—Was this what you expected, Paulo?

not a postponement, a pause, an absurd misunderstanding, the maid from the dining room

Marina & Diogo

looking for her clothes on a chair, dropping them, clenching her fist and starting to dress, Carmindo asked

—Gabriela

not Marina & Diogo, Gabriela & Carmindo, on every floor Gabriela & Carmindo, on the mailbox Gabriela & Carmindo, never Gabriela & Paulo, Gabriela & Carmindo, Carmindo asked

—Whatever happened to Paulo?

and a forehead showing surprise

—What Paulo?

a forehead remembering

—Why should I know anything about that Paulo

luckily Sissi

—Good morning, Sissi

reaching the place on Penha de França, in Sapadores, in Estefânia, a neighborhood as bright as day, taking off necklaces, putting them into the little basket where

on a blue mat

other necklaces, bracelets, taking off makeup

—Tired, Sissi?

with the dish towel, warming up the tisane, dipping a little bag into the water, watching

not watching, Sissi unhooking her bra

the teapot taking on color, losing the thread on the little bag, fishing it out with a fork and throwing it into the garbage

—Tired, Sissi?

tired tired I’m so tired, Paulo

looking for something

—Where’s the fucking teacup?

a teacup for me, finding an empty bean can, holding the can out to me, in the bread bag a crust, crumbs

Gabriela & Carmindo on every landing, on every turn in the railing Gabriela & Carmindo, Sissi excusing herself

—I didn’t expect you, you know

annoyed with a run in her stocking, covering the run with saliva

—Can you notice it now, Paulo?

and even though I noticed it, I stroked her shoulder, assuring her

—It doesn’t show, don’t worry

Sissi was my age, the same color hair and that beard stubble on her cheeks, her chin

—I could be you

Sissi or me, I think me, I think one of us

—I could be you

not one of us, me

—I could be you

if I got dressed as a woman, if I painted my face

I don’t get dressed as a woman, I don’t paint my face, I’m a man who doesn’t get dressed like a woman, doesn’t paint his face, doesn’t take care of the customers at table nine after the show

—The customer at table nine, Paulo

candy, cigarettes, the manager demanding

(—It’ll be too bad for you if the customer doesn’t buy some drinks, Paulo)

picking hairs off his lapel, a speck of dust, nothing, flicking the dust away with his fingers

—You’ve picked the best chick, congratulations, you’ve got a good eye

Sissi and I on checked sofa, I was going to say found in the night’s garbage

something has to happen before tomorrow morning

where the telephone book was standing in for a leg, Sissi and I weren’t talking, not even

—I could be you

while my mother hid us, ashamed by a slight movement of the curtain and behind the curtain the two of us, maybe the sea in the distance was whispering through its pebbles

—Don’t believe anything the sea says

and a marigold that bloomed in order to protect us from the day.

—How’s it all going, Paulo?

—What’s with your life, Paulo?

—What about tomorrow, Paulo?

I stand there observing myself from the door, I take a little time, I leave and the apartment is deserted, the furniture gets bigger as it always does because nobody exists

we get home and can tell that the place where we live hates us, it pushes us back out onto the doormat, it wants to get rid of us

the doorknobs are huge, the defects in the wood enormous. the window is strangled by hinges and blinds

and I’m so tiny in the middle of it all until the glass cupboard or the chest hides me completely and when they hide me, they also hide these clowns, these old men, this idea of waves, not real waves, the ones I make up for myself when the glass cupboard and the chest will let me, as they combine the reflection of the sun in a bottle with the rippling of the curtain or the river, that is, and what’s missing

the bridge etc., the Gypsies etc

unfolds at my feet, the sun leaps out of the neck of the bottle, reaches the ceiling, falls back and immediately says

naturally

—It’s the changing of the tides

the curtain draws back

let’s suppose

and you notice right away

how could you think otherwise?

a change of wind in the pine trees, a wind with little printed flowers and the tear made by the screw on the door through which the switchboard operator at work hands me the phone

—For you, Mr. Paulo

a childhood scar on the edge of her lip that prevents me from noticing the receiver, hearing

—For you, Mr. Paulo

because a little girl inside her had fallen down in the schoolyard and was starting to cry, holding her hands over the cut on her mouth, I picked her up in my arms and assured her

—It was nothing

holding her tight

—It’s all over now

the little girl gave way to a woman waving the plastic object back and forth

—I haven’t got all day, it’s for you

the string around her neck with the small medallion of her zodiac sign

Pisces

two robalos or some fish like that and before I could say

—I love you

the robalos disconnected the call

—If you don’t want to answer, that’s your business

and it wasn’t the sign, the scar on her lip, the back of her indifferent neck, her indifferent back dialing a number with a pencil

—Personnel Department?

there’s a pimple that hurts her looks

hurts her looks?

it doesn’t hurt her looks, it makes her vulnerable, human

she’s the child again for a second, I grab the phone and the pimple, not the child, pushes me away with the pencil

—It’s too late now, forget it

a bare ankle bends and stretches out, she removes a clip-on earring to make it easier to talk on the phone, examining it in her hand, a coral pomegranate

how many years ago was she secretly prancing about in her room wearing her mother’s earrings and shoes?

I take the phone all the same because maybe the little girl is on my side, I can see her quite clearly through the small openings in the plastic

—Mr. Paulo

and here’s the schoolyard with its tree in the center, three rows of desks in the ground-floor room, the crucifix over the blackboard where there are the remains of lessons in addition, archipelagos, verbs, a lot of numbers, a lot of islands, and a lot of past perfects that pour down onto a bare ankle that’s bending and stretching and onto the little plugs that connect the Personnel Department to Accounting or to Human Resources, if I could only say to her

Júlia

say

—I’m talking about you, Júlia

—or is it Dona Júlia?

—I’m talking about you, Dona Júlia?

no

—I’m talking about you, Júlia

could only tell her that people had stopped existing around me, that I have nothing left except the waves on the curtain and you in the tear in the curtain, my life reminds me of those games in the

Children’s Section

on the next to the last page in the newspaper, underneath the columns on bridge and on chess, a square with connecting threads and each thread’s a path, on each side of the square are five threads starting, at the start of each path is a different color Prince, on the opposite side is the Princess that one of the threads reaches, find out which Prince will marry the Princess, the answer is upside down in tiny letters

The Blue Prince

I twist my head so I can decipher the answer, I follow the Blue Prince’s thread with my finger as it comes to an end without reaching the Princess, I try the Green Prince, the Yellow Prince, the Brown Prince, the Red Prince and the Princess is still unmarried, I go back over the path starting from the Princess with endless spirals, not noticing that my finger’s over the page where there’s no Prince, there’s a photo of a gentleman giving grammar lessons to readers who are meticulously reduced to initials, a comma, and city, C. F., Coimbra, J. H., Santarém, P. M., Gaia

Consultant in the Portuguese Language

or after that, in order to protect secrets, Properly Identified Reader, Évora, creatures tormented by plurals and the predicate nominative of the subject, the one the Princess marries is no Prince at all, it’s Professor Maia Onofre, promise me that it will be for always, for ten years, for one year, for a month, for a day, for a few hours, whatever

erase anything of no interest

Professor Maia Onofre, send me a letter, ask me something, if you’re worried or have any doubts that I’ll respect your anonymity, I’ll reduce you to initials, check with philologists, opinions, dictionaries, bring up phrases in Latin, print them in italics, treat you as an esteemed friend, furnish examples, oddities, variants, explain it all through an encyclopedia

encyclopedias are pleasant and light things when I thumb through them

I’ll stop you from falling down at recess, from crying, I’ll erase the verbs on the blackboard and in place of the verbs, in huge capital letters,

I love you, Júlia

you can’t imagine how much fun I can be, I know how to play cards, how to set a nail with my left hand, pull coins out of my nose, dance, I learned that from my father, a clown, he lived in Bico da Areia, then on a square, then in the hospital, then off the square, then, a very short time later, in the hospital, and then he died, from the distance now you can imagine that he lived his life

just like I do

later on, entangled threads that broke off in the air or poured over Professor Maia Onofre at table nine with his flower and his little cup of chocolate raised in a toast, pleasant, all fingers, adjusting his voice and the knot in his tie

—Would you care for something, dear lady?

my father is a Properly Identified Lady Reader, Júlia, Dona Amélia was handing him a slip of paper from the manager reminding him of his duties, the norms of conduct and the percentages, my father was holding the note out in front of him, moving his eyes closer to it and back in order to put it into focus, he was learning that Professor Maia Onofre, table nine, eleven percent, he put away the information, folded, in his false décolleté and the next day I came upon Professor Maia Onofre saying good-bye, less chubby than on the night before and smelling of orchids, on the bottom landing, Dona Aurorinha, who was coming down to go shopping and leaning on the rail asked

—A relative of yours, Carlos?

Rui

another relative

delivering the note in the club, collecting the eleven percent and inviting me to go with him to the broken-down wall in Chelas near an invisible jackdaw, me, who at the time was living with some older people, dead years ago and whose names aren’t worth mentioning

the family keeps getting bigger, Júlia

on the sidewalk in front of the Anjos church and just because I wasn’t dreaming of you at the switchboard at work, I didn’t bring the bicycle we had there down to the street, even with its flat tires and its flopping light, I’d pedal up to you, to the robalos, to the scar on your lip, to the scorn with which you handed me the phone, paying no attention to me or annoyed with me

—For you, Mr. Paulo

to the girl crying with her hands over her mouth that I said

—It’s all over now

and both of us, Júlia, sure that it wasn’t all over, that it hasn’t gone away, the tree in the schoolyard with no leaves thirty years ago, in an ancient October with puddles left over from the rain and the bricks turning red with something looking like blood, your blood, my blood, our blood, because we drew a line with the jackknife across our skins and rubbed them against each other

me, the Blue Prince, you, the Princess

and we solemnly rubbed against each other

we’re so young, aren’t we?

one into the other, a pact that seals our love, swapping palindromes, sticks of gum, my blood when the syringe drew it up in Chelas, and the color on the glass got dark with the heroin, it was her blood because even though she’s lying down, it keeps on dripping every night, before going to sleep, in a room where it’s easy to imagine the white lacquered dressing table with its copper trim, small cookie tins, a nickel-plated dolphin balancing the globe on its nose, a box with tissues folded into each other from which you manage to pull out just one and I get an endless accordion of pink rectangles that I shove back into the box

and get all wrinkled

in hopes that you won’t see, your smile in a bathrobe by the doorway

—You’re so clumsy, Paulo

slippers with Hotel Sevilla printed on them, revealing a charge of kleptomania that her fellow workers aren’t aware of, that travel agents deplore, and that I find charming, a picture in a bathing suit, probably by the pool of the aforesaid Hotel Sevilla

(in the vacation schedule: third day, Hotel Sevilla in Seville, unforgettable city, mosques, afternoon free)

in a bamboo frame, the lamps on the night tables have chimney sweeps holding up their brooms and on the sweeping end are the bulbs with satin shades of starry skies, your name embroidered with cherries around it that you had on the wall in a frame and in spite of the name that your mother or your sister or you were writing out while you were getting over a bad case of flu, in spite of the wardrobe, which was also lacquered, matching the dresser, in spite of the light filtering through the window blinds and spreading out long-lost ecstatic memories in the room, first communions, birthday cakes, the garden at Cald as da Rainha was still waiting for you, you keep on falling down, Julia, you keep on falling backward, in childhood, you stumble on the second jump over the rope that two schoolmates are swinging

—Your turn, Júlia

leaping in quickly with your book bag on your back, saying one two three, jumping in rhythm and yet, somebody

or it seemed to you that somebody

called your name

or a muscle was too slow, or it was a trick of your schoolmates

oh, Júlia and the surprise, the stumble, a cry, me running over to you

—It was nothing

and you’re sitting up in bed and holding your hand to your mouth, finding the blood, hiding on my shoulder

—What a nightmare, Paulo

the bare ankle that bends and stretches out, the pomegranate earring in her hand and instead of

—I haven’t got all day for you

your hair, which I slowly stroke, the shoulder that’s free of a strap grows small in my hand, a voice that’s unrecognizable because it’s so long ago and yet it’s yours, in a kind of childlike abandon

—What a nightmare, Paulo

the relaxation was helped by covering the chimney sweep with a pajama top because the shadow helps, turning me into Professor Maia Onofre discoursing on gerunds, the Blue Prince holds out his finger following the twists and turns of a thread on his skin, the robalos of the zodiac sign, the beginning of your arm, the little pillow of flesh protecting your armpit, and no blood on your hand, look, see how there’s no blood on your hand, your hand’s clean

at other times, after the heroin, she’d dry it on her blouse

your clean hand on a phone that I lift to my ear and you drive me off with your pencil

—It’s too late now, forget it

at other times, after the heroin, she’d dry it on her blouse, bend over me sitting on a rock and the colic was gone, my sweats were gone, my kidneys weren’t on fire, the jackdaw

probably