What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (8 page)

—Do you know him?

and Rui lying on the beach

—I died can’t you see that I died what are you going to tell them?

keep in mind that I’m carrying a lemon in my pocket to cut the drug, cold and heat and cold at the peephole where the bills are passed through, I’m not a fag, I’m not afraid of needles, I dilute the powder while the music starts up, do you want to see father dance mother, do you want to see him along with me sheltered by the broken-down wall, don’t be upset by his cheap dress, you’re the performer’s wife, mother, the customers will understand, don’t be afraid to bring the bottle, everybody watches father dance with a bottle next to him, applauding him, people jeer at him and applaud him, they jeer at him on the street, at the movies, in stores, my father’s voice begging under the muteness of his lipstick

—Don’t let them humiliate me Paulo

of course I don’t let them humiliate him, he’s much more than what they are, a dancer, a singer, and a performer and in payment this rubber tube squeezes me until the veins stand out, hold the

needle, help me not to have diarrhea, colic, see the calm, this afternoon light, everything peaceful, with us in Bico da Areia without needing anybody, next year we’ll enlarge the house, another floor on top of this one, a bigger living room, a porch, plaster swans on the pillars by the entryway, and mimosas, instead of the marigolds mimosas, the social worker

what a lot of hooey

swearing to Mr. Couceiro that they’d abandoned me, a lie, they didn’t care about me, a lie, that my mother an alcoholic, that my father a

lie, just notice this calm, this afternoon light, everything peaceful, with us in Bico da Areia without needing anybody, it’s not worth turning me over to Dona Helena because you two will take care of me, just tighten the rubber tube until the veins stand out, lay my jacket on that stone so I can rest my head and yes, mimosas, tap my mother on the shoulder

—Wake up mother, the mimosas

the locks of hair changing position on the pillow, the bridge with moss on the beams where the herons hide their eggs, if I approached, they’d fly up shrieking, they ate garbage, trash from the Tagus, refuse, the splotches that the clouds go about drawing on the waves, I remember a water snake, chopped in two, twisting, tomorrow, as soon as I come out of the hospital, I’m going to visit them, once a little bit before Dona Helena and Mr. Couceiro and the social worker said

—Come here

and me, as though I hadn’t heard, smashing the car with wooden wheels on the floor, I found my father hiding behind a dune spying on them with a beauty mark on his cheek and the huge lashes, the pups all around him and the pine cones and my father to me

—Go away

I thought they’re going to bite him, tear him apart, running off toward the woods with him, giving out with victorious barks, eight pups, nine pups, ten pups, the electrician too with the wound on his rump, I’m not sure whether my father spotted the herons or spotted us coming off the bridge to Bico da Areia avoiding the neighborhood, the café, my mother

avoiding my mother, the figurines on the wedding cake, the pearls that they might have bought in Chelas, show me the pearls I’m going to bring you tomorrow mother, the wedding dress put away in the chest, trying it on by the wardrobe

—Look at this Paulo

a whisper of silk and a whisper released from the kidneys probably only in the mirror, not on her

not on me, not on me, give me the bottle Paulo, I was elegant wasn’t I, I was so well groomed wasn’t I, the faint candle of a voice

—Why?

and the questions made me uncomfortable, me and the mirror, don’t bother me question, most likely it’s nothing but a defect in the glass, a speck of dust in the eye

tears without thinking, what’s the reason for tears?

it might be a round tear that’s not about to fall, that doesn’t fall, filling her face, if my grandmother would only stroke her face

if my blind mother would only run her slow, questioning fingers over my face

—What’s wrong daughter?

nothing’s wrong, it’s you who don’t understand, do you remember throwing rice at us when we came down the church steps, the beret with a bent feather that a neighbor woman lent you, nothing’s wrong, I’m me, I’m not me, what am I, who am I, who am I not being me, don’t talk, be quiet, rose petals, rice, the photographer, they were smiling, people I didn’t know who they were, that cousin, that uncle, my husband coming off the bridge to Bico da Areia in spite of the electrician, the pups, the pine cones

—Do you catch the smell of the mimosas Carlos?

even if you don’t believe it and I don’t think you do believe it, you never believed it

—You’re so handsome

and my father wanted to see you Judite, he wanted to know about us, looking at you, your pearl accessories, your maroon blouse, I left the disco without taking off the wig, cleaning off the makeup, changing, I waited on the ferry platform for the connecting bus to here, the same one that you sent me away on two years ago, the same one that you didn’t want me to go away on two years ago, the same one that two years ago as soon as you

—Carlos

I come back to visit you, I go around the house, I don’t dare knock, I watch you through a corner of the curtain and you’re all alone at the table, I’m a crack in the ceiling, a broken tile, the bottle of oil waiting for you in the cupboard, that thing in your belly that no pup can smother, lend me your handkerchief because of the lipstick, fill up the basin so I can get rid of the makeup, tell me about a place where I can throw away the wig, don’t get worried that it’s already dawn, it’s not going to dawn as long as I’m with you, after the photographer coming out of the church, everybody move in close so the best man and maid of honor can get in, after the lunch, the wedding cake, your mother’s carrying on, the Beato boarding house where during lovemaking, the clerk with the key to thirteen because thirteen is lucky, the horseshoe on a hook to bring good luck too

—Is it for two hours or all night?

noticing the wedding rings, giving a ten percent discount, shaking our hands, telling the lady in charge to let us in

—It’s for all night isn’t it?

and me incapable of hugging you out of love for you, so hard to hug you out of love for you, not repugnance, not what your family whispered, love, me on the edge of the sheets wanting you, asking for you, forcing myself to want to not want to ask, there are times when I wonder if Paulo

I’m sorry

it’s obvious that Paulo, it’s clear that Paulo, there are surprises aren’t there, there are mysteries aren’t there, it’s obvious that Paulo, my hands, it’s clear that Paulo, my way of walking, this mark on the wrist, my mother Judite my father Carlos and that’s that, Paulo to the doctor in the hospital my father Carlos see, so hard to embrace you and my father Carlos see, children don’t lie, they discover, they know, they find out, she would pick him up if he cried because he was hungry, put her thumb in the sugar bowl and take my thumb, these steps are me, this shuffling in the hall is me, this

—Judite

it’s me, not the owner of the café, not the electrician, not the pups with pine cones bulging in their pockets

—Dona Judite it’s me,

their greediness, their bashfulness

—Shall I take off my clothes ma’am?

the legs stuck in the pants, you guiding them in their trouble, amused, pitying

—Wait

and I couldn’t see any more because my son

my son

pounding on the wardrobe, smashing the car with wooden wheels, starting to shout and the doctor

—Quick

the orderlies held his ankles, they stuck his head into the pillow and as they stuck his head into the pillow they moved me away from you, the herons calling on the bridge prevented me from hearing, I think waves, horses, the east wind in the pine trees, I think the tide is coming up to my knees, my waist, my neck, I think it had dawned that the bed of marigolds was rising up along the wall, that the gentian was budding again, that on that Sunday in Lisbon

—You’re so handsome

and then it was over, me at the bus stop with the jacket and my suitcase and a last pine cone I didn’t notice, one last jibe lasting until today and before Paulo wakes up and spots me in the bedroom, lend me your handkerchief because the lipstick.

—Paulo

I put people down because I worry about them, I get mad at myself because I put them down and I punish myself by putting them down again. I want to stop it but I can’t get to stop, I want to say

—Maybe I’m rough on you people but this isn’t the person I am, but

I don’t say it like that, not with words, I show them I’m worried by making them suffer the way I’m suffering

I’m not suffering

it’s fine that you’re not suffering but take it easy Paulo pushing Dona Helena away so

—Son

she’ll take an interest in me,

pushing her away means

—Take an interest in me

it means a lot more

—Take an interest in me

so much more if she doesn’t complain

complain do you hear me, make me stop this, complain, why don’t you stop me from living with you like my mother, my father, my father’s brother, all the rest of them, made excuses

I haven’t got time

avoided me

Don’t bother me now

said good-bye

—I don’t want you here do you hear can’t you understand I don’t want you here

and me going down the stairs

—I’m sorry

while Dona Helena didn’t make excuses, didn’t avoid me, didn’t say good-bye, let me go to sleep with the light on, tried to pick me up and put me to bed in her bedroom, I

—Let me

Mr. Couceiro

—Your arthritis Helena

she’d give me money on the sly, would lie for me at the bank

—This order for payment came in, ma’am

and she

—The writing may look different but I was the one who signed the check

so upset over me that the teller took pity on her, asked for a loan to cover the amount, the manager in a low voice in my direction

—Swine

take the manager home instead of me Dona Helena, give him my chicken soup, my steaks, my quinine extract, the manager in a low voice leading me away by the arm

—If it wasn’t for the old lady you’d have been in jail a long time ago

their daughter dead before I was born, bangs and skinny little legs, Mr. Couceiro steadying the bicycle and the bicycle with flat tires now, rusting away in the laundry room, push on the bell and there’d be a feeble little ring, the easy chair would be pushed back, Mr. Couceiro’s cane would come along in a happy rush

—Noémia

and nobody on the seat, his smile turning into something that made me sorry if there was anything that could make me sorry, Sunday outings, Easter at the circus, a hamster

the hamster’s cage on top of the wardrobe

Mr. Couceiro taking his handkerchief out of his jacket, examining the handkerchief, putting it away, trying to put it away, that is, without finding the pocket, the voice that was slow in picking up strength

what good are the names of trees in Latin?

—Don’t ring that again

the defeated cane on its way back to the easy chair, pencil marks measuring height on the door frame, three feet seven inches, three feet eight, three feet nine and that was all, after three feet nine nothing remained but meningitis

—It can’t be

the promises, pounding on the coffin pillow, I rang the bell again and the easy chair was quiet, tell me about the Japanese if you’re up to it

he went over to Noémia’s picture on the wall, an expensive frame, poor thing, Aurea Photo Shop, if I could only feel sorry

I can’t

when I’d hear them on the stairs on Saturdays back from their visit to the cemetery I’d get up on the seat and keep ringing the bell, Dona Helena changing from mourning clothes into her kitchen apron as though she hadn’t heard, Mr. Couceiro would go straight to the photograph on the crocheted mat with a handkerchief hanging out of his pocket and a hamster pedaling on its wheel inside his head, a gouache that showed a sun with long lashes

This landscape is for the best father in the world your always loving daughter Noémia Couceiro Marques

looking for the gouaches in a drawer, tubes squeezed by fingers, the brush with missing bristles, I tried it out on the gas bill, I began with the dedication

This landscape is for the best foster father in the world your loving foster son Paulo Antunes Lima

but the Lima was covering the Antunes, a cloud blotted out the best foster father in the world and the twisted oval sun, whose rays reached beyond the gas bill and continued onto the towel, erasing the clouds and the sun and a horse that looked like a mouse appeared

a hamster

where Mr. Couceiro was galloping in armor and with a sword through the rice paddies of Timor, I scratched out those idiotic scribblings and tossed them onto the easy chair

—I don’t want this crap take it

I locked myself in the laundry room and traveled on the rusty bicycle until it was night; I went around the world, and I got to Paris with the Noémia Couceiro Marques in the picture rubbing up against me with her bangs, outings on Sundays, the circus at Easter time, the Phantom Train, I wasn’t afraid of falling asleep in the dark, holding her by the hand, you’ll get to be four feet on the door frame, I’m four feet two, I’m huge, what if I asked

—Will you be my girl?

what would your answer be, her bedroom that we never went into unless it was Dona Helena changing the flowers in the vase, the quilt that was pale with dust, the metal owl with glass eyes on the triangular corner table, out the window the buildings on Avenida Almirante Reis that never smiled would chat from time to time with the disconnected tolling of the church, the fat, wise, mistaken, salivating clock hands full of sparrows from the square, the tolling would stop and not a single sparrow left, only the jaws of the roofs chewing their cud of treetops, Mr. Couceiro looking at the picture

—Don’t you think her color is better this afternoon?

the birds waiting somewhere or other for the whim of what time it was

—Do you know anything about the sparrows Noémia what have they done to the sparrows?

shadows and more shadows shrouding things, shrouding you, painting everything blue and pink and green

the gouaches that were left

I could steal rings from my father and give them to you, not to buy drugs with, to give to you, how did they dress you on the day you died, what did they put on you, who dressed you, tell me about the coffin, the wreaths, about the place where you are today, Dona Helena chopping cabbage in the other end of the apartment

—What?

Mr. Couceiro pulling up his sleeve with his fingertips to wipe a speck of dust from the frame

—I asked you if you didn’t think her color is better this afternoon?

the blue and pink and green tubes of paint in a small wooden box filled with tarnished coins and a dried beetle, in another drawer colored pictures of actresses, a bracelet made from wire twisted into artistic shapes, the school notebook, Dictation: The Beatitudes, blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven, blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God, didn’t get indignant if Rui said

—Are you going with a dead girl Paulo?

blessed are the humble for they shall be exalted, the charm bracelet with hearts, little hoops, we die and the things that belonged to us take on a solemn mystery, the bracelet confessing to me

—All my life

and repenting it, delving into the notebook, Copy: My Country, my country is located at the westernmost point of europe bathed by the atlantic ocean it is thirty-five thousand square miles in area and is called, not bothered by the doctor’s bewilderment

—You’ve got a girl named Noémia and you never go out with her?

Dona Helena drying her hands on a dishcloth, with pieces of cabbage in her hair, on her arms, going up to the picture, two sleeves delicately wiping off the speck, straightening the frame in its crocheted oval, the picture wobbling

—Don’t drop it

a fingerprint on the glass and cleaning it again, Dona Helena looking over her glasses

—Her color does look better to me, yes

the roses in the vase withered and rusty, the water muddy, one of her stockings the right one, the second stocking gone, time was dissolving her nose, her eyebrows, her left hand down along the length of her skirt, in a short time there won’t even be a trace, the right stocking gone too and then

how many weeks, how many months?

no stockings, a blur where a solitary sandal resists the centuries, it is thirty-five thousand square miles in area and is called Portugal, sandals, a shoe, those boots with a pad to correct her walk or just a reflection from the bulb if we change its position it disappears or maybe it’s nothing, you don’t exist and not having been anything, you’re nothing, the doctor to Mr. Couceiro

—He says he has a girlfriend named Noémia do you know her?

Mr. Couceiro’s fingers looking for his handkerchief as if the handkerchief were more of a cane than his cane itself, going into his pockets, his own fingers a second handkerchief, also made of cloth, lost on his forehead too, Mr. Couceiro not a corporal in Timor, a neck without a body looking at a picture

—I asked you if you didn’t think her color is better this afternoon?

settled in the easy chair with a happy little smile, Composition: To My Daughter, contrary to what I expected my daughter arrived, Rui hold it, I’m all mixed up in the head you’re going with a dead girl who died before you were born Paulo, I was changing the needle in the syringe if I could only stop being a damned jackass, if I could only get to feel sorry for Mr. Couceiro and I can’t just like I can’t get to suffer, I can get to break saucers and repeat the table of sevens, I can’t get to suffer, the cane, diabetes and Rui, forgetting to tighten the rubber hose, three feet nine you say, eleven years old you say, the jackdaw there all the while without our seeing it, maybe its tail or its beak in the fig tree, Rui throw a stone at it Paulo

we thought it had gone away and its little chirps were making fun of us, Rui loosening the hose and no vein, a constellation of small scars, throw a stone at it Paulo, a piece of brick, a clod, a piece of shit, anything because the damned thing is getting on my nerves, my room at Anjos next to the dead girl’s room, almost every night I’d wake up thinking I’d heard her, I’d sit up in bed listening until I realized it was Dona Helena and the next day fresh roses in the vase, bought at the market along with the meat, the tomatoes, the oregano, not scarlet closer to pink, looking for the gouaches and painting them blue, painting the sun on the wall and waves, not the waves at Bico da Areia, serious waves, large, how many times coming back from Chelas did I find Dona Helena on the couch with Mr. Couceiro holding her hand and since I’m incapable of doing things any differently I hurt them because I worry about them, getting mad at myself for hurting them and punishing myself by hurting them some more

—I’m all you’ve got since your daughter’s dead

or

—I’m all you have and I detest you

or

—I’ll bet you’d like to have me die the way the other one died

two old boobs

I hate you

I don’t hate you

I hate you

hugging each other in a corner of the living room, they were drinking tea, they weren’t eating dinner, they were consoling each other with the picture of their daughter, two frightened boobs examining the bangs that were disappearing under the glass, don’t you think she’s got better color this afternoon, they don’t console each other, don’t have any illusions, don’t make up things there aren’t any colors, there aren’t any features, be quiet, tomorrow they’re taking me out of the hospital and it’ll be an end to the plane trees, the doctor

—I’ve got no time for chitchat today let me go

and me with so many things to tell him if he’d only ask me

—What is it?

I remained mute, overflowing with words the same as when they operated on my father, they removed his breasts and in place of his breasts two

if I can put it that way

dark scars, a face where the features could barely be made out, eyes where maybe eyes and the maybe eyes

—Rui?

no

—Paulo?

I never stole anything from you, I never made fun of you and what was left of him

—Rui?

the joints of the bones in his bald head, do you want your wig, father, your lipstick, your creams, do you want me to put the music on, applaud you, bring you the gold dress and the feather stole for the final glory, I say

—Dance, father, dance

until they throw me out

—Have you gone crazy, boy?