What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (9 page)

I imagined my father’s arm rising up before they turned off the music and the lights, thanking them with a bow, accepting orchids, champagne, chocolates, smiling from the pinnacle of his glory

—Aren’t you proud of me?

and the doctor

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

but it was all right because an end to a butt friend, an end to a coin for a cup of coffee friend and the cup steaming as it wobbled on the counter, Dona Helena in the Anjos apartment with currants and a cake and the chicken she imagined I like and which I don’t like

—Son

in spite of my having warned her a thousand times that I won’t have her calling me that

—Just because the idiot girl in the photograph is rotting away in the cemetery do I have to repeat year in year out that I won’t have you calling me that?

detesting the Avenida Almirante Reis, detesting Mr. Couceiro who would change from his street jacket into the scarecrow rags he wore at home if you could call those half dozen cramped little rooms a home, with the glassware shaking every time the church bells rang, a bus outside, the dead girl’s roses quivered their petals, Dona Helena

—Wouldn’t you like some chicken Paulo?

and I’m certain my father’s eyes with no rest

—Paulo?

Paulo was interested, don’t tell me otherwise, don’t lie, the maybe eyes

—Rui?

Rui in Chelas at that time pawning the fake jewelry or committing suicide at Fonte da Telha and the mastiff with a bow licking his knees, the two coffins in the chapel and me laughing, me laughing, I was remembering Bico da Areia, my mother, the man with the napkin in his hand trotting in the Anjos hallway, trotting in the hospital, where’s my car with wooden wheels so I can smash it on the floor, what my father had injected in his face, in his cheeks, that is, by his cheekbones, he was breaking out in purple scabs on his forehead and he

—Rui?

the windows at Príncipe Real were open, the carpet taken up, the floorboard had been pried up by a knife on one corner, the empty jewel bag and the clown was blind to it

—Rui?

so what else could I do but laugh, Dona Helena was alarmed

maybe because the simpleton in the picture is rotting away in the cemetery I’m going to repeat time and again that I forbid her from calling me son, and she as though she understood, but she didn’t understand, if she really understood she’d have had the good sense to leave me alone, do some crocheting in the evening if she wants, go to the dead girl’s grave if she feels like it, wait five or six hours at the clinic so they can warp her backbone even more, she could enjoy cooking her chicken but if you’ve got the least bit of sense left, leave me alone, in spite of my suggestions she tried to grab me by the shoulder

—Paulo

Mr. Couceiro, the hero of Timor, cane in the air, was climbing up out of the easy chair or out of the rice paddies with buffalo corpses where the Japanese were searching for him shouting

—Helena

still to a regiment that was his cane

—Helena

and just when the Anjos clock was flinging down the first clump of sparrows

—Dance father dance

the glass on the photograph

my fault?

my fault

broken on the floor, Dona Helena

—Jaime

an almost blind old couple on their hands and knees on the floor putting together what was left of the frame and their daughter, Dictation: My Death, I died on the seventeenth of February nineteen sixty-eight and every Saturday for thirty-two years my parents visit me, when they first started living at Anjos they would bring me along with them to the cemetery and to an iron square laid out among other iron squares making a kind of wall with grass on the stones, I scraped the grass off with a dirt-covered piece of glass and Mr. Couceiro

—Don’t

I imagined he was convinced that the clover, or whatever it was, was part of their daughter, a ring for the chrysanthemums that were sold at the entrance and Noémia Couceiro Marques’s words thickened by fungi, the jackdaw that would chase us much later in Chelas invisible now whistling its two notes in the willows, Rui deciding

—It can’t be the same jackdaw, stupid

even so he looked for it frightened, as a child they’d made him kiss his grandmother in her coffin and he swore that her hands

those vines that grab you and pull you

they tried to carry him off, he asked me for half of my fix so he could forget her, both of us in a cold sweat like my mother when the wine ran out and she’d wave her arms around bumping into things

—Go ask for some on account at the café, Paulo

the pups with pine cones at the corner of the neighborhood keeping watch on the gate, the herons lined up along the bridge beams predicting rain, clouds on the Cova do Vapor, clouds of sulphur at the Alto do Galo, a lost mare trotting aimlessly along the street, her eyes just like my father’s

—Rui?

the same despair as though there was someone who could take him away from there and save him, no one can save your father, it’s over, the mare was scratching her haunch on the trunks of the fir trees, a vein on the neck which if I had ones like that I wouldn’t need any rubber hose, the ring on my father’s throat appeared and disappeared as he breathed, his empty gums sort of spongy, pale

—Where are your teeth father?

the mare turned around among flowerpots and my mother unaware of the rain, of the waves of the northeaster that was coming into the backyards, of the wailing of the herons unable to protect their eggs

—Go ask for some on account at the café, Paulo

and there I was along with the mare unable to find my way, a watering can and pieces of newspaper in the bottom of the gutter, the awning drawn up, the owner’s wife, barefoot on the terrace, disappearing off with the tables, an apron spread out in a shadow where glasses gleamed

—Your mother’s asleep don’t wake her now

me motionless in the doorway not daring to go in

the café owner leaned over the bar looking at me just as a Gypsy struggled with the mare covered with a hood my father disappeared, Rui disappeared from the beach but the policeman was asking me

—Do you know who he is do you know him?

and they didn’t have to tie me to the bed, I wandered about the yard chatting with the box trees, a coin for a cup of coffee friend, a cigarette friend, he was picking up the butts the orderlies left burning attracting the pigeons, the wife of the owner of the café came back struggling with the ribs of the umbrella

—What does this one want here?

and her husband to me

—Your mother’s asleep don’t wake her up now

my mother wasn’t asleep, a lie, she was in front of the wardrobe and calling him while she trembled, chasing spiders that weren’t there in the corners of the room, shaking imaginary mice out of the folds in her blouse, Mr. Couceiro watching her cleaning a speck from the glass

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

soon the dwarf from Snow White split in two, soon the drawer with the flatwear in the flower patch, soon she was speaking to no one

—Why Carlos?

and I was rumpling the quilt and smoothing it as though there was makeup left on my cheeks, in a little while she told me

—Get out of my house Carlos

and I was all alone on the stoop, all alone by the main entrance trying to explain to her I’m not father mother, I was five years old

they cover me with a hood and don’t even inject me

trying to explain to her

—I’m your son mother

don’t throw pine cones at me, don’t squash me against the pillow stopping me from breathing, seven times eight fifty-six, seven times nine sixty-three, don’t tie my wrists, don’t bring an old couple for me to live with in the name of some bangs, some skinny little legs, a bicycle with a flat tire rusting in the laundry room, give me a bottle of wine, half a bottle of wine, a pint of wine, we’ll pay at the end of the month and saying that Dona Aurorinha with her bag of groceries hanging from her hand gathering her strength on the step, my mother

—Wait there Paulo

to the tallest pup

two small figures on a wedding cake, what can have become of the pearls, the perfume, the wedding?

—How much money have you got pup?

and me with my mind made up not to listen, hearing from beyond her the waves down there, not the sea yet, the dampness left by the ebb tide covered with straw and mud, smudges of motor oil, boards, on one occasion an almost intact cradle with a rattle hanging on it, a plaque carved with a saint, my mother was counting out one small bill and three or four damp coins in her palm, translating them into wine, she rose up in the mirror and disappeared from it, excuse me for keeping on ringing the bell on the bicycle Dona Helena but I don’t want to come upon her

—Come in

I don’t want to sit on the step waiting, noticing how Lisbon only exists upside down in the river, the bottom half of playing cards, buildings, monuments, lights and no sound in the house, during that time when my father was working as a photographer he’d put a red bulb in the washroom, cover the door with a piece of oilcloth, sink white tapes into a tub and at the bottom of the tub traces that came together into the faces of clowns, the bodies of clowns, too much hair, never Noémia Couceiro Marques, well-built clowns, smiling triumphantly, my mother brought the bottle and didn’t wave her arms at the mirror, she wasn’t shaking and the dwarf was safe

—Who are these girls Carlos?

let me ring the bell on the bicycle and stop the question

—Who are these girls Carlos?

stop Mr. Couceiro from cleaning that speck off my eyelid with his sleeve

—Don’t you think his color’s better this afternoon?

my mother Judite my father Carlos

as though I belonged to them and I didn’t belong to them, I don’t belong to anything unless it’s the Cape Verdeans in Chelas, as though I was their son and I’m not, as though I was only a gravestone in the cemetery and I haven’t died yet, I’m not dying, tomorrow I’m going back to Anjos, help me with my suitcase in the hospital Mr. Couceiro, no more coins for a cup of coffee friend, no more a butt friend, the plane trees calm, all the pigeons where there’s a basket of peaches, the tallest pup left our house and went down the steps without seeing me, my mother searching in the living room, under the pillow, in her apron

—Did you see the money Paulo?

hearing the waves, not hearing her, the gulls on the bridge beams, the imbecilic jackdaw from chimney to chimney

—It wasn’t me it wasn’t me

my mother rummaging in the coffeepot where on happier days buttons, keys, pennies and where my father stored herbs in a bag and heated tisane, she was staring at me in the mirror

—Did you steal my money Paulo?

no pup outside, the café deserted, the two of us all alone at Bico da Areia, peeking into a boot because sometimes there are things there, my mother went over to the mirror taking the jackdaw away from me

—It wasn’t me it wasn’t me

—My money Paulo

my father never got mad at Rui, he’d see him with his wallet open on his lap, wouldn’t ask any questions, wouldn’t shout, wouldn’t threaten, tell me you don’t understand Paulo, I’m not asking you to understand, tell me to get rid of him, he was working in a different place in order to pay the Mulattoes, not a disco with a foreign name, a place in Caxias, you turned left at the prison and there was a dirt road, you went past an arch and some unfinished buildings, a shed under an elm tree, my father in a dressing gown, with more frills and makeup than in the places with music

—I’m a clown Paulo

two or three men drinking in a small room with him, black leather couches that had silver legs with the paint peeling, someone working with my father had a small whip under his arm and was helping one of the gentlemen to take off his necktie and the gentleman with his eyes closed

—Are you going to punish me Andreia?

my father whispering, not touching me, luckily, if he touched me I’d kill him

—I’m a clown Paulo

as though he loved me, as though I loved him, the proof that I didn’t like it is the fact that I wasn’t the one suggested

—Let’s leave, papa

it was my mouth and I was furious with my mouth, the gentleman who’s taken off his tie was unbuttoning his shirt and crouching on the sofa, such a white belly, his round little shoulders

—Are you going to punish me Andreia?

I wanted to correct the mistake he’s not Andreia he’s Abel, he works during the day at a restaurant in Almada, if you pull off his wig you’ll find a man didn’t you know, he didn’t inject the vials that my father injected to puff up his breasts and he was complaining of pain, I thought I heard a train but what train and where, only ferries, furze, maybe a tanker looking for the river mouth, maybe my heart in my ears imitating railway cars, it used to happen to me from time to time, it would make me weak or I’d cry