by Luiz Ruffato
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a train whistle nearby in the distance a gun lígia lígia lígia
i wake up, and it feels like a train is chugging right beneath the window, dun-dun-dun dun-dun-dun dun-dun-dun, making the building shake under the weight of freight cars loaded with bauxite. The lamplight stings my eyes. I take my glasses from the nightstand, get up. Drape the towel over my shoulders. Outside, the dead of night. I open my backpack, pull out the plastic bag, grab a pair of clean underwear and my toothbrush, and head down the dark hall—whistles, psssts, hisses, purrs, shushes, sighs, moans—into the bathroom. I flip on the light and lock the door. Hang the towel off the curtain rod in the shower and my clean underwear off the ceramic towel hook. I dump the contents of the bag on the toilet cover. I take the toothpaste out of the box and place the tube on the sink beside the dental floss and deodorant. I unwrap the bar of soap and set it on the windowsill. I put the shampoo and conditioner on the shower floor. I pull down my pants, careful not to let my wallet and other small items fall out, and hang them on the ceramic towel hook. I pull down my underwear, lift the toilet cover, and sit. I relieve my bladder and guts. Be quick. Leave the bathroom clean for the next person. That next person might be you. On the ceiling, black splotches of mildew and cobwebs. I lower the toilet cover. Flush. The water, meager, trickles down without force. I draw the plastic curtain and turn the taps, cold water spits this way and that. I leave my glasses on the sink. I flush again. Get under the water. I wet my head, douse it with shampoo. I lather my body, which is covered in goose bumps, with unscented soap. I rinse my hair, douse it with conditioner. It’s the dead of night…The water flows slowly down the clogged drain. I turn the taps in the opposite direction. Wrap my body in the rough towel, which scratches my skin. I pull on a pair of clean underwear and pants. Tear off a square of toilet paper and clear the mist from my glasses. My face looms in the mirror. I look away. I floss and brush my teeth. Spray my chest and underarms with deodorant. I collect the shampoo and conditioner, dry them with a towel. I collect the bar of soap and slip it back in its package. I toss everything in the plastic bag—shampoo, conditioner, soap, toothpaste and toothpaste box, brush, dental floss, deodorant. I push back the water with the squeegee. I collect the towel, dirty underwear, and plastic bag, unlock the door, and turn off the light. I tread down the dark hall—whistles, psssts, hisses, purrs, shushes, sighs, moans—into the room. I leave the plastic bag and dirty underwear on the floor, stretch the towel out on the windowsill, switch off the light. A faint blue gleam draws an imperfect rectangle on the dusty floor. I take off my pants and glasses, arrange the top sheet, and lie down. In another era, I might have been happy at this time of night. Sometimes I’d wake up only to sigh and roll over to the edge of the bed and sleep a while longer, happy just knowing João Lúcio was there with me, through the wall the sound of Rosana and Lígia and Isinha snoring, in the other room Mom and Dad resting…The past is ruins ruins the pa
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i wake up! The day stirs, frantic. I put on my glasses and step into my pants, pull on my socks and slide into my sneakers. I get up. Sweating, I lean out the window. Street vendor stalls occupy the sidewalk. Saturday is ablaze, overrun by the sound of voices. Cars honk, motorcycles honk, buses honk. I grab the towel and drape it over my shoulders. Collect my toothbrush and toothpaste, toss the plastic bag on the unmade bed, and head into the hall. The bathroom’s empty. I lock the door, lift the toilet cover, unzip my pants, piss. Flush. I brush my teeth. Wash my hands and face. Dry myself off. The mirror shows a creased face with forehead wrinkles and crow’s-feet. Small gray hairs bristle from my dried skin. I cut across the hallway back into my room. Stretch the towel out on the windowsill. Take a deep breath of air that smells of green leaves. I spray deodorant on my chest and underarms. Pull on a clean shirt. I open the door, plod down the hall and down the wood staircase, and greet Pereira, who responds, congenial, “Good morning!” The Roman numerals on the old wall clock show 9:25. I walk through the curtain of colorful plastic strips into the dining hall. Sit at a table near the television. I fill the enormous white ceramic mug with coffee and milk, pumped from enormous black thermoses. I grab a small roll and some butter. Sit down. The sound of chatter and the clinking of dishes and cutlery drown out the TV presenter’s voice. I take slow bites of the buttered bread between sips of milky coffee. The faces around me appear relieved at the prospect of the weekend. The sound of laughter floats over from a raucous group in the back of the dining hall. My life on the road and in hotels…I never enjoyed any quiet again…The sense of peace when you arrive home, close the door, and tune out the world. The feeling of safety—No, more than that, of…of…invulnerability! That’s right. The sense that nothing and no one can touch you, that between the four walls of your refuge, you are safe from harm…Walls of steel; refuge outside time…Had I ever experienced that tranquility, that quiet? Gone were the evenings when the only sound was the rat-tat-tat of Mom’s sewing machine…Gone were our Sunday spaghetti lunches, when Dad would mix wine with sugar water for us kids to drink…Gone were the holidays to Rodeiro, where we helped weed the fields, wielding hoes and racing to finish our chores so that we could play with our cousins…Lígia…Everything came crumbling down…I wandered aimlessly and, spendthrift, frittered away my time…Now…I get up and sidestep the guests drifting drowsily around the dining hall, walk through the curtain of colorful plastic strips, lumber up the wood stairs and down the hall, then open the door. The clamor of the street penetrates the room, heavy with the scent of feijoada that wafts in from somewhere—possibly the hotel kitchen. I drop my backpack on the bed. Separate my clothes—clean in one compartment and dirty in the other, along with the plastic bag (shampoo, conditioner, soap, deodorant, dental floss, toothpaste and toothbrush). From the zippered compartment, I take out the Cebion tube, a small packet of Dimorf, and a makeshift brown-paper package held together with Scotch tape. I uncap the tube, pull out the last few bills, and slide them into my wallet. I pop out each of the fifty morphine pills, tip them into the Cebion tube, and return the tube to the zippered compartment along with the brown-paper package. I toss the unopened can of Coke, the crushed toothpaste box, and the empty pill packets and blister packs into the wastebasket. I scan the room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I lean out the window over the damp towel and take a deep breath of the muggy morning air. I sling on my backpack, put on my cap, shut the door, walk down the hallway and stairs, and step onto the worm-eaten wood parquet. I stop at the counter and ring the bell—the old black-and-white photograph of Cataguases, already quite faded. Pereira appears, “Leaving already?” he asks, rote. “That’s right,” I say, as he takes the key and hooks it to the spot on the corkboard reserved for number nine. Pereira opens the black notebook, “In terms of extras, we’ve got one meal. Is that right?” I say yes, and he tells me what I owe him. I grab my wallet and pull out a bill. Pereira presses a couple of buttons on the cash register and pulls the crank; the drawer shoots open with a ring. He hands me some change, which I slide into my pocket. I shake his hand. “Safe travels! Come again,” he says. I turn, hear the ring-ring of the drawer closing, and cut across the lobby, where a man reclines in one of the greasy-looking red napa-leather armchairs with white frieze, smoking as he reads Jornal Cataguases with rapt attention. I step onto the sidewalk, teeming with people. True-Blue Ricardo…I remember the advice of the woman on the bus and change the position of my backpack, slinging it over my chest to avoid any issues, even though I have nothing worth stealing. I zigzag, dodging people here and there, the sun stoking the street vendors’ cries on my way to the coach terminal. At Mom’s funeral, Ricardo, perspiring in a black suit and sunglasses, had held out his fat hand and said, My condolences. We were at the entrance to São Sebastião Church, in Rodeiro, where the wake was held on a stuffy November afternoon. There were no longer monkeys in the trees of the square, which people referred to as the garden, and the sloth
that had piqued our curiosity when we used to make the trip from the countryside to church—during summer holidays and wearing our Sunday best—was long gone. Mom had died in the middle of the night. I’d been given fair warning and driven to Cataguases the evening before. Don’t wait till the weekend, Isinha had said over the phone. In the hospital, we gathered around her eyes, the only part of her body the illness hadn’t depleted. She ran her thin, dry hand over each of our faces in farewell, and appeared happy to see us together again—even Dad, who was clean and sober that day, a caricature of the man he’d once been. Somehow, in that moment, we were once again the good, obedient, responsible, and bright-futured children she’d always believed we were as kids. Though I pretended not to notice Ricardo’s gesture, he angrily wove his arm through mine and pulled me onto the street in feigned intimacy, as though to discuss the mournful reason we were gathered there that day. I tried to break free from him, but he kept a firm grip. You think you’re better than me, don’t you? he hissed between gritted teeth, his breath shot through with whiskey. But you’re as much of a fuckup as anybody, Peninha. This isn’t the time or place for us to hash out our differences, Ricardo, I said. But he pressed on. You go around talking shit about me, spreading lies and painting yourself as a saint…I may not be better than you, Ricardo, but my conscience is clear. That’s all, I said. What are you insinuating? I may not have much, but I’ve worked for every scrap of it. Are you implying I’m crooked? Is that it? You said it, not me. He shoved me off and spat, his voice quivering—by that point we were edging the wall around the Spartano soccer field—You’ve got nothing because you’re an amateur! Sure, I inherited some stuff from my father, but none of it was in order. His generation didn’t believe in documentation. I had to sell off some houses to clear up others. I took out a loan from the bank—and I’ve got proof—to put up that building in Vila Teresa. While you were happy pansying around as a traveling salesman, Rosana and I worked around the clock to give Tamires a better life. Tamires, I was about to say, Tamires, that poor…But I kept mum. Everybody knows you’re a loan shark, Ricardo…Loan shark? I’ve got good money set aside. Folks who’ve been blacklisted, who can’t get a credit line at the bank, who’re desperate, they come to me and I scare up the cash…What harm is there in that? Your criminal interest rates, I said. Of course my interest rates are higher than banks. After all, I’ve got no collateral…Your…Your…But your henchmen are the collateral, Ricardo. I said. Already red from the sun, he looked as though he might burst any second, like a ruby-red balloon. Henchmen?! That’s a low blow—and bigoted too! So, some of my employees have got rap sheets for theft, drug trafficking. They’re just guys who fell in with the wrong crowd because they were naive or poor. Men who did their time, but nobody will hire. I try to help them reenter society, and what do I get in return? Your judgment? Come on…People should be lining up to thank me for giving jobs to folks who might otherwise go back to a life of crime…I was familiar with True-Blue Ricardo’s methods. On the due date, his employees would show up at the debtor’s house, and if the poor sod couldn’t pay off the money he owed, they’d make off with something of value—sometimes even a family member…And woe be to the welcher who tried to rise up against him! The people I work with, Peninha, he continued, aren’t allowed to touch illegal substances, and if they get caught drunk, it’s sayonara. I’ve got dozens of godchildren across the city…Folks grateful to me for the loans I give…Rosana and me, we donate food to the needy every month. Do you do anything to help others, Peninha? Do you do anything for the poor? I’m a member of Rotary, and make a monthly donation to both the National Association for Parents of Exceptional Children and São Vicente de Paulo. On Christmas, my henchmen—as you call them—distribute presents to children who live in slums. What about you, Peninha? Have you ever helped anybody, in your whole life? Huh? “Please help,” says a vagrant on the sidewalk outside the coach terminal, stinking of sweat and piss as he reaches his filthy hand toward me. I step around him and into the small hall, its ceramic floor dark with grime, where bystanders patiently await their arrival and departure times, eyes glued to the screen. My forehead, feet, and underarms are drenched in sweat. The wall clock reads 10:45. I take a long sip of chilled water from the drinking fountain, then head over to the ticket booth. “Good morning,” I say. The clerk’s mustache remains still. “When’s the next bus to Rodeiro?” His mustache speaks, “11:35.” “One, please. A window seat if possible.” I take my wallet from my back pocket. “What time does it get there?” I ask. “Around 12:45,” grumbles the mustache. I ask him what I owe, pay, collect my change, and slip it into my wallet. I’m running out of money…I slide my ticket into my shirt pocket, shuffle over to the wood bench, take off my backpack, and get comfortable. On the television, cartoon heroes are busy fighting evil. Dad’s health took a turn for the worse in the last few months of his life. Isinha used to call with news on Sunday mornings, the only time when she knew she would find me. He’s had a stroke; he’s in the hospital. He’s back home now, but he’s bedridden and can’t talk. He’s in diapers, eating through a straw. You should go see him before it’s too late. He’s in the hospital again; he can only breathe with an oxygen tank. The doctors had disabused him of any hope. Marília would say to me, I don’t get it. We feel sorry for animals. We take them to the vet and ask for them to be put down. Why can’t we do the same to end the suffering of our loved ones? That’s why I’ve never wanted a pet. So that I wouldn’t get attached. Sino, whom we had for years, wasn’t so much an animal as the eighth member of our family. He disappeared the night before the…that…tragedy…befell us. When Dad came home from the factory, he was surprised not to see Sino waiting for him at the street corner like he usually did. He asked Mom, Where’s Sino, and, overwhelmed by all the commissions, she said, Like I’ve got time to keep track of a dog! He asked me, Where’s Sino, and I said I’d been out all day running errands for Mom. He asked Isinha, Where’s Sino, but Isinha never knew anything. Frustrated, Dad scrubbed his hands with Pasta Joia and gargled mint tea. He carefully put away his shoes and headed into the bathroom to shower and shave. He sat at the table in his pajamas, smelling pungently of Aqua Velva, and we all—Dad, Isinha, and me—ate our minestrone dinner in silence. Unnerved, instead of turning in, he changed into clothes and we went around the neighborhood to ask if anyone had seen the dog, to no success. We came home late, he apprehensive and me quiet. He broke with routine and sat on the low veranda wall by the entrance, smoking, when normally he’d have smoked his last cigarette on his walk home from Industrial. He caught Rosana climbing out of Ricardo’s car at around eleven p.m. and startled her; João Lúcio was at the barracks fulfilling his military service. I heard his steps coughing through the night. We were still waiting for Sino to come home the next day when I heard the sound…I ran to the kitchen, the wall clock was in pieces on the floor…Mom hurried into the living room, and I rushed after her. She clung to me and tried to cover my eyes, her body trembling, quiet and distraught. That’s when I saw the body sprawled on the sofa, blood trickling down the yellow corduroy, eyes wide open. Lígia…Behind us Isinha stood stock-still in the doorway. A woman in a headscarf sweeps the floor. A green-and-yellow bus with the destination sign Cataguases–Ubá pulls into a parking space. I get up, sling my backpack to the side, take my ticket from my shirt pocket, check the seat number—eleven—and wait to board. The fare collector has the same mustache as the man working the booth—they must be related—and stands at the bus door to check our tickets. Before me are an old man with a crackling-new polyester bag, a couple dressed for mass, and a fat woman perched on a pair of high heels. I put my backpack in the overhead bin, take a seat by the window, and study the other travelers. There aren’t many of us. I count ten, which, added to the four people who got on before me, makes fourteen passengers—fifteen, including myself—sitting scattered around the bus. It will take an hour and ten minutes to travel forty-five kilometers. We’ll make several stops on the way. Dona Eusébia.
Astolfo Dutra. Sobral Pinto. Diamante. Rodeiro. I never came back for Dad’s funeral. We had driven to Paraná to see the Kempczynskis, Marília’s Polish family—parents, siblings, uncles and aunts—for Labor Day weekend. He died on May 1 and was buried on May 3, 1997. Though I’d promised to visit the family plot and pay my respects at the earliest opportunity, I’d put it off and off and then off again until finally it slipped my mind altogether. I’m going to keep my promise. The bus driver, spotless in his uniform, gets on, adjusts the side view mirrors, crosses himself, rearranges the seat, and reverses. Outside, the fare collector helps him maneuver. The woman, with her headscarf, dustpan and broom, sweeps up piles of trash on the curb. The fare collector gets in, the driver shuts the door, honks, rounds the coach terminal, and I catch a quick glimpse of Alcides, Alcides the Beast, lurking in his lair. I throw open the window. Hot air whips my face. I never admitted to anyone that I had told Lígia about the gun. I stopped attending mass, not wanting to confess to the priest the mistake, the misstep, that continues to haunt and suffocate and devastate me. The bus stops at Avenida Astolfo Dutra. The fare collector gets off and tosses a lumpy burlap sack into the luggage compartment. Two passengers get on, a tall man, gaunt, head stuffed in a straw hat, and a young woman holding a baby under a veil. Though at first the gun caused confusion, Dad finally explained he’d bought it a year and a half earlier to protect the family after two strangers broke into the house. A .22-caliber Caramuru. I got it to scare off the burglars, it was just to scare off the burglars, he swore, disconsolate, I never would’ve dreamed…The bus leaves behind cars parked on cobblestone streets in front of low-slung houses where laid tables anxiously await Saturday lunch, and clatters onto the asphalt road. It was cold on that July afternoon in 1975. The exact date has fallen into oblivion. Mom was working in the basement with Isinha, who was probably playing with Durvalina, the cat. The silence was almost perfect, broken only by the rat-tat-tat of the sewing machine. I was wearing an orange turtleneck, a hand-me-down from João Lúcio. I was bored and had the sudden urge to show off to someone. I strode into the girls’ bedroom and sat on Rosana’s empty bed. Lígia was lying in the top bunk engrossed in a book, and either didn’t notice I was there or else decided to ignore me, which was not unusual for her. After a few minutes of me restlessly shuffling my feet and clearing my throat, I asked, Hey, what’re you reading? She patiently moved the book away from her face and marked the page with her index finger. Steppenwolf, she said. Is it any good? I pressed, before she could start reading again. What do you want, Zézo? she asked. I’ve found something amazing, I said. Impassive, she replied, Oh, really? Wow! and opened her book again. It really is amazing, I insisted, trying to pique her curiosity. Is that right? Lígia gave up and closed the book. I went to the door, glanced around, and came back. I boasted under my breath, A gun…A gun?! she exclaimed with excitement as she leapt out of the bunk. A gun, Zézo?! Where? The bus speeds down the steep Barão de Camargo hill, past the abandoned railway station whose train tracks are dusted with residues of yellow earth from bauxite-laden freight cars, then crosses the bridge over Rio Pomba, whose riverbed is shallow from the ore wash, and turns onto the highway toward Dona Eusébia. I was so enthralled by the power of my secret that it wasn’t enough to just share it—I needed something in return. What do I get for showing you the gun? I asked. She thought for a second. I’ll take you on the ghost train! There was an amusement park set up in the Cataguases stadium, and Lígia knew I was desperate to go. You don’t have money, I needled. I do too, she said, then snapped, Are you gonna show it to me or what? I hesitated as I tried to decide which was worth more, my secret or a ride on a ghost train…But Lígia was shrewd. She climbed back on the top bunk, picked up her book, stretched her legs, and sneered, You’re lying, there’s no gun. The tall man, gaunt, head stuffed in a hat, rises, walks up to the driver and says something. The bus slows down and stops on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere. The man steps off the bus and is swallowed by dust. The fare collector follows him and opens the luggage compartment, takes out the lumpy burlap sack, then sets it on the ground. The sky is perfectly blue, cloudless, the hills green and bare of trees. The bus clatters back onto the road, which still flanks Rio Pomba. Heat drenches my clothes. I take off my hat, wipe my head with my shirt sleeve, and put my hat back on. The wind that gusts through the cracked-open window is as warm as the air around a woodstove. Like a fool, I fell into Lígia’s trap. I thought I was being challenged, so I said, No gun, huh? Come and see for yourself! We crept into Mom and Dad’s bedroom. I slowly hauled over the nightstand and climbed onto it. Eye-level with the top of the wardrobe, I shoved the shoebox with Christmas ornaments out of the way, stretched my arm as far as it would go, and pulled the other box to the edge. I grabbed it, got down, laid the box on the bed, opened it, and showed Lígia the green-felt bundle. Slowly, I unwrapped the felt, relishing the suspense, and revealed the gun—chrome body, wood handle, on its side the word Caramuru. Lígia stared at the revolver, unmoving, her eyes sorrowful. Though she wanted to hold it, I wouldn’t let her, out of fear and a sense of possessiveness. I felt as if the gun were mine, after all I’d found it. See? I faltered, hands shaking and breath uneven. Panting, I wrapped the gun back up in the green felt, climbed on the chair and then onto the nightstand, eye-level with the top of the wardrobe, shoved the box toward the wall, got down, hauled the nightstand back, and put the chair in its place. We left the room in silence, and shut the door gently behind us. Back in the top bunk, before returning to her book, Lígia said, both breathless and dismissive, It’s old, probably doesn’t even work…We never spoke of it again—not even about the ride on the ghost train. Frightened by what I’d discovered, I began avoiding Mom and Dad’s bedroom. The next time I saw the gun was at four thirty on the afternoon of September 3…Fallen on the rug, in a small puddle of blood that was slowly growing…Along the highway are greenhouses with orange, tangerine, lime, acerola, pitanga, star fruit, and mango saplings, shops selling decorative plants (azaleas, dracaenas, palms, bromeliads) and native trees (golden and pink trumpet trees, ironwood, angico, cedar, and jatoba), and a fruit-juice factory, all of which announce the imminence of Dona Eusébia. The bus lazily draws into the city and pulls up at a stop opposite a bakery. Three people get off—the fat woman perched on a pair of high heels, a scrawny teenager with black curly hair who hangs off her cell phone, and a young man in a screamingly yellow shirt. Five more passengers get on: an old couple with a threadbare travel bag, a man who reeks of cachaça and greets everyone as he walks down the aisle, a young man with enormous headphones that press against his temples, and another who judders uncomfortably in a suit several sizes too large, Bible tucked under his arm. The fare collector makes a show of closing the luggage compartment, grabs a small paper bag from the bakery counter, and gets back on the bus, which sets off. The fare collector takes a cream donut from the paper bag, wraps it in a bouquet of napkins, and hands it to his colleague. He takes out the second cream donut and bites into it with gusto, licking his hands and mouth. The young believer who’d just gotten on the bus has decided to change seats, perhaps bothered by the drunk clowning around in the back, making other passengers laugh, and sits beside me. He nods hello, opens the Bible, and starts reading. The fare collector takes a handkerchief from his pant pocket, and wipes his hands and mouth. The driver grabs a bottle of water and takes a long glug then says something, voice dulled by the rumbling of the bus outside the landscape seems muted by the heat