She lay down, fanning herself impatiently with a rustling newspaper in the bedroom. She picked up her handkerchief, breathing it in as she crumpled the coarse embroidery in her reddened fingers. She went back to fanning herself, on the verge of smiling. Oh, dear, she sighed, laughing. She envisioned her bright still-young lady’s smile, and smiled even more closing her eyes, fanning herself more deeply still. Oh, dear, came from the street like a butterfly.
“Good day, do you know who came looking for me here at the house?” she thought as a possible and interesting topic of conversation. “Well I don’t know, who?” they asked her with a gallant smile, sorrowful eyes in one of those pale faces that so harm a person. “Why, Maria Quitéria, man!” she chirped merrily, hands by her side. “And begging your pardon, who is this young lady?” they persisted gallantly, but now without distinct features. “You!” she cut off the conversation with faint resentment, what a bore.
Oh what a succulent bedroom! she was fanning herself in Brazil. The sun caught in the blinds quivered on the wall like a Portuguese guitar. The Rua do Riachuelo rumbled under the panting weight of the trams coming from the Rua Mem de Sá. She listened curious and bored to the rattling of the china cabinet in the parlour. Impatiently, she turned onto her stomach, and as she lovingly stretched out her dainty toes, awaited her next thought with open eyes. “Finders, seekers,” she chimed as if it were a popular saying, the kind that always ended up sounding like some truth. Until she fell asleep with her mouth open, her drool moistening the pillow.
She awoke only when her husband came home from work and entered the bedroom. She didn’t want to have dinner or go out of her way, she fell back asleep: let the man help himself to the leftovers from lunch.
And, since the children were at their aunties’ farm in Jacarepaguá, she took the opportunity to wake up feeling peculiar: murky and light in bed, one of those moods, who knows. Her husband emerged already dressed and she didn’t even know what the man had done for breakfast, and didn’t even glance at his suit, whether it needed brushing, little did she care if today was his day to deal with matters downtown. But when he leaned over to kiss her, her lightness crackled like a dry leaf:
“Get away from me!”
“What’s the matter with you?” her husband asks astonished, immediately attempting a more effective caress.
Obstinate, she wouldn’t know how to answer, so shallow and spoiled was she that she didn’t even know where to look for an answer. She lost her temper:
“Oh don’t pester me! don’t come prowling around like an old rooster!”
He seemed to think better of it and declared:
“Come now, young lady, you’re ill.”
She acquiesced, surprised, flattered. All day long she stayed in bed, listening to the house, so silent without the racket from the little ones, without the man who’d have lunch downtown today. All day long she stayed in bed. Her wrath was tenuous, ardent. She only got up to go to the lavatory, whence she returned noble, offended.
The morning became a long, drawn-out afternoon that became depthless night dawning innocently through the house.
She still in bed, peaceful, improvised. She loved . . . In advance she loved the man she’d one day love. Who knows, it sometimes happened, and without guilt or any harm done to either of the two. In bed thinking, thinking, about to laugh as at a bit of gossip. Thinking, thinking. What? well, what did she know. That’s how she let herself go on.
From one moment to the next, infuriated, she was on her feet. But in the faintness of that first instant she seemed unhinged and fragile in the bedroom that was spinning, was spinning until she managed to grope her way back to bed, surprised that it might be true: “come now, woman, let’s see if you really are going to get sick!” she said with misgiving. She put her hand to her forehead to see if she’d come down with fever.
That night, until she fell asleep, she fantasticized, fantasticized: for how many minutes? until she passed out: fast asleep, snoring along with her husband.
She awoke behind in the day, the potatoes still to be peeled, the little ones returning from their aunties’ in the afternoon, oh I’ve even let myself go!, the day to get the wash done and mend the socks, oh what a trollop you’ve turned out to be!, she chided herself curiously and contentedly, go to the shops, don’t forget the fish, behind in the day, the morning hectic with sun.
But on Saturday night they went to the tavern in the Praça Tiradentes at the invitation of that ever-so-prosperous businessman, she in that new little dress that while not quite showy was still made of top-quality fabric, the kind that would last a lifetime. Saturday night, drunk in the Praça Tiradentes, drunk but with her husband by her side to vouchsafe her, and she ceremonious around the other man, so much classier and wealthier, attempting to engage him in conversation, since she wasn’t just any old village gossip and had once lived in the Capital. But it was impossible to be more hammered.
And if her husband wasn’t drunk, that’s because he didn’t want to be disrespectful to the businessman, and, dutifully and humbly, let the other man rule the roost. Which well suited the classy occasion, but gave her one of those urges to start laughing! that scornful mocking! she looked at her husband stuffed into his new suit and thought him such a joke! It was impossible to be more hammered but without ever losing her ladylike pride. And the vinho verde draining from her glass.
And when she was drunk, as during a sumptuous Sunday dinner, all things that by their own natures are separate from each other — scent of olive oil on one side, man on the other, soup tureen on one side, waiter on the other — were peculiarly united by their own natures, and it all amounted to one riotous debauchery, one band of rogues.
And if her eyes were glittering and hard, if her gestures were difficult stages of finally reaching the toothpick dispenser, in fact on the inside she was even feeling quite well, she was that laden cloud gliding along effortlessly. Her swollen lips and white teeth, and the wine puffing her up. And that vanity of being drunk enabling such disdain for everything, making her ripe and round like a big cow.
Naturally she kept up the conversation. For she lacked neither subject nor talent. But the words a person spoke while drunk were like being gravid — words merely in her mouth, which had little to do with the secret center which was like a pregnancy. Oh how peculiar she felt. On Saturday night her everyday soul was lost, and how good it was to lose it, and as a sole memento from those former days her small hands, so mistreated — and here she was now with her elbows on the red-and-white checked tablecloth as if on a card table, profoundly launched into a low and revolutionizing life. And this burst of laughter? that burst of laughter coming mysteriously from her full, white throat, in response to the businessman’s finesse, a burst of laughter coming from the depth of that sleep, and the depth of that assurance of one who possesses a body. Her snow-white flesh was sweet as a lobster’s, the legs of a live lobster wriggling slowly in the air. And that urge to feel wicked so as to deepen the sweetness into awfulness. And that little wickedness of whoever has a body.
She kept up the conversation, and heard with curiosity what she herself was replying to the wealthy businessman who, with such good timing, had invited them out and paid for their meal. Intrigued and bewildered she heard what she herself was replying: what she said in this condition would be a good omen for the future — already she was no longer a lobster, she was a hard sign: Scorpio. Since she was born in November.
A searchlight as one sleeps that sweeps across the dawn — such was her drunkenness wandering slowly at these heights.
At the same time, what sensibility! but what sensibility! when she looked at that superbly painted picture in the restaurant, she immediately brimmed with artistic sensibility. No one could convince her that she really hadn’t been born for other things. She’d always been partial to works of art.
Oh what sensibility! now not only because of the paintin
g of grapes and pears and a dead fish glittering with scales. Her sensibility was uncomfortable without being painful, like a broken nail. And if she wanted she could allow herself the luxury of becoming even more sensitive, she could go further still: because she was protected by a situation, protected like everyone who had attained a position in life. Like someone prevented from a downfall of her own. Oh I’m so unhappy, dear Mother. If she wanted she could pour even more wine into her glass and, protected by the position she’d achieved in life, get even drunker, as long as she didn’t lose her pride. And like that, drunker still, she cast her eyes around the restaurant, and oh the scorn for the dull people in the restaurant, not a single man who was a real man, who was truly sad. What scorn for the dull people in the restaurant, whereas she was swollen and heavy, she couldn’t possibly be more generous. And everything in the restaurant so remote from each other as if one thing could never speak to another. Each one for himself, and God for all.
Her eyes fixed yet again on that young lady who, from the moment she’d entered, irritated her like mustard in the nose. Right when she’d entered she noticed her sitting at a table with her man, all full of hats and ostentation, blonde like a false coin, all saintly and posh — what a fancy hat she had! — bet she wasn’t even married, and flaunting that saintly attitude. And with her fancy hat placed just so. Well let her make the most of that sanctimony! and she’d better not make a mess of all that nobility. The most little goody two-shoes were the most depraved. And the waiter, that big dolt, serving her so attentively, the rascal: and the sallow man with her turning a blind eye to it. And that oh-so-holy saint all proud of her hat, all modest with her dainty little waist, bet she couldn’t even give him, her man, a son. Oh this had nothing to do with her, honestly: from the moment she’d entered she’d felt the urge to go slap her senseless, right in her saintly blonde girlish face, that little hat-wearing aristocrat. Who didn’t even have any curves, who was flat-chested. And I’ll bet you that, for all her hats, she was no more than a greengrocer passing herself off as a grande dame.
Oh, how humiliating to have come to the tavern without a hat, her head now felt naked. And that other one with her ladylike airs, pretending to be refined. I know just what you need, you little aristocrat, and your sallow man too! And if you think I’m jealous of you and your flat chest, I’ll have you know that I don’t give a toss, I don’t give a bloody toss about your hats. Lowlife floozies like you, playing hard to get, I’ll slap them senseless.
In her sacred wrath, she reached out her hand with difficulty and got a toothpick.
But at last the difficulty of getting home disappeared: she fidgeted now inside the familiar reality of her bedroom, now seated at the edge of her bed with her slipper dangling off her foot.
And, since she’d half-closed her bleary eyes, everything became flesh once more, the foot of the bed made of flesh, the window made of flesh, the suit made of flesh her husband had tossed on the chair, and everything nearly aching. And she, bigger and bigger, reeling, swollen, gigantic. If only she could get closer to herself, she’d see she was bigger still. Each of her arms could be traversed by a person, while unaware it was an arm, and you could dive into each eye and swim without knowing it was an eye. And all around everything aching a little. The things made of flesh had neuralgia. It was the little chill she’d caught while leaving the eatery.
She was sitting on the bed, subdued, skeptical.
And this was nothing yet, God only knew: she was well aware this was nothing yet. That right then things were happening to her that only later would really hurt and matter: once she returned to her normal size, her anaesthetized body would wake up throbbing and she’d pay for all that gorging and wine.
Well, since it’ll happen anyway, I may as well open my eyes now, which she did, and everything became smaller and more distinct, though without any pain at all. Everything, deep down, was the same, just smaller and familiar. She was sitting quite tense on her bed, her stomach so full, absorbed, resigned, with the gentleness of someone waiting for another to wake up. “You overstuff yourself and I end up paying the price,” she said to herself melancholically, gazing at her little white toes. She looked around, patient, obedient. Oh, words, words, bedroom objects lined up in word order, forming those muddled, bothersome sentences that whoever can read, shall. Tiresome, tiresome, oh what a bore. What a pain. Oh well, woe is me, God’s will be done. What could you do. Oh, I can hardly say what’s happening to me. Oh well, God’s will be done. And to think she’d had so much fun tonight! and to think it had been so good, and the restaurant so to her liking, sitting elegantly at the table. Table! the world screamed at her. But she didn’t even respond, shrugging her shoulders with a pouty tsk-tsk, vexed, don’t come pestering me with caresses; disillusioned, resigned, gorged, married, content, the vague nausea.
Right then she went deaf: one of her senses was missing. She slammed her palm hard against her ear, which only made things worse: for her eardrum filled with the noise of an elevator, life suddenly sonorous and heightened in its slightest movements. It was one or the other: either she was deaf or hearing too much — she reacted to this new proposition with a mischievous and uncomfortable sensation, with a sigh of subdued satiety. To hell with it, she said softly, annihilated.
“And when at the restaurant . . . ,” she suddenly recalled. When she’d been at the restaurant her husband’s benefactor had slid a foot up against hers under the table, and above the table that face of his. Because it happened to fit or on purpose? That devil. Someone, to be honest, who was really quite interesting. She shrugged.
And when atop her full cleavage — right there in the Praça Tiradentes!, she thought shaking her head incredulously — that fly had landed on her bare skin? Oh how naughty.
Certain things were good because they were almost nauseating: that sound like an elevator in her blood, while her man was snoring beside her, her plump children piled up in the other bedroom asleep, those little scallywags. Oh what’s got into me! she thought desperately. Had she eaten too much? oh what’s got into me, my goodness!
It was sadness.
Her toes fiddling with her slipper. The not-so-clean floor. How careless and lazy you’ve turned out. Not tomorrow, because her legs wouldn’t be doing so well. But the day after tomorrow just wait and see that house of hers: she’d give it a good scrub with soap and water and scrape off all that grime! just wait and see her house! she threatened wrathfully. Oh she felt so good, so rough, as if she still had milk in her breasts, so strong. When her husband’s friend saw her looking so pretty and fat he immediately respected her. And when she began to feel ashamed she didn’t know where to look. Oh what sadness. What can you possibly do. Seated at the edge of the bed, blinking in resignation. How well you could see the moon on these summer nights. She leaned forward ever so slightly, indifferent, resigned. The moon. How well you could see it. The high, yellow moon gliding across the sky, poor little thing. Gliding, gliding . . . Up high, up high. The moon. Then the profanity exploded from her in a sudden fit of love: bitch, she said laughing.
Love
(“Amor”)
A little tired, the groceries stretching out her new knit sack, Ana boarded the tram. She placed the bundle in her lap and the tram began to move. She then settled back in her seat trying to get comfortable, with a half-contented sigh.
Ana’s children were good, something true and succulent. They were growing up, taking their baths, demanding for themselves, misbehaved, ever more complete moments. The kitchen was after all spacious, the faulty stove gave off small explosions. The heat was stifling in the apartment they were paying off bit by bit. But the wind whipping the curtains she herself had cut to measure reminded her that if she wanted she could stop and wipe her brow, gazing at the calm horizon. Like a farmhand. She had sown the seeds she held in her hand, no others, but these alone. And trees were growing. Her brief conversation with the electric bill collector was growing, the
water in the laundry sink was growing, her children were growing, the table with food was growing, her husband coming home with the newspapers and smiling with hunger, the tiresome singing of the maids in the building. Ana gave to everything, tranquilly, her small, strong hand, her stream of life.
A certain hour of the afternoon was more dangerous. A certain hour of the afternoon the trees she had planted would laugh at her. When nothing else needed her strength, she got worried. Yet she felt more solid than ever, her body had filled out a bit and it was a sight to see her cut the fabric for the boys’ shirts, the large scissors snapping on the cloth. All her vaguely artistic desire had long since been directed toward making the days fulfilled and beautiful; over time, her taste for the decorative had developed and supplanted her inner disorder. She seemed to have discovered that everything could be perfected, to each thing she could lend a harmonious appearance; life could be wrought by the hand of man.
Deep down, Ana had always needed to feel the firm root of things. And this is what a home bewilderingly had given her. Through winding paths, she had fallen into a woman’s fate, with the surprise of fitting into it as if she had invented it. The man she’d married was a real man, the children she’d had were real children. Her former youth seemed as strange to her as one of life’s illnesses. She had gradually emerged from it to discover that one could also live without happiness: abolishing it, she had found a legion of people, previously invisible, who lived the way a person works — with persistence, continuity, joy. What had happened to Ana before she had a home was forever out of reach: a restless exaltation so often mistaken for unbearable happiness. In exchange she had created something at last comprehensible, an adult life. That was what she had wanted and chosen.
Complete Stories Page 12