I said:
“Your poem is so wonderful. Do you have any others?”
“I have another one, but you must be getting annoyed with me. You must want me to go.”
“I don’t want you to go just yet. I’ll let you know when it’s time for you to leave. Because I go to bed early.”
He looked for the poem in the pages of his notebook, didn’t find it, gave up. He said:
“I know a thing or two about you. And I’ve even met your ex-husband.”
I kept silent.
“You’re pretty.”
I kept silent.
I was very sad. And at a loss for how to help him. It’s a terrible powerlessness, not knowing how to help.
He said to me:
“If I commit suicide one day . . .”
“There’s no way you’re committing suicide,” I cut him off. “Because it’s our duty to live. And living can be good. Believe me.”
I was the one about to cry.
There was nothing I could do.
I asked where he lived. He said he had a tiny apartment in Botafogo. I said: “Go home and sleep.”
“First I have to see my son, he’s got a fever.”
“What’s your son’s name?”
He told me. I replied: “I have a son with that name.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to give you a children’s book that I once wrote for my sons. Read it aloud to yours.”
I gave him the book, wrote a dedication. He put the book into a kind of portfolio. And I in despair.
“Do you want some Coca-Cola?”
“You’re crazy about offering people coffee and Coca-Cola.”
“It’s because I have nothing else to offer.”
At the door he kissed my hand. I walked him to the elevator, pushed the button for the ground floor and said to him: “Go with God, for God’s sake.”
The elevator went down. I went back in, turned off the lights, told my friend he was gone and she soon left, I changed clothes, took a sleeping pill — and sat in the dark living room smoking a cigarette. I recalled how Cláudio, a few minutes earlier, had asked for the cigarette I was smoking. I gave it to him. He smoked it. He also said: “one day I’m going to kill somebody.”
“That’s not true, I don’t believe you.”
He also told me how he’d once shot a dog to put it out of its misery. I asked if he’d ever seen a film that in English was called They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? and in Portuguese Night of the Desperate. Yes, he’d seen it.
I sat there smoking. My dog was watching me in the dark.
That was yesterday, Saturday. Today is Sunday, May twelfth, Mother’s Day. How can I be a mother to this man? I ask myself and there’s no answer.
There’s no answer for anything.
I went to bed. I had died.
He Drank Me Up
(“Ele me bebeu”)
Yes. It actually happened.
Serjoca was a makeup artist. But he didn’t want anything to do with women. He wanted men.
And he always did Aurélia Nascimento’s makeup. Aurélia was pretty and, with makeup on, she was a knockout. She was blonde, wore a wig and false eyelashes. They became friends. They went out together, the kind of thing where you go out to dinner at a nightclub.
Whenever Aurélia wanted to look beautiful she called Serjoca. Serjoca was good-looking too. He was slim and tall.
And that’s how things went. A phone call and they’d make a date. She’d get dressed up, she went all out. She wore contact lenses. And stuffed her bra. But her own breasts were beautiful, pointy. She only stuffed her bra because she was flat-chested. Her mouth was a rosy red bud. And her teeth large and white.
One day, at six in the evening, at the peak of rush hour, Aurélia and Serjoca were standing outside the Copacabana Palace Hotel and waiting in vain for a taxi. Serjoca, worn out, was leaning against a tree. Aurélia impatient. She suggested giving the doorman ten cruzeiros to hail them a taxi. Serjoca refused: he was cheap.
It was almost seven. Getting dark. What to do?
Nearby was Affonso Carvalho. Metals magnate. He was waiting for his Mercedes and chauffeur. It was hot, the car was air-conditioned, with a phone and a fridge. Affonso had turned forty the day before.
He saw Aurélia’s impatience as she tapped her feet on the sidewalk. An attractive woman, thought Affonso. And in need of a ride. He turned to her:
“Having trouble finding a cab, miss?”
“I’ve been here since six o’clock and not one taxi has stopped to pick us up! I can’t take it anymore.”
“My chauffeur’s coming soon,” Affonso said. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
“I’d be so grateful, especially since my feet are hurting.”
But she didn’t say she had corns. She hid her flaw. She was heavily made-up and looked at the man with desire. Serjoca very quiet.
Finally the chauffeur pulled up, got out, opened the door. The three of them got in. She in front, next to the chauffeur, the two of them in the backseat. She took off her shoes discreetly and sighed in relief.
“Where do you want to go?”
“We don’t exactly have a destination,” Aurélia said, increasingly turned on by Affonso’s manly face.
He said:
“What if we went to Number One for a drink?”
“I’d love to,” Aurélia said. “Wouldn’t you, Serjoca?”
“Sure. I could use a stiff drink.”
So they went to the club, at this nearly deserted hour. And chatted. Affonso talked about metallurgy. The other two didn’t understand a thing. But they pretended to. It was tedious. But Affonso got all worked up and, under the table, slid his foot against Aurélia’s. The very foot that had corns. She reciprocated, aroused. Then Affonso said:
“What if we went back to my place for dinner? Today I’ve got escargot and chicken with truffles. How about it?”
“I’m famished.”
And Serjoca silent. Affonso turned him on too.
The apartment was carpeted in white and there was a Bruno Giorgi sculpture. They sat down, had another drink and went into the dining room. A jacaranda table. A waiter serving from the left. Serjoca didn’t know how to eat escargot and got all tripped up by the special utensils. He didn’t like it. But Aurélia really liked it, though she was afraid of getting garlic breath. But they drank French champagne all through dinner. No one wanted dessert, all they wanted was coffee.
And they went into the living room. Then Serjoca came to life. And started talking nonstop. He cast bedroom eyes at the industrialist. Affonso was astounded by the handsome young man’s eloquence. The next day he’d call Aurélia to tell her: Serjoca is the most charming person.
And they made another date. This time at a restaurant, the Albamar. To start, they had oysters. Once again, Serjoca had a hard time eating the oysters. I’m a loser, he thought.
But before they all met up, Aurélia had called Serjoca: she urgently needed her makeup done. He went over to her place.
Then, while she was getting her makeup done, she thought: Serjoca’s taking off my face.
She got the feeling he was erasing her features: empty, a face made only of flesh. Dark flesh.
She felt distress. She excused herself and went to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. It was just as she’d imagined: Serjoca had annulled her face. Even her bones — and she had spectacular bone structure — even her bones had disappeared. He’s drinking me up, she thought, he’s going to destroy me. And all because of Affonso.
She returned out of sorts. At the restaurant she hardly spoke. Affonso talked more with Serjoca, barely glancing at Aurélia: he was interested in the young man.
Finally, finally lunch was over.
Serjoca made a date with Affonso fo
r that evening. Aurélia said she couldn’t make it, she was tired. It was a lie: she wasn’t going because she had no face to show.
She got home, took a long bubble bath, lay there thinking: before you know it he’ll take away my body too. What could she do to take back what had been hers? Her individuality?
She got out of the bathtub lost in thought. She dried off with a huge red towel. Lost in thought the whole time. She stepped onto the scale: she was at a good weight. Before you know it he’ll take away my weight too, she thought.
She went over to the mirror. She looked at herself deeply. But she was no longer anything.
Then — then all of a sudden she slapped herself brutally on the left side of her face. To wake herself up. She stood still looking at herself. And, as if that weren’t enough, she slapped her face twice more. To find herself.
And it really happened.
In the mirror she finally saw a human face, sad, delicate. She was Aurélia Nascimento. She had just been born. Nas-ci-men-to.*
* * *
* “Birth.”
For the Time Being
(“Por enquanto”)
Since he had nothing to do, he went to pee. And then he really hit zero.
These things come with living: once in a while you hit zero. And all this is for the time being. While you’re alive.
Today a young woman called me in tears, saying her father had died. That’s how it is: just because.
One of my sons is abroad, the other one came over for lunch with me. The meat was so tough you could hardly chew it. But we drank some chilled rosé. And chatted. I’d asked him not to give in to the commercial pressure that exploits Mother’s Day. He did what I asked: he didn’t give me anything. Or rather he gave me everything: his presence.
I’ve been working all day, it’s ten to six. The phone’s not ringing. I am alone. Alone in the world and in space. And when I call someone, the phone rings and no one answers. Or someone does and says: they’re sleeping.
You have to know how to take it. Because that’s just how it is. Sometimes you have nothing to do and so you go pee.
But if that’s how God made us, then let us be that way. Empty-handed. With nothing to say.
Friday night I went to a party, I didn’t even know it was my friend’s birthday, his wife hadn’t told me. It was crowded. I noticed a lot of people there feeling uncomfortable.
What should I do? call myself? I’ll get a sad busy signal, I know it, once I absentmindedly dialed my own number. How can I wake someone who’s sleeping? how do I call the person I want to call? what can I do? Nothing: because it’s Sunday and even God rested. But I’ve been working alone all day.
But now the person who was sleeping woke up and is coming to see me at eight. It’s 6:05.
We’re having the so-called Indian Summer: sweltering heat. My fingers hurt from typing so much. Your fingertips are not to be taken lightly. It’s through the fingertips that we take in fluids.
Should I have offered to go to the funeral for the girl’s father? Death would be too much for me today. I know what I’ll do: I’ll eat. Then I’ll come back. I went to the kitchen, it so happens the cook’s not off today and she’ll warm up some food for me. My cook is tremendously fat: she weighs two hundred pounds. Two hundred pounds of insecurity, two hundred pounds of fear. I feel like kissing her smooth, black face but she wouldn’t understand. I came back to the typewriter while she warmed up the food. I realized I’m dying of hunger. I can hardly wait for her to call me.
Ah, I know what I’ll do: I’ll change clothes. Then I’ll eat, and then I’ll come back to the typewriter. See you soon.
Now I’ve eaten. It was wonderful. I had a little rosé. Now I’ll have some coffee. And turn on the air conditioning in the living room: in Brazil air conditioning isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity. Especially for someone who, like me, suffers terribly from the heat. It’s six-thirty. I turned on my transistor radio. It’s tuned in to the Ministry of Education program. Oh what sad music! you don’t have to be sad to be refined. I’m going to invite Chico Buarque, Tom Jobim and Caetano Veloso over and ask them to bring their guitars. I want joy, melancholy is slowly killing me.
Whenever we start asking ourselves: what for? then things aren’t going well. And I’m asking myself what for. But I am very well aware that it’s only “for the time being.” It’s twenty to seven. What’s it twenty to seven for?
Meanwhile I made a phone call and, to my utmost exultation, it’s now ten to seven. Never in my life have I spoken the phrase “to my utmost exultation.” It’s very strange. Once in a while I get a bit Machadian. Speaking of Machado de Assis, I miss him. It seems like a lie but I don’t have a single book of his on my shelf. As for José de Alencar, I don’t even remember if I’ve ever read him.
I miss some things. I miss my sons, yes, flesh of my flesh. Weak flesh and I haven’t read every single book. La chair est triste.*
But we smoke and soon feel better. It’s five to seven. If I let myself go, I’ll die. It’s very easy. It’s a matter of the clock stopping. It’s three to seven. Should I turn on the television or not? But it’s so boring to watch television by yourself.
But I finally made up my mind and I’m going to turn on the television. We die sometimes.
* * *
* French: “The flesh is sad.”
Day After Day
(“Dia após dia”)
Today is May thirteenth. The day the slaves were freed. Monday. Market day. I turned on the transistor radio and the Blue Danube was playing. I was overjoyed. I got dressed, went out, bought flowers in honor of the man who died yesterday. Red and white carnations. As I’ve been repeating to exhaustion someday we die. And we die in red and white. The man who died was pure: he worked for the good of humanity, warning that the world’s food supply would run out. His wife, Laura, remains. A strong woman, a clairvoyant woman, with black hair and black eyes. In a few days I’ll visit her. Or at least talk to her on the phone.
Yesterday, May twelfth, Mother’s Day, the people who said they were coming over didn’t. But a couple that I’m friends with came and we went to dinner. It’s better that way. I don’t want to depend on anyone anymore. What I want is the Blue Danube. And not the “Valse Triste” by Sibellius, if that’s how you spell his name.
I went out again, down to Mr. Manuel’s corner bar to change out the batteries in my radio. Here’s what I said to him:
“Sir, do you remember the man playing the harmonica on Saturday? He was a great writer.”
“Sure, I remember. He’s a sad case. It’s shell shock. He drinks all over town.”
I left.
When I got home someone called to say: think twice before you write a pornographic book, think about whether this will add anything to your oeuvre. I replied:
“I’ve already asked my son’s permission, I told him not to read my book. I told him a little about the stories I wrote. He listened and said: it’s fine with me. I told him my first story was called ‘Miss Algrave.’ He said: ‘grave’ means tomb in English. Then I told him about the call from the girl in tears whose father had died. My son said to console me: he lived a lot. I said: he lived well.”
But the person who called got angry, I got angry, she hung up, I called back, she didn’t want to talk and hung up again.
If this book gets published with “mala suerte,” I’m lost. But we’re lost anyhow. There’s no escaping it. We all have shell shock.
I remembered something funny. A friend of mine came one day for the open-air market across from my house. But she was wearing shorts. And a vendor shouted at her:
“Check out those thighs! really in shape!”
My friend was furious and said to him:
“Your mom’s got nice thighs, asshole.”
The man laughed, that bastard.
Oh well. Who knows
whether this book will add anything to my oeuvre. My oeuvre be damned. I don’t know why people think literature is so important. And as for my good name? let it be damned too, I have other things to worry about.
I’m thinking, for example, about the friend who had a lump in her right breast and coped with her fear alone until, almost the night before the operation, she told me. We were terrified. The forbidden word: cancer. I prayed a lot. She prayed. And luckily it was benign, her husband called to tell me. The next day she called to say it had been just a “fluid sac.” I told her that next time she should make it a leather sack, that was more cheerful.
After buying the flowers and new batteries, I don’t have a single cruzeiro in the house. But in a while I’ll call the pharmacy, where they know me, and ask them to cash a check for a hundred cruzeiros. That way I can go over to the market.
But I’m Sagittarius and Scorpio, with Aquarius rising. And I hold grudges. One day a couple asked me to lunch on Sunday. And on Saturday afternoon, just like that, at the last minute, they called it off because they had to have lunch with a very important foreigner. Why didn’t they invite me too? why did they leave me alone on Sunday? So I got my revenge. I’m no saint. I never contacted them again. And I stopped accepting their invitations. Plain and simple.
I remembered I had a hundred cruzeiros in a purse. So I don’t have to call the pharmacy anymore. I hate asking favors. I don’t call anyone anymore. Whoever wants to can get in touch with me. And I won’t make it easy. No more playing games.
In a couple weeks I’m going to Brasília. To give a speech. But — when they call me to set the date — I’m going to make a request: that they not make a big deal of me. To keep it simple. I’ll stay in a hotel because I feel more comfortable that way. The awful thing is, when I give a speech, I get so nervous that I read too fast and no one can understand me. Once I took a chartered flight to Campos and gave a speech at the University there. Beforehand, they showed me books of mine translated into Braille. I didn’t know what to say. And there were blind people in the audience. I got nervous. Afterward there was a dinner in my honor. But I couldn’t take it, I excused myself and went to bed. In the morning they offered me a sweet called chuvisco made of eggs and sugar. We ate chuviscos at home for several days. I like getting presents. And giving them. It’s nice. Yolanda gave me chocolates. Marly gave me a lovely shopping bag. I gave Marly’s daughter a small gold saint charm. She’s a clever little girl and speaks French.
Complete Stories Page 48