Now I’m going to tell some stories about a little girl named Nicole. Nicole said to her older brother, named Marco: your long hair makes you look like a woman. Marco responded with a violent kick since he’s really a little man. Then Nicole quickly said:
“Don’t get mad, ’cause God’s a woman!”
And, softly, she whispered to her mother: “I know God’s a man, but I don’t want to get beat up!”
Nicole told her cousin, who was making a mess at their grandmother’s house: “don’t do that ’cause one time I did and Grandma punched me so hard I fainted.” Nicole’s mother found out, and scolded her. And she told the story to Marco. Marco said:
“That’s nothing. One time Adriana made a mess at Grandma’s house and I told her: ‘don’t do that ’cause one time I did and Grandma beat me up so bad I slept for a hundred years.’ ”
Didn’t I mention today was the day of the Blue Danube? I’m happy, in spite of that good man’s death, in spite of Cláudio Brito, in spite of that phone call about my miserable literary oeuvre. I’m going to have more coffee.
And Coca-Cola. Like Cláudio Brito said, I’m crazy about Coca-Cola and coffee.
My dog is scratching his ear and enjoying it so much he’s starting to moan. I’m his mother.
And I need money. But how lovely the Blue Danube is, it really is.
Long live the open-air market! Long live Cláudio Brito! (I changed his name, of course. Any resemblance is mere coincidence.) Long live me! who’s still alive.
And now I’m done.
The Sound of Footsteps
(“Ruído de passos”)
She was eighty-one years old. Her name was Mrs. Cândida Raposo.
Life made this old woman dizzy. The dizziness got worse whenever she spent a few days on a farm: the altitude, the green of the trees, the rain, they all made it worse. Whenever she listened to Liszt she got goose bumps all over. She’d been a beauty in her youth. And she got dizzy whenever she deeply inhaled the scent of a rose.
It so happened that for Mrs. Cândida Raposo the desire for pleasure didn’t go away.
She finally mustered the great courage to see a gynecologist. And she asked him, ashamed, eyes downcast:
“When will it go away?”
“When will what go away, ma’am?”
“The thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing,” she repeated. “The desire for pleasure,” she finally said.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to say it never goes away.”
She stared at him in shock.
“But I’m eighty-one years old!”
“It doesn’t matter, ma’am. It lasts until we die.”
“But that’s hell!”
“That’s life, Mrs. Raposo.”
So that was life, then? this shamelessness?
“So what am I supposed to do? no one wants me anymore . . .”
The doctor looked at her with compassion.
“There’s no cure for it, ma’am.”
“And what if I paid?”
“It wouldn’t matter. You’ve got to remember, ma’am, you’re eighty-one years old.”
“And . . . and what if I took care of it myself? do you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “That might be a remedy.”
Then she left the doctor’s office. Her daughter was waiting down below, in the car. Cândida Raposo had lost a son in World War II, he was a soldier. She had this unbearable pain in her heart: that of surviving someone she loved.
That same night she found a way to satisfy herself on her own. Mute fireworks.
Afterward she cried. She was ashamed. From then on she’d use the same method. Always sad. That’s life, Mrs. Raposo, that’s life. Until the blessing of death.
Death.
She thought she heard the sound of footsteps. The footsteps of her husband Antenor Raposo.
Before the Rio-Niterói Bridge
(“Antes da ponte Rio-Niterói”)
Well then.
Whose father was the lover, with that tiepin of his, the lover of the wife of the doctor who treated his daughter, that is, the lover’s daughter and everyone knew, and the doctor’s wife would hang a white towel in the window signaling that her lover could come in. Or else it was a colored towel and in which case he wouldn’t.
But I’m getting all mixed up or maybe this whole affair is so tangled that I’ll try to untangle it. Its realities are invented. I apologize because besides recounting the facts I’m also guessing and whatever I guess I write down here, scribe that I am by fate. I guess at reality. But I didn’t sow the seeds for this story. The harvest is for someone more capable than I, insignificant as I am. So the daughter’s leg got gangrene and they had to amputate it. This Jandira, seventeen, fiery as a young colt and with beautiful hair, was engaged. As soon as her fiancé saw that figure on crutches, brimming with joy, a joy that he didn’t realize was pathetic, you see, the fiancé had the nerve to simply call off the engagement without remorse. Everyone, even the girl’s long-suffering mother, begged the fiancé to pretend he still loved her, which — they told him — wouldn’t be so hard because it wouldn’t last long: since his fiancée didn’t have long to live.
And three months later — as if keeping the promise not to weigh heavily on the fiancé’s fainthearted notions — three months later she died, beautiful, hair flowing, inconsolable, longing for her fiancé, and frightened of death the way a child is afraid of the dark: death is made of a great darkness. Or maybe not. I don’t know what it’s like, I haven’t died yet, and I won’t know even after I die. Maybe it’s not all that dark. Maybe it’s a blinding light. Death, I mean.
The fiancé, who went by his last name, Bastos, apparently lived, even while his fiancée was still alive, lived with a woman. And he stayed with her, not too worried about things.
Well. That passionate woman got jealous one day. And she was devious. I can’t leave out the cruel details. But where was I, did I lose my train of thought? Let’s start over, and on another line and another paragraph to get off to a better start.
Well. The woman got jealous and while Bastos was asleep poured boiling water from the spout of a teapot into his ear and all he had time to do was howl before fainting, a howl we might guess was the worst cry he had, the cry of an animal. Bastos was taken to the hospital and hanging between life and death, one locked in fierce combat with the other.
The virago, named Leontina, got just over a year in jail.
From which she got out to meet — guess who? well she went to meet Bastos. By then, a very gaunt Bastos who, of course, was deaf forevermore, the same guy who hadn’t excused a physical defect.
What happened? Well they moved back in together, love forevermore.
Meanwhile the seventeen-year-old girl was long dead, her sole trace remaining in her wretched mother. And if I’ve thought of that girl out of the blue it’s from the love I feel for Jandira.
So now her father turns up, as if by chance. He was still the lover of the wife of the doctor who had treated his daughter with devotion. The daughter, that is, of the lover. And everyone knew, the doctor and the dead ex-fiancée’s mother. I think I’ve lost my train of thought again, it’s all a bit jumbled, but what can I do?
The doctor, though he knew that the girl’s father was his wife’s lover, had taken good care of the little fiancée so terrified of the dark that I mentioned. The father’s wife — hence the ex-fiancée’s mother — knew all about the adulterous flourishes of her husband who wore a gold pocket watch in his vest and a jeweled ring, a diamond-studded tiepin. A well-to-do businessman, as they say, for folks respect and bow to the rich, the winners, don’t they? He, the girl’s father, dressed in a green suit with a pink pinstriped shirt. How do I know? Look, I just know, the way you do by imaginative guessing. I know, period.
&
nbsp; There’s one detail I can’t forget. Which is: the lover had a little gold front tooth, purely out of luxury. And he smelled like garlic. His entire aura was pure garlic, and his lover didn’t even care, all she wanted was a lover, give or take the smell of food. How do I know? Knowing.
I don’t know what became of these people, I didn’t hear any more news. Did they go their separate ways? you see, it’s an old story and there may have been some deaths among them, these people. Dark, dark death. I don’t want to die.
I’ll add an important fact, and one that, I don’t know why, explains the accursed source of the whole story: it happened in Niterói, with its wooden docks always damp and grimy, and its ferries coming and going. Niterói is a mysterious place and has old, dark houses. And could boiling water in a lover’s ear happen there? I don’t know.
What’s to be done with this story that took place back when the Rio-Niterói bridge was no more than a dream? I don’t know that either, I offer it as a gift to whoever wants it, because I’m sick of it. Nauseated, even. Sometimes I get sick of people. Then it passes and I become fully curious and attentive again.
And that’s it.
.
Praça Mauá
The cabaret on the Praça Mauá was called “Erótica.” And Luísa’s stage name was Carla.
Carla was a dancer at the “Erótica.” She was married to Joaquim who worked himself to death as a carpenter. And Carla “worked” in two ways: dancing half-naked and cheating on her husband.
Carla was beautiful. She had small teeth and a tiny waist. She was utterly fragile. She barely had any breasts but her hips were nice and curvy. It took her an hour to do her makeup: afterward she looked like a porcelain doll. She was thirty but looked a lot younger.
She didn’t have children. She and Joaquim didn’t have much to do with each other. He worked until ten at night. She started work right at ten. She slept all day.
Carla was a lazy Luísa. She’d show up at night, when it was time for her to perform, start yawning, feeling like being in her own bed in a nightie. It was also because she was shy. As incredible as it might seem, Carla was a shy Luísa. She’d strip, sure, but those first moments of dancing and gyrating were filled with shame. She only “warmed up” a few minutes later. Then she pulled out all the stops, gyrating, giving it her all. The samba was her specialty. But a really romantic blues number also got her going.
She’d get called over for a drink with customers. She got a commission for every bottle. She’d pick the most expensive one. And pretend to drink: it wasn’t alcohol. She’d let the customer get drunk and spend money. Chatting with them was a chore. They’d caress her, run their hands over her tiny breasts. And she’d be wearing a sparkly bikini. Gorgeous.
Once in a while she’d sleep with a customer. She’d take the money, tuck it safe and sound in her bra and the next day go shopping for clothes. Her closet was overflowing. She’d get blue jeans. And necklaces. Loads of necklaces. And bracelets, rings.
Sometimes, just to mix it up, she’d dance in blue jeans and no bra, her breasts swaying between her glittering necklaces. She’d have bangs and make a little beauty mark near her lips with black eyeliner. She was darling. She’d wear long, dangly earrings, sometimes pearls, sometimes fake gold.
Whenever she was feeling down she’d be saved by Celsinho, a man who wasn’t a man. They really got each other. She’d vent bitterly to him, complaining about Joaquim, complaining about inflation. Celsinho, a popular transvestite, listened to it all and gave her advice. They weren’t rivals. Each had their own partner.
Celsinho came from an upper-class family. He’d left everything behind to follow his calling. He didn’t dance. But he wore lipstick and false eyelashes. The sailors on the Praça Mauá adored him. And he played hard to get. He only gave in at the last second. And he got paid in dollars. He invested the money he exchanged on the black market at Halles Bank. He was awfully afraid of growing old and helpless. Especially because an old tranny is a pitiful sight. To keep up his strength he took two packets of protein powder daily. He had wide hips and, from taking so many hormones, had acquired a facsimile of breasts. Celsinho’s stage name was Moleirão.*
Moleirão and Carla made good money for the owner of the “Erótica.” The smoky atmosphere reeked of alcohol. And there was the dance floor. It was rough being dragged out to dance by a drunk sailor. But what could you do. Everyone’s got their “métier.”
Celsinho had adopted a four-year-old girl. He was a real mother to her. He didn’t sleep much because he was taking care of his little girl. There was nothing she lacked: everything she had was the very best. And a Portuguese nanny. On Sundays, Celsinho would take Claretinha to the Zoological Garden, in the Quinta da Boa Vista. And they’d both eat popcorn. And feed the monkeys. Claretinha was afraid of the elephants. She’d ask:
“How come their noses are so big?”
Celsinho would then tell a whimsical story involving evil fairies and good fairies. Or then he’d take her to the circus. And they’d suck noisily on their candy, the two of them. Celsinho wanted a brilliant future for Claretinha: marriage to a wealthy man, children, jewels.
Carla had a Siamese cat that gazed at her with hard blue eyes. But Carla barely had time to take care of her pet: she was either sleeping, or dancing, or shopping. The cat’s name was Leléu. And it lapped up milk with its delicate little red tongue.
Joaquim barely ever saw Luísa. He refused to call her Carla. Joaquim was fat and short, of Italian stock. He’d been given the name Joaquim by a Portuguese neighbor woman. His name was Joaquim Fioriti. Fioriti? there was nothing flowery about him.
Joaquim and Luísa’s maid was a cheeky black woman who stole as much as she could. Luísa hardly ate, to maintain her figure. Joaquim would drench himself with minestrone. The maid knew about everything but kept her mouth shut. And she was in charge of polishing Carla’s jewelry with Brasso and Silvo. While Joaquim was sleeping and Carla was working, the maid, named Silvinha, would wear her mistress’s jewelry. And she was a somewhat ashy black color.
Here’s how what happened, happened.
Carla was telling secrets to Moleirão, when she was asked to dance by a tall man with broad shoulders. Celsinho lusted after him. And was consumed with envy. He was vindictive.
When the dance ended and Carla came back to sit with Moleirão, he could barely contain his anger. And there sat Carla, innocent. It wasn’t her fault she was attractive. And she’d taken quite a liking to that big hunky man. She said to Celsinho:
“I’d sleep with that one without charging a cent.”
Celsinho silent. It was nearly three in the morning. The “Erótica” was full of men and women. Lots of housewives went there for fun and to make a little extra cash.
Then Carla said:
“It’s so nice to dance with a real man.”
Celsinho jumped up:
“But you’re not a real woman!”
“Me? what do you mean I’m not?” gasped the girl who that night was dressed in black, a full-length gown with long sleeves, she looked like a nun. She did it purposely to excite the men who wanted a pure woman.
“You,” Celsinho sputtered, “aren’t a woman at all! You don’t even know how to fry an egg! And I do! I do! I do!”
Carla turned into Luísa. Pale, bewildered. She’d been stung in her innermost femininity. Bewildered, staring at Celsinho who looked like an old hag.
Carla didn’t say a word. She rose, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and, without a word of explanation, ditching the party at its peak, left.
There she stood, all in black, on the Praça Mauá, at three in the morning. Like the cheapest of whores. Alone. With nowhere to turn. It was true: she didn’t know how to fry an egg. And Celsinho was more woman than she.
The square was dark. And Luísa took a deep breath. She looked at the lampposts. The empty square.
And in the sky the stars.
* * *
* Lazybones; a big softy.
Pig Latin
(“A língua do ‘p’ ”)
Maria Aparecida — Cidinha, as they called her at home — was an English teacher. Neither rich nor poor: she got by. But she dressed impeccably. She looked rich. Even her suitcases were high quality.
She lived in Minas Gerais and was taking the train to Rio, where she’d spend three days, and then catch a plane to New York.
She was a highly sought-after teacher. She prized perfection and was affectionate, yet strict. She wanted to perfect her skills in the United States.
She took the seven a.m. train to Rio. It was cold out. There she was in a suede jacket with three suitcases. The train car was empty, just a little old lady asleep in a corner under her shawl.
At the next station, two men boarded and sat in the row across from Cidinha’s. The train in motion. One of the men was tall and skinny, with a thin mustache and a cold stare, the other was short and bald, with a gut. They looked at Cidinha. She averted her gaze, looked out the train window.
There was an unease in the car. As if it were too hot. The girl nervous. The men watchful. My God, the girl thought, what do they want from me? There was no answer. And to top it all off, she was a virgin. Why, but why had she thought of her own virginity?
Complete Stories Page 49