Not just anyone can enter Brasília, no. You need nobility, lots of shamelessness and lots of nobility. Brasília is not. It is merely the picture of itself. I love you, oh extragantic one! oh word I invented and do not know the meaning of. Oh furuncle! crystallized pus but whose? Warning: there’s sperm in the air.
I, the scribe. I, fated to be the unfortunate definer. Brasília is the opposite of Bahia. Bahia is buttocks. Ah how I long for the soaked Place Vendôme. Ah, how I long for the Praça Maciel Pinheiro in Recife. So much poverty of soul. And you demand it of me. I, who can do nothing. Ah how I long for my dog. Such a dear friend. But a newspaper took his picture and he was standing at the end of the street. He and I. We, little brother and sister of St. Francis of Assisi. Let us be silent: it is better for us.
I’m going to get you, Brasília! And you’ll suffer terrible torture at my hands! You annoy me, o ice-cold Brasília, pearl among swine. Oh apocalyptic one.
And suddenly the big disgrace. All that racket. Why? Nobody knows. Oh God, how did I not see it right away? because isn’t Brasília “Women’s Health”? Brasília can’t figure out what it wants: it’s a tease. Brasília is a chipped tooth right in front. And it is the summit too. There is one main reason. What is it? secrets, lots of secrets, murmurs, whispers and whisps. Rumors that never end.
Healthy, healthy. Here I am a physical education teacher. I go tumbling. That’s right: I raise hell. Brasília is a heavenly hell. It is a typewriter: click-click-click. I want to sleep! leave me alone!!! I am ti-i-red. Of being in-com-pre-hen-si-ble. But I do not want to be understood because I will lose my sacred intimacy. It is very serious, what I am saying, very serious indeed: Brasília is the ghost of an old blind man with a cane going click-click-click. And with no dog, poor guy. And me? how can I help? Brasília helps itself. It is a high-high-high-pitched violin. It needs a cello. But what a racket. This was surely uncalled for. I guarantee it. Though Brasília has no guarantor.
I want to return to Brasília to Room 700. So I can dot the “i.” But Brasília does not flow. It goes in the opposite direction. Like this: wolf (flow).
It is mad yet functional. How I hate the word “yet.” I only use it because it’s needed.
When night falls Brasília becomes Zebedee. Brasília is a round-the-clock pharmacy.
The girl frisked me all over at the airport. I asked: do I look like a subversive? She said laughing: actually you do. I have never been so thoroughly felt up, Holy Mary, it’s practically a sin. Her hands patted me down so much I don’t know how I could stand it.
Brasília is slim. And utterly elegant. It wears a wig and false eyelashes. It is a scroll inside a Pyramid. It does not age. It is Coca-Cola, my God, and will outlive me. Too bad. For Coca-Cola, of course. Help! Help! help me! Do you know how Brasília answers my cry for help? It is formal: may I offer you some coffee? And what about me? don’t I get any help? Treat me well, got it? like that . . . like that . . . nice and slow. That’s it. That’s it. What a relief. Happiness, my dear, is relief. Brasília is a kick in the rear. It is a place where the Portuguese get rich. And what about me, who plays the lottery and doesn’t win?
Oh what a pretty nose Brasília has. So delicate.
Did you know that Brasília is etc.? Well now you know. Brasília is XPTR . . . as many consonants as you like but not a single vowel to give you a break. And Brasília, well dear sir, sorry, but Brasília left off right there.
Look, Brasília, I’m not just anyone, not at all. Show more respect, do me the favor. I am a space traveler. I demand lots of respect. Lots of Shakespeare. Ah but I don’t want to die! Oh, what a sigh. But Brasília is waiting. And I can’t stand waiting. Blue phantom. Ah, how annoying. It’s like trying to remember and not being able to. I want to forget Brasília but it won’t let me. What a dried-up wound. Gold. Brasília is gold. A gem. Sparkling. There are things about Brasília that I know but can’t say, they won’t let me. Guess.
And may God help me.
Go ahead, woman, go and fulfill your destiny, woman. Being the woman I am is a duty. Right this instant-now I am hoisting the flags — but what a fierce southern wind! — and here I am saying hurrah!
Oh I am so tired.
In Brasília it is always Sunday. But now I am going to speak very softly. Like this: my love. My great love. Have I said it? You’re the one who answers. I am going to end with the most beautiful word in the world. Nice and slow like this: my love how I have longed for you. L-o-v-e. I kiss you. Like a flower. Mouth to mouth. How bold. And now — now peace. Peace and life. I-am a-live. Maybe I don’t deserve so much. I am afraid. But I don’t want to end with fear. Ecstasy. Yes, my love. I surrender. Yes. Pour toujours. Everything — but everything is absolutely natural. Yes. I. But above all you are the guilty one, Brasília. However, I pardon you. It’s not your fault you’re so lovely and pitiful and poignant and mad. Yes, a wind of Justice is blowing. So I say to the Great Natural Law: yes. Hey cracked mirror: who is prettier than me? No one, the magic mirror replies. Yes, I am well aware, it’s us two. Yes! yes! yes! I said yes.
I call humbly for help. They’re robbing me. Am I the whole world? General astonishment. This isn’t a high wind, sir, it’s a tornado. I am in Rio. I finally got off the flying saucer. And a friend comes up saying — hello there Carmen Miranda! — telling me there’s a song called “Tar Baby Doll” that goes more or less like this: here I come all pinched with my aching corns, almost choking in my tight collar, to see my baby.
I have landed. My voice is weak but I will say what Brasília wants me to: bravo! bravíssimo! And that is enough. Now I am going to live in Rio with my dog. Please do me the favor of remaining silent. Like this: si-lence. I am so sad.
Brasília is a wildly twinkling blue eye that burns in my heart.
Brasília is Malta. Where is Malta? It’s in the day of the super-never. Hello! hello! Malta! Today it’s Sunday in New York. In Brasília, the gleaming one, it’s already Tuesday. Brasília just skips Monday. Monday is the day you go to the dentist, what can you do, boring things have to get done too, woe is me. In Brasília I bet they’re still dancing, unbelievable. It’s six-twenty in the evening, almost night. At 6:20 nothing happens. Hello! Hello! Brasília! I want an answer, I’m in a hurry, I have just come to terms with my death. I am sad. The stride is too big for my legs though they are long. Help me die in peace. As I may have said, I want a beloved hand to hold mine when it is time for me to go. I go under protest. I. The phantasmagoric one. My name does not exist. What exists is a picture faked from another picture of me. But the real one died already. I died on the ninth of June. Sunday. After lunch in the precious company of those I love. I had roast chicken. I am happy. But lack true death. I am in a hurry to see God. Pray for me. I died elegantly.
I have a virgin soul and therefore need protection. Who will help me? The paroxysm of Chopin. Only you can help me. Deep down I am alone. There are truths I haven’t even told God. And not even myself. I am a secret under the lock of seven keys. Please spare me. I am so alone. I and my rituals. The phone doesn’t ring. It hurts. But God is the one who spares me. Amen.
Did you know that I can speak the language of dogs and also of plants? Amen. But my word is not the last. There exists one I cannot utter. And my tale is gallant. I am an anonymous letter. I do not sign the things I write. Let other people sign. I do not have the credentials. Me? But me of all people? Never! I need a father. Who will volunteer? No, I do not need a father, I need my equal. I am waiting for death. Oh such wind, dear sir. Wind is a thing you cannot see. I ask Our Lord God Jehovah about his wrath in the form of wind. Only He can explain. Or can he? If He cannot, I am lost. Oh how I love you and I love so much that I die you.
Remember how I mentioned the tennis court with blood? Well the blood was mine, the scarlet, the clotting was mine.
Brasília is a horse race. No I am not a horse. Brasília can go to hell and run by itself without me.
What is supplementary in Brasília? No I don’t know, dear sir. All I know is that all is nothing and nothing is all. My dog is sleeping. I am my dog. I call myself Ulisses. We are both tired. So, so tired. Woe is me, woe is us. Silence. You should sleep too. Ah astonished city. It astonishes itself. I am feeling stale. What I’ll do is complain like Chopin complained about the invasion of Poland. After all I have my rights. I am I, that’s what other people say. And if they say so, why not believe it? Farewell. I’m fed up. I’m going to complain. I’m going to complain to God. And if He can, let him heed me. I am one of the needy. I left Brasília with a cane. Today is Sunday. Even God rested. God is a funny thing: He can do it all for Himself and needs Himself.
I came home, it is true, but wouldn’t you know my cook writes literature? I asked her where the Coca-Cola in the fridge was. She answered, lovely black girl that she is: she was just so tired, so I made her go rest, poor thing. Once, ages ago I recounted to Paulo Mendes Campos a comment my maid at the time had made. And he wrote something like this: everyone gets the maid they deserve: My maid has a beautiful voice and sings to me when I ask her to: “Nobody Loves Me.” She draws, she writes. I am so humbled. For I don’t deserve this much.
I am nothing. I am a frustrated Sunday. Or am I being ungrateful? Much has been given me, much has been taken away. Who wins? Not me that’s for sure. Someone hyperbolic does.
Brasília, be a little bit animal too. It’s so nice. So very nice. Not having peepee-dogs is an affront to my dog who will never go to Brasília for obvious reasons. It’s a quarter to six. No particular time. Even Kissinger is asleep. Or is he on a plane? There’s no way to guess. Happy birthday, Kissinger. Happy birthday, Brasília. Brasília is a mass suicide. Brasília, are you scratching yourself? not me, I don’t go in for that kind of thing because whoever starts won’t stop from. You know the rest.
The rest is paroxysm.
No one knows it, but my dog not only smokes but also drinks coffee and eats flowers. And drinks beer. He also takes antidepressants. He resembles a little mulatto. What he needs is a girlfriend. He’s middle class. I didn’t let the newspaper in on everything. But now it’s time for the truth. You too should have the courage to read. The only thing this dog doesn’t do is write. He eats pens and shreds paper. Better than I do. He is my animal son. He was born of the instantaneous contact between the Moon and a mare. Mare of the Sun. He is a thing Brasília is not. He is: an animal. I am an animal. I really want to repeat myself, just to annoy people.
My God, I’ve gone back in time. It’s exactly twenty to six. And I answer the typewriter: yes. The monstrous typewriter. It’s a telescope. Such wind. Is it a tornado? It is.
Oh what a place to look pretty. Today is Monday, the tenth. As you can see, I didn’t die. I am going to the dentist. A dangerous week, this one. I am telling the truth. Not the whole truth, as I said. And if God knows it, that’s His business. Let him deal with it. I don’t know how but I am going to deal as best I can. Like a cripple. Living for free is what you cannot do. Pay to live? I am living on borrowed time. Just like that mutt Ulisses. As for me, I think that.
How embarrassing. It is my case of public embarrassment. I have three bison in my life. One plus one plus one plus one plus one. The fourth kills me in Malta. In fact the seventh is the shiniest. Bison, if you didn’t know, are cave-dwelling animals. I perform my stories. Human warmth. Fearless city, that one. God is the hour. I am going to last a while yet. No one is immortal. Just see if you can find someone who doesn’t die.
I died. I died murdered by Brasília. I died to pursue research. Pray for me because I died on my back.
Look, Brasília, I left. And God help me. It’s because I am slightly before. That’s all. I swear to God. And I am slightly after too. What can you do. Brasília is broken glass on the street. Shards. Brasília is a dentist’s metal tool. And very motorcycle too. Which doesn’t stop it from being mullet roe, fried up with plenty of salt. I just happen to be so eager for life, I want so much from it and I take advantage of it so much and everything is so much — that I become immoral. That’s right: I am immoral. How nice to be unsuitable for those eighteen and under.
Brasília exercises every day at 5 a.m. The Bahians there are the only ones who don’t go in for that kind of thing. They write poetry.
Brasília is the mystery categorized in steel filing cabinets. Everything there is categorized. And me? who am I? how have they categorized me? Have they given me a number? I feel numbered, and constricted all over. I barely fit inside myself. I am just a little me, very unimportant. But with a certain class.
Being happy is such a great responsibility. Brasília is happy. It has the nerve. What will become of Brasília in the year, let us say, 3000? How big a pile of bones. No one remembers the future because it’s not possible. The authorities won’t allow it. And me, who am I? Out of pure fear I obey the most insignificant soldier who stands before me and says: you’re under arrest. Oh I’m going to cry. I am barely. On the verge of.
It’s becoming clear that I don’t know how to describe Brasília. It is Jupiter. It is a word well chosen. It is too grammatical for my taste. And the worst thing is it demands grammar but I don’t know, sir, I don’t know the rules.
Brasília is an airport. The loudspeakers coldly and courteously announce the departing flights.
What else? the thing is, no one knows what to do in Brasília. The only ones who do anything are the people who work like crazy, who make babies like crazy and get together like crazy to dine on the finest delicacies.
I stayed at the Hotel Nacional. Room 800. And drank Coca-Cola in my room. I am constantly — fool that I am — giving away free advertising.
At seven in the evening I will speak just superficially about avant-garde Brazilian literature, since I am not a critic. God spare me from critiquing. I have a morbid fear of facing people who are listening to me. Electrified. Speaking of which Brasília is electrified and a computer. I am definitely going to read too fast so I can get through it quickly. I will be introduced to the audience by José Guilherme Merquior. Merquior is much too wholesome. I feel honored and at the same time so humble. After all, who am I to face a demanding public? I’ll do what I can. Once I gave a talk at the Catholic University and Affonso Romano de Sant’Anna, I don’t know what got into that fabulous critic, asked me a question: does two plus two equal five? For a second I was speechless. But then a darkly humorous anecdote sprang to mind: It goes like this: the psychotic says that two plus two equals five. The neurotic says: two plus two equals four but I just can’t take it. Then there was laughter and everyone relaxed.
Tomorrow I return to Rio, turbulent city of my loves. I like to fly: I love speed. With Vicente I got him to zip around Brasília very fast by car. I sat beside him and we talked a lot. See you later: I’m going to read while waiting to be picked up for the conference. In Brasília you feel like looking pretty. I felt like getting all done up. Brasília is risky and I love risk. It’s an adventure: it brings me face to face with the unknown. I’m going to speak words. Words have nothing to do with sensations. Words are hard stones and sensations are ever so delicate, fleeting, extreme. Brasília became humanized. Only I can’t stand those rounded streets, that vital lack of corners. There, even the sky, is rounded. The clouds are agnus dei. Brasília’s air is so dry that the skin on your face gets dry, your hands rough.
The dentist’s machine called “Atlas 200” says this to me: tchi! tchi! tchi! Today is the 14th. Fourteen leaves me suspended. Brasília is fifteen point one. Rio is one, but a tiny one. Doesn’t Atlas 200 ever die? No, it doesn’t. It is like me when I am hibernating in Brasília.
Brasília is an or
ange construction crane fishing out something very delicate: a small white egg. Is that white egg me or a little child born today?
I feel like people are working voodoo on me: who wants to steal my poor identity? All I’ll do is this: I’ll ask for help and have some coffee. Then I’ll smoke. Oh how I smoked and smoked in Brasília! Brasília is a Hollywood-brand filtered cigarette. Brasília is like this: right now I am listening to the sound of the key in the front door lock. A mystery? A mystery, yes sir. I go open it and guess who it was? it was nobody. Brasília is somebody, red carpet, tails and a top hat.
Brasília is a pair of stainless steel scissors. I save what I can to make ends meet. And I have already drawn up my will. I say a bunch of things in it.
Brasília is the sound of ice cubes in a glass of whiskey, at six in the evening, the hour of nobody.
Do you want me to tell Brasília: here’s to you? I say here’s to you with the glass in my hand. In Rio, in my pantry, I killed a mosquito that was quivering in midair. Why this right to kill? It was merely a flying atom. Never will I forget that mosquito whose destiny I plotted, I, the one without a destiny.
I am tired, listening at dawn to the Ministry of Education that also comes from Brasília. Right now I am listening to the Blue Danube in whose waters I recline, serious and alert.
Brasília is science fiction. Brasília is Ceará turned inside out: both bruising and conquering.
And it is a chorus of children on an incredibly blue, super cold morning, the kids opening their little round mouths and intoning an utterly innocent Te Deum, accompanied by organ music. I wish this would happen in the stained glass church at 7 in the evening. Or 7 in the morning. I prefer morning, since twilight in Brasília is more beautiful than the involuntary sunset in Porto Alegre. Brasília is a first place on the university entrance exams. I’m happy with just a little ol’ second place.
Complete Stories Page 52