by Mia Couto
This Christmas, once again, the car has changed but nothing else. Their father opens the trunk of the car and pulls out packets in wrapping and Cellophane. It’s more about decoration than contents, but isn’t that what parties are all about: more illusion and glitter than substance? The kids, squealing with delight, fall on the presents. And they stay out in the garden, absorbed in their gifts.
Sidónio enters the living room with a governor’s demeanour. His wife follows him, diminutively, as custom demands. The man surveys the room. On the dresser, there is an improvised nativity scene. Only the little bits of straw under the newly born child are real. The rest has been cobbled together in a hurry: the top of a Coca-Cola bottle, bits of wire, and some leftover trash.
The husband lounges around at the table in proprietorial fashion. He undoes the buckle on his belt, just in case he needs to. Mariazinha leans out of the front door and reaffirms her command: her children should keep away. The moment belongs to them alone, this night of all nights.
—I fried some fish, the one you say you could die for.
Sidónio smacks his lips and gobbles it up, bones and all. His wife eats while standing, her plate balanced in her hand, as she contemplates her husband. The gold chain glistens against his neck, both chain and neck more abundant than ever. The gold looks genuine. The wearer is the one who’s a fake, without a hallmark or a guarantee of origin. Whenever he comes, he displays more and more chains and rings, lasting ornaments, so that Mariazinha shouldn’t think that he left as a horse and came back as a donkey.
—Be careful, husband, mind you don’t get a bone caught in your gullet.
—A gullet is what poor folk have, Sidónio corrects her. People like me have a throat, understand?
Sidónio belches to signal the end of the first course. Quieter than a god, distant and self-assured. His cell phone rings loud and clear, he grunts a few syllables in no particular language. And he turns it off, as if he were turning off his caller rather than the gadget.
—Is there a dessert? A little pudding?
—I didn’t have any sugar, but Alves, the neighbour …
—Ah! So that’s it, sugar out of the kindness of Alves, the neighbour.
There is irony, hurt, and suspicion in his tone of voice. Was Alves the neighbour too much of a neighbour?
—Mariazinha, are you being faithful to me?
—Me? Sidónio, I …
She is lost for words and bursts into tears. Could he, as a human being, doubt her?
—Be quiet, woman. Don’t say anything.
All this commotion is upsetting his digestion. Sidónio is satisfied he is being obeyed. He strokes his belly with the same tenderness as pregnant women do with their coming baby.
—I don’t want your pudding.
—But, Sidónio, I made it especially for you, with so much love …
—Well, I don’t feel like it, so there.
Mariazinha gathers up the plate along with her tears. Back in the kitchen, she tidies herself, looking out at the husband’s luxurious car through the cracked window. Those who go to war give as good as they get. But she had gone in peace, and had only been on the receiving end. There is his Mercedes, full of its own self-importance. But instead of envy she gets a happy sense of fulfillment. As if the car belonged to her, and she could display her curves from time to time on its seats.
She returns to the living room and stands leaning against the dresser. The furniture sways and the little figurines drop off. Christ tumbles out of his crib. For the first time, Sidónio deigns to look at his wife. He seems to confirm the adage: a man is as old as his age and a woman is as old as she looks. He looks at her hands, and notices her nail varnish. Mariazinha draws her nails in, hurriedly concealing her vanity.
—I did them this morning, I asked a neighbour to lend me a pot of varnish.
—I may have to review your monthly allowance.
—Ah! I haven’t received your allowance for months …
—I’ve got my priorities, Mariazinha.
With the meal over, Sidónio takes off his shoes, reclines in the armchair, and closes his eyes, absorbed in his own insides. Then something unexpected happens. His wife suddenly leans over him, all flirtatious, revealing expanses of her flesh.
—I feel like dancing. Won’t you play a bit of music, husband?
—What music?
—The music from your car.
Sidónio struggles to his feet. Her eyes still glint, full of hope. But he’s not getting up for her. It’s time, he’s off. At the door, she still murmurs:
—Will you come back next year?
—I don’t know, woman, I don’t know. Things aren’t easy, you know …
—But you can bring the others … your children’s brothers and sisters. And you can bring … her, too. I don’t mind, Sidónio.
But the man’s no longer interested in talking. He summons his children to say goodbye, and makes for his car. While he squeezes in behind the steering wheel, Mariazinha tells the kids:
—That’s one of the few good men left in the world.
And the youngest one, squeezing his mother’s hand, asks:
—Is Father that man they call Father Christmas?
A sad laugh vanishes from his mother’s face as Sidónio disappears into the darkness of the highway. Mother and children stand contemplating the night, as if they have forgotten they have a home to go to. All of a sudden, the eldest tugs at his mother’s skirt and says:
—Look, Mother, here comes Mister Alves, the neighbour.
Mariazinha hurriedly smooths her dress and smiling, murmurs:
—You know what to do, children: when I give you the sign, make yourselves scarce!
Isidorangela’s Fat Name
Isidorangela was that obese girl’s name. A fat name at the whim of the pen. In the street and at school, she was an object of fun. And there was good reason for her to be teased: the girl spilled out of herself, her shapeless legs dragging her along in tiny, round, cushioned steps.
Like a stone thrown into a puddle, Isidorangela caused a wave of mockery. But no one could laugh out loud and openly, for the girl was the daughter of the mayor, Dr. Osório Caldas. As my father said, the man represented authority: “Our chief,” was how he was referred to in our house. My father venerated Mayor Osório as if the fate of the world depended on him. My mother was all at sea with such deference, Mayor Osório this, Mayor Osório that.
—Honestly, man, this devotion of yours is weird, anyone would think it was homosensual love …
—I feel sorry for him, Marta. Poor man, he must suffer with a daughter like that.
At the end of every month, the mayor would take Isidorangela to the dance at the Railwaymen’s Club, but no one ever invited her to dance. All the others danced, bodies twirled, hearts were giddily lost. Girls passed from partner to partner, all of them exhausted from dancing, light-headed. Only Isidorangela remained seated, nibbling at an endless piece of cotton candy. She even looked like cotton candy herself, in her huge hooped dress with pink folds.
As time went by, my father became more and more submissive in his manner, all unctuous and planning further flattery and favours. My mother’s patience wore thin:
—One of these days, you’ll go and marry your mayor!
And then she snapped:
—I never thought I’d be jealous of a man!
My old dad always gave her the same answer. As mulatos, we were lucky to be looked on with such favour by the chief. He’d even been promised promotion. The meek bide their time, while ever looking upwards. Not even I imagined the lengths my father would go to in order to please his chief.
That afternoon, quite unexpectedly, my father told me to comb my hair, and that I could even use his brilliantine.
—But where am I going, Father?
It wasn’t explained. He put me in new clothes, brushed my jacket, and led me through the narrow lanes of our small town. At the door of someone’s residence—the poor have a
house, the rich have a residence, my father explained to me—he told me to take off my shoes.
—Am I going to go in barefoot, Father?
—What do you mean, barefoot? What you’re going to do is put these on.
In one of his pockets he was carrying some new shoes, without a trace of dust on them. I had never worn such black shoes. Hardly had I put them on than I complained that they were too tight and uncomfortable.
—Well, hunch up your feet, you’ve got a habit of stretching them out, my father suggested.
Straight after this, he rang the doorbell so respectfully that his fingers scarcely touched the button.
—You didn’t ring it, Father, I warned him.
Yes he had, I just hadn’t heard it. Then he explained, speaking a Portuguese that I had never heard before: here, in elegant residences, the least sound makes a noise. That’s why I should never make a racket when visiting the Caldas. And what’s more, I should polish up my finest Portuguese.
We waited endlessly. My father refused to show any insistence. My shoes were squeezing my toes. At long last, there was the twitching of a curtain inside, the door opened, and Dona Angelina peeped out. We went in, full of bowing and scraping, my father speaking so quietly that no one could understand him. Angelina, the esteemed lady of the house, ushered us through rooms full of furniture and knick-knacks. Seated in an armchair, the mayor didn’t prove much of a host. He waved offhandedly at my father and then returned to his newspaper. The lady of the house explained: Dr Osório was finishing a crossword, and needed to finish it before the electricity supply was cut off. Yes, evening would soon fall and the weak light of the oil lamp wouldn’t be sufficient for the mayor to finish his favourite pastime. His Excellency had got stuck on a strange word: Kabala. With precisely six letters.
—Kabala?! my father asked, all clumsy and confused. Then, addressing me:
—Didn’t we come across that word only yesterday when we were going over your homework?
And I replied, as if to no one in particular:
—Of course, the feminine of cavalo, a horse. I prayed that my father wouldn’t oblige me to explain the meaning of the word.
—Let’s go to the lounge while we wait, said Dona Angelina.
There in the lounge was the “Monument”: Isidorangela, swathed in her pink dress. The biggest surprise I got was this: in her hand, she still held erect the little stick wrapped in spun sugar. That really got to me: cotton candy was my perdition. How did Isidorangela manage to have that sweet in her home? Wasn’t it exclusive to fairs and festivals?
—Well, I’ll put some music on to liven things up, the mayor’s wife announced.
Some kind of waltz filled the vast silence of the room.
—Go on, invite Isidorangela to go for a twirl.
The word sounded obscene to me: go for a twirl? My face must have presented the very picture of idiocy: brilliantine dribbling over my brow, my frown denouncing my painfully squeezed feet, my upper lip tightened as I coveted the sugary floss. A barely disguised shove from my old man propelled me towards the plump girl. Or rather, towards the “Monument’s” arms. So that was it, my father wanted to butter up the chief and was using me in his psychiatric designs to free the fat girl of her complexes?
I was so infuriated that when I put my arm around Isidorangela, she almost stumbled and lost her balance. She nearly fell on top of me and the stick of cotton candy remained, like an unfurled flag between us. Temptation competed with my pains and I found myself saying:
—I’m going to take a mouthful.
—Of me? the fat girl laughed, tittering nervously.
My greed got the better of me and, sticking out my tongue, I demolished that castle of sweetness while I dragged the voluminous creature across the polished floor. Believing that I wanted her, Isidorangela closed her eyes and leaned in towards me, disposed to be at my disposal. My fear was that she might slip and collapse, unsupported, on top of me. I spun around the floor between the agony caused by my feet and the sugary delight melting in my mouth.
While on one of my turns, I was surprised to see my old dad and Angelina dancing as well. Farther away, in his huge armchair, the mayor sat dozing sleepily. Then, all of a sudden, what did I notice? My heart squeezing me harder than my shoes, I saw Angelina’s fingers, in furtive tenderness, intertwine with my father’s. The record turning in the gramophone, the faded light caused by the oil lamp, the fat girl spinning around, it all made me feel giddy. And there was no longer any cotton candy left except on Isidorangela’s face. On an irresistible impulse, I stuck my tongue into the remains of the sweet. The girl misunderstood my licking. As for me, I got the strange taste of a flavour of perspiration that was, in fact, my own natural perfume. I noticed her hair, which, underneath the apparent smoothness, was crinkly. And glancing at her almost fearfully, I saw, under her round face, a birthmark I thought exclusive to my biological family.
I wanted to disappear, to release myself from the world. But Isidorangela’s fingers were already intertwining with mine, with the same voluptuousness as her mother’s in relation to my father. In his darkened armchair, Osório Caldas was busy uncrossing words while sluggishly nodding off over his old newspaper.
The String and the Beads
I find JMC sitting on a garden bench. He is quiet, in deliberate solitude, as if he were only able to find due privacy there, on a public seat. Or as if it were the refuge where he had chosen to live for the rest of his life. All around him, time stands intact, each hour punctual in its passing.
He was never told his full name. I don’t think anyone knows it, not even himself. People call him this, spelling out the initials: jay emm cee.
I greet him, with a slight bow of respect. He raises his eyes as if the light were too strong. There is a subtle movement of his fingers: he wants me to sit down and rescue him from his solitude.
—Do you remember we sat in this same place a few years back?
—I do indeed, sir. It seems like yesterday.
—Yesterday is far too distant as far as I’m concerned. My memory only reaches as far as the olden days.
—But you’re still young, sir.
—I’m not old, that’s true. But I’ve accumulated a lot of wear and tear.
And we sit in silence. I remember the times when this tall, thin man would enter this very same garden. It happened every day, in late afternoon. I remember the stories he confided in me. How he, while a respectably married man, would fall passionately in love with endless women. I don’t have enough fingers to count them all, he would say.
—Life is a necklace. I provide the thread, the women provide the beads. There are always so many beads …
Every time he made love to one of them, he would never go back home straightaway. What he would do was to go to his old mother’s house. He would tell her the intimate details of every new affair, the different varieties of sweetness of each new lover. Her eyes closed, the old woman would listen and even pretend to sleep on the tired old sofa in her living room. When he had finished, she would take her son’s hands in hers and tell him to go and have a bath there and then.
—Don’t go back to your wife smelling of another woman, she said.
So JMC sat in a hot bathtub while his old mother rubbed him down with a scented sponge. When he got out of his bath, she slowly dried him, as if time were passing through her hands and she were spiriting him away in the folds of the towel.
—Go on, my son, keep spreading this great heart of yours around. Never stop visiting women. Never stop loving them …
—And what about Father? Was he always faithful to you?
—Your father, even though he was loyal, could never be faithful …
—Why was that?
—Your father never managed to love anyone at all …
Now, after so many years, I barely recognize the tall, thin philanderer.
—Forgive my asking, JMC. But do you still visit women?
He doesn’t answer. He is
absorbed, contemplating his nails in their respective fingers. Did he hear me? Out of shyness, I don’t repeat the question. After some time, he murmurs a confession.
—Never again. I never visited another woman.
His voice gains a sad hollowness. For his is a confession of a certain kind of widowhood. He breaks his pause and continues:
—It was because my mother died, you know …
My heart races in puzzlement. If only silence could be made by people not talking. But such a silence doesn’t exist. And we both remain in this vacuum until Dona Graciosa, JMC’s spouse, emerges from the dusk. She is unrecognizable, as if coming from a masked ball. She is full of radiance and flowers, her cleavage is larger than her blouse, her legs more exposed than her dress. I get to my feet to offer her my place on the bench. But she addresses her husband in a sweet, gentle voice:
—Will you come with me, JMC?
—And who are you, my little flower?
—You can call me by my name, but only afterwards.
—Afterwards? After what?
—Come now, only after …
The two walk off, arm in arm. Night envelops me in its misty embrace. And I hardly notice I am alone.
Entry into Heaven
If nothing is repeatable, does everything repeat itself? That’s the question I asked in catechism. And I pressed for even clearer answers:
—Has life, whether saintly or godly, got another version to it?
Father Bento didn’t even want to listen: the merest doubt constituted disobedience. Firstly, once bitten twice shy. And then, a sin is hardly worth it if you can confess it. And Bento warned: you can’t enter Heaven any old way. Up there, at the heavenly gates, due permission has to be granted. Then I asked: who does the choosing at the entrance to Paradise? A qualified doorman? A tribunal of venerable judges?
Years passed, doubts persisted. And I still need the matter clarified. That’s why I’ve come back to you, sir, so that you can listen to me, even if it’s only out of religious pretense. Please, mister priest, tell me this: this business of entry into Paradise, is it a question of race, or because we’re not just any Tom, Dick, or Harry? Blacks like me, am I saved, do we get a license? Or do folk need to pay to grease some palms, get someone to put a good word in to whoever’s in charge?