Night and day, Botelho was consumed by an implacable bitterness, a dull depression, an impotent rage against everyone and everything because he had not been able to seize the world with his hands, which today shook helplessly with age. And since he was too poor to permit himself the luxury of offending anyone, he relieved himself by reviling modern ideas.
There were some heated arguments around Miranda’s dinner table whenever discussion turned to the abolitionist movement taking shape around the Rio Branco Law. Then Botelho, beside himself, spewed forth dreadful curses, firing off insults without taking aim, using the subject as an escape valve for his accumulated bile.
“Bandits!” he screamed hysterically. “Highwaymen!”
Like poisoned barbs, his resentments radiated from his eyes, aiming at everything clean and bright. Virtue, beauty, talent, youth, strength, health, and above all good fortune: These were the qualities he could not forgive, damning anyone who achieved, enjoyed, or learned what he had not. And to individualize the object of his hatred, he turned against Brazil, which to his mind was good for one thing only—to enrich the Portuguese—but which had left him penniless.
He spent his days in the following fashion: He rose at eight in the morning, washed himself in his room using a towel soaked in brandy, and then read the daily papers in the dining room till it was time for lunch. After lunch he went out, caught a trolley, and made for a cigar store on Rua do Ouvidor, where he remained seated until it was time for supper, amusing himself by offering spiteful comments on the passersby. He claimed to know everyone’s dirty secrets in Rio. Occasionally Dona Estela asked him to purchase some small article of clothing, which he did better than anyone else. But his grand passion, his weakness, was the army. He adored and respected the military, since he himself had a terrible fear of weapons of any sort, and especially firearms. He, who couldn’t bear the sound of a shotgun being fired nearby, was excited by anything that smelled of warfare. The presence of an officer in dress uniform moved him to tears. He knew everything there was to know about barrack life. He could identify a soldier’s rank and regiment at a glance, and despite his infirmity, as soon as he heard a drum or bugle leading a parade, he lost all control of himself. When he came to his senses, he often found himself marching along with the troops. He would not return home until the parade was over, usually at around six in the evening, utterly exhausted, barely able to stand after marching for hours and hours. But the strangest thing was that, when he finally realized what had occurred, he would rail against the commander who had obliged him to wear himself out, leading the battalion on a ridiculous wild goose chase through the streets.
“The swine was trying to kill me!” he would exclaim. “Look at me! Three hours marching through that damned midday heat!”
One of Botelho’s funniest peculiarities was his hatred of Valentim. The spoiled brat, seeing how much he got on the old man’s nerves, went out of his way to annoy him, feeling certain of Dona Estela’s protection. Botelho would have strangled the boy a long while ago were he not also obliged to stay on good terms with the lady of the house.
Botelho knew Estela’s adventures like the palm of his hand. Miranda himself, who considered the old man a faithful friend, had often told him about them on occasions when he needed to confide in someone, saying how deeply he despised her and explaining why he hadn’t simply kicked her out. Botelho assured him that he had acted properly. A man’s business interests came first.
“That woman,” he declared, “represents your capital, and capital is not something to be treated lightly! But you shouldn’t touch her.”
“Why not?” her husband replied. “I use her like a spittoon.”
The parasite, pleased to see Miranda thus degrade his wife, agreed wholeheartedly and admiringly embraced his friend. But on the other hand, when he heard Dona Estela speak of her husband with scorn and even revulsion, he felt happier still.
“You want to know something?” she asked. “I see how much that worthless husband of mine detests me, but I couldn’t care less! Unfortunately for us society ladies, once we’re married we have to put up with our husbands whether we like them or not! But I swear that I only let Miranda touch me because it’s no use struggling with a brute like him.”
Botelho, who was wise in the ways of the world, never repeated what they said about each other. One day when he felt ill and came home earlier than usual, he heard whispers as he passed through the garden. The voices seemed to come from a corner overgrown with vegetation and where normally no one ventured.
He tiptoed over and, without being seen, spied Estela pressed between Henrique and the wall. He stayed there watching till they drew apart, whereupon he revealed himself.
The lady uttered a little cry, while the lad’s face turned from red to ghostly white. But Botelho managed to calm them, saying in a mysterious yet friendly voice: “You two should be more careful! This is no way to behave—what if it had been someone else instead of me? With so many rooms in the house, you don’t need to use the garden!”
“We weren’t doing anything!” exclaimed Estela, regaining her composure.
“Ah!” replied the old man in his most respectful tone. “Then excuse me. I thought you were—but even if you were, it wouldn’t matter to me. Why, it’s only natural; we have to enjoy life while we can! If I did see something, it’s the same as if I hadn’t, because I’m not one to go poking my nose into other people’s business. You’re still young and hot-blooded. Since your husband doesn’t satisfy you, it’s only natural for you to find someone else. That’s how the world is, and if it’s crooked we didn’t twist it out of shape. Everyone’s got the itch till he reaches a certain age, and if one person doesn’t scratch it another will. So don’t get upset. I just think that in the future you should be more careful and—”
“Stop! That’s enough!” Estela ordered.
“Excuse me. I’m only saying this so you won’t worry on my account. The last thing I want is for you to think—”
Henrique hoarsely interrupted him: “But Seu Botelho, believe me—”
The old man cut him short, throwing his arm around his shoulder and drawing him aside: “Don’t worry, son. I won’t give you away.”
And since they were now some distance from Estela, Botelho whispered in a fatherly tone: “Don’t do this here again; it’s just plain foolishness. Look how your legs are shaking!”
Dona Estela walked behind them, pretending to be absorbed in picking a bouquet, whose flowers she gracefully plucked, now bending over creeping vines, now standing on tiptoe to reach the heliotropes and manaca blossoms.
Henrique followed Botelho to his room, still discussing the same subject.
“So you promise not to say a word?” he asked.
The old man had laughingly declared that he had caught them in flagrante delicto and spied on them for quite a while.
“Say a word about what, silly? Who do you think I am? I’ll only open my mouth if you give me some reason, but I’m sure you won’t. You know, Henrique, I feel for you. I think you’re a fine lad, a real jewel! And I’ll try to help you as much as I can with Dona Estela.”
As he spoke, he seized Henrique’s hands and began to caress them.
“Listen,” he continued, still stroking those hands; “stay away from unmarried girls, you understand? A little fun can get you in a lot of trouble! It’s not worth it! But as far as the rest are concerned, don’t lose any sleep over them, because after all, you’re doing Dona Estela a big favor. My friend, when a woman over thirty is lucky enough to get her hands on a lad like you, it’s as if she’d struck gold! She loves it! And you should realize you’re doing her husband a favor. The more you screw his wife, the better mood she’ll be in and the less that poor devil will have to suffer. He has enough worries with his business downtown, and when he gets home at night he needs some peace and quiet. So go ahead! You’re the one to smooth her ruffled feathers. But you have to be careful! Don’t act dumb like you did today, but keep it
up, not just with her but with any others you can find. Enjoy yourself—except with whores, who can give you some nasty diseases, and unmarried girls! Keep away from Zulmira! And believe me, I’m saying this because I’m your friend. I like you; I think you’re good-looking.”
And he fondled Henrique so lovingly that the student pulled away with a gesture of scorn and disgust while the old man whispered: “Hey, wait! Come here! Don’t be so suspicious!”
III
It was five in the morning, and São Romão awoke, opening its long rows of doors and windows. It was a joyous awakening after seven hours of heavy sleep. The last misty, indolent guitar notes from the night before still hovered in the air, dissolving in the dawn’s golden light, tenuous as a sigh of longing lost in a far-off land.
The clothes left to soak overnight made the air damp, filling it with the sour smell of cheap soap. The stones on the ground, bleached around the washtubs and spattered with indigo, looked gray and sad.
Meanwhile, sleepy heads poked from doorways, mighty yawns were heard, people cleared their throats and spat, cups began to rattle, and the smell of hot coffee overwhelmed all others.
The day’s first greetings were exchanged from window to window; conversations interrupted the night before began again. Children were frolicking in the courtyard, while babies’ muffled howls could be heard inside the houses. Amid the confused hubbub, one could make out the sounds of laughter, arguments, quacking ducks, crowing cocks, and clucking hens. Women emerged and hung cages on walls, while parrots greeted each other as ostentatiously as proud proprietors, preening their feathers in the day’s new light.
Shortly thereafter, a buzzing crowd of men and women gathered around the faucets. One after another, they washed their faces as best they could beneath thin streams of water that trickled down. The ground was soaked. The women had to tuck their skirts between their thighs to keep them from getting wet. One could see their tanned arms and necks as they gathered their hair and held it on top of their heads. The men didn’t worry about getting their hair wet; on the contrary, they stuck their heads right under the water, scrubbing their faces and beards and snorting. The latrine doors didn’t enjoy a moment’s rest. They constantly opened and shut as people hurried in and out. No one spent more time inside than was absolutely necessary, and they emerged still buttoning breeches and straightening skirts. The children didn’t bother with the latrines and did their business either in a lot behind the houses or in the corner by the vegetable patches.
The noise grew louder and denser. One could no longer make out individual voices amid the compact buzzing that filled the courtyard. Women began buying things at the store, new quarrels broke out, one heard guffaws and curses. People shouted instead of talking. Like a vine hungrily plunging its roots into life’s black and nourishing mire, São Romão seethed with the animal joy of existence, the triumphant pleasure of simply breathing.
Like a line of ants, women entered and left the store through the door facing the courtyard. They were buying groceries.
Two of Miranda’s windows flew open. Isaura appeared at one, ready to start her housecleaning.
“Nhá Dunga! If you make cornmeal mush today, knock on the door! You hear me?”
Soon Leonor’s head appeared with its kinky hair next to the mulatta’s.
The bread-seller arrived with a hamper on his head and a high bench tucked beneath his arm, and stationed himself in the middle of the courtyard. There he waited for customers, resting the hamper upon the bench. He was quickly mobbed. The children adored him, and as the customers got their bread, they sped back to their houses, clutching loaves to their breasts. A cow sadly tinkled from door to door, followed by a muzzled heifer and a man loaded down with milk cans.
The hubbub was reaching its peak. The pasta factory, not far away, began its day’s work, increasing the racket with its monotonous, wheezing steam engines. People hurried to the store in ever greater numbers, transforming the stream of ants into a veritable stampede. Near the faucets, cans and drums of every description piled up. The most striking ones had once held kerosene and had wooden handles; one could hear the water resounding against the metal. Some washerwomen were already filling their tubs; others hung up the clothes they had left to soak overnight. It was time to start work. Portuguese fados and Brazilian melodies burst forth. A refuse cart entered, its wheels echoing on the flagstones, followed by a drayman furiously cursing his donkey.
For a long time, vendors kept coming and going. Trays of fresh meat, tripe, and offal appeared. Only vegetables were not sold, since there were so many small gardens. Noisy peddlers offered cheap jewelry, oil lamps and glassware, tin saucepans and chocolate pots. Each had a different way of crying his wares, the most notable being the sardine-seller, with his two baskets of fish hanging from a pole slung across his shoulders. At his first guttural shriek, as if by magic a horde of cats appeared and surrounded him, rubbing affectionately against his rolled-up pantlegs with supplicating meows. He kicked them aside as he made his way from door to door, but the pussies persisted, clawing at the baskets he kept carefully closed as he served his customers. To get rid of them, he finally flung a handful of sardines far away, where the beggars hungrily devoured them.
The first woman to start washing was Leandra, whose nickname, “Machona,” was a feminized form of “he-man.” She was a fierce Portuguese with a loud voice, thick hairy arms, and haunches like a draft animal. She had two daughters, one of whom, Ana das Dores, commonly known as “Das Dores,” was married but had separated from her husband. The other, Nenen, was still unwed, and there was a son, Agostinho, a little devil who bawled as loudly as his mother. Das Dores had her own two-room house, right next door to her mother’s.
No one knew if Machona was a widow or if her husband had abandoned her. Her children bore no resemblance to each other. People did say that Das Dores had left her spouse for a trader who, when he returned to Portugal, had assured her future by passing her along to his partner. She looked about twenty-five years old.
Nenen was seventeen. She was tall, slender, jealous of her virginity and slippery as an eel with men who desired her but had no wish to marry. She was good at ironing, but her specialty was men’s underwear, which she sewed to perfection.
The woman bending over the tub next to Leandra’s was Augusta Carne-Mole, a white Brazilian. She was married to Alexandre, a forty-year-old mulatto policeman, conceited, with a black mustache, no beard, and flashy white pants and shiny buttons whenever he was in uniform. They also had children—little ones, one of whom, Juju, lived downtown with her godmother. The godmother, Léonie, was a cocotte who charged at least thirty mil-réis and who owned her own house. She was French.
When Alexandre was relaxing at home, wearing slippers and with his shirt unbuttoned, he was as easygoing as could be, but as soon as he donned his uniform, waxed his mustache, and grabbed his nightstick, he stopped smiling, spoke stiffly, and looked down upon his neighbors. His wife, whom he only addressed as “tu” when he was out of uniform, was famed for her fidelity, a meaningless fidelity born of laziness rather than virtue.
Beside her, Leocádia set to work. A short, plump Portuguese married to a blacksmith named Bruno, she was famous for her promiscuity.
Then came Paula, an old woman, half Indian and half crazy, respected by everyone for her skill in curing rashes and fevers through spells and prayers. She was phenomenally ugly, grumpy, ill-tempered, with wild eyes, teeth sharp and pointy as a dog’s, and long, flowing, jet-black hair. People called her “Bruxa,” meaning “witch” in Portuguese.
After her came Marciana and her daughter Florinda. The former, a very solemn old Negress, was obsessively clean; her floors were always wet from being scrubbed so often. Whenever she felt in a bad mood, she began to dust and sweep furiously, and when she was truly upset, she ran to draw a bucket of water and flung it on her floor. Her fifteen-year-old daughter had warm, dark brown skin, sensual lips, and lustful eyes like a monkey’s. Everything about Fl
orinda cried out for a man, but she stubbornly preserved her virginity and rebuffed João Romão’s advances, though he tried to soften her up through small concessions in the weight and measure of her purchases.
Next came old Isabel—Dona Isabel, that is, because the others treated her with special deference, knowing that she had once been well off and had fallen on hard times. Her husband’s hat shop had failed and he had committed suicide, leaving her with a weak and sickly daughter for whose education Isabel had sacrificed everything, even hiring a tutor to instruct her in French. Isabel’s once-plump face was now that of a gaunt and devout old Portuguese nun. The folds of skin on her cheeks hung loosely around her mouth like empty pouches. Strands of black hair sprouted from her chin, and her teary brown eyes were almost hidden by their heavy lids. The thin, grayish hair on her head was greased with almond oil and parted in the middle. Whenever she had to go out, she donned the same shiny black silk dress, whose skirt never got wrinkled, and a blood-red shawl that made her look like a pyramid. All that remained of her past grandeur was a little golden box from which she occasionally drew a pinch of snuff, sighing as she inhaled it.
The Slum (Library of Latin America) Page 4