Her daughter, Pombinha, was the belle of São Romão. She was pretty but high-strung, blond, pale, with the manners of a well-brought-up young lady. Her mother refused to let her wash or iron, since the doctor had forbidden it.
She had a fiancé: João da Costa, a clerk who was highly esteemed by his boss and coworkers. He had a bright future ahead of him and had known and adored Pombinha since childhood, but Dona Isabel did not want her daughter to marry yet. Pombinha, though she was nearly eighteen, had not yet menstruated, despite the fact that her mother zealously followed the doctor’s orders to the letter and cared for the girl with great tenderness and devotion. Meanwhile, they both fretted, since their happiness depended on that match, inasmuch as Costa, who was employed by an uncle who planned to make him a partner, intended, as soon as they were married, to restore the two women to their former social position. The poor old lady was in despair. She prayed to God each night before she climbed into bed to help them, showing her daughter the same favors He dispensed to every other girl in the world, good or bad. But despite her eagerness, she refused to let her little girl marry before “she becomes a woman,” as she put it. “The doctor can say what he likes, but I know it’s neither decent nor proper to give away a daughter who still hasn’t had her period. No! I’d rather let her die an old maid and rot away forever in this hellish slum!”
Everyone in São Romão knew this story, which was told to one and all. And not a day passed without two or three people asking the old lady:
“Well, did it come?”
“Why don’t you make her swim in the sea?”
“Why don’t you get another doctor?”
“If I were you, I’d let her get married anyway!”
The old lady replied, with a sigh of resignation, that happiness was obviously not for her.
When Costa dropped by after work to visit his betrothed, the neighbors greeted him silently, with a respectful air of condolence, all tacitly hoping for an end to that run of bad luck, which not even Bruxa’s spells could dispel.
Everyone loved Pombinha. It was she who wrote their letters, drew up lists and toted up bills for the washerwomen, and read the newspaper aloud to whoever wished to listen. They admired her tremendously and gave her presents that allowed her a certain degree of luxury. She always wore boots or pretty shoes, colored stockings and a starched calico dress. She possessed some jewelry for special occasions, and those who saw her at Sunday mass in Saint John the Baptist’s Church would never have guessed that she lived in a slum.
The last in line was Albino, weak and effeminate, easily frightened, with thin, lusterless brown hair that fell straight down to his soft, skinny neck. He also made his living washing clothes and had worked with the women for so long that they treated him as a person of their own sex. They discussed things in front of him that they would mention to no other man, even confiding in him about their loves and infidelities with a frankness that neither bothered nor upset him. When a couple quarreled or two friends had a fight, it was always Albino who tried to make peace. At one time, he had been nice enough to present his colleagues’ bills, but once, when he had visited some students’ digs, he had received a thrashing, no one knew why, and the poor fellow had sworn, amid tears and sobs, that he would never do that again.
And in fact, from that day on he only set foot outside São Romão for Carnival, when he would dress up as a ballerina, parading through the streets in the afternoon and attending dances at night. This was his great passion; all year he saved his money for the masquerade. Whether it was Sunday or a workday, whether he was washing clothes or relaxing, he always wore white starched pants, a clean shirt, a kerchief around his neck, and an apron around his waist and falling about his legs like a skirt. He neither smoked nor drank hard liquor, and his hands were always damp and cold.
That morning, he awoke feeling even more languid than usual, for he had not slept well. Old Isabel, who was on his left, heard him sigh over and over again and finally asked what was the matter.
Ah, his body felt very weak, and there was a sharp pain in his side that just wouldn’t go away.
The old lady told him about several remedies, and, in the midst of all that teeming life, the two of them sadly discussed their ailments.
And meanwhile, up and down the rest of the line, Machona, Augusta, Leocádia, Bruxa, Marciana and her daughter shouted from tub to tub, barely able to hear one another. In front of them, separated by the lines on which clothes were hung out to dry, another line of washerwomen formed. They came from outside São Romão, bent beneath their bundles of dirty laundry, and noisily chose their spots in that seething hubbub of indistinguishable jokes and quarrels. One by one, every tub was put to use, while a man emerged from every doorway and set off for work. The gate at the far end of the courtyard swallowed those employed at the quarry, where pickaxes began to resound. Miranda, dressed in linen pants, top hat and black frock coat, passed by on his way to his store, accompanied by Henrique, who was going to his classes. Alexandre, who had been on duty all night, entered solemnly, crossed the courtyard, and without saying a word to anyone—not even to his wife—entered his house to sleep. A group of peddlers—Delporto, Pompeo, Francesco and Andrea—each carrying a crate of knickknacks, set off on their daily rounds, arguing and cursing in Italian.
A little boy wearing a man’s jacket entered the courtyard and asked Machona if Nha Rita was around.
“Rita Bahiana? How should I know? I haven’t seen her in a week!”
Leocádia explained that Rita was surely off on a spree with Firmo.
“Who’s Firmo?” Augusta asked.
“That guy who used to stay the night here with her sometimes. He claims he works a lathe.”
“Did she move out?” the boy asked.
“No,” Machona replied. “Her house is locked, but her things are still there. What do you want?”
“I came to pick up some clothes.”
“I don’t know, kid. Ask João Romão in the store. Maybe he can help you.”
“Over there?”
“That’s right. Where that black woman’s selling stuff off a tray. Hey! Watch your step with that indigo! This goddam kid doesn’t look where he’s going!”
And noticing that her son Agostinho was approaching, ready to replace the other boy, she added, “You keep away too, you pest! Don’t try any tricks with me! Come here, what have you got there? Come to think of it, why the hell aren’t you watering that gentleman’s garden?”
“He told me yesterday to come in the afternoon from now on.”
“Ah! And tomorrow make sure they pay you those two mil-réis; it’s the end of the month. Listen! Go inside and tell Nenen to give you the clothes they brought last night.”
The boy sped off, while her voice called after him, “And tell her not to heat up lunch till I come in.”
The other washerwomen were all gossiping about Rita Bahiana.
“She’s crazy!” Augusta declared disapprovingly. “Imagine going on a spree like that without giving back those clothes—she’ll end up with no customers!”
“Instead of straightening herself out, she gets wilder and wilder! She acts like someone had lit a fire under her butt! It doesn’t matter how much work she’s got; as soon as she smells a party, she’s off like a shot. Look what happened last year at that street festival by the Penha Church!”
“Now that she’s hanging around with that nigger Firmo, she’s more shameless than ever! Didn’t you see what they did the other day? They went on a drunk, her dancing and him playing the guitar till all hours of the night! I don’t know what the hell it looked like! God preserve us!
“There’s a time and a place for everything.”
“Every day’s a holiday for Rita! All she needs is someone to get her going!”
“Even so, she’s not a bad sort. Her only fault is that she likes to take it easy and have a good time.”
“She’s got a good heart, maybe too good, and that’s why she can’t save a p
enny from one day to the next. Money burns a hole in her pocket.”
“We’ll see what’ll happen next time she’s broke! João Romão won’t give her credit anymore.”
“Well, he sure makes plenty off her! As soon as she gets her hands on some cash, she spends it at his place!”
Still chattering away, flushed from their labors, the washerwomen scrubbed, pounded, and wrung out shirts and pants. Around them, the courtyard filled with wet clothes that hung sparkling in the sun.
It was a blisteringly hot December day. The grass around the bleaching ground was bright emerald green. The walls facing east, newly whitewashed, shimmered in the light. At one of Miranda’s sitting room windows, Estela and Zulmira, dressed in white, filed their nails and conversed in low voices, indifferent to the agitation below them.
The busiest spot was now João Romão’s eating-house. It was nine o’clock, and the factory workers were hungry. Behind the counter in the store, Domingos and Manuel didn’t have enough hands to attend to all the servant girls in the neighborhood. One yellow parcel succeeded another, as money poured into the till.
“Half a kilo of rice!”
“A nickel’s worth of sugar!”
“A bottle of vinegar!”
“A liter of wine!”
“Two pennies’ worth of tobacco!”
“Four pennies’ worth of soap!”
Their voices mingled in a babble of tones.
One could hear customers urging the clerks on.
“Serve me first, Seu Domingos! I left some food on the stove!”
“Hey! Let’s get a move on with those potatoes! I’ve got other errands to do!”
“Seu Manuel, hurry up with that butter!”
Next door in the kitchen, Bertoleza, her skirts hitched up and her thick, black neck glistening with sweat, ran from one pan to the next, cooking food that João Romão rushed to the workers seated beneath the veranda. He had hired a waiter who, every time another customer sat down, yelled out an interminable singsong list of dishes. The smell of frying oil filled the air. Cane liquor made the rounds of the tables, and from every earthenware pot of coffee steam billowed, stinking of burnt cornmeal mush. No one could hear himself think amid that frightful din! Conversations crisscrossed in all directions; people shouted and argued, pounding the tables with their fists. Meanwhile, customers kept coming and going. Those who left, belching after a heavy meal, radiated contentment.
On a rough, wooden bench outside the store, a man in cheap cotton shirt and pants and worn-out shoes had been waiting for a good hour to talk to João Romão.
He was a Portuguese who looked between thirty-five and forty years old—tall, broad-shouldered, with an uneven beard and straight, dirty black hair beneath a felt hat that had obviously seen better days. He had a neck like a bull’s and a Herculean face in which his eyes, meek as those of a yoked ox, twinkled gently and kindly.
“Can I speak to him now?” he asked Domingos, who stood behind the counter.
“The boss is very busy right now. You’ll have to wait.”
“But it’s almost ten o’clock and all I’ve had is a cup of coffee.”
“Then come back later.”
“I live in Cidade Nova. It’s a long way from here!”
Without interrupting his work, the clerk bawled into the kitchen: “The guy who’s been waiting says he’s going to leave, Seu João!”
“Tell him to wait a minute and I’ll see him,” the tavern-keeper replied as he hurried across the room. “Tell him to stay!”
“But I still haven’t had breakfast and I’m starving!” roared Hercules.
“Well then, have breakfast here. One thing we’ve got plenty of is food. You could be eating right now.”
“Then let’s go!” the giant decided, leaving the bar and entering the eating-house, where the other curious customers scrutinized him from head to toe, as they did with all newcomers.
He sat down at one of the tables, and the waiter bellowed out the menu.
“Bring me fish with potatoes and a glass of wine.”
“What kind of wine?”
“White, and hurry up! I’m thirsty!”
IV
Half an hour later, when business was less brisk, João Romão, who was nearly dropping from exhaustion, though his face and manner showed no sign of it, sat down across from the man who had come to see him.
“Did Machucas send you?” he asked. “He told me about someone who knew about trimming and blasting.”
“That’s me.”
“Were you working at another quarry?”
“I still am—at São Diogo, but I don’t like it there and I’m looking to change.”
“How much do they pay you?”
“Seventy mil-réis.”
“What? They’re crazy!”
“I won’t work for less.”
“My best-paid worker gets fifty.”
“That’s what an ordinary stone-cutter makes.”
“I’ve got lots of skilled workers who are happy to earn that much.”
“I bet they don’t work very hard. For fifty mil-réis you won’t find someone who’ll tell them where to drill, measure out the gunpowder, and supervise the blast without ruining the stone or killing someone.”
“Maybe not, but seventy mil-réis is more than I can afford.”
“Well, then I’ll be going—forget I ever said anything.”
“Seventy mil-réis is a hell of a lot!”
“If you ask me, I think it’s worth paying a little extra to avoid the kind of accident you had last week. Not to mention that poor devil who was crushed to death.”
“Ah, Machucas told you about that?”
“He sure did, and it never would have happened if your foreman had done his job right.”
“But I can’t afford seventy mil-réis! You won’t come down a little bit?”
“It’s not worth my while—let’s not waste our breath.”
“Have you seen the quarry?”
“Not from close up, but I can see it looks good. I can smell granite a mile away.”
“Wait here.”
João Romão hastily entered his store, barked a few orders, pulled a hat over his head and returned to his guest.
“Come take a look,” he shouted from the door to the beanery which was gradually emptying.
The other man paid twelve vintens for his food and silently accompanied him.
They crossed the courtyard.
The washerwomen were still toiling away. They had eaten lunch and returned to work. Despite the shade from the makeshift awnings they had erected, they were all wearing straw hats. Their faces glistened with sweat, they all felt feverish in that blazing furnace, their blood boiled as they digested their meals in the midday sun. Machona was arguing with a black woman who accused her of losing a pair of socks and giving her the wrong shirt. Augusta drooped above her washboard like a melting candle. Leocádia set aside her soap and laundry from time to time to scratch her crotch, hot and bothered by the heat. Bruxa muttered to herself, grumbling away beside Marciana, who, the very prototype of the old Negress with her pipe jutting from one corner of her mouth, sang monotonous backland ditties:
Maricas cheatin’ again,
Maricas cheatin’ again,
Down by the riverside
Maricas cheatin’ again.
Florinda, cheerful and untroubled by the blazing sun, swaying from side to side, whistled along with the songs—chorados and Lundus—that wafted across the courtyard. Beside her, melancholy Dona Isabel sighed, scrubbing the clothes in her tub as wearily as a prisoner condemned to forced labor, while Albino, sluggishly wiggling his slender hips, beat a pair of blue jeans with the nervously cadenced rhythm of a cook pounding a beefsteak. His entire body trembled, and from time to time he would lift the kerchief around his neck to wipe the sweat from his brow, while an exhausted sigh escaped his lips.
From house number eight came a sharp but tuneful falsetto. It was Das Dores, beginnin
g work. She couldn’t iron without singing. In number seven, Nenen hummed to herself in a much softer voice, while a raucous trombone note occasionally emerged from the rooms at the far end.
João Romão, as he passed Florinda, who at that moment was taking some clothes off the line, landed a slap on the part of her anatomy most in evidence.
“Keep your hands off me!” she shouted, quickly straightening up. “Watch who you’re slapping! First this lecher comes around bothering us and then he gives us short weight in his store! Portuguese scum! Keep your hands to yourself!”
The tavern-keeper slapped her rump again—harder this time—and then fled as he saw her pick up a bucket full of water.
“Come back here if you dare! Goddamn pest!”
By this time, João and his guest were far away.
“You’ve got a lot of people here,” the visitor observed.
The other shrugged his shoulders, and then said proudly, “If I had another hundred houses, they’d all be full. And they’re hard-working. I won’t stand for any trouble, and if someone starts a fight I stop it right away. The police have never been here, and we’ll never let them in. But don’t think the tenants don’t have a good time playing their guitars! Good people!”
They’d reached the end of the courtyard and, after passing through a gate held shut by a weight on a rope, they emerged in the lot between São Romão and the quarry.
“Let’s cut through here; it’ll be quicker,” João said.
And the two of them, instead of taking the street, made their way through a field of warm, rank weeds.
It was high noon. The sun hung directly overhead; everything shimmered with the savage glare of a cloudless December day. They had to peer through that blinding light in order to make out the quarry’s forms. At first they saw nothing but a huge, white blotch, whose base was the ground strewn with gravel that looked like ashy pitch. At the top they spotted a grove of trees—black smudges mixed with dark green hues.
As they approached the quarry, the ground became more and more gravely; their shoes were coated with white dust. In the distance they saw carts—some of them moving—drawn by donkeys and filled with crushed stone. Others had been loaded and were ready to set out as soon as an animal could be found, while still others stood empty, their shafts reaching heavenward. Men were toiling everywhere. On the left, above the remnants of a stream that seemed to have been sucked dry by the thirsty sun, there was a wooden bridge on which three children sat talking, nearly naked. With the sun directly overhead, their bodies cast no shadows. Farther away, in the same direction, they spied a huge tile roof, old and dirty, supported by columns of rough-hewn stone. Many Portuguese were at work there, amid the clang of picks and chisels striking granite. Next to it stood the blacksmiths’ shed, cluttered with broken and mangled objects, especially wagon wheels. Two men, naked and sweaty, glowing red as two devils, stood by an anvil, steadily pounding a piece of incandescent iron, while near them the forge opened its infernal jaws, from which flickering, hungry flames shot forth.
The Slum (Library of Latin America) Page 5