Then, until bedtime, which always came at nine o’clock, he took his guitar and, sitting outside the door with his wife, played fados. At such moments he gave full rein to his homesickness, through those melancholy songs in which his exiled soul took flight, returning from the torrid Americas to the sad villages of his childhood.
The sound of that foreign guitar was a grieving lament, a tearful voice, sadder than a prayer on high seas when a storm beats its murderous black wings and gulls restlessly skim and dive, piercing the darkness with their eerie cries.
VI
A beautiful April morning, crisp and cool, had dawned. The washtubs stood abandoned; there was no one on the bleaching ground. Baskets heaped with ironed garments left the little homes, mostly borne by the washerwomen’s children, almost all dressed in clean clothes. Short jackets fluttered above brightly colored calico skirts. Straw hats and burlap aprons were scorned. Instead, the Portuguese women wore bright flowered kerchiefs around their heads, while the Brazilians had combed their hair and stuck two-vintém bouquets among their curls. The formers’ shoulders were wrapped in red woolen shawls, while the latter favored pale yellow crochet. Shirtless men yelled as they played quoits. A group of Italians, seated beneath a tree, talked excitedly and smoked their pipes. Women furiously scrubbed their little children beneath the faucets, cursing and slapping the kids, who bawled, shut their eyes, and kicked. Machona’s house was in an uproar; the family was about to go out for a walk. The old woman, Nenen, and Agostinho were all shouting. Singing and the sound of instruments came from other doorways. One heard harmonicas and guitars, whose discreet melodies were occasionally interrupted by raucous trombones.
The parrots also seemed happy that it was Sunday. Complete sentences issued from their cages, amid cackles and hisses. Workers sat outside their doors, dressed in clean pants and newly washed cotton shirts, reading or painfully sounding out newspapers and books. One declaimed verses from The Lusiads, bellowing so loudly that he had made himself hoarse. After wearing the same clothes all week, they were delighted to change into their Sunday best. A delicious smell of simmering meat, onions, and butter wafted from the doorways. Only the two back windows on Miranda’s house were open, and a servant carrying pails of dirty water descended the steps to the backyard. On that day of peace and idleness, they were struck by the absence of noisy machinery in the neighborhood’s factories. Beyond the vacant lot behind the courtyard, the quarry seemed sunk in stony sleep, but in compensation, there was more activity in the street and at the entrance to the tavern. Many washerwomen stood around the gate, eyeing the passersby. Albino, dressed in white and wearing a neatly ironed kerchief around his neck, sucked on hard candies bought from the tray of a vendor who lived at São Romão.
Inside the tavern, glasses of white wine, beer, and rum—both straight and flavored with orange peel—were handed over the counter by Domingos and Manuel to eager workers, who welcomed them with shouts of glee. Isaura, who had hurried down to buy her first soft drink of the day, had been fondled and pinched silly by the male customers. Leonor hadn’t a moment’s peace, dodging here and there in her efforts to avoid the stonecutters’ calloused hands that, amid their laughter, tried to grab her while she threatened, as usual, to complain to the family judge. All the same, she stood her ground, because a man outside the tavern was playing five instruments at once, creating a disordered cacophony of cymbals, bells, and bass drum.
It was barely eight o’clock, but a crowd was already eating and chatting in the restaurant next door. João Romão, in clean clothes but still in shirtsleeves, appeared from time to time, serving his customers, and Bertoleza, dirty and disheveled, who never enjoyed a holiday, stood over the stove, stirring pots and heaping food upon plates.
A great event, however, would soon add to the commotion; the arrival of Rita Bahiana, who for months had only appeared to pay her rent.
She was accompanied by a pickaninny who bore on his head an enormous straw basket filled with purchases from the market. A big fish’s glazed eyes peeked morosely through some lettuce leaves, contrasting with the brightly colored radishes, carrots, and slices of reddish-orange pumpkin.
“Leave it outside the door. Over there, by number nine!” she shouted, and then paid the child for his services. “You can go now, honey!”
Ever since the tenants at the gate had spied her, a chorus of greetings had echoed through São Romão.
“Look who’s coming!”
“Hey! It’s Rita Bahiana!”
“We thought you were dead and buried!”
“That nigger gets wilder and wilder!”
“So, where have you been shaking those hips all this time?”
Rita had halted in the middle of the courtyard.
Men, women, and children flocked around her. They all wanted to know what she had been up to.
She wasn’t dressed for church; she was wearing a white blouse and a skirt that showed her stockingless feet in fine leather sandals adorned with brightly colored straps. In her thick, frizzy hair, gathered in a glossy bun, there was a sprig of basil and a vanilla flower held in place by a pin. Everything about her breathed the cleanliness of Brazilian women and the sensual perfume of clover and aromatic herbs. Restlessly wiggling her firm, brazen Bahian hips, she answered questions right and left, flashing rows of brilliant white teeth that added luster to her beauty.
Almost everyone at São Romão came out to welcome her, showering her with hugs and impertinent inquiries.
“Where the hell were you for three months?”
“Don’t even ask, honey! It was a high-class party. What can I say? I can’t help it!”
“But child, where were you all that time?”
“In Jacarepaguá.”
“With who?”
“With Firmo.”
“Oh, so that’s still going on?”
“Shut up. It’s serious this time.”
“What? With him? You? Come off it!”
“Rita’s big love affairs!” Bruno exclaimed laughingly. “One a year, not counting the little ones.”
“That’s not true. When I’m with a guy I don’t look at anyone else.”
Leocádia, who adored the mulatta, threw her arms around her as soon as she was close enough, and now, standing before Rita with her hands on her hips and tears in her eyes, laughing and gazing at her friend, she asked one question after another.
“But why don’t you stick with Firmo? Why don’t you marry him?”
“Marry him?” Rita retorted. “I’m not that dumb! God forbid! What for? To be someone’s slave? A husband’s worse than the devil, trying to boss you around! Never! God preserve me! There’s nothing like running your own life and taking care of your own business!”
And she shook her body, in a proud gesture that was typical of her.
“What a brazen hussy!” Augusta added, laughing in her lazy fidelity to her own husband.
She also loved Rita Bahiana and could spend whole days watching her dance chorados.
Florinda, who was helping her mother fix lunch, heard about the mulatta’s arrival and ran laughing to throw herself into her arms. Even Marcinana, so undemonstrative and dour, appeared at the window to greet her. Das Dores, her skirts hitched up and a towel tied around her waist as an apron, with her still-uncombed hair pinned up, stopped her housecleaning and headed toward Rita, whom she slapped on the back, shouting, “This time you really did it in style, huh, mulatto slut?”
Roaring with laughter, the two embraced. They had been friends too long to stand on ceremony with each other.
Bruxa silently approached, shook Rita’s hand, and then retired.
“Look at that witch!” Rita shouted, slapping the old crazy woman’s shoulder. “What are you praying for all the time, Auntie Paula? I want you to give me a spell to hold onto my man!”
She had a different greeting for everyone who approached her. Spotting Dona Isabel in her Sunday best, wearing an old shawl from Macao, she embraced her and asked for a
pinch of snuff, which the old woman refused, muttering, “Get away, you devil!”
“How’s Pombinha doing?” Rita asked.
But just at that moment, Pombinha appeared, looking very neat and pretty in her satinet dress. She was holding a prayer book, a handkerchief, and a parasol.
“Doesn’t she look elegant!” Rita exclaimed, shaking her head. “Pretty as a picture!” And as soon as Pombinha was within reach, Rita put her arm around her waist and kissed her. “If João da Costa doesn’t make you happy, I’ll bust his skull with my shoe! I swear it on Firmo’s head!” And then, turning serious, she whispered to Dona Isabel, “Did she get her period?” To which the old lady replied with a sad and silent shake of her head.
Discreet Alexandre, not wishing to sully his dignity since he was in uniform and about to set off on his rounds, merely waved to Rita, who replied with a military salute and a guffaw that left him feeling quite disconcerted.
The crowd was about to comment on the incident when Rita turned around and shouted, “Look at old Libório! Tough as nails! That old Jew never gives up the ghost!”
And she hurried over to where a withered octogenarian, mummified with age, was sunning himself, sucking on a half-empty pipe whose stem disappeared between his toothless gums.
“Hey!” he yelled as the woman approached him.
“Well?” Rita asked. “When are we going to get down to business? But first you have to let me see where you hide all that money!”
Libório laughed through his gums, trying to touch the Bahian’s thighs, feigning lust in order to make the crowd laugh.
Everyone found this pantomime hilarious, and Rita, to complete their performance, whirled around so that her skirts flared out over the old man’s head, while he pretended to be indignant, protesting vociferously. Amid the rejoicing occasioned by her reappearance, Rita recounted her recent adventures: how much fun she’d had in Jacarepaguá, and her antics at carnival. Three months of revelry! And finally, lowering her voice, she let her girlfriends in on a secret: That night she’d throw a party with a certain guitarist. They could count on it!
This last announcement caused great excitement among her listeners. Rita’s parties were the best in the neighborhood. There was no one like her for throwing an affair that lasted till the sun came up, catching her guests unaware and making them wonder how the night had slipped by so quickly. “As long as there’s money or credit, she’s ready to spend it! No one every died of thirst or starvation at one of her get-togethers!”
“Tell me, Leocádia, who are those gloomy-looking characters in number thirty-five?” Rita asked, seeing Jerônimo and his wife at the door to their house.
“Ah!” her friend replied. “That’s Jerônimo and Piedade—a couple you haven’t met. They moved in after you left. Good people, God bless them!”
Rita brought her groceries into the house. Then she opened the window and began to sing. Her presence filled São Romão with joy.
Firmo, the mulatto she was mixed up with, the devil who had lured her away to Jacarepaguá, was bringing a pal to dinner. Rita told her girlfriends all about it, sharpening a knife on the bricks outside her doorway as she prepared to scale the fish, while the cats—the same ones that pursued the sardine-seller—sidled up to her one by one, attracted by the sound of the blade.
To the right of the Bahian’s house, at number eight, Das Dores also prepared for a visit from her lover by giving her walls, ceiling, and furniture a thorough cleaning before she set to work in the kitchen. Barefoot, with her skirts hitched up to her knees, a towel around her head and rolled-up sleeves, she hurried between her house and the faucets, lugging heavy buckets of water. Shortly thereafter, unpaid helpers appeared beside Rita and Das Dores. Albino volunteered to sweep and tidy the mulatto’s house while she prepared her northern delicacies. Florinda, Leocádia, and Augusta also showed up, impatient for the after dinner party they had been promised. Pombinha spent the day at home, attending to the workers’ and washerwomen’s correspondence, as she did every Sunday.
At a little table covered with a piece of cheap cloth, with her inkwell sitting beside a small pad of paper, the girl wrote while men and women dictated letters to their families or to customers who owed them money for laundry. She took everything down, making a few corrections to improve the style. As soon as she had finished one letter, she would address the envelope and summon the next correspondent, since they all wished to confide their messages to Pombinha in private. As a result, the poor girl had to store in her heart all their passions and resentments, some of them fouler than the gases rising from a swamp on a summer day.
“Write it all down,” said a worker from the quarry who stood beside her, scratching his head, “but write big so a woman can understand it. Tell her I didn’t send her the money she asked for because I don’t have it and I’m in a tight spot myself, but I promise to send it next month. Tell her to get by as best she can because I’ve got my own troubles, and if her brother Luis decides to come, she should let me know ahead of time so I can look for something for him, since if he comes without a job he’ll wish he’d stayed at home, and things aren’t so easy around here right now.”
When Pombinha had finished writing, he added: “Tell her I miss her a whole lot but I’m the same guy as before and I don’t fool around and I’m planning to send for her as soon as God and the Virgin help me scrape a little money together. She shouldn’t get angry about me not sending money, because like they say, you can’t get blood out of a stone. Ah! (I almost forgot.) As far as Libânia’s concerned, the best thing is not to worry about her! Libânia went to the bad and became a whore on Rua São Jorge. She’d better forget all about that girl and the few pennies she lent her.”
Pombinha wrote it all down, every word of it, barely stopping long enough to stare at the man as she awaited the next sentence.
VII
And so Sunday slipped by at São Romão until three that afternoon, when Firmo arrived, bringing both a guitar and a friend, Porfiro, who played the banjo.
Firmo, Rita Bahiana’s lover, was a dapper, supple mulatto, agile as a young goat. He was a first-class bully and braggart, arrogant, quick-tempered, and fast as a whip in his capoeira movements. Though he must have been in his thirties, he looked barely twenty years old. His arms and legs were graceful; his neck was lithe but strong. He wasn’t muscular so much as sinewy. His thin mustache, curly and insolent, shone with his barber’s perfumed brilliantine, while his mass of curly hair, jet black and parted in the middle so that it covered part of his face, stuck out beneath the straw hat he had cocked at a rakish angle over his left ear.
As usual, he sported a black silk jacket showing some signs of wear, and pants that were tight around the knees but so flared at the bottoms that they hid his small but muscular feet. He wore neither a necktie nor a vest, but he had donned a new cotton shirt and around his neck, protecting his collar, a white perfumed handkerchief. An enormous two-vintém cigar protruded from his mouth, while his hand held a heavy walking stick that never knew a moment’s rest, for his slender, nervous fingers were constantly twirling it.
He was a skilled turner, expert but lazy, and wont to spend a week’s wages in a day. Sometimes, however, he would get lucky at dice or roulette, and then he would celebrate as he had for the past three months: spending his money on a spree with Rita Bahiana. With Rita or some other woman. “There’s no shortage of women ready to help a man spend his cash.” He’d been born in Rio de Janeiro. Between the ages of twelve and twenty, he had belonged to various gangs of hired thugs. He had helped pick the winners back when there were indirect elections. He had made a name for himself in certain quarters and earned embraces, presents, and words of gratitude from some important party bosses. He called this his period of “political passion,” but he had given up electoral battles in disgust because he had never managed to get a job in a government office—his dream!—making seventy mil-réis and working from nine to three.
His relationship with Ri
ta was complicated and went back many years—all the way back to when she had first arrived from Bahia with her mother, a tough old black woman who wouldn’t have hesitated to rip the guts out of Manduca da Praia. The old woman died and the girl moved in with Firmo, but owing to certain jealous scenes, they quickly split up, which, however, didn’t stop them from getting back together again, fighting once more, separating, and then making up once more. He was crazy about Rita, and she, though as fickle as all half-breed women, could never get him entirely out of her mind. She had affairs with other men, it’s true, from time to time, driving Firmo to fits of fury in which he beat her, but in the end he would seek her out—or she him—and they would go back together, more ardent than ever, as though their constant quarrels had merely fueled their passion.
The friend Firmo had brought that Sunday, Porfiro, was older and darker than he. His hair was frizzy. A typesetter. The two of them fitted well together, with their bell-bottomed trousers and cocked hats, but Porfiro had a few peculiarities of his own: He wore a floppy necktie that hung over his shirtfront, and he prided himself on his silver walking stick and his amber and meerschaum cigarette holder, from which a cigarette rolled in a corn husk protruded.
The scene at Rita’s house got livelier as soon as they arrived. They both took off their jackets and sent out for rum, “the right booze to go with Bahian muqueca.” And soon the guitar and banjo were playing away.
Simultaneously, Das Dores’s lover arrived, accompanied by one of his friends from work; they both wore frock coats and top hats. Machona, Nenen, and Agostinho, who had returned from their stroll into town, were helping her out. They would stay for the feast.
The excited, festive buzz in that corner of the courtyard grew louder and louder.
In both houses, dinner would be served at five. Rita was wearing a tight-fitting white cambric dress. Augusta, Bruno, Alexandre and Albino would dine with her at number nine; at number eight, Das Dores would entertain, apart from her own family, Dona Isabel, Pombinha, Marciana and Florinda.
The Slum (Library of Latin America) Page 7