Jerônimo and his wife were invited to both tables, but they politely declined, preferring to spend a quiet afternoon together as they always did, eating Piedade’s Portuguese stew and drinking wine she had made herself.
Meanwhile, the two neighboring dinners started off noisily with the soup and gradually grew more uproarious.
By the time a half-hour had gone by, an infernal din issued from the two houses. Everyone yelled and guffawed at once; cutlery and glasses rattled. Those outside could hear how much pleasure the guests derived from eating and drinking their fill, with stuffed mouths and greasy lips. A few dogs growled on the doorsteps, gnawing bones they had dragged outside. From time to time a woman’s head would appear at one of the windows, offering her neighbor a plate heaped with delicacies.
“Hey!” Das Dores shouted over to number nine. “Tell Rita to try these shrimps with okra and that her vatapá was delicious! If she has any pepper sauce left, ask her to send some over.”
Toward the end of the two meals, the noise became truly appalling. Those in number eight bellowed toasts and sang out-of-tune songs. Das Dores’s Portuguese lover, without his tie and jacket, his face flushed and shiny, bloated with wine and roast suckling pig, leaned back in his chair, roaring with laughter, while his shirt burst from his unbuttoned trousers. His friend flirted with Nenen, urged on by the entire circle, from respectable Machona to naughty Agostinho, who never calmed down or gave his mother a moment’s peace as the two shouted at each other like two demons out of hell. Florinda, who always managed to have a good time, enjoyed herself to the hilt and occasionally rose from the table to bring a plate of food to number twelve, as her mother had decided at the last moment not to attend the affair. Once they had finished eating, the hostess’s red-faced admirer insisted that she sit on his lap and began kissing her in front of all the guests, whereupon Dona Isabel, eager to get her daughter away from that inferno, said she was feeling very hot and would wait outside for her coffee.
The scene at Rita Bahiana’s house was even livelier. Firmo and Porfiro were in full swing, singing, clowning, and imitating the speech of African-born blacks. Firmo kept his arm around Rita’s waist, while the other pretended to flirt with Albino for the crowd’s amusement. Albino became indignant. Leocádia, in a splendid mood after all the wine she had drunk, shook so hard with laughter that she broke the chair she was sitting on. Thoroughly sozzled, she planted her heavy feet on Porfiro’s, rubbing her legs against his and letting him fondle her. Bruno, flushed and sweaty as though he were still at his forge, yelled and gesticulated, cursing no one knew whom. Alexandre, out of uniform and seated beside his wife, remained as respectable as ever and asked them not to make so much noise because they could be heard from the street. And he added, in a mysterious tone, that Miranda had looked out at them several times from his window.
“Let him spy on us if he feels like it!” Rita shouted. “Since when aren’t we allowed to have a good time on Sunday with our friends? To hell with him! I don’t owe him anything!”
The two musicians and Bruno were in complete agreement. Since their party wasn’t hurting anyone else, let the bastard mind his own business!
“He’d better watch his step,” Firmo threatened, “or I’ll make him wish he had. If he wants trouble, he’s going to get it!”
“If he doesn’t like it here, let him move somewhere else!” Porfiro exclaimed. “Or else come down and try to do something about it!”
“People are supposed to have fun on Sunday,” Bruno muttered, resting his head on his arms, which were crossed upon the table.
Then he swayed to his feet and added, rolling up his right sleeve, “They think they’re so high and mighty! Just wait till I’m done with them!”
Alexandre managed to calm him down by offering him a cigar.
After-dinner merriment had just broken out in another house around the courtyard, adding to the general pandemonium: It was a group of Italian peddlers, including Delporto, Pompeo, Francesco and Andrea. They were all singing in unison—and were more in tune than the two other choirs—but their voices could scarcely be heard, so loud and plentiful were the curses they bellowed. From time to time, amid those gruff, masculine voices, a falsetto rang out, so piercing that it was answered by all the neighborhood’s turkeys and parrots. Here and there, other scenes of jollity erupted among groups scattered about the courtyard. All the workers were determined to make the most of their day off. The eating-house churned like a drunkard’s stomach after an epic binge, expelling great noisy, stupefying blasts into the courtyard.
Miranda’s wrathful visage appeared at his window again. He looked like a commander about to bark an order, with his protruding belly, his white jacket, a napkin around his neck and a carving knife clutched as though it were a sword in his right hand.
“God damn you all, why don’t you do your yelling in hell?” he roared, threatening those below him. “This is going too far! If you don’t shut up, I’ll call the police, you lousy brutes!”
Miranda’s shouts brought people to their doors, and their uncontrollable laughter made him still more furious.
“Scum! I should shoot you all like rabid dogs!”
Howls of derision echoed through the courtyard, while various figures appeared around Miranda, trying to pull him back inside.
“Come on, Miranda. It’s no use losing your temper—”
“They’re trying to upset you—”
“Daddy, get away from there—”
“Watch out for rocks. Those people are capable of anything—”
The crowd caught a glimpse of Dona Estela, pale as a nocturnal flower; Zulmira, whose haughty expression twisted her features into a grimace; Henrique, prettier than ever; and Botelho, gazing down at the mob with the profound disdain of one who expects nothing from others or from himself.
“Scum!” Miranda reiterated.
Alexandre, who had hastily donned his uniform, told the businessman that it was unwise to insult them in that fashion. No one had bothered him! They were merely eating dinner with their friends, as he was with his! He shouldn’t yell at them, for one word led to another, and if the police had to file a report, he, Alexandre, would testify in favor of whoever was in the right.
“Go to hell!” Miranda retorted, turning his back.
“This guy’s getting to be a real pest!” exclaimed Firmo, who until then had remained silent, standing in Rita’s doorway with his hands on his hips, staring provocatively at Miranda.
“You chicken-hearted son of a bitch, I’ll cut you down to size the first chance I get!”
Miranda was yanked away from the window, which slammed shut behind him.
“Forget about that swine,” Porfiro muttered, taking his friend’s arm and leading him back into Rita’s house. “Let’s have our coffee before it gets cold.”
In front of Rita’s house, various neighbors had assembled: unskilled laborers, poor devils who didn’t even make enough to quell their hunger. Even so, none of them looked sad, for she promptly invited them in for a bite and a glass of wine. Her house was always full of visitors.
The sun was setting.
Old Libório, whom no one had ever seen eating his own lunch or dinner, emerged from his hovel like a turtle in the rain.
What a strange character old Libório was! He occupied the courtyard’s filthiest corner and was always grubbing other people’s leftovers, scrounging there, begging from one and all, bewailing his misfortunes, picking up butts to smoke in his pipe, a pipe the miser had stolen from a poor decrepit old blind man. When people at São Romão claimed he had money hidden away, he protested indignantly, swearing that he hadn’t a penny. The old man was so avaricious that mothers urged their children to shun him as they would a stray dog, for whenever the old devil saw some unaccompanied youngster, he would circle round, beguiling his prey with jokes and sweet words till he got his hands on the penny the child clutched in his fist.
Rita invited him in and gave him something to eat and drink,
but on the condition that he exercise moderation. She didn’t want him gorging himself at her house. If he wanted to eat until he burst, he should find someplace else to do it!
He fell upon his food, avidly devouring it, anxiously glancing about as though afraid someone would steal it right out of his mouth. He swallowed without chewing, stuffing pieces in with his fingers, and slipping into his pockets what he couldn’t cram into his mouth.
Those implacable jaws, ferocious and greedy, were terrifying to behold. That huge, toothless mouth tried to gulp down everything, everything, starting with his own face, from his enormous, red potato-nose to his sunken cheeks, his eyes, his ears, his entire head, including his bald pate, smooth as an egg and ringed by stray wisps of hair like those on a coconut.
Firmo suggested that they get him drunk to see what would happen. Alexandre and his wife objected but couldn’t help laughing, nor could the others restrain their mirth, despite the grotesqueness of the spectacle, at that remnant of a man, that mummy wolfing down his food as if he were stocking up for a journey to the next world.
Suddenly a piece of meat, too big to be swallowed whole, caught in Libório’s throat. He began to cough, his eyes bulged, his face turned an apoplectic shade of red. Leocádia, who was closest to him, slapped him on the back.
The glutton expelled the half-digested morsel onto the tablecloth.
Everyone felt disgusted.
“Pig!” Rita shouted, recoiling.
“The swine’s trying to wolf everything down at once,” said Porfiro. “He acts like he’s never seen food before!”
And seeing that he went on stuffing himself even more greedily after wasting a minute, he added, “Wait a second, you hog! That food won’t run away! What’s your hurry?”
“Drink some water, Libório,” Augusta advised him.
And like the good soul she was, she went to get a glass of water and raised it to his lips.
The old man drank it, without taking his eyes off his plate.
“The devil take him,” muttered Porfiro, spitting to one side. “If we’re not careful, he’ll eat us too, bones and all.”
Poor Albino scarcely touched his food, and the little he managed to get into his stomach made him ill. Rita, who felt like teasing him, said his lack of appetite was a sure sign of pregnancy.
“Don’t start in with me . . .” he stammered, making for the door with his cup of coffee in his hand.
“Be careful!” she yelled after him. “That coffee’ll get into your milk and the kid’ll come out brown!”
Albino whirled around and, in a very serious tone of voice, told Rita he didn’t appreciate those sorts of cracks.
Alexandre, who had lit a cigar after gallantly offering one to each of his companions, added his two-cents’ worth, claiming that sneaky Albino had been caught in the act with Bruxa under some mango trees in the lot behind the courtyard.
Only Leocádia thought this was funny, but she roared with laughter. Albino, who by now was nearly in tears, declared that he never stuck his nose in anyone’s business and they should do the same with him.
“But let’s get this straight once and for all,” said Porfiro. “Is it true this guy’s never been with a woman?”
“He’s the one who can tell you,” Rita replied. “But today we’ll find out. Come on, Albino! Spill the beans or there’s going to be trouble!”
“If I’d known this was what you invited me for, I would have stayed home,” Albino angrily stammered. “I didn’t come here to be a laughing stock!”
And he would have run out crying if Rita hadn’t barred his way, saying as though she were talking to a high-strung little girl, “Now don’t be silly! Stay here! You can’t let them get under your skin like that!”
Albino wiped away his tears and sat down again.
Meanwhile, night had fallen, bringing with it a cool breeze from the southwest. Bruno was snoring at the table: Leocádia’s leg rested upon Porfiro’s, who fondled her while downing glass after glass of rum.
Then it occurred to Firmo that they’d feel better outside, and everyone except Bruno got ready to move. Libório asked Alexandre for a cigar to empty into his pipe. Having received one, the old leech set out in search of other dinners. Rita, Augusta, and Albino stayed behind, washing the dishes and tidying up the house.
The Italians were still singing in monotonous chorus, wearily and drunkenly. Outside the entrances to various houses, groups were seated in chairs or on the ground; but Rita Bahiana’s circle was the largest, swelled by Das Dores and her guests. Smoke rose from pipes and cigars. Voices were hushed as they peacefully digested their dinners. The sound of arguments was replaced by quiet conversation.
The courtyard’s lantern had been lit, along with lights in many windows.
Now the loudest noises came from Miranda’s house: a din of cheers and hurrahs, punctuated by the sound of popping corks from champagne bottles.
“They’re going at it hammer and tongs—” Alexandre observed, once again out of uniform.
“Yeah, but they complain when we have a little fun,” Rita added. “Bastards!”
A long conversation then began about Miranda’s family—especially Dona Estela and Henrique. Leocádia swore that once, when she was peering over the wall after climbing onto the pile of empty demijohns in the courtyard, she’d seen the slut and the student hugging and kissing like there was no tomorrow. As soon as they’d seen her spying on them, they’d taken to their heels.
Augusta Carne-Mole crossed herself, invoking the Holy Virgin, while Das Dores’s lover’s friend, still flirting with Nenen, acted astonished at this piece of news and said he had always deemed Dona Estela the very model of propriety.
“What?” Alexandre exclaimed. “Not one of them has any shame! You can hardly believe the things they do! Once I caught her in the act too, by the wall; but it wasn’t with that student. It was a bearded fellow who used to visit her sometimes, bald and pockmarked. And the daughter’s following in her footsteps.”
This new bit of information astounded the group. They demanded more details, which Alexandre gladly supplied. Zulmira’s suitor was a skinny, bespectacled lad with a blond mustache who hung around outside her house at night and sometimes in the early morning. He looked like another student.
“But what do they do?” Das Dores asked.
“Not much at the moment. She stands at the window, and they blather about how much they love each other. It’s always that last window over there on the street. I see them when I’m on duty. He talks a lot about getting married, and she’s game, but it seems like the old man’s dead set against it.”
“He’s never been inside the house?”
“No, and that’s what I don’t like the looks of. If he wants to marry the girl, he should talk it over with her family and not be flirting with her all the time.”
“That’s right,” Firmo interjected, “but you can see Miranda’s not going to let his daughter marry a student. He’s saving her for some big shot. It wouldn’t surprise me if the son of a bitch had his eye on some old fogey who owns a coffee plantation. I know what these people are like!”
“That’s why there are so many sluts in the world!” Augusta added. “My daughter’s going to marry someone she loves; forced marriages always turn out badly for the woman and the man. My husband’s poor and colored, but I’m happy because he’s the one I wanted to marry.”
“Damned right! Money isn’t everything!”
At that moment, someone began strumming a guitar outside number thirty-five. It was Jerônimo. After the loud festivities and high spirits that had filled the courtyard that afternoon, he seemed even more melancholy than usual:
My life is full of sadness
Only I can understand;
I think I’m going to die
When I recall my native land.
Following his example, other guitars joined in till that monotonous Portuguese song and its mournful atmosphere filled all of São Romão, contrasting with t
he sounds of merriment from Miranda’s house above them:
O native land I long for:
When will I return?
Free me from this exile;
For you alone I yearn.
Saddened by Jerônimo’s sweetly nostalgic fado, everyone—even the Brazilians—gathered around the singer. But suddenly, Firmo’s guitar and Porfiro’s banjo exploded in a vibrant Bahian chorado. At their first notes, the crowd stirred as though stung by a whip. Other notes rang out, and still others, growing more delirious. It was no longer the sound of two instruments but a torrent of sighs, slithering like snakes through a burning jungle. Convulsive moans poured forth in a frenzy of passion, in kisses, sobs of pleasure and wild embraces, painful and joyous.
That fiery music shimmered in the air. It was like the smell of Brazilian vegetation fed on by sensuous bluebottle flies and poisonous beetles, all drunk on a delicious perfume that killed them with sheer pleasure.
At the sound of Firmo’s crackling Bahian music, the melancholy songs from overseas stopped. The tropics’ blazing light outshone Europe’s placid luminescence, as though the very sun that illumined America, red-hot, like some voluptuous sultan, wished to drink in the fearful tears of that old and decaying continent.
Jerônimo forgot about his guitar and let his hands rest idly on its strings, enraptured as he was by that strange music, which continued a revolution in his soul that had begun the first time Brazil’s proud and savage sun had beat down upon his face, the first time he had heard a cicada’s refrain, the first time he had drunk the juice of some tropical fruit, the first time he had smelled jasmine’s scent, the first time his blood had stirred at the smell of the first mulatta who had shaken her skirts and her hair nearby.
“What’s the matter, Jerônimo?” his wife asked in surprise.
“Wait!” he whispered. “Let me hear what they’re playing.”
Firmo had begun to sing a chorado, while the crowd clapped in time.
The Slum (Library of Latin America) Page 8