Once when Jerônimo asked after “that poor woman,” as was his custom, the mulatto replied that Leocádia was pregnant.
“Pregnant? But not from her husband . . .”
“It might be him. She’s four months along.”
“But hasn’t she been gone longer than that?”
“No. On Saint John’s Day it’ll be four months exactly.”
Whenever Jerônimo played his guitar, he tried to pick out the melodies Rita sang. On samba nights, he was the first to arrive and the last to depart; he stood open-mouthed throughout the festivities, watching the mulatta dance, entranced, aware of nothing else, a driveling idiot. And she, conscious of her effect upon him, swayed and shook her hips all the more, thrusting out her belly and brushing the saliva from his chin with the hem of her whirling skirts.
Everyone would laugh.
No doubt about it! He was head over heels in love!
Piedade went to Bruxa for some potion that would bring her man back. The old half-breed shut the door to her bedroom, lit candles, burned aromatic herbs, and read her cards.
After laying out a complicated spread of kings, jacks, and queens on the table, muttering a cabalistic incantation over every card she drew from the deck, she finally declared with great conviction, keeping her eyes on the cards, “Some brown-skinned woman’s turned his head.”
“It’s that Rita Bahiana!” Piedade exclaimed. “I could feel it! Oh, my poor husband!”
And sadly wiping away the tears with her coarse apron, she begged Bruxa, by all the souls in purgatory, to find some cure for her sorrow.
“If I lose him, S’ora Paula,” she wailed, “I don’t know what I’ll do. . . . Show me some way to get Jerônimo back.”
The half-breed told her to bathe every day and put a few drops of the bath water in his coffee, and if that didn’t work, to dip a few hairs from her body, roast them and make a powder, which she should mix with her husband’s food.
Piedade listened to these instructions with respectful, attentive silence, with the gloomy air of one hearing bad news from a doctor about a beloved patient. She pressed a silver coin into the sorceress’s hand, promising to pay her more if the remedy worked.
But Piedade wasn’t the only one upset by Jerônimo’s feelings toward Rita; there was Firmo as well. He’d been worried for a while, and whenever he saw the Portuguese, he shot him a nasty look.
The thug slept at Rita’s every night, but he didn’t live at São Romão. He had a room at the shop where he worked. Sunday was the only day they spent together, and that day always revolved around a huge dinner party. One day when he decided not to go to work—which he did quite frequently—he showed up earlier than usual and found her chatting with the Portuguese. Firmo walked past them without a word and entered her house, where she soon joined him. Firmo said nothing about his suspicions, but he also did nothing to conceal his bad mood. He was irritable and quarrelsome all afternoon. He scowled over his supper, and when they were drinking rum after their coffee, he spoke only of brawls, of blows with his head, and those he had cut with his knife, acting as mean as he could, recalling his exploits in capoeira and all the famous fighters he had bested, “not counting a couple of Portuguese guys who are six feet under, because they’re not real men. A few butts from my head finished them off.” Rita saw that he was jealous but pretended not to notice.
The next morning, when he was leaving her house at six o’clock, he ran into Jerônimo, who was on his way to work, and the look they exchanged was their cartel of defiance. Meanwhile, each man went his way in silence.
Rita decided to warn Jerônimo to be on his guard. She knew her lover well and understood what he was capable of when he was in a jealous rage, but when the foreman came home for lunch, a new melodrama was in full swing in number twelve, between old Marciana and her daughter Florinda.
Marciana was already worried about the girl, who hadn’t menstruated in three months. Her suspicions were confirmed one day when, in the middle of lunch, Florinda suddenly rose from the table and ran into the bedroom. The old woman followed her. The girl started vomiting into the chamberpot.
“What’s going on?” her mother asked, scrutinizing the daughter.
“I don’t know, mom.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing . . .”
“Nothing, and you’re throwing up? Humph!”
“I’m all right, really!”
The old negress approached and, lifting the girl’s dress and petticoats, frantically examined her entire body and felt her belly. Unable to discover anything through her efforts, she hurried to summon Bruxa, who was more experienced in such matters. The half-breed calmly left her work, wiped her hands on her apron, and headed for number twelve, where she examined the girl, questioned her, and then coolly announced, “She’s pregnant.”
Showing neither surprise nor disapproval, she returned to her washing.
Trembling with rage, Marciana locked the front door, dropped the key into her bodice, and began beating her daughter. Screaming like a madwoman, the girl vainly tried to escape.
All the washtubs in the courtyard and some tables at the eatery were quickly abandoned, as an excited crowd gathered outside number twelve, pounding on the door and threatening to enter through the window.
Inside, the old woman straddled her daughter, who was writhing on the floor, and shouted over and over again: “Who was it? Who was it?”
Each question was accompanied by a slap across the face.
“Who was it?”
The girl howled but refused to answer.
“So you won’t talk, huh? Just wait a minute.”
And the old woman stood up and went to fetch a broom in the corner.
Florinda, seeing that a serious thrashing was in store, leapt up, ran to the window, and jumped out, landing amid the crowd six feet below.
The washerwomen caught and steadied her, ready to defend her from her mother, who now appeared at the door, threatening the entire group, livid with rage and still clutching her broom.
They all tried to calm her down.
“What’s this all about, Marciana? What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? This slut’s pregnant! That’s what’s going on! That’s what I killed myself for, working till I dropped! That’s what’s the matter!”
“I see,” said Augusta, “but don’t beat the poor girl! You’ll kill her!”
“Damned right I will! I want to know who did it! If she won’t tell me I’ll break every bone in her body!”
“Florinda, you’d better go ahead and tell her—it’ll be easier for you—” Das Dores advised the girl.
An eager, expectant silence now surrounded the pair.
“You see?” the mother exclaimed. “The bitch won’t answer! But just wait and you’ll see if I can make her talk!”
The washerwomen had to pin her arms to her sides and grab her broom, with which she was about to fall upon her daughter again.
Everyone was dying to find out who the culprit had been. “Who was it? Who was it?” The question stretched Florinda on a rack. Finally, she gave in.
“It was Seu Domingos . . .” she blurted out, weeping and hiding her face in her skirt, torn in the fray.
“Domingos!”
“The clerk in the store!”
“Ah, it was that son of a bitch!” Marciana shrieked. “Come with me!”
And dragging the girl along by the hand, she led her to the store.
The onlookers all followed close behind them.
The tavern and the eating-house were both overflowing with customers.
At the counter, Domingos and Manuel served an endless stream of clients. The place was full of blacks, and the din was tremendous. Leonor was there, mixing with the crowd, talking first to one and then to another, showing her double row of big, white teeth while leathery hands rudely fondled her slender, girlish buttocks. Three English sailors were drinking fermented ginger beer, chewing tobacco, and singing drunke
nly.
Marciana, leading the crowd and still gripping her daughter, who followed her like an animal on a leash, reached the side door and bellowed, “Seu João Romão!”
“What’s up?” the owner asked from inside.
Bertoleza, greasy and covered with soot, a huge spoon dripping oil in her hand, appeared at the door. Seeing the crowd, she called out: “Come here, João! Something’s happened!”
And at last he came.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I’ve come to bring you this poor girl. Your clerk got her in trouble, now he’d better take care of her.”
João Romão looked puzzled.
“Huh? What’s this all about?”
“It was Domingos,” a chorus of voices yelled.
“Seu Domingos!”
“Sir . . .” Domingos replied in a guilty tone of voice.
“Come here!”
And the culprit appeared, pale as a ghost.
“What did you do to this girl?”
“I didn’t do anything, sir.”
“It was him, it was!” Florinda shouted. The clerk glanced away, afraid to meet her gaze. “Late one night, around four in the morning, in that lot out back, under the mango trees . . .”
The mass of women greeted these words with howls of laughter.
“So you think this is a good place to screw around,” the boss said, shaking his head. “Fine! But now you’ll have to pay the price and, since I don’t let my clerks do that kind of stuff, you’d better look for another job.”
Without replying, Domingos lowered his eyes and slowly walked away.
The group of washerwomen and curious onlookers then dispersed throughout the store, the courtyard, the eating-house, and the tavern, breaking up into small groups that analyzed the event. Commentaries, opinions for and against the clerk, and predictions were exchanged.
Meanwhile, Marciana, with her daughter still in tow, invaded João Romão’s house in search of Domingos, who was gathering up his possessions.
“Well?” she asked. “What are you going to do?”
He kept silent.
“Come on! Speak up! Spit it out!”
“Go to hell!” muttered the clerk, red with anger.
“I won’t go to hell, and you’d better watch your language. She’s a minor and you’ve got to marry her!”
Domingos uttered an obscenity that fed the old woman’s rage.
“Oh yeah?” she screamed. “We’ll see about that!”
And she stormed out of the store, yelling so—everyone could hear her; “Guess what! The bastard doesn’t want to marry her!”
This shout was like a call to arms for the washerwomen, who again flocked together, full of righteous wrath.
“What do you mean, he won’t marry her?”
“That’s what he thinks!”
“He’s got some nerve!”
“Now no one’s daughter’ll be safe!”
“If he’s not the marrying type, he should have left her alone!”
“Why didn’t he think of that before?”
“If he doesn’t marry her he’ll come out of here feet first!”
“He thinks he can sneak around like that and not pay the price?”
The most vociferous was Machona, and the most indignant was Dona Isabel. The former ran around to the front of the store, prepared to cut off the culprit’s escape. Following her example, sentinels took up positions outside the other doors in groups of three or four. Curses and threats were heard amid the uproar.
“Das Dores! Make sure the bastard doesn’t slip out that way!”
“Seu João Romão, if he won’t marry her, hand him over to us. We’ve got a few more daughters for him to screw!”
“Where the hell is he?”
“Tell that son of a bitch to get out!”
“He’s packing his bags!”
“He thinks he can get away!”
“Don’t let him!”
“Call the cops!”
“Where’s Alexandre?”
The women were too excited to even listen to each other. Seeing how upset they had become, João Romão went to speak with Domingos.
“Don’t try to leave now,” he told him. “Stay here for a while. I’ll come back and tell you when the coast is clear.”
Then he went to one of the doors that opened onto the courtyard and shouted, “Stop that noise! I won’t stand for this! Break it up!”
“Then tell him to marry the girl!” they replied.
“Or turn the bastard over to us!”
“He won’t get away!”
“Don’t let him escape!”
“Everyone stay where they are!”
And hearing Marciana curse him, shaking her fist, João swore that if she kept it up, he’d have the police put her and her daughter out on the street.
“Let’s go! Shake a leg! Everyone back to work! I can’t waste any more time!”
“Then hand that guy over to us,” the old Negress insisted.
“Send him out!” the chorus echoed.
“We’ll teach him a lesson!”
“He’s going to get married,” João solemnly announced. “I already spoke to him—and he’s willing. If he doesn’t marry her, he’ll pay her dowry. Don’t worry; I promise you’ll get either him or the money.”
These words calmed the washerwomen, who began to disperse. João Romão went back inside, where he told Domingos not to set foot out of the house till nightfall.
“And once you do, don’t come back,” he added. “We’ve settled our accounts.”
“But . . . you still haven’t paid me.”
“Paid you? What you’ve got coming won’t even cover that girl’s dowry.”
“So I have to pay her dowry?”
“It’s either that or marry her. Listen, pal, these little sprees cost money! Now if you want, you can go and complain to the police—you’ve got every right! I’ll explain what happened in court.”
“You mean you’re not going to pay me anything?”
“Now don’t make trouble or I’ll throw you out now and let those women take care of you. You saw what kind of mood they’re in. You’ve got me to thank that they didn’t tear your guts out a few minutes ago. I had to promise them some money, and I’ve got to come up with it too. But it won’t come out of my pocket, because I’m damned if I’ll pay for your foolishness!”
“But . . .”
“That’s enough. If you want to stay here till nightfall, shut up! Otherwise—get out!”
And he walked away.
Marciana decided not to go to the police till she saw what João Romão had in mind. She’d wait till the next day, “and then we’ll see!” In the meantime, she cleaned her house several times, as was her custom whenever she was in a bad mood.
The scandal remained the courtyard’s sole topic of conversation for the rest of the day. When Léonie visited Alexandre and Augusta that evening, it was still on everyone’s lips.
Léonie, dressed in the flashy gauds of a French cocotte, turned heads whenever she appeared at São Romão. Her shiny silk dress trimmed with dark red, short and flouncy, showing her stylish high-heeled shoes; her elbow-length gloves with their long rows of buttons; her red parasol, swathed in a cloud of pink lace, its handle carved with extravagant arabesques; her gigantic hat, its huge brim lined with scarlet velvet and a bird perched on its crown; her sparkling jewelry; her bright red lipstick; her purple eye shadow; her bleached hair—all this contrasted so sharply with those poor people’s clothes, customs, and manners that all eyes turned to gaze at her as she stood at Alexandre’s door. At the sight of her daughter Juju all dolled up and looking so pretty, Augusta’s eyes filled with tears.
Léonie always saw to it that her godchild was well dressed and well shod—so much so that she had her clothes made by her own seamstress. She bought Juju hats as spectacular as hers and gave the girl jewelry. But on this occasion, the great novelty in Juju’s appearance was that her hair was
now blond instead of its natural chestnut color. She caused a sensation in the courtyard. The news spread like wildfire; people poured from their homes, eager to catch a glimpse of Augusta’s daughter “with French hair.”
Léonie beamed with joy. That goddaughter was her luxury, her whim, redeeming her life of wearying depravity, saving her, in her own eyes, from the squalor of her profession. A prostitute whose door was open to one and all, she cherished Augusta’s modest respectability. She felt honored by her regard and showered presents upon her. When Léonie was there, among those simple friends, who would have made her look ridiculous in any other context, she herself seemed a different woman, and her expression changed dramatically. She refused to accept any special treatment; she sat on the first bench she found, drank water from the family’s tin cup, and sometimes removed her shoes and slipped on a pair of old slippers she found beneath the bed.
Alexandre’s and Augusta’s devotion to her was boundless; they would do anything for Léonie. They adored her. They considered her as good-hearted as an angel and found her flashy clothes as beautiful as her round face, coy and malicious, with its two rows of dazzling teeth.
Juju, clutching two bags of sweets, was taken from house to house, passed from hand to hand, kissed by a hundred lips like some miraculous idol. Everyone found her charming.
“She’s gorgeous!”
“What an adorable little creature!”
“She looks like an angel!”
“A French doll!”
“She’s as pretty as a little Christ-child in a church!”
Her father accompanied her, profoundly moved but as solemn as ever, constantly stopping, as in a procession, to await his neighbors’ compliments. He felt quietly happy, his eyes shone, and his big mulatto face with its false-looking mustache glowed with pathetic gratitude for the favor God had granted his daughter, sending the ideal godmother down from heaven to watch over her.
While Juju was triumphantly paraded around the courtyard, Léonie sat in Augusta’s house, surrounded by a circle of washerwomen and children. There she held forth on serious topics, speaking calmly, in tones that showed she was a woman of experience and sound judgment, condemning wickedness and folly and applauding virtue and morality. And those women, normally so vivacious and chatty, didn’t dare to laugh or raise their voices in her presence and spoke in fearful whispers, intimidated by the cocotte, who overwhelmed them with her proud air, her blond tresses, her silk dress and her diamonds. Das Dores blushed with pride when Léonie, laying her delicate gloved and perfumed hand on her shoulder, asked after her lover’s health. They couldn’t stop staring at Léonie in admiration. They even examined her clothes, scrutinizing her petticoats, touching her stockings, feeling her dress, exclaiming over all the lace and embroidery. The visitor smiled, touched by their attentions. Piedade declared that her underclothes were even whiter than the ones on Madonnas in churches. Nenen, carried away by enthusiasm, said she envied Léonie from the bottom of her heart, annoying her mother, who curtly ordered her not to be a fool. His hand on his chin, Albino ecstatically contemplated Augusta’s guest. Rita Bahiana brought her a bouquet of roses. Though under no illusions about what a prostitute’s life was like, she was fond of her for this very reason and perhaps also because she found her genuinely pretty. “You have to really know your stuff to get men to cough up all those jewels and clothes!”
The Slum (Library of Latin America) Page 11