But suddenly everything vanished and he heard a voice say, “Wake up, João. It’s time to go to the beach.”
Bertoleza was rousing him, as she did every morning, to go get the fish she had to cook for their customers. Afraid of being cheated, João Romão never let his employees buy anything. That day, however, he didn’t feel like getting out of bed and told her to send Manuel.
At about four in the morning, he finally managed to get to sleep.
At six he was up and about. Miranda’s house was already resplendent. Banners hung from the windows looking out on the street. The curtains had been changed, chains of myrtle garlanded the entrance, and the pavement and front walk were strewn with mango leaves. Dona Estela ordered her servants to set off rockets and fireworks at dawn. A band had been playing outside the front door ever since. The baron had risen early with his family. Dressed in white, with a lace cravat and a diamond-studded shirtfront, he appeared at one of the windows from time to time beside his wife or daughter, smiling down, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, lighting cigars, happy and contented.
Full of rancor, João Romão watched all this. Certain painful misgivings had begun to gnaw at him. Which would have been smarter: to live as he had, enduring every conceivable hardship in his clogs and cheap clothes, or to have imitated Miranda, eating well and enjoying life? Was he, João Romão, clever enough to raise himself to his neighbor’s station? He had the money, that was certain, but was he prepared to throw it around so freely, to exchange a goodly portion of what he had painfully amassed for a medal he could wear on his chest? Was he prepared to share what he had earned, taking a wife, founding a family, and surrounding himself with friends? Was he ready to fill others’ bellies with fine wines and delicacies, when he had always treated his own so disdainfully? And if he did decide to radically alter his life, wedding some well-bred lady of refined manners, building a house like Miranda’s and chasing after some title, would he know how to do it? Could he actually bring it off? How could someone who had never even worn a jacket look comfortable in a dress suit? How could he ever get his feet into dancing shoes? And his hands, hard and calloused as a stonecutter’s—how would he squeeze them into gloves? And that wasn’t all! The hardest thing would be knowing what to say to his guests! How was he supposed to treat those ladies and gentlemen in a big salon full of mirrors and gilded chairs? How could he learn to make polite conversation?
A grim and somber mood gripped him: a yearning to leap higher, combined with a dreadful fear of falling and breaking his legs. In the end, his lack of self-confidence and his conviction that he was incapable of aspiring to anything except money and more money poisoned his thoughts, turning his ambitions to ashes and dulling the luster of his gold.
“I was a fool!” he thought. “A damned fool!” Why hadn’t he tried, when there was still time, to adjust to a more refined way of life as so many compatriots and colleagues of his had done? Why hadn’t he learned to dance as they had? Why hadn’t he joined one of those clubs that took part in carnival? Why hadn’t he gone to Rua do Ouvidor from time to time, to the theater and to balls, to the racetrack or on trips to the country? Why hadn’t he accustomed himself to good clothes, to decent shoes, to walking sticks, to handkerchiefs, to cigars, to hats, to beer and to everything else the others used naturally and without asking anyone’s permission? Damn his stinginess!
“I would have spent more, it’s true! I wouldn’t be so rich! But hell, now I could do what I liked with my money! I’d be a gentleman!”
“You talking with ghosts, Seu João?” Bertoleza asked, noticing that he was muttering to himself, unable to concentrate on his work.
“Oh, let up! Don’t you bother me too! I’m not feeling well today!”
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything! Really!”
“That’s enough! Leave me alone!”
And his bad mood got worse as the day wore on. He started quarrels with everyone. He managed to get in an argument with the night watchman on his street. Did that guy think he was scared of his stupid fines? If that dumb watchman thought he could fool with him like he did with other people, let him try it and he’d see what would happen! He’d better keep away; João didn’t like dogs sniffing around his door. Then he quarreled with Machona about one of her cats that had made some trouble the week before at the stand where Bertoleza sold fried fish. He stopped in front of every washtub, furious, looking for excuses to get in a fight. He screamed at the children to keep out of his way, “They’re thicker than flies! I never saw anyone breed so fast! They’re worse than rabbits!” He pushed old Libório aside.
“Get away from me, you worthless bag of bones! I don’t know what the hell a useless old good-for-nothing bastard like you is doing on this earth!”
He protested against some cocks belonging to a tailor who had set them fighting in the middle of a noisy ring of spectators. He cursed the Italians who, enjoying their day off, had piled up a heap of orange peels and watermelon rinds outside their door, eating and chatting as they sat on the ground and the windowsills.
“Clean up this mess!” he bellowed. “This place looks like a pigsty! Hurry up! I wish to hell you’d all die of yellow fever! Goddamned bunch of guinea-wops! Get this crap away or I’ll throw you all out! I’m boss around here!”
With poor old Marciana, who had not obeyed his order to leave number twelve, his fury reached a delirious pitch. The unfortunate, ever since Florinda had run away, had done nothing but weep and curse, jabbering to herself with maniacal persistence. She hadn’t slept a wink all night, wandering out to the street and back dozens of times, whimpering like a bitch whose puppy has been stolen.
She was besotted; she didn’t answer when she was spoken to. João Romão addressed her; she didn’t even turn around. And the Portuguese, whose wrath waxed greater with every minute, went and fetched two men, whom he told to clean out number twelve.
“Get that junk out of there! All of it!” he roared. “I’m boss around here! I’m king of this place!”
The two men began cleaning out the house.
“No! Not there! Take it out in the street!” he screamed when they started piling Marciana’s things in the courtyard. “Outside the gate! Outside the gate!”
And poor Marciana, without protest, squatted in the street with her knees together, clasping her legs, muttering to herself as her possessions piled up around her. Passersby stopped to stare. A group of curious onlookers began to form, but nobody understood what she was mumbling. It was a confused, interminable murmur, accompanied by a single gesture: a sad shake of the head. Nearby, her old mattress, ripped and worn; her ill-matched, beaten-up furniture; her bundles of rags; her cheap dishes stained from use—all heaped in disorder—had the indecent air of a bedroom suddenly exposed to public view. The man who played five instruments appeared, as he did every Sunday. Vendors wandered in and out, washerwomen set out on their Sunday strolls, hampers of starched and ironed clothes left as others full of dirty laundry entered, and Marciana just sat there, muttering to herself. João Romão stomped through number twelve, flinging open the doors, kicking the few rags and empty bottles that remained into the courtyard, while the evicted woman, heedless of what was going on around her, whispered gloomily to herself. She no longer wept, but her eyes were full of tears. Some of the women, again moved to pity, came out to talk to her and offer her food from time to time. Marciana didn’t reply. They tried to force her to eat; it was impossible. She paid no attention to anything and didn’t seem to realize they were there. They called her name; she went on with her monologue, not even looking up.
“Christ, what the hell’s come over her?”
Augusta appeared.
“Do you think she’s gone crazy?” Augusta asked, Rita who stared at the woman with a plate of food. “Poor thing!”
“Marciana!” the mulatta said. “You can’t go on like this! Get up! Bring your stuff inside! You can stay at my house till you find someplace else!”
It was useless. The old
woman kept right on babbling to herself.
“Look, it’s going to rain! A thunderstorm’s brewing! I already felt a couple of drops.”
Nothing did any good.
Bruxa watched from a distance, as motionless as Marciana, as though she had entered into her neighbor’s state of mind.
Rita hastened away because Firmo and Porfiro had just arrived with bags of food for their dinner. Das Dores’s lover also appeared. A clock struck three. Guests continued to stream into Miranda’s house, where the party was now in full swing. The orchestra scarcely paused between waltzes and quadrilles; girls laughed and danced in the front room; corks popped continuously; servants came and went, carrying trays of glasses between the dining room and the pantry or kitchen. Henrique, flushed and sweaty, showed his face from time to time at the window, eager for a glimpse of Pombinha, who had gone with her mother to visit Léonie.
After snapping at his clerks and Bertoleza for a while, João Romão returned to the courtyard, where he began to find fault with everyone and everything. He criticized the workers at his quarry, even Jerônimo, whose strength had always intimidated him. None of them knew how to do his job right! For three weeks they’d been drilling here and there without getting anything accomplished. Now it was Sunday and they still hadn’t used their dynamite! Worthless bums! Even Seu Jerônimo, previously so diligent, was setting a bad example! He wasted his evenings partying, couldn’t take his eyes off Rita Bahiana, and acted like she’d put a spell on him! A sad case! Piedade, hearing the tavern-keeper insult her husband, sallied forth in his defense, clutching a rock in each hand. An argument ensued, exciting all the onlookers. Fortunately, a thunderstorm dispersed the crowd and kept matters from coming to a head. The grown-ups fled into their burrows, while the children rushed outside, eager for some fun. They shouted, laughed, jumped and fell to the ground, where they thrashed about, pretending to swim. Meanwhile, glasses clinked at Miranda’s house next door as the water poured down, forming puddles in the courtyard.
When João Romão entered the store, also fleeing the rain, one of his clerks handed him a card from Miranda. It was an invitation to drop by that evening for a cup of tea.
At first the tavern-keeper felt flattered by that note, the first of its kind he had ever received; but then his fury returned with renewed vigor. The card enraged him like an insult, like a deliberate affront. Why would that son of a bitch invite him, knowing he couldn’t go? . . . Why, if not to make him even madder than he already was? Let him go to hell with his party and his titles!
“I don’t need him for anything,” João exclaimed. “I don’t need bastards like him! If I liked parties, I’d throw a few myself!”
At the same time, he started imagining what it would be like if he possessed the proper clothes and accepted the invitation. He saw himself dressed to the nines, with a gold watch chain and a diamond stickpin. He saw himself up there in the middle of the parlor, smiling as he attended to first one person and then another, discreetly taciturn, hearing his name mentioned in hushed, reverent tones as a rich man who could do what he pleased. He could feel the respectable guests’ approving gazes, the old women peering at him through their spectacles, sizing him up as a prospective match for their younger daughters.
All day long he served his customers grumpily and carelessly, snapped at Bertoleza, and when, at around five o’clock, he ran across Marciana, whom some negroes, moved to pity, had brought back inside São Romão, he exploded: “Are you crazy? What the hell is this ugly old witch doing here? If she wants charity, let her go somewhere else! This isn’t a poorhouse!”
And since a policeman, dripping rain, had just come in for a shot of rum, João turned to him and said, “Officer, this woman’s not right in the head, and I want her out before I shut the gates tonight.”
The policeman left and, about an hour later, Marciana was led away to jail, without the slightest protest and without interrupting her demented monologue. Her junk was stored in a public warehouse by order of the local precinct captain. Only Bruxa seemed really struck by what had occurred.
Meanwhile, the rain had stopped, and the sun reappeared briefly before bidding them good-night. Swallows glided above their heads, and São Romão seethed with its usual Sunday merriment. The party grew more vociferous at the baron’s residence; from time to time a glass was tossed from one of the windows into the courtyard below, provoking angry protests.
Night fell—a balmy night lit by a beautiful full moon that had been visible ever since sundown. The sambas began earlier than usual, perhaps inspired by all the gaiety at Miranda’s house.
It was one hell of an affair! Rita Bahiana was really in the mood that evening; she was inspired, divine! Never had she danced so gracefully and seductively.
She sang too. Every line she uttered was simuntaneously a lullaby, a lament, and a love call. And Firmo, drunk on that voluptuous vision, wrapped himself around his guitar, which sighed with pleasure, growling, whining, mewing, with all the sounds of an animal in heat.
Jerônimo couldn’t contain himself. When the Bahian, exhausted, sat down by his side, he whispered hoarsely, “Honey, I’d give my right arm for your love!”
Firmo didn’t hear him, but he noticed Jerônimo’s expression and scowled at the Portuguese, whom he began to eye suspiciously.
The singing and dancing continued unabated. Nenen and a friend who had come to visit whirled round and round, their hands on their hips, which swayed amid a circle of rhythmically clapping hands.
When Piedade’s husband whispered something else to Rita, Firmo was barely able to control himself.
But in the midst of that party, the Bahian committed the indiscretion of leaning over the Portuguese and whispering some amorous reply. In one leap, Firmo was suddenly standing before Jerônimo, defiantly looking him up and down. Jerônimo quickly rose to his feet and replied in kind. The instruments stopped, and a tense silence fell. No one moved. And in the middle of that great circle, lit by the April moon, the two men stood in profile, taking each other’s measure.
Jerônimo was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a bull, with a Herculean neck and fists big enough to smash a coconut with one blow. He was calm in his power. The other man was wiry, nearly a foot shorter, with muscular arms and legs, agile as a panther. His strength was of a more nervous sort, of one who takes his opponent by surprise and bests him in the first moment. One was solid, the other light, but both of them were brave.
“Hey, break it up!”
“No fighting here!”
“Keep dancing!” the circle of onlookers shouted.
Piedade rose to her feet and took Jerônimo’s arm.
He shoved her away, keeping his eyes fixed on the mulatto.
“Let’s see what this nigger wants,” he growled.
“To teach you a lesson, you big Portuguese lunk,” Firmo replied, approaching Jerônimo and then drawing away, always keeping one foot in the air, swaying from side to side, moving his arms as if ready to strike.
Enraged by this insult, Jerônimo threw the punch he’d been holding in check. The mulatto, however, quickly ducked, his hands on his hips and his right leg raised. The punch landed harmlessly in the air, while the Portuguese received an unexpected kick in the gut.
“Bastard!” he bellowed. He was about to fling himself upon his rival when a blow from the mulatto’s head knocked him to the ground.
“Get up, I don’t hit guys when they’re down!” Firmo exclaimed, still dancing around.
Jerônimo rose, but before he could steady himself on his feet, Firmo tripped him and landed a punch on his left ear. Furious, the Portuguese struck out again. Firmo leapt back as swiftly as a cat, and Jerônimo felt another kick on his face.
Blood squirted from the foreman’s mouth and nose. The women tried to separate the two adversaries, but Firmo tripped them and sent them flying with kicks so rapid that one could barely see his feet. A tremendous uproar arose. João Romão hastily shut his tavern, locked the front gate, and h
urried to the scene of the disturbance. Bruno, the peddlers, the workers at the quarry and all the others trying to control the mulatto had formed a circle around him. People screamed in terror. Everyone was frightened except Rita, who had moved away and stood with folded arms, watching those two men fight over her. Her lips puckered in the faintest suggestion of a smile. The moon had disappeared; the weather was changing again. The sky’s color deepened from dark blue to dark gray, and a damp breeze began blowing, as before a rainstorm. Piedade was shouting for the police. Her efforts to pull her husband away had earned her a furious punch in the jaw. Miranda’s windows were full of spectators. Whistles blew frantically.
Suddenly, the roar of a wounded beast filled the courtyard. Firmo had just received a fierce and unexpected blow on the head. Jerônimo had run home and returned with a club he had brought from Portugal. And then the mulatto, his face covered with blood, gnashing his teeth and foaming with rage, raised his right hand, in which a knife glittered.
The crowd noisily scattered. Men and women trampled each other in their panicked flight. Albino fainted. Piedade wailed and sobbed that Firmo was going to kill her husband. Das Dores cursed the two men for being stupid enough to fight over some woman’s cunt. Machona, holding an iron, swore she’d break the face of anyone who kicked her again in the rump. Augusta slipped out the back gate, planning to see if she could find her husband, who might be on duty in the neighborhood. A crowd had gathered in the lot out back, and the courtyard was soon full of outsiders. Dona Isabel and Pombinha, returning from Léonie’s, could barely reach the door to number fifteen, where they locked themselves in while the old lady railed against that inferno where they had to live. Meanwhile, in the middle of a new circle, egged on by the crowd, the Portuguese and the Brazilian went on battling.
The Slum (Library of Latin America) Page 13