Now she writhed, clenching her teeth and shuddering while Léonie, aching with desire, panted and snorted like a mare in heat.
She thrust her stiff tongue into Pombinha’s mouth and ears, pressed wet kisses upon her eyes, bit her shoulder and clutched her hair as though trying to uproot it . . . till finally, with a violent start, she devoured the girl, pressing against her entire body, whimpering and squealing with delight and then collapsing beside her, exhausted and motionless, her arms and legs flung out like a drunkard’s moaning from time to time.
Pombinha returned to her senses and rolled over with her back to her adversary, clutching the pillow and smothering her sobs, ashamed and bewildered.
Her seducer, still disoriented and unable to open her eyes, tried to cheer her up, stroking the nape of her neck and her back. But the girl seemed inconsolable, and Léonie had to raise herself on one elbow and pull her like a child onto her shoulder, where she buried her face, weeping softly.
“Don’t cry, honey!”
Pombinha went on sobbing.
“Come on. I don’t like to see you like this . . . are you mad at me?”
“I’ll never come here again! Never!” the girl blurted out, sitting up and glancing about for her clothes.
“Come here! Don’t be mean! Be nice to your mammy! . . . Come on! Don’t turn your back on me!”
“Leave me alone!”
“Come on, Pombinha!”
“No! I already told you!”
She dressed with swift, angry movements. Léonie leapt to her side and began kissing her ears and neck, humbling herself and worshipping her, promising to be her slave, to obey her as a dog obeys its master if only she’d stop being angry.
“I’ll do anything, anything, but please don’t be mad at me! If you only knew how much I love you!”
“I don’t want to know! Let go of me!”
“Wait!”
“What a pest you are! Oh!”
“Stop acting like a fool! . . . For the love of God, listen to me!”
Pombinha had just done up the last button on her bodice. She straightened her collar and shook her arms, adjusting the dress. But Léonie fell at her feet, clutching her legs and kissing her skirt.
“Wait . . . listen!”
“Let me go!”
“No! You can’t go away mad. I’ll throw a scene . . .”
“I’m sure mommy’s up by now . . .”
“So what?”
Now the whore stood with her back to the door.
“Oh God! Let me go!”
“Not until we make up . . .”
“What a pain you are!”
“Give me a kiss!”
“I won’t!”
“Well then, you’re not going to leave!”
“I’ll scream!”
“Go ahead! I don’t care!”
“Please get out of my way!”
“First make up . . .”
“I’m not mad, honest! I’m just not feeling well . . .”
“But all I want is one kiss.”
“All right! Here!”
And she kissed her.
“Not like that! You have to mean it!”
Pombinha gave her another.
“Ah, that’s better! Now wait a second. Let me get dressed too! I won’t be a minute!”
In a flash, she had washed herself at the bidet, fixed her hair in front of the mirror, smoothing it with her fingers, powdered and perfumed herself, and put on her chemise, petticoat, and dressing gown, all with the speed of one accustomed to dressing many times a day. When she was ready, she glanced at the girl, smoothed her skirt, straightened her hair better and, regaining her calm and sensible appearance, put her arm around Pombinha’s waist, slowly led her to the dining room, and poured two glasses of vermouth and soda.
They had supper at six-thirty. It was eaten without enthusiasm, not so much by Pombinha—though she still felt unwell—as by Dona Isabel, who had slept until the moment she was summoned and who still had indigestion from the foie gras. The lady of the house, however, refused to bow to their bad mood and did her best to improve their spirits, laughing and telling funny stories. As they were having coffee, Juju appeared. The maid had taken her for a stroll after lunch, and now a chorus of delighted exclamations burst forth. Léonie began talking baby talk, telling the child to show Dona Isabel her “cute little bootsies.”
Later, as she smoked a cigarette on the terrace, she took Pombinha’s hand and slipped a diamond ring set with pearls onto her finger. The girl stiffly refused the gift. Her mother had to intervene before she would accept it.
At eight o’clock, Léonie’s two guests set out for São Romão. Pombinha looked worried.
“What’s the matter?” the old woman asked twice.
Both times her daughter replied, “Nothing! I’m just tired.”
Pombinha slept badly that night, which was also the night of her neighbors’ battle with the police. Her dreams were anxious, and she felt ill all the following day. She felt weak and feverish and had cramps in her womb. She didn’t set foot outside the house—not even to inspect the damage done by the brawl. The news that Florinda had been deflowered and had run away and that Marciana had gone mad added to her distress.
The next morning, despite her best efforts to pull herself together, she turned up her nose at the humble breakfast Dona Isabel brought to her bedside. Her cramps persisted; the pain wasn’t sharp but it was constant. She didn’t feel up to sewing, and though she tried to read a book, she kept laying it aside.
By eleven that morning, she felt so jumpy and hemmed in by the walls of number fifteen that, despite her mother’s objections, she went out for a stroll behind São Romão, beneath the shady bamboo and mango trees.
An irresistable wish to be alone, all alone, an urgent need to think things over drew her out of her squalid and suffocating room. Black remorse tormented her—remorse for her depravity two days before—but spurred by her memories, her whole body laughed and rejoiced, sensing delights she had thought reserved for her wedding night. Desires previously mute and dormant now awoke and began to stammer. Mysteries unfolded within her body, filling her with amazement and plunging her into deep and intense ecstacy. An ineffable relaxation stole over her and soothed her muscles, a drunkenness like the scent of some treacherous flower.
She could walk no further: She sat down beneath the trees, cradling her head in her hand while her elbow rested upon the ground.
In that calm and shady spot, she heard the men’s picks in the distance, along with the hammers of those who worked at the forge. The workers’ songs, sometimes clear and sometimes faint, mingled with the whispering breeze in mournful waves, like a chorus of religious penitents.
In the midday heat, sensual aromas rose from the grass.
The girl closed her eyes, overcome by an exquisite weariness, and lay down on her back, spreading her arms and legs.
She fell asleep.
She dreamt that everything around her was turning pink, first delicately and transparently but then darker and darker till it became a blood-red jungle where broad scarlet caladiums slowly swayed in the breeze.
She was naked, stark naked, lying beneath the warm sun that beat down upon her.
Slowly, her wide-open eyes came to see nothing but a vast throbbing brightness in which the sun, a brilliant orb, swung to and fro like a fantastic pendulum.
Meanwhile, she noticed that around her sun-baked nakedness, blood-red ripples began to form, fragrant with florid scents. And looking around, she found herself lying amid huge petals, at the center of an endless rose in which her body nestled as in a nest of crimson velvet hemmed with gold, soft, smooth, sweet-smelling and peaceful.
Sighing, she sank into that voluptuous resting-place.
From above, the sun stared fixedly down at her, enamored of her girlish form.
She smiled up at it, her eyes full of love, and then the fiery star began to pulse and swell till it split into two wings that fluttered in the
air. Suddenly, as though overwhelmed by desire, it dove toward her, beating its wings, and a huge fiery butterfly hovered ardently around that big rose at whose center the virgin lay, her breasts exposed to the insect.
Each time the butterfly drew near the rose, the maiden felt a strange warmth penetrate her, setting her blood afire.
The butterfly, in constant motion, flittered here and there, sometimes darting away and sometimes slowly approaching, fearful that its incandescent antennae would touch the girl’s skin.
Burning with desire, she longed to be touched and raised her head. But the butterfly kept its distance.
An impatient restlessness seized her. Cost what it might, she wanted the butterfly to alight upon her, at least for a second, for just one second, to enfold her in its burning wings. But the butterfly, though as ardent as she, would not stop fluttering. As soon as it drew close, it retreated.
“Come here! Come here!” the maiden pleaded, offering her body. “Land on me for a second! Burn my flesh with your wings!”
It seemed that the rose was speaking instead of her. Every time the butterfly drew deceptively closer, the flower puckered, dilating its petals, thrusting its scarlet pistil toward the light.
“Don’t fly away! Don’t fly away! Alight for a second!”
The butterfly did not stop but, convulsed by love, beat its wings faster while a cloud of golden dust descended upon the rose, making the girl moan and sigh, dazed with pleasure beneath that luminous shower.
At that moment, Pombinha let out a mighty “Aaaah!” and woke with a start, touching her crotch with both hands. Happy and startled, on the verge of tears and laughter, she felt her puberty flow forth in hot, red waves.
Moved by the sight, Nature smiled down upon her. Far away, a bell struck twelve; it was midday. The victorious sun hung directly overhead, and through the mango tree’s dark foliage one of its rays pierced like a golden thread till it reached the girl’s belly, blessing the new woman who had come into the world.
XII
Pombinha leapt up and ran home. Where she had been lying, the grass was stained with blood. Her mother stood over a washtub. Calling out to her, the girl headed straight for number fifteen. Once they were both inside, she silently lifted her skirts and showed Dona Isabel the stain.
“It’s come?” the old woman asked excitedly.
The girl nodded, blushing happily.
The washerwoman’s eyes filled with tears.
“Praise the Lord!” she exclaimed, falling to her knees and raising her hands and face heavenward.
Then she threw her arms around Pombinha’s legs, kissing her belly again and again. She even kissed the blood—that blessed blood that opened new vistas and assured their future, that good blood that had fallen from heaven like rain upon drought-parched land.
She couldn’t contain herself. While Pombinha was changing her clothes, Dona Isabel went out and proclaimed the glad tidings to one and all. Had the girl not objected strenuously, her mother would have taken the bloody slip with her, parading it around so everyone could see and adore it, amid hymns of love more ardent than those intoned to a veronica.
“My daughter’s a woman! My daughter’s a woman!”
This occurrence stirred São Romão’s heart, and the two of them were warmly congratulated. Dona Isabel lit candles and set them before the images to which she prayed, and she took the day off. Stunned and scarcely knowing what she was doing, she wandered in and out of the house, beaming with joy. Every time she passed her daughter, she kissed her head and whispered cautions: to keep away from damp places, avoid cold drinks, bundle up well and if she felt weak, to climb straight into bed! Any false step might prove fatal! She wanted to let João Costa in on the big news as quickly as possible, to ask him to set a date for the marriage. Pombinha said that was no way to behave, that it wouldn’t look good, but her mother sent a messenger to fetch the young man. He appeared later that afternoon. The old woman invited her friends to supper, killed two hens, bought some bottles of wine, and later that evening, at nine o’clock, she also served tea and pastries. Nenen and Das Dores showed up in their party clothes. Everyone fussed over Pombinha, standing around her in a circle of good wishes, speaking softly to the girl. She replied with smiles, touched by their concern, exhaling a scent of virginity and newly opened flowers.
From that day on, Dona Isabel was transformed. Her wrinkled face grew more cheerful, and they heard her singing softly in the morning as she swept her house and dusted the furniture.
Nonetheless, after that dreadful fight that had ended in a stabbing, a somber mood spread through São Romão. Gone were the parties with music and dancing. Rita had looked worried ever since she and Piedade had taken Jerônimo away. João Romão had warned Firmo that if he ever set foot in the courtyard again he would be handed over to the police. Piedade, who at first had mourned her husband’s absence, returned even more miserable from her first visit to the hospital. He had coldly refused her a single word of love, nor did he try to hide his eagerness for news of that damned mulatta, who had been the cause of all the trouble and who was trying to ruin her and him as well. Upon her return, she flung herself on her bed, sobbing uncontrollably. She couldn’t get to sleep for hours, tossing and turning till the early morning. Her sorrow ate away at her like consumption, draining her of energy for anything but tears.
Bruno, poor devil, felt just as miserable. At first he hadn’t missed his wife, but now her absence tormented him. A month after her departure, he could no longer hide his suffering. At his request, Bruxa read the cards and mysteriously announced that Leocádia still loved him.
Only Dona Isabel and her daughter were truly satisfied. Never had they felt so happy and full of hope. Pombinha stopped working at the dancing school; her fiancé called upon her every evening without fail, arriving at seven o’clock and staying until ten. They served him coffee in a special china cup. Sometimes they all played cards. He would send one of the kids for a big bottle of German beer from João Romão’s store, and the three of them would drink and talk about their plans for the future. On other occasions Costa, who was always very respectful and a thoroughly good boy, lit a Bahian cigar and fell into a kind of trance in which he stared and stared at the girl, bewitched by her beauty. Pombinha enlivened their evenings with happy chatter about furnishing their new nest. Since her idyll in the sun, she had developed a deep love of life, which she drank in thirsty gulps like one who has recently emerged from prison and delights in the sweet air of freedom. Her girlish figure began to fill out, ripening like a fruit. Dona Isabel dozed off during the last half of Costa’s visits, stifling yawns and trying to stay awake with pinches of snuff drawn from her elegant box.
Once they had set a date for the wedding, their sole topics of conversation were Pombinha’s trousseau and the house Costa was furnishing for her. The three of them would live together. They would have a cook and a maid to wash and press their clothes. The groom brought linen and cotton, and by the yellow light from her old kerosene lamp, the mother cut nightgowns and sheets, while her daughter sewed furiously at a machine he had given her.
One afternoon at around two o’clock, as she was embroidering what was soon to be a lace pillowcase, Bruno hesitantly peeked through the doorway, nervously scratching the back of his neck.
“Um . . . Nha Pombinha . . . I wanted to ask a little favor . . . but you’re so busy with your trousseau that I guess you won’t have time . . .”
“What is it, Bruno?”
“Nothing, I mean I wanted you to write a letter to that bitch . . . but I can see you don’t have time . . . I’ll come back later.”
“You mean your wife, right?”
“Poor thing. She’s not bad; she’s just crazy. . . . Even a dumb animal deserves some pity.”
“It’s all right, it’s all right. Would you like me to do it now?”
“I don’t want to bother you. Keep on with what you’re doing. I’ll come back some other time.”
“No! Com
e in! I can finish up later.”
“May God repay you! You’re an angel! I don’t know what we’ll do when you’re gone!”
And he went on praising the girl, who obligingly laid out her pen, blotter and paper on a little table.
“Go ahead, Bruno. What do you want me to tell Leocádia?”
“First off, tell her I’ll replace all the stuff of hers I broke. She shouldn’t have smashed my stuff, but I’ll forget about that. There’s no use crying over spilt milk! I know she’s out of a job and broke and owes over a month’s rent, but she doesn’t have to worry. Tell her to send her landlord to me and I’ll straighten things out. She should stop boarding with that nigger woman, who’s been complaining and telling everyone how she doesn’t want loafers and whores eating at her house. If she had a little sense she wouldn’t need to be begging for other people’s scraps. With what I made at the forge there was enough to fill her belly and feed any kids we might have.” He was starting to get worked up. “It was all her own fault! If she had more sense, she wouldn’t need to feel so ashamed of herself!”
“You already said that, Bruno!”
“Well, tell her again and maybe this time she’ll listen!”
“Anything else?”
“That I’m not mad at her and I don’t like to see her in trouble, but it’s a good thing she’s had to pay a little for what she did so she can learn that a decent woman doesn’t look at other men except her husband, and if she wasn’t so crazy—”
“You’re just singing the same song over and over.”
“Keep writing and have a little patience, Pombinha—she’d still be here with me like before instead of having to put up with other people’s insults!”
“Go on, Bruno. What else?”
“Tell her . . .”
And he stopped short.
“What else should I write?”
He scratched his head.
“Listen, Bruno, you’re the only one who knows what you want to tell your wife.”
The Slum (Library of Latin America) Page 15