She asked Machona for the key. As the woman handed it over, she asked Piedade for news of Jerônimo and also told her about Firmo’s death.
This was one piece of information she hadn’t bargained on. She paled; a dreadful premonition pierced her thoughts like a bolt of lightning. Too stunned to reply, she walked away and anxiously and shakily opened the door to number thirty-five.
She collapsed in a chair. She was exhausted; she had eaten nothing all day, but she didn’t feel hungry. Her head was spinning and her feet felt as though they were made of lead.
“Was it him?” she asked herself.
Tangled thoughts rushed through her head, overwhelming her reason. She couldn’t sort them out, but one stubbornly dominated and displaced the others, like the high card in a hand, “If he killed Firmo, spent the night here but didn’t come home, it’s because he’s left me for Rita.”
She tried to evade her own conclusion, indignantly pushing it aside. It couldn’t be that Jerônimo, who had been her husband so long, the father of her daughter, whom she had never given any cause for complaint and had always loved and respected with the same tenderness and devotion, could forsake her just like that, and for whom? For God knows what, for some black whore who would sleep with any Tom, Dick, or Harry! A flirt who worked as little as possible and whose only goal in life was to have fun! No! It couldn’t be! But then why hadn’t he come home? Why hadn’t he at least sent a message? Why had he gone to pick up his clothes that morning?
Roberto the Armadillo had said he had met him around two o’clock that afternoon nearby, on the corner of Rua Bambina, and that they’d even stopped to chat for a minute. He was just a few steps away! God Almighty, was it really possible that her husband had decided to leave her?
At this point Rita returned, accompanied by a little barefoot boy. She was in a good mood; she’d been with Jerônimo. They had dined together at a restaurant. Everything had been arranged; he’d found a place for them to stay. She wouldn’t move out right away; they didn’t want people to start talking, but she’d take some clothes and other things she needed and that were too small to be noticed. The next day she’d come back and work at her old house, at night she’d return to her new lover, and a week later she’d move out. So long, honey! I’m on my way! Jerônimo, for his part, would send a letter to João Romão, quitting his job, and another to his wife explaining, as gently as he could, that because of one of those things that can happen to anyone, he wasn’t going to live with her anymore but that he still felt the same affection and would go on paying for their daughter’s school. Then everything would be settled! They would start a new life, living just for each other, free and independent, an endless honeymoon!
But as Rita, followed by the kid, walked past Piedade’s door, her rival sprang from her chair and shouted, “Wait a minute, please!”
“What is it?” the Bahian muttered, stopping but only turning her head and making it clear that she was eager to get home and in no mood for chitchat.
“Tell me something,” the other woman said. “Are you planning to move out?”
The mulatta hadn’t expected to be confronted point-blank; she remained silent, not knowing how to reply.
“You are, aren’t you?” the other insisted, reddening.
“That’s none of your business! Whether I move or not has nothing to do with you! Worry about your own troubles and keep your nose out of mine!”
“My troubles are your fault, you bitch!” Piedade exclaimed, unable to control herself and advancing toward the door.
“Huh? Say that again, you stupid hag!” the mulatta roared, stepping forward.
“You think I don’t know what you’ve done? You put a spell on my man and now you’re trying to get him away from me! But you’d better watch out or you’re going to get what’s coming to you! I’m warning you!
“Come here and say that, you ugly cow!”
An excited crowd had gathered around Rita. The washerwomen left their tubs and, with rolled-up sleeves and arms covered with suds, formed a circle, silently watching. No one wanted to actually intervene. The men laughed and made vulgar wisecracks aimed at both parties, as always happened when two women got in a fight.
“Go for her! Go for her!” they shouted.
Answering the mulatta’s challenge, Piedade stepped out into the courtyard, armed with one of her clogs. As she advanced a stone struck her on the chin; she replied with a fierce blow to Rita’s head.
They tore into each other with their teeth and nails.
For a while they both kept their feet, grappling amid the shouting crowd. João Romão came out and tried to pull them apart, but everyone protested. Miranda’s family looked out the windows, drinking their after-dinner coffee, indifferent and accustomed to viewing such scenes. People quickly chose sides: Almost all the Brazilians were for Rita, while almost all the Portuguese favored Piedade. There were heated discussions about who was stronger. Shouts of enthusiasm greeted each new bruise as the two women clutched each other, their bosoms covered with scratches and bite-marks.
When the crowd least expected it, they heard a thud and saw Piedade lying face-down. Rita sat astride her rival’s broad buttocks, pounding her head. Disheveled and exhausted, the mulatta panted and shouted triumphantly while blood trickled from her mouth, “That’ll. show you! Take that, you filthy slut! That’ll teach you not to stick your nose in my business! Take that, you tub of lard!”
The Portuguese rushed to extricate Piedade, while the Brazilians fiercely resisted them.
“You can’t do that!”
“Hit her!”
“Don’t let her do that!”
“Don’t break it up!”
“Keep going!”
The words “Portuguese bitch” and “nigger” flew back and forth. A tremendous commotion arose, swiftly turning into a formidable brawl, a genuine free-for-all that shook São Romão like an earthquake—no longer between two women but now involving some forty strong men. Stakes and poles were pulled up and cracked as they landed on heads and shoulders, while that infernal crowd, seething like an anthill at war, that living wave devoured everything in its path: garden sheds and washtubs, buckets, watering cans and window boxes, all caught amid those hundred furious tangled legs. Frantic whistles could be heard—some coming from Miranda’s windows and others from the street and the entire neighborhood. People poured in through the back and front gates. The courtyard was almost full; no one even tried to find out what had happened; everyone dealt and received blows; women and children howled. João Romão, bawling at the top of his lungs, felt there was nothing he could do to calm the crowd. “They must be crazy, starting a fight at this time of day!” He couldn’t manage to shut the gates or the door to his tavern. He hurriedly emptied the till, locked the money in his safe, and, armed with an iron bar, stood guard by his shelves, ready to split the skull of the first person who dared to leap over the counter. Bertoleza, in the kitchen, prepared an urn full of scalding water to defend his property. Outside, the brawl continued, its flames fanned by hot winds of national rivalry. Amid the groans and curses, one heard shouts of “Viva Portugal!” and “Viva o Brazil!” From time to time the growing crowd recoiled, bellowing with fear, but it quickly surged forward again like the sea’s incoming waves. Some policemen appeared but were afraid to enter without reinforcements, which one of them set off at a gallop to procure.
And the riot continued.
But at the height of the battle, a chorus of voices was heard in the street, approaching from the direction of Cat Head. It was the war song of their opponents from the other slum, capoeira experts coming to attack the silver jennies and to avenge the death of their chief, Firmo.
XVII
As soon as the silver jennies heard their foes approaching, an alarm spread through the courtyard and the brawl immediately dissolved in preparation for their defense. Everyone ran home and hastily grabbed an iron bar, a club, or anything else that could be used to maim and kill. A single impul
se spurred them all; they were no longer Portuguese or Brazilians. They were now a single army, menaced by their adversaries. Those who a few moments before had been fighting now lent each other weapons, wiping the blood from their wounds. Agostinho, leaning against the street lamp in the middle of the courtyard, bawled out a song he thought would match their enemies’ martial chants outside. At his request, his mother had allowed him to put on one of Nenen’s sashes, through which he had slipped a kitchen knife. A skinny mulatto kid whom no one had ever seen before stationed himself, unarmed, at the entrance, where he awaited the invaders. Everyone trusted in his strength, for the little devil was laughing.
The cat-heads finally appeared at the gate: a hundred men, apparently armed only with their skill in martial arts. Porfiro led the way, dancing about, his arms open, shooting out his legs to ensure that no one blocked their entrance. His hat was pushed back, and a yellow ribbon fluttered on its crown.
“Stand up to them! Give them hell!” the silver jennies cried.
The others, singing their war song, entered and slowly approached, dancing savagely as they came.
Their knives were concealed in the palms of their hands.
The silver jennies filled half the courtyard. A tense silence had displaced the din of their brawl. One could feel the fierce impatience that pulled the two armies toward each other. And meanwhile the sun, the cause of it all, disappeared over the horizon, indifferent, leaving behind the melancholy that descends with nightfall.
At one of the baron’s windows, Botelho, excited by anything that smelled of war, shouted encouragement and barked military commands.
The cat-heads pressed forward, singing and showing off their movements. Some advanced on their wrists and heels, their shoulders touching the ground.
Ten silver jennies stepped forth to meet them; ten cat-heads lined up facing them.
And the battle began, no longer chaotic and blind but methodical, commanded by Porfiro, who, still singing or whistling, leapt here and there, always out of his opponents’ reach.
Knives flashed on both sides, blows were aimed with heads and feet. Each attacker was matched by an adversary who replied to every lunge by leaping out of reach or ducking. Everyone hoped his opponent would tire, opening the way to victory, but once again something happened to interrupt the combat. Smoke billowed from one of the last houses, number eighty-eight. And this time it was a serious fire.
A shudder of terror ran through the two gangs. Knives were folded, and the war songs ceased. Bright flames reddened the air, which soon grew thick with tawny smoke.
Bruxa had at last realized her dream: São Romão would burn. There was no way to keep the cruel flames from devouring everything. The cat-heads, honorable after their fashion, abandoned the field, scorning the aid of such a calamity and even willing to help if necessary. No silver jenny would have dreamed of attacking them from behind as they withdrew. The combat was postponed. In a flash, the entire scene was transformed: those who before had so casually risked their lives in the two fights now hastened to save their few miserable belongings. They darted in and out of those hundred houses menaced by flames. Men and women dashed to and fro, carrying all sorts of junk on their backs. The courtyard and street filled with old bedsteads and torn mattresses. No one could hear himself think amid that cacophony of disconnected shouts mixed with bruised children’s howls and their parents’ despairing curses. Apoplectic shrieks came from the baron’s residence, where Zulmira writhed in a fit. And water appeared. Who had brought: it? No one knew; but bucket after bucket was poured onto the flames.
All the neighborhood’s churchbells began ringing.
Bruxa gazed out her window. Her mouth looked like a raging furnace; never had she appeared so witchlike. Her dark brown, half-breed skin seemed to glow like hot metal on a forge; her black mane, disheveled and abundant as a wild mare’s, made her resemble a fury straight out of hell. She roared with laughter, indifferent to her burns, reveling in that orgy of flames, which she had dreamed of so long in secret.
She was about to run out into the courtyard when the roof of her house buckled and then suddenly collapsed, burying her in a pile of burning rubble.
The bells went on ringing frantically. Water-sellers appeared with wagons full of barrels, whipping their horses as they raced to get there first and earn ten mil-réis. The police held back the crowd outside. The street was cluttered with every stick of furniture in São Romão. And the flames went on spreading to the left and right of number eighty-eight. A parrot, forgotten by its owner and trapped in its cage, squawked furiously, begging to be saved.
Within half an hour, the entire slum would be reduced to ashes. But a blast of ringing bells and whistles suddenly filled the air, announcing the imminent arrival of the fire department.
A line of wagons soon appeared, and a band of devils in white uniforms, some bearing hatchets and others metal ladders, attacked the blaze and quickly brought it under control—calmly, silently, and efficiently. Water poured upon the flames from all sides, while men nimbler than monkeys climbed barely visible ladders to the roofs and others invaded the conflagration’s red heart, spraying water around them, twirling and pirouetting till they smothered the hellish flames that leapt at them. Others outside, working as smoothly and imperturbably as a machine, doused the entire slum one house at a time, determined not to leave a single roof tile dry.
The crowd cheered them on. They had forgotten the disaster in their excitement at that battle. When one fireman, on a roof, extinguished a blaze beneath him, the entire mob clapped wildly and the hero turned around, smiling as he acknowledged their applause.
Amid shouts of approval, some women blew him kisses.
XVIII
Meanwhile Bertoleza’s lover saw that Libório, having escaped death, was now hurrying toward his hovel. João stole after him and saw that, as soon as he had lit a candle, he began to breathlessly pull things from his filthy mattress.
They were bottles. He pulled out one, two, a half-dozen. Then he hastily pulled the blanket off his mattress and made a bundle. He was about to leave when he suddenly groaned and fell forward., spewing blood and clutching the mysterious bundle to his chest.
At the sight of João Romão, Libório’s torments redoubled and he twisted and turned, trying to shield the blanket with his body and darting terrified glances at the intruder. With each step the tavern-keeper took, the old man’s tremulous panic mounted; he grunted like a frightened animal. Twice he attempted to rise; twice he fell back onto the ground. João Romão warned him that any delay would mean death; the fire was spreading. He sought to help the old man. Libório’s sole response was to open his mouth, baring his toothless gums and trying to bite the hand reaching toward him.
Above them, a tongue of flame flickered through the roof, casting its red light about that miserable pigsty, Libório made a supreme effort, but he couldn’t move. Trembling from head to toe, he clung to his blanket. A spasm shook him, and the tavern-keeper tore the bundle from his hands. He was just in time, for the tongue of fire was soon followed by a gaping mouth and throat.
The crook ran out clutching his prize, while the old man, still unable to regain his feet, tried to crawl after him, choked by despair, speechless, moaning in his death throes, his eyes glazed, his face purple, his fingers crooked like the claws of a wounded vulture.
João Romão hurried across the courtyard and entered his lair, where he looked about for a place to hide the bundle. Quickly examining its contents, he saw that the bottles were full of money. He stuck it on a shelf in a cupboard full of glassware and went back outside to see how the firemen were faring.
By midnight the blaze was completely out and four watchmen patrolled the ruins of the thirty-odd houses that had been destroyed. João wasn’t able to return to those bottles until five in the morning, when Bertoleza, who had battled valiantly against the blaze, collapsed from exhaustion, her skirt still soaked and her body covered with small burns. He found that there were eig
ht of them, stuffed with bills of all denominations—each one carefully folded and rolled up. Fearful that Bertoleza might still be awake and interrupt him, João decided to put off counting the money and to hide it in a safer place.
The next morning, the police inspected the damage and told him to raze what remained of the houses, removing any corpses he might find.
During the confusion, Rita had slipped away. Piedade had fallen ill with a high fever, Machona had suffered a cut ear and a sprained foot, Das Dores had received a severe blow to the head, Bruno had been stabbed in the thigh, two Italian workers at the quarry were seriously wounded, another Italian had lost his two front teeth, and one of Augusta Carne-Mole’s little daughters had been trampled to death by the crowd. Everyone complained bitterly of their misfortunes. They spent the day taking stock of the damage and inspecting what they had managed to salvage from the conflagration. A sickening stench of wet ashes filled the courtyard. People walked around in stunned, disconsolate silence. They stood for hours, with long faces and hands clasped behind their backs, staring at the charred skeletons of what had been their houses. Libório’s and Bruxa’s dead bodies, deformed and hideous, had been carried into the middle of the courtyard, where they lay between two candles, waiting for the wagon that would take them to the potter’s field. People wandered in from the street to see them, doffing their hats, gaping, and in some cases tossing copper coins into a bowl placed in front of them to collect money for their shrouds. At Augusta’s house, upon a fine lace tablecloth, lay her daughter’s tiny corpse, surrounded by flowers, with a brass crucifix at her head between two flickering candles. Alexandre sat in a corner, weeping, his face buried in his hands, receiving those who came to pay their last respects to the child. The poor devil had donned his dress uniform for the occasion!
The Slum (Library of Latin America) Page 20