The Slum (Library of Latin America)

by Aluisio Azevedo

  Piedade, despite her husband’s behavior, still felt that she should not disobey the rules he had laid down as a father. But what harm could come of the girl’s visits? It was such a balm to her heart! As far as bad influences were concerned . . . they only affected those who were bad by nature. Hadn’t Pombinha grown up healthy and pure? Hadn’t she found a fiancé? Wasn’t she married and living respectably with her husband? Well then? So Senhorinha continued to visit São Romão—first on Sunday mornings, then staying all afternoon too, and finally sleeping there on Saturdays and Sundays, only returning to school on Monday mornings.

  When one of the schoolmistresses told Jerônimo about this development, his first reaction was anger, but after reflecting he decided that it was only right to allow his wife a little comfort. “Poor thing! She must be feeling pretty lousy!” He still felt pity for her, mostly provoked by a guilty conscience. It was only fair that the girl should keep her company on Sundays and holidays. In order to see his daughter, he had to visit her on weekdays. He almost always brought her candy or fruit and asked if she needed new clothes or shoes. But one day he showed up so drunk that the headmistress refused to let him in. After that, Jerônimo felt embarrassed about returning and his visits to his daughter became more infrequent.

  Awhile later, Senhorinha brought her mother a bill for six months’ room and board, with a letter in which the headmistress refused to keep the girl on if the debt was not promptly paid. Piedade anxiously clutched her head. So now that man wouldn’t even pay for his daughter’s education! God help her, where on earth could she find the money?

  She went to see her husband; she had known for a while where he was living. Jerônimo felt too ashamed to face her; he told Rita to say he was not at home. Piedade insisted, saying she wouldn’t budge until she spoke to him. Loudly enough for him to hear, she declared that she had not come on her own account but for their daughter, who risked being expelled from school. She wanted to know what she should do, since the girl was too old to be left outside a home for foundlings.

  Jerônimo finally appeared, with the air of an embarrassed degenerate who lacks the strength to give up his vices. At the sight of him, Piedade’s indignation vanished, and her eyes filled with tears at the first words he spoke. He stared at the ground, paling as he glanced at that aged crone, gaunt and with dirty gray hair. She didn’t look like the same woman! How much she had changed! He treated her gently, almost apologetically, speaking in a choked voice.

  “Poor old girl,” he muttered, placing his broad hand upon her head.

  Breathing heavily, they gazed at each other. Piedade longed to throw herself into his arms; she had not anticipated this surge of tenderness, aroused by his kindness. A sudden ray of hope shot through her, dispersing the black clouds that had gathered in her heart. She had expected harsh words, to be rudely shown the door, insulted by the other woman and laughed at by her husband’s friends. But finding him also sad and forlorn, her heart melted with gratitude, and as Jerônimo, down whose face tears were silently streaming, let his hand slip from her hair to her shoulder and then her waist, she collapsed, burying her face in his chest while she exploded in sobs that shook her entire body.

  They remained that way for a while, holding each other and weeping.

  “Now calm down, honey! What the hell? These things happen!” Jerônimo finally said, drying his eyes. “Forget about me, act like I was dead . . . but I swear I care about you and never wanted to hurt you! Go, and ask God to forgive me for making you so unhappy.”

  And he accompanied her to the front gate.

  Unable to say a word, she left, hanging her head, wiping her tears on her woolen shawl, still shaken from time to time by a belated sob.

  Jerônimo, however, didn’t pay the school the next day, or the day after that, or all the rest of that month. The poor devil was tormented by guilt, but where could he possibly find the cash? His pay was barely enough for him and Rita; he had already asked for several advances and owed the baker and grocer. Rita was a spendthrift and enjoyed throwing money around; she couldn’t get along without delicacies and liked to give presents. Fearful of contradicting her and destroying their domestic harmony, he yielded, keeping quiet and even feigning satisfaction. Nonetheless, his suffering was deep and the thought of his wife and daughter caused him constant pangs of remorse that burdened his conscience more with every passing day. The poor man understood perfectly how badly he was behaving, but the mere thought of forsaking his lover drove him wild and snuffed out the light of reason within him. “No! No! Anything but that!”

  And so, to silence that irrefutable voice always nagging inside him, he drank with his friends and soon became an alcoholic. When Piedade, two weeks after her first visit, returned with their daughter one Sunday afternoon, she found him drunk, surrounded by his chums.

  Jerônimo welcomed her with exaggerated warmth. He kissed the girl over and over again, and, clasping her waist, lifted her high into the air, exclaiming happily, “Gosh! How pretty you look!”

  He insisted that they have something to drink and summoned Rita. He wanted them to make friends then and there. He wouldn’t take no for an answer!

  There was an awkward silence when the two women faced each other.

  “Come on now! Give each other a hug! Let’s put an end to this right now!” Jerônimo roared, nudging them toward each other. “I don’t want any glum faces around here!”

  Without looking each other in the eye, the two women shook hands. Piedade was blushing.

  “Great!” the Portuguese shouted. “Now, to make it official, you’ll stay to dinner!”

  Piedade objected, mumbling excuses that her husband refused to accept.

  “I won’t let you go! Not on your life! You think I’ll let my daughter go without talking to her for a while?”

  Piedade sat down in a corner, eager to find an opportunity to ask Jerônimo about the money for the school. Rita, mercurial like all half-breed women, held no grudges and did everything possible to make her lover’s family feel at home. The other guests left before dinner.

  They sat down at four o’clock and tucked into their food enthusiastically, opening their first bottle of wine as soon as the soup was served. Senhorinha, however, stood out from the group. Her schoolgirl shyness made her seem both sad and frightened. Her father intimidated her with his brutal attentions and his questions about her studies. By the time dessert appeared, everyone else was more or less pickled. Jerônimo was thoroughly sozzled. Urged on by him, Piedade emptied her glass frequently and, as the meal ended, she began to complain of her hard life. It was then that, with bitterness in her voice, she brought up the money owed to the school and the headmistress’s threats.

  “Now honey,” Jerônimo replied, “that’s enough griping! Forget about that stuff! Don’t ruin our meal!”

  “I’ve got so many worries!”

  “Hey! No complaining!”

  “Why shouldn’t I complain, if everything’s going wrong?”

  “Well, if that’s what you came for, you’d better stay away—” Jerônimo snarled, frowning. “What the hell! Whining isn’t going to fix anything! Is it my fault you’re feeling bad? I feel lousy too, and you don’t hear me bellyaching!”

  Piedade began to sob.

  “Here we go!” her husband bellowed, rising to his feet and pounding the table. “Look what we have to put up with! No matter how much a guy tries to keep his temper, he’s bound to get mad! God damn it!”

  Senhorinha ran to her father, trying to calm him.

  “Damn it!” he shouted, brushing her aside. “Always the same story! Well, I’m not going to put up with it! Get out!”

  “I didn’t come here for fun!” Piedade sobbed. “I came to find out when you’re going to pay that school!”

  “Pay it yourself with the money I left you. I’m broke!”

  “So you’re not going to pay?”

  “No!”

  “You’re more of a bastard than I thought!”


  “Oh yeah? Then let me be a bastard and get out! Get out before I do something I’ll be sorry for later!”

  “My poor daughter! God in Heaven, who’ll take care of her now?”

  “She doesn’t need to go to school anymore. Leave her with me; I’ll make sure she has everything.”

  “Give up my daughter? She’s all I have left!”

  “Listen, you don’t see her all week as it is! So instead of living at the school, she’ll live here with us! How about that?”

  “I want to stay with my mother,” the girl stammered, throwing her arms around Piedade.

  “Why you ungrateful—so you’re against me too? Well, the two of you can go to hell! And keep out of my sight from now on! I’ve got enough troubles as it is!”

  “Let’s go!” Piedade shouted, gripping her daughter’s arm. “I wish to God I’d never come!”

  And the two of them, mother and daughter, disappeared while Jerônimo, pacing to and fro, went on with his drunken tirade.

  Rita had stayed out of their quarrel, taking no one’s side. If he wanted to go back to his wife, let him! She wouldn’t try to hold onto her man; you can’t force someone to love you.

  After talking to himself for a long while, Jerônimo collapsed in a chair, poured a shot of rum, and tossed it down.

  “I’ve had enough of this crap!”

  The mulatta then approached him from behind. She took his head between her hands and kissed him on the mouth, brushing away his mustaches with her lips.

  Jerônimo turned to face her, seized her hips, and pulled her down onto his lap.

  “Don’t be angry anymore, honey,” she said, stroking his hair. “It’s over now.”

  “You’re right. I was a fool to let her set foot in this house.”

  They embraced, regretting the moments stolen by their guests, an unfortunate interruption of their love.

  By the gate, Piedade, her face buried in her daughter’s shoulder, waited for her tears to subside before venturing forth into the darkness.

  XX

  They returned home at nine in the evening. Piedade’s mood was as black as could be; she hadn’t uttered a word during their journey, and as soon as she had put the girl to bed, she leaned against the chest of drawers, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Everything was over! Over and done with!

  She fetched the bottle of rum and drank a few swigs. She wept some more, drank again, and went out into the courtyard, hoping to distract herself with her neighbors’ cheer.

  Das Dores was throwing a dinner party. Piedade could hear her laughter and her lover’s voice, thick with wine, sometimes drowned out by Machona, who was quarreling with Agostinho. The sounds of singing and strummed guitars came from several spots.

  But São Romão had changed; one could barely imagine what it had been like before. Following João Romão’s plans, the courtyard had shrunk as new buildings had risen. It now looked more like a street, paved from one end to the other and illumined by three lamps at regular intervals. There were six outhouses, six faucets, and three huts for bathing. The little five-foot-square vegetable and flower gardens and the piles of empty demijohns had vanished. On the left, by Miranda’s house, there was a new row of doors and windows, and facing them, all along the back and then turning into another row that extended as far as João Romão’s house, there was a second floor with a long wooden veranda and two sets of stairs: one at either end. Instead of a hundred or so, there were now more than four hundred dwellings, all whitewashed and freshly painted: white walls, green doors, and red eaves and drainpipes. Some of the inhabitants had plants in wooden tubs or clay pots outside their doors or in their windows. There were few vacancies.

  Albino had hung some fancy lace curtains in his window and placed straw mats on his floors. His house stood out from the others; it was on the ground floor, and from outside you could see the red wallpaper in his sitting room, his polished furniture, a washbasin whose mirror was adorned with artificial roses, an oratory resplendent with palm leaves painted gold and silver, lace doilies all over the place, in perfumed luxury like a church’s. And he, the pale laundryman, always wearing a scented kerchief around his neck and white, broad-bottomed trousers, with his long, silky hair pushed back behind his floppy ears, kept everything spick and span as though he were expecting some unknown visitor at any moment. His neighbors admired his neatness; what a shame that he had so many ants in his bed! Indeed, no one knew why, but Albino’s bed was always crawling with ants. He squashed them, but they multiplied faster with every passing day. This hopeless battle depressed and discouraged him.

  The house where Bruno and his wife lived was directly opposite Albino’s, completely refurnished, with a big kerosene lantern inside the door, its light seeming to glance suspiciously out at the courtyard. For the moment, the couple lived peacefully together. Leocádia had learned discretion; everyone suspected that her favors were not reserved exclusively for her husband, but no one could say when or where she dispensed them. Alexandre swore that, though he often went out and returned late at night, he had never caught her in the act. His wife, Augusta Carne-Mole, went even further in Leocádia’s defense. She had always sympathized with the woman, feeling that her lust was not her fault but caused by some fellow she’d jilted and who had then put a curse on her—such things happened every day. Recently, however, after asking the priest for a little holy water and dabbing it in certain spots, Leocádia’s body had cooled and now she lived respectably, giving no one cause for gossip.

  Augusta and her family dwelt in one of the second-floor houses. She was pregnant again, and everyone could see Alexandre, circumspect as always, pacing up and down the veranda with a baby in his arms while his wife looked after the others. As soon as one left her womb, another took its place! Jerônimo’s two accomplices, Zé Carlos and Pataca, also shared a house. Opposite the door, they had a little stove on which they cooked their own food. Next to them lived a gentleman who worked at the post office, very tight-lipped, neatly dressed, and punctual with his rent. He left early each morning and came back at exactly ten in the evening. On Sundays he only went out to eat in a restaurant, after which he shut himself up at home and, no matter how much commotion there was in the courtyard, never stuck his nose outside.

  There were many new tenants like him, wearing neckties, shoes, and socks. That ferocious, tireless cogwheel had sunk its teeth into a new social stratum, which it dragged into São Romão. Poor students began to appear with slouch hats, sorrel jackets, cigarette stubs that nearly singed their new, downy beards, and pockets stuffed with poetry and journals. They were joined by government workers, bartenders, singers and actors, trolley drivers and lottery ticket vendors. On the left, the entire second story was occupied by Italians, sleeping five or six to a room, and making that by far the noisiest part of São Romão. No matter how much João Romão fussed, a heap of orange peels and watermelon rinds accumulated there each day. Those peddlers were one hell of a bunch of noisy pigs! You could hardly squeeze by, there were so many trays of cheap crockery and glassware, crates of toys and trinkets, sacks and sacks of tin cups, dolls and plaster castles, hurdy-gurdies, monkeys, and everything else you could imagine—all enveloped in a revolting stench that infected the rest of the courtyard.

  The far end of the veranda was cleaner, thank God, and notable for its profusion of birds, among which an enormous macaw stood out, uttering a shrill, raucous screech from time to time. Below lived Machona, whose door and window Nenen had adorned with caladiums and begonias. Miranda’s residence seemed to have recoiled a few paces, menaced by that battalion of little houses, and now gazed fearfully across their rooftops at the tavern-keeper’s new home, which rose proudly, boldly, with an arrogant and triumphant air. João Romão had surpassed his neighbor; his new house was taller and more splendid, imposing with its curtains and new furniture. The big old front wall, with its broad gate that wagons could pass through, was replaced, and the new gate was set back a little, with a small garden, park ben
ches, and a modest cement fountain that looked like stone between it and the street. The picturesque lantern with red panes vanished, along with the strips of marinated liver and sardines grilled and sold outside the tavern. There was a new sign, much larger than the old one, and instead of “São Romão,” its fancy letters read:

  SÃO ROMÃO AVENUE

  Cat Head had been defeated, vanquished forever; no one even tried to compare the two places. As João Romão’s fortunes waxed, Cat Head’s waned, and scarcely a day passed without the police entering and laying about them with their swords, smashing everything in sight. Completely demoralized, the cat-heads began to abandon ship and join the silver jennies, among whom a man could live an easy life if he knew how to make himself useful at election time.

  With Rita’s departure, the moonlit samba parties with Bahian chorados had stopped; nor were Portuguese songs and dances any more common. Nowadays, the celebrations took place indoors, with a few musicians, light refreshments, lots of white pants and starched dresses, and dancing to quadrilles and polkas till daybreak!

  That Sunday, the courtyard had a melancholy air; a few small groups had gathered around guitarists in doorways. The only sounds of merriment came from Das Dores’s house, and it was there that Piedade gloomily directed her footsteps.

  “Hey! What’s eating you?” Pataca exclaimed, sitting down beside her. “Snap out of it, kid! You only live once! Your husband left you? Well, the hell with him! Forget about that guy and find someone else!”

  She sighed, still feeling sad, but by the time the bottle of rum had made its second round she had cheered up considerably. She started chatting and enjoying the party. Within a few minutes she was the liveliest of them all, jabbering away, talking nineteen to the dozen, and making fun of all the odd characters among their neighbors. Pataca almost died laughing, hanging over her and slipping his arm around her waist.