The Slum (Library of Latin America)

by Aluisio Azevedo

  “You know, you could still make a guy do something stupid!”

  “Get a load of this drunk! Take your hand off my leg, you boob!”

  The group roared with laughter at this performance. Meanwhile, the bottle of rum was passed from hand to hand. Das Dores hadn’t a moment’s rest; as soon as she came out after refilling the bottle, it was empty again and she had to repeat the operation. “I’m sick of jumping up and down! You’re going to drink me out of house and home!” Finally she fetched the demijohn and set it down in the middle of the circle.

  That night, Piedade got roaring drunk. When João Romão returned from Miranda’s house, he found her dancing amid laughter, shouts, and clapping hands. Her eyes blazed as she held up her skirts, trying to imitate Rita Bahiana’s chorados. She was the laughingstock of the party; people slapped her rump and stuck out their legs to trip her.

  The tavern-keeper, wearing a top hat and frock coat, went over to the group, which had swollen in the interim, and suggested that they break it up. It was too late at night to be making so much noise.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go! Everybody head for home!”

  Only Piedade objected, standing up for her right to have a little fun with her friends.

  “What the hell? I wasn’t hurting anyone!”

  “Go to bed and sleep it off!” João Romão angrily replied. “With a daughter who’s almost grown, how can you make such a fool of yourself? You’ve turned into a regular lush!”

  Furious at this insult, Piedade prepared to defend her honor. She rolled up her sleeves and hitched up her skirt, but Pataca stepped in front of her and calmed her down, asking João not to hold it against her; she’d just had too much to drink.

  “Fine, fine! But now get going! Go on!”

  And he wouldn’t leave until he saw the circle disperse and everyone enter his house.

  They all went home peacefully. Only Piedade and Pataca remained in the courtyard, still discussing the incident. Pataca was pretty tipsy himself. They both realized they shouldn’t stay there any longer, but neither of them felt like going indoors.

  “Do you have anything to drink at your house? . . .” he finally asked.

  She wasn’t sure, so she went to take a look. There was half a bottle of rum and a little wine. But they’d have to be careful not to wake the girl.

  They tiptoed in, speaking in whispers. Piedade tried to turn up the guttering lamp.

  “Look at that! We’re going to end up in the dark! There’s no kerosene left!” Pataca went home to fetch a candle and came back also bearing a piece of cheese and two fried fish that he silently raised to the washerwoman’s nose. Staggering, Piedade first cleared the table on which she ironed and then set out two plates. The other called for hot sauce and asked if she had any bread.

  “There’s plenty of bread. It’s wine we don’t have much of.”

  “That doesn’t matter! Bring the rum!”

  And they sat down. The whole courtyard was now asleep and the only sounds came from dogs mournfully barking in the street. Piedade began to complain about her hard life; she burst into sobs. When she could speak again, she told him what had happened earlier that evening: all the details of her journey with her daughter, their dinner with that damned mulatto, and finally her return, shamed and defeated.

  Pataca was appalled, not by Jerônimo’s behavior but by hers.

  “How could you sink so low? . . . Going to see your husband in that other woman’s house! Jesus Christ!”

  “He was nice to me the first time I went . . . I don’t know what made him so mean today. The only thing he didn’t do was actually hit me!

  “Too bad, that’s what he should have done! Maybe if he beat you you’d have more sense next time!”

  “I guess I was stupid.”

  “Damned right you were! Well, there’s plenty of other fish in the sea! You’ll find some other guy.” And slipping his hand between her legs, he added, “Sleep with me and I’ll make you forget him in a hurry!”

  Piedade pushed him away, “Don’t be a fool!”

  “A fool? It’s what makes life worth living!”

  The little girl woke up and tiptoed barefoot to the door, where she stood watching the adults.

  They didn’t notice her.

  And the conversation continued, becoming more intimate as they polished off the bottle of rum. Piedade forgot her troubles, chattering away, eating with a hearty appetite and laughing at Pataca’s jokes, while he stroked her thighs from time to time.

  “It’s fun when things happen like this, unexpectedly!” he said, flushed and excited, dunking pieces of fish in the pepper sauce. Only a fool would let those kinds of things get him down!

  Suddenly it occurred to him that he’d like a cup of coffee.

  “I don’t know if there’s any left. I’ll go take a look,” the washerwoman replied, gripping the table and rising unsteadily to her feet.

  She staggered into the kitchen, lurching from side to side.

  “Hold onto that rudder; it’s rough seas tonight!” Pataca shouted, also rising to his feet and going to help her.

  As she stood near the stove, he suddenly threw his arms around her, clasping her like a rooster about to mount a hen.

  “Get away!” the woman scolded him, too drunk to defend herself.

  He pulled up her skirts.

  “Wait! Let me—”

  “No!”

  She laughed at the sight of Pataca in that position.

  “There’s no harm in it! Come on!”

  “Get away from me, you bastard!”

  And swaying, clutching each other, they both fell to the floor.

  “Bastard,” the poor woman muttered as her adversary entered her. “Damn you!”

  And she remained lying on the floor. He got up, and, on his way back to the sitting room, he glimpsed a shadow flitting across his path. It was the girl, who had been spying on them from the kitchen door.

  Pataca started.

  “Who’s that scurrying around here like a cat?” he asked Piedade, who still hadn’t moved and was nearly asleep.

  He shook her.

  “Hey, sweetheart, do you really want to stay here? Get up! How about my coffee?”

  Trying to raise her, he slipped his hands under her arms. As soon as she sat up, she vomited down the front of her dress.

  “Damn it!” Pataca grumbled. “She’s too drunk to be any fun.”

  He had to drag her into the kitchen like a bundle of dirty clothes. She showed no signs of life.

  Senhorinha approached, asking anxiously what was wrong with her mother.

  “It’s nothing, kid!” Pataca replied. “Let her sleep it off! Listen: if there’s any lemon around, rub a little behind her ear and tomorrow she’ll be good as new and ready for another round!”

  The girl burst into tears.

  And Pataca left, bumping into pieces of furniture in his path, furious because he hadn’t managed to get his cup of coffee.

  “Damn it!”

  XXI

  Meanwhile, João Romão, in his bathrobe and slippers, paced to and fro in his new bedroom: a spacious chamber whose blue and white wallpaper was adorned with little golden flowers. There was a carpet at the foot of the bed and an alarm clock on the night table. The room was furnished for a married couple, since he had no intention of buying new furniture twice.

  He looked very worried; he was thinking about Bertoleza, who now slept under the staircase at the back of the storeroom, near the toilet.

  What the devil was he supposed to do about that damned pest?

  He scratched his head, trying to figure out a way to get her off his back.

  That night, Miranda had had a little talk with him; everything had been arranged. Zulmira would take him as her husband, and Dona Estela would set a date for the wedding.

  But what about Bertoleza?

  João paced up and down, unable to find a solution to his dilemma.

  He’d gotten himself into one hell of a fix!
He couldn’t throw her out just like that when they’d been living together so long and everyone in São Romão knew it!

  A sense of helpless rage seized him at the thought of that obstacle calmly sleeping down below, silently tormenting him, stupidly disrupting his happy life, postponing the brilliant future he had earned through his sacrifices and hardships. What a pain!

  But at the mere thought of his union with a refined and aristocratic young Brazilian damsel, his greedy vanity imagined all sorts of triumphs. First of all, he would join a proud old family, Dona Estela’s, for everyone described it thus. Secondly, his wealth would grow considerably with the addition of his bride’s dowry; and finally, the tavern-keeper would eventually inherit everything Miranda owned, fulfilling an ambition he had nursed ever since the two of them had become rivals.

  He saw himself in the exalted position that awaited him. He would form a partnership with his father-in-law and slowly, feigning reluctance, would elbow him aside till he had replaced him and become a leader of the Portuguese colony in Brazil. When his ship was steaming full speed ahead, he’d slip someone a few contos and buy himself a viscountcy.

  Yes, a viscount! Why not? And after that, a count! It was a sure thing, just a matter of time!

  Though he hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone, for the past few years he had dreamed of a title more exalted than Miranda’s. Once he had that title in hand, he would tour Europe, displaying his grandeur, arousing envy, surrounded by adulation, generous, prodigal, Brazilian, dazzling the Old World with his American gold.

  “But what about Bertoleza?” a voice within him impertinently asked.

  “Yes, what about her?” the poor devil replied without breaking his stride.

  Damn it! Not to be able to erase that black stain from his life, to get rid of it like someone flicking a speck of dirt off his jacket! How exasperating that every time he began to think about his ambitions, he also had to worry about that sordid, ridiculous, unconfessable concubinage. He couldn’t get his mind off that damned nigger bitch, who was right there in his house, prowling around, sinister and glowering. She was like a living reminder of his past penury, surmounted but not forgotten. Bertoleza had to be crushed, suppressed; she was everything that had been wrong with his life. It would be a crime to keep her with him! She was the filthy counter in his first store; she was the short-weighted two pennies’ worth of butter wrapped in a scrap of brown paper; she was the fish brought from the beach and sold at night from a charcoal brazier beside the entrance to his tavern; she was his greasy-spoon eating-house with its waiters singing out lists of Portuguese dishes; she had slept by him, snoring away on a stinking, lousy mattress. She had been his accomplice in squalor and misery; she deserved to be snuffed out! She should yield her place to that pale maiden with delicate hands and scented hair, who was goodness itself, laughter and joy, a new life, a romantic ballad accompanied on the piano, vases of flowers, silk and lace, tea served in exquisite china cups—in short, she was the pleasant life of the rich, of those who inherited money they had never earned or who, through sheer effort, had managed to amass it, rising above the common herd of weaklings restrained by their scruples. Miranda’s daughter’s sweet smile seemed to float before João’s eyes; he could feel the slight pressure of her demure arm upon his, a few hours before as they had strolled along Botafogo Beach; he could still smell her perfume, gentle, elegant and penetrating as words of love; his thick, stubby, coarse red fingers still bore the impress of that warm, small, gloved hand, which would soon caress his skin and hair, offering him all of marriage’s consecrated pleasures.

  But what about Bertoleza?

  Yes, he had to get rid of her, finish her off, destroy her once and for all!

  The clock in the storeroom struck twelve. João Romão picked up a candle and went down the steps till he reached the spot where Bertoleza slept. He crept slowly toward her like someone about to commit a murder.

  The black woman lay motionless on her straw mattress, sleeping on her side, her face buried in her right arm, which was bent beneath her head. He could see part of her naked body.

  João Romão gazed at her for a while with disgust.

  Could that nigger sleeping so indifferently really be the sole obstacle to his happiness? It didn’t seem possible!

  What if she died?

  This sentence, which had entered his mind the first time he had pondered his predicament, now returned, but ripened into another thought: “And what if I killed her?”

  But then a shudder of fear ran through him.

  “Besides, how would I do it? . . . Yes, how could I get rid of her without leaving some clue? Poisoning her? They’d find out. Shooting her? Even worse. Taking her on a trip out of town and when she was enjoying herself, pushing her off a cliff to certain death? But how could I arrange that when we never go out together?”

  Damn it!

  And the poor fellow stood there thinking, abstracted, candlestick in hand, never taking his eyes off Bertoleza, who remained motionless, her face buried in her arm.

  “What if I strangled her right now?”

  He tiptoed forward a few paces, keeping his eyes fixed upon her.

  But then Bertoleza raised her head and stared straight at him, wide awake.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed.

  “What’s the matter, Seu João?”

  “Nothing. I came to see you. I just got home myself . . . How are you feeling? Did that pain in your side go away?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. Silence fell between them. João didn’t know what to say and finally left, escorted by her steady gaze, which seemed to cut right through him.

  “Does she suspect something?” the wretch wondered, climbing the stairs to his bedroom. “Bah! Why should she suspect anything?”

  He got into bed, determined to think no more about it and to go straight to sleep. But his mind refused to obey him and kept him awake.

  “I’ve got to get rid of her! I’ve got to get rid of her as soon as possible! She’s still keeping quiet; she hasn’t said a word yet, but Dona Estela’s about to fix a date for our wedding, and it’ll be soon . . . of course Miranda will tell all his friends . . . the news’11 get around . . . she’ll hear about it and blow up. She’ll hit the roof! Then you’ll see what’ll happen! It’ll be a pretty sight! To get this far and have everything ruined by that bitch! And people will start talking! They’re already jealous! Well, you see he lived with a woman, a filthy nigger, and his past caught up with him; he was a shady character in the first place. You could see him putting on airs, strutting around, a big-shot businessman, living like a king. He was just another silver jenny like the rest, and that’s what got him in the end!’ Then the girl’s family, anxious to keep up its reputation, will turn tail and act like they’d never promised anything. I know they realize what’s going on, of course they do, but they pretend not to notice because naturally they think I’m not dumb enough to wait till our wedding day to get rid of Bertoleza. They’re assuming everything will be all right, and meanwhile I’m sitting here like an idiot! That bitch lords it over me the same as before, and I can’t figure out how to get her off my back! How the hell did I manage to get myself into this jam? . . . I can’t believe it!”

  Once again, he went over it all in his mind, but he just couldn’t see his way out.

  Damn it!

  “She should have been out of here a long time ago! I should have worked this out before anything else! I’m a jackass! If I’d gotten rid of her in the beginning, when there was no talk about weddings, no one would be asking now why I’d kick someone out who never gave me any trouble and was always ready to help. But now, after building this house, sleeping apart, and especially after announcing the wedding, people will definitely smell a rat; I’ll be accused of murder if she dies all of a sudden.”

  Damn it!

  Four o’clock struck, but the poor devil couldn’t fall asleep; he kept on worrying, tossing and turning on his big, creaky double bed. Just as dawn was br
eaking, he finally managed to doze off, but a few hours later he was awakened. Disaster had struck São Romão again.

  Machona had been washing clothes in her tub, arguing and fussing as usual, when two workmen, surrounded by a noisy crowd of onlookers, had appeared bearing her son’s bloody corpse on a plank. As was their custom, Agostinho and two of his friends had gone to play at the quarry. They’d been fooling around on the edge of a cliff, which dropped two hundred yards, when he had suddenly lost his balance and fallen, smashing almost every bone in his body.

  The poor kid was nothing but a bloody pulp. Both his knees had been broken, and his legs dangled loosely below the joints. His skull was split open, and brains oozed from the crack; the fingers had been ripped from his hands, and a bone stuck out of his hip.

  Alarm spread through the courtyard when people caught sight of him.

  God Almighty! What a shame!

  Albino, who’d been washing beside Machona, fainted. Nenen acted as though she’d gone mad, for she had loved her brother deeply. Das Dores cursed the workers for allowing someone else’s son to kill himself like that in their presence. His mother let out a scream like a wounded beast and fell to her knees beside the corpse, kissing it and bawling like a baby.

  The two other boys’ mothers stood there, motionless and livid, awaiting their sons’ return. The women fell upon them as soon as they appeared, beating them mercilessly.

  “Take a good look at him, you little devil!” one of them shouted, gripping her child between her legs while she tanned his hide with an old shoe. “It should have been you instead of him! At least that poor kid helped his mother, watering plants for two mil-réis a month, but all I get out of you is trouble and more trouble! Take that! And that! And that!”

  And the mothers’ shoes rang out amid the two boys’ howls of pain.

  Still in shirtsleeves, João Romão emerged on his terrace and quickly realized what had occurred. For some strange reason, he was genuinely moved by Agostinho’s death and felt sorry for the boy.

  Poor kid! So young and full of life! He never hurt a fly, and look at him now, dead—while Bertoleza clung to existence, poisoning his life and refusing to kick the bucket!