The Slum (Library of Latin America)

by Aluisio Azevedo

  Nor could he easily persuade the damned woman to get out of his way. Though she was depressed, she was also tough as nails. Her short, shiny legs were soldered together at the waist, as sturdy as the barrels of a gun; her breasts hung from her chest like two cannonballs in a sack. Her glistening, thick neck was dark red, like a blood sausage, and there wasn’t a single gray strand amid her thick, wooly hair. Hell, she could easily last the rest of the century!

  “But even so, I’ll find some neat, clean way to get rid of you!” the tavern-keeper thought as he went back in his bedroom to finish dressing.

  He was buttoning up his vest when he heard someone knocking familiarly at the door.

  “Hey, don’t tell me you’re still in dreamland!”

  It was Botelho’s voice.

  João opened the door and invited him in.

  “Make yourself at home. How are you feeling?”

  “So so; not too good.”

  João told him about Agostinho’s death and said he had a splitting headache. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

  “It’s the heat . . .” the other replied. After a pause in which he lit a cigarette, he continued; “I came here to talk to you. . . . Maybe you don’t realize it, but . . .”

  João Romão, supposing that the leech was going to ask for money, prepared his defense and was about to explain that his business had taken an unexpected turn for the worse, but he shut up when Botelho stared at his nails and added: “I shouldn’t speak to you about this. It’s your business and no one else’s, but . . .”

  The tavern-keeper understood what he was driving at and moved closer to him, saying confidingly: “Not at all! Tell me what’s on your mind! You needn’t hesitate!”

  “Well, it’s like this: You know I arranged your marriage to Zulmira. It’s all we ever talk about at Miranda’s house . . . even Dona Estela is on your side . . . but . . .”

  “Spit it out, for God’s sake!”

  “There’s one problem that has to be worked out . . . it’s not very important, but . . .”

  “But what? Why don’t you spit it out? Speak, God damn it!”

  A clerk from the store appeared, announcing that lunch was ready.

  “Let’s eat,” said João Romão. “Have you had lunch yet?”

  “No, but they’re expecting me at home . . .”

  João sent the same clerk to tell the baron’s family that Botelho wouldn’t be home for lunch. And without putting on his jacket, he ushered his visitor into the dining room. The strong smell from the recently varnished furniture lent the place an unwelcoming air, as of an uninhabited house up for rent. The silverware and dishes, as unadorned as the wails, seemed gloomy, with the shiny coldness of all brand-new things.

  “Well, out with it! What’s the trouble?” the master of the house asked, seating himself at the head of the table, while the other sat down beside him.

  “It’s that,” the old man replied in a mysterious tone, “you’re living with a black woman, who . . . I mean, it’s not that I think . . . but . . .”

  “Go on!”

  “Well, they say she’s your . . . you know how people gossip . . . Miranda defends you; he says you’re not . . . he’s broad-minded, but Dona Estela, you know how women are . . . she turns up her nose and . . . in a word, she’s worried that all this is going to put them in an awkward position!”

  He fell silent because a Portuguese lad had just entered bearing a platter of stew.

  João Romão didn’t reply, even after the serving boy had left. He stared into the distance, his expression as determined as though he were about to enter battle.

  “Why don’t you send her away?” asked Botelho, filling their glasses with wine.

  This question was also greeted by silence, but after a while João reached a decision and said confidingly; “I’m going to tell you the whole story . . . maybe you’ll even be able to help me.”

  He glanced around, pulled his chair closer to Botelho’s, and whispered, “I began living with that woman when I was just getting started . . . At the time, I admit I needed someone like her to help me out . . . and she helped a lot, I can’t deny it! I owe her that! She was certainly a big help, but . . .”

  “What happened then?”

  “Then she just stayed, she stayed . . . and now . . .”

  “Now she might ruin your plans!”

  “Yes, I know. Now she’s standing in the way of my marriage. But hell, I can’t just throw her out into the street, can I? That would be ungrateful, don’t you think?”

  “Does she know what’s up?”

  “She suspects something or other; she’s no fool! But I haven’t told her anything.”

  “Are you two still sleeping together?”

  “No! It’s been a long time since the thought’s even crossed my mind!”

  “Well then, my friend, set her up in business in some other neighborhood! Give her some money and . . . good-bye and good luck! When you’ve got a rotten tooth, the best thing is to pull it out!”

  João Romão was about to reply when Bertoleza appeared at the door. She was so beside herself with rage that her mere presence intimidated the two men. Indignation flashed from her eyes, and her lips trembled. When she spoke, they saw flecks of foam at the corners of her mouth.

  “You’re a big fool, Seu João, if you think you can get married and throw me away!” she exclaimed. “I may be black, but I still have feelings! You got me into this; now you’re going to have to stick it out! You think after staying with you all these years, slaving for you every blessed day from sunup to sundown, that you can throw me out with the garbage like a rotten chicken? No. It’s not going to be that way, Seu João!”

  “But honey, who told you I wanted to get rid of you?” asked the businessman.

  “I heard what you were saying, Seu João! You can’t fool me! You’re smart, but so am I! You’re getting ready to marry Miranda’s daughter!”

  “That’s right! I had to get married sometime! I’m not planning to die a bachelor; I want to have children! But I’m not going to just throw you out in the street, like you say. In fact, just now I was talking with Botelho about fixing you up with a stand somewhere and . . .”

  “No! That’s where I started out, but that’s not where I’m going to die! I want to rest and take it easy! That’s why I slaved away as long as God gave me health and strength!”

  “Then what the hell do you want?”

  “I’ll tell you! I want to stay here with you! I want to enjoy all the money we made together! I want my share of what we worked for! I want to have some fun, the same as you do!”

  “But can’t you see that doesn’t make sense? Don’t you realize who you are? . . . I care for you, honey, but I’m not going to do something crazy for your sake! Don’t worry; you’ll have everything you need! That would really take the cake, us living together forever! Why don’t you ask me to marry you too?”

  “Ah! So now I’m good for nothing! But when you did need me, you didn’t mind using my body in bed and my work to run your business! Then your nigger came in handy in all kinds of ways, but now when she’s worn out you want to throw her out with the garbage! That’s not right! People don’t kick out old dogs, so who said you could kick me out of this house I helped build with the sweat of my brow? If you want to get married, wait till I’m dead; show a little respect!”

  João Romão finally lost his patience and stormed out of the room, hurling an obscenity at his angry lover.

  “It’s no use losing your temper—” Botelho whispered, accompanying him to his bedroom, where the tavern-keeper furiously yanked his hat over his head and pulled his jacket over his clenched fists.

  “God damn it, I can’t stand this a minute longer! She can go to the devil; let him take care of her! She’s not staying in my house!”

  “Hey, calm down!”

  “If she won’t go quietly, I’ll make her go! I swear to God!”

  And the
tavern-keeper tore down the stairs so fast that the old man could barely keep up with him. When they reached the street, João stopped and, staring at the other with flashing eyes, asked, “You see what she’s like?”

  “Yes,” Botelho muttered, staring down as he walked along.

  They went on walking, but more slowly. Both of them looked worried.

  After a while, Botelho asked if Bertoleza had been a slave before João had started living with her.

  This question burst upon the tavern-keeper’s mind like a flash of inspiration. He’d been planning to have Bertoleza locked up as a lunatic in the Pedro II Asylum, but now he had a much better idea. He’d hand her over to her master, since she was still legally a slave.

  It wouldn’t be difficult, he thought. It was a matter of finding the master, telling him where she was hiding, and having him come for her with the police.

  “She was and still is!” he replied.

  “Ah! She’s a slave? Whom does she belong to?”

  “A certain Freitas de Melo; I can’t remember his first name. They don’t live here. I’ve got it all written down at home.”

  “Well then, it’s simple! Send her back to her master!”

  “What if she refuses?”

  “Huh? Then the police will make her go! That’s all!”

  “I’m sure she’ll insist on buying her freedom . . .”

  “Well, let her, if her master agrees! That’s none of your business! If she comes back, tell her to get the hell away, and if she makes a pest of herself, call the cops. Listen, my friend: You have to do these things right or not at all. The way that ugly bitch just spoke to you is enough reason for you to get rid of her as soon as you can! Even if you weren’t getting married, she asked for it! Don’t be a weakling!”

  João Romão listened, walking along in silence, having regained his composure. They had reached the beach.

  “Would you be willing to help?” he asked his companion as they stood waiting for the trolley. “If you take care of this, I’ll pay you . . .”

  “What?”

  “A hundred mil-réis!”

  “No! Twice that much!”

  “Okay, two hundred!”

  “It’s a deal! I’m always ready to help keep niggers in their place!”

  “Fine! Later this afternoon, I’ll give you her master’s exact name, his address when she first moved in with me, and anything else I can find that might help out.”

  “And I’ll take care of the rest. You can consider her as good as gone!

  XXII

  After that day, Bertoleza became even more tight-lipped and irascible, only uttering an occasional indispensable monosyllable in her dealings with João. They exchanged those suspicious glances that, between people who live together, open chasms of mistrust. The poor woman never relaxed for a second; she lived in constant dread of being murdered. She only ate food that she had cooked herself and locked her door when she slept. The slightest sound made her leap out of bed, her eyes bulging, panting convulsively, her mouth wide open to scream for help if she were assaulted.

  Meanwhile, a veritable whirlwind of prosperity swirled around the woman, whose drudgery continued unabated. João’s business ventures brought in fat dividends, while coins poured into the till at: his store. All day long wagons stopped in front of São Romão, unloading bales and crates brought from the customhouse, hogsheads and more hogsheads of wine and vinegar, barrels of beer, kegs of butter, and sacks of pepper. The store, its jaws wide open, gulped it all down and then let it trickle out slowly with hefty markups that added up to fabulous sums by the end of the year. João Romão supplied all the taverns and grocery stores in Botafogo, whose owners bought from him what they sold to their customers. His employees now included clerks of all ranks, as well as a bookkeeper, a buyer, a dispatcher and a receiver; his office carried on correspondence in several languages, and behind its grille of polished wood, by a sideboard always loaded with ham, cheese, and beer, detailed contracts were drawn up, fortunes were gambled, deals were made and privileges obtained from the government, certificates were bought and sold, and loans were granted at high interest rates secured by enormous collateral. Everyone passed through that office: businessmen big and small, celebrated capitalists and bankrupt merchants, brokers, salesmen, bankers, civil servants borrowing against their salaries, theatrical impresarios and the founders of newspapers, widows ready to pledge their pensions, students awaiting their monthly allowances, foremen coming to collect the pay for João Romão’s workers, and above all, notable for their numbers, small-time lawyers and courthouse hangers-on, always sniffing around restlessly, sticking their noses into everything, with sheafs of documents beneath their arms, untrimmed beards, and soggy, unlit cigars dangling from their lips.

  João Romão’s new avenue prospered, keeping pace with his other interests. He would no longer rent to any old pauper; now he demanded security deposits and letters of recommendation. He had raised his rents, and many of his old tenants—especially the Italians—had deserted him for cheaper quarters at Cat Head and been replaced by people of more delicate habits. The number of washerwomen had also diminished, and most of the dwellings were now occupied by factory workers, artisans, and apprentice clerks. São Romão was becoming quite high-class. The first house you spied after entering the gate was inhabited by a tailor, a respectable gentleman with white side-whiskers, who worked at his sewing machine, aided by his wife, who was from Lisbon. Fat, old, bearded, mustachioed, the color of a turnip, she was nonetheless an extremely careful worker. Next door lived a watchmaker, who wore glasses and looked like a mummy through the window behind which he worked, never changing his position, from morning till night. Next there was a painter who specialized in decorative ceilings and shop signs and whose artistic fantasies had inspired him to paint a vine beside his door, where one saw birds of all shapes and colors, suggesting to his neighbors that he was too eccentric to rely on. Next to him was a cigarette maker who rented no less than three houses and had four daughters and three sons working for him, plus three other employees who chopped tobacco and rolled it in corn husks. Florinda, who now lived with a railroad dispatcher, had returned to São Romão, where she kept her little house neat as a pin. She was still in mourning for her mother, old Marciana, who had died recently in the insane asylum. On Sundays, the dispatcher usually invited some of his friends to dinner and, since the girl was cut from the same cloth as Rita Bahiana, these social evenings always ended in song and dance—but indoors, since noisy open-air samba parties were forbidden. Machona had grown more subdued since Agostinho’s death and was now visited by a bunch of clerks, one of whom hoped to marry Nenen, who was starting to wilt from her long wait for a husband. Alexandre had been promoted to sergeant and strutted around even more proudly in his new uniform with its shiny buttons. His wife, still lazily fertile and faithful to her man through inertia, seemed in danger of growing moldy in her soft, fleshy dampness. Possessing the air of a mushroom, she usually had a baby at her breast and thrust out her belly from sheer habit of constantly being pregnant. Léonie visited her from time to time, shocking that peaceful haven of respectability with her loud and sexy clothes. On one occasion, she especially scandalized São Romão’s worthy artisans by bringing along Pombinha, who had opted for a life of worldly pleasures and now lived with her.

  Poor Pombinha! After two years of marriage, she had been unable to stand her husband. At first, in an effort to maintain her virtue, she had struggled to forgive his lack of spirit, his simple tastes, his idiotically cheerful acceptance of his dull lot. Resigned, she listened to his banal confidences in their moments of intimacy; she humored him in his petty demands and fits of tearful jealousy; she looked after him when he got sick and almost died of pneumonia. She tried to fit in with the poor devil in every way; she never mentioned anything that smacked of luxury, art, beauty, or originality; she hid her untutored, instinctive love of what was grand, gorgeous, bold, and heroic, feigning interest in what he did, said, ea
rned, thought, and accomplished in his dull life as a petty shopkeeper—but suddenly she lost her balance, slipped, and fell into the arms of a talented bohemian, a libertine, poet, gambler, and capoeira expert. At first her husband didn’t notice, but after a while he began to sense a change in his wife, to suspect and spy on her . . . till one day, as he followed her surreptitiously down the street, he came face to face with the hard truth: that she was betraying him, not with the dissolute poet but with a new lover, an actor who had often moved him to tears with his speeches lauding morality and condemning adultery, which he attacked with the most vehement and indignant rhetoric.

  Ah! He could no longer deceive himself . . . and despite his love for his wife, he broke with her, brought her back to her mother, and immediately set out for São Paulo. Dona Isabel, who hadn’t known about her daughter’s latest affair but had been painfully aware of her previous ones, broke down in tears and urged her to repent and reform. She wrote to her son-in-law, interceding on Pombinha’s behalf, swearing that she would answer for her conduct and begging him to forget the past and return to her side. The young man did not reply, and a few months later Pombinha vanished from her mother’s home. Dona Isabel almost died of sorrow. She looked everywhere for the girl, whom she found months later, living in a hotel with Léonie. The serpent had triumphed at last; Pombinha, drawn by her own inclinations, had freely walked into its mouth. Her poor mother mourned her daughter as though she had died, but seeing that her grief would not end her life and having neither food to eat nor the strength to work, she shamefully accepted the first money that Pombinha sent her. From then on she accepted whatever was offered, and the girl, who was the old woman’s sole means of support, shared her earnings as a prostitute. Later, since a body can get resigned to anything in this world, Dona Isabel even moved into her daughter’s house. But she never showed her face in the sitting room when visitors were present. She hid, and if one of Pombinha’s clients came upon her, she pretended to be the girl’s servant. What upset her most was to see her daughter drunk on champagne after a dinner, talking like the loose woman she was and hanging on men’s necks. Dona Isabel wept whenever she saw her return inebriated from some late-night orgy, and what with one unpleasant incident after another, the old woman felt herself weaken and grow ill till she had to take to her bed and enter a hospital, where she finally died.