‘Do you remember?’
Paulo leaned over Madalena’s face. He was whispering into her ear.
‘Your daughter, Elza. She was twelve years old when … When she had … a little girl. She was taken away. Your granddaughter. Aparecida. They took Aparecida away to the orphanage. Your grandson … Elza’s other child … your grandson Renato said you’re the only one who knows. You’re the only one who can tell the story. Who knows. Who knows what happened to Aparecida. What they did to Elza’s daughter. Only you can tell us all about Aparecida. Everything. Everything that … that …’
Eduardo found Madalena’s silence unbearable. He burst out:
‘Was Aparecida’s father the estate owner? Was her father the senator Marques Torres?’
Paulo shot him a reproving glance. Madalena had still not moved. The boy who’d been playing with the ants brought a lit oil lamp from outside, set it on the stove, and went out again.
‘She’s not going to remember, Paulo. We’re not getting anywhere. Let’s go.’
Paulo said nothing. He leaned closer over Madalena, and put his arm round her head. In the gloom, Eduardo could not make out his face next to the old woman’s. No, alongside it. This gesture surprised him as much as the gentleness with which Paulo spoke to her. Then he realized: the old woman stretched out in front of him, without covers, her bones sticking through her clothes, could have been Paulo’s grandmother, if she hadn’t fled life in the country and found a place at a loom in the city. And he, this boy leaning over an old black woman dying in poverty in a hovel in the middle of nowhere, could perhaps, who knows, have been Madalena’s grandson, if one day in the past she had had the courage, the audacity or the good fortune to change her life.
Paulo was talking so quietly that even in this tiny room Eduardo found it hard to hear him. He didn’t sound like the boy he knew so well. He seemed like … almost another person. Almost … an adult. Do you remember, Dona Madalena, he was asking, do you remember, do you? I know you do, he was saying. I don’t know why you don’t want to talk, but I’m sure you remember, he was saying, as if he had known her for many years. He said to her: they took Aparecida, your granddaughter, they took her away, and you had to let them do it. She was very light-skinned, too light, as light-skinned as her father, Eduardo thought he could hear Paulo whisper. You had to let them take her. She couldn’t stay here. The little girl. They wouldn’t allow it. They took her away, he said. When your daughter Elza was twelve. The same age as me. Later, Elza had another baby. A boy. Renato. Do you remember, he asked, do you remember? A boy. Darker-skinned than Aparecida. They took him away too. So then your daughter Elza, their mother, said Paulo, hesitating more and more, she left as well. Did Elza want to leave, Dona Madalena? Or did they send her away too? Did she run away? Did she disappear? Did you have no more news of her? What did they do to her, Dona Madalena? Do you know? Do you, Dona Madalena? What they did to Elza? Do you remember? Do you?
Eduardo saw a gleam in Madalena’s eyes. It looked like a tear. But he couldn’t be certain. The darkness swallowed everything. The lamp’s wavering light made their shadows flicker round the walls.
Madalena struggled to raise her hand. She brought it close to Paulo’s face, as if to stroke it. But she didn’t touch him. Her trembling hand hung in mid-air for a moment. Then dropped again. She turned her face to the wall.
Paulo stood up, his back to Eduardo. As he passed by him, head down, on his way to the door, he said:
‘Let’s go.’
For a moment the sounds of the thunderclap and the factory siren mingled. In the distance, above the mountains, a lightning flash lit up the night sky, illuminating the heavy rainclouds sweeping towards the city. The thunder rolled closer and closer, while the factory whistle continued announcing the end of the shift for the workers in the Union & Progress textile factory. A wind that seemed to be coming from every direction at once started raising dust in the streets, sending the leaves it tore from the trees whirling, and shaking the Founded in 1890 sign in the mouth of the painted cement eagle on the factory front. Beneath it, the double iron gates opened.
A man in dark-grey overalls and clogs was the first out, pushing a bicycle. When he reached the street he got on and rode off. Waves of men and women followed, all dressed in the same overalls and clogs, all with the same weary faces. They could have spent Sunday at home, but preferred to give up their weekend rest for more money, overtime, more hours at work to produce more, to produce more of the kilometres of denim needed for the uniforms worn by the millions of Brazilians leaving the countryside or the drought-stricken areas of the north-east for the industries springing up in the south-east of the country.
None of the workers with bicycles rode them out of the gates. Following the owners’ instructions, they got on only when they reached the paved street, beyond their workplace. They all seemed in a hurry to pedal off, and each peal of thunder made them hasten still more. By the time the siren died away, few of them were still in sight.
The old man continued to wait.
By now the street was deserted. The wind grew colder, blowing in squally gusts. Some pieces of paper spiralled in front of him in the midst of a whirlwind of dust, and were carried away along with other rubbish, bits of twigs, dry leaves. The lowering clouds swept nearer and nearer.
Then the gates swung open again. The old man was momentarily blinded by the glare of headlights. He heard the roar of an engine. Still dazzled by the circles of light, he made out a black, sleek limousine emerging from the factory. It turned into the street.
The old man hurried across. He stumbled. The headlights blinded him once more, and a squeal of brakes told him the car was coming to a sudden halt. Even shielding his eyes with his hands he couldn’t see clearly. Feeling for the mudguards, he approached the man behind the steering wheel.
‘Dr Geraldo?’
He could only make out a vague shape in the driver’s seat.
‘Dr Geraldo Bastos?’
The shape, which now seemed to him huge, nodded in agreement.
‘I’m Basilio Gomes. A lawyer. Can I talk to you for a minute?’
A big man. With glasses. Jacket and tie.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you in the factory.’
A white starched jacket, with initials embroidered on the pocket, over a white shirt also with a starched collar, and a tie held in place by a round gold clip from some club originally started in the United States: now he could see him clearly.
‘I thought it might be inconvenient to talk about the matter in front of your employees.’
The car engine whined: the man inside was pressing his foot on and off the accelerator, but without moving off.
‘It’s about Anita.’
Behind the oval, metal-framed glasses, the blue eyes flicked towards the already closed factory gates, then to the empty street, and finally came to rest on the old man.
‘I’m on my way home,’ he snapped. ‘It’s late. My family’s expecting me for dinner.’
‘We could talk in the car. Then I’ll walk back.’
‘I live some distance away. We could talk on some other occasion.’
‘If you prefer,’ said the old man, as neutrally as possible, ‘I could go to your house tomorrow and wait for you there.’
Geraldo Bastos hesitated. He glanced over in the direction of the factory once more. He picked up the briefcase on the seat beside him, and dropped it in the back. Without looking at the white-haired man, he leaned over and opened the right-hand door. The old man walked round the car, got in and sat down. The Willys Aero pulled away.
Bastos drove slowly, staring straight ahead. They went round Tenente Valladares Square. A bony mongrel was trotting towards the bandstand. The wind and the threat of rain had emptied almost all the streets.
Inside the car, the old man admired the modern dashboard and found himself enjoying the smell of fresh leather.
‘A nice car,’ he said, meaning it.
‘Willys Aero. A
Brazilian car,’ replied a disgruntled Bastos.
‘The reason I was waiting for you outside the factory was—’
‘A jalopy. No power, awkward to drive, poor finish.’
‘Dr Geraldo, as the lawyer for the family of—’
‘Uncomfortable. Like all cars made in Brazil.’
‘I’ve never had a car. But as I was saying—’
‘Old-fashioned.’
‘I wanted to see you about—’
‘I’ve got an Oldsmobile and a Mercury in the garage. Ever since that demagogue Juscelino Kubitschek banned the import of foreign cars in 1958, it’s been impossible to find any spare parts.’
‘The ban was intended to promote national industry. But the reason I came to see you is—’
‘I was forced to buy this heap of junk. Who gains with this protectionism?’
‘Manufacturing cars in Brazil has created thousands of jobs. Dr Geraldo, I want to talk to you about—’
‘Could anyone seriously claim that the Renault, Volkswagen, Alfa Romeo, Mercedes-Benz or Ford factories are really Brazilian?’
‘What about all the people fleeing poverty in the north-east? They found—’
‘Work? Living even more wretchedly on the outskirts of our big cities? Building and crowding into shanty towns? And what for? To make models here that are already out of date abroad. They’ve swapped the import of good cars for the import of antiquated technology.’
‘But protectionism also helps our textile industry.’
‘It makes no difference. We don’t need it.’
‘Every industry in poor countries needs it. Otherwise we won’t be able to prevent the dumping of goods made in the capitalist world …’
‘I sell denim all over the world, even to the United States. My factory was founded in the last century. We brought the first machines over from England. With our own money. National capital. We transformed illiterate slaves who had been abandoned by their masters into trained workers, with wages and social security. We taught them skills, we paid for holidays, a dentist, a doctor. We kept people in the provinces who otherwise would have only gone to swell the numbers of those living on the margins of the big cities. That’s very different from this surrender to foreign capital. But you’re not from these parts.’
‘What was that?’
‘You have a north-eastern accent. You must be from Pernambuco or somewhere near there. If you were from here, you would know what goes on, and wouldn’t need to come looking for me. Everyone here knew what that tramp was like.’
‘You …’ The old man cast his words like someone with a fishing rod. ‘It seems that you … knew Dona Anita rather better than most.’
‘The only people who didn’t know that woman were those who didn’t want to.’
‘It seems she preferred—’
‘She didn’t prefer anything. She was a woman who was permanently open to the public.’
The old man felt sick.
‘Is that why her husband killed her?’ he asked, struggling to control his anger.
‘Francisco Andrade?’ he said scornfully. ‘Francisco Andrade killed her? By stabbing her to death?’
‘He’s under arrest.’
‘Does anyone really believe that Francisco Andrade is that woman’s killer?’
‘The police do: he’s—’
‘He confessed, so they had to arrest him. Any lawyer can get him out of there, whenever he likes. A first-time offender. A crime of honour. A well-respected citizen. A charitable man. Any poor person whose rotten teeth he pulled without charging a penny, or whom he gave dentures to, will testify on his behalf. A good man who was the victim of circumstance. With a wife without a shred of decency. Any jury will acquit him.’
‘But the savagery with which she was—’
‘No, but really! Some lunatic killed the whore and disappeared. Some stranger. With or without a confession, the whole city knows it wasn’t Dr Andrade who killed her. He’ll soon be back home. He wiped clean his honour. Using someone else.’
At this, the old man turned his head. It was only then he noticed it had started to rain. The wipers squeaked as they smeared the fat raindrops bouncing off the windscreen. Little was visible outside the car. They were climbing a hill the old man could not identify.
‘Do you think the husband hired someone?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Didn’t you just say that the dentist wiped clean his honour through somebody else’s work?’
‘I said that Dr Andrade took advantage of the crime to pretend he had finally grown tired of being the city cuckold.’
‘But why would a stranger kill her?’
‘She was found dead in some bushes, like a slaughtered pig. What difference does it make whether it was a lunatic, a beggar, a travelling salesman or a psychotic who did it?’
‘There’s a criminal on the loose.’
‘That woman was a social outcast. A whore. Cold, depraved, no background, no moral values. The life she led could only have ended that way. Tell me truthfully: what difference does the death of that woman make to our community?’
‘Dona Anita—’
‘None at all. No one will miss her. In fact, society will benefit from her death.’
‘She was savagely murdered.’
‘It’s a cleansing.’
‘Mutilated.’
‘Are you religious?’
‘Am I what?’
‘Darkness or light. We have to choose. Every religion says so. Free will. We are born with it. Rich or poor, black or white, men and women. Every human being is free to choose. There are women who choose to devote themselves to their family, to being loyal to the man who protects them, gives them children, shelter and his name. Those are the women helping to build a better world. They dignify their role in society. Then there are the others. Like Anita.’
‘You’ve known several of them.’
‘Like all men. That’s what her sort are for.’
A bitter, nauseous taste rose in the old man’s gorge.
‘Can you stop here, please?’
‘What about you? Do you mean to say you’ve never met scum like her?’
‘I have to get out. Stop, please.’
‘Have you never been with women like Anita?’
‘I want to get out.’
‘Wouldn’t you take advantage of Anita, if you still could at your age?’
‘Stop here. Stop!’
The car had not come to a complete halt when he opened the door and jumped out. The stream of vomit hit the kerb, mingling with the water flowing down the gutter.
In the deserted street, with the rain pouring down, the old man watched the black car pull away until it disappeared behind a dense curtain of water. He couldn’t move. The cold drops on his head and chest seeped inside his collar, making him shiver.
A lightning bolt tore open the sky, followed by a crash that seemed to shake it. His knees were trembling from cold or rage. He tried to steady them, and finally managed to put one foot in front of the other and walk on, head down and forlorn.
He had no idea where he was.
7
How Many Madalenas Are There in the World?
ONE FOOT IN FRONT of the other, Eduardo was measuring his room, trying to recall the size of Dona Madalena’s shack. He had been there only a short time, and it had been dark, but his memory of it was clear: his room was bigger than her entire hovel. Could it be? Yes. No, that was impossible.
He made a checklist of the furniture around him. Bed, bedside table, wardrobe, chest of drawers, desk, bookcase, chair. Three times as much as she had. Not counting the objects. Pencils, pen, inkwell, rubber, marker. A tumbler for the pen and pencils. A tube of glue, books, picture of his guardian angel, a first communion certificate. Crucifix. Carpet. Sheet, pillowcase, quilt, blanket. Bolster. Lampshade.
All he could remember from her hut was the pot on the stove. That was all he had seen. She must have had more things. She was bo
und to have. It wasn’t possible for anyone to live with so few possessions. What about the young boy? Where did he sleep, if there was only one bed and Dona Madalena was in it? Did they sleep together? Or was there a banana-leaf mat for him that they spread on the floor? On the earthen floor. How cold that must be. Perhaps there was another mattress? Could there be? And a bolster? Could there be a pillow for the boy? A blanket? Dona Madalena didn’t have a blanket. Or yes, she did. It was cheap, and dirty grey, but there was one. Down at her feet. How could they live so wretchedly if her granddaughter, if Anita, or rather Aparecida, was married to a dentist? Couldn’t she have done something to help her grandmother? She could have given her money. Another bed. Another mattress. A sheet, pillowcase or blanket. Something. Anything. Couldn’t she have helped her grandmother? She could at least have given her a … a …
Another flash of lightning outside. Then thunder rattled the window pane. The noise of the incessant rain filled the night.
Perhaps Anita couldn’t help. Aparecida. She had nothing herself. Not even a ring. Perhaps the dentist wouldn’t allow Aparecida or Anita to help her grandmother. Perhaps Anita herself didn’t want to. Perhaps she was angry at her grandmother or something.
No. No one could be angry at a feeble old woman like her. Suffering. Stretched out on her bed. Or could they? Because she let her be taken away to an orphanage? Because she did nothing when the senator got Elza pregnant? Or was she angry because Madalena was black, and Anita wanted to be white? Was she the one pretending, or was it the others who preferred to see the mulatto Aparecida as white Anita? Which others? Was she prevented from seeing her grandmother? From seeing her brother? Was she ashamed of them? Or ashamed of herself? Of having become the city’s tramp? Did Aparecida even know she had a grandmother and a brother? She must have known about her brother. Because if Renato knew about her, knew that Anita was his sister, no – that Aparecida was his sister – then Anita, or Aparecida, must have been aware she had a brother. And a grandmother. Mustn’t she?
Blast! He lost count of his steps. He would have to start all over again. One step, two steps, three steps…
If I Close My Eyes Now Page 11