Winning the Game and Other Stories

by Rubem Fonseca

  “There are no dentures in the poem,” says Agnes, “or any kind of implant.”

  “Poets never show everything clearly. But the dentures are there, for one who knows what to look for.”

  “Old age is there, and the fear of death.”

  “And what is old age in a man?” I ask.

  “I agree: it’s false teeth, baldness, the certainty that the sirens no longer sing to him. Yes, and also the fear of acting. ‘Do I dare?’ the poet asks the whole time. He hates the horrendous symptoms of old age but doesn’t dare commit suicide. ‘Do I dare to eat a peach?’ means will I have the courage to put an end to this shit that is my life? The peach is a metaphor for death. But I accept that there’s also a denture involved. Am I learning to understand poetry?”

  “Yes. The poem can be understood any way you like, which in itself is a step forward, and other people may, or may not, understand it in the same fashion as you. But that’s not important in the least. What matters is that the reader must feel the poem, and what one feels upon reading the poem is exclusive, it’s unlike the feeling of any other reader. What needs to be understood is the short story, the novel, those lesser literary genres, full of obvious symbolism.”

  “I think you talk too much,” she says, good-naturedly.

  Caveat: if a woman doesn’t have a minimum of humor and intelligence, I am not able to fuck her. How could I carry on a conversation with her? That’s awful for a lascivious hunchback who must confront a real uphill battle to seduce women, whose first impression on seeing him could be the same one they’d have upon seeing a basilisk, if that cross-eyed reptile with lethal breath existed. Can you imagine me investing, blind with desire, days and days on a seduction only to discover later, in the middle of the undertaking, that I’m dealing with a dummy who’ll make me go limp at the moment of truth? Once a hunchback goes limp, he’s limp for the rest of his life, as if infected by a polyresistant bacteria. You’ll say that if Agnes were intelligent she’d find me prolix and an exhibitionist. But in actuality I merely provoked her so she would talk. She was impressed with herself, believed she was learning not just to see but to understand that though the person may be nearsighted, he can’t keep his eyes closed.

  Another thing: just as for the poet writing is choosing—creating options and choosing—I too had to create options and choose.

  My member is rigid. The hardness and the size of my penis give me confidence, very great courage, greater even than my cerebral astuteness. I feel like placing her hand on my dick, but the moment for that hasn’t arrived yet. The alternative hasn’t been created yet.

  I don’t know if I’ve mentioned already that the name of my cook is Maria do Céu, or Mary from Heaven. She deserves that name, and tonight she graces us with a magnificent meal.

  After dinner we talk until the early hours. Several times I ask: Isn’t it late for you? And she replies that she’s not sleepy and doesn’t feel like going home. We have wine, but I’m careful to avoid getting her drunk. Lucidity, both hers and mine, is essential to my plan.

  I tell pointless jokes that make her laugh, precisely because they’re pointless. For the first time she speaks of personal matters, the least complex ones, like her mother’s grouchiness. There are women who even after they’re no longer adolescents continue to feel resentment towards their mother. I listen to everything, attentively. Agnes also speaks of her former boyfriend, who was a good person but didn’t talk to her. On one occasion, they went out for dinner and she decided that she’d keep quiet the entire evening. At the restaurant, her boyfriend consulted the menu, suggested the dishes, placed the order, and, once served, asked Agnes if her dish was tasty. He didn’t say anything else, and didn’t even note the silence. He might have noticed if she had refused to eat, but she was hungry. When they returned home, they went to bed and made love in silence. Then the boyfriend said “Good night, dear,” rolled over, and went to sleep.

  I listened to it all, attentively, making neutral but appropriate comments, which she interpreted as obvious interest on my part in what she was saying and feeling.

  I choose another English-language poet. I have no predilection for the English language but cultivate English for the same reason that Descartes knew Latin. Agnes arrives with a basket of tangerines.

  “You never have tangerines in the house.”

  “They’re out of season,” I said.

  “But I found some. I chose this poem.”

  “Oh?”

  “The poet says he knows the night, he has walked and still walks in the rain, beyond the lights of the city, without looking at the people, without the desire to give explanations, imagining the sounds of distant houses; the time that the clock shows is neither wrong nor right. You know I’m enjoying this?”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to understand what poets say, and I learned with you that it’s secondary,” says Agnes. “Every literary text is capable of generating different readings, but besides that wealth of meanings, poetry has the advantage of being mysterious even when it says two and two is four.”

  “You’re right. And, especially, poetry is never totally consumed. However much you devour a poem, the feeling it evokes is never exhausted.”

  “How complex life is,” says Agnes, pretending to sigh.

  “You’ll see that’s how it is,” I say, lightly touching her arm. She moves away from the contact unaffectedly, without drama.

  “How what is?”

  “Life is complex.”

  “Is that what poets say?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s have dinner.”

  Did I blunder by touching her? I think, as we eat the gastronomic delicacies prepared by Maria do Céu.

  I’ve been at this undertaking for many days. I sense that Agnes is starting to become more vulnerable. But as the Bible says, for everything there is a season, and it’s not yet time to harvest.

  “Is there such a thing as feminine poetry?” Agnes asks. “If someone didn’t know the author’s name, would he discover that this verse—‘the deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint’—was written by a woman? Is that a masculine or a feminine sentence?”

  “It was a woman who wrote it, but it could have been written by a man.”

  We’ve finished dinner and are in the middle of our conversation when the doorbell rings. Maria do Céu goes to open the door and returns immediately, with an apologetic expression, followed by Negrinha.

  “I didn’t know you had company,” says Negrinha.

  “I told her you were with someone,” protests Maria do Céu, who knows that this unexpected appearance by Negrinha can only mean trouble: she witnessed Negrinha hit my hump when I gave her the pink slip.

  “I didn’t hear her,” says Negrinha, noticing the book on the table. “Ah, poetry. Am I interrupting chitchat about poetry? This devil is full of tricks.”

  Agnes gets up from her chair.

  “It’s time for me to go.”

  “You haven’t introduced me to your friend,” says Negrinha.

  “Some other time,” says Agnes. “Ciao.”

  Agnes’s ciao is always a bad sign. I go to the door with her.

  “Wait a moment, I’m going to get the book.”

  She takes the book and leaves in a rush; I barely have time to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “It’s always the same magic,” says Negrinha sarcastically. “The man who can talk about the beauty of music, painting, poetry. And that fools the idiots, doesn’t it? It worked with me. Music here, poetry there, and when the imbecile opens her eyes you’re already sticking your dick in her.”

  “Negrinha, stop it.”

  “You’re a prick. That hussy left before I could tell her what a 24-carat son of a bitch you are.”

  “Negrinha—”

  “I came here because I was feeling sorry for you, thinking you were by yourself, but no, I find another idiot being seduced, the next victim. Does she know that after you screw
her you’ll kick her out on her ass?”

  “Do you want something to drink? Sit here. Some wine?”

  “Water.”

  I bring her a glass of water. Negrinha takes a swallow. She’s calmer now.

  “I think I’m going to accept that wine.”

  I place the glass and the bottle of Bordeaux, the wine she likes, beside her.

  “Who is that woman? Is she that Venus, the one you wrote love poems for?”

  “I already told you: that Venus was a fictitious figure.”

  “You said you were in love with another woman. With that hussy, the classical dumb blonde?”

  “She’s a redhead.”

  “The same shit.”

  Negrinha empties and refills the wine glass.

  “And how could you fall in love with another woman when you were screwing me all the time? Why did you leave me? You liked me; you still like me, don’t you?

  She reaches out her hand, but I move away.

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you? Just wait till you let me grab your dick.”

  She downs another glass of wine, in a single gulp.

  “Negrinha, remember Heraclites—”

  “Fuck Heraclites. You’ve never read a book on philosophy; you read those For Dummies books.”

  “I have to go out, Negrinha.”

  “Don’t call me Negrinha. My name is Barbara.”

  “I have to go.”

  “You’re afraid to go to bed with me.”

  “I have an important appointment.”

  “Coward.”

  I go to my bedroom and start changing clothes, rapidly. Negrinha invades the room. She seems a little drunk. As I quickly dress, she undresses with the same haste. We finish at practically the same time. Negrinha lies down, nude, on the bed, showing me the tip of her moistened tongue.

  “I came here to talk with you,” she says.

  I run out of the room and descend the stairs. In the street I take the first taxi I see.

  Agnes disappears for a couple of days. When we meet again, she seems calm, and different.

  “I liked that poem,” Agnes says.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s only three lines.”

  “And what does the author say in those three lines?”

  “Does it matter?” Agnes asks. “Or is what’s important what I felt?”

  “Yes, what you felt.”

  “The poet says that she doesn’t like poetry, but when she reads it, with total disdain, she discovers after all in poetry a place for the truth. I understood something, but I think she means something different. I was overcome by a feeling that I can’t explain. That’s how it should be, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was that woman who came here? She’s very pretty.”

  I kiss Agnes, lightly, on the cheek.

  “Do you think I could be your girlfriend?” she asks.

  “I think so.”

  “You have a handsome face, but you’re a hunchback. How can I be your girlfriend?”

  “After a time you won’t even notice this physical characteristic of mine.”

  “What will other people say?”

  “Others won’t know, or suspect, or imagine. We’ll go live somewhere else. We’ll tell the neighbors we’re brother and sister.”

  “And who was that woman? I have to admit that she’s beautiful.”

  “Must be some crazy.”

  “I’m speaking seriously.”

  “She’s a woman who has a thing for me.”

  “I’m not lazy.”

  I kiss her again, this time on the lips.

  “This is very good,” she says.

  I take her by the arm and lead her gently to the bedroom. We remove our clothes in silence.

  After the surrender, she sighs in exhaustion. Lying beside her, I feel in my mouth the delectable taste of her saliva.

  “Promise you’ll always talk to me,” says Agnes, embracing me.

  I’m going to live with Agnes in a different house, in a different area.

  The deafening street howls around me when a woman dressed completely in black, with long black hair, passes by, tall and slim, enhancing by her movements her beautiful alabaster legs. (Life imitates poetry.) I follow her to where she lives. I have to create an elaborate strategy to get close to her and achieve what I need, a difficult task, as women, at first contact, feel repulsion towards me.

  the game of dead men

  THEY WOULD MEET EVERY NIGHT in Anísio’s bar. Marinho, who owned the largest pharmacy in town, Fernando and Gonçalves, partners in a grocery store, and Anísio. None of them was a native of the city or even of the Baixada. Anísio and Fernando were from Minas Gerais and Marinho from Ceará. Gonçalves had come from Portugal. They were small-businessmen, prosperous and ambitious. They owned modest summer homes in the same development in the lake region, belonged to the Lions, went to church, lived a quiet life. They also had in common a strong interest in all forms of gambling. They would bet, among themselves, on card games, soccer, horse races, car races, beauty contests, anything with an element of chance. They bet big, but they usually wouldn’t lose much money, since a losing streak was normally followed by a string of wins. In the last few months, however, Anísio, the owner of the bar, had been losing steadily.

  They were playing cards and drinking beer the night the game of Dead Men was invented. Anísio invented the game.

  “I bet the squad kills over 20 this month,” he said.

  Fernando observed that “over 20” was very vague.

  “I bet the squad kills 21 this month,” Anísio said.

  “Just here in the city or in the whole Baixada?” Gonçalves asked. Despite being in Brazil for many years he still had a strong accent.

  “A thousand that the squad kills 21 this month, here in Meriti,” Anísio insisted.

  “I bet they kill 69,” Gonçalves said, laughing.

  “I think that’s a lot,” Marinho said.

  “I’m joking,” Gonçalves said.

  “Joking my ass,” said Anísio, forcefully throwing a card on the table. “What’s said is said, and it’s just too bad for anybody who talks nonsense. I’m sick of losing out that way.”

  It was true.

  “Did you hear the one about the Portuguese guy and sixty-nining?” Anísio asked. “They had to explain to him what sixty-nining was; he was horrified and said, ‘God that’s sickening. I wouldn’t do that even with my dear mother.’”

  Everyone laughed but Gonçalves.

  “You know, this is a good game,” Fernando said. “A thousand says the squad kills a dozen. Hey, Anísio, how about some cheese to go with the beer. And some of that salami.”

  “Write it down there,” Anísio told Marinho, who noted the bets in a book with a green cover, “plus a thousand more that out of my 21, 10 are mulattos, 8 are black, and 2 are white.”

  “Who decides who’s white, black, or mulatto? Here everything’s a mixture. And how will we know who does the killing?” Gonçalves asked.

  “Whatever it says in the newspaper is what counts. If it says he’s black, he’s black; if it says it was the squad, it was the squad. Agreed?” asked Marinho.

  “Another grand that the youngest of mine is 18 and the oldest 26,” Anísio said.

  At that moment the False Perpétuo came into the bar and the four immediately stopped talking. The False Perpétuo had straight dark hair, bony facial features, and an impassive gaze, and like the True Perpétuo, a famous detective who had been assassinated some years earlier, he never smiled. None of the players knew what the False Perpétuo did; perhaps he merely worked in a bank or as a civil servant, but his presence, when he showed up now and then in Anísio’s Bar, always frightened the four friends. No one knew his real name; the False Perpétuo was a nickname given him by Anísio, who claimed to have known the True Perpétuo.

  He had carried two .45s, one on each hip, and a wide cartridge belt could be seen above
his pants. He’d had the habit of lightly running the edge of his jacket through his fingers, as babies do with their diapers, a sign of alertness, always ready to pull out his weapons and shoot with both hands. When he was killed, they’d had to do it from behind.

  The False Perpétuo sat down and ordered a beer, not looking at the players but turning his head slightly, his neck taut; he could be listening to what the group was saying.

  “I think it’s just our impression,” murmured Fernando, “and anyway, whoever he is, why should we care? No debts, no worries.”

  “I don’t know, I just don’t know,” Anísio said pensively. They went back to playing cards, in silence, waiting for the False Perpétuo to leave.

  At the end of the month, according to the newspaper, the squad had executed 26 people—16 mulattos, 9 blacks, and 1 white, the youngest, an ex-reformatory inmate, being 15, and the oldest, 38.

  “Let’s celebrate the victory,” Gonçalves said to Marinho, who between them had won the majority of the bets. They drank beer, ate cheese, ham, and meat turnovers.

  “Three months of bad luck,” Anísio said somberly. He had also lost at poker, on the horses, and on soccer; the lunch counter he had bought in Caxias was losing money, his credit with the bank was getting worse, and the young wife he had married a little over six months before was spending a lot.

  “And now August is coming,” he said, “the month Getúlio shot himself in the heart. I was a kid, working in a bar on the same street as the palace, and saw it all, the crying and the screams, the people filing past the coffin, the body being taken to the airport, the soldiers firing machine guns into the crowd. If I was unlucky in July, just think of August.”

  “Then don’t bet this month,” said Gonçalves, who had just lent Anísio 200,000 cruzeiros.

  “No, this month I plan to win back part of what I lost,” said Anísio with animosity.

  The four friends, for the month of August, expanded the rules of the game. Besides the quantity, age, and color of the dead, they added national origin, marital status, and occupation. The game was becoming complicated.

  “I think we’ve invented a game that’s going to be more popular than the numbers game,” Marinho said. Already half drunk, they laughed so hard that Fernando wet his pants.