My Sweet Orange Tree

by José Mauro de Vasconcelos

  * * *

  Supper that Christmas Eve was so sad that I didn’t even want to think. Everyone ate in silence and Father only had a little taste of the French toast. He hadn’t shaved or anything. No one went to mass. The worst thing was that no one said anything to anyone. It was more like the Baby Jesus’s funeral than his birth.

  Father fetched his hat and went out. He left without saying goodbye or wishing anyone Merry Christmas, in his sandals. Gran pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes and asked Uncle Edmundo to take her home. Uncle Edmundo put five tostões in my hand and five in Totoca’s. Maybe he wanted to give us more but didn’t have enough. Maybe, instead of giving it to us, he wished he could be giving it to his own children in the city. That’s why I hugged him. I think it was the only hug of the evening. No one embraced or had anything nice to say. Mother went to her room. I’m sure it was to cry in secret. And everyone felt like doing the same. Lalá went to see off Uncle Edmundo and Gran at the gate and when they walked away ever so slowly, she said, ‘They look like they’re too old for life and tired of everything.’

  The saddest thing was that the church bell filled the night with happy voices. And some rockets shot up to the heavens for God to see how happy people were.

  When we went back inside, Glória and Jandira were washing the dirty dishes and Glória’s eyes were red as if she’d cried her heart out.

  She tried to hide it and said to me and Totoca, ‘It’s time for children to go to bed.’

  She looked at us as she said it. She knew that there were no more children there. We were all big – big and sad, supping on the same tattered sadness.

  Maybe it was all the fault of the dull lamplight that had replaced the light that the power company had cut off. Maybe.

  The only happy one was the little king, who was fast asleep with his thumb in his mouth. I stood the little horse next to his bed. I couldn’t resist gently stroking his hair. My voice was a vast river of tenderness.

  ‘Pipsqueak.’

  When the whole house was dark, I said quietly, ‘The French toast was good, wasn’t it, Totoca?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t have any.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I had something caught in my throat, nothing would go down … Let’s sleep. Sleep makes you forget everything.’

  I started to get up and Totoca could hear me moving around on the bed.

  ‘Where’re you going, Zezé?’

  ‘I’m going to put my shoes outside the door.’

  ‘Don’t. Best not to.’

  ‘I’m going to. You never know, maybe a miracle will happen. You know, Totoca, I’d love a present. Just one. But something new, just for me …’

  He rolled over and shoved his head under the pillow.

  * * *

  I called Totoca the minute I woke up.

  ‘Let’s go see! I say there is something.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to.’

  I opened the bedroom door and, to my disappointment, my shoes were empty. Totoca came over, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  A mixture of everything welled up in my soul. It was loathing, anger and sadness. Unable to contain myself, I blurted out, ‘Having a poor father is awful!’

  My eyes travelled from my shoes to a pair of sandals that were parked in front of me. Father was standing there looking at us. His eyes were enormous with sadness. It looked like his eyes had grown so big – so big that they’d occupy the entire Bangu Cinema screen. There was so much hurt in his eyes that he couldn’t have cried if he’d wanted to. He stood there looking at us for a minute that was endless, then walked past in silence. We stood there, frozen, unable to say a thing. He took his hat from the chest of drawers and left the house again. Only then did Totoca touch my arm.

  ‘You’re mean, Zezé. Mean as a snake. That’s why …’

  His voice faltered and he stopped.

  ‘I didn’t see him there.’

  ‘Mean. Heartless. You know Father’s been unemployed for a long time. That’s why I couldn’t swallow yesterday, looking at his face. One day you’ll be a father and you’ll know how much it hurts at times like this.’

  Any more and I’d cry.

  ‘But I didn’t see him, Totoca, I didn’t see …’

  ‘Get away from me. You really are good for nothing. Go!’

  I felt like racing down the street and clinging to Father’s legs, crying. Telling him I’d been mean – really, really mean. But I just stood there, not knowing what to do. I sat on the bed. And from there I stared at my shoes, in the same corner, as empty as could be. As empty as my heart, careening out of control.

  Good God, why did I do that? Today of all days. Why did I have to be even meaner when everything was already so sad? How will I look at him at lunchtime? I won’t even be able to swallow the fruit salad.

  And in my mind his big eyes, like a cinema screen, were glued to me, staring. I closed my eyes and still saw his big, big eyes …

  I tapped my shoeshine box with my heel and had an idea. Maybe I could make Father forgive me for being so mean.

  I opened Totoca’s box and borrowed a tin of black shoe polish because mine was running out. I didn’t say a word to anyone. I walked sadly down the street, not feeling the weight of the box. It was as if I was walking over his eyes. Hurting inside his eyes.

  It was very early and adults were probably still asleep because of mass and supper the night before. The street was full of children showing off and comparing their toys. It made me feel even worse. They were all good children. None of them would ever do what I’d done.

  I stopped near the Misery and Hunger hoping to find a customer. The bar was open even on Christmas Day. It was no accident it had the nickname it did. People came in their pyjamas, in slippers, in sandals – but real shoes, never.

  I hadn’t eaten breakfast and wasn’t at all hungry. My pain was much greater than any hunger. I walked to Rua do Progresso. I circled the market. I sat on the pavement outside Seu Rozemberg’s pastry shop and … nothing.

  The hours ran into one another and I didn’t make a single tostão. But I had to. I had to.

  It grew hotter and the strap was hurting my shoulder, so I had to change positions from time to time. I felt thirsty and went to get a drink at the fountain in the market.

  I sat on the front step of the school, which I’d probably have to go to soon. I put down the box, discouraged. Leaning my head on my knees like a doll, I just sat there, feeling listless. Then I hid my face between my knees and covered it with my arms. Better to die than go home without getting what I wanted.

  A shoe tapped on my box and I heard a familiar, friendly voice.

  ‘Hey, shoeshine, you won’t make any money sleeping on the job.’

  I looked up, unable to believe it. It was Seu Coquinho, the doorman of the casino. He placed one shoe on the box and I wiped it with my rag first, then wet the shoe and dried it off. Then I started carefully rubbing in the shoe polish.

  ‘Could you please lift up your trouser leg, sir?’

  He did as I asked.

  ‘Working today, Zezé?’

  ‘I’ve never needed to more.’

  ‘And how was Christmas?’

  ‘It was OK.’

  I tapped the box with the brush and he changed feet. I repeated the steps and then began to polish. When I finished, I tapped the box and he took his shoe off it.

  ‘How much, Zezé?’

  ‘Two tostões.’

  ‘Why only two? Everyone else charges four.’

  ‘I’ll only be able to charge that much when I’m a really good shoeshine. But not now.’

  He handed me five tostões.

  ‘Keep the change for Christmas. See you later.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Seu Coquinho.’

  Maybe he’d come to get his shoes polished because of what had happened three days earlier.

  The money in my pocket lift
ed my spirits a little, but it didn’t last long. It was already after two in the afternoon, people were out and about, and still nothing. Not a single customer, not even to dust off their shoes and relieve themselves of a tostão.

  I stood near a lamppost on the highway and shouted from time to time in my high-pitched voice: ‘Shoeshine, mister? Shoeshine, sir? Get a shoeshine and help the poor at Christmas!’

  A rich man’s car stopped nearby. I took the opportunity to shout again, not at all hopeful.

  ‘A helping hand, sir? To help the poor at Christmas.’

  The well-dressed woman and children in the back seat sat there staring and staring at me. The woman took pity on me.

  ‘Poor little thing, so small and so poor. Give him something, Artur.’

  But the man was eyeing me suspiciously.

  ‘That one there’s a little delinquent, and a wily one at that. He’s taking advantage of his size and the day.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to give him something anyway. Come here, son.’

  She opened her handbag and stuck her hand out the window.

  ‘No, ma’am, thank you. I’m not lying. You only work on Christmas if you really have to.’

  I picked up my box, slung it over my shoulder and started walking slowly. I had no energy left to be angry.

  But the car door opened and a little boy came running over to me.

  ‘Here, take this. Mother said to say she doesn’t think you’re lying.’

  He shoved five tostões in my pocket and didn’t even wait for me to thank him … I just heard the noise of the car engine moving away.

  Four hours had passed and Father’s eyes were still tormenting me.

  I started to make my way home. Ten tostões wasn’t enough, but maybe the Misery and Hunger would give it to me for less or let me pay the difference another day.

  Something caught my eye on the corner of a fence. It was a torn, black, woman’s stocking. I bent over and picked it up. I pulled it over my hand and the fabric became very thin. I put it in my box, thinking, ‘This’ll make a good snake.’ But I argued with myself. ‘Another day. Not today, no way …’

  I came to the Villas-Boas family’s house. It had a large cemented-over front yard. Serginho was riding around the flower beds on a beautiful bicycle. I pressed my face against the fence to watch.

  The bicycle was red with streaks of yellow and blue. The metal gleamed. Serginho saw me and began to show off. He went fast, sped around corners and braked so hard the wheels squealed. Then he came over.

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘It’s the most beautiful bike in the world.’

  ‘Come to the gate – you’ll be able to see better.’

  Serginho was Totoca’s age and in his class.

  I was ashamed of my bare feet because he was wearing shiny shoes, white socks and red braces. His shoes were so shiny they reflected everything. Even Father’s eyes began to stare out of the shine at me. I gulped.

  ‘S’up, Zezé? You’re acting weird.’

  ‘Nothing. It’s even more beautiful up close. You get it for Christmas?’

  ‘Yep.’

  He climbed off the bike to talk and opened the gate.

  ‘I got lots of stuff. A gramophone, three suits, a heap of story-books, a huge box of coloured pencils. A box full of games, a plane with a propeller that moves. Two boats with white sails …’

  I lowered my head and remembered Baby Jesus, who only liked rich people, just as Totoca had said.

  ‘What’s wrong, Zezé?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What about you? … Did you get lots of stuff?’

  I shook my head, unable to reply.

  ‘Nothing? Nothing at all?’

  ‘This year we didn’t have Christmas at my place. Father’s still out of work.’

  ‘It’s not possible. Didn’t you have nuts, wine?’

  ‘Just French toast, which Gran made, and coffee.’

  Serginho looked thoughtful.

  ‘Zezé, will you accept an invitation?’

  I had a fair idea what it was. But even though my stomach was empty I didn’t feel like it.

  ‘Let’s go inside. Mother will fix you a plate. There’s so much food, so many sweets …’

  I didn’t want to take the risk. I’d had a hard time of it the last few days. I’d heard someone say more than once, ‘I’ve told you before not to bring street kids into the house.’

  ‘No, thank you very much.’

  ‘OK. What if I ask Mother to make a packet of nuts and things for you to take to your little brother – will you take it?’

  ‘I can’t. I have to finish work.’

  Only then did Serginho notice the shoeshine box that I was sitting on.

  ‘But no one gets their shoes shined on Christmas …’

  ‘I’ve been at it all day and I only made ten tostões, and half of it was people taking pity on me. I still need to make another two.’

  ‘What for, Zezé?’

  ‘I can’t say. But I really need it.’

  He smiled and had a generous idea.

  ‘Want to shine mine? I’ll give you ten tostões.’

  ‘I can’t do that either. I don’t charge friends.’

  ‘Well, what if I give you, that is, lend you, the two tostões?’

  ‘Can I take a while to pay you back?’

  ‘Whatever you like. You can even pay me in marbles.’

  ‘Then, yes.’

  He reached into his pocket and handed me the money.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, ’cause people gave me a lot of money. My piggy bank’s full.’

  I ran my hand over the wheel of the bike.

  ‘It’s really beautiful.’

  ‘When you’re bigger and learn how to ride, I’ll let you take it for a spin, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  * * *

  I charged off to the Misery and Hunger, my shoeshine box jiggling.

  I raced in like a hurricane, afraid it might be closing time.

  ‘Have you still got those expensive cigarettes?’

  Seu Misery and Hunger got two packets down when he saw the money in my hand.

  ‘This isn’t for you, is it, Zezé?’

  A voice behind him said, ‘Are you mad? A child that size!’

  Without turning, he replied, ‘You don’t know this customer. This kid’s capable of anything.’

  ‘It’s for Father.’

  I felt enormously happy as I turned the packets over in my hands.

  ‘This one or this one?’

  ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘I spent the day working to buy this Christmas present for Father.’

  ‘Is that so, Zezé? And what did he give you?’

  ‘Nothing, the poor fellow. He’s still unemployed, you know.’

  He was moved. No one at the bar spoke.

  ‘Which one would you like if it was you?’

  ‘Both are nice. And any father would like a present like this.’

  ‘Then wrap this one up for me, please, sir.’

  He wrapped it up, but he looked a bit strange when he handed me the package, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. I handed him the money and smiled.

  ‘Thanks, Zezé.’

  ‘Merry Christmas to you, sir!’

  I ran home.

  Night had fallen. Only the lantern in the kitchen was on. Everyone had gone out, but Father was sitting at the table staring vacantly at the wall, chin in hand, elbow on the table.

  ‘Father.’

  ‘What, son?’ There wasn’t a trace of resentment in his voice. ‘Where’ve you been all day?’

  I showed him my shoeshine box. Then I set it on the floor and pulled the package out of my pocket.

  ‘Look, Father, I bought you something nice.’

  He smiled, understanding how much it had cost.

  ‘Do you like it? It was the nicest one they had.’

  He opened the packet and took a whiff of the cigarettes, smiling,
but unable to say anything.

  ‘Smoke one, Father.’

  I went to the stove to get a match. I struck it and held it close to the cigarette in his mouth.

  I stepped back to watch him take his first drag. And something began to well up in me. I threw the burnt match on the floor, feeling that I was bursting. Erupting on the inside. That enormous pain that had been threatening to erupt all day.

  I looked at Father. His unshaven face, his eyes.

  ‘Father … Father …’ was all I could say before tears and sobs got the better of my voice.

  He spread his arms wide and hugged me tenderly.

  ‘Don’t cry, son. You’re going to have a lot to cry about in life, if you go on being so emotional …’

  ‘I didn’t mean to, Father … I didn’t mean to say … that.’

  ‘I know. I know. I wasn’t upset, because deep down you were right.’

  He rocked me in his arms a little more. Then he lifted my face and dried it with a tea towel that was lying nearby.

  ‘That’s better.’

  I raised my hands and stroked his face. I passed them lightly over his eyes, trying to put them back where they belonged, away from that big cinema screen. I was afraid that if I didn’t, those eyes were going to follow me for the rest of my life.

  ‘I’m going to finish off my cigarette.’

  Still choked up, I spluttered, ‘You know, Father, when you want to beat me, I’ll never complain again. You just go ahead and do it …’

  ‘Hey, hey, Zezé.’

  He put me and the rest of my sobs down and got a plate from the cupboard.

  ‘Glória saved a bit of fruit salad for you.’

  I couldn’t swallow. He sat down and fed it to me in small spoonfuls.

  ‘It’s OK now, isn’t it, son?’

  I nodded, but the first spoonfuls tasted salty. It was my last few tears, which were taking a long time to go away.

  Chapter Four

  THE LITTLE BIRD, SCHOOL AND THE FLOWER

  New house. New life and simple hopes, hopes pure and simple.

  On moving day, off I went between Seu Aristides and his helper, perched on the top of the cart, as happy as the day was hot.

  When it left the unpaved street and turned onto the Rio–São Paulo highway it was marvellous. The cart slid smoothly along now. It was lovely.