Sitting on the doorstep, I was counting little white geckos on the wall and glancing at Father from time to time. The only other time I’d seen him looking so sad was that Christmas morning. I needed to do something for him. Maybe I could sing for him. I could sing very softly and for sure it would cheer him up a little. I went through my repertoire in my head and remembered the last song Seu Ariovaldo had taught me. ‘The Tango’; the tango was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever heard. I started softly:
I want a naked woman tonight
Very naked I want her to be …
I want her in the full-moon light
I want her body all to me …
‘Zezé!’
‘Yes, Father?’
I stood up quickly. Father must have liked it a lot and wanted me to sing it closer to him.
‘What’s that you’re singing?’
I repeated it.
I want a naked woman tonight …
‘Who taught you that song?’
His eyes had taken on a dull shine as if he was about to go crazy.
‘Seu Ariovaldo.’
‘I already told you I don’t want you anywhere near him.’
He hadn’t said any such thing. I don’t even think he knew I worked as a singer’s helper.
‘Sing it again.’
‘It’s a popular tango.’
I want a naked woman tonight …
A slap exploded on my face.
‘Sing it again.’
I want a naked woman tonight …
Another slap, another and another. Tears sprang unexpectedly from my eyes.
‘Go on, keep singing.’
I want a naked woman tonight …
I could barely move my face; it was buffeted from side to side. I would open my eyes and they would shut again with the impact of the blows. I didn’t know if I was supposed to stop or if I had to obey him … but within my pain I had decided something. That was to be my last beating, even if it meant if I had to die.
When he stopped for a moment and ordered me to sing again, I didn’t. I looked at him with contempt and said: ‘Murderer! Go ahead and kill me. You’ll get what you deserve in prison!’
Only then did he get up from the chair, seething with anger. He unbuckled his belt, which had two metal rings, and began to reel off a string of insults. He called me a dog, a waste of space, a good-for-nothing, if that was how I spoke to my father.
He cracked the belt at my body like a whip. It felt like it had a thousand fingers that could hit me all over. I fell to the floor and curled up in a corner by the wall. I was sure he was going to kill me. I was conscious when Glória came to my rescue. Glória, the only sandy-haired one like me. Glória, whom no one touched. She grabbed Father’s hand to stop the blow.
‘Father. Father. Hit me, for God’s sake, but don’t hit that child any more.’
He threw the belt on the table and ran his hands over his face. He was crying for himself and for me.
‘I lost my head. I thought he was taunting me. Giving me cheek.’
When Glória picked me up off the ground, I blacked out.
When I came to my senses, I was burning up with fever. Mother and Glória were at my bedside saying sweets things. Lots of people were moving about in the living room. Even Gran had been called. Every movement hurt me all over. Later I learned that they had wanted to call the doctor, but it wouldn’t have looked good.
Glória brought me some broth she’d made and tried to feed me a few spoonfuls. I could barely breathe, much less swallow. All I wanted to do was sleep and each time I woke up, the pain had eased a little. But Mother and Glória continued to watch over me. Mother spent the night with me and didn’t get up until just before first light to get ready for work. When she came to say goodbye, I clung to her neck.
‘It’ll be fine, son. You’ll be all good tomorrow.’
‘Mother …’
Quietly I murmured what was, perhaps, the greatest accusation of my life.
‘Mother, I shouldn’t have been born. I should have been like my balloon …’
She sadly stroked my hair.
‘Everyone should have been born just as they were. You too. It’s just that sometimes, Zezé, you’re too naughty.’
Chapter Five
A STRANGE, BUT GENTLE, REQUEST
It took me a week to recover completely. My sadness didn’t come from the pain or the blows. At home everyone had started to treat me so well that it was a bit weird. But something was missing. Something important that could make me go back to being myself, perhaps believe in people, believe that they were kind. I was so quiet, so apathetic, almost always sitting beside Pinkie, blankly watching the world go by. I didn’t talk to Pinkie or listen to his stories. At the most I’d let my little brother sit with me. I’d play Sugarloaf Mountain with him, which he loved, and let him push the hundred little cable car buttons up and down, all day long. I watched him with great tenderness, because when I was a child, like him, I liked that too.
Glória was worried about my silence. She would set my pile of trading cards and bag of marbles nearby and sometimes I didn’t even move. I didn’t feel like going to the cinema or shining shoes. Truth was, I couldn’t get over the pain inside me. The pain of a tiny animal that has been brutally beaten and doesn’t know why.
Glória asked about my imaginary friends.
‘They’re not here. They’ve gone far away.’
I meant Fred Thompson and my other friends.
But she didn’t know the revolution that was taking place inside me. What I had decided. I was going to change films. I was done with cowboys and Indians and all that. From now on I only wanted to see romantic films, with lots of kissing and hugging, in which everyone liked each other. Since all I was good for was getting beaten up, at least I could see other people liking each other.
The day came when I could go to school. I went, but not to school. I knew Portuga would have been waiting for me in ‘our’ car for a week and had probably given up. Naturally, he would only start waiting again when I told him to. My absence must have worried him a lot. But even if he’d known I was sick, he wouldn’t have come looking for me. We had given our word; we’d made a secret pact. No one but God could know about our friendship.
His beautiful car was parked in front of the pastry shop, opposite the train station. The first ray of joy broke through. My heart galloped on ahead, spurred on by my eagerness to see him. I was going to see my one true friend.
But at that moment a beautiful whistle echoed through the station, giving me goose bumps. It was the Mangaratiba. Violent, proud, master of the tracks. It flew past, its carriages jiggling in all their splendour. The people at the windows were looking out. Everyone who travelled was happy. When I was a child, I liked to watch the Mangaratiba go past while I waved and waved.
I would wave until the train disappeared into the horizon. Now it was Luís who was going through this phase.
I looked around the pastry shop and there he was. At the last table so he could see everyone who came in, but he was looking the other way. He didn’t have a jacket on and was wearing his beautiful chequered waistcoat, which showed the white sleeves of his clean shirt.
I suddenly felt so weak I could barely make it over to him. Seu Ladislau tipped him off.
‘Look who’s here, Portuga.’
He slowly turned and his face spread into a smile of happiness. He flung his arms open and gave me a long hug.
‘My heart was telling me you’d come today.’
Then he gave me a long look.
‘So, where’ve you been all this time?’
‘I was very sick.’
He pulled out a chair.
‘Have a seat.’
He snapped his fingers to call over the waiter, who already knew what I liked. But when he set down the soda and pastry in front of me, I didn’t even touch them. I rested my head in my arms and stayed like that, feeling frail and sad.
‘Don’t you wan
t it?’
And because I didn’t reply, Portuga lifted up my face. I bit my lips hard and my eyes filled with tears.
‘What’s all this about, squirt? Tell your old pal here.’
‘I can’t. Not here.’
Seu Ladislau was shaking his head as if he didn’t understand. I decided to say something.
‘Portuga, is the car still “our” car?’
‘Yes. Do you still doubt it?’
‘Could you take me for a drive?’
The request surprised him.
‘Sure, if you want to.’
He saw that my eyes were even more full of tears, so he took me by the arm, led me to the car and lifted me into the passenger seat.
He went back to pay the bill and I heard him talking to Seu Ladislau and the others.
‘No one in that boy’s family understands him. I’ve never seen such a sensitive child.’
‘Tell the truth, Portuga. You really like the little rascal.’
‘More than you can imagine. He’s a wonderful, intelligent little squirt.’
He came back to the car and sat down.
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘I just want to get out of here. We can go to the road to Murundu. It’s nearby and won’t use up a lot of petrol.’
He laughed.
‘Aren’t you too young to understand grown-up problems?’
We were so poor that from an early age we’d learned not to waste money. Everything cost a lot. Petrol was expensive.
During the short drive he said nothing. He allowed me to collect myself. But when we left everything behind and the landscape became a beautiful blanket of green fields, he stopped the car, looked and me and smiled, with his kindness that made up for the lack of kindness in the rest of the world.
‘Portuga, look at my face. No, not face, snout. People at home say I’ve got a snout because I’m not a person, but an animal, an Apinajé Indian, the devil’s child.’
‘I still prefer to look at your face.’
‘Well, take a good look. See how it’s still all swollen from being beaten?’
Portuga’s eyes filled with dismay and pity.
‘But why did they do that?’
I told him, everything, without exaggerating a single detail. When I finished, his eyes were moist and for a while he was at a loss for words.
‘But it’s not right to beat such a young child like that. You’re not even six years old. Goodness gracious me!’
‘I know why. I’m worthless. I’m so bad that when Christmas comes the same thing always happens: the devil child is born in my heart instead of the Baby Jesus!’
‘Nonsense, you’re still a little angel. You might be a little mischievous …’
The idea came back to play on my mind.
‘I’m so bad, I shouldn’t have been born. I said that to Mother the other day.’
For the first time he stammered.
‘You shouldn’t have said that.’
‘I asked to speak to you because it’s really important. I know it’s bad that Father can’t get a job at his age. I know it must hurt a lot. Mother having to leave for work before dawn to help pay the bills. She works the looms at the English Mill. She wears a girdle because she got a hernia loading a box of spools. Lalá’s all grown up and even though she studied a lot she has to work at the factory … It’s all horrible. But he didn’t have to beat me so much. At Christmas, I promised that he could beat me as much as he liked, but this time it was too much.’
He was staring at me in disbelief.
‘Goodness me! How can such a young child understand and worry about grown-up problems like that. I’ve never seen anything like it!’
He gulped back a little of his emotion.
‘We’re friends, aren’t we? Well, let’s talk man to man. Though, to be honest, sometimes it gives me goose bumps to talk about certain things with you. Firstly, I don’t think you should swear at your sister like that. In fact, you should never swear, you know?’
‘But I’m little. It’s the only way I can get my own back.’
‘Do you know what those words mean?’
I nodded.
‘Then you can’t and you shouldn’t.’
We paused.
‘Portuga!’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you like me saying swear words?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘OK then, if I don’t die, I promise I won’t swear any more.’
‘Good. And what’s this about dying?’
‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’
We were silent again. The Portuguese was brooding.
‘Since you trust me, squirt, I need to know something else. That song, the tango. Did you know what you were singing?’
‘I won’t lie to you. I wasn’t really sure. I learned it because I learn everything. Because it’s such a pretty song. I wasn’t thinking about what it meant. But he beat me so much, Portuga. But it’s OK,’ I sniffled. ‘I’m going to kill him.’
‘What’s this, child? You’re going to kill your father?’
‘Yep. I’ve already started. Killing him doesn’t mean grabbing Buck Jones’s revolver and bang! That’s not it. You can kill someone in your heart. Stop loving them. And one day they die.’
‘What an imagination you have,’ he said, unable to hide the emotion that had taken hold of him. ‘But didn’t you say you were going to kill me, too?’ he went on.
‘That was in the beginning. But then I killed you back to front. I made you die and then you came to life in my heart. You’re the only person I like, Portuga. The only friend I have. It’s not because you give me trading cards, sodas, sweets and marbles … I swear it’s true.’
‘But everyone loves you. Your mother, even your father. Your sister Glória, King Luís … And have you forgotten your little orange tree? Pinkie … What is it you call him?’
‘Sweetie.’
‘So …’
‘It’s different now, Portuga. Truth is, Sweetie is just a simple little orange tree that doesn’t even flower … But not you. You’re my friend and that’s why I asked to go for a ride in our car, which is soon going to be just yours. I came to say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye?’
‘Yes. You see, I’m good-for-nothing, I’m tired of getting beaten up and having my ears pulled. I’m not going to be another mouth …’
I started to feel a painful knot in my throat. I needed courage to say the rest.
‘Are you going to run away?’
‘No. I spent the whole week thinking about it. Tonight I’m going to throw myself under the Mangaratiba.’
He didn’t say a word, just hugged me tightly and comforted me as only he knew how.
‘No. Don’t say that, for the love of God. You have a beautiful life ahead of you. With your mind and your intelligence. It’s a sin to say such a thing! I don’t want you to think it or say it ever again. What about me? Don’t you like me? If you do, and you’re not lying, then you shouldn’t say things like that. He pulled back from me and looked me in the eye. He wiped away my tears with the back of his hand.
‘I’m very fond of you, squirt. Much more than you think. C’mon, give me a smile.’
I smiled, somewhat relieved by his confession.
‘Soon this will all be forgotten. You’ll be master of the streets with your kites, king of the marbles, a cowboy as strong as Buck Jones … By the way, I had an idea. Want to know what it is?’
‘Yes.’
‘On Saturday, I’m not going to see my daughter in Encantado. She’s gone to spend a few days in Paquetá with her husband. Since the weather’s been fine, I was thinking about going fishing over in the Guandu River. I don’t have a fishing pal and wondered if you’d like to come.’
My eyes lit up.
‘Would you take me?’
‘Well, if you want. You don’t have to come.’
My reply was to fling my arms around his neck and hug him, leaning my fa
ce against his shaved face. We were laughing and the tragedy had begun to fade.
‘I know a beautiful spot. We can take something to eat. What do you like best?’
‘You, Portuga.’
‘I’m talking about salami, eggs, bananas …’
‘I like everything. At home we learn to like anything and everything.’
‘Shall we go, then?’
‘I won’t be able to sleep thinking about it.’
But there was a serious problem casting a shadow over our happiness.
‘And what will you say about being out of the house the whole day?’
‘I’ll make something up.’
‘What if you get caught?’
‘No one is allowed to beat me until the end of the month. They promised Glória, and no one messes with Glória. She’s the only sandy-haired one like me.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. They can only hit me after one month, when I’ve recovered.’
He started the engine and began to drive back.
‘So, do you promise not to talk about it again?’
‘About what?’
‘The Mangaratiba?’
‘It’ll take me a while to get around to it …’
‘Good to hear.’
I later heard, from Seu Ladislau, that despite my promise, Portuga didn’t go home until very late that night, after the Mangaratiba had passed.
* * *
The drive was beautiful. The road wasn’t wide or asphalted, or even paved, but the trees and fields were dazzling. Not to mention the sun and the cheerful bright blue sky. Gran had once said that happiness is a ‘sun shining in your heart’. And that the sun lit up everything with happiness. If it was true, the sun in my heart made everything beautiful.
We talked about certain things again, as the car purred along unhurriedly. It seemed like even the car wanted to listen to our conversation.
My Sweet Orange Tree Page 11