‘A cadaver’s a dead body, a corpse. But maybe we should change the subject now.’
I thought it was a good idea, too, but I couldn’t help but think that he had been a cadaver for several days now. Glória kept talking, promising things, but now I was thinking about Portuga’s two little birds, the blue one and the canary. What would become of them? They might have died of sadness like Orlando-Hair-on-Fire’s finch. Maybe someone had opened the cage doors and set them free. But that would have meant certain death. They didn’t know how to fly any more. They would sit in the orange trees until the children hit them with their slingshots. When Zico couldn’t afford to keep the tanager aviary going, he had opened the doors and that’s what happened. Not one escaped.
Things began to return to normal in the house. There was noise everywhere. Mother went back to work. The rocking chair went back to the sitting room, where it had always lived. Only Glória stayed put. She wasn’t going to budge until she saw me standing again.
‘Have this soup, shrimp. Jandira killed the black chicken just to make this soup for you. See how nice it smells.’
And she would blow on the spoon.
If you like, dunk your bread in the coffee like this. But don’t slurp when you take a sip. It’s bad manners.
‘Hey, what’s going on, shrimp? Don’t tell me you’re going to cry because the black chicken is dead. She was old. So old she didn’t lay eggs any more.’
So you managed to find out where I live.
‘I know she was the black panther at the zoo, but we’ll buy another black panther, much wilder than her.’
So, where’ve you been all this time?
‘Not now, Gló. If I eat it, I’ll start throwing up.’
‘If I give it to you later, will you have it?’
And before I could stop myself I blurted out, ‘I promise to be good, I won’t fight, I won’t use swear words, not even “bum”. But I always want to be with you.’
They gave me worried looks, thinking I was talking to Pinkie again.
* * *
In the beginning it was just a rustling at the window, but after that it turned into knocking. A gentle voice came from outside.
‘Zezé!’
I got up and leaned my head against the shutter.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Open up.’
I unlatched it without making any noise so as not to wake Glória. Standing there in the darkness was Pinkie, all shiny and festooned with gold, like a miracle.
‘May I come in?’
‘I guess so. But don’t make any noise or she’ll wake up.’
‘I promise not to wake her.’
He jumped into the room and I went back to bed.
‘Look who I brought to see you. He insisted on coming too.’
He held out his arm and I saw a kind of silver bird.
‘I can’t see properly, Pinkie.’
‘Pay attention because you’re going to get a surprise. I dressed him up with silver feathers. Isn’t he beautiful?’
‘Luciano! How fine you look. You should stay like that for ever. I thought you were a falcon from The Tale of Caliph Stork.’
I stroked his head, overcome with emotion, and felt for the first time that it was soft and that even bats liked tenderness.
‘You missed something. Take a good look.’
Pinkie turned around to show himself off.
‘I’m wearing Tom Mix’s spurs. Ken Maynard’s hat. Fred Thompson’s pistols. Richard Talmadge’s belt and boots. And to top it off, Seu Ariovaldo lent me that chequered shirt you like so much.’
‘I’ve never seen anything more beautiful, Pinkie. How did you get it all?’
‘When they heard you weren’t well, they lent it to me.’
‘It’s a shame you can’t dress like that all the time.’
I studied Pinkie, worried that he might know what awaited him. But I didn’t say anything.
He sat on the edge of the bed and his eyes were all sweetness and concern. He leaned in close.
‘What’s wrong, Sweetie?’ he said.
‘But you’re Sweetie, Pinkie.’
‘Well, then you’re Sweetie Junior. Can’t I be a really good friend to you, as you are to me?’
‘Don’t say that. The doctor told me not to cry.’
‘I don’t want that either. I came because I really miss you and I want to see you well and happy again. Everything in life passes. And to prove it, I’ve come to take you for a ride. Let’s go?’
‘I’m very weak.’
‘A little fresh air will cure you. I’ll help you jump out the window.’
And we left.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Let’s go for a walk on the water pipes.’
‘But I don’t want to go down Rua Barão de Capanema. I’m never going there again.’
‘Let’s take Rua dos Açudes right to the end.’
Pinkie had transformed into a flying horse. Luciano was perched happily on my shoulder.
When we got there, Pinkie gave me his hand to help me balance on the thick pipes. It was nice when there was a hole and the water squirted up like a little fountain, wetting us and tickling the soles of my feet. I felt a little dizzy, but the joy that Pinkie was giving me made me feel as if I was better already. At least, my heart was lighter.
Suddenly, I heard a whistle in the distance.
‘Did you hear that, Pinkie?’
‘It’s a train whistle, far away.’
But a strange noise grew closer and closer and new whistles pierced the silence. The horror hit me all at once.
‘It’s the train, Pinkie. The Mangaratiba. The murderer!’
And the sound of the wheels on the tracks grew, frighteningly.
‘Climb up here, Pinkie. Quickly, Pinkie.’
Pinkie couldn’t keep his balance on the pipe because of the shiny spurs.
‘C’mon, Pinkie, give me your hand. It wants to kill you. It wants to kill you. It wants to crush you. It wants to chop you up.’
Pinkie had barely climbed onto the pipe, when the wicked train charged past, whistling and blowing out steam.
‘Murderer! Murderer!’
But the train continued speeding over the tracks. Its voice came to us between fits of laughter.
‘It wasn’t my fault … It wasn’t my fault … It wasn’t my fault … It wasn’t my fault …’
All the lights in the house came on and my room was invaded by sleepy-eyed faces.
‘It was a nightmare.’
Mother took me in her arms, trying to quell my sobs against her chest.
‘It was just a dream, son … A bad dream.’
I began to throw up again while Glória told Lalá what had happened.
‘I woke up to him shouting “murderer”. He was talking about killing, crushing, chopping … My God, when is all this going to end?’
* * *
But a few days later it ended. I was condemned to go on living and living. One morning, Glória came in, radiant. I was sitting up in bed, feeling sad about life.
‘Look, Zezé.’
In her hands was a tiny white flower.
‘It’s Pinkie’s first blossom. Soon he’ll be a grown-up tree and bear fruit.’
I sat there stroking the little white flower. I wouldn’t cry over anything any more. Although Pinkie was trying to say goodbye to me with that flower, he had already left the world of my dreams for the world of my reality and pain.
‘Now let’s have some porridge and walk around the house a little like you did yesterday. Come soon, OK?’
That was when King Luís climbed onto my bed. He was allowed near me now. At first they hadn’t wanted him to get upset.
‘Zezé!’
‘What, my little king?’
He was the only true king. The others, the King of Diamonds, the King of Hearts, the King of Clubs and the King of Spades, were just figures soiled by the fingers that played them. But he wouldn’t live to si
t on a throne.
‘Zezé, I love you.’
‘I love you too, little brother.’
‘Do you want to play with me today?’
‘Yes, I’ll play with you today. What do you want to do?’
‘I want to go to the zoo, and then to Europe. Then I want to go to the Amazon jungle and play with Pinkie.’
‘If I don’t get too tired, we can do it all.’
After breakfast, as Glória looked on happily, we went down to the back of the yard holding hands. Glória leaned in the doorway, relieved. Before we reached the chicken coop, I turned and waved at her. Her eyes glowed with happiness. And I, with my strange precociousness, sensed what she was feeling in her heart: ‘He’s gone back to his dream world, thank God!’
‘Zezé?’
‘Yes?’
‘Where’s the black panther?’
It was hard to go back to playing the same old games now that I didn’t believe in such things any more. I felt like saying: ‘There never was a black panther, silly. It was just an old black hen, which I ate in a soup.’
But I said, ‘There are only two lions left, Luís. The black panther went on a vacation to the Amazon jungle.’
Best to preserve his illusions as much as possible. When I was little, I believed those things too.
The little king opened his eyes wide.
‘In that jungle, over there?’
‘Don’t be afraid. She went so far that she’ll never be able to find her way back.’
I smiled bitterly. The Amazon jungle was just half a dozen thorny and hostile orange trees.
‘You know, Luís, I’m feeling weak, I need to go back in. We’ll play more tomorrow. Cable cars and whatever else you want.’
He nodded and slowly followed me back to the house. He was still too young to know the truth. I didn’t want to go anywhere near the ditch or the Amazon river. I didn’t want to see Pinkie with his spell broken. Luís didn’t know that the tiny white flower had been our goodbye.
Chapter Eight
MANY ARE THE OLD TREES
The news was confirmed before nightfall. Apparently peace was to reign once again over our home and family.
Father took me by the hand and sat me on his lap in front of everyone. He rocked the chair slowly so I wouldn’t get dizzy.
‘It’s all over, son. Everything. One day you’ll be a father and you’ll see how difficult certain moments in a man’s life are. Nothing seems to go right, and you feel a desperation that’s never-ending. But not any more. I’ve been made a manager at the Santo Aleixo Factory. Your shoes will never be empty at Christmas again.’
He paused. He would never forget that Christmas for the rest of his life.
‘We’re going to travel a lot. Mother won’t need to work any more, or your sisters. Do you still have the medallion with the Indian on it?’
I rummaged in my pocket and found it.
‘Well, I’m going to buy a new watch and put the medallion on it. One day it will be yours.’
Portuga, do you know what carborundum is?
Father talked and talked.
His stubble rubbing against my face bothered me. The smell coming from his well-worn shirt gave me goose bumps. I slipped off his knee and went to the kitchen door. I sat on the steps and gazed at the backyard as the light faded. My heart protested without anger. ‘Who is this man who puts me on his knee? He isn’t my father. My father is dead. The Mangaratiba killed him.’
Father had followed me and saw that my eyes were full of tears again.
He practically knelt to speak to me.
‘Don’t cry, son. We’re going to have a big house. A real river runs right behind it. There are big trees, lots of them, and they’ll all be yours. You can make swings and hang them there.’
He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand. No tree could ever be as beautiful as Queen Carlota.
‘You’ll have first pick of the trees.’
I looked at his feet, his toes poking out of his sandals. He was an old tree with dark roots. He was a tree-father. But a tree I barely knew.
‘That’s not all. They’re not going to cut down your orange tree so soon. And when they do, you’ll be far away and won’t even feel it.’
I clung to his knees, sobbing.
‘It’s no use, Father. It’s no use …’
And looking at his face, which was also streaked with tears, I mumbled like a dead man, ‘It’s gone, Father. My sweet-orange tree was cut down over a week ago.’
Last Chapter
FINAL CONFESSION
The years have passed, my dear Manuel Valadares. I am forty-eight years old now and sometimes I miss you so much I feel like I am still a child. I imagine that at any moment you’ll appear with trading cards and marbles. It was you who taught me what tenderness is, my dear Portuga. Today I am the one who tries to hand out marbles and trading cards, because life without tenderness isn’t very special. Sometimes I am happy in my tenderness, and sometimes I think I’m kidding myself, which is more common.
Back then. Back in our time, I didn’t know that many years earlier, an idiot prince had knelt before an altar and asked the saints, his eyes full of tears:
‘Why do they tell little children so much so young?’
The truth, my dear Portuga, is that they told me things way too soon.
Farewell!
Ubatuba, 1967
A Few Words from the Translator
Dear reader,
Originally published in 1968, My Sweet Orange Tree is a Brazilian classic and one of the country’s bestselling novels of all time, adopted by schools and adapted for cinema, television and the stage. It has also been translated into nineteen languages and continues to be very popular in countries all over the world today. It is set in Bangu, an outlying neighbourhood of Rio de Janeiro, where the author, José Mauro de Vasconcelos, grew up. The story is, to the best of my knowledge, based on his own life and, although narrated by a middle-aged man, reflects the point of view of a five-year-old child. Despite the book’s apparent simplicity, the translation actually took quite a lot of detective work, due to the fact that it takes place in the 1920s and many aspects of life in Brazil have long since changed. Also, sadly, the author is no longer around to consult.
For example, I spent a long time researching something called a mão de couro (literally ‘leather hand’), which is used to mete out corporal punishment. I suspected it was some kind of whip, but couldn’t find it in any dictionary or encyclopaedia. An internet search only turned up a few obscure links, and no one in the translation forums I consulted had ever heard of it. As a last resort, I turned to a forum of Brazilian writers, and was relieved when a woman wrote to me confirming that it was indeed an old-fashioned whipping device, one of which she had seen hanging behind her grandfather’s kitchen door when she was a girl. Somewhat hand-like in appearance, it had five long leather ‘fingers’ designed to multiply the effects of the lashing. I have called it a ‘leather strap’ in the translation, as I feel that ‘leather hand’ is too puzzling and could give rise to other interpretations.
Equally as baffling was a reference to caveirinhas (‘little skulls’) tangled in wires, which, from the context, I take to be kite frames caught in overhead electric wires, whose tissue-paper ‘bodies’ have been stripped away from their flimsy wooden structures by the wind. From the casual way José Mauro de Vasconcelos uses the word, I suspect that caveirinha was the slang term for this in 1920s Bangu, though I will probably never know for sure. I have translated it as ‘kite skeletons’, for the sake of comprehension, as I don’t think it was meant to be cryptic.
There is also a mysterious quote and reference to an ‘idiot prince’ at the end of the book, which I believe to be a reference to Dostoyevsky’s Prince Myshkin in The Idiot, though, again, without the author around to confirm it, I can’t be one hundred per cent sure.
I have standardized all references to money, as Brazil has changed currency no fewer than eight times sinc
e this story took place, and the relationship between the different coins in circulation back then would probably be lost on anyone but a numismatist. The currency in the 1920s was, like today, known as the real (plural réis), and the tostão (plural tostões), worth about a penny, is the coin most used in this book. For ease of understanding, I have converted everything into tostões.
Brazilians are consummate nicknamers. In addition to deftly whittling names down to single syllables (I have been called both “Li” and “A”), they also love to bestow made-up nicknames—with touches of black humour—on people and places that have nothing to do with their actual names. The Misery and Hunger, a corner-bar-cum-grocery-store – is one such example. The character Orlando-Hair-on-Fire is another.
After many years of translating Brazilian literature and discussing it with both authors and editors, I have come to the conclusion that there are fundamental differences between the ways Anglophones and Brazilians tell stories. Many writers, and it is certainly the case with José Mauro de Vasconcelos, don’t present things in quite the same way that we do. Characters, objects and concepts can appear rather suddenly, as they become relevant, without any additional information to explain them. Details about who or what they are must be gathered from multiple sites across the narrative. Other characters make one-off cameo appearances and disappear for good (like Orlando-Hair-on-Fire, mentioned above). Brazilian readers, who are more accustomed to this phenomenon, tend to take it in their stride, whereas it can leave English-language readers wondering if they’ve missed something. So, if you find yourself perplexed by a character you haven’t met before, consider this your introduction, and keep an eye out for future appearances. I find this a charming aspect of Brazilian storytelling, one that reflects the spontaneity of the people and the culture, and am reluctant to ‘iron it out’ in the translation.
Luckily most things aren’t too inscrutable, and I prefer to let readers parse them from the context, just as, when we travel, we come across unfamiliar objects and customs that, though odd, are perfectly decipherable.
My Sweet Orange Tree Page 14