What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel (10 page)

I’m not crying

or give me an appetite

I’m not saying

the gentleman pointed at me to my father while his chauffeur, in the hut, was opening up his newspaper

—Tell your lover to come over here Soraia

and the train again, the one I took when I was a kid when we went to Beira, a bunch of jackdaws always, out of sight, not just one jackdaw, a dozen of them, twenty jackdaws, fifty jackdaws laughing in the treetops like me in the church, lend me the bicycle Dona Helena I’ll bring it back, let me stay in the kitchen while you chop turnips, don’t let Mr. Couceiro come into the pantry where there’s no light

—Tell your lover to come over here Soraia

you frightened him, you scared him, who’s going to quiet him down now, cover my ears, stop me from catching on

—I’m a clown Paulo

not my father, Dona Helena swears to me that he’s not mine, he lives in Bico da Areia with my mother and me, we have fun during vacation in Arrábida, in Tróia, I resemble him in the way I walk even though my mother

—Your father the pervert

shut up mother

my father’s like that, he likes circuses, applause, entertaining people, when I was little he’d deck himself out in netting

—Don’t you think I’m funny Paulo

plus a cap with a tail like the jackdaws’ and their two mocking notes

—No more jackdaws

without my ever spotting them, patent leather pumps, a high little voice like a woman’s

but not a woman, obviously not a woman, a clown, the gestures of a clown, the twirling of a clown with me pounding on the wardrobe, smashing the car with wooden wheels, not upset you can see not upset, satisfied

I was satisfied

Dona Helena

I’m lying, Dona Helena one or two years later, my mother so elegant, so sound, with me in the yard where the marigolds and the gentian were and the door hinges didn’t creak

—You scared him Carlos can’t you see that you scared him, who’s going to quiet him down now?

Bico da Areia new at that time, ten or eleven houses if there were that many, the girl my age who wouldn’t lend me her tricycle, she went off to study to be a secretary and I’ve got the feeling I met her

it can’t be, she was blonde, her name was Dália and they washed her head with camomile and lemon

dragging one of her legs where the Cape Verdeans in Chelas hung out, maybe if I

—Dália

the look that didn’t see me, her good leg up, her hair in a beret I’m not sure whether blonde or brunette, she didn’t need any rubber hose to find her veins, going down stone by stone and getting all dirty with mud, her aunt fixing her curls with the iron, slow, haughty

—With hair like that and your porcelain face you ought to be able to land yourself a doctor

Dália concentrating on her pedaling of the tricycle, maybe if I asked

—Did you ever land the doctor Dália?

a nose that snorted, a twisted step as she went away from me, the tricycle faster and me looking at her with a wonder that’s lasted even till today, if I’d gotten to be a doctor, an accountant, a quartermaster, owned a motorbike, not had a clown for a father

—Tell me where you live Dália

the beret, the swollen leg, a topcoat in August and so much cold isn’t that right Dália, if she hadn’t brought any money she’d huddle on a rock waiting and between the open buttons were a pair of torn pants and an army shirt, her aunt chasing me away afraid of contagion

—Beat it, you scamp

when no one was watching I’d pull up my father’s marigolds, roots and all, and spread them out on her doorstep, on tiptoes I managed to catch sight of her after dinner seriously examining a picture book, busy educating herself for the secretarial course and the chore of landing a doctor while her aunt perfected her curls

—Don’t move, precious

why should I have any interest in her

—Tell me where you live Dália

because she wasn’t living in a rose garden with a doctor, she was living alone among the fruit stands in Beato with her plate for donations at her feet, her little face all wrinkled and stucco cracks were visible in the porcelain, her aunt dead centuries ago, the curling iron used by the Gypsies to wave their horses along, I pledged, stepping on squashed orange rinds, over boxes for packing plums

—I’m here Dália

—It’s me Dália

—I’ve never forgotten you Dália

I took her by the arm and she drew back huddling in a doorway in the midst of sacks and rags, the money from her donations rolled onto the pavement and Dália

—My money

my tricycle, my picture book, my blonde hair, my money which Rui

—It’s empty

which Rui

—Take it

and Dália limping toward him on her lame thigh, her wide nostrils helping her lungs, the eucalyptus trees of the Ateneu in endless remorse, Rui farther and farther away between two trucks

—Go get your money

I convinced myself that the water from a fountain was falling over them, my father in a dressing gown, with more décolletage and makeup than he wore in music halls

—I’m a clown Paulo

the money in an open ditch where there were pieces of pipes, if only I could have given you the marigolds from the yard, the dwarf from Snow White for you to sell in Chelas, Rui finally came out from behind the trucks fixing his fly with your beret in his hand and everything was calm in Beato, everything so calm in Beato that if we’d stopped walking and paid attention and paused for a moment we could have heard in any point in the darkness

in Madre de Deus, in Marvila, in Bico da Areia

a tricycle pedaling along by the waves in the river and a street urchin following it, hiding behind a wall nearby, anointed with camomile and lemon.

—Judite

if they called me

—Dona Judite

I hated them for making me exist like them, realizing that my solitude had ended starting with the moment when they were able to offend me with their hands, their voices, the words that something in me understood without my understanding them and to which something in me replied while I stayed silent, I became aware of the absence of my husband and my son and no desire to see them again, I saw the herons and that was all I needed, the waves coming and going, devoid of meaning and importance, I was little when my father would come up out of the temple and carry on about Jehovah and the blood of the Lamb, convinced that he knew the blood of the Lamb and that the blood of the Lamb was in my blood which was flowing, me an adolescent here in Bico da Areia, listening in the darkness to the plants that only speak to us in the dark and they weren’t talking about religion or the Bible, they were talking about themselves just like the ones calling me

—Dona Judite

it’s about themselves they’re talking, about their selfishness, their fears, me a teacher in Almada, almost the same age as they, concerned more with springtime in the yard and the way April was finding its way up along the roots of my thighs and it made me sin against my father’s religion, leading my fingers, even during class, through tiny flaming places that promised hell and which I didn’t know I had, me back in Bico da Areia, arriving on the bus at dinnertime when my father would put on his tie and standing at the head of the table would recite the psalms, drinking in the pine grove hidden from us, the way they might be calling me

—Judite

I hated them the way I hated my father and the blood of the Lamb inside a bottle for him and what was coming down for me, between two moons, from my thighs onto the sheet, my father and his discourses about the Lord, His gospels and His apostles, Purgatory which in his words was nothing but engravings which he wouldn’t let me see and where I lived burning in secret, hurt by the branches of the almond trees and the eyes of men making me vibrate without a stop all up and down my nerves, eyes, expressions, the sticky hidden smells under their clothing with which they approached me as I was sitting in the yard not thinking about anything, not feeling anything, not looking at anything, not loathing myself when

—Dona Judite

—I’ve got the money here Dona Judite

—I’m not like the others Dona Judite, I don’t run away after I pay

the beach was just as much out of it all as I was and the city was off in the distance, yellow clouds on the water side turning white as my name is transformed into what they expect and it pretends to be expecting them too, where it lingers along with them leaving me here, darker stains where during ebb tide there’s a promontory, bushes where the wild geese and sea swallows, a kind of silence in which I

the other woman

motionless afterward, remembering the time when my father tormented with visions would warn me, hand on my shoulder filling out the sentences, about the severity and the punishments of the Angel, not me, the other one, Dona Judite, rising up from the pillow, grabbing her blouse, catching me in the mirror, ordering me pointing to the bread bag

—Take care of the money we’ve earned Judite

his fingers with nothing and the three banknotes in mine, buttoning up, putting on my skirt, putting on my shoes before opening the door to my son

no, my son was twenty years ago no, I haven’t got anyone to open the door to

the bread bag on the kitchen doorknob and nighttime at last, an end to the roofs, the light, the pine trees, I thought that they might be spying on me from the wall and they’re not spying on me from the wall, because sometimes my husband

and my husband never

wanting to come, packing his suitcase for him again

—Leave, Carlos

not packing the suitcase

—Stay with me Carlos

take it easy because I’m not asking you for anything at all unless it’s to stay with me Carlos, the promontory and its bushes had disappeared in the tide, the blood of the Lamb in the bottle was all gone, my hands fail me so much, I’m forty-four years old, I can’t believe it, it’s so funny, lie down here, I’m not asking you to caress me, we didn’t caress each other remember, if I tried to embrace you in the boardinghouse, the almond trees in the schoolyard ran up and down my nerves, my knee was surprised by your absence, it didn’t understand where you could have gone since you’re still with me here, I mean maybe not you, maybe a sob imitating you, breathing like a hare

—What was it Carlos?

the terror of the chickens when my mother would grab them by the legs and hold them in the air facing the knife, I wanted so much to save them the way I want to save you even though their throats grow smaller in my hand

—What was it Carlos?

defenseless, small, me huge, my hair standing on end, the small bones a child’s running away which affected me all the more, explaining I haven’t got my knife see and the throat so quick, the breast so quick, my name

—Judite

a refusal or a request

a refusal

a request

your solitary heel and your clothes on the floor affected me, cooking for you, taking care of you, your shirts, your dinner, your colds, you’d come by to me pick me up at school, you’d wait on the sidewalk, awkward, cigarettes and you didn’t know how to smoke, you’d run from tree trunk to tree trunk so they wouldn’t see you, the other teachers

—It was funny

I’m going to write him a letter Cristina, I was furious and at that time yes, the knife, you’re not leaving

—It was funny

without the courage to write you, what I mean is I’d start writing to you but that’s not the way it was, there was more than that, and I blushed, and I stopped, Cristina

—What’s this?

snatching the paper, showing it to the other women and the other women

my darling Carlos

and the other women laughing

my love

I was furious, the dull knife missed and wounded, my mother feeling sorry for the chickens

—Go get the big knife Judite

dumping your guts into the pail, throwing your heads away, pulling out your feathers

—Let go of my letter

not blushing, pale, make them feel small, hit them, complain to the supervisor who hung around at recess and stole chalk, you were going to pick me up at school with a flurry of matches, burned-out matches scratched for hours on end on the box, you’d go with me on the bus to Bico da Areia not looking at me, not talking to me, maybe Cristina wrote to him because she knows how to write and I don’t, because it wasn’t the way that I, there was more than that, I wanted to talk to you about the almond trees and the blood of the Lamb and I never said anything, talk to you about us in the boardinghouse and about my name gasped out

—Judite

making things clear isn’t important, I’m not worried, we’ll get married won’t we, we’ll be happy won’t we, I copied a poem from a book written by a man so I changed everything to make it female and it didn’t come out that way either, maybe Cristina wrote to you and I ask

—Do you love Cristina, Carlos?

—What’s wrong with me Carlos?

—Why not with me Carlos?

hating her, hating you, hating both of you, grabbing them by the legs and holding them up in the air as my mother helped, no cataracts yet, no hand on my face yet

—What happened child?

as we got farther away from Almada the campground, the Jehovah’s Witnesses temple and my father wearing a necktie

—You sinned you sinned

I sneaked off with the blood of the Lamb I got from my father, the pine trees

not pine trees yet, fir trees, pines later

the river, only the smell of the river that is, just like the smell of an animal lying down and sand quarries and dunes, Santo António da Caparica, São João da Caparica, two-story buildings, houses with outside lights, the bakery where the clerk wouldn’t let me pay

the words weren’t coming out of his mouth but from around his mouth slugs that I shook off

—We’ve got plenty of time to settle our accounts, girl

the Gypsies’ horses snorting in the dark

if we turn off the lamp in the room at the boardinghouse will you let me kiss you Carlos?

and you changing places with me and protecting yourself from the mares, the backyards at Bico da Areia, marigolds, pups, if you’d let me take care of you, if you’d marry me, my father appearing from behind the trunk of the walnut tree hanging from his necktie with the twisted face of a hanged man

—What kind of devil are you bringing me Judite?

lighted up by the flaming oil of the wine, the shadow of his hand gobbled up by the shadow of the glass, Cristina’s father would have received Carlos in a proper way, come in, come in, her mother would have bustled about him, have a seat, his fluttering eyes taking us both in, don’t whisper to me again that you write to him Cristina, don’t invite me to your birthday party, don’t talk to me anymore, they would have him to dinner, serve him first, if I could have spied from the street I’d have noticed the starched curtains and their stretching out their necks to avoid spilling the soup, the flowers you brought all wrapped in cellophane in the center of the table while what I give you are my father, the café, the whole neighborhood, I was on the verge of tears

—For heaven’s sake will you leave my fiancé alone

you in the boardinghouse moaning on the pillow

—You’ve got to give me time to get used to you

if I was Cristina you wouldn’t need time to get used to me, something about her that I don’t have

let me have the bottle, father, don’t pretend to be scandalized, be quiet, let me have the bottle

a Gypsy woman coming from the river with two buckets, walking like a crow, they cut the feathers off their clothes and they walk on the ground, incapable of flying, at night the whinnying would make me restless, and make the waves restless, running fingernails over the body with a shudder of pine trees until the wind or the blood of the Lamb make openings I don’t dare peep through and never peeped through, your apologetic smile which would go out if I blew on it, poor Carlos and you

—I’m not capable Judite

the wind and the blood of the Lamb shouting inside me, I’m forty-four years old and everything’s dead, finished, my son at the door, bigger than I am, and since I don’t recognize him I don’t let him in, your son Carlos because I was thinking about you when the clerk in São João da Caparica was refusing my money

—Don’t worry about paying we’ve got plenty of time to settle our accounts, girl

you went with me by the post office and the houses with outside lights and it was you I was going with, Carlos, not him, with you, there was a warehouse or a garage and behind the garage a chicken coop, rubble and chicken droppings, the clerk closed the screen door and that dull peace, those feathers in my mouth, an old man hoeing weeds and the blade was slicing me, cutting me, emptying me out of what I have

I don’t even have a core, don’t push me I’ll lie down, don’t break me I’m ready, don’t cover my mouth I won’t say anything, don’t worry I won’t report you and he said

—Your husband never gave you anything, right?

I was remembering the pearl tiara, that dull peace, those feathers in my mouth

—Of course he did don’t be silly

he didn’t believe me, scraping the ground with his shoes

he looked like just one more hen but he wasn’t, the pail of corn, the trough of water

—In that case it’s time to settle accounts, girl

the day my father died the Jehovah’s Witnesses were singing and I was in the pew listening to them, vengeance is mine proclaimed the Lord because my God is a jealous God, dozens of candles on the stove, on the bureau, a drop of wax running down his face and right afterward the shadow of his hand in the shadow of the walnut tree

—What kind of devil are you bringing me Judite?

on Sundays without wine he’d spy on me from the washstand while I dried myself, eyes on my breasts and my thighs, pulling on my towel, at the moment when some part of him was meeting some part of me a hesitation, a pause, my mother as her eyes grew weak

—Floriano

and he on his knees on the damp cement hugging my waist

—I’m a wretch forgive me

his pockets stuffed with nails that he was using to make his coffin behind the house, I remember the holes in the lid so that he wouldn’t suffocate underground, his mouth open