The Complete Stories (19 page)

She didn’t look at them because her face was turned serenely toward the nothing.

But from the haste with which they hurt her she could tell they were more scared than she was. So scared that they weren’t even there anymore. They were running. “They were scared she would scream and the front doors would open one by one,” she reasoned, they didn’t know you don’t scream.

She stood there, listening in tranquil madness to their fleeing shoes. Either the sidewalk was hollow or their shoes were hollow or she herself was hollow. In the hollow sound of their shoes she listened intently to their fear. The sound rang distinctly off the paving stones as if they were banging on the door incessantly and she was waiting for them to go away. So distinctly on the bareness of the stone that the tap dance didn’t seem to be fading into the distance: it was right there at her feet, like a victory dance. Standing there, she had nothing to hold her up except her ears.

The sonority wasn’t fading, their distance was conveyed to her by the ever-more-precise hurrying of heels. Their heels no longer echoed off the stone, they echoed in the air like ever-more-delicate castanets. Then she realized she hadn’t heard a noise in a while.

And, brought back by the breeze, silence and an empty street.

Until that instant she’d kept quiet, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Then, as if passing through several stages of the same immobility, she stood still. After a while, she sighed. And in another stage, she stayed still. Next she moved her head, and then stood even more deeply still.

Then she retreated slowly over to a wall, hunched, very slowly, as if her arm were broken, until all her weight slumped against the wall, where she became inscribed. And then she stayed still. The important thing is not to move, she thought distantly, not to move. After a while, she had probably told herself this: now move your legs a little but very slowly. Since, very slowly, she moved her legs. After which, she sighed and kept quiet while glancing around. It was still dark.

Then morning came.

Slowly she gathered her books strewn on the ground. Further off lay her open notebook. When she bent to retrieve it, she saw the large, curved handwriting that until this morning had been hers.

Then she left. Without knowing how she had filled the time, except with footsteps and footsteps, she got to school over two hours late. Since she hadn’t been thinking about anything, she didn’t know how much time had passed. The presence of her Latin teacher made her realize with polite surprise that third period had already begun.

“What happened to you?” whispered the girl at the next desk.

“Why?”

“You’re pale. Are you getting sick?”

“No,” she said so loudly that several classmates looked at her. She got up and said very loudly:

“Excuse me.”

She went to the restroom. Where, facing the great silence of the tiles, she shrieked piercingly, supersonically: “I’m alone in the world! Nobody’s ever going to help me, nobody’s ever going to love me! I’m alone in the world!”

There she was missing her third class too, sitting on the long bench in the restroom, across from several sinks. “It’s okay, later I’ll just copy the main points, I’ll borrow someone’s notes to copy at home—I’m alone in the world!” she interrupted herself pounding her fist several times on the bench. The sound of those four shoes suddenly started up again like a light swift rain. A blind sound, nothing bouncing off the gleaming tiles. Just the distinctness of each shoe that never got entangled with the other shoe. Like nuts falling. All she could do was wait the way you wait for someone to stop banging on the door. Then they stopped.

When she went to the mirror to wet her hair, she was so ugly.

She possessed so little, and they had touched it.

She was so ugly and precious.

She was pale, her features grown delicate. Her hands, dampening her hair, still stained with yesterday’s ink. “I need to take better care of myself,” she thought. She didn’t know how. The truth is that more and more she knew how even less. Her nose stuck out like a snout poking through the fence.

She returned to the bench and sat there quietly, with a snout. “A person is nothing.” “No,” she shot back in mild protest, “don’t say that,” she thought with kindness and melancholy. “A person is something,” she said just to be nice.

But at dinner life took an urgent and hysterical turn:

“I need new shoes! mine make too much noise, a woman can’t walk in wooden heels, they attract too much attention! Nobody ever gets me anything! Nobody ever gets me anything!”—and she was so frantic and sputtering that no one had the nerve to tell her she wouldn’t be getting them. All they said was:

“You aren’t a woman and all heels are made of wood.”

Until, just as a person gets fat, she stopped, without knowing how it happened, being precious. There’s an obscure law that makes one protect the egg until the chick is born, a firebird.

And she got the new shoes.

Family Ties

(“Os laços de família”)

The woman and her mother finally squeezed into the taxi that was taking them to the station. The mother kept counting and recounting the two suitcases trying to convince herself that both were in the car. The daughter, with her dark eyes, whose slightly cross-eyed quality gave them a constant glimmer of derision and detachment—watched.

“I haven’t forgotten anything?” the mother was asking for the third time.

“No, no, you haven’t forgotten anything,” the daughter answered in amusement, patiently.

That somewhat comic scene between her mother and her husband still lingered in her mind, when it came time to say goodbye. For the entire two weeks of the old woman’s visit, the two could barely stand each other; their good-mornings and good-afternoons constantly struck a note of cautious tact that made her want to laugh. But right when saying goodbye, before getting into the taxi, her mother had transformed into a model mother-in-law and her husband had become the good son-in-law. “Forgive any misspoken words,” the old lady had said, and Catarina, taking some joy in it, had seen Antônio fumble with the suitcases in his hands, stammering—flustered at being the good son-in-law. “If I laugh, they’ll think I’m mad,” Catarina had thought, frowning. “Whoever marries off a son loses a son, whoever marries off a daughter gains a son,” her mother had added, and Antônio took advantage of having the flu to cough. Catarina, standing there, had mischievously observed her husband whose self-assurance gave way to a diminutive, dark-haired man, forced to be a son to that tiny graying woman . . . Just then her urge to laugh intensified. Luckily she never actually had to laugh whenever she got the urge: her eyes took on a sly, restrained look, went even more cross-eyed—and her laughter came out through her eyes. Being able to laugh always hurt a little. But she couldn’t help it: ever since she was little she’d laughed through her eyes, she’d always been cross-eyed.

“I’ll say it again, that boy is too skinny,” her mother declared while bracing herself against the jolting of the car. And though Antônio wasn’t there, she adopted the same combative, accusatory tone she used with him. So much that one night Antônio had lost his temper: “It’s not my fault, Severina!” He called his mother-in-law Severina, since before the wedding he’d envisioned them as a modern mother- and son-in-law. Starting from her mother’s first visit to the couple, the word Severina had turned leaden in her husband’s mouth, and so, now, the fact that he used her first name hadn’t stopped . . . —Catarina would look at them and laugh.

“The boy’s always been skinny, Mama,” she replied.

The taxi drove on monotonously.

“Skinny and anxious,” added the old lady decisively.

“Skinny and anxious,” Catarina agreed patiently.

He was an anxious, distracted boy. During his grandmother’s visit he’d become even more remote, slept poorly, was upset by the old woman’s excessive affection and loving pinches. Antônio, who’d never been particularly worried about his son’s sensitivity, had begun dropping hints to his mother-in-law, “to protect a child” . . .

“I haven’t forgotten anything . . .” her mother started up again, when the car suddenly braked, launching them into each other and sending their suitcases flying. Oh! oh!, shouted her mother as if faced with some irremediable disaster, “oh!” she said shaking her head in surprise, suddenly older and pitiable. And Catarina?

Catarina looked at her mother, and mother looked at daughter, and had some disaster also befallen Catarina? her eyes blinked in surprise, she quickly righted the suitcases and her purse, trying to remedy the catastrophe as fast as possible. Because something had indeed happened, there was no point hiding it: Catarina had been launched into Severina, into a long forgotten bodily intimacy, going back to the age when one has a father and mother. Though they’d never really hugged or kissed. With her father, yes, Catarina had always been more of a friend. Whenever her mother would fill their plates making them overeat, the two would wink at each other conspiratorially and her mother never even noticed. But after colliding in the taxi and after regaining their composure, they had nothing to talk about—why weren’t they already at the station?

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” her mother asked in a resigned voice.

Catarina no longer wished to look at her or answer.

“Take your gloves!” she said as she picked them up off the ground.

“Oh! oh! my gloves!” her mother exclaimed, flustered.

They only really looked at each other once the suitcases were deposited on the train, after they’d exchanged kisses: her mother’s head appeared at the window.

Catarina then saw that her mother had aged and that her eyes were glistening.

The train wasn’t leaving and they waited with nothing to say. The mother pulled a mirror from her purse and studied herself in her new hat, bought at the same milliner’s where her daughter went. She gazed at herself while making an excessively severe expression that didn’t lack in self-admiration. Her daughter watched in amusement. No one but me can love you, thought the woman laughing through her eyes; and the weight of that responsibility left the taste of blood in her mouth. As if “mother and daughter” were life and abhorrence. No, you couldn’t say she loved her mother. Her mother pained her, that was all. The old woman had slipped the mirror back into her purse, and was smiling steadily at her. Her worn and still quite clever face looked like it was struggling to make a certain impression on the people around her, in which her hat played a role. The station bell suddenly rang, there was a general movement of anxiousness, several people broke into a run thinking the train was already leaving: Mama! the woman said. Catarina! the old woman said. They gaped at each other, the suitcase on a porter’s head blocked their view and a young man rushing past grabbed Catarina’s arm in passing, jerking the collar of her dress off-kilter. When they could see each other again, Catarina was on the verge of asking if she’d forgotten anything . . .

“. . . I haven’t forgotten anything?” her mother asked.

Catarina also had the feeling they’d forgotten something, and they looked at each other at a loss—for if they really had forgotten something, it was too late now. A woman dragged a child along, the child wailed, the station bell resounded again . . . Mama, said the woman. What was it they’d forgotten to say to each other? and now it was too late. It struck her that one day they should have said something like: “I am your mother, Catarina.” And she should have answered: “And I am your daughter.”

“Don’t sit in the draft!” Catarina called.

“Come now, girl, I’m not a child,” said her mother, never taking her attention off her own appearance. Her freckled hand, slightly tremulous, was delicately arranging the brim of her hat and Catarina suddenly wanted to ask whether she’d been happy with her father:

“Give my best to Auntie!” she shouted.

“Yes, of course!”

“Mama,” said Catarina because a lengthy whistle was heard and the wheels were already turning amid the smoke.

“Catarina!” the old woman called, her mouth open and her eyes astonished, and at the first lurch her daughter saw her raise her hands to her hat: it had fallen over her nose, covering everything but her new dentures. The train was already moving and Catarina waved. Her mother’s face disappeared for an instant and immediately reappeared hatless, her loosened bun spilling in white locks over her shoulders like the hair of a maiden—her face was downcast and unsmiling, perhaps no longer even seeing her daughter in the distance.

Amid the smoke Catarina began heading back, frowning, with that mischievous look of the cross-eyed. Without her mother’s company, she had regained her firm stride: it was easier alone. A few men looked at her, she was sweet, a little heavyset. She walked serenely, dressed in a modern style, her short hair dyed “mahogany.” And things had worked out in such a way that painful love seemed like happiness to her—everything around her was so alive and tender, the dirty street, the old trams, orange peels—strength flowed back and forth through her heart in weighty abundance. She was very pretty just then, so elegant; in step with her time and the city where she’d been born as if she had chosen it. In her cross-eyed look anyone could sense the enjoyment this woman took in the things of the world. She stared at other people boldly, trying to fasten onto those mutable figures her pleasure that was still damp with tears for her mother. She veered out of the way of oncoming cars, managed to sidestep the line for the bus, glancing around ironically; nothing could stop this little woman whose hips swayed as she walked from climbing one more mysterious step in her days.

The elevator hummed in the beachfront heat. She opened the door to her apartment while using her other hand to free herself of her little hat; she seemed poised to reap the largess of the whole world, the path opened by the mother who was burning in her chest. Antônio barely looked up from his book. Saturday afternoon had always been “his,” and, as soon as Severina had left, he gladly reclaimed it, seated at his desk.

“Did ‘she’ leave?”

“Yes she did,” answered Catarina while pushing open the door to her son’s room. Ah, yes, there was the boy, she thought in sudden relief. Her son. Skinny and anxious. Ever since he could walk he’d been steady on his feet; but nearing the age of four he still spoke as if he didn’t know what verbs were: he’d confirm things coldly, not linking them. There he sat fiddling with his wet towel, exact and remote. The woman felt a pleasant warmth and would have liked to capture the boy forever in that moment; she pulled the towel from his hands disapprovingly: that boy! But the boy gazed indifferently into the air, communicating with himself. He was always distracted. No one had ever really managed to hold his attention. His mother shook out the towel and her body blocked the room from his view: “Mama,” said the boy. Catarina spun around. It was the first time he’d said “Mama” in that tone of voice and without asking for anything. It had been more than a confirmation: Mama! The woman kept shaking the towel violently and wondered if there was anyone she could tell what happened, but she couldn’t think of anyone who’d understand what she couldn’t explain. She smoothed the towel vigorously before hanging it to dry. Maybe she could explain, if she changed the way it happened. She’d explain that her son had said: “Mama, who is God.” No, maybe: “Mama, boy wants God.” Maybe. The truth would only fit into symbols, they’d only accept it through symbols. Her eyes smiling at her necessary lie, and above all at her own foolishness, fleeing from Severina, the woman unexpectedly laughed aloud at the boy, not just with her eyes: her whole body burst into laughter, a burst casing, and a harshness emerging as hoarseness. Ugly, the boy then said peering at her.

“Let’s go for a walk!” she replied blushing and taking him by the hand.

She passed through the living room, informing her husband without breaking stride: “We’re going out!” and slammed the apartment door.

Antônio hardly had time to look up from his book—and in surprise saw that the living room was already empty. Catarina! he called, but he could already hear the sound of the descending elevator. Where did they go? he wondered nervously, coughing and blowing his nose. Because Saturday was his, but he wanted his wife and his son at home while he enjoyed his Saturday. Catarina! he called irritably though he knew she could no longer hear him. He got up, went to the window and a second later spotted his wife and son on the sidewalk.

The pair had stopped, the woman perhaps deciding which way to go. And suddenly marching off.

Why was she walking so briskly, holding the child’s hand? through the window he saw his wife gripping the child’s hand tightly and walking swiftly, her eyes staring straight ahead; and, even without seeing it, the man could tell that her jaw was set. The child, with who-knew-what obscure comprehension, was also staring straight ahead, startled and unsuspecting. Seen from above, the two figures lost their familiar perspective, seemingly flattened to the ground and darkened against the light of the sea. The child’s hair was fluttering . . .

The husband repeated his question to himself, which, though cloaked in the innocence of an everyday expression, worried him: where are they going? He nervously watched his wife lead the child and feared that just now when both were beyond his reach she would transmit to their son . . . but what exactly? “Catarina,” he thought, “Catarina, this child is still innocent!” Just when does a mother, holding a child tight, impart to him this prison of love that would forever fall heavily on the future man. Later on her son, a man now, alone, would stand before this very window, drumming his fingers against this windowpane; trapped. Forced to answer to a dead person. Who could ever know just when a mother passes this legacy to her son. And with what somber pleasure. Mother and son now understanding each other inside the shared mystery. Afterward no one would know from what black roots a man’s freedom is nourished. “Catarina,” he thought enraged, “that child is innocent!” Yet they’d disappeared somewhere along the beach. The shared mystery.

“But what about me? what about me?” he asked fearfully. They had gone off alone. And he had stayed behind. “With his Saturday.” And his flu. In that tidy apartment, where “everything ran smoothly.” What if his wife was fleeing with their son from that living room with its well-adjusted light, from the tasteful furniture, the curtains and the paintings? that was what he’d given her. An engineer’s apartment. And he knew that if his wife enjoyed the situation of having a youthful husband with a promising future—she also disparaged it, with those deceitful eyes, fleeing with their anxious, skinny son. The man got worried. Since he couldn’t provide her anything but: more success. And since he knew that she’d help him achieve it and would hate whatever they accomplished. That was how this calm, thirty-two-year-old woman was, who never really spoke, as if she’d been alive forever. Their relationship was so peaceful. Sometimes he tried to humiliate her, he’d barge into their bedroom while she was changing because he knew she detested being seen naked. Why did he need to humiliate her? yet he was well aware that she would only ever belong to a man as long as she had her pride. But he had grown used to this way of making her feminine: he’d humiliate her with tenderness, and soon enough she’d smile—without resentment? Maybe this had given rise to the peaceful nature of their relationship, and those muted conversations that created a homey environment for their child. Or would he sometimes get irritable? Sometimes the boy would get irritable, stomping his feet, screaming from nightmares. What had this vibrant little creature been born from, if not from all that he and his wife had cut from their everyday life. They lived so peacefully that, if they brushed up against a moment of joy, they’d exchange rapid, almost ironic, glances, and both would say with their eyes: let’s not waste it, let’s not use it up frivolously. As if they’d been alive forever.