The House in Smyrna (14 page)

I know, he said: Let's spend a week in each city. Every Sunday night, we'll go to the airport and change continents. That way we don't have to get rid of anything and we both keep our homes. I think it's the fairest thing to do.

And the most fun, I added.

We laughed again and drank more wine and kissed and made more plans and found each other more and lost each other more. I was so happy that I felt a knot forming in my heart, a pain I didn't know existed in the realm of happiness.

I need to talk to you, I said.

Okay, you said.

Come here, what I have to say is serious.

You sat down next to me on the sofa. I held your hand and blurted out everything that I had been planning and memorising for over a week. I talked without stopping, without a single pause in which you could interrupt me. You know how much I love you how important you are to me everything you've taught me everything I've learned from you you know I fell in love with you the minute we set eyes on each other you know better than anyone that no man before you has ever given me so much pleasure you know how much I admire and respect the beautiful person that you are you know you can always count on me because you're so special to me and always will be you know there will always be a place for you in my heart you know all this you know the depth of my feelings for you my love for you and that's why I think you'll understand of course you'll understand you must be thinking the same thing you must agree with me mustn't you my love you must think too that in spite of all the love we feel for each other unfortunately we can't go on we'll never be happy perhaps because our love is too big I don't know maybe we're too small for so much love maybe it doesn't fit in us and that's why I'm sure you want this too you want this separation you must agree that we need to be apart to give ourselves a chance to heal and to be happy even if it means not being together even if it means we can't live out our love.

You gave me a sarcastic smile. It was evident that you weren't going to hand me on a platter what was entirely yours. You'd never admit defeat. You didn't say a word. You just tore off my shirt and shoved me back onto the sofa, forcing me to lie down. You yanked off my underwear and rammed your finger into my dry vagina. My face was a picture of horror. My body was incapable of movement. I was drained and you knew it. You took advantage of it. You pulled down your boxers and, right there, on the sofa where previously we had made love, you lay on top of me. I let you do as you wished, as if blaming myself for what I had just said. I was dry, and not even your saliva made a difference. You delighted in my pain, and asked: Isn't it good? I didn't answer. Isn't it good? you insisted. I stayed silent. Isn't it good?

No, I said finally. Then, as if to stifle my reply, you pulled out and rammed yourself into my mouth with violence until you came. I could barely breathe. You only withdrew when you were sure I had swallowed everything. Then you held my face tightly and, eyes overflowing with irony, said: See how happy we can be together?

We had been together for four days when he asked me: So, why are you here? It was morning and we had just had breakfast. A little while earlier, I had gone out to buy bread and Portuguese sweets (bread pudding, custard tarts, assorted pastries: I like them so much that I'm even capable of devouring them in the morning). I got up from the table and lay on the sofa to answer his question. Playing with my curls, I told him everything: about my paralysis, my sick body, the key my grandfather had given me. I told him I had been to Turkey and that now I was in Portugal looking for my past. I told him that I needed to settle accounts for previous generations, settle my own accounts.

Did you know I was born here in Lisbon?

No way! Really, or are you kidding?

Really, I said with a smile. I was born in January 1979 and went to Brazil in September. But I've still got my
lisboeta
accent, can't you tell?

He gave me a funny look and came over to tickle me, cover me in kisses. So you're an
alfacinha
?

Yes, I said, smiling at the nickname for natives of Lisbon. I'm a real ‘little lettuce'
.
I've even got a Portuguese passport. Want to see it? Pass my bag, please. I showed it to him. See?

He flicked through it, found my hideous photo, and read out loud. Place of birth: São Domingos de Benfica, Lisbon. So it's true, he said.

Yes, I answered, but now let me finish telling the story. You asked, now listen.

I told him about my trip to Turkey, the people I'd met, the house that wasn't there anymore. I told him I'd gone in an effort to get out of the rut I was in, because for a long time I hadn't been able to get out of bed, back in Brazil. I told him about my mother's death, the pain, the mourning. I told him that I still speak to her. I speak to the dead, I said. To the dead who are with me. And then I told him: I once loved a man, and he killed me. I told him about the violence, how he had cut me, and I showed him all the marks, scars. And I said: If that's love, I prefer not to love. Then he lay down next to me on the sofa and hugged me, and we lay there together, squashed into a space that was smaller than the sum of our bodies. And, playing with my curls, he said: No, that's not love. Don't be afraid.

You must have been asleep for a few hours. I listened to you snoring, which gave me the courage to do what could wait no longer. My body shook, but my heart was steady. I got out of bed, taking care not to wake you. I went to the kitchen, and when I got back you were facing the other way. I was afraid you might have woken up. I whispered your name, but you didn't answer. I approached you and thought how handsome you were as you slept. Your naked body curled around itself gave me a serenity that your waking body didn't. You were white, white, and your hair was a light down on your soft skin. Your hands looked like baby's hands, and suddenly I felt an enormous desire to hold them, but I was afraid you'd wake up. I had spent many days wondering if what I felt for you was love. Looking at your body on the bed I thought that the answer was yes, that what I felt for you was a love of sorts. And it was with this feeling that I gently rolled you onto your back. You grunted something incomprehensible and then sank back into a deep sleep. I stretched out your arms and legs. I stroked your face lightly and touched my lips to yours. I whispered your name again, but you didn't answer. I felt a certainty that I never had before, and my body stopped shaking. I took the two tips of the sheet bunched up at the foot of the bed and pulled it over you, covering you entirely, like a burial shroud. Then I took the knife that I had gone to fetch in the kitchen and, holding it with both hands, ran it through your belly. I felt the metal tear your soft skin, perforate your flesh, your stomach. I felt the metal scrape your ribs, and then I let it go. You cried out with pain and lifted your head, and the top of the sheet slid down. Your eyes were open. Our eyes met for the last time, and that was when I saw rage, fear, and defeat stamped across your face. Then I saw your head drop to one side, and your eyes closed forever. I glanced about and took in the entire room; I saw all the objects that had once been ours. In the middle of the image, our bed. On the left side of the bed, your white body covered with a white sheet. In the middle of your body, the knife with which I had torn into you. In the middle of your body, the sheet was red. And the red gave me even more resolve, assured me that there was no other possible end to our story.

If you don't mind, I'd rather not take you to the airport.

Why not? Don't you like goodbyes either, is that it?

I hate goodbyes, he said. I prefer to hold on to the memory of our time here, knowing that we'll see each other again.

Do you think we will?

His smile was confident when he said: Of course, you'll see.

Okay then, don't take me, but will you stay with me until I have to go?

He answered me with a long hug. The prospect of another parting was making me anxious. I had come to Portugal to undo old ties and had ended up making new ones, and now I'd have to say goodbye again. Although he was sure we'd see each other again, I tried not to think about the plane that awaited me.

I'd like to live in Rio one day, he said.

And I, in Lisbon. Shall we swap houses? We laughed.

But we could also coincide a little too, couldn't we?

Yes, of course, I said. Have you still got a bottle of Alentejo wine?

I do.

Would you like some?

Yes.

We could have a bottle before I have to go to the airport, no?

He came back with two bottles. He opened one and held out the other, saying: Here, open this in Brazil and think of me when you drink it.

Thank you, I said. You're so sweet.

You're the one who's sweet.

And we started joking: my sweetie pie. My coconut custard. My egg tart. My cupcake. Until we found ourselves without clothes on, by which time we had stopped talking. We both had the same playfulness and the same light-heartedness: not in words, but in gestures. We made love as if it were a game, always inventing new things, delighting in each touch — of our hands, tongues, hair, skin, eyelashes. There was something special when we were together. Perhaps it was this childish light-heartedness: we could be children without fear, we could be children no matter what our age. And that was what we did in our last hours together. We drank both bottles of wine (now how am I going to remember you in Brazil?) until, reluctantly, I had to say: I think we'd better call a taxi or I'll miss my plane. Then we grew serious, as he looked for the phone number and I got dressed.

Fifteen minutes, he said.

I screwed up my nose. Why so quick?

Because services in Portugal work, he chuckled.

There was just enough time for me to finish dressing, get my bags, and give him a tight hug and a few passionate kisses. And to stroke his face a few times. And to look into his green eyes and feel mine sting. And to say: I'm really fond of you. And to hear: I'm really fond of you too. And to feel his hands in my hair, playing with my curls. And to say: goodbye, see you; see you soon.

We gazed at each other until the taxi pulled away, even after the taxi had pulled away. My heart was full of joy, but also a little sadness. I kept thinking: When it's all good, why don't things work out? And then I answered myself: Stop thinking like that. It was good and it did work out. I sat there flitting back and forth between positive and negative thoughts for a while. Until I remembered something that a friend of mine always used to say: Love isn't to be kept to yourself, it's to be spread around. When I'd tell him my stories, he'd always say: But you're not a one-love woman, you have to love many times, spread your capacity for love around. I knew that if I told him this story he'd say: Didn't I tell you? Just think: now there's a little of your love in Lisbon, in yet another city. And a city that is so special to you. While my mind was awhirl with all these thoughts, I heard my mobile beep to indicate a new message. On the subject line, his name, and beneath it, the text:
I think I have all the tenderness in the world in my heart. Thank you for existing. Kisses.

And that is how I was able to leave in peace, to return to Brazil knowing that my relationship to Portugal was no longer a relationship to the past, or from the past.

My grandfather walks into the room complaining about the acrid smell and asking if I am ready for the trip. A serene light streams through the slats in the shutters, announcing that the sun is about to set. I think that another day is ending and that days ending all seem like one single day. I look around me, as my grandfather talks and waits for a response, and I tell myself in silence that I need to put the blanket in the wash, pick my clothes up off the floor, and clean the mould off the walls. I am disgusted at my own cocoon.

He insists, asking if I am ready or not. I wave him over and he sits beside me, hesitantly. I see how much he has aged and for the first time it strikes me that there is no difference between his face and hands — they are all the same withered skin. Without getting up, I take the little box from the nightstand. In it, amid dust, old tickets, coins, and earrings, lies the key. He glances over and sees what I see. He looks at me, and I don't need to say a thing. I take the key, blow the deep layer of dust off it, and reach out to take his hand. I squeeze it tightly and we sit there with our sweaty hands clasped together, the key in the middle, sealing and separating our stories.

Translator's note

This translation is based on the author's revised edition of the text, published by Edições BestBolso, Rio de Janeiro, 2013. The author further revised and edited the text prior to its publication in translation.