“Someday all three of us will die.”
Beatriz answered:
“And for no reason.”
They had to wait patiently for the day they’d close their eyes forever. And Xavier? What would they do with Xavier? He looked like a sleeping child.
“Should we wait till Xavier dies of natural causes?” asked Beatriz.
Carmem thought and thought and said:
“I think the two of us should take care of it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But we’ve got to figure it out.”
“Just leave it to me, I know what to do.”
And doing nothing was out of the question. Soon it would be dawn and nothing would have happened. Carmem made them some very strong coffee. And they ate chocolate until it made them sick. And nothing, nothing at all.
They turned on the transistor radio and listened to a heartrending piece by Schubert. It was a piano solo. Carmem said:
“It has to be today.”
Carmem led and Beatriz followed. It was a special night: full of stars watching them, sparkling and tranquil. What silence. Oh what silence. They went up to Xavier to see if they might get inspired. Xavier was snoring. Carmem really did get inspired.
She said to Beatriz:
“In the kitchen are two big knives.”
“So?”
“So there are two of us and we’ve got two big knives.”
“So?”
“So, dummy, the two of us have weapons and we can do what we have to do. God commands it.”
“Isn’t it better not to talk about God at a time like this?”
“You want me to talk about the Devil? No, I’m talking about God, the lord of everything. Of space and time.”
So they went to the kitchen. The two big knives were sharpened, made of fine, polished steel. Would they have the strength?
Yes, they would.
They were armed. The bedroom was dark. They stabbed in the wrong places, piercing the heavy blanket. It was a cold night. Then they managed to distinguish Xavier’s sleeping body.
Xavier’s rich blood flowed all over the bed, onto the floor, a waste.
Carmem and Beatriz sat at the dining room table, under the yellow glare of the bare bulb, they were exhausted. Killing requires strength. Human strength. Divine strength. They were sweaty, mute, despondent. If they could have helped it, they wouldn’t have killed their great love.
Now what? Now they had to get rid of the body. The body was big. The body was heavy.
So the two went out to the garden and with the help of two shovels, dug a grave in the ground.
And, in the dark of night — they carried the body out to the garden. It was hard because, Xavier dead seemed to weigh more than when he was alive, since his spirit had left him. As they carried him, they groaned with exhaustion and pain. Beatriz was crying.
They laid the big body in the grave, covered it with the damp, fragrant soil from the garden, good soil for planting. Then they went back inside, made more coffee, and were somewhat revived.
Beatriz, being a hopeless romantic — she was constantly reading pulp romances involving star-crossed or lost loves — Beatriz got the idea to plant roses in that fertile soil.
So they went back to the garden, took a cutting of red roses and planted it on the tomb of the late lamented Xavier. Day was breaking. The garden was kissed with dew. The dew was a blessing on the murder. That’s what they thought, sitting out there on the white bench.
Days passed. They bought black dresses. And hardly ate. When night fell sadness overtook them. They no longer enjoyed cooking. Out of rage, Carmem, the hot-tempered one, tore up the cookbook in French. She kept the Spanish one: you never know when you might need it.
Beatriz eventually took over in the kitchen. Both ate and drank in silence. The red rose cutting seemed to have taken root. A nice green thumb, good thriving soil. It had all worked out.
And that took care of the problem.
But it so happened that Xavier’s secretary wondered about his extended absence. There were urgent documents to sign. Since there was no phone at Xavier’s house, he came over. The house seemed bathed in “mala suerte.”* The two women told him Xavier was on a trip, that he’d gone down to Montevideo. The secretary didn’t entirely believe it but seemed to buy the story.
The next week the secretary went to the Police. You don’t fool around with the Police. At first, the Police hadn’t wanted to believe the story. But, confronted with the secretary’s persistence, they lazily decided to search the polygamist’s house. All in vain: no sign of Xavier.
Then Carmem spoke up:
“Xavier’s in the garden.”
“In the garden? doing what?”
“Only God knows.”
“But we didn’t see anything or anybody.”
They went out to the garden: Carmem, Beatriz, the secretary whose name was Alberto, two police officers, and two other men nobody knew. Seven people. Then Beatriz, without a single tear in her eyes, showed them the flowering grave. Three men dug it up, destroying the rose bush that suffered human brutality for no reason.
And they saw Xavier. He looked horrible, deformed, already half-eaten, eyes open.
“Now what?” said one of the police officers.
“Now we arrest those two women.”
“But,” said Carmem, “let us be in the same cell.”
“Look,” said one of the officers in front of the stunned secretary, “the best thing to do is pretend nothing happened or else it’s gonna stir up a lot of noise, a lot of paperwork, a lot of chatter.”
“You two,” said the other officer, “pack your bags and go live in Montevideo. Don’t give us any more trouble.”
The two women said: thank you so much.
And Xavier didn’t say a thing. There really wasn’t anything to say.
.
Via Crucis
Maria das Dores was scared. Oh she really was scared.
It began when she missed her period. That surprised her because she was very regular.
Two more months passed and nothing. She went to a gynecologist. The doctor diagnosed her as visibly pregnant.
“It can’t be!” cried Maria das Dores.
“Why not? aren’t you married, ma’am?”
“Yes, but I’m a virgin, my husband’s never touched me. First because he’s a patient man, second because he’s kind of impotent.”
The gynecologist tried to reason with her:
“Who knows, maybe one night you . . .”
“Never! oh never ever!”
“Well then,” the gynecologist concluded, “I can’t explain it. You’re already at the end of the third month.”
Maria das Dores left the doctor’s office completely in a daze. She had to stop at a restaurant and have some coffee. To try to understand.
What was happening to her? A surge of anguish seized her. But she left the restaurant feeling calmer.
On the street, on her way home, she bought a little jacket for the baby. Blue, since she was sure it was a boy. What would she name him? There was only one name she could give him: Jesus.
At home she found her husband reading the newspaper in his slippers. She told him what was going on. The man got scared:
“So that makes me St. Joseph?”
“Yep,” came the laconic reply.
They both fell into deep contemplation.
Maria das Dores sent the maid out to buy the vitamins the gynecologist had prescribed. They were for her son’s benefit.
Divine son. She had been chosen by God to give the world the new Messiah.
She bought a blue cradle. She started knitting little jackets and making cloth diapers.
Meanwhile her belly was growing. The fetus wa
s energetic: it would kick her violently. Sometimes she called St. Joseph over to put his hand on her belly and feel how powerfully their son was alive.
St. Joseph would then get misty-eyed. This was a vigorous Jesus. She felt completely illuminated.
Maria das Dores told a close friend the breathtaking story. The friend got scared too:
“Maria das Dores, what a privileged destiny you have!”
“Privileged, indeed,” sighed Maria das Dores. “But what can I do so my son doesn’t follow the Via Crucis?”
“Pray,” her friend counseled, “pray a lot.”
And Maria das Dores started believing in miracles. Once she thought she saw the Virgin Mary standing by her side smiling at her. Another time she herself performed the miracle: there was an open wound on her husband’s leg, Maria das Dores kissed the wound. The next day there wasn’t so much as a trace.
It was cold, it was July. In October the child would be born.
But where to find a stable? Only if she went to a farm in the countryside of Minas Gerais. So she decided to go to Aunt Mininha’s farm.
What worried her was that the child wouldn’t be born on the twenty-fifth of December.
She went to Church every single day and, even with her big belly, would kneel for hours. As her son’s godmother, she had chosen the Virgin Mary. And as his godfather, Christ.
And that’s how the time passed. Maria das Dores had grown brutally fat and had strange cravings. Like eating frozen grapes. St. Joseph came along with her to the farm. And did his carpentry work there.
One day Maria das Dores overstuffed herself — she vomited a great deal and cried. And thought: it’s beginning, my holy son’s Via Crucis has begun.
But it seemed likely that if she named the child Jesus, he’d be, as an adult, crucified. It was better to name him Emmanuel. A simple name. A good name.
She waited for Emmanuel seated beneath a jabuticaba tree. And thinking:
When the time comes, I won’t scream, I’ll just say: oh Jesus!
And she kept eating jabuticabas. The mother of Jesus was stuffing herself.
The aunt — who knew everything — made up the bedroom with blue curtains. The stable was right there, with its good manure smell and its cows.
At night Maria das Dores would gaze at the starry sky in search of the guiding star. Who would be the three kings? Who would bring him incense and myrrh?
She took long strolls because the doctor had recommended plenty of walking. St. Joseph had let his graying beard grow and his long hair reached his shoulders.
Waiting was hard. Time wasn’t passing. Her aunt made them, for breakfast, cornmeal muffins that crumbled in their mouths. And the cold left their hands red and rough.
At night they’d light a fire in the hearth and sit warming themselves. St. Joseph had found himself a staff. And, because he never changed clothes, his stench was suffocating. His tunic was made of burlap. He’d sip wine by the hearth. Maria das Dores sipped creamy white milk, holding her rosary.
Very early in the morning she’d go peek at the cows in the stable. The cows would moo. Maria das Dores would smile at them. All humble: cows and woman. Maria das Dores about to cry. She’d smooth the straw on the ground, readying a place to lie down when the hour came. The hour of illumination.
St. Joseph, would set off with his staff to go meditate on the mountain. The aunt made roast pork and they’d all eat like crazy. And no sign of the child being born.
Until one night, at three in the morning, Maria das Dores felt the first pang. She lit the oil lamp, woke St. Joseph, woke her aunt. They got dressed. And with a torch illuminating their path, they headed through the trees to the stable. A dense star sparkled in the black sky.
The cows, now awake, grew uneasy, started mooing.
Soon another pang. Maria das Dores bit down on her own hand so she wouldn’t scream. And day wasn’t dawning.
St. Joseph shivered with cold. Maria das Dores, lying on the straw, under a blanket, waited.
Then came a pang too strong. Oh Jesus, moaned Maria das Dores. Oh Jesus, the cows seemed to moo.
The stars in the sky.
Then it happened.
Emmanuel was born.
And the stable seemed to be completely illuminated.
It was a strong and beautiful boy who bellowed at dawn.
St. Joseph cut the umbilical cord. And the mother was smiling. The aunt was weeping.
No one knows whether that child had to walk the Via Crucis. Everyone does.
* * *
* Spanish: “bad luck, an evil spell.”
The Man Who Showed Up
(“O homem que apareceu”)
It was Saturday evening, around six o’clock. Almost seven. I went out to buy some Coca-Cola and cigarettes. I crossed the street and headed for Portuguese Manuel’s corner bar.
As I was waiting to be helped, a man with a little harmonica came up, looked at me, played a little tune and said my name. He said he’d met me at the Cultura Inglesa English school, where I’d actually only studied for two or three months. He said to me:
“Don’t be scared of me.”
I replied:
“I’m not. What’s your name?”
He replied with a sad smile, in English: “what’s in a name?”
He said to Mr. Manuel:
“The only person here who’s better than me is this woman because she writes and I don’t.”
Mr. Manuel didn’t so much as blink. And the man was completely drunk. I gathered my purchases and was leaving when he said:
“May I have the honor of carrying your bottle and pack of cigarettes?
I handed my purchases to him. At the entrance to my building, I took back the Coca-Cola and cigarettes. He was standing there in front of me. Then, thinking his face was so very familiar, I asked his name again.
“I’m Cláudio.”
“Cláudio what?”
“Come on, what do you mean what? I used to be called Cláudio Brito . . .”
“Cláudio!” I cried. “Oh, my God, please come up to my place!”
“What floor?”
I told him the apartment number and floor. He said he’d pay his tab at the bar and come up after.
A friend of mine was over. I told her what happened to me, saying: “He might be too ashamed to come.”
My friend said: “He won’t come, drunks always forget the apartment number. And, if he does, he’ll never leave. Warn me so I can go into the bedroom and leave you two alone.”
I waited — and nothing. I was stunned by Cláudio Brito’s collapse. I got discouraged and changed clothes.
Then the doorbell rang. I asked through the closed door who it was. He said: “Cláudio.” I said: “Wait on the bench in the hall and I’ll open the door in a second.” I changed clothes. He was a good poet, Cláudio. What had he been up to all this time?
He came in and immediately started playing with my dog, saying that animals were the only ones that understood him. I asked if he’d like some coffee. He said: “All I drink is alcohol, I’ve been drinking for three days straight.” I lied: I told him that unfortunately there was no alcohol in the house. And I offered coffee again. He looked at me solemnly and said:
“Don’t boss me around.”
I replied:
“I’m not bossing you around, I’m asking you to have some coffee, I’ve got a thermos full of good coffee in the pantry.” He said he liked strong coffee. I brought him a full teacup, with just a little sugar.
And he made no move to drink it. And I insisted. Then he drank the coffee, saying to my dog:
“Break this teacup and you’re gonna get it. See how he’s looking at me, he understands me.”
“I understand you too.”
“You? all that matters to you is literature.�
�
“Well you’re mistaken. Children, families, friends, come first.”
He eyed me warily, somewhat askance. And asked:
“You swear that literature doesn’t matter?”
“I swear,” I answered with the assuredness that comes from inner truth. And added: “Any cat, any dog is worth more than literature.”
“Then,” he said, deeply moved, “shake my hand. I believe you.”
“Are you married?”
“About a thousand times, I can’t remember anymore.”
“Do you have children?”
“I have a five-year-old boy.”
“I’ll get you some more coffee.”
I brought him the teacup, nearly full again. He drank it slowly. He said:
“You’re a strange woman.”
“No I’m not,” I replied, “I’m very simple, not sophisticated at all.”
He told me a story involving some guy nicknamed Francisquinho, I didn’t really get who he was. I asked him:
“What do you do for work?”
“I don’t work. I’m retired because I’m an alcoholic and mentally ill.”
“You don’t seem mentally ill at all. You just drink more than you should.”
He told me he’d served in the Vietnam War. And that he’d spent two years as a sailor. That he got on very well with the sea. And his eyes filled with tears. I said:
“Be a man and cry, cry as much as you want; have the great courage to cry. You must have plenty of reasons to cry.”
“And here I am, drinking coffee and crying . . .”
“It doesn’t matter, cry and make believe I don’t exist.”
He cried a little. He was a very handsome man, in need of a shave and utterly defeated. You could see he was a failure. Like all of us. He asked if he could read me a poem. I said I’d like to hear it. He opened a bag, pulled a thick notebook out of it, burst into laughter, upon opening the pages.
Then he read the poem. It was simply lovely. It mixed dirty words with the most delicate sentiments. Oh Cláudio — I felt like crying out — we’re all failures, we’re all going to die some day! Who? but who can sincerely say they’ve realized their potential in life. Success is a lie.
Complete Stories Page 47
