by Frank Wynne
Shaking my head I stepped over Wunsiedel, walked slowly along the corridor to Broschek’s office, and entered without knocking. Broschek was sitting at his desk, a telephone receiver in each hand, between his teeth a ballpoint pen with which he was making notes on a writing pad, while with his bare feet he was operating a knitting machine under the desk. In this way he helps to clothe his family. “We’ve had some action,” I said in a low voice.
Broschek spat out the ballpoint pen, put down the two receivers, reluctantly detached his toes from the knitting machine.
“What action?” he asked.
“Wunsiedel is dead,” I said.
“No,” said Broschek.
“Yes,” I said, “come and have a look!”
“No,” said Broschek, “that’s impossible,” but he put on his slippers and followed me along the corridor.
“No,” he said, when we stood beside Wunsiedel’s corpse, “no, no!” I did not contradict him. I carefully turned Wunsiedel over onto his back, closed his eyes, and looked at him pensively.
I felt something like tenderness for him, and realized for the first time that I had never hated him. On his face was that expression which one sees on children who obstinately refuse to give up their faith in Santa Claus, even though the arguments of their playmates sound so convincing.
“No,” said Broschek, “no.”
“We must take action;” I said quietly to Broschek. “Yes,” said Broschek, “we must take action.”
Action was taken: Wunsiedel was buried; and I was delegated to carry a wreath of artificial roses behind his coffin, for I am equipped with not only a penchant for pensiveness and inactivity but also a face and figure that go extremely well with dark suits. Apparently as I walked along behind Wunsiedel’s coffin carrying the wreath of artificial roses I looked superb. I received an offer from a fashionable firm of funeral directors to join their staff as a professional mourner. “You are a born mourner,” said the manager, “your outfit would be provided by the firm. Your face – simply superb!”
I handed in my notice to Broschek, explaining that I had never really felt I was working to capacity there; that, in spite of the thirteen telephones, some of my talents were going to waste. As soon as my first professional appearance as a mourner was over I knew: This is where I belong, this is what I am cut out for.
Pensively I stand behind the coffin in the funeral chapel, holding a simple bouquet, while the organ plays Handel’s Largo, a piece that does not receive nearly the respect it deserves. The cemetery café is my regular haunt; there I spend the intervals between my professional engagements, although sometimes I walk behind coffins which I have not been engaged to follow, I pay for flowers out of my own pocket and join the welfare worker who walks behind the coffin of some homeless person. From time to time I also visit Wunsiedel’s grave, for after all I owe it to him that I discovered my true vocation, a vocation in which pensiveness is essential and inactivity my duty.
It was not till much later that I realized I had never bothered to find out what was being produced in Wunsiedel’s factory. I expect it was soap.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
(Feliz Aniversário)
Clarice Lispector
Translated from the Portuguese by Katrina Dodson
Clarice Lispector (1920–1977) was a Brazilian writer acclaimed internationally for her innovative novels and short stories. Born to a Jewish family in Podolia in Western Ukraine, she was brought to Brazil as an infant, amidst the disasters engulfing her native land following the First World War. She has been the subject of numerous books, and references to her and her work are common in Brazilian literature and music. Several of her works have been turned into films. Clarice had two sons: Pedro and Paulo. Pedro was so precocious that he learned the maid’s local dialect in Switzerland in a couple of days. Despite being addicted to sleeping pills, when she couldn’t sleep she would call her friends to discuss her personal problems at all times of the day or night. She survived a fire that started when she fell asleep with a lit cigarette in her hand.
The family began arriving in waves the ones from Olaria were all dressed up because the visit also meant an outing in Copacabana. The daughter-in-law from Olaria showed up in navy blue, glittering with “pailletés” and draping that camouflaged her ungirdled belly. Her husband didn’t come for obvious reasons: he didn’t want to see his siblings. But he’d sent his wife so as not to sever all ties—and she came in her best dress to show that she didn’t need any of them, along with her three children: two girls with already budding breasts, infantilized in pink ruffles and starched petticoats, and the boy sheepish in his new suit and tie.
Since Zilda—the daughter with whom the birthday girl lived—had placed chairs side-by-side along the walls, as at a party where there’s going to be dancing, the daughter-in-law from Olaria, after greeting the members of the household with a stony expression, plunked herself down in one of the chairs and fell silent, lips pursed, maintaining her offended stance.“I came to avoid not coming,” she’d said to Zilda, and then had sat feeling offended. The two little misses in pink and the boy, sallow and with their hair neatly combed, didn’t really know how to behave and stood beside their mother, impressed by her navy blue dress and the “pailletés.”
Then the daughter-in-law from Ipanema came with two grandsons and the nanny. Her husband would come later. And since Zilda—the only girl among six brothers and the only one who, it had been decided years ago, had the space and time to take in the birthday girl—and since Zilda was in the kitchen with the maid putting the finishing touches on the croquettes and sandwiches, that left: the stuck-up daughter-in-law from Olaria with her anxious-hearted children by her side; the daughter-in-law from Ipanema in the opposite row of chairs pretending to deal with the baby to avoid facing her sister-in-law from Olaria; the idle, uniformed nanny, her mouth hanging open.
And at the head of the large table the birthday girl who was turning eighty-nine today.
Zilda, the lady of the house, had set the table early, covered it with colorful paper napkins and birthday-themed paper cups, scattered balloons drifting along the ceiling on some of which was written “Happy Birthday!”, on others “Feliz Aniversario!”. At the center she’d placed the enormous frosted cake. To move things along, she’d decorated the table right after lunch, pushed the chairs against the wall, sent the boys out to play at the neighbor’s so they wouldn’t mess up the table.
And, to move things along, she’d dressed the birthday girl right after lunch. Since then she’d fastened that pendant around her neck and pinned on her brooch, sprayed her with a little perfume to cover that musty smell of hers—seated her at the table. And since two o’clock the birthday girl had been sitting at the head of the long empty table, rigid in the silent room.
Occasionally aware of the colorful napkins. Looking curiously when a passing car made the odd balloon tremble. And occasionally that mute anguish: whenever she watched, fascinated and powerless, the buzzing of a fly around the cake.
Until four o’clock when the daughter-in-law from Olaria arrived followed by the one from Ipanema.
Just when the daughter-in-law from Ipanema thought she couldn’t bear another second of being seated directly across from her sister-in-law from Olaria—who brimming with past offenses saw no reason to stop glaring defiantly at the daughter-in-law from Ipanema—at last José and his family arrived. And as soon as they all kissed the room started filling with people greeting each other loudly as if they’d all been waiting down below for the right moment to, in the rush of being late, stride up the three flights of stairs, talking, dragging along startled children, crowding into the room—and kicking off the party.
The birthday girl’s facial muscles no longer expressed her, so no one could tell whether she was in a good mood. Placed at the head was what she was. She amounted to a large, thin, powerless and dark-haired old woman. She looked hollow.
“Eighty-nine years old, yes sir!” said José, the eldes
t now that Jonga had died. “Eighty-nine years old, yes ma’am!” he said rubbing his hands in public admiration and as an imperceptible signal to everyone.
Everyone broke off attentively and looked over at the birthday girl in a more official manner. Some shook their heads in awe as if she’d set a record. Each year conquered by the birthday girl was a vague step forward for the whole family. “Yes sir!” a few said smiling shyly.
“Eighty-nine years old!” echoed Manoel, who was José’s business partner. “Just a little bean sprout!” he said joking and nervous, and everyone laughed except his wife.
The old woman showed no expression.
Some hadn’t brought her a present. Others brought a soap dish, a cotton slip, a costume jewelry brooch, a little potted cactus—nothing, nothing that the lady of the house could use for herself or her children, nothing that the birthday girl herself could really use and thereby save money for the lady of the house: she put away the presents, bitter, sarcastic.
“Eighty-nine years old!” repeated Manoel nervously, looking at his wife.
The old woman showed no expression.
And so, as if everyone had received the final proof that there was no point making any effort, with a shrug as if they were with a deaf woman, they kept the party going by themselves, eating the first ham sandwiches more as a show of enthusiasm than out of hunger, making as if they were all starving to death. The punch was served, Zilda was sweating, not a single sister-in-law was really helping, the hot grease from the croquettes gave off the smell of a picnic; and with their backs turned to the birthday girl, who couldn’t eat fried food, they laughed nervously. And Cordélia? Cordélia, the youngest daughter-in-law, seated, smiling.
“No sir!” José replied with mock severity, “no shop talk today!”
“Right, right!” Manoel quickly backed down, darting a look at his wife whose ears pricked up from a distance.
“No shop talk,” José boomed, “today is for Mother!”
At the head of the already messy table, the cups dirtied, only the cake intact—she was the mother. The birthday girl blinked.
And by the time the table was filthy, the mothers irritated at the racket their children were making, while the grandmothers were leaning back complacently in their chairs, that was when they turned off the useless hallway light so as to light the candle on the cake, a big candle with a small piece of paper stuck to it on which was written “89.” But no one praised Zilda’s idea, and she wondered anxiously if they thought she was trying to save candles—nobody recalling that nobody had contributed so much as a box of matches for the party food that she, Zilda, was serving like a slave, her feet exhausted and her heart in revolt. Then they lit the candle. And then José, the leader, sang with great gusto, galvanizing the most hesitant or surprised ones with an authoritarian stare, “come on! all together now!”—and they all suddenly joined in singing loud as soldiers. Roused by the voices, Cordélia looked on breathlessly. Since they hadn’t coordinated ahead of time, some sang in Portuguese and others in English. Then they tried to correct it: and the ones who’d been singing in English switched to Portuguese, and the ones who’d been singing in Portuguese switched to singing very softly in English.
While they were singing, the birthday girl, in the glow of the lit candle, meditated as though by the fireside.
They picked the youngest great-grandchild who, propped in his encouraging mother’s lap, blew out the candle in a single breath full of saliva! For an instant they applauded the unexpected power of the boy who, astonished and exultant, looked around at everyone in rapture. The lady of the house was waiting with her finger poised on the hallway switch—and turned on the light.
“Long live Mama!”
“Long live Grandma!”
“Long live Dona Anita,” said the neighbor who had shown up.
“Happy Birthday!” shouted the grandchildren who studied English at the Bennett School.
A few hands were still clapping.
The birthday girl was staring at the large, dry, extinguished cake.
“Cut the cake, Grandma!” said the mother of four, “she should be the one to cut it!” she asserted uncertainly to everyone, in an intimate and scheming manner. And, since they all approved happily and curiously, she suddenly became impetuous: “cut the cake, Grandma!”
And suddenly the old woman grabbed the knife. And without hesitation, as if in hesitating for a moment she might fall over, she cut the first slice with a murderer’s thrust.
“So strong,” the daughter-in-law from Ipanema murmured, and it wasn’t clear whether she was shocked or pleasantly surprised. She was a little horrified.
“A year ago she could still climb these stairs better than me,” said Zilda bitterly.
With the first slice cut, as though the first shovelful of dirt had been dug, they all closed in with their plates in hand, elbowing each other in feigned excitement, each going after his own little shovelful.
Soon enough the slices were divided among the little plates, in a silence full of commotion. The younger children, their mouths hidden by the table and their eyes at its level, watched the distribution with mute intensity. Raisins rolled out of the cake amid dry crumbs. The anguished children saw the raisins being wasted, intently watching them drop.
And when they went over to see, wouldn’t you know the birthday girl was already devouring her last bite?
And so to speak the party was over.
Cordélia looked at everyone absently, smiling.
“I already told you: no shop talk today!” José replied beaming.
“Right, right!” Manoel backed down placatingly without glancing at his wife who didn’t take her eyes off him. “You’re right,” Manoel tried to smile and a convulsion passed rapidly over the muscles of his face.
“Today is for Mother!” José said.
At the head of the table, the tablecloth stained with Coca-Cola, the cake in ruins, she was the mother. The birthday girl blinked.
There they were milling about boisterously, laughing, her family. And she was the mother of them all. And what if she suddenly got up, as a corpse rises slowly and imposes muteness and terror upon the living, the birthday girl stiffened in her chair, sitting up taller. She was the mother of them all. And since her pendant was suffocating her, she was the mother of them all and, powerless in her chair, she despised them all. And looked at them blinking. All those children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of hers who were no more than the flesh of her knee, she thought suddenly as if spitting. Rodrigo, her seven-year-old grandson, was the only one who was the flesh of her heart, Rodrigo, with that tough little face, virile and tousled. Where’s Rodrigo? Rodrigo with the drowsy, conceited gaze in that ardent and confused little head. That one would turn out to be a man. But, blinking, she looked at the others, the birthday girl. Oh how despicable those failed lives. How?! how could someone as strong as she have given birth to those dimwitted beings, with their slack arms and anxious faces? She, the strong one, who had married at the proper hour and time a good man whom, obediently and independently, she respected; whom she respected and who gave her children and repaid her for giving birth and honored her recovery time. The trunk was sound. But it had borne these sour and unfortunate fruits, lacking even the capacity for real joy. How could she have given birth to those frivolous, weak, self-indulgent beings? The resentment rumbled in her empty chest. A bunch of communists, that’s what they were; communists. She glared at them with her old woman’s ire. They looked like rats jostling each other, her family. Irrepressible, she turned her head and with unsuspected force spit on the ground.
“Mama!” cried the lady of the house, mortified. “What’s going on, Mama!” she cried utterly mortified, and didn’t even want to look at the others, she knew those good-for-nothings were exchanging triumphant glances as if it was up to her to make the old woman behave, and it wouldn’t be long before they were claiming she didn’t bathe their mother anymore, they’d never understand the s
acrifice she was making. “Mama, what’s going on!” she said softly, in anguish, “You’ve never done this before!” she added loudly so everyone would hear, she wanted to join the others’ shock, when the cock crows for the third time you shall renounce your mother. But her enormous humiliation was soothed when she realized they were shaking their heads as if they agreed that the old woman was now no more than a child.
“Lately she’s been spitting,” she ended up confessing apologetically to everyone.
Everyone looked at the birthday girl, commiserating, respectful, in silence.
They looked like rats jostling each other, her family. The boys, though grown—probably already in their fifties, for all I know!—the boys still retained some of their handsome features. But those wives they had chosen! And the wives her grandchildren—weaker and more sour still—had chosen. All vain with slender legs, and those fake necklaces for women who when it comes down to it can’t take the heat, those wimpy women who married off their sons poorly, who didn’t know how to put a maid in her place, and all their ears dripping with jewelry—none, none of it real gold! Rage was suffocating her.
“Give me a glass of wine!” she said.
Silence fell suddenly, everyone with a glass frozen in their hand.
“Granny darling, won’t it make you sick?” the short, plump little granddaughter ventured cautiously.
“To hell with Granny darling!” the birthday girl exploded bitterly. “The devil take you, you pack of sissies, cuckolds and whores! give me a glass of wine, Dorothy!” she ordered.
