The Piano Cemetery

by José Luís Peixoto

  through the July heat, the afternoon

  through the December cold, the night

  through the July heat, the afternoon — this afternoon — I remember those moments when I’d come running out of the workshop, alone, training for being here, alone, and when I imagined what might happen when I was here, never believing that I’d remember what I imagined I would think, never believing that I was already thinking what I’m thinking now.

  and I had taken a decision. There was nothing to decide, I couldn’t change what was set, but just let my arms and legs lose their strength on the bed, just let my body rest, accept the night, when, in the darkness of my room, I convinced myself that I had taken a decision. I was going to have a child, and so I would be another person. I didn’t know, however, that the next day was going to be so long, and in the morning when I arrived at the door of the workshop and saw my brother — the white lid of his right eye, his cracked lips — I was able to smile sincerely. After explaining to him what there was to do, I leaned over my bench to continue the work I’d begun the day before. It had been some weeks since my brother’s voice had sounded in the air of the carpentry shop. It had been some weeks since the specks of sawdust — rising, hovering like a universe — had been touched by my brother’s voice. It happened slowly, it was nearly mid-morning when he spoke a few words. From these loose, spaced-out words — just their syllables, almost — phrases grew. Piled up like a muddled tower, stories grew. Slowly, my brother was the lad who told me endless stories. My brother was still coming back. But I had other stories, divided up into phrases, divided up into words, trembling inside me. Distress. When lunchtime arrived, I told Simão that I wouldn’t be long. There were a lot of people on the streets, too many — solid shapes. I arrived at her house and knocked at the door. The lady — her smile — the corridor — the music from the piano — invisible cornucopias — the pictures on the walls — the door to the hall. Behind me the lady disappeared. I opened the door. She stopped playing and looked at me. Her skin was even lighter, under the brightness of her eyes. Her smooth hair followed the straight line of her back. Her hands. Her white, thin hands taking off my clothes as my hands took off her clothes. My hands running over the surface of her skin. Her hands squeezed against my back. My hands gripping her arms, wrapping around them. The palms of my hands wrapping round her arms. Her hands digging into the nape of my neck. My hands opening, losing all their strength, grabbing at the air. Her hands stretched out over the rug. Our hands’ forgotten time. And her hands, alive. Her hands, animals — cats, birds, wild animals — on the piano keys. And the music stretched over the whole hall, the whole air, the whole world, inside my naked body, inside the ribs arched on the rug — music being breathed. And again, reality — the cold, strange clothes on my body. The streets — my body a stranger to myself. The afternoon passed within my brother’s monotonous voice, his monotonous enthusiasm, within time that repeated itself. I closed the big workshop doors. My brother went into the taberna. I was ready and I started to run. I ran as though I wanted to, as though I was able to overtake the wind, as though my body didn’t exist and it was only my will that ran, that was fast, fast between the houses one after another, the streets, and everything I didn’t want to see. I arrived home. I washed. I walked across the city. At the entrance to the hospital, as I waited for her, my decision became more solid within me. There were night-time noises, the branches of the trees moving over the nocturnal imprecision of the cold, the lit-up windows of the hospital, and me. Ruled by time, utterly, I waited for her and my decision became

  Kilometre seventeen

  evening falling. Another summer afternoon comes to an end. Marta is already a woman, she’s sixteen years old. Maria imitates all her gestures awkwardly — she is fourteen years old. In the kitchen our mother is doing something simple, superfluous, and another summer afternoon comes to an end. The lightness that comes in through the bedroom window, that touches the folds in the curtains, is yellow and sweet — honey. Beyond the window, the sun comes down on buildings and for a moment turns their edges incandescent. The lightness touches the face of my sister Marta, sitting on her made bed, and touches the face of my sister Maria, sitting on the floor, sitting on her feet, knees bent in front of her, leaning against the wall. Marta has a boyfriend, and no one knows, no one must know, except for Maria. Sometimes at dinner Maria and Marta exchange a look because something has reminded them of their secrets. Maria dreams of the day when she too will have a boyfriend, she dreams about him. For a few moments, like a lightning flash, she believes she can see his face: every detail, the eyes, the lips, the lines that are so real. Marta and Maria’s voices and dreams are mingled together. Marta describes everything she feels, she describes a thousand times all the little encounters she has with her boyfriend, everything she believes, everything she understands. Maria describes the stories she has read in romance novels, she describes how they end, she says, ‘If this hadn’t happened, and if that hadn’t happened, if he hadn’t been jealous, if she hadn’t been proud.’ Maria listens to her sister as though she has finally met a heroine from a romance novel. Marta listens to her sister, imagining herself having the same dilemmas as the heroine from a romance novel. Their voices are feminine, and luminous. The afternoon draws to an end slowly. Simão arrives from work, comes by me and my mother. Time is calm over the objects of the world, and in the motion of the world. My father will arrive later. Until then, the evening falling, like torn paper raining down from the sky.

  my decision within me. They were shadows. She approached, coming out of the shadows. When I noticed she was there, she was already very close, she could almost have touched me if she’d reached out an arm. She took three steps, and she could have touched me if she’d reached out an arm. The words I’d chosen, and repeated, and memorised to say to her, were lost. As though I knew no other words, I just looked at her. Her voice, rescuing me. A chasm hadn’t opened up into the centre of the earth, the rivers hadn’t run with blood, night hadn’t frozen over the city. Her voice, in simple words, telling me that everything was all right, the universe was still going, I could breathe. I breathed. And it was there, in front of the hospital where my father had died, on that strangely real night, that I held her hands and said to her liquid eyes, ‘We’re getting married.’

  by one another. Groups of runners pass me. I don’t know what wind it is that’s carrying them along. The sun presses me against the ground. The sun bends my back, the ground pulls at my chest, but I am stronger, stronger, bigger than the exhaustion. I’ve long known that moment when the body starts repeating: give up, give up, give up. My legs don’t give up. Give up, give up, give up. But I am still alternating my arms ahead of my body, as though punching the air, as though fighting the air and it was getting ever weaker, ever closer to giving up. And my body is heavier than the ship that brought me out of Lisbon. Give up, give up, give up. I don’t give up. Groups of runners pass me now, the wind carries them along, but I am bigger than the exhaustion. The sun, defeated, will leave me to the silence. On my skin the special grease that covers me will be cool again. I’ll stop hearing the voice that repeats in my head — the sun. I’ll keep hearing the voice that exists in my core — my will. The sun will stop to torture them and I’ll overtake them in triumph, the air will be light again, I will thank the wind that brushes my cheeks to cool me. I haven’t given up. I’m not giving up now. My wife and my son are waiting for me. My son will wait for me before being born. When he is born I’ll have this, this will, to give him. His face, small, unimaginable, will look at me and understand that he has been born out of an energy that is greater, more incandescent, more intense than the sun. Feeling himself protected in my arms — these arms — the same arms that now alternate ahead of my chest and which are like two worlds — day, night. Two lives separated by a moment that doesn’t exist. Two lives that alternate, that repeat and follow one another, endlessly, after everything, endlessly, endlessly

  never, the night when tha
t thing happened that we’ll never be able to forget. I was ten years old, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d start accompanying my father in the mornings when it was time for him to go off to the workshop. It was a November which had rain every day. There was no difference between Mondays and Tuesdays. Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays were all the same. I was sitting at the end of the kitchen table. I had a pencil in my hand, my exercise book in front of me and I was finishing an exercise of casting out nines. When I made a mistake I didn’t have a rubber so I’d rub out with little pieces of bread. My mother would say, ‘The bread’s not for ruining.’ My sisters, when they walked by, would lean over the exercise book and scorn the dirty pages — grey charcoal clouds. It was getting dark early, and when Simão arrived I could imagine the opaque night in the yard, over the branches and thick leaves of the lemon tree. Simão smiled at our sisters and our mother. Simão liked talking to me. When we were alone he’d spend hours telling me all the words his head could think of, but with our mother and our sisters he could manage no more than a little voice of embarrassment. That was his way of adoring them, of looking at them from a distance, of being happy at their happiness, of hiding an absolute feeling behind his face, as though hiding a well, a mineshaft. And with our father, not even a smile, not even a meaning that was only imagined. Only silence. Deep and opaque like the night. Life went on in the kitchen, with my mother and sisters, organised, getting the dinner finished — their steps around the table. After washing his arms and face, Simão sat down, his palms turned up towards the fire. The wick of the oil lamp and the fire undid the shadows that fell against the walls, cleaned the shadows in the most hidden corners. Maria began to lay the table. No one found it odd that Simão had sat down. His place was at one end of the table. I finished up my schoolwork and sat down at my place. When there was nothing left but to set down the tureen in the middle of the table, my sisters sat down at their places. As though the gaze from each of us were a ribbon reaching out from our bodies, we followed our mother’s path with the tureen until she reached the table. Marta served us all. My mother went to fetch the bread, a knife, and went to do other things, because there were, after all, still things to be done. Marta, Maria, Simão and I had already started eating when we heard the front door bang clumsily, not closing, banging again, staying closed. We all knew then that

  Kilometre eighteen

  our father had just arrived. When he opened the kitchen door and came in, bumping into the doorpost, no one looked at him. He had been at the taberna. When he spoke, we recognised the voice he spoke with. It was a wet, rounded voice, sometimes slurred. It was a voice that hesitated on random syllables, as though falling asleep in the middle of a word, as though it wasn’t going to finish it. It was a voice that alternated between serious and seriouser. Words pressed themselves against one another in this voice. Our mother didn’t reply to him. Marta, Maria, Simão and I kept eating. Our father’s sweater was rough, it prickled. I recognised its touch. It was brown, stained, with little holes in the knitting, elbows worn, with dust, sawdust, wood shavings. Our father. We recognised the voice that he used to speak to our mother, and to nobody, a voice with which he complained that we hadn’t waited for him to start our dinner. Underneath his dragging, badly articulated, repeated words, silence. After a moment, our mother pulled out his chair, and as though speaking to a child, told him to sit. Our father ran his fingers through his hair — dust, sawdust, wood shavings — muttered some incomprehensible grumblings, turned his head one way — his voice muffled — turned his head the other way and sat. Our mother filled his plate with soup and continued on towards the things she had to do. He was serious, his expression frozen. And suddenly he woke up. He looked for his spoon. Grumbling, he waved his spoon in the air, eventually bringing it down into the soup. He lifted the spoon again, and again brought it down into the soup. He lifted the spoon again, opened his mouth, but once again brought it down into the soup. My brother and sisters and I kept eating. Our father asked our mother why we hadn’t waited for him. She didn’t reply. Our father lifted his full spoon, waited and threw it back down into the plate. And he asked why we hadn’t waited for him. Our mother didn’t reply. Getting angrier and angrier, his eyes changing, he asked again why we hadn’t waited for him. Our mother didn’t reply. He stood up suddenly, and the chair fell on to its back. He took two steps towards our mother and grabbed her by the arm, squeezed her arm. He turned her towards him. There was a wall of hell in his eyes. Again he asked her the same question. She didn’t seem very scared. Again he asked her the same question. A moment of stillness — breathing. And he gave her a shove in the back. Our mother fell to her knees on the kitchen floor. Simão got up from his place. Our father turned to face him. He touched him with his rage. And he turned to face our mother. He came closer to her. Again he asked her the same question. She again didn’t reply. Our father raised his hand to strike her, letting the blows fall wherever they might. Maybe her face, maybe her back. He had his arm in the air, when he felt a hand holding his wrist. It was Simão. His lips were pursed and his eyes were also burning. As though unable to believe it, in his hate, our father turned towards him. Without anyone noticing, our mother got up and leaned against a wall. My father’s gaze and Simão’s, meeting one another, were a single iron bar. But our father wasn’t afraid of anything. His strength was invincible. He tugged his arm free. My brother continued to look at him with all the strength of his left eye, challenging him. Simão was a man of sixteen. He wasn’t afraid of anything. For a moment, our father understood whole sentences in that gaze, and wanted to shut them up, and wanted to silence them for ever from out of that blind gaze. The thick palm of his hand came through the air. A quick movement by my brother held his arm. Our father didn’t want to believe it. Our father’s strength against Simão’s strength. Blood flowing in their veins. Our father. Fury, rage, unable to do anything. With both hands my brother pushed him. Our father was down where he’d fallen, humiliated, incredulous. He got up, ran to Simão and was pushed again, and fell again. He got up, wary, his voice blocked by something he wasn’t able to say, and he shouted, ‘Out!’ He pointed at the door, his arm shaking, and called him names, every kind of name, and shouted: ‘Out!’ My brother, over his voice, shouted, ‘You’ll never see me again!’ The words stabbed into our chests, tore our skin, through our ribs, stabbing like knives one after another into our hearts. Our mother’s face, begging. Our sisters’ faces, frightened, hurt. My face invisible. And the voices of Simão and our father the voices of men. Simão shouting: ‘I’m never setting foot in this wretched house again!’ And our father who didn’t stop shouting, ‘Out!’ Not stopping: ‘Out!’ And Simão, taking nothing with him, not even a jacket, went out — the night — and slammed the door. Our mother, in silence, took two steps as though to follow him and stopped at the thundering of the door. We were still, under the cloak of wretchedness that covered us. Our father lost all his strength and was transformed into his own shadow. After that night Simão never came into the house again, and he never again saw our father.

  Kilometre nineteen

  forgive me, little girl. Please, forgive me. I know how your hands saved me. I can still remember your skin, your whole body, your eyes watching me through the darkness, your eyes shining. I want your voice, little girl, sweet little girl. We can dream together. We can sit together and share a thought. Forgive me. The days will go back to being the size they were when we walked across gardens hand in hand. The sun which illuminated us then must always exist to illuminate us. Forgive me. The same weightlessness continues, like light, like light, that filled us up. I ask you — forgive me. We are everything, again — we still believe. Time hasn’t passed. The days will go back to being the surface on which we dream. The afternoons

  alone. We married without witnesses and walked the streets hand in hand. Because I wanted a life that was just ours, I had replaced some things in the house. I’d built a new bed. I’d bought a mattress. I’d made a table a
nd four chairs. I’d bought a stove. My mother and my sisters only learned that we’d got married two days later, when I told them. My mother understood. My sisters didn’t understand, but after ten minutes they’d forgotten their inability to understand. And they wanted to know what she was like. They wanted to meet her. They wanted to imagine our child. They smiled. Five weeks had passed since the night she told me she was pregnant. It was a Sunday afternoon, January. She had a three-month belly, her skin slightly raised. When we were alone I would run the palm of my hand over her belly. My mother was carrying Íris, Maria came holding Ana’s hand, Elisa came holding Hermes’s hand, Marta came alone. They arrived and occupied all the chairs we had. When we began to talk, Ana started playing with Hermes in a corner. My mother was happy at the house’s being brought back to life. My sisters stared at my wife. They tried to talk to her, but it was hard for her to reply. At that time

  sun that blinds us. I’ve just crossed a bridge and I pass a runner, stopped at the side of the road, hands resting on his bent knees, who has lost control of his breathing. The air, like a stone, goes in and out of him, the world goes in and out of him. He closes his eyes and his whole face grimaces. A small distance away there are people who don’t get any closer but who watch him, fearful. I don’t give up, I don’t give up. The sun stabs needles into my eyes — needles made from lines of light. But still I go on, still I go on, still