The Piano Cemetery

by José Luís Peixoto

  ‘Grandad is loveliest of the world,’ said Elisa, when I was not yet sick and I didn’t know that my time was seeping away. Elisa was three, four years old and she’d wanted to come and be with me. I was making a door frame or a window frame or something when I saw her come in, so very little, her body still unsteady from climbing the stairs. For a moment her body was sketched by the sunlight. She sat down on a piece of wood on the carpentry shop floor.

  ‘Grandad is loveliest of the world.’ I took her in my arms and went to the patio door. Marta was still living in the house near the workshop. She had a straw hat on her head and she was sitting with Francisco on the bottom step. They were eating oranges and talking. In front of them, wagging its tail, was a dog. I went down the stairs, and as I approached them Elisa was playing with my ear. I put her down on the ground and she began to run around on the pine shavings. I stayed a bit to make the most of the cool. I peeled an orange. We talked about something that was more or less important at that moment. But that was a long time ago. The sky was loveliest of the world.

  I’d just arrived back from the workshop. The gentle voices of my children were gliding. As I dried myself with the towel that was hanging in the washroom, Francisco ran around my legs. It was the last moment of lightness. Someone knocked unhurriedly at the door. From that moment the light began to transform into the shadow that was the colour of the sky and the streets, the shadow which would turn black and come in through the night. I had already arrived back from the workshop. I opened the door.

  The wrinkled, distressed face of a woman looking at me from down there, who hadn’t yet come up to the front step. She looked away. She looked at me again. She asked if this was where my wife lived. She said my wife’s name. She said the name, solid but light, white, a single white shape; the unpronounceable name which exists, but which is impossible, because it is a name whose meaning is from a time before there were words, the first name, like a spot in the universe that’s still empty, waiting to be filled up with life, illusions, possibilities.

  Francisco, small, shy, leaned silently on the half-open door, watching the woman with his huge child’s eyes. My wife walked alone to the door and for a frozen moment she was frightened, her lips had no words, the palms of her hands on her skirt. She told the woman to come in. Marta, Maria and Simão fell silent when she entered. Francisco ran into my arms.

  The two of them sat at the table. Dimly lit. The woman chose the words and the moment to say them. She chose the voice to say them with — serious, firm. They weren’t merely words. My wife’s godmother, who’d had a boarding house, glasses, who opened the door to me that first time I saw my wife, who closed the doors and the windows when my wife told her she was going to have a child, who’d brought her up since she was small, had died.

  That night, there was nothing for us to do but sit at the kitchen table, after putting our children to bed, me listening, my wife telling all the stories she remembered about her godmother, about how she was sometimes tender, how she always laughed at the same jokes, how she invented enemies from among the women who lived next door, how she treated the plants in their pots, how austere she was and innocent. I know what my wife was thinking that night before she went to sleep.

  In the morning, dressed in black, she went into the morgue accompanied by the gentleman from the undertaker’s. At the end of the morning she opened the door to the chapel while the priest and the gentleman from the undertaker’s talked next to the coffin. She sat in a chair, her hands between her knees, and spent the whole afternoon looking at the same spot, and she was there the whole evening, the whole night. At the same time, at home, I was trying to tell Francisco not to make so much noise and filling Maria’s plate, and Simão’s, and using a gruff voice to tell them to eat it all up, and playing with them, and stopping playing with them, and saying to them:

  ‘It’s time for bed.’

  The nieces of the woman who had raised her only arrived the following morning. They passed through the incandescent light that flooded the open door to the chapel. They had black jackets over their shoulders, they were tired, pulling their husbands’ arms.

  Tuesday went by, with nothing happening. She darned socks. She took off Íris’s bandage. The man from the butcher’s talked to my wife about Francisco. He told her he was certain that next Sunday there was no doubt about it, Francisco would win for sure.

  ‘Oh, that would be good,’ said my wife.

  ‘For sure!’

  ‘Well, it would be good.’

  ‘For sure!’ the man repeated.

  Wednesday went by, with nothing happening. My wife was almost about to telephone Francisco’s wife. The morning came to an end, but it wasn’t yet the time Maria arrived for lunch. My wife was almost not going to wait for Maria, almost not going to ask her if she could make a telephone call. She would have to tell her afterwards. As soon as she arrived, she’d tell her. But right then she couldn’t wait. She had to know if there was any news from Francisco. But she didn’t want to give our daughter the satisfaction of letting her know that she’d made a call without asking. The last time they’d argued about this, my wife had sworn to herself that never again, never again would she use the telephone without asking first, a proud woman. But she had to know if there was any news from Francisco. Something inside was telling her, something inside was telling her. She couldn’t wait. But it wasn’t long until Maria’s lunchtime. But it was still a bit of time. But she didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. But. But. She was thinking these thoughts when the telephone rang. My wife took a breath, answered, and wasn’t surprised to find it was Francisco’s wife, talking quietly and telling her that everything was all right.

  ‘But is he liking Sweden?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Is it cold or hot there?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Do you think he might need a jacket?’

  ‘He just said that everything was all right.’

  Francisco’s wife didn’t even begin to answer my wife’s questions. Slowly, with each phrase, as though making her way down a staircase of phrases, my wife began to give up. At the same time she could imagine that perhaps Francisco’s wife had become accustomed to using that lifeless tone, that voice, when she still worked at the hospital, when she walked the nurses’ corridors pushing trolleys of trays or holding a capsule between her fingers. Having given up on asking about Francisco, my mother asked her about the pregnancy.

  ‘I’m getting on.’

  It wasn’t worth asking anything else. They said goodbye. When Maria arrived for lunch, my mother recounted the entire telephone call with Francisco’s wife. When Maria arrived home at the end of the afternoon, before they sat down for dinner, she told her again.

  It was on Thursday, after the tantrum thrown by Ana as she awoke, after holding Íris in her arms to say goodbye to her mother and sister down there, that my wife changed her skirt, put on an ironed blouse, put a bag on her arm and went out with Íris. They went down the stairs and reached the door to the street.

  Morning. The sky is absolute and it exists because it is July. The walls of the buildings are light from the same light that lightens the bodies of the people, the windscreens of the parked cars, the worn scratches on the pavements, the rubbish on the side of the road and the pavements made of stones in rows, of yellowed weeds and earthy holes. Íris wants to let go of her grandmother’s hand, wants to run on her own, with her little legs, her little knees below the end of her frilly skirt. My wife takes two steps, grabs her by the hand again, scolds with words that Íris pretends not to understand and on they go, the two of them, just so, together, along the pavement. They are going to market.

  My wife is thinking about what she’s going to buy, what she might perhaps buy. In her bag she has a closed purse; in the purse, coins and well-folded notes. Sometimes Íris starts to tire, walking more slowly, and my wife has to pull her by the arm. They reach the market.

  The sun is dazzling, reflecte
d by the loose plastic bags dragging along the ground. Around the market there are stalls and noise. Inside, in there, are the vegetables and fruit. Out here there are clothes, plastic toys, stakes stuck into the ground and cars passing by slowly, steering round the people who choose and look and ask for prices. Íris starts crying because she wants a toy — a clothes-iron made of plastic, a set of little saucepans made of plastic, a hairbrush and mirror and hairpins made of plastic. My wife tells her that if she behaves, if she behaves, when they’ve finished looking at everything she will come back and buy her a toy.

  My wife, dressed in black, and little Íris, continue on, hand in hand, making their way between people, looking at everything. And then, after a mixture of people and sun and colours yellowed by the sun, they reach a stall that displays sweaters, trousers, shirts and blouses and shorts and socks. My wife looks over the clothes and immediately sees only the black ones. Black smocks for the summer, plain black blouses for the summer. Íris, gripping her grandmother’s arm, sees only the two little gypsy children sitting on the clothes table, playing, naked from the waist down, barefoot, mouths circled with dust. My wife and Íris are surrounded by the remains of phrases spoken by the people passing by, by bits of a voice shouting into a megaphone that reaches them on the breeze, the dogs fighting, down over there, by the motorcars that slowly pass, steering round them, and occasionally sound their horns. It is now. My wife lifts her eyes from the clothes and sees the gypsy who came last week to bring Íris’s little blouse. She sees the cold — icy — eyes of the gypsy who on Sunday, as they returned from the workshop, was out on the street, leaning up against a corner.

  He’s maybe sixty. Gypsies never know their own age. It’s as though they were born at the beginning of time. He’s smoking a cigarette. When a breeze comes past, it ruffles the smoke and his beard. He looks at my wife. She’s at his stall. He’s leaning on his wagon. He straightens up. This movement, and what he says with his eyes, calls my wife over. Íris goes with her. And it’s all natural, with no hesitations — the gypsy lifts Íris up from under her arms and hands her to the youngest gypsy, who’s leaning on the clothes table, standing waiting for customers; this gypsy puts Íris down next to the two children who are playing on the clothes table, who are throwing socks at one another; my wife gives her hand to the gypsy so he can help her through the back door into the wagon — the door closes.

  Inside the wagon’s little storage room my wife is sitting on a heap of sweaters, still wrapped in thin shiny plastic bags. The gypsy is kneeling in front of her. This moment clashes with the moment in which they throw themselves at one another and kiss — the hard lips, rubbing, struggling, squeezing together. The gypsy’s hands are dry — dry veins in his skin — and they have gold rings on their fingers. The gypsy’s hands squeeze my wife’s chest, the black blouse, the thick black bra. One of his hands goes up under her skirt. Perhaps I no longer know her body. Years have passed since the last time I touched her skin — my hands feeling the small of her back, the shape of her waist. The gypsy draws back. His gaze and my wife’s gaze don’t draw back. He undoes his trousers. The quick, heavy breathing, only gradually calming down. And once again the gypsy throws himself on my wife. There is a moment of silence as he enters her. And there they remain, indifferent to the world, in the wagon’s little storage room, on a heap of nighties in plastic bags that make a noise with every movement, fitted together — my wife’s arms and legs wrapping around him.

  My wife emerges quickly from the wagon, arranging her hair. The gypsy emerges slowly, as though returning the movement to each leg and each arm. Abruptly my wife lifts Íris off the clothes table. In the air, Íris waits for her astonished face to be able to say goodbye to the children who played with her and who are still on the tangle of nighties, watching her move away. My wife takes her in her arms and makes her way between the people who cross her path.

  She stops, breathes, puts Íris down on the ground. She straightens herself up, breathes, keeps walking. At a given moment the stretched-out strings turn concrete, the knots at the end of the stakes turn concrete. My wife’s face is serene. She doesn’t think about stopping, but she feels Íris’s tugs and, looking at her, she remembers. Together they reach the toy stall.

  Íris, holding her grandmother’s hand, falls back as she looks at the plastic case she’s holding in her other hand — hairpins, a mirror and a hairbrush for dolls. Which is why she pays no attention to the way they are going, and is only surprised when they reach the workshop, when my wife is already putting the key into the lock of the big workshop door.

  The nieces of the woman from the boarding house come back from the cemetery alongside my wife. They had nothing to say, but they asked questions just so they could be saying something. My wife wasn’t afraid of silence, she needed it, and she didn’t answer them. Sometimes she’d change the expression on her face, as though these slight changes had some meaning, but she didn’t answer them. When they were saying their goodbyes, friendly, they told her that late that afternoon they would be going to the boarding house to deal with some matters relating to the sharing-out and they’d expect her there.

  My wife kept on going, without any sleep. She spent the afternoon dealing with our children, with Marta’s help. When she managed to sit down, she stopped to enjoy the rays of light that passed through the windows and came to rest diagonally on the floor.

  After the streets, she reached the pavement outside the boarding house, the wall with the ivy leaves that she’d climbed so many times to meet me. We were young on the nights of that summer. That evening my wife was still young, but she knew she had lost something for ever. In her thoughts, her godmother’s face, dead, lying in the chapel, mingled with all the years when that same face, alive, another face, would smile at her, would become angry with her, would explain everything to her. And she’d say:

  ‘Daughter.’

  She’d end her requests with that word. Often, in the middle of a sigh, within some phrase, she would say just that word:

  ‘Daughter.’

  My wife remembered a great deal — everything. Too many winters, Christmases, too much time when it was just the two of them, together and alone. One of the nieces of the woman from the boarding house opened the door and wrapped her in a voice that feigned familiarity. The walls were strong — they were eternal, one might say. My wife went into the house, that house she never thought she would enter again. In every corner she saw herself, little, enchanted by some mystery, or sad. In every corner, in the empty space of the open doors, in the corridor, she saw the face of her godmother — smiling, angry, explaining everything to her, just straightforward.

  In the living room the other niece took some steps towards my wife to speak to her as though they had lost the same thing.

  ‘Leave it,’ she said.

  The nieces’ husbands, rather bored, remained seated in their armchairs.

  On the table there were tea services wrapped in newspaper, open boxes of cutlery, rows of goblets, piles of folded doilies, copper ashtrays, orphaned figures in porcelain.

  Then, after a moment that the nieces deemed sufficient, they sat my wife down in an armchair and said to her:

  ‘We’ve called you here because we want you to accept something.’

  And they looked at her, expecting gratitude. And the fake enthusiasm of their own expressions prevented them from noticing that my wife’s face remained immobile. Trying to preserve the surprise, they moved almost in silence, clumsily. With their bodies they were blocking the thing they wanted to give her. They looked back at her over their shoulders. One of them walked backwards towards her. When she turned, she held out to her the thing they wanted to give her. And looked at her, expectant.

  It was a teaspoon that my wife, as a girl, had bought to give to her godmother. It was a delicate, simple spoon. At the end of the handle she had engraved a single small word: mother.

  Simão never wanted to know. My wife always worried. He never wanted to know. He was st
ill small when my wife and I said to him:

  ‘Your sisters are going to be someone, and you’ll be nobody. Your sisters are going to be ashamed of you. Two sisters who’re going to be someone with a brother who will be nobody.’

  He turned his back on us. And went up to his room. My wife and I would be left there, saying nothing. At other times he would be harsh. He’d shout:

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  And turn his back on us. And go up to his room. I’d say:

  ‘There’s something wrong with that boy.’

  At other times I’d follow him up the stairs and go into his room. He’d open his left eye wide and almost lifted the lid off the right. I’d squeeze his arms and shake him as I said:

  ‘Is that any way to talk to your father?!’

  Íris is nearly three, and she knows it’s different going into the workshop now, just as it was different last Sunday, as it was different in those days when she would arrive at the workshop with her grandmother, with her mother, to visit Uncle Francisco. Today the workshop is empty — the little birds, the little birds in the roof beams — and her grandmother hearing every step she takes on the earth floor of the entrance, she’s thinking about something, but there’s only the empty workshop — the objects alone there, the solitude of the tools, of the pieces of wood, of the pianos.

  My wife knows it’s different going into the workshop now. On Sunday there was something in her that was soothed by the voices of our daughters, of our grandchildren. At times it was like those afternoons when I was still alive, when she would gather all our children together and together they would all come into the workshop. Now, everyone knows, it’s different.

  My wife stops at the threshold of the carpentry shop. Íris lets go of her hand. My wife doesn’t have the strength to hold on to her. Íris moves away slowly. Stumbling twice on loose stones, she reaches the entrance to the piano cemetery. My wife’s tired voice: