But at night horses relieved of their burdens and put out to pasture would gallop slender and free in the dark. Foals, ponies, sorrels, long mares, hard hooves — a horse’s cold and dark head — hooves beating, muzzles foaming rising toward the air in rage and grumbling. And sometimes a sigh that would chill the grasses with tremors. Then the bay would go ahead. He was sidling past, his head leaning down to his chest, galloping smoothly. The others were watching without looking.
Sitting halfway up in bed Lucrécia Neves would sense the dry hooves advancing until halting on the highest point of the hill. And the head dominating the township, letting out its long neigh. Fear would overtake her in the darkness of the room, the terror of a king, the young girl would want to respond displaying her gums. In the envy of desire her face would take on the restless nobility of a horse’s head. Tired, jubilant, listening to the sleepwalking trot. She’d hardly left her room when her form would start swelling and firming up, and when she’d reach the street she’d already be galloping with sensitive feet, her hooves sliding down the final steps. From the deserted sidewalk she’d look at: one corner and another. And she’d see things as a horse sees them. Because there was no time to lose: even at night the city was at work fortifying itself and in the morning new trenches would be ready. From her bed she’d at least try to listen to the hill in the pasture where in the dark nameless horses were galloping returned to the state of hunting and war. Until she’d fall asleep.
But the beasts didn’t abandon the township. And if amidst the wild patrol a white colt appeared — it was a fright in the dark. All of them would halt. The prodigious horse would appear. It would display itself rearing for an instant. Motionless the animals would wait without glancing at each other. But one of them would stomp its hoof. And the brief thump would break the night watch: spurred on they’d suddenly advance lively, crisscrossing without touching and among them the white horse would be lost. Until a neigh of sudden anger would warn them — for a second watchful, they’d soon spread out in a new composition of trotting, their backs without riders, their necks lowered until their mouths touched their chests. Their manes bristling; rhythmic, uncultured.
The late night would find them motionless in the dark. Stable and weightless. There they were, invisible, breathing. Waiting with brief intelligence. Below, in the sleeping township, a rooster was flying and perching on the ledge of a window. The hens were watching. Beyond the railroad a rat ready to flee.
Then the dapple-gray stomped its foot. Nobody had a mouth to speak with but one would give a small signal that would sound off from space to space in the darkness. They were peering out. Those animals that had one eye for seeing on each side — nothing was seen straight on, and that was the night of Sāo Geraldo, the flanks of a horse quivering in a quick contraction. In the first silences a mare would open wide her eyes as if surrounded by eternity. The most restless colt was still raising its mane in a deaf neigh. Finally silence would reign.
Until dawn would reveal them. They were spread out, standing on the hill. Exhausted, cool.
And on the threshold of morning, when all were sleeping and the light had hardly separated from the moisture of the trees — on the threshold of morning the highest point of the city would become Efigênia.
From the slightly more livid horizon a bird was rising, and over by the railroad the mists were passing. The well-spaced trees still kept the motionlessness of the night. Only the blades of grass were trembling in the fresh breeze, in the meadow a sheet of old paper was vibrating. Efigênia was getting up and looking at the plain whose former roughness had been smoothed by the wind of so many nights. She’d touch the light of the windowpane wiping it with her elbow. Then she’d kneel and pray the only sentence that had stayed with her from the Sisters orphanage, from that time when the highest window of the Convent opened onto a lost village: I feel in my flesh a law that contradicts the law of my spirit, she was saying absently. What her flesh was, she’d never found out; in this moment it was a kneeling form. What her spirit was, she didn’t know. Maybe it was the hardly risen morning light above the tracks. Her body had only served her as a sign in order to be seen; her spirit, she was seeing it on the plain. Scratching herself violently in her transfiguration: you could no longer say she was small because when kneeling she’d lose her recognizable form. Rheumatism was her hardship. And such did she muster herself diffuse on the brightness of her spirit above the meadow that her spirit was already no longer hers. She would stay like this, thinking through the intermediary of the light she was seeing. The sheet of paper went flying across the plain, had nestled against a tree and was trembling trapped against the trunk. I feel in my flesh a law that contradicts the law of my spirit, she was saying clearing her throat in the dawn: everything was quivering more and more though nothing was transformed.
But behold a sheet of paper vibrating in steel amidst the dark foliage like a sign in order to be seen. Efigênia was getting up with effort, recuperating her dry form and entering the kitchen. The pans were cold, and the stove dead. Soon the flame was rising, smoke filling the compartment and the woman coughing with eyes full of tears. Wiping them, opening the back door and spitting.
The earth of the yard was hard. In the space the clothesline. Efigênia was rubbing her hands warming them: all that was about to be transformed by her gaze. A gaze that didn’t come from her eyes but from her stone face — that’s how others saw her and knew there was no point in complaining. Looking at that face they were supposed to hide their weakness, show their crudeness and not expect praise — that was how Efigênia was good and merciless. She’d head back to the kitchen, swallow a few gulps of coffee while blowing on it, coughing, spitting, filling herself with the first heat. Then she’d open the door and the smoke was freed. Standing in the doorway, without imploring, without mercy.
Behold the neutral brightness covering the meadow. Dark birds were flying. All the foliage was now pierced by light, gravity and fragrance. The woman was spitting into the distance with more confidence, hands on her hips. Her jewel-like hardness. The clothesline was swaying under the weight of a sparrow. She was spitting again, gruff, happy. Her spirit’s work had been done: it was day.
2 The Citizen
“Marine beings, when not affixed to the sea floor, adapt to a drifting or pelagic life,” Perseu studied on the afternoon of May 15, 192. . .
Heroic and empty the citizen remained standing beside the open window. But in fact he could never transmit to anyone the way in which he was harmonious, and even if he spoke he wouldn’t say a word that conveyed the graciousness of his appearance: his extreme harmony was simply evident.
“Pelagic animals reproduce with profusion,” he said with hollow luminosity. Blind and glorious — that was all that could be known of him seeing him from the street at a third-story window. But if no one could ever fathom his harmony — neither did he seem to feel any more than that. Because this was his degree of light. “Marine animals and plants with profusion,” he said without a push but without brakes because this was his degree of light. It didn’t matter that in the light he was as blind as others in the dark. The difference is that he was in the light. “Drifting,” he said. Unnoticed at the window because he was simply one of the modes of being São Geraldo. And also one of its founders only for having been born when the township too was being erected, just for having a last name that would only become strange when one day São Geraldo changed its name; standing in front of the open window. That was the nature of a race of man.
And that’s how he remained, observing with dedication Efigênia who in the street was carrying a basket. The woman stopped and while resting let her eye wander idly and with a certain despair over the sunny surroundings: it was almost three and all the doors started opening at the same time. Efigênia picked the basket back up. Only to stop again a bit farther on and ruefully drag her load. Finally she halted once more — but Perseu was patient. “The animals,” he said
. The woman picked the basket back up. “Reproduce with extraordinary profusion,” Perseu said. To memorize was beautiful. While you were memorizing you didn’t think, the vast thought was the body existing — his concretization was luminous: he was motionless in front of a window. “They feed on basic micro-vegetation, infusoria, etc.”
“Etc.!” he repeated shining, unconquerable.
And now he was quieting down, sluggish and full of sun. “Marine beings,” he said in a murmur; the boy’s unawareness was broadly dominating the city. “Reproduce,” he added somberly. His wings were great motionless wings. He then leaned out the window and shouted:
“Fruit seller! come up!”
Ah! flew a frightened crow.
Big, revealed in his naked arms, he bought tangerines in the dark hallway.
He returned and perched on the windowsill. Soon he was eating and tossing the seeds into the dirty alley. Looking while blinking: the seed would bounce twice before becoming motionless in the sun. Perseu didn’t lose sight of it despite the distance and the people who were already crossing back and forth hurriedly: he was patient. And soon the street was ending up full of concrete points: countless seeds spread out in an arrangement that had a blatant meaning — except it was incomprehensible. Like the houses arranged along the street. It was in his nature to be able to possess an idea and not know how to think it: obfuscated, persistent, tossing seeds, that’s how he’d explain it. There were even a few anecdotes about the slow intelligence of the men of São Geraldo, whereas the women were so clever! “They reproduce with extraordinary profusion!” said the young man suddenly spurred on.
Before long he was once again absorbed by the kind of perfection that existed in tossing seeds; everything that resembled mechanisms was already starting to interest the new citizens. He, absorbed yet remote. Since his time seemed impossible to be filled by an action: he was tossing seeds into the void. It was just that some sign was making it so that inside that breadth was his life specifically. “Pelagic marine beings,” he said quite loudly with his mouth full.
What was saving this lost creature from anguish is that he was lost as God wanted one to be innocent: he ate and tossed the seeds. The world could do without this blind bricklayer. But since he was living, no one else could carry out his work, so intransmissible it had already become: so he tossed three more seeds, drawing back his head and aiming with one eye shut . . . “A life drifting or pelagic,” he exclaimed pulling himself together. Behind his beautiful and resigned face was another that, repeating his external features, had a somewhat horrible expression, the expression of a deep thought. And a moral intolerance — the intolerance of São Geraldo’s people — both larger and more amorphous than that of the exterior face that was seeking a certain unity that could be immediately understood by a mirror: behind the golden and courteous face an almost disagreeable whiff of the stable because he was still quite young.
Thus several proportional and ripened moments had passed while the young man was tossing the seeds as if he’d been refining gold in a workshop — the first ringing of the bells made him lift a face made sleepy by its concentration. For an instant a countenance beyond reach was waiting without interest for whatever they were going to say to him: the clock in the square was striking three broad hours over São Geraldo and beneath the vibrant ringing the township was sinking. When it reappeared dripping with the last echoes, the township was bright and everything could be more seen: on the table by the window the open book was resting, and on the page revealed by the sudden clarity of the hour was inscribed:
“This discoidal animal is formed according to the symmetry based on the number 4.”
That’s what it said! And the sun was beating down on the dusty page: a cockroach was even climbing the house across the street . . . Then the young man said something as lustrous as a scarab:
“Pelagic animals reproduce with extraordinary profusion,” he finally exclaimed from memory.
The delayed church clock struck three. Ah! the crow pursued again was terrified. Perseu shook the last two seeds in the palm of his hand and threw them as dice. Game over! It was afternoon. The young man stopped astonished and empty. Unexpectedly he opened his great wings in a yawn of youth.
3 The Hunt
On that same afternoon the cadence of hooves was heard on the stones of Market Street. The wagon and the horse were picking up the pace. Suddenly the horse’s head grew, with one frightened movement of the neck it arose: purple gums appeared and the bridles cut into its mouth — in a neighing of its whole body and in the stridency of the wheels: the horse and the wagon. Then the wind kept blowing in silence.
What was happening on the street had no effect but was calling out as if to watch a fire.
In her bedroom a young woman was standing and, if trying to keep her wits about her, was already finding herself surrendered to sound itself without language. Also in the room the objects, in a constant way, had become unbearable beyond a few seconds — the girl always had her back turned to some thing; the room had already rushed ahead, heavy with ornaments. She alone was still too aware to go ahead with the disguise, the wind between the houses was rushing her.
While she was taking off her shoes she was even goading on the confusion of the room and the street, from which she’d take her own shape. Nothing however had yet pushed her toward the reality of what was happening. In the gloomy chamber the brightness was the keyhole.
Finally the choice of a hat made her concentrate letting her catch up with the room. She opened the drawer and from the darkness into the air brought her most ornate hat. She sought with care a new way to wear it. Her urge was hard and would never burst into tears: with the hat pushed down to her forehead she looked at herself in the mirror. She was making herself inexpressive and with empty eyes as if this were the most real way to see herself. She couldn’t quite reach herself however, charmed by the deep unreality of her image. She ran her fingers over her tongue, moistened her brows . . . then looked at herself with severity.
The scarlet roses on the wall were unattainable in the mirror, bunches of roses that from being so motionless moved forward.
Until touched by her own attention, she started to see herself with difficulty.
Lucrécia Neves would never be beautiful. She had however a surplus of beauty that doesn’t exist in pretty people. The hair upon which the fantastic hat rested was ample; and the many black spots spread out in the light of her skin gave her an external tone to be touched by fingers. Only her straight eyebrows ennobled her face, where something vulgar existed like a barely sensitive sign of the future of her narrow and deep soul. Her whole nature didn’t seem to reveal itself: it was a habit of hers to lean forward when talking to people, her eyes half-closed — she’d seem then, like the township itself, excited by an event that wasn’t set in motion. Her face was inexpressive unless a thought made it hesitate.
Though it wasn’t this possibility of wit and sweetness that she was making the most of. It was whatever rigidity there was in a face that the girl, getting ready, would accentuate. And once she was ready — disguising herself with a superficiality that didn’t try to draw attention to the body but to its adornments — her figure would hide itself beneath emblems and symbols, and in her intense charm the girl would resemble an ideal portrait of herself. Which didn’t please her — it was work.
She suddenly leaned toward the mirror and sought the loveliest way to see herself, opened her mouth, looked at her teeth, closed it . . . Soon, from her fixed gaze, was emerging at last the way of not penetrating too much and of looking with slight effort only at the surface — and of quickly no longer looking. The girl looked: her ears were white among her tangled strands of hair from which was emerging a face that the sprinkled spots were making tremble — and without lingering, because she’d overreach by going too far: this was the loveliest way to see herself!
She sighed impatient, courageous. She
closed and opened her eyes, opened her mouth excessively in order to peer at her teeth: and for a rare instant saw herself with a red tongue, in an apparition of beauty and calm horror . . . She breathed more satisfied, without knowing why rejoicing: in the closed room, full of delicate chairs, everything was getting so burlesque with a red tongue! the young lady laughed with gravity as if she had a dwarf to torment. She then continued the disguise. Pleased, silent and crude while climbing into her patent leather shoes. Now she really was taller and more daring, the clarion gave the call to plunder.
But in fact her superficiality was a severe stripping-down and when she was ready she’d look like an object, an object of São Geraldo. That’s what she was working on ferociously with calm.
While she was dressing the intimate murmuring with which she was dressing was slowly transforming itself into a terribly mischievous stupidity: she was looking at the roses on the wallpaper playing dumb inside, somehow imitating the existence of the wardrobe she was rifling through in search of the bracelet. She was touching one thing or another as if reality were whatever was unreachable. And it was — with a little tap on the dust of her shoe — Lucrécia Neves saw that it was, though she laughed foolishly, the horse neighing in the street down below — with a little tap on the dust of her shoe she was seeing the various shapes of the room, the roses, the chair! but she was ignoring a certain stubbornness that the fact of having imitated the wardrobe had brought her — and kept looking for the bracelet.
The Besieged City Page 4
