by Unknown
The corporal looked with suspicion at this freak wearing an alb on top of his work clothes. He was joking. Parodying the phrase always used in police reports and press releases: ‘conveniently interrogated’.
‘There’s no need for us all to be conveniently interrogated, my commander, because I’m the one who’s to blame. They simply responded to my invocation, my Kyrie eleison.’
‘I like brave people, so I’m going to show you a kindness,’ replied the corporal. He led him to a cupboard hanging from the wall, which he opened by pulling the handle with the tip of his rifle.
It was full of whips. Different makes and sizes. One with iron balls.
‘Domine, non sum dignus,’ murmured Polka.
‘Between you and me,’ said the corporal, ‘it takes balls to do what you did. Throw a dummy of the Generalissimo into the river. With a bit of Latin to boot.’
‘It was Carnival.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He pointed to the cupboard with whips. ‘You can choose one. You deserve it.’
In Polka’s words, ‘It became clear to me then that, deep down, he was a very liberal Fascist.’
‘What a pig!’ exclaims O as she recalls the story. ‘Even made him choose a whip.’ She looks at Pinche and the photo of him as an executioner at the Tower of London, about to crop a tourist at the neck. ‘What the hell! Send it to him. He’s sure to laugh. He sees the humour in everything.’
The Camden Town Fire-Eater
Some women carried fire on top of their heads, factory workers who sometimes placed oil lamps there on wintry nights, on their way to the factory, to play at being souls, though it may not have been a game, like this girl with the green crest ejecting flames through her mouth in Camden Town, having juggled torches while balancing a larger torch on her forehead, between her eyebrows, flames rising to the sky, that’s what I call art, no need to put on an act, risk your neck, like Pinito del Oro, the trapeze artist who fell at Price Circus, set up in Riazor Field, slipped out of the sky without a net, only the arms of a man to break her fall, of course I’m sorry she fell but, since she fell, I’m also sorry not to have been there, it’s all people talked about, seemed everyone was there that night to see Pinito del Oro fall, I don’t have that bad dream about falling, they say it’s a common nightmare, but I am afraid of fire, a form of fear to me, which is what happened to Mary of the Shells, the one with the long, blond hair, Polka told us one night, there was a shipwreck and the locals went to collect what the sea gave up, the gifts of tragedy, among which they found some bottles they supposed could be used, liquor or something, but, when they got back to Mary’s, someone opened one of those containers, accidentally knocked it over next to the hearth, and the liquid rose in huge flames that licked the girl, she started running in the night towards the sea, Mary of the Shells, her beautiful locks burning in the storm, this for me was the image of fear, another that of the Morraza Vixen that could fly and projected flames through its mouth when it howled, be it true or not, what was true was that fire that burnt books in the city, real fear, a fire emerging from the mouth of hate, and the Girl with the Green Crest comes towards me, throwing flames through her mouth as if reading my thoughts, I can’t leave, I’m not going to leg it now, having seen the whole show, though other people are about their business, no one stops, they’re sure to think we planned it as she walks around me, spitting fire, me spellbound, like an idiot, it’s started raining and the flames are coloured, like a rainbow, they’re sure to think I’m an advert, or her mother trying to persuade her of something, to come home, or the opposite, the fire suddenly goes out and the Girl with the Green Crest stands and stares at me, clenching her teeth, she looks furious, of course she would be, it’s about time I loosened the purse-strings, I’d always planned to give her a coin, she deserves it, no one should be poor, especially those who cheer up our sad streets, musicians in the Underground, make lonely people feel safe, they should be paid a salary instead of being hounded by guards all day long, you need permission to sing or swallow fire, but not if you want to do nothing, you don’t need permission for that, to do evil, no licence for that, point is I’m going now, I’ll drop a coin on the plate the Girl with the Green Crest has left on the ground, drop it slowly so she sees it’s a pound, not pennies, and I value her, the way she swallows fire, I wonder what state her teeth, tongue, lips are in, poor thing, any day a gust of wretched wind, ravenous wind, shadowed wind, that’s the worst, girl, I know my airs, could suddenly turn the fire against you, your lashes, your crest, I didn’t like it at first, now it’s kind of funny, makes you look different in the night, an ancient being, wandering priestess, and up she comes, as if reading my thoughts, doesn’t say anything, slowly, her teeth clenched, though her eyes are laughing, I’ve dropped the coin, these things help, not being there, at the show, for free, Marshal Mountebank used to complain about that when he was in Castro with the troupe, art is a risky business, and there he was, as if he had two bodies, one that worked, the other stiff on account of his spine, that’s what he told Polka, two lame people meet, two classics, he said, though the art of parish gravedigger has a future, ours is uncertain, that box, the television, will finish us off, but he wasn’t a moaner, so long as he was fit, he’d never abandon his sublime, artistic duty of supporting the contortionist, La Bambola was her name, holding her with the harness he tied to his shoulders and head, which secured a bar with a small platform, tiny fulcrum so she could pirouette like an elastic woman, incredible dance in the air, the only man I knew to carry something on top of his head, the contortionist with her beautiful, long hair, one day she came to wash it in the river, dry it with a comb, I’d never seen hair like it, you could wear it as a tunic, but then in the evening, during the show, she’d fasten it in a ponytail, the moment came, the decisive moment, with a bugle call and roll on the tabor, when La Bambola tied her ponytail to the bar and started turning dizzily round and round, Benjamin, the Marshal of Deza, unmoved, with his Napoleonic coat and tricolour sash, that’s how they’d met, La Bambola needed a broad-shouldered man, her husband, Homer, the ventriloquist, was skinny, an intellectual, though he did help with the naughty number, pointing with a stick at the anatomy of the contortionist wearing a bathing suit, sitting on a high stool, and asking where do women have most hair – on their head? – and the public would laugh and shout lower, lower, a number that gave them a few problems, once they ended up in jail, Benjamin covered the contortionist while she slept on a bench with his marshal’s coat, and the jailer said every Napoleon had his Waterpolo, and Benjamin said something to La Bambola in French, the advantage of being on the road, languages stick to you, what he said was Il est très dur de tête, to which the jailer replied with the typical speak normal, or you’ll know about it, the fool didn’t realise how happy he felt protecting his fair lady, a circus artist’s life is full of self-sacrifice, and then came the chance to join the Circus of Portugal, welcomed by a director who was extremely polite, tamed elephants, female elephants, though one was called Dumbo, treated everyone right, as if they were elephants, and theirs really was a very artistic piece, though the historical background was a bit confused, the central motif being a large whale, he was introduced as the knight Donnaiolo, who had to fight in order to get into the whale’s mouth, which involved various trials, out of that mouth came, for example, a Samurai archer shouting halt, you bastard, twit, twat, or I’ll have your balls for garters, which had a certain impact on Portuguese children, and shooting an arrow that stuck in his chest, which he pulled out with his own hands, applause, followed by an old, tame, half-blind lion, which Benjamin frightened by showing it a live mouse, further applause, and so on until the magnificent moment when Donnaiolo finally made it inside the whale and came out with the contortionist La Bambola in his arms, standing ovation, placed her on the small platform secured with a harness, she climbed up on to the twister, the contortions began, figures in the air, a sublime elevation for which Benjamin was the support, everyone thought they were a cou
ple, the contortions were so intimate, but no, there was no other kind of relationship between them, one was La Bambola, the other Benjamin, the Marshal, Donnaiolo, call me what you like, sometimes she’d even do a pirouette and land astride him, Polka said that must have been like cohabiting, Benjamin replied with a murmur it was more, a lot more than cohabiting, another thing was her husband, Homer, the ventriloquist, who also emerged from the whale, Benjamin muttered, he and the puppet – Manolo Pinzón! – the way he said it, it was obvious the puppet played a role, a pimp, that puppet, Benjamin affirmed, a real pimp, soon as he got on stage, he’d turn to the audience, shout wahey, anyone with purse-strings, hold ’em tight!
Yes, my girl, I know you’ve hidden the fire in your mouth. I’m not afraid of your fire. If only you knew the fire I carry inside . . .
Felicity of Expression
London, 10 January 1968
I can be bad as well. Thing is you can’t pretend when it comes to clothes. You can’t lie about the weight of clothes. If they’re damp, that’s worse for me. More weight. They say with washing machines clothes don’t last so long. Who knows? I’d have thought hands are more delicate. Or both. Hands have to slap clothes against the washing stone. Twist them. Wring them out.
Clothes have eyes. Like worms. The eye doctor once told me worms can’t see, but they can feel light and shade. Olinda used to wash the clinic’s coats, sheets, towels, clothes. Pinche had a bad eye, not the evil eye, he saw badly out of one eye. How did we know it was only one eye? Because, when he looked through the keyhole, he saw fine. He told us this himself. He saw better when looking through a keyhole.
‘What keyholes are those?’ asked Olinda.
‘Who cares?’ replied Polka. ‘The important thing is . . . the diagnosis.’
He was so happy to have found that word he smiled at me, repeating it like a gift, ‘That’s it, the diagnosis.’
Olinda mentioned it to the eye doctor and off I went with Pinche. It was very funny when he said Pinche had a lazy eye. The right sees less than the left. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Well, to start with, because it doesn’t want to. That’s why we call it a lazy eye.’ It was a pleasure talking to him. Most doctors never explain anything. They detect what’s wrong, hand you the armament, but you never know what it is you’re firing against in your own body. Dr Abril explained everything and I understood him straightaway. Must be because we both work with the light. That’s something machines don’t do, leave the clothes in the sun. Bring them in when it’s raining, stretch them out again when it clears. There are days the sun is lazy and then it clears, the sun peeps out of the clouds, a kind of grand absolution. Worms only have light and shade. The first way of seeing. Skin-sight. We’re a bit like that. I love the sun. Seems to forgive everything.
‘A lazy eye,’ said Dr Abril.
Pinche kept quiet. His manner was contrite. If he had a lazy eye, he must be partly to blame.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘We’re going to make it work. That’s what you do with lazy eyes.’
I’d always thought eyes were the same, Pinche’s or anyone’s, except for Miraceu’s, each of which went about its own business. But in the clinic I quickly realised not only eyes but also profiles were completely different. Which is why Pinche had two sides to him. He could be very brave and very cowardly. Very joyful and very sad. Very good and very bad. Maybe it was all because of his eye.
‘What we’re going to do,’ said Dr Abril, ‘is put a patch on the eye that sees OK. And leave the lazy eye as it is. I know, I know, it seems unfair. It is unfair. We’re depriving one eye, the eye that wants to see, of the pleasure of seeing. But that’s life. It won’t be for long.’
Which may have been why Mr Sada’s poet friend and I never met. Because of a lazy eye.
One eye didn’t fight for him. That may have been it.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked Pementa.
‘Nothing.’
I went red. This was in the Troubadour when Glenda, Pementa and I went out for a drink for the first time. Pementa had just started as a hospital porter. Before that, he’d worked in a psychiatric hospital in Epsom for years.
‘I was lucky,’ he told me. ‘I found the job as soon as I arrived. They even gave me accommodation. I hardly ever left. The patients left more than me. What for? There was a good library, with books in Spanish and Portuguese. I’d never read before, I read like crazy. I learnt a lot there. From the patients. Languages. How to play chess. How not to go crazy. I once went with a group of them to the races. A doctor said to me, “Mr Pementa, a group of patients has been invited to the Derby, would you care to accompany them?” They were all, we were all very elegant. The women in outrageous hats and dresses that looked like artistic grafts on the landscape. The men in suits, the suits of their lives. They’d been waiting for that moment for years. They soon caught the attention of people and the cameras, hats were as much centre-stage there as horses. And our group of Epsom aristocrats was the most visible. I was lucky to find that job. Then came that real lunatic with her government, shut Epsom’s mental homes down. It wasn’t paradise, but I was lucky.’
We were in the Troubadour and Glenda got up to buy another round.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he asked.
‘I’m looking at you with both eyes. The lazy one and the other.’
I’d been lucky too. I didn’t want to come to London, to a general hospital. They’re not like mental homes. They’re much more complicated. More bizarre. Anything can happen. Mental homes are much more tranquil. People are polite and cultured. Here there’s stress all the time, accidents, sirens at night.
Repartee. Before Glenda came back, I had to say something funny.
‘I’m looking at you with both eyes. So that you don’t get away.’
‘Lucky me,’ said Pementa. ‘Ending up in this hospital.’
The night was hard. Pementa slept at the hospital, in a room for porters. No, he wasn’t on duty tonight. So I loosened my tongue and said why didn’t he come and sleep at my place? Tomorrow we’d go to the hospital together. Glenda protested. No way. Her place was much nearer. Besides, when we’d arranged to go out, she’d told Pementa – hadn’t she, Pementa? – there was plenty of room in her flat. Reality was on Glenda’s side. Her flat was half the distance. Less than half. A stone’s throw away. Pementa in the middle. Each of us tugging at his arm, without touching. ‘You’re right, Glenda. I’ll come with you! A night’s a night.’ Glenda, my soulmate, my fellow Godspellian Sunday mornings in Willesden Green, I feel so well with you, Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home. She pierced me with a look, silently cursed me. Jezebel, bitch. She would have killed me.
The two of us sleeping together, in bed. Pementa, on the sofa. Glenda and me with our backs to each other to start with. Embracing our own patch of darkness. Resentment sprawled in between. Pementa’s whistles as he slept, lucky him, like a steamboat departing in the night. So I turned and sought Glenda’s body. She moved away, but couldn’t go very far. I inched closer.
‘What is it?’
She spun around. Breathing heavily. Anger on her breath. She could have strangled me if she’d wanted. She was much stronger than I was. In life, she was a gentle, sensual creature. She taught me to appreciate sounds, colours, body postures. A second start in life. Rousing what was asleep. In return, I made her laugh. All those mantras, yantras, asanas, kundalini, latent energy, it’s not that they didn’t work, opposite, they worked far too well. Her body was excessively happy. Ticklish all over, including her eyes and thoughts. Glenda reaped much more than she sowed.
She was probably furious. I wondered what a furious woman would be like inside placid Glenda.
I whispered, ‘I’ve an idea.’
‘Will you leave me alone!’
Quietly, ‘Listen, Glenda, we can share him.’
‘What? You’re crazy!’
In a low voice, ‘One day for you, one day for me.’
&n
bsp; I knew she’d laugh. When she laughed, her whole body shook. Without stopping. A reverse Negro spiritual.
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.
Finally that Sunday in winter arrived. It was freezing. We arranged to visit Kew Gardens and saw a rose despite the cold, a white rose, like the ones on the road from Castro to Elviña. There it was, a tiny white rose, next to the ground, opening like a memory in the frostbitten earth. ‘Snowdon’, it said on the sign. That day, the flower, reminded me of a compliment a stranger once paid Amalia, which left us amazed.
‘Your beauty is intolerable!’
Though she was quick enough to reply, ‘And you haven’t really seen me!’
He was more or less blind, despite having a good eye, because he was unable to turn back. Some people are afraid of being lucky.
Lucky me, I thought, next to winter’s solitary flower.
Lucky I wore stilettos that were killing me, chafing my skin, freezing my toes. Even when I’m naked, I won’t take them off. Till the pleasure is too much and they fall off.
Lucky all the cafés shut their doors in our face. A moment ago, I’d have given anything for a hot cup of tea and a cloud, lucky, but now I keep quiet because we’re hugging and kissing, next to the iceberg, and everything’s in motion, there’s pleasure in the world’s navel, which is good for the circulation, and hot air that goes to your head, the warmth of chestnuts roasted in their own burs.
Lucky the Underground carriage was empty to start with, a nuptial carriage that Sunday afternoon, rocking, taking us from corner to corner.
Lucky I kept the fire inside my mouth. The fire the girl from Camden Town gave me.
Lucky we opened the red door. Lucky we climbed the stairs. Lucky we entered the room, embraced in front of the window. Lucky there’s someone to take you from cold to heat. To the other side of the wind, but still inside it.
