by Unknown
I’d like to keep this photo, he says when he settles back into the sofa. His dad nods.
I visited your grandad a second time in Garopaba, the last time. It was June, during the quermesse, a festival they have there. There were concerts and dance shows. Everyone was stuffing themselves with mullet and whatnot. One night a singer from Uruguaiana got up onstage, a big lad, about twenty-five years old, and your grandad immediately turned up his nose at the sight of him. Said he knew the guy, he’d seen him play over in the borderlands and that he was rubbish. I remember liking it. He plucked vigorously at the strings, looked profound during songs and made rehearsed jokes between them. Dad thought that the singer was a clown who had a lot of technique and little true feeling. And that would have been that, except after the concert, when the singer was drinking mulled wine at a stall, a man thought it’d be a good idea to introduce the two of them, as they were both gauchos through and through. Gripping the guy’s arm, he dragged him over to Dad and the two of them showed this immediate antipathy. Afterwards I found out that it was much more than a question of musical qualities, but at the time they pretended they didn’t know each other, out of respect for the guy who was excited to introduce them. But the man was fool enough to ask Dad straight out if he had liked the singer’s music, and with Dad, if someone asked, they’d get the truth. His honest opinion made the singer mad. The two started to argue and Dad told him to turn his mouth to the side because his breath smelt like the arse of a dead pampas fox. Quite a few people heard that and laughed. Obviously, the índio from Uruguaiana turned nasty, and it was just a little step from that to Dad pulling his knife. The singer backed off, the argument stopped, but the thing is I remember the reaction of everyone around us. They weren’t just curious about the fight. They were looking askance at your grandad, shaking their heads. I realized that between my last visit and this one they had taken a dislike to him in the community. What I’m saying is no one wants to have a bad-mannered gaucho around who thinks it’s cool to show his knife at any little thing. I told him to stop doing it, but your grandad didn’t care, he didn’t even realize his own stupidity. People here are scared of you, I told him, you’re going to get into serious trouble. I went away and for a good while didn’t hear from Dad. At that time I was pretty much stuck in Porto Alegre, working hard, and that was the time when I started to go out with your mum, too. We went out for four years and she left me three times before we got married, but anyway, I didn’t visit Dad for a good while and many months later I got a call from a police chief in Laguna saying they’d murdered him. There was a Sunday dance in some community hall, one of those dances the whole village goes to. At the height of the party, the lights go out. When the lights come back on, a minute later, there’s a guy lying in the middle of the room in a pool of blood with dozens of stab wounds. Everyone killed him; or in other words, no one killed him. The village killed him. That’s what the police chief told me. Everyone was there, whole families, probably even the priest. The lights were turned off, no one saw anything. They weren’t afraid of your grandad – they hated him.
They each take a swig of beer. His dad finishes his bottle and looks at his son, almost smiling.
Except that I don’t believe that story, he says.
What? Why not?
Because there was no body.
But wasn’t he there, stabbed to death?
That’s what I was told. I never saw the body. When that police chief called me, everything was already more or less done and dusted. They said it took them weeks to find me. They looked for me in Taquara. Someone in Garopaba knew that he came from there. Eventually, they found someone who recognized the description of my dad and knew my name. By the time they called me, he’d already been buried.
Where?
In Garopaba. In the fishermen’s little cemetery. Just a blank gravestone at the end of the plot.
You went and saw it?
I did. I saw the grave and sorted out some paperwork in Laguna. All very strange. I had a very strong feeling that he wasn’t in that hole. There were weeds on the earth. I remember thinking, Shit, this ground wasn’t dug the week before last, no fucking way. I didn’t meet anyone who confirmed the story I’d been told. It was as if it hadn’t happened. The story of the crime was, in itself, plausible, and the people’s silence made sense, but the way I heard about it, the police chief’s patter, that horrible stone without a name . . . I never really bought it. Anyway, whatever happened to your grandad, it was bound to happen. People go looking for a particular death, in most cases. He had his.
Haven’t you ever thought of having the grave opened? There must be a legal way to do that.
His dad looks away in what seems to be irritation. He sighs.
Listen. I never told anyone this story. Your mum doesn’t know. If you ask, she’ll say that your grandad disappeared, because that’s what I told her. As far as I was concerned, he really had disappeared. I left it at that. If you think that’s terrible – too bad! The way I was back then, the life I led in those days . . . it would be difficult to make you understand it now.
I don’t think it’s terrible. Take it easy.
His dad fidgets in the armchair. Beta gets up and with a little jump puts her front paws on her master’s leg, who grabs and holds her face as if he were muzzling her, leaning over to look her in the eye. When he lets go, she gets down and returns to lie beside the armchair. It is a small fragment of the inscrutable ritual of his dad’s relationship with the animal.
And why’re you telling me this now?
You haven’t read that Borges story I mentioned before, have you?
No.
‘The South’.
No. I haven’t read anything by Borges.
Course not, you don’t read a fucking thing.
Dad. The pistol.
Bueno.
His dad opens the bottle of cognac, fills a small glass and downs it in one. He doesn’t offer any to his son. He picks up the pistol and examines it for a moment. He presses the button to release the magazine and then clicks it back into place, as if he were just wanting to show that the weapon is not loaded. A drop of sweat runs from his forehead, drawing attention to the fact that he is no longer sweating all over his body. A minute earlier he had been covered in sweat. He slips the pistol into the belt of his trousers and looks at his son.
I’m going to kill myself tomorrow.
He takes his time thinking about what he has just heard, listening to his irregular breathing coming out in short snorts through his nostrils. An immense exhaustion falls on his shoulders. He slips the photo of his grandad into his pocket, dries his hands on his Bermuda shorts, gets up and walks towards the front door.
Come back here.
Why? What do you want me to do after hearing this kind of shit? Either you’re serious and want me to convince you to change your mind, which would be the worst thing you’ve ever laid on me, or you’re having a laugh, which would be so cheap that I don’t want to know – it’s one or the other. Bye.
Come back, damn it.
He stops by the door, looking back at the sad floor of pinkish tiles and cement joints, at the luxuriant fern trying to escape from a pot dangling from a hook on the ceiling by thin chains, taking in the sweet, strangely animal, lingering smell of cigar smoke in the living room.
I’m not joking and I don’t want you to convince me of anything. I’m just telling you about something that’s going to happen.
Nothing’s going to happen.
Get this into your head: it’s inevitable. I decided weeks ago in a moment of utter lucidity. I’m tired. I’m fed up. I think it started with that haemorrhoid surgery. At my last check-up the doctor looked at the tests and looked at me like death itself, disillusioned with all of humanity. I had the impression that he was going to resign from my case like a lawyer. And he’s right. I’m starting to get ill and I don’t fancy it. I no longer taste beer, cigars are bad for me but I can’t stop, I don’t want to take Viagra t
o screw, I don’t even feel nostalgic for screwing. Life’s too long and I’ve run out of patience. Life after sixty, for someone who has had a life like mine, is all about being stubborn. I respect people who put in the effort, but I don’t fancy it. I was happy until about two years ago and now I want to go away. Anyone who thinks that’s wrong can live until a hundred if they want, good luck to them. Fine by me.
What a load of rubbish.
Forget it. I can’t expect you to understand. We’re far too different. Don’t try to understand, you’ll be wasting your time.
You know I won’t let you do it, Dad. Why did you call me here to tell me?
I know it’s unfair. But I did it because I trust you, I know you’re tough. I called you here because there’s something I need to do beforehand and I can’t do it on my own. And only my son can help me.
Why didn’t you call the other one? He might even find it funny, who knows. Write a book about it.
No, I need you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever had to ask anyone and you’re the one I can count on.
Give me the pistol now and I’ll sort out whatever it is you need doing. All right? Finished with clowning around now?
His dad laughs at his son’s exasperation.
Tchê, lad . . . listen. What has to be sorted out is because of the other thing.
The suicide.
To me there’s something gutless about that word, I’m avoiding it. But you can use it if you like.
What am I to do now, Dad? Call the police? Have you committed? Lunge and tear the gun from you by force? You really thought this would work?
It’s already worked. It’s as if it’s already happened.
That’s stupid. It’s a choice you’ve got. What if I got you to change your mind?
It’s not a choice. It would be easier for me, and much easier for you, to see it as a choice. My decision won’t result in the fact – it’s part of the fact. It’s just another way of dying, lad. I took a lot of time to get to this point. Sit down, son. Want another beer?
He takes quick steps to the sofa and sits down angrily.
Look, think about it like this. Imagine what it would be like if you or anyone else tried to stop me now. What a hassle. Me trying to carry out my decision and you trying to stop me, who knows how, living with me, monitoring me, having me committed, medicated, your brother coming from São Paulo and your mum having to put up with me again. It’d be a ludicrous nightmare for everyone involved. Do you see how absurd it’d be? There’s nothing more ridiculous than one person trying to convince another one. I worked with persuasion my whole life. Persuasion is the biggest cancer in human behaviour. No one should ever be convinced of anything. People know what they want and they know what they need. I know that because I was always a specialist in persuasion and inventing needs, and that’s why I’ve got a wall full of little plaques over there. Don’t try to talk me out of it. If you convinced me not to kill myself you’d turn me into a cripple, I’d live for a few more years – defeated, mutilated and sick, pleading for mercy. I’m being serious. Don’t try to persuade me. To persuade someone not to follow their heart is obscene, persuasion is something obscene, people know what they need and no one can give us advice. What I’m going to do was decided ages ago, before I even had the idea.
I expected more from you, Dad. More than this retarded guff you’re spouting. I’m disgusted by the idea of playing the victim – it was you who taught me that. And now you’re acting all victimized.
Let me teach you something else right now: when you start to shit blood and go limp and wake up fed up with life every damn day, then you’ve got a moral obligation to act like a victim. Write that down. Oh, don’t insult me, for fuck’s sake. Bold as brass, are you now? Doesn’t suit you. You’re a sensible lad, even if you’re a bit gutless. I’ve always been frank with you. I get you from tip to toe. I warned you about everything, and was I ever wrong? Eh? I said you’d lose your girl the way you did. I said you’d spend your life being the last resort of the desperate. But you’re the intelligent one. The one who manages to think of others, even if you can’t remember anyone’s face. And that’s why you’re much better than me and your brother. I’m proud of that and love you for it. And now I need you to stand by your old man.
Fuck, Dad.
His dad’s eyes are red.
It’s Beta.
What about Beta?
His dad makes a vague gesture towards the front door and lets out an almost inaudible sound. The dog gets up immediately and leaves the house.
You know how I love that dog. We’re very close.
I’m not doing it.
Why not?
I’m not set up to look after a dog. And anyway . . . Christ, I don’t believe this. I’m sorry. I have to go.
Not to look after her. I want you to take her to Rolf, in Belém Novo. After I’ve . . . done what I’m going to do. Ask him to give her an injection. I’ve already found out, it won’t hurt.
No, no.
She’s already depressed now. She knows already. She’ll waste away when she’s on her own.
Do it yourself. You’re the one who can’t fucking choose anything. I can. I’m not getting involved.
I haven’t got the balls, lad.
No, no.
You have to promise me this.
Forget it, Dad. Impossible.
Promise.
I can’t get involved.
Please.
No. It’s not fair.
You’re denying my last wish.
It’s not happening.
You’ll do it. I know you will.
I won’t. You’re on your own with this. I can’t. Sorry.
I know you’ll do it. That’s why you’re here.
You’re trying to persuade me. A minute ago you said that was obscene.
I’m not going to persuade you. I’m done. It’s my wish. I know you won’t say no.
Pathetic old man.
That’s my name.
Without warning a very old memory comes to mind. The scene is pointless and doesn’t seem to be have been worth keeping as a memory, much less remembering at this inopportune moment. One morning before leaving for work, his dad was shaving in the bathroom with the door open and he, six or seven years old, was watching him. Once his dad had finished with the razor, he washed his face with soap, covering it with lather, and then rinsed it repeatedly. After the second rinse his face was no longer lathery, but his dad continued to splash his face with water, four, five times. He asked his dad why he washed his face with water so many times, since the foam had already disappeared. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world, his dad replied: It feels good.
My hand’s shaking, Dad.
You’re doing fine. You’re a better human being.
Shut up.
Seriously. I’m very proud of you. No one else could do it.
I didn’t say I would.
I could make you promise much worse things. Like making peace with your brother, for example.
I’ll do that if you tell me you’re pulling my leg. A few hours from now I’ll be hugging him.
Good try. But the truth is I don’t care. I wouldn’t forgive him, if I were you.
Good to know.
Isn’t it? I don’t mind telling you now. But what I do need is for you to spare her. She’s fifteen years old, but her breed can live to be twenty, or older. She’s my life. Ever seen a depressed dog? If she’s left here without me, I’ll take all her pain with me. Can I consider it as promised?
You can.
Thank you.
No, you can’t. I can’t get involved.
I love you, lad.
I didn’t say I would. I didn’t. Don’t touch me.
I wasn’t going to touch you. I’m not even moving.
NOTES ON TRANSLATORS
Peter Bush is a freelance translator living in Barcelona. His translations from Portuguese include Turbulence by Chico Buarque and Equator by Miguel Sousa Tav
ares, which was awarded the Calouste Gulbenkian Prize for Portuguese Translation. Recently he has translated Ramón del Valle-Inclán’s Tyrant Banderas from Spanish, and Teresa Solana’s The Sound of One Hand Clapping and Quim Monzó’s A Thousand Morons from Catalan.
Nick Caistor’s translations include Journey to Portugal by José Saramago and The Buenos Aires Quintet by Manuel Vázquez Montalban. He is editor and translator of the Faber Book of Contemporary Latin American Short Stories.
Margaret Jull Costa has been a literary translator for over twenty-five years and has translated such writers as Javier Marías, Fernando Pessoa, Bernardo Atxaga and Ramón del Valle-Inclán. She has won various prizes for her work, including, in 2008, the PEN Book-of-the-Month Translation Award and the Oxford Weidenfeld Translation Prize for her version of Eça de Queiroz’s The Maias, and most recently, in 2011, the Oxford Weidenfeld Translation Prize for The Elephant’s Journey by José Saramago.
Katrina Dodson is a PhD candidate in the Department of Comparative Literature at University of California, Berkeley, where she is writing a dissertation on Elizabeth Bishop, Clarice Lispector and questions of geographical imagination. Her work has appeared in McSweeney’s and Two Lines.
Alison Entrekin’s translations include Near to the Wild Heart by Clarice Lispector, City of God by Paulo Lins, The Eternal Son by Cristovão Tezza, which was a finalist for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award in 2012, and Budapest by Chico Buarque, which was a finalist in the 2004 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.
Ana Fletcher has worked for PEN International and The Writer, a language consultancy. She holds an MA in comparative literature and translates from Spanish and Portuguese.
Beth Fowler won the inaugural Harvill Secker Young Translators’ Prize in 2010. Her translation of Iosi Havilio’s Open Door was published in 2011.
