The boy saw her walk away, following her with pornographic and curious eyes that didn’t spare a single humble detail of the girl. The girl who suddenly broke into a desperate run so as not to miss the bus . . .
Alarmed, fascinated, the boy saw her running like a madwoman so as not to miss the bus, intrigued he saw her climbing onto the bus like a monkey in a short skirt. The fake cigarette fell from his hand . . .
Something uncomfortable had thrown him off balance. What was it? A moment of great wariness was coming over him. But what was it?! Urgently, disturbingly: what was it? He’d seen her run so nimbly even if the girl’s heart, he easily guessed, were faint. And he’d seen her, all full of powerless love for humanity, climb like a monkey onto the bus—and then saw her sit quiet and polite, fixing her blouse as she waited for the bus to leave . . . Could that be it? But what about that could fill him with mistrustful wariness? Maybe the fact that she started running for no reason, since the bus wasn’t leaving, so there was time . . . She didn’t even need to run . . . But what about all that made him prick up his ears in anguished listening, in the deafness of someone who will never hear the explanation?
He had just been born a man. But, as soon as he owned up to his birthright, he was also owning up to that weight on his chest; as soon as he owned up to his glory, a fathomless experience was giving him his first future wrinkle. Ignorant, uneasy, as soon as he owned up to his masculinity, a new eager hunger was arising, an aching thing like a man who never cries. Could he be experiencing his first fear that something was impossible? The girl was a zero on that waiting bus, and yet, man that he now was, the boy suddenly needed to lean on that nothing, on that girl. And not even to lean on her on equal terms, not even to lean on her in order to concede . . . But, stuck in his manly kingdom, he needed her. For what? so he could remember some stipulation? so that she or some other woman wouldn’t let him go too far and get lost? so that he might feel with a jolt, as he was feeling now, that there was the possibility of error? He needed her hungrily so he wouldn’t forget that they were made of the same flesh, that poor flesh from which, by climbing onto the bus like a monkey, she seemed to have made a fateful path. What! but what after all is happening to me? he thought fearfully.
Nothing. Nothing, and you shouldn’t make too much of it, it was just an instant of weakness and hesitation, that’s all, there wasn’t any danger.
Just an instant of weakness and hesitation. But within that system of hard last judgment, which doesn’t allow even a second of disbelief or else the ideal collapses, he stared in a daze at the long street—and now everything was ruined and dried up as if his mouth were full of dust. Now and finally alone, he was defenseless and at the mercy of the hasty lie with which the others were trying to teach him to be a man. But what about the message?! the message had crumbled in the dust that the wind was dragging toward the gutter. Mama, he said.
Monkeys
(“Macacos”)
That first time we had a marmoset in the house was around New Year’s. We had no running water and no maid, people were lining up to buy meat, the summer heat had exploded—and that was when, silent with bewilderment, I saw the present come into the house, already eating a banana, already examining everything with great speed and a long tail. He seemed more like a big monkey not yet fully grown, he had tremendous potential. He’d climb the laundry hanging on the clothes line, from where he’d holler like a sailor, and toss banana peels wherever they fell. And I was exhausted. Whenever I’d forget and wander absentmindedly into the laundry room, the big shock: that cheerful man was there. My youngest son knew, before I did, that I would get rid of that gorilla: “And what if I promise that one day the monkey’s going to get sick and die, will you let him stay? and what if you knew that sooner or later he’ll fall out the window anyway and die down there?” My feelings made me avert my gaze. The little-big monkey’s happy and filthy lack of awareness made me responsible for his destiny, since he himself wouldn’t take the blame. A girlfriend understood of what bitterness my acquiescence was made, what crimes fed into my dreamy manner, and crudely saved me: some boys from the favela showed up in a happy commotion, took away the laughing man, and for the lackluster New Year I at least got a monkey-free house.
A year later, I’d just been feeling a surge of joy, when right there in Copacabana I spotted the crowd. A man was selling little monkeys. I thought of the boys, of the joys they gave me for free, unrelated to the worries they also gave me for free, I imagined a circle of joy: “Whoever gets this must pass it on,” and on and on, like a chain reaction running up a trail of gunpowder. And right on the spot I bought the one whose name would be Lisette.
She nearly fit in my hand. She was wearing the skirt, earrings, necklace and bracelet of a Bahian woman. And she had the air of an immigrant who lands still dressed in her country’s traditional clothing. There was also an immigrant quality in her wide eyes.
As for this one, she was a miniature woman. She spent three days with us. She was so delicately built. And so incredibly sweet. More than just her eyes, her gaze was wide. At every movement, her earrings would tremble; her skirt was always neat, her red necklace shiny. She slept a lot, but was sober and tired when it came to eating. Her rare caresses were just light bites that left no mark.
On the third day we were in the laundry room admiring Lisette and the way she was ours. “A little too gentle,” I thought, missing my gorilla. And suddenly my heart replied very sternly: “But that’s not sweetness. It’s death.” The harshness of the message left me speechless. Then I told the boys: “Lisette is dying.” Looking at her, I then realized how far our love had gone. I rolled up Lisette in a napkin, went with the boys to the nearest emergency room, where the doctor couldn’t see us because he was performing an urgent procedure on a dog. Another taxi—Lisette thinks we’re on an outing, Mama—another hospital. There they gave her oxygen.
And with that breath of life, a Lisette we didn’t know was suddenly revealed. Her eyes were much less wide, more secretive, more laughing, and her protruding and ordinary face had a certain ironic superiority; a little more oxygen, and she felt like saying that she could hardly stand being a monkey; she was indeed, and had a lot to say. Soon, however, she succumbed once more, exhausted. More oxygen and this time a serum injection to whose prick she reacted with an angry little swipe, her bracelet tinkling. The nurse smiled: “Lisette, dear, calm down!”
The diagnosis: she wasn’t going to make it, unless she had oxygen nearby and, even then, it was unlikely. “Don’t buy monkeys on the street,” he scolded me shaking his head, “sometimes they’re already sick.” No, you had to buy a good monkey, to know where it came from, for at least five years of guaranteed love, you had to know what it had or hadn’t done, as if you were getting married. I talked it over with the boys for a moment. Then I said to the nurse: “Sir, you’ve taken quite a liking to Lisette. So if you let her spend a couple days near the oxygen, and she gets better, she’s yours.” But he thought about it. “Lisette is pretty!” I implored. “She’s beautiful,” he agreed, thoughtful. Then he sighed and said: “If I cure Lisette, she’s yours.” We left, with an empty napkin.
The next day they called, and I told the boys that Lisette had died. My youngest asked me: “Do you think she died wearing her earrings?” I said yes. A week later my eldest said to me: “You look so much like Lisette!” “I like you too,” I replied.
The Egg and the Chicken
(“O ovo e a galinha”)
In the morning in the kitchen on the table I see the egg.
I look at the egg with a single gaze. Immediately I perceive that one cannot be seeing an egg. Seeing an egg never remains in the present: as soon as I see an egg it already becomes having seen an egg three millennia ago. —At the very instant of seeing the egg it is the memory of an egg. —The egg can only be seen by one who has already seen it. —When one sees the egg it is too late: an egg seen is an egg lost. —Se
eing the egg is the promise of one day eventually seeing the egg. —A brief and indivisible glance; if indeed there is thought; there is none; there is the egg. —Looking is the necessary instrument that, once used, I shall discard. I shall keep the egg. —The egg has no itself. Individually it does not exist.
Seeing the egg is impossible: the egg is supervisible just as there are supersonic sounds. No one can see the egg. Does the dog see the egg? Only machines see the egg. The construction crane sees the egg. —When I was ancient an egg landed on my shoulder. —Love for the egg cannot be felt either. Love for the egg is supersensible. We do not know that we love the egg. —When I was ancient I was keeper of the egg and I would tread lightly to avoid upending the egg’s silence. When I died, they removed the egg from me with care. It was still alive. —Only one who saw the world would see the egg. Like the world, the egg is obvious.
The egg no longer exists. Like the light of an already-dead star, the egg properly speaking no longer exists. —You are perfect, egg. You are white. —To you I dedicate the beginning. To you I dedicate the first time.
To the egg I dedicate the Chinese nation.
The egg is a suspended thing. It has never landed. When it lands, it is not what has landed. It was a thing under the egg. —I look at the egg in the kitchen with superficial attention so as not to break it. I take the utmost care not to understand it. Since it is impossible to understand, I know that if I understand it this is because I am making an error. Understanding is the proof of making an error. Understanding it is not the way to see it. —Never thinking about the egg is a way to have seen it. —I wonder, do I know of the egg? I almost certainly do. Thus: I exist, therefore I know. —What I don’t know about the egg is what really matters. What I don’t know about the egg gives me the egg properly speaking. —The Moon is inhabited by eggs.
The egg is an exteriorization. To have a shell is to surrender. —The egg denudes the kitchen. It turns the table into a slanted plane. The egg exposes. —Whoever plunges deeper into an egg, whoever sees more than the surface of the egg, is after something else: that person is hungry.
An egg is the soul of the chicken. The awkward chicken. The sure egg. The frightened chicken. The sure egg. Like a paused projectile. For an egg is an egg in space. An egg upon blue. —I love you, egg. I love you as a thing doesn’t even know it loves another thing. —I do not touch it. The aura of my fingers is what sees the egg. I do not touch it. —But to dedicate myself to the vision of the egg would be to die to the world, and I need the yolk and the white. —The egg sees me. Does the egg idealize me? Does the egg meditate me? No, the egg merely sees me. It is exempt from the understanding that wounds. —The egg has never struggled. It is a gift. —The egg is invisible to the naked eye. From one egg to another one arrives at God, who is invisible to the naked eye. —The egg could have been a triangle that rolled for so long in space that it became oval. —Is the egg basically a vessel? Could it have been the first vessel sculpted by the Etruscans? No. The egg originated in Macedonia. There it was calculated, fruit of the most arduous spontaneity. In the sands of Macedonia a man holding a stick drew it. And then erased it with his bare foot.
An egg is a thing that must be careful. That’s why the chicken is the egg’s disguise. The chicken exists so that the egg can traverse the ages. That’s what a mother is for. —The egg is constantly persecuted for being too ahead of its time. —An egg, for now, will always be revolutionary. —It lives inside the chicken to avoid being called white. The egg really is white. But it cannot be called white. Not because that harms it, but people who call the egg white, those people die to life. Calling something white that is white can destroy humanity. Once a man was accused of being what he was, and he was called That Man. They weren’t lying: He was. But to this day we still haven’t recovered, one after the next. The general law for us to stay alive: one can say “a pretty face,” but whoever says “the face,” dies; for having exhausted the topic.
Over time, the egg became a chicken egg. It is not. But, once it was adopted, it took that name. —One should say “the chicken’s egg.” If one merely says “the egg,” the topic is exhausted, and the world becomes naked. —When it comes to the egg, the danger lies in discovering what might be called beauty, that is, its veracity. The veracity of the egg is not verisimilar. If they find out, they might want to force it to become rectangular. The danger is not for the egg, it wouldn’t become rectangular. (Our guarantee is that it is unable: being unable is the egg’s great strength: its grandiosity comes from the greatness of being unable, which radiates from it like a not-wanting.) But whoever struggles to make it rectangular would be losing his own life. The egg puts us, therefore, in danger. Our advantage is that the egg is invisible. And as for the initiates, the initiates disguise the egg.
As for the chicken’s body, the chicken’s body is the greatest proof that the egg does not exist. All you have to do is look at the chicken to make it obvious that the egg cannot possibly exist.
And what about the chicken? The egg is the chicken’s great sacrifice. The egg is the cross the chicken bears in life. The egg is the chicken’s unattainable dream. The chicken loves the egg. She doesn’t know the egg exists. If she knew she had an egg inside her, would she save herself? If she knew she had the egg inside her, she would lose her state of being a chicken. Being a chicken is the chicken’s survival. Surviving is salvation. For living doesn’t seem to exist. Living leads to death. So what the chicken does is be permanently surviving. Surviving is what’s called keeping up the struggle against life that is deadly. That’s what being a chicken is. The chicken looks embarrassed.
The chicken must not know she has an egg. Or else she would save herself as a chicken, which is no guarantee either, but she would lose the egg. So she doesn’t know. The chicken exists so that the egg can use the chicken. She was only meant to be fulfilled, but she liked it. The chicken’s undoing comes from this: liking wasn’t part of being born. To like being alive hurts. —As for which came first, it was the egg that found the chicken. The chicken was not even summoned. The chicken is directly singled out. —The chicken lives as if in a dream. She has no sense of reality. All the chicken’s fright comes because they’re always interrupting her reverie. The chicken is a sound sleep. —The chicken suffers from an unknown ailment. The chicken’s unknown ailment is the egg. —She doesn’t know how to explain herself: “I know that the error is inside me,” she calls her life an error, “I don’t know what I feel anymore,” etc.
“Etc., etc., etc.,” is what the chicken clucks all day long. The chicken has plenty of inner life. To be honest, the only thing the chicken really has is inner life. Our vision of her inner life is what we call “chicken.” The chicken’s inner life consists of acting as if she understands. At the slightest threat she screams bloody murder like a maniac. All this so the egg won’t break inside her. An egg that breaks inside the chicken is like blood.
The chicken looks at the horizon. As if it were from the line of the horizon that an egg is coming. Beyond being a mode of transport for the egg, the chicken is silly, idle and myopic. How could the chicken understand herself if she is the contradiction of an egg? The egg is still the same one that originated in Macedonia. The chicken is always the most modern of tragedies. She is always pointlessly current. And she keeps being redrawn. The most suitable form for a chicken has yet to be found. While my neighbor talks on the phone he redraws the chicken with an absentminded pencil. But there’s nothing to be done for the chicken: part of her nature is not to be of use to herself. Given, however, that her destiny is more important than she is, and given that her destiny is the egg, her personal life does not concern us.
Inside herself the chicken doesn’t recognize the egg, but neither does she recognize it outside herself. When the chicken sees the egg she thinks she’s dealing with something impossible. And with her heart beating, with her heart beating so, she doesn’t recognize it.
Sudd
enly I look at the egg in the kitchen and all I see in it is food. I don’t recognize it, and my heart beats. The metamorphosis is happening inside me: I start not to be able to discern the egg anymore. Beyond every particular egg, beyond every egg that’s eaten, the egg does not exist. I can now no longer believe in an egg. More and more I lack the strength to believe, I am dying, farewell, I looked at an egg too long and it started putting me to sleep.
The chicken who didn’t want to sacrifice her life. The one who chose wanting to be “happy.” The one who didn’t notice that, if she spent her life designing the egg inside herself as in an illuminated manuscript, she would be good for something. The one who didn’t know how to lose herself. The one who thought she had chicken feathers to cover her because she had precious skin, not understanding that the feathers were meant exclusively for helping her along as she carried the egg, because intense suffering might harm the egg. The one who thought pleasure was a gift to her, not realizing that it was meant to keep her completely distracted while the egg was being formed. The one who didn’t know “I” is just one of those words you draw while talking on the phone, a mere attempt to find a better shape. The one who thought “I” means having a one-self. The chickens who harm the egg are those that are a ceaseless “I.” In them, the “I” is so constant that they can no longer utter the word “egg.” But, who knows, maybe that’s exactly what the egg was in need of. For if they weren’t so distracted, if they paid attention to the great life forming inside them, they would get in the way of the egg.
I started talking about the chicken and for a while now I have no longer been talking about the chicken. But I’m still talking about the egg.
And thus I don’t understand the egg. I only understand a broken egg: I crack it on the frying pan. In this indirect way I give myself to the egg’s existence: my sacrifice is reducing myself to my personal life. I turned my pleasure and my pain into my hidden destiny. And having only one’s own life is, for those who have already seen the egg, a sacrifice. Like the ones who, in a convent, sweep the floor and do the laundry, serving without the glory of a higher purpose, my job is to live out my pleasures and my pains. I must have the modesty to live.
The Complete Stories Page 26
