* French: “exploding with silence.”
Natural Life
(“Vida ao natural”)
So in Rio there was a place with a hearth. And when she realized that, besides the cold, it was raining in the trees, she couldn’t believe that so much had been given her. The harmony of the world with whatever it was she didn’t even realize she needed as in a hunger. It was raining, raining. The crackling fire winks at her and at the man. He, the man, takes care of things she doesn’t even thank him for; he stokes the fire in the hearth, which for him is no more than a duty he was born with. And she—constantly restless, doer of things and seeker of novelties—well she doesn’t even remember to stoke the fire: that’s not her role, since that’s what your man is for. Since she’s no damsel, let the man carry out his mission. The most she does is sometimes goad him: “that log,” she tells him, “that one hasn’t caught yet.” And he, an instant before she finishes the sentence that would clarify things, he’s already noticed the log on his own, being her man, and is already stoking the log. Not at her command, she who’s the wife of a man and who’d lose her status if she gave him orders. His other hand, the free one, is within her reach. She knows, and doesn’t take it. She wants his hand, she knows she does, and doesn’t take it. She has exactly what she needs: she could do it if she wanted.
Ah, and to say this will end, that on its own it cannot last. No, she doesn’t mean the fire, she means what she feels. What she feels never lasts, what she feels always ends, and might never return. So she pounces on the moment, devours its fire, and the sweet fire burns, burns, blazes. Then, she who knows that all will end, takes the man’s free hand, and as she clasps it in hers, she sweetly burns, burns, blazes.
THE VIA CRUCIS
OF THE BODY
(“A via crucis do corpo”)
My soul breaketh for your desire.
(Psalms 119:12)
I, who understand the body. And its cruel demands. I have always known the body. Its dizzying vortex. The grave body.
(A still-unnamed character of mine)
For these things I weep. Mine eye runneth down with water.
(Lamentations of Jeremiah)
And let all flesh bless his holy name for ever and ever.
(Psalm of David)
Who has ever seen a love life and not seen it drowned in tears of disaster or regret?
(I don’t know who said this.)
Explanation
(“Explicação”)
The poet Álvaro Pacheco, my Publisher at Artenova, commissioned three stories from me about things that, he said, really happened. The facts I had, what I lacked was imagination. And it was a dangerous subject. I replied that I didn’t know how to make up stories on commission. Yet—as he was talking to me on the phone—I was already feeling inspiration strike. The phone conversation was on Friday. I started on Saturday. On Sunday morning three stories were ready: “Miss Algrave,” “The Body,” and “Via Crucis.” I myself was amazed. All the stories in this book hit hard. And I myself suffered the most. I was shocked by reality. If there are indecencies in the stories it’s not my fault. Needless to say they didn’t happen to me, my family and friends. How do I know? Knowing. Artists know things. I just want to say that I write not for money but on impulse. They’ll throw stones at me. Big deal. I don’t play games, I’m a serious woman. Anyway it was a challenge.
Today is May twelfth, Mother’s Day. It didn’t make sense to write stories on this day that I wouldn’t want my sons to read because I’d be ashamed. So I said to my editor: I’ll only publish under a pseudonym. I’d even chosen a pretty nice name: Cláudio Lemos. But he wouldn’t have it. He said I should be free to write whatever I wanted. I gave in. What could I do? except be my own victim. I only beg God that no one commissions anything else from me. Because, apparently, I just might rebelliously obey, I the unfree.
Someone read my stories and said that’s not literature, it’s trash. I agree. But there’s a time for everything. There’s also the time for trash. This book is a bit sad because I discovered, like a silly child, that this is a dog-eat-dog world.
This is a book of thirteen (13) stories. But it could have been fourteen. I don’t want that. Because I’d be betraying the trust of a simple man who told me his life story. He drives a cart on a farm. And he told me: “To avoid bloodshed, I split from my wife, she went astray and led my sixteen-year-old daughter astray.” He has an eighteen-year-old son who doesn’t even want to hear his own mother’s name spoken. And that’s how things are.
C. L.
P. S. —“The Man Who Showed Up” and “For the Time Being” were also written that same accursed Sunday. Today, May 13, Monday, the day the slaves were freed—and therefore me too—I wrote “Blue Danube,” “Pig Latin,” and “Praça Mauá.” “The Sound of Footsteps” was written days later on a farm, in the darkness of the vast night.
I once tried to look at a person’s face up close—a girl selling tickets at the movies. To learn the secret of her life. In vain. The other person is an enigma. And with the eyes of a statue: blind.
Miss Algrave
She was liable to be judged. That’s why she didn’t tell anyone anything. If she did, people wouldn’t believe her because they didn’t believe in reality. But she, who lived in London, where ghosts exist down dark alleys, knew the truth.
Her day, Friday, had been like all the rest. It didn’t happen until Saturday night. But on Friday she did everything as usual. Though an awful memory tormented her: when she was little, about seven, she’d play house with her cousin Jack, in Granny’s big bed. And they’d do everything to make babies, without success. She had never seen Jack again nor did she wish to. If she was guilty, so was he.
Single, of course, a virgin, of course. She lived alone in a top floor flat in Soho. That day she’d gone grocery shopping: vegetables and fruit. Because she thought eating meat was a sin.
As she was passing through Piccadilly Circus and saw the women waiting for men on street corners, she practically vomited. And for money! It was too much to bear. And that statue of Eros, over there, indecent.
After lunch she went to work: she was the perfect typist. Her boss never looked at her and treated her, fortunately, with respect, addressing her as Miss Algrave. Her first name was Ruth. And she was of Irish stock. She was a redhead, wore her hair twisted into a severe bun at her nape. She had loads of freckles and her skin was so fair and delicate that it resembled white silk. Her eyelashes were red too. She was a pretty woman.
She took great pride in her figure: buxom and tall. But never had anyone touched her breasts.
She usually dined at a cheap restaurant right in Soho. She’d have pasta with tomato sauce. And she had never set foot in a pub: the smell of alcohol nauseated her, whenever she passed one. She felt offended by humanity.
She grew red geraniums that were a glory in spring. Her father had been a Protestant vicar and her mother still lived in Dublin with her married son. Her brother was married to a real bitch named Tootzi.
Once in a while Miss Algrave would write a letter of protest to The Times. And they’d publish it. She took great pleasure in seeing her name: sincerely Ruth Algrave.
She bathed just once a week, on Saturdays. In order not to see her naked body, she wouldn’t even take off her knickers or bra.
The day it happened was Saturday so she didn’t have work. She awoke very early and had some jasmine tea. Then she prayed. Then she went out for some fresh air.
Near the Savoy Hotel she was nearly run over. If that had happened and she had died, it would have been awful because nothing would have happened to her that night.
She went to choir practice. She had an expressive voice. Yes, she was a privileged individual.
Then she went to lunch and permitted herself to eat prawns: they were so good it even seemed like a sin.
Then she headed for Hy
de Park and sat on the grass. She’d brought a Bible to read. But—God forgive her—the sun was so fierce, so good, so hot, that she didn’t read a thing, she just sat on the ground lacking the courage to lie down. She did her best not to look at the couples who were kissing and fondling one another without the least bit of shame.
Then she went home, watered the begonias and took a bath. Then she paid a visit to Mrs. Cabot who was ninety-seven. She brought her a slice of raisin cake and they had tea. Miss Algrave felt very happy, even though . . . Well, even though.
At seven she went home. There was nothing to do. So she knit a winter sweater. In a magnificent color: yellow as the sun.
Before going to sleep she had more jasmine tea with biscuits, brushed her teeth, changed her clothes and got into bed. She herself had made her gauzy curtains and hung them.
It was May. The curtains billowed in the breeze on that most singular of nights. Why singular? She didn’t know.
She read a bit of the morning paper and turned off the bedside lamp. Through the open window she could see the moonlight. There was a full moon.
She sighed deeply because living alone was hard. Loneliness was crushing her. It was terrible not having a single person to talk to. She was the loneliest creature she knew. Even Mrs. Cabot had a cat. Ruth Algrave didn’t have any pets: they were too bestial for her taste. She didn’t have a television either. For two reasons: she couldn’t afford it and she didn’t want to sit there watching all that immorality flashing across the screen. On Mrs. Cabot’s television she’d seen a man kissing a woman on the lips. And not to mention the danger of spreading germs. Ah, if she could she’d write a letter of protest to The Times every day. But it was no use protesting, apparently. Shamelessness was in the air. She once even saw a dog with a bitch. It shocked her. But if that was how God wanted things, so be it. But no one would ever touch her, she thought. She went on coping with her loneliness.
Even children were immoral. She avoided them. And she deeply regretted having been born from her father and mother’s lack of self-restraint. She was ashamed of their shamelessness.
Since she left uncooked rice on the windowsill, pigeons came to visit her. Sometimes they came into her bedroom. They were sent by God. So innocent. Cooing. But their cooing was somewhat immoral, though less so than seeing a half-naked woman on television. Tomorrow without fail she’d write a letter protesting the wicked ways of that accursed city of London. She even once saw addicts queuing outside a pharmacy, waiting their turn for an injection. How could the Queen allow it? A mystery. She’d write another letter denouncing the Queen herself. She wrote well, without grammatical errors and typed the letters on the office typewriter whenever she had a moment’s pause. Mr. Clairson, her boss, showered her published letters with praise. He’d even said she might one day become a writer. She’d felt proud and thanked him profusely.
There she was lying in bed with her loneliness. The even though.
That’s when it happened.
She sensed something coming through the window that wasn’t a pigeon. She was frightened. She said loudly:
“Who’s there?”
And the answer came in the form of wind:
“I am an I.”
“Who are you?” she asked trembling.
“I came from Saturn to love you.”
“But I don’t see anyone!” she cried.
“What matters is that you can sense me.”
And indeed she sensed him. She felt an electric frisson.
“What’s your name?” she asked fearfully.
“It doesn’t really matter.”
“But I want to call your name!”
“Call me Ixtlan.”
They understood one another in Sanskrit. His touch felt cold like a lizard’s, he made her shiver. On his head Ixtlan had a crown of intertwining snakes, tame from the terror of possible death. The cloak that covered his body was the most agonizing shade of violet, it was bad gold and coagulated purple.
He said:
“Take off your clothes.”
She took off her nightgown. The moon was enormous inside the bedroom. Ixtlan was white and small. He lay down beside her on the wrought-iron bed. And ran his hands over her breasts. Black roses.
Never before had she felt what she felt. It was too good. She was afraid it might end. It was as if a cripple were tossing his cane in the air.
She began to sigh and said to Ixtlan:
“I love you, my love! my great love!”
And—yes, indeed. It happened. She never wanted it to end. How good it was, my God. She craved more, more and more.
She thought: take me! Or rather: “I offer myself to thee.” It was the realm of the “here and now.”
She asked him: “when are you coming back?”
Ixtlan replied:
“At the next full moon.”
“But I can’t wait that long!”
“That’s how it is,” he said, coldly even.
“Am I going to have a baby?”
“No.”
“But I’ll die of longing for you! how will I manage?”
“Use yourself.”
He rose, kissed her chastely on the forehead. And left through the window.
She began weeping softly. She seemed like a sad violin without a bow. The proof that it all really happened was the blood-stained sheet. She put it away without washing it and could show it to whoever didn’t believe her.
She watched dawn arrive in a burst of pink. In the fog the first little birds began to chirp sweetly, not yet frenzied.
God was illuminating her body.
Yet, like a Baroness Von Blich nostalgically reclining beneath the satin canopy above her bed, she pretended to ring the bell to summon the butler who would bring her coffee that was hot and strong, strong.
She loved him and would wait ardently for the next full moon. She didn’t want to bathe so as not to wash off the taste of Ixtlan. With him it hadn’t been a sin but a delight. She no longer wished to write letters of protest: she no longer protested.
And she didn’t go to church. She was a fulfilled woman. She had a husband.
Then, on Sunday, at lunchtime, she ate filet mignon with mashed potatoes. The bloody meat was great. And she had Italian red wine. She was privileged indeed. She had been chosen by a being from Saturn.
She’d asked him why he chose her. He’d said it was because she was a redhead and a virgin. She felt bestial. Animals no longer nauseated her. Let them love one another, it was the best thing in the world. And she’d wait for Ixtlan. He’d return: I know it, I know it, I know it, she thought. And she no longer felt revulsion at the couples in Hyde Park. She knew how they felt.
How good it was to live. How good it was to eat bloody meat. How good it was to drink a really astringent Italian wine, somewhat bitter on the tongue and making it shrink.
She was now unsuitable for those eighteen and under. And she delighted in it, she drooled with pleasure at it.
Since it was Sunday, she went to choir practice. She sang better than ever and wasn’t surprised when she was chosen to be a soloist. She sang her hallelujah. Thus: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Then she went to Hyde Park and lay down in the warm grass, parting her legs slightly to let the sun in. Being a woman was a fine thing. Only a woman could know. But she thought: what if there’s a high price to pay for my happiness? It didn’t bother her. She’d pay whatever she had to. She had always paid and always been unhappy. And now her unhappiness was over. Ixtlan! Come back soon! I can’t wait any longer! Come! Come! Come!
She thought: what if he liked me because I’m a bit cross-eyed? At the next full moon she’d ask. If that was the reason, there was no doubt: she’d take it even further and go completely cross-eyed. Ixtlan, anything you want me to do, I’ll do it. Only, she was dying of longing. Come bac
k, my love.
The Complete Stories Page 45
