My God, I’ve gone back in time. It’s exactly twenty to six. And I answer the typewriter: yes. The monstrous typewriter. It’s a telescope. Such wind. Is it a tornado? It is.
Oh what a place to look pretty. Today is Monday, the tenth. As you can see, I didn’t die. I am going to the dentist. A dangerous week, this one. I am telling the truth. Not the whole truth, as I said. And if God knows it, that’s His business. Let him deal with it. I don’t know how but I am going to deal as best I can. Like a cripple. Living for free is what you cannot do. Pay to live? I am living on borrowed time. Just like that mutt Ulisses. As for me, I think that.
How embarrassing. It is my case of public embarrassment. I have three bison in my life. One plus one plus one plus one plus one. The fourth kills me in Malta. In fact the seventh is the shiniest. Bison, if you didn’t know, are cave-dwelling animals. I perform my stories. Human warmth. Fearless city, that one. God is the hour. I am going to last a while yet. No one is immortal. Just see if you can find someone who doesn’t die.
I died. I died murdered by Brasília. I died to pursue research. Pray for me because I died on my back.
Look, Brasília, I left. And God help me. It’s because I am slightly before. That’s all. I swear to God. And I am slightly after too. What can you do. Brasília is broken glass on the street. Shards. Brasília is a dentist’s metal tool. And very motorcycle too. Which doesn’t stop it from being mullet roe, fried up with plenty of salt. I just happen to be so eager for life, I want so much from it and I take advantage of it so much and everything is so much—that I become immoral. That’s right: I am immoral. How nice to be unsuitable for those eighteen and under.
Brasília exercises every day at 5 a.m. The Bahians there are the only ones who don’t go in for that kind of thing. They write poetry.
Brasília is the mystery categorized in steel filing cabinets. Everything there is categorized. And me? who am I? how have they categorized me? Have they given me a number? I feel numbered, and constricted all over. I barely fit inside myself. I am just a little me, very unimportant. But with a certain class.
Being happy is such a great responsibility. Brasília is happy. It has the nerve. What will become of Brasília in the year, let us say, 3000? How big a pile of bones. No one remembers the future because it’s not possible. The authorities won’t allow it. And me, who am I? Out of pure fear I obey the most insignificant soldier who stands before me and says: you’re under arrest. Oh I’m going to cry. I am barely. On the verge of.
It’s becoming clear that I don’t know how to describe Brasília. It is Jupiter. It is a word well chosen. It is too grammatical for my taste. And the worst thing is it demands grammar but I don’t know, sir, I don’t know the rules.
Brasília is an airport. The loudspeakers coldly and courteously announce the departing flights.
What else? the thing is, no one knows what to do in Brasília. The only ones who do anything are the people who work like crazy, who make babies like crazy and get together like crazy to dine on the finest delicacies.
I stayed at the Hotel Nacional. Room 800. And drank Coca-Cola in my room. I am constantly—fool that I am—giving away free advertising.
At seven in the evening I will speak just superficially about avant-garde Brazilian literature, since I am not a critic. God spare me from critiquing. I have a morbid fear of facing people who are listening to me. Electrified. Speaking of which Brasília is electrified and a computer. I am definitely going to read too fast so I can get through it quickly. I will be introduced to the audience by José Guilherme Merquior. Merquior is much too wholesome. I feel honored and at the same time so humble. After all, who am I to face a demanding public? I’ll do what I can. Once I gave a talk at the Catholic University and Affonso Romano de Sant’Anna, I don’t know what got into that fabulous critic, asked me a question: does two plus two equal five? For a second I was speechless. But then a darkly humorous anecdote sprang to mind: It goes like this: the psychotic says that two plus two equals five. The neurotic says: two plus two equals four but I just can’t take it. Then there was laughter and everyone relaxed.
Tomorrow I return to Rio, turbulent city of my loves. I like to fly: I love speed. With Vicente I got him to zip around Brasília very fast by car. I sat beside him and we talked a lot. See you later: I’m going to read while waiting to be picked up for the conference. In Brasília you feel like looking pretty. I felt like getting all done up. Brasília is risky and I love risk. It’s an adventure: it brings me face to face with the unknown. I’m going to speak words. Words have nothing to do with sensations. Words are hard stones and sensations are ever so delicate, fleeting, extreme. Brasília became humanized. Only I can’t stand those rounded streets, that vital lack of corners. There, even the sky, is rounded. The clouds are agnus dei. Brasília’s air is so dry that the skin on your face gets dry, your hands rough.
The dentist’s machine called “Atlas 200” says this to me: tchi! tchi! tchi! Today is the 14th. Fourteen leaves me suspended. Brasília is fifteen point one. Rio is one, but a tiny one. Doesn’t Atlas 200 ever die? No, it doesn’t. It is like me when I am hibernating in Brasília.
Brasília is an orange construction crane fishing out something very delicate: a small white egg. Is that white egg me or a little child born today?
I feel like people are working voodoo on me: who wants to steal my poor identity? All I’ll do is this: I’ll ask for help and have some coffee. Then I’ll smoke. Oh how I smoked and smoked in Brasília! Brasília is a Hollywood-brand filtered cigarette. Brasília is like this: right now I am listening to the sound of the key in the front door lock. A mystery? A mystery, yes sir. I go open it and guess who it was? it was nobody. Brasília is somebody, red carpet, tails and a top hat.
Brasília is a pair of stainless steel scissors. I save what I can to make ends meet. And I have already drawn up my will. I say a bunch of things in it.
Brasília is the sound of ice cubes in a glass of whiskey, at six in the evening, the hour of nobody.
Do you want me to tell Brasília: here’s to you? I say here’s to you with the glass in my hand. In Rio, in my pantry, I killed a mosquito that was quivering in midair. Why this right to kill? It was merely a flying atom. Never will I forget that mosquito whose destiny I plotted, I, the one without a destiny.
I am tired, listening at dawn to the Ministry of Education that also comes from Brasília. Right now I am listening to the Blue Danube in whose waters I recline, serious and alert.
Brasília is science fiction. Brasília is Ceará turned inside out: both bruising and conquering.
And it is a chorus of children on an incredibly blue, super cold morning, the kids opening their little round mouths and intoning an utterly innocent Te Deum, accompanied by organ music. I wish this would happen in the stained glass church at 7 in the evening. Or 7 in the morning. I prefer morning, since twilight in Brasília is more beautiful than the involuntary sunset in Porto Alegre. Brasília is a first place on the university entrance exams. I’m happy with just a little ol’ second place.
I see that I wrote seven as a numeral: 7. Well Brasília is 7. It’s 3. It’s four. It’s eight, nine—I’m skipping the others, and at 13 I meet God.
The problem is that blank paper demands I write. I’ll go ahead and write. Alone in the world, high on a hill. I would like to conduct an orchestra, but they say women can’t because they don’t have the physical stamina. Ah, Schubert, sweeten up Brasília a little. I’m so good to Brasília.
Right this instant-now it’s ten to seven. Me muero. Make yourself at home, dear sir, and the service I offer is deluxe. Whoever wants to can live it up. Brasília is a five-hundred-cruzeiro bill that nobody wants to break. And the number 1 penny? that one I insist on keeping for myself. It’s so rare. It brings good luck. And it brings privileges. Five hundred cruzeiros go down my throat.
Brasília is different. Brasília is inviting. And if i
nvited, I’ll attend. Brasília uses a diamond-studded cigarette holder.
But it is common for people to say: I want money and I want to die suddenly. Even me. But St. Francis took off all his clothes and went naked. He and my dog Ulisses ask for nothing. Brasília is a pact I made with God.
All I ask is one favor, Brasília, of you: don’t take up speaking Esperanto. Don’t you see that words get distorted in Esperanto as in a badly translated translation? Yes, my Lord. I said yes, sir. I almost said: my love, instead of my Lord. But my love is my Lord. There is no answer? O.K., I can stand It. But how it hurts. It hurts so much to be offended by not getting a reply. I can take it. But don’t anyone step on my feet because that hurts. And I am on familiar terms, I go by my first name, don’t stand on ceremony. It’ll go like this: I address you as honorable sir and you use my first name. You are so gallant, Brasília.
Does Brasília have a botanical garden? and does it have a zoo? It needs them, because people cannot live on man alone. Having animals around is essential.
Where is your tragic opera, Brasília? I won’t accept operettas, they are too nostalgic, lead soldiers are what I used to play with, despite being a girl. The blues gently shatters my heart that even so is as hot as the blues itself.
Brasília is Physical Law. Relax, ma’am, take off your girdle, don’t get flustered, have a little sip of sugar water—and then see what it’s like to be Natural Law a little. You’ll love it, ma’am.
Does there happen to exist a course of study called Course on the Existence of Time? Well it should.
Well didn’t they pour bleach on the ground in Brasília. Well they did: to disinfect. But I am, thank God, thoroughly infected. But I had my lungs x-rayed and said to the doctor: my lungs must be black from smoke. He answered: well actually they aren’t, they’re nice and clear.
And so it goes on. I am suddenly silent and have nothing to say. Respect my silence. I don’t paint, no ma’am, I write and do I ever.
In Brasília I didn’t dream. Could it be my fault or does no one dream in Brasília? And that hotel maid? what became of her? I too have suffered, you hear, maid-woman? Suffering is the privilege of those who feel. But now I am sheer joy. It’s almost six in the morning. I got up at four. I am wide awake. Brasília is wide awake. Pay attention to what I am saying: Brasília will never end. I die and Brasília remains. With new people, of course. Brasília is hot off the press.
Brasília is the Wedding March. The groom is a northeasterner who eats up the whole cake because he’s gone hungry for several generations. The bride is a widowed old lady, rich and cranky. From this unusual wedding that I witnessed, forced by circumstances, I left defeated by the violence of the Wedding March that sounded like a Military March and commanded me to get married too and I don’t want to. I left covered in Band-Aids, my ankle twisted, my neck aching and a big wound aching in my heart.
Everything I have said is true. Or it is symbolic. But what difficult syntax Brasília has! The fortuneteller said I would go to Brasília. She knows everything, Dona Nadir, from Méier. Brasília is an eyelid fluttering like the yellow butterfly I saw a few days ago on the corner near my house. Yellow butterflies are a good omen. Geckos say neither yes nor no. But S. has a fear of geckos who are shedding their skin. What I am more afraid of are rats. At the Hotel Nacional they guaranteed they didn’t have rats. So, in that case, I stayed. With a guarantee, I often stay.
Working is fate. Look, Jornal de Brasília, you better include astrology in your paper. After all, we need to know where we stand. I am completely magical and my aura is bright blue just like the sweet stained glass in the church I mentioned. Everything I touch, is born.
It is daybreak here in Rio. A lovely and cold dry morning. How nice that all nights have radiant mornings. Brasília’s horoscope is dazzling. And whoever wants to, let them bear it.
It’s a quarter to six. I write while listening to music. Anything will do, I’m not difficult. What I was hoping to hear right now was a really astringent fado sung by Amália Rodrigues in Lisbon. Ah how I long for Capri. I suffered so much in Capri. But I forgave it. It’s all right: Capri, like Brasília, is beautiful. I do feel sorry for Brasília because it doesn’t have the sea. But the salt wind is in the air. I detest swimming in a pool. Swimming in the sea breeds courage. A few days ago I went to the beach and entered the sea feeling moved. I drank seven gulps of saltwater from the sea. The water was chilly, gentle, with little waves that were also agnus dei. I am letting you know that I am going to buy an old-fashioned felt hat, with a small crown and upturned brim. And also a green crocheted shawl. Brasília isn’t crochet, it is a knit made by special machines that don’t make errors. But, as I said, I am pure error. And I have a left-handed soul. I get all tangled in emerald-green crochet, I get all tangled. To protect myself. Green is the color of hope. And Tuesday could be a disaster. On my last Tuesday I cried because I had been wronged. But in general Tuesdays are good. As for Thursday, it is sweet and a little bit sad. Laugh all you want, clown, as your house catches fire. Mais tout va très bien, madame la Marquise. Except.
Could there be fauns in Brasília? That settles it: what I’ll do is buy a green hat to match my shawl. Or should I not buy one at all? I am so indecisive. Brasília is decision. Brasília is a man. And I, such a woman. I go bumbling along. I stumble into something here, I stumble into something there. And arrive at last.
The song I am listening to now is completely pure and free of guilt. Debussy. With cool little waves in the sea.
Does Brasília have gnomes?
My house in Rio is full of them. All fantastic. Try just one gnome and you’ll be hooked. Elves also do the trick. Dwarves? I feel sorry for them.
I’ve settled it: I don’t need a hat at all. Or do I? My God, what shall become of me? Brasília, save me for I am in need of it.
One day I was a child just like Brasília. And I so badly wanted a carrier pigeon. To send letters to Brasília. Does anyone get them? yes or no?
I am innocent and ignorant. And when I am in writing mode, I don’t read. That would be too much for me, I don’t have the strength.
I was on the plane with an older Portuguese gentleman, a businessman of some sort, but very genteel: he carried my heavy suitcase. On the way back from Brasília I sat next to an older gentleman who was such a good conversationalist, we had such a good conversation, that I said: it’s incredible how fast the time went and now we’re here. He said: the time went fast for me too. I’ll see that man some day. He’s going to teach me. He knows a lot of things.
I am so lost. But that is exactly how we live: lost in time and space.
I am scared to death of appearing before a Judge. Your Most Esteemed Honor, may I have permission to smoke? Yes, indeed ma’am, I myself smoke a pipe. Thank you, Your Eminence. I treat the Judge well, a Judge is Brasília. But I won’t sue Brasília. It hasn’t wronged me.
We are in the middle of the world cup. There is an African country that is poor and ignorant and lost to Yugoslavia 9 to zero. But their ignorance is different: I heard that in that country the black boys either win or they die. Such helplessness.
I know how to die. I have been dying since I was little. And it hurts but we pretend it doesn’t. I miss God so badly.
And now I am going to die a little bit. I need to so much.
Yes. I accept, my Lord. Under protest.
But Brasília is splendor.
I am utterly afraid.
FINAL STORIES
Beauty and the Beast
or The Enormous Wound
(“A bela e a fera ou A ferida grande demais”)
IT BEGINS:
Well, so she left the beauty salon by the elevator in the Copacabana Palace Hotel. Her driver wasn’t there. She looked at her watch: it was four in the afternoon. And suddenly she remembered: she’d told “her” José to pick her up at five, not factoring in that she wouldn’t get
a manicure or pedicure, just a massage. What should she do? Take a taxi? But she had a five-hundred-cruzeiro bill on her and the cab driver wouldn’t have change. She’d brought cash because her husband had told her you should never go out without cash. It crossed her mind to go back to the beauty salon and ask for change. But—but it was a May afternoon and the cool air was a flower blooming with its perfume. And so she thought it wonderful and unusual to be standing on the street—out in the wind that was ruffling her hair. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with herself. Maybe never. It was always her—with others, and in these others she was reflected and the others were reflected in her. Nothing was—was pure, she thought without understanding what she meant. When she saw herself in the mirror—her skin, tawny from sunbathing, made the gold flowers in her black hair stand out against her face—, she held back from exclaiming “ah!”—for she was fifty million units of beautiful people. Never had there been—in all the world’s history—anyone like her. And then, in three trillion trillion years—there wouldn’t be a single girl exactly like her.
“I am a burning flame! And I shine and shine all that darkness!”
This moment was unique—and she would have in the course of her life thousands of unique moments. Her forehead even broke out in a cold sweat, because so much had been given her and eagerly taken by her.
The Complete Stories Page 52
