The Complete Stories

  Her eyes fixed yet again on that young lady who, from the moment she’d entered, irritated her like mustard in the nose. Right when she’d entered she noticed her sitting at a table with her man, all full of hats and ostentation, blonde like a false coin, all saintly and posh—what a fancy hat she had!—bet she wasn’t even married, and flaunting that saintly attitude. And with her fancy hat placed just so. Well let her make the most of that sanctimony! and she’d better not make a mess of that nobility. The most little goody two-shoes were the most depraved. And the waiter, that big dolt, serving her so attentively, the rascal: and the sallow man with her turning a blind eye to it. And that oh-so-holy saint all proud of her hat, all modest with her dainty little waist, bet she couldn’t even give him, her man, a son. Oh this had nothing to do with her, honestly: from the moment she’d entered she’d felt the urge to go slap her senseless, right in her saintly blonde girlish face, that little hat-wearing aristocrat. Who didn’t even have any curves, who was flat-chested. And bet you that, for all her hats, she was no more than a greengrocer passing herself off as a grande dame.

  Oh, how humiliating to have come to the tavern without a hat, her head now felt naked. And that other one with her ladylike airs, pretending to be refined. I know just what you need, you little aristocrat, and your sallow man too! And if you think I’m jealous of you and your flat chest, I’ll have you know that I don’t give a toss, I don’t give a bloody toss about your hats. Lowlife floozies like you, playing hard to get, I’ll slap them senseless.

  In her sacred wrath, she reached out her hand with difficulty and took a toothpick.

  But at last the difficulty of getting home disappeared: she fidgeted now inside the familiar reality of her bedroom, now seated at the edge of her bed with her slipper dangling off her foot.

  And, since she’d half-closed her bleary eyes, everything became flesh once more, the foot of the bed made of flesh, the window made of flesh, the suit made of flesh her husband had tossed on the chair, and everything nearly aching. And she, bigger and bigger, reeling, swollen, gigantic. If only she could get closer to herself, she’d see she was bigger still. Each of her arms could be traversed by a person, while unaware it was an arm, and you could dive into each eye and swim without knowing it was an eye. And all around everything aching a little. The things made of flesh had neuralgia. It was the little chill she’d caught while leaving the eatery.

  She was sitting on the bed, subdued, skeptical.

  And this was nothing yet, God only knew: she was well aware this was nothing yet. That right then things were happening to her that only later would really hurt and matter: once she returned to her normal size, her anaesthetized body would wake up throbbing and she’d pay for all that gorging and wine.

  Well, since it’ll happen anyway, I may as well open my eyes now, which she did, and everything became smaller and more distinct, though without any pain at all. Everything, deep down, was the same, just smaller and familiar. She was sitting quite tense on her bed, her stomach so full, absorbed, resigned, with the gentleness of someone waiting for someone else to wake up. “You overstuff yourself and I end up paying the price,” she said to herself melancholically, gazing at her little white toes. She looked around, patient, obedient. Oh, words, words, bedroom objects lined up in word order, forming those murky, bothersome sentences that whoever can read, shall. Tiresome, tiresome, oh what a bore. What a pain. Oh well, woe is me, God’s will be done. What could you do. Oh, I can hardly say what’s happening to me. Oh well, God’s will be done. And to think she’d had so much fun tonight! and to think it had been so good, and the restaurant so to her liking, sitting elegantly at the table. Table! the world screamed at her. But she didn’t even respond, shrugging her shoulders with a pouty tsk-tsk, vexed, don’t come pestering me with caresses; disillusioned, resigned, stuffed silly, married, content, the vague nausea.

  Right then she went deaf: one of her senses was missing. She slammed her palm hard against her ear, which only made things worse: for her eardrum filled with the noise of an elevator, life suddenly sonorous and heightened in its slightest movements. It was one or the other: either she was deaf or hearing too much—she reacted to this new proposition with a mischievous and uncomfortable sensation, with a sigh of subdued satiety. To hell with it, she said softly, annihilated.

  “And when at the restaurant . . .,” she suddenly recalled. When she’d been at the restaurant her husband’s benefactor had slid a foot up against hers under the table, and above the table that face of his. Because it happened to fit or on purpose? That devil. Someone, to be honest, who was really quite interesting. She shrugged.

  And when atop her full cleavage—right there in the Praça Tiradentes!, she thought shaking her head incredulously—that fly had landed on her bare skin? Oh how naughty.

  Certain things were good because they were almost nauseating: that sound like an elevator in her blood, while her man was snoring beside her, her plump children piled up in the other bedroom asleep, those little scallywags. Oh what’s got into me! she thought desperately. Had she eaten too much? oh what’s got into me, my goodness!

  It was sadness.

  Her toes fiddling with her slipper. The not-so-clean floor. How lax and lazy you’ve turned out. Not tomorrow, because her legs wouldn’t be doing so well. But the day after tomorrow just wait and see that house of hers: she’d give it a good scrub with soap and water and scrape off all that grime! just wait and see her house! she threatened wrathfully. Oh she felt so good, so rough, as if she still had milk in her breasts, so strong. When her husband’s friend saw her looking so pretty and fat he immediately respected her. And when she began to feel ashamed she didn’t know where to look. Oh what sadness. What can you possibly do. Seated at the edge of the bed, blinking in resignation. How well you could see the moon on these summer nights. She leaned forward ever so slightly, indifferent, resigned. The moon. How well you could see it. The high, yellow moon gliding across the sky, poor little thing. Gliding, gliding . . . Up high, up high. The moon. Then the profanity exploded from her in a sudden fit of love: bitch, she said laughing.

  Love

  (“Amor”)

  A little tired, the groceries stretching out her new knit sack, Ana boarded the tram. She placed the bundle in her lap and the tram began to move. She then settled back in her seat trying to get comfortable, with a half-contented sigh.

  Ana’s children were good, something true and succulent. They were growing up, taking their baths, demanding for themselves, misbehaved, ever more complete moments. The kitchen was after all spacious, the faulty stove gave off small explosions. The heat was stifling in the apartment they were paying off bit by bit. But the wind whipping the curtains she herself had cut to measure reminded her that if she wanted she could stop and wipe her brow, gazing at the calm horizon. Like a farmhand. She had sown the seeds she had in her hand, no others, but these alone. And trees were growing. Her brief conversation with the electric bill collector was growing, the water in the laundry sink was growing, her children were growing, the table with food was growing, her husband coming home with the newspapers and smiling with hunger, the tiresome singing of the maids in the building. Ana gave to everything, tranquilly, her small, strong hand, her stream of life.

  A certain hour of the afternoon was more dangerous. A certain hour of the afternoon the trees she had planted would laugh at her. When nothing else needed her strength, she got worried. Yet she felt more solid than ever, her body had filled out a bit and it was a sight to see her cut the fabric for the boys’ shirts, the large scissors snapping on the cloth. All her vaguely artistic desire had long since been directed toward making the days fulfilled and beautiful; over time, her taste for the decorative had developed and supplanted her inner disorder. She seemed to have discovered that everything could be perfected, to each thing she could lend a harmonious appearance; life could be wrought by the hand of man.

  Deep down, Ana ha
d always needed to feel the firm root of things. And this is what a home bewilderingly had given her. Through winding paths, she had fallen into a woman’s fate, with the surprise of fitting into it as if she had invented it. The man she’d married was a real man, the children she’d had were real children. Her former youth seemed as strange to her as one of life’s illnesses. She had gradually emerged from it to discover that one could also live without happiness: abolishing it, she had found a legion of people, previously invisible, who lived the way a person works—with persistence, continuity, joy. What had happened to Ana before she had a home was forever out of reach: a restless exaltation so often mistaken for unbearable happiness. In exchange she had created something at last comprehensible, an adult life. That was what she had wanted and chosen.

  The only thing she worried about was being careful during that dangerous hour of the afternoon, when the house was empty and needed nothing more from her, the sun high, the family members scattered to their duties. As she looked at the clean furniture, her heart would contract slightly in astonishment. But there was no room in her life for feeling tender toward her astonishment—she’d smother it with the same skill the household chores had given her. Then she’d go do the shopping or get something repaired, caring for her home and family in their absence. When she returned it would be the end of the afternoon and the children home from school needed her. In this way night would fall, with its peaceful vibration. In the morning she’d awake haloed by her calm duties. She’d find the furniture dusty and dirty again, as if repentantly come home. As for herself, she obscurely participated in the gentle black roots of the world. And nourished life anonymously. That was what she had wanted and chosen.

  The tram went swaying along the tracks, heading down broad avenues. Soon a more humid breeze blew announcing, more than the end of the afternoon, the end of the unstable hour. Ana breathed deeply and a great acceptance gave her face a womanly air.

  The tram would slow, then come to a halt. There was time to relax before Humaitá. That was when she looked at the man standing at the tram stop.

  The difference between him and the others was that he really was stopped. Standing there, his hands reaching in front of him. He was blind.

  What else could have made Ana sit up warily? Something uneasy was happening. Then she saw: the blind man was chewing gum . . . A blind man was chewing gum.

  Ana still had a second to think about how her brothers were coming for dinner—her heart beat violently, at intervals. Leaning forward, she stared intently at the blind man, the way we stare at things that don’t see us. He was chewing gum in the dark. Without suffering, eyes open. The chewing motion made it look like he was smiling and then suddenly not smiling, smiling and not smiling—as if he had insulted her, Ana stared at him. And whoever saw her would have the impression of a woman filled with hatred. But she kept staring at him, leaning further and further forward—the tram suddenly lurched throwing her unexpectedly backward, the heavy knit sack tumbled from her lap, crashed to the floor—Ana screamed, the conductor gave the order to stop before he knew what was happening—the tram ground to a halt, the passengers looked around frightened.

  Unable to move to pick up her groceries, Ana sat up, pale. A facial expression, long unused, had reemerged with difficulty, still tentative, incomprehensible. The paperboy laughed while returning her bundle. But the eggs had broken inside their newspaper wrapping. Viscous, yellow yolks dripped through the mesh. The blind man had interrupted his chewing and was reaching out his uncertain hands, trying in vain to grasp what was happening. The package of eggs had been thrown from the bag and, amid the passengers’ smiles and the conductor’s signal, the tram lurched back into motion.

  A few seconds later nobody was looking at her. The tram rumbled along the tracks and the blind man chewing gum stayed behind forever. But the damage was done.

  The knit mesh was rough between her fingers, not intimate as when she had knit it. The mesh had lost its meaning and being on a tram was a snapped thread; she didn’t know what to do with the groceries on her lap. And like a strange song, the world started up again all around. The damage was done. Why? could she have forgotten there were blind people? Compassion was suffocating her, Ana breathed heavily. Even the things that existed before this event were now wary, had a more hostile, perishable aspect . . . The world had become once again a distress. Several years were crashing down, the yellow yolks were running. Expelled from her own days, she sensed that the people on the street were in peril, kept afloat on the surface of the darkness by a minimal balance—and for a moment the lack of meaning left them so free they didn’t know where to go. The perception of an absence of law happened so suddenly that Ana clutched the seat in front of her, as if she might fall off the tram, as if things could be reverted with the same calm they no longer held.

  What she called a crisis had finally come. And its sign was the intense pleasure with which she now looked at things, suffering in alarm. The heat had become more stifling, everything had gained strength and louder voices. On the Rua Voluntários da Pátria a revolution seemed about to break out, the sewer grates were dry, the air dusty. A blind man chewing gum had plunged the world into dark voraciousness. In every strong person there was an absence of compassion for the blind man and people frightened her with the vigor they possessed. Next to her was a lady in blue, with a face. She averted her gaze, quickly. On the sidewalk, a woman shoved her son! Two lovers interlaced their fingers smiling . . . And the blind man? Ana had fallen into an excruciating benevolence.

  She had pacified life so well, taken such care for it not to explode. She had kept it all in serene comprehension, separated each person from the rest, clothes were clearly made to be worn and you could choose the evening movie from the newspaper—everything wrought in such a way that one day followed another. And a blind man chewing gum was shattering it all to pieces. And through this compassion there appeared to Ana a life full of sweet nausea, rising to her mouth.

  Only then did she realize she was long past her stop. In her weak state everything was hitting her with a jolt; she left the tram weak in the knees, looked around, clutching the egg-stained mesh. For a moment she couldn’t get her bearings. She seemed to have stepped off into the middle of the night.

  It was a long street, with high, yellow walls. Her heart pounding with fear, she sought in vain to recognize her surroundings, while the life she had discovered kept pulsating and a warmer, more mysterious wind whirled round her face. She stood there looking at the wall. At last she figured out where she was. Walking a little further along a hedge, she passed through the gates of the Botanical Garden.

  She trudged down the central promenade, between the coconut palms. There was no one in the Garden. She put her packages on the ground, sat on a bench along a path and stayed there a long while.

  The vastness seemed to calm her, the silence regulated her breathing. She was falling asleep inside herself.

  From a distance she saw the avenue of palms where the afternoon was bright and full. But the shade of the branches covered the path.

  All around were serene noises, scent of trees, little surprises among the vines. The whole Garden crushed by the ever faster instants of the afternoon. From where did that half-dream come that encircled her? Like a droning of bees and birds. Everything was strange, too gentle, too big.

  A light, intimate movement startled her—she spun around. Nothing seemed to have moved. But motionless in the central avenue stood a powerful cat. Its fur was soft. Resuming its silent walk, it disappeared.

  Worried, she looked around. The branches were swaying, the shadows wavering on the ground. A sparrow was pecking at the dirt. And suddenly, in distress, she seemed to have fallen into an ambush. There was a secret labor underway in the Garden that she was starting to perceive.

  In the trees the fruits were black, sweet like honey. On the ground were dried pits full of circumvolutions, like little rotting
brains. The bench was stained with purple juices. With intense gentleness the waters murmured. Clinging to the tree trunk were the luxuriant limbs of a spider. The cruelty of the world was tranquil. The murder was deep. And death was not what we thought.

  While imaginary—it was a world to sink one’s teeth into, a world of voluminous dahlias and tulips. The trunks were crisscrossed by leafy parasites, their embrace was soft, sticky. Like the revulsion that precedes a surrender—it was fascinating, the woman was nauseated, and it was fascinating.

  The trees were laden, the world was so rich it was rotting. When Ana thought how there were children and grown men going hungry, the nausea rose to her throat, as if she were pregnant and abandoned. The moral of the Garden was something else. Now that the blind man had led her to it, she trembled upon the first steps of a sparkling, shadowy world, where giant water lilies floated monstrous. The little flowers scattered through the grass didn’t look yellow or rosy to her, but the color of bad gold and scarlet. The decomposition was deep, perfumed . . . But all the heavy things, she saw with her head encircled by a swarm of insects, sent by the most exquisite life in the world. The breeze insinuated itself among the flowers. Ana sensed rather than smelled its sweetish scent . . . The Garden was so pretty that she was afraid of Hell.

  It was nearly evening now and everything seemed full, heavy, a squirrel leaped in the shadows. Beneath her feet the earth was soft, Ana inhaled it with delight. It was fascinating, and she felt nauseated.

  But when she remembered the children, toward whom she was now guilty, she stood with a cry of pain. She grabbed her bag, went down the dark path, reached the promenade. She was nearly running—and she saw the Garden all around, with its haughty impersonality. She rattled the locked gates, rattled them gripping the rough wood. The guard appeared, shocked not to have seen her.

  Until she reached the door of her building, she seemed on the verge of a disaster. She ran to the elevator clutching the mesh sack, her soul pounding in her chest—what was happening? Her compassion for the blind man was as violent as an agony, but the world seemed to be hers, dirty, perishable, hers. She opened her front door. The living room was large, square, the doorknobs were gleaming spotlessly, the windowpanes gleaming, the lamp gleaming—what new land was this? And for an instant the wholesome life she had led up till now seemed like a morally insane way to live. The boy who ran to her was a being with long legs and a face just like hers, who ran up and hugged her. She clutched him tightly, in alarm. She protected herself trembling. Because life was in peril. She loved the world, loved what had been created—she loved with nausea. The same way she’d always been fascinated by oysters, with that vaguely sick feeling she always got when nearing the truth, warning her. She embraced her son, nearly to the point of hurting him. As if she had learned of an evil—the blind man or the lovely Botanical Garden?—she clung to him, whom she loved more than anything. She had been touched by the demon of faith. Life is horrible, she said to him softly, ravenous. What would she do if she heeded the call of the blind man? She would go alone . . . There were places poor and rich that needed her. She needed them . . . I’m scared, she said. She felt the child’s delicate ribs between her arms, heard his frightened sobbing. Mama, the boy called. She held him away from her, looked at that face, her heart cringed. Don’t let Mama forget you, she told him. As soon as the child felt her embrace loosen, he broke free and fled to the bedroom door, looking at her from greater safety. It was the worst look she had ever received. The blood rushed to her face, warming it.