I once heard, over the phone, the Sveglia’s alarm go off. It is like inside us: we wake up from the inside out. It seems its electronic-God communicates with our electronic-God brain: the sound is low, not the least bit shrill. Sveglia ambles like a white horse roaming free and saddleless.
I learned of a man who owned a Sveglia and to whom Sveglia happened. He was walking with his ten-year-old son, at night, and the son said: watch out, Father, there’s voodoo out there. The father recoiled—but wouldn’t you know he stepped right on a burning candle, snuffing it out? Nothing seemed to have happened, which is also very Sveglia. The man went to bed. When he awoke he saw that one of his feet was swollen and black. He called some doctor friends who saw no sign of injury: the foot was intact—only black and very swollen, the kind of swelling that stretches the skin completely taut. The doctors called more colleagues. And nine doctors decided it was gangrene. They had to amputate the foot. They made an appointment for the next day and an exact time. The man fell asleep.
And he had a terrible dream. A white horse was trying to attack him and he was fleeing like a madman. This all took place in the Campo de Santana. The white horse was beautiful and adorned with silver. But there was no escape. The horse got him right on the foot, trampling it. That’s when the man awoke screaming. They thought it was nerves, explained that these things happened right before an operation, gave him a sedative, he went back to sleep. When he awoke, he immediately looked at his foot. Surprise: the foot was white and its normal size. The nine doctors came and couldn’t explain it. They didn’t know about the enigma of the Sveglia against which only a white horse can fight. There was no longer any reason to operate. Only, he can’t put any weight on that foot: it was weakened. It was the sign of the horse harnessed with silver, of the snuffed candle, of the Sveglia. But Sveglia wanted to be victorious and something happened. That man’s wife, in perfect health, at the dinner table, started feeling sharp pains in her intestines. She cut dinner short and went to lie down. The husband, worried sick, went to check on her. She was white, drained of blood. He took her pulse: there was none. The only sign of life was that her forehead was pearled with sweat. He called the doctor who said it might be a case of catalepsy. The husband didn’t agree. He uncovered her stomach and made simple movements over her—the same he himself made when Sveglia had stopped—movements he couldn’t explain.
The wife opened her eyes. She was in perfect health. And she’s alive, may God keep her.
This has to do with Sveglia. I don’t know how. But that it does, no question. And what about the white horse of the Campo de Santana, which is a plaza full of little birds, pigeons and coatis? In full regalia, trimmed in silver, with a lofty and bristling mane. Running rhythmically in counterpoint to Sveglia’s rhythm. Running without haste.
I am in perfect physical and mental health. But one night I was sleeping soundly and could be heard saying in a loud voice: I want to have a baby with Sveglia!
I believe in the Sveglia. It doesn’t believe in me. It thinks I lie a lot. And I do. On Earth we lie a lot.
I went five years without catching the flu: that is Sveglia. And when I did it lasted three days. Afterward a dry cough lingered. But the doctor prescribed antibiotics and I got better. Antibiotics are Sveglia.
This is a report. Sveglia does not allow short stories or novels no matter what. It only permits transmission. It hardly allows me to call this a report. I call it a report on the mystery. And I do my best to write a report dry as extra-dry champagne. But sometimes—forgive me—it gets wet. A dry thing is sterling silver. Whereas gold is wet. May I speak of diamonds in relation to Sveglia?
No, it just is. And in fact Sveglia has no intimate name: it preserves its anonymity. Besides, God has no name: he preserves perfect anonymity: there is no language that utters his true name.
Sveglia is dumb: it acts covertly without premeditation. I am now going to say a very serious thing that will seem like heresy: God is dumb. Because he does not understand, he does not think, he just is. It is true that it’s a kind of dumbness that executes itself. But He commits many errors. And knows it. Just look at us who are a grave error. Just look how we organize ourselves into society and intrinsically, from one to another. But there is one error He does not commit: He does not die.
Sveglia does not die either. I have still not seen the Sveglia, as I have mentioned. Perhaps seeing it is wet. I know everything about it. But its owner does not want me to see it. She is jealous. Jealousy eventually drips from being so wet. Anyhow, our Earth risks becoming wet with feelings. The rooster is Sveglia. The egg is pure Sveglia. But the egg only when whole, complete, white, its shell dry, completely oval. Inside it is life; wet life. But eating raw yolk is Sveglia.
Do you want to see who Sveglia is? A football match. Whereas Pelé is not. Why? Impossible to explain. Perhaps he didn’t respect anonymity.
Fights are Sveglia. I just had one with the clock’s owner. I said: since you don’t want to let me see Sveglia, describe its gears to me. Then she lost her temper—and that is Sveglia—and said she had a lot of problems—having problems is not Sveglia. So I tried to calm her down and it was fine. I won’t call her tomorrow. I’ll let her rest.
It seems to me that I will write about the electronic thing without ever seeing it. It seems it will have to be that way. It is fated.
I am sleepy. Could that be permitted? I know that dreaming is not Sveglia. Numbers are permitted. Though six is not. Very few poems are permitted. Novels, then, forget it. I had a maid for seven days, named Severina, who had gone hungry as a child. I asked if she was sad. She said she was neither happy nor sad: she was just that way. She was Sveglia. But I was not and couldn’t stand the absence of feeling.
Sweden is Sveglia.
But now I am going to sleep though I shouldn’t dream.
Water, despite being wet par excellence, is. Writing is. But style is not. Having breasts is. The male organ is too much. Kindness is not. But not-kindness, giving oneself, is. Kindness is not the opposite of meanness.
Will my writing be wet? I think so. My last name is. Whereas my first name is too sweet, it is meant for love. Not having any secrets—and yet maintaining the enigma—is Sveglia. In terms of punctuation ellipses are not. If someone understands this undisclosed and precise report of mine, that someone is. It seems that I am not I, because I am so much I. The Sun is, not the Moon. My face is. Probably yours is too. Whiskey is. And, as incredible as it might seem, Coca-Cola is, while Pepsi never was. Am I giving free advertising? That’s wrong, you hear, Coca-Cola?
Being faithful is. The act of love contains in itself a desperation that is.
Now I am going to tell a story. But first I would like to say that the person who told me this story was someone who, despite being incredibly kind, is Sveglia.
Now I am nearly dying of exhaustion. Sveglia—if we aren’t careful—kills.
The story goes like this:
It takes place in a locale called Coelho Neto, in the State of Guanabara. The woman in the story was very unhappy because her leg was wounded and the wound wouldn’t heal. She worked very hard and her husband was a postman. Being a postman is Sveglia. They had many children. Almost nothing to eat. But that postman had been instilled with the responsibility of making his wife happy. Being happy is Sveglia. And the postman resolved to resolve the situation. He pointed out a neighbor who was barren and suffered greatly from this. She just couldn’t get pregnant. He pointed out to his wife how happy she was because she had children. And she became happy, even with so little food. The postman also pointed out how another neighbor had children but her husband drank a lot and beat her and the children. Whereas he didn’t drink and had never hit his wife or the children. Which made her happy.
Every night they felt sorry for their barren neighbor and for the one whose husband beat her. Every night they were very happy. And being happy is Sveglia. Every night.
br /> I was hoping to reach page 9 on the typewriter. The number nine is nearly unattainable. The number 13 is God. The typewriter is. The danger of its no longer being Sveglia comes when it gets a little mixed up with the feelings of the person who’s writing.
I got sick of Consul cigarettes which are menthol and sweet. Whereas Carlton cigarettes are dry, they’re rough, they’re harsh, and do not cooperate with the smoker. Since everything is or isn’t, it doesn’t bother me to give free advertising for Carlton. But, as for Coca-Cola, I don’t excuse it.
I want to send this report to Senhor magazine and I want them to pay me very well.
Since you are, why don’t you judge whether my cook, who cooks well and sings all day, is.
I think I’ll conclude this report that is essential for explaining the energetic phenomena of matter. But I don’t know what to do. Ah, I’ll go get dressed.
See you never, Sveglia. The deep blue sky is. The waves white with sea foam are, more than the sea. (I have already bid farewell to Sveglia, but will keep speaking about it strictly because I can’t help it, bear with me). The smell of the sea combines male and female and in the air a son is born that is.
The clock’s owner told me today that it’s the one that owns her. She told me that it has some tiny black holes from which a low sound comes out like an absence of words, the sound of satin. It has an internal gear that is golden. The external gear is silver, nearly colorless—like an aircraft in space, flying metal. Waiting, is it or isn’t it? I don’t know how to answer because I suffer from urgency and am rendered incapable of judging this item without getting emotionally involved. I don’t like waiting.
A musical quartet is immensely more so than a symphony. The flute is. The harpsichord has an element of terror in it: the sounds come out rustling and brittle. Something from an otherworldly soul.
Sveglia, when will you finally leave me in peace? You aren’t going to stalk me for the rest of my life transforming it into the brightness of everlasting insomnia, are you? Now I hate you. Now I would like to be able to write a story: a short story or a novel or a transmission. What will be my future step in literature? I suspect I won’t write anymore. But it’s true that at other times I have suspected this yet still wrote. What, however, must I write, my God? Was I contaminated by the mathematics of Sveglia and will I only be able to write reports?
And now I am going to end this report on the mystery. It so happens that I am very tired. I’ll take a shower before going out and put on a perfume that is my secret. I’ll say just one thing about it: it is rustic and a bit harsh, with hidden sweetness. It is.
Farewell, Sveglia. Farewell forever never. You already killed a part of me. I died and am rotting. Dying is.
And now—now farewell.
Manifesto of the City
(“O manifesto da cidade”)
Why not try in this moment, which isn’t a grave one, to look out the window? This is the bridge. This is the river. Here is the Penitentiary. Here is the clock. And Recife. Here is the canal. Where is the stone that I’m sensing? the stone that crushed the city. In the palpable form of things. For this is a realized city. Its last earthquake is lost in the annals. I reach out my hand and without sadness trace from afar the curves of the stone. Something still escapes the compass rose. Something has hardened in the steel arrow that points toward—Another City.
This moment isn’t grave. I take advantage of it and look out the window. Here is a house. I feel my way along your stairs, those I climbed in Recife. Then the short column. I am seeing everything extraordinarily well. Nothing eludes me. The city laid out. With such ingenuity. Masons, carpenters, engineers, sculptors of saints, artisans—they bore death in mind. I am seeing ever more clearly: this is the house, mine, the bridge, the river, the Penitentiary, the square blocks of buildings, the steps empty of me, the stone.
But here comes a Horse. Here is a horse with four legs and hard hooves of stone, a powerful neck, and the head of Horse. Here is a horse.
If this was a word echoing off the hard ground, what do you mean? How hollow this heart is in the center of the city. I am searching, searching. House, pavement, steps, monument, lamppost, your industry.
From the highest rampart—I am looking. I am searching. From the highest rampart I receive no signal. From here I cannot see, for your clarity is impenetrable. From here I cannot see but feel that something is written in charcoal on a wall. On a wall of this city.
The White Rose
Petal up high: what an extreme surface. Cathedral of glass, surface of the surface, unreachable by voice. Through your stem two voices join a third and a fifth and a ninth—wise children open mouths in the morning and chant spirit, spirit, surface, spirit, untouchable surface of a rose.
I reach out my left hand which is the weaker, dark hand that I quickly withdraw smiling demurely. I cannot touch you. My crude thinking wants to sing your new understanding of ice and glory.
I try to recall the memory, to understand you as one sees the dawn, a chair, another flower. Have no fear, I do not wish to possess you. I rise toward your surface that now is perfume.
I rise until I reach my own appearance. I pale in that frightened and fragile region, I nearly reach your divine surface . . .
In the ridiculous fall I’ve broken the wings of an angel. I do not hang my head snarling: I want at least to suffer your victory with the angelic suffering of your harmony, of your joy. But my coarse heart aches as with love for a man.
And from such large hands emerges the embarrassed word.
The Conjurings of Dona Frozina
(“As maniganças de Dona Frozina”)
“Even on this pocket change . . .”
That’s what the widow Dona Frozina says about her monthly pension. But it’s enough for her to afford Leite de Rosas and take real baths with the milky liquid. People say her skin is spectacular. She’s been using the same product since she was a girl and she smells like a mother.
She is very Catholic and practically lives in churches. Smelling like Leite de Rosas the whole time. Like a little girl. She was widowed at twenty-nine. And from then on—not a man in sight. A widow in the old-fashioned way. Severe. Nothing low-cut and always in long sleeves.
“Dona Frozina, how did you get by without a man?” I want to ask her.
The answer would be:
“Conjurings, my girl, conjurings.”
They say of her: plenty of young people don’t have her spirit. She’s in her seventies, the finest of ladies, Dona Frozina. She’s a good mother-in-law and a fantastic grandmother. She was a good breeder. And kept on bearing fruit. I’d like to have a serious conversation with Dona Frozina.
“Dona Frozina, do you have anything to do with Dona Flor and her three husbands?”
“Good gracious, my dear, what a terrible sin! I’m a virgin widow, my child.”
Her husband was named Epaminondas, nicknamed Buddy.
Look, Dona Frozina, there are worse names than yours. There’s a woman named Flor de Lis—and since people thought it was an awful name, they gave her an even worse nickname: Minhora. It’s almost minhoca, worm. And what about parents who name their kids Brazil, Argentina, Colombia, Belgium and France? You did escape being a country, ma’am. You and your conjurings. “Not much money in it,” she says, “but it’s amusing.”
Amusing how, ma’am? So you haven’t experienced pain? Have you been finding a way around pain all your life? Yes, ma’am, thanks to my conjurings I kept escaping.
Dona Frozina doesn’t drink Coca-Cola. She thinks it’s too modern.
“But everyone drinks it!”
“Not me, Heaven forbid! it even tastes like tapeworm medicine, God bless me and keep me!”
But if she thinks it tastes like medicine that means she’s tried it.
Dona Frozina invokes the name of God more than she should. One shouldn’t take God’
s name in vain. But with her this rule doesn’t hold.
And she clings to the saints. The saints are already sick of her, she’s pestered them so much. Not to mention “Our Lady”; the mother of Jesus gets no peace. And, since she’s from the north, she’s always saying: “Holy Mary!” whenever something astonishes her. And there’s a lot to astonish an innocent widow.
Dona Frozina would pray every night. She’d say a prayer to every saint. Then disaster struck: she fell asleep halfway through.
“Dona Frozina, how awful, dozing off halfway through your prayers and leaving the saints on their own!”
She answered with a dismissive wave:
“Ah, my child, it’s every man for himself.”
She had the oddest dream: she dreamed she saw the Christ on Corcovado—and where were his outstretched arms? They were tightly crossed, and Christ looked fed up as if to say: deal with it yourselves, I’ve had it. It was a sin, that dream.
Dona Frozina, enough of conjurings. Keep your Leite de Rosas and “io me ne vado.” (Is that how you say it in Italian when you want to leave?)
Dona Frozina, finest of ladies, I’m the one who’s had it with you. Farewell, then. I dozed off halfway through the prayer.
P. S. Look up conjurings in the dictionary. But I’ll do you the favor: conjuring—sleight of hand; mysterious trick, art of hocus-pocus. (From the Shorter Brazilian Dictionary of the Portuguese Language).
One detail before I’m done:
Dona Frozina, when she was a child, up in Sergipe, used to eat squatting behind the kitchen door. Nobody knows why.
That’s Where I’m Going