The Complete Stories

  She waited for Emmanuel seated beneath a jabuticaba tree. And thinking:

  When the time comes, I won’t scream, I’ll just say: oh Jesus!

  And she kept eating jabuticabas. The mother of Jesus was stuffing herself.

  The aunt—who knew everything—made up the bedroom with blue curtains. The stable was right there, with its good manure smell and its cows.

  At night Maria das Dores would gaze at the starry sky in search of the guiding star. Who would be the three kings? Who would bring him incense and myrrh?

  She took long strolls because the doctor had recommended plenty of walking. St. Joseph had let his graying beard grow and his long hair reached his shoulders.

  Waiting was hard. Time wasn’t passing. Her aunt made them, for breakfast, cornmeal muffins that crumbled in their mouths. And the cold left their hands red and rough.

  At night they’d light a fire in the hearth and sit warming themselves. St. Joseph had found himself a staff. And, because he never changed clothes, his stench was suffocating. His tunic was made of burlap. He’d sip wine by the hearth. Maria das Dores sipped creamy white milk, holding her rosary.

  Very early in the morning she’d go peek at the cows in the stable. The cows would moo. Maria das Dores would smile at them. All humble: cows and woman. Maria das Dores about to cry. She’d smooth the straw on the ground, readying a place to lie down when the hour came. The hour of illumination.

  St. Joseph, would set off with his staff to go meditate on the mountain. The aunt made roast pork and they’d all eat like crazy. And no sign of the child being born.

  Until one night, at three in the morning, Maria das Dores felt the first pang. She lit the oil lamp, woke St. Joseph, woke her aunt. They got dressed. And with a torch illuminating their path, they headed through the trees to the stable. A dense star sparkled in the black sky.

  The cows, now awake, grew uneasy, started mooing.

  Soon another pang. Maria das Dores bit down on her own hand so she wouldn’t scream. And day wasn’t dawning.

  St. Joseph shivered with cold. Maria das Dores, lying on the straw, under a blanket, waited.

  Then came a pang too strong. Oh Jesus, moaned Maria das Dores. Oh Jesus, the cows seemed to moo.

  The stars in the sky.

  Then it happened.

  Emmanuel was born.

  And the stable seemed to be completely illuminated.

  It was a strong and beautiful boy who bellowed at dawn.

  St. Joseph cut the umbilical cord. And the mother was smiling. The aunt was weeping.

  No one knows whether that child had to walk the Via Crucis. Everyone does.

  The Man Who Showed Up

  (“O homem que apareceu”)

  It was Saturday evening, around six o’clock. Almost seven. I went out to buy some Coca-Cola and cigarettes. I crossed the street and headed for Portuguese Manuel’s corner bar.

  As I was waiting to be helped, a man playing a little harmonica came up, looked at me, played a little tune and said my name. He said he’d met me at the Cultura Inglesa English school, where I’d actually only studied for two or three months. He said to me:

  “Don’t be scared of me.”

  I replied:

  “I’m not. What’s your name?”

  He replied with a sad smile, in English: “what’s in a name?”

  He said to Mr. Manuel:

  “The only person here who’s better than me is this woman because she writes and I don’t.”

  Mr. Manuel didn’t so much as blink. And the man was completely drunk. I gathered my purchases and was leaving when he said:

  “May I have the honor of carrying your bottle and pack of cigarettes?

  I handed my purchases to him. At the entrance to my building, I took back the Coca-Cola and cigarettes. He was standing there in front of me. Then, thinking his face was so very familiar, I asked his name again.

  “I’m Cláudio.”

  “Cláudio what?”

  “Come on, what do you mean what? I used to be called Cláudio Brito . . .”

  “Cláudio!” I cried. “Oh, my God, please come up to my place!”

  “What floor?”

  I told him the apartment number and floor. He said he’d pay his tab at the bar and come up after.

  A friend of mine was over. I told her what happened to me, saying: “He might be too ashamed to come.”

  My friend said: “He won’t come, drunks always forget the apartment number. And, if he does, he’ll never leave. Warn me so I can go into the bedroom and leave you two alone.”

  I waited—and nothing. I was stunned by Cláudio Brito’s collapse. I got discouraged and changed clothes.

  Then the doorbell rang. I asked through the closed door who it was. He said: “Cláudio.” I said: “Wait on the bench in the hall and I’ll open the door in a second.” I changed clothes. He was a good poet, Cláudio. What had he been up to all this time?

  He came in and immediately started playing with my dog, saying that animals were the only ones that understood him. I asked if he’d like some coffee. He said: “All I drink is alcohol, I’ve been drinking for three days straight.” I lied: I told him that unfortunately there was no alcohol in the house. And I offered coffee again. He looked at me solemnly and said:

  “Don’t boss me around.”

  I replied:

  “I’m not bossing you around, I’m asking you to have some coffee, I’ve got a thermos full of good coffee in the pantry.” He said he liked strong coffee. I brought him a full teacup, with just a little sugar.

  And he made no move to drink it. And I insisted. Then he drank the coffee, saying to my dog:

  “Break this teacup and you’re gonna get it. See how he’s looking at me, he understands me.”

  “I understand you too.”

  “You? all that matters to you is literature.”

  “Well you’re mistaken. Children, families, friends, come first.”

  He eyed me warily, somewhat askance. And asked:

  “You swear that literature doesn’t matter?”

  “I swear,” I answered with the assuredness that comes from inner truth. And added: “Any cat, any dog is worth more than literature.”

  “Then,” he said, deeply moved, “shake my hand. I believe you.”

  “Are you married?”

  “About a thousand times, I can’t remember anymore.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “I have a five-year-old boy.”

  “I’ll get you some more coffee.”

  I brought him the teacup, nearly full again. He drank it slowly. He said:

  “You’re a strange woman.”

  “No I’m not,” I replied, “I’m very simple, not sophisticated at all.”

  He told me a story involving some guy nicknamed Francisquinho, I didn’t really get who he was. I asked him:

  “What do you do for work?”

  “I don’t work. I’m retired because I’m an alcoholic and mentally ill.”

  “You don’t seem mentally ill at all. You just drink more than you should.”

  He told me he’d served in the Vietnam War. And that he’d spent two years as a sailor. That he got on very well with the sea. And his eyes filled with tears. I said:

  “Be a man and cry, cry as much as you want; have the great courage to cry. You must have plenty of reasons to cry.”

  “And here I am, drinking coffee and crying . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter, cry and make believe I don’t exist.”

  He cried a little. He was a very handsome man, in need of a shave and utterly defeated. You could see he was a failure. Like all of us. He asked if he could read me a poem. I said I’d like to hear it. He opened a bag, pulled a thick notebook out of it, burst into laughter, upon openin
g the pages.

  Then he read the poem. It was simply lovely. It mixed dirty words with the most delicate sentiments. Oh Cláudio—I felt like crying out—we’re all failures, we’re all going to die some day! Who? but who can sincerely say they’ve realized their potential in life. Success is a lie.

  I said:

  “Your poem is so wonderful. Do you have any others?”

  “I have another one, but you must be getting annoyed with me. You must want me to go.”

  “I don’t want you to go just yet. I’ll let you know when it’s time for you to leave. Because I go to bed early.”

  He looked for the poem in the pages of his notebook, didn’t find it, gave up. He said:

  “I know a thing or two about you. And I’ve even met your ex-husband.”

  I kept silent.

  “You’re pretty.”

  I kept silent.

  I was very sad. And at a loss for how to help him. It’s a terrible powerlessness, not knowing how to help.

  He said to me:

  “If I commit suicide one day . . .”

  “There’s no way you’re committing suicide,” I cut him off. “Because it’s our duty to live. And living can be good. Believe me.”

  I was the one about to cry.

  There was nothing I could do.

  I asked where he lived. He said he had a tiny apartment in Botafogo. I said: “Go home and sleep.”

  “First I have to see my son, he’s got a fever.”

  “What’s your son’s name?”

  He told me. I replied: “I have a son with that name.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m going to give you a children’s book that I once wrote for my sons. Read it aloud to yours.”

  I gave him the book, wrote a dedication. He put the book into a kind of valise. And I in despair.

  “Do you want some Coca-Cola?”

  “You’re crazy about offering people coffee and Coca-Cola.”

  “It’s because I have nothing else to offer.”

  At the door he kissed my hand. I walked him to the elevator, pushed the button for the ground floor and said to him: “Go with God, for God’s sake.”

  The elevator went down. I went back in, turned off the lights, told my friend he was gone and she soon left, I changed clothes, took a sleeping pill—and sat in the dark living room smoking a cigarette. I recalled how Cláudio, a few minutes earlier, had asked for the cigarette I was smoking. I gave it to him. He smoked it. He also said: “one day I’m going to kill somebody.”

  “That’s not true, I don’t believe you.”

  He also told me how he’d once shot a dog to put it out of its misery. I asked if he’d ever seen a film that in English was called They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? and in Portuguese Night of the Desperate. Yes, he’d seen it.

  I sat there smoking. My dog was watching me in the dark.

  That was yesterday, Saturday. Today is Sunday, May twelfth, Mother’s Day. How can I be a mother to this man? I ask myself and there’s no answer.

  There’s no answer for anything.

  I went to bed. I had died.

  He Drank Me Up

  (“Ele me bebeu”)

  Yes. It actually happened.

  Serjoca was a makeup artist. But he didn’t want anything to do with women. He wanted men.

  And he always did Aurélia Nascimento’s makeup. Aurélia was pretty and, with makeup on, she was a knockout. She was blonde, wore a wig and false eyelashes. They became friends. They went out together, the kind of thing where you go out to dinner at a nightclub.

  Whenever Aurélia wanted to look beautiful she called Serjoca. Serjoca was good-looking too. He was slim and tall.

  And that’s how things went. A phone call and they’d make a date. She’d get dressed up, she went all out. She wore contact lenses. And stuffed her bra. But her own breasts were beautiful, pointy. She only stuffed her bra because she was flat-chested. Her mouth was a rosy red bud. And her teeth large and white.

  One day, at six in the evening, at the peak of rush hour, Aurélia and Serjoca were standing outside the Copacabana Palace Hotel and waiting in vain for a taxi. Serjoca, worn out, was leaning against a tree. Aurélia impatient. She suggested giving the doorman ten cruzeiros to hail them a taxi. Serjoca refused: he was cheap.

  It was almost seven. Getting dark. What to do?

  Nearby was Affonso Carvalho. Metals magnate. He was waiting for his Mercedes and chauffeur. It was hot, the car was air-conditioned, with a phone and a fridge. Affonso had turned forty the day before.

  He saw Aurélia’s impatience as she tapped her feet on the sidewalk. An attractive woman, thought Affonso. And in need of a ride. He turned to her:

  “Having trouble finding a cab, miss?”

  “I’ve been here since six o’clock and not one taxi has stopped to pick us up! I can’t take it anymore.”

  “My chauffeur’s coming soon,” Affonso said. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

  “I’d be so grateful, especially since my feet are hurting.”

  But she didn’t say she had corns. She hid her flaw. She was heavily made-up and looked at the man with desire. Serjoca very quiet.

  Finally the chauffeur pulled up, got out, opened the door. The three of them got in. She in front, next to the chauffeur, the two of them in the backseat. She took off her shoes discreetly and sighed in relief.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “We don’t exactly have a destination,” Aurélia said, increasingly turned on by Affonso’s manly face.

  He said:

  “What if we went to Number One for a drink?”

  “I’d love to,” Aurélia said. “Wouldn’t you, Serjoca?”

  “Sure. I could use a stiff drink.”

  So they went to the club, at this nearly deserted hour. And chatted. Affonso talked about metallurgy. The other two didn’t understand a thing. But they pretended to. It was tedious. But Affonso got all worked up and, under the table, slid his foot against Aurélia’s. The very foot that had corns. She reciprocated, aroused. Then Affonso said:

  “What if we went back to my place for dinner? Today I’ve got escargot and chicken with truffles. How about it?”

  “I’m famished.”

  And Serjoca silent. Affonso turned him on too.

  The apartment was carpeted in white and there was a Bruno Giorgi sculpture. They sat down, had another drink and went into the dining room. A jacaranda table. A waiter serving from the left. Serjoca didn’t know how to eat escargot and got all tripped up by the special utensils. He didn’t like it. But Aurélia really liked it, though she was afraid of getting garlic breath. But they drank French champagne all through dinner. No one wanted dessert, all they wanted was coffee.

  And they went into the living room. Then Serjoca came to life. And started talking nonstop. He cast bedroom eyes at the industrialist. Affonso was astounded by the handsome young man’s eloquence. The next day he’d call Aurélia to tell her: Serjoca is the most charming person.

  And they made another date. This time at a restaurant, the Albamar. To start, they had oysters. Once again, Serjoca had a hard time eating the oysters. I’m a loser, he thought.

  But before they all met up, Aurélia had called Serjoca: she urgently needed her makeup done. He went over to her place.

  Then, while she was getting her makeup done, she thought: Serjoca’s taking off my face.

  She got the feeling he was erasing her features: empty, a face made only of flesh. Dark flesh.

  She felt distress. She excused herself and went to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. It was just as she’d imagined: Serjoca had annulled her face. Even her bones—and she had spectacular bone structure—even her bones had disappeared. He’s drinking me up, she thought, he’s going to destroy me. And al
l because of Affonso.

  She returned out of sorts. At the restaurant she hardly spoke. Affonso talked more with Serjoca, barely glancing at Aurélia: he was interested in the young man.

  Finally, finally lunch was over.

  Serjoca made a date with Affonso for that evening. Aurélia said she couldn’t make it, she was tired. It was a lie: she wasn’t going because she had no face to show.

  She got home, took a long bubble bath, lay there thinking: before you know it he’ll take away my body too. What could she do to take back what had been hers? Her individuality?

  She got out of the bathtub lost in thought. She dried off with a huge red towel. Lost in thought the whole time. She stepped onto the scale: she was at a good weight. Before you know it he’ll take away my weight too, she thought.

  She went over to the mirror. She looked at herself deeply. But she was no longer anything.

  Then—then all of a sudden she slapped herself brutally on the left side of her face. To wake herself up. She stood still looking at herself. And, as if that weren’t enough, she slapped her face twice more. To find herself.

  And it really happened.

  In the mirror she finally saw a human face, sad, delicate. She was Aurélia Nascimento. She had just been born. Nas-ci-men-to.*

  * “Birth.”

  For the Time Being

  (“Por enquanto”)

  Since he had nothing to do, he went to pee. And then he really hit zero.

  These things come with living: once in a while you hit zero. And all this is for the time being. While you’re alive.

  Today a young woman called me in tears, saying her father had died. That’s how it is: just because.

  One of my sons is abroad, the other one came over for lunch with me. The meat was so tough you could hardly chew it. But we drank some chilled rosé. And chatted. I’d asked him not to give in to the commercial pressure that exploits Mother’s Day. He did what I asked: he didn’t give me anything. Or rather he gave me everything: his presence.

  I’ve been working all day, it’s ten to six. The phone’s not ringing. I am alone. Alone in the world and in space. And when I call someone, the phone rings and no one answers. Or someone does and says: they’re sleeping.