The Complete Stories

  “Nonsense, Margarida,” replied one of the men coldly, “nonsense. Come now musician-poet . . . Come now look . . .”

  Flora would ask for a piece of paper and write:

  “Silent trees

  lost on the road.

  Gentle refuge

  of coolness and shadow.”

  Cristiano won’t come. A man approaches. What is it?

  “Huh?”

  “I’m asking if you’d like to dance,” he continues. He blinks his nearsighted eyes in an idiotic and odd manner.

  “Oh no . . . Really, no . . . I . . .”

  He keeps looking at her.

  “I, honestly, I can’t . . . Oh, maybe later . . . I’m waiting for a friend.”

  He’s still standing there. What to do with this castoff? My God, my eyes.

  “I can’t . . .”

  “Please, madame, I get it,” the man says offended.

  And he goes away. What exactly happened, after all? I don’t know, I don’t know. If I don’t look down, they’ll see my eyes. Silent trees lost on the road. Oh, surely I’m not crying because of that nearsighted man. Nor because of Cristiano who will never come again. It’s because of that sweet woman, it’s because Nenê is beautiful, beautiful, it’s because those flowers have a faraway perfume. Gentle refuge of coolness and shadow. “Dear sirs, now of all times, when I had so much to say, I don’t know how to express myself. I’m a solemn and serious woman, dear sirs. I have a daughter, dear sirs. I could be a good poet. I could have anyone I wanted. I know how to play every role, dear sirs. I could get up now and give a speech against humanity, against life. Asking the government to create a department of abandoned and sad women, who will never again have anything to do in the world. Asking for some urgent reform. But I cannot, dear sirs. And that’s the reason why there will never be any reforms. Because, instead of shouting, complaining, all I feel like is crying very softly and staying still, silent. Maybe not only because of that. My skirt is short and tight. I’m not getting up from here. To make up for it I have a small handkerchief, with red polka dots, and I can very well wipe my nose without the gentlemen, who don’t even know I exist, noticing.”

  In the doorway appears a big man, newspapers in hand. He glances around looking for someone. That man comes straight toward Flora. He presses her hand, sits. He looks at her, his eyes shining, and in confusion she hears scattered words. “My pet, poor thing . . . the train . . . Nenê . . . darling . . .”

  “Nonsense Margarida, nonsense,” says the man at the next table.

  “Do you want anything?” Cristiano asks. “A soda?”

  “Oh, no,” Flora jolts awake. The waiter smiles.

  Cristiano, utterly happy, squeezes her knee lightly under the table. And Flora decides that never, ever again, will she forgive Cristiano for the humiliation she’s suffered. And what if he hadn’t come? Ah, then all that waiting would be excused, would mean something. But, like this? Never, never. Revolt, fight, yes do it. That Flora nobody knows must, appear, at last.

  “Flora, I missed you so, so much.”

  “My darling . . .” Flora says sweetly, forgetting her short tight skirt.

  Letters to Hermengardo

  (“Cartas a Hermengardo”)

  FIRST LETTER

  My dear Hermengardo:

  Today is Sunday and the city is lovely. There is no one on the streets and all the trees exist solitary and sovereign. The worries and desires and hatreds have dwindled, stretched out upon the earth, tired of existing. And at the level of my mouth all I find is the sweet, pure air of calm renunciation.

  My soul, cowering all week long, feels sudden desires to sprawl out, to feel supple for a few moments, to be colored afterward with a lassitude as happy as the kind that today softens nature. I need to think for a few minutes so as to possess sweet repose thereafter.

  That is why I shall speak of the passions. And I know that you will listen because I have already transmitted to you the impression and desire of Sunday. And because I tell you that I shall speak in the humble robes of a shepherd. And that makes me small and reconciles me to you.

  I would like to tell you that having passions does not mean living beautifully, but rather suffering pointlessly. That the soul was made to be guided by reason and that no one can be happy when at the mercy of the instincts. For we are animals yet we are animals disturbed by man. And if they forgive him, he is proud and demanding and never forgives their excesses.

  I speak to you of the passions in terms of their quality and their effects.

  In terms of their quality because whereas the body is active, the soul is contemplative by nature and, knowing nothing, contemplates so as to conclude. That is its function. And in terms of its effects, because the bow feels empty after bidding farewell to the arrow.

  I tell you that there is a joy in renouncing the pain of the passions. Because to desire them is to desire pain and not contentment and those who are noble feel in themselves the necessity to sound out their capacity to burn. And I tell you that what matters is not burning ardently, what matters is repose. What matters is coming to understand oneself and life through reason, which distinguishes us from animals.

  And if one day I spoke to you of “noble passions,” I did not call them noble due to their nature, nor their consequences, except out of compassion for their source, the eternal void of men. Because the man disturbed by pride seeks passion as a form of finding humility. He senses (and woe to the blind) that later on humility will come and in humility lies the serenity of the flower that allows itself to sway in the breath of the breeze.

  There is that hero, a man without substance who desires, in a fever, to find calm. He should not be applauded, but lamented. There is another hero, who desires only upheaval. And he is a man who could not help but go back. He is a weak man. But if you wish to call him noble, you may. Because there is also a great beauty in animals. And in any case, all that exists is beautiful, error as much as truth. It just so happens that this approach to finding beauty is the approach of one who looks down at earth from heaven and is moved by the frailties of his sons. Men, however, struggle a great deal and desire a great deal. They have no time to seek the whole. They want individual happiness.

  And that is why I tell you: passion is not the way.

  There exists another way, the only one.

  We have reached a certain degree of consciousness of our intelligence and, knowing this to be our mark as men, have discovered that we should give our strength to it so as to attain human perfection. And by this I do not mean to say that we should stop being animals. Never shall we renounce this happiness. What we should seek is for this primitive state to rise a bit and for our pride in being rational to fall a bit until the two beings that exist in us can meet, absorb one another and form a new species in nature.

  And that is why I tell you: abandon whatever destroys. Passion destroys because it dissociates. Passion arises in the body and, not comprehending it, we situate it in our souls and become disturbed.

  I am explaining all this to you so that you never exalt anything that wars with the contented spirit and anything that kills itself out of love. Merely forgive them. They have yet to comprehend that in life the smile exists and that passion destroys it and transforms it into a trembling rictus, which is no longer human.

  If you cannot free yourself from desiring passions, read novels and adventure stories, for that is also why writers exist.

  And another thing: pass on what I have said to you to some youth who cannot sleep at night, dreaming up new adventures for Don Quixote. Explain to him that the “ever after” of passion tastes like a stubbed-out cigarette. Ask him, on my behalf, to be a man and not a hero, because nature demands nothing of him except that he be happy and find the peace of the open glade down less painful paths.

  Explain this to him and I shall be able to rest this Sunday
with the necessary humility.

  Now if you ask me: “How do you know these things?” I shall answer in the words of Kipling, so often quoted by my Public Law professor: “But that’s another story . . .”

  Thank you for listening to me,

  Idalina.

  SECOND LETTER

  My dear Hermengardo,

  In truth I tell you: happily you exist. For me the existence of a creature on Earth is enough to satisfy my desire for glory, which is nothing but a profound desire for closeness. Because I was mistaken when long ago I imagined as real my former yearning to “save humanity,” “malgré,” itself. Now all I desire is another person, besides myself, to whom I can prove myself . . . And by returning to Idalina I also understood how beautiful and how impossible that other dream is, that of trying to save oneself. And if it is so impossible, then why lead me to this new citadel that would now be a poor disturbed woman? I don’t know. Perhaps because one must save something. Perhaps through the belated consciousness that we are the sole presence that will not leave us until death. And that is why we love and seek ourselves. And why, so long as we exist, the world shall exist and humanity shall exist. This is how, in the end, we are connected to them.

  And everything I am saying is just an arbitrary preamble to justify my fondness for giving you so much advice. Because giving advice is once more to speak about oneself. And here I am . . . Yet, in the end, I can speak with a peaceful conscience. I know of nothing that grants a man as many rights as the fact that he is living.

  This preamble also serves as an apology. It is because I realize, even through the sweetest words that the miracle of your breathing inspires in me, my destiny is to throw stones. Never get angry with me for that. Some are born to cast stones. And after all, (here is where my task begins) why would it be wrong to cast stones, unless because they will hit things that belong to you or to those who know how to laugh and adore and eat?

  Once this point has been clarified and you allow me to throw stones, I shall speak to you of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

  Have a seat. Stretch out your legs. Close your eyes and ears. I shall say nothing for five minutes so you can think about Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. See, and this will be more perfect still, if you manage not to think in words, but rather create a state of feeling. See if you can halt the whole whirlwind and clear a space for the Fifth Symphony. It is so beautiful.

  Only thus will you have it, through silence. Understand! If I perform it for you, it will fade away, note by note. As soon as the first one is sounded, it will no longer exist. And after the second, the harmony will no longer echo. And the beginning will be the prelude to the end, as in all things. If I perform it you will hear music and that alone. Whereas there is a way to keep it paused and eternal, each note like a statue inside you.

  Do not perform it, that is what you must do. Do not listen to it and you shall possess it. Do not love and you shall have love inside you. Do not smoke your cigarette and you shall have a lit cigarette inside you. Do not listen to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and it will never end for you.

  Thus I redeem myself from casting stones, so endlessly . . . Thus I taught you not to kill. Erect within yourself the monument to Unsatisfied Desire. And that way things will never die, before you yourself die. Because I tell you, sadder still than casting stones is dragging corpses.

  And if you cannot follow my advice, because life is always more eager than all else, if you cannot follow my advice and all the plans we made to better ourselves then go suck on some mints. They are so refreshing.

  Your

  Idalina

  Gertrudes Asks for Advice

  (“Gertrudes pede um conselho”)

  She sat down in a way that made her own weight “iron” her wrinkled skirt. She smoothed her hair, her blouse. Now, all she could do was wait.

  Outside, everything was just swell. She could see the roofs of the houses, red flowers in a window, the yellow sun streaming over everything. There was no better time than two in the afternoon.

  She didn’t want to wait because she’d get scared. And if she was she wouldn’t make the impression she wanted on the doctor. Don’t think about the discussion, don’t think. Quickly make up a story, count to a thousand, think about nice things. The worst was that all she could remember was the letter she’d sent. “Dear Madame, I am seventeen years old and would like . . .” Idiotic, absolutely idiotic. “I’m tired of pacing back and forth. Sometimes I can’t sleep, partly because I share a room with my sisters and they toss and turn too much. But the real reason I can’t sleep is because I stay up thinking about things. I once decided to commit suicide, but I don’t want to anymore. Can you help me? Gertrudes.”

  And the other letters? “I don’t like anything, I am like the poets . . .” Oh, don’t think about it. How embarrassing! Until the doctor finally wrote her, summoning her to the office. But what was she going to say, after all? Everything was so vague. And the doctor would laugh . . . No, no, the doctor, who took care of abandoned minors, writing advice columns in magazines, had to understand, even without her saying anything.

  Today something was going to happen! Don’t think 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 . . . It was no use. Once upon a time there was a blind boy who . . . Why blind? No, he wasn’t blind. His vision was quite good in fact. Now she finally understood why God, who could do anything, created crippled, blind, wretched people. Just to pass the time. While waiting? No, God never has to wait. So what exactly does he do? He’s there, even if you still believed in Him (I didn’t believe in God, I’d shower right before lunch, wouldn’t wear my high school uniform and had taken up smoking), even if you still believed in ghosts, there couldn’t be anything appealing about eternity. If I were God I’d have already forgotten how the world began. So long ago and all those centuries still to come . . . Eternity has no beginning, no end. She felt a little dizzy when she tried to imagine it, and God, always everywhere, invisible, with no defined form. She laughed, remembering how she’d eagerly swallow the tales they used to tell her. She had become quite free . . . But that didn’t mean she was happy. And that was exactly what the doctor was going to explain.

  In fact, lately, Tuda hadn’t been feeling well at all. Sometimes she felt a nameless anxiety, sometimes an excessive and sudden calm. She often felt like crying, which generally was no more than an urge, as though the crisis spent itself in the desire. Some days, filled with boredom, peevish and sad. Other days, languid like a cat, becoming intoxicated by the slightest occurrences. A leaf falling, a child’s cry, and she’d think: another moment and I won’t be able to bear such happiness. And she really couldn’t bear it, though she didn’t exactly know what that happiness consisted of. She would collapse into muffled sobs, unburdened, with the foggy impression that she was surrendering, who knows how or to whom.

  After the tears, along with swollen eyes, came a state of gentle convalescence, of acquiescence to everything. She surprised everyone with her sweetness and transparency and, moreover, mustered a bird-like lightness. She’d hand out alms to all the poor, with the grace of someone tossing flowers.

  At other times, she filled herself with strength. Her gaze became hard as steel, prickly as thorns. She felt that she “could.” She’d been made to “liberate.”

  “Liberate” was an immense word, full of mysteries and pain. Since she’d been agreeable for days, when was she destined for that other role? Which other? Everything was mixed up and could only really be expressed by the word “liberty” and by her heavy and determined tread, in the stoic expression she adopted. At night she wouldn’t fall asleep until the distant roosters started to crow. She wasn’t thinking, not exactly. She daydreamed. She imagined a future in which, daring and cool, she would lead a multitude of men and women, full of faith, almost to the point of worshipping her. Later, toward the middle of the night, she would slip into a state of semi-consciousness, in which everything was good, the multit
ude already led, no more school, her very own room, loads of men in love with her. She’d wake up bitter, noting with repressed joy how she wasn’t interested in the cake her sisters were devouring like animals, with an irritating unconcern.

  She was then living her days of glory. And they reached their peak with some thought that exalted her and plunged her into ardent mysticism: “Join a convent! Save the poor, be a nurse!” She could already imagine herself donning the black habit, her face pale, her eyes pious and humble. Her hands, those implacably flushed and broad hands, emerging, white and delicate, from long sleeves. Or else, wearing that stark white cap, with sunken hollows under her eyes from sleepless nights. Handing the doctor, silently and rapidly, the operating tools. He would look at her with admiration, real friendliness, and who knows? Love even.

  But greatness was impossible in surroundings such as hers. They’d interrupt her with the most banal observations: “Have you showered yet, Tuda?” Or else, the gaze of everyone at home. A simple look, distracted, completely alien to the noble fire that burned inside her. Who could go on, she thought in dejection, amid such vulgarity?

  And besides this, why didn’t “things happen”? Tragedies, beautiful tragedies . . .

  Until she discovered the doctor. And before meeting her, she already belonged to her. At night she carried on long imaginary conversations with this stranger. During the day, she’d write her letters. Until she was summoned: they’d finally seen that she was somebody, somebody extraordinary, somebody misunderstood!

  Up until the day of the appointment, Tuda was beside herself. She dwelt in an atmosphere of fever and anxiety. An adventure. Got it? An adventure.

  It wouldn’t be long before she went into the office. This is how it’ll go: she’s tall, with short hair, piercing eyes, a big chest. Kind of chubby. But at the same time resembling Diana, the Huntress, of the waiting room.