All Dogs are Blue (4 page)

There was no guava jelly today.

I’d been there for ten days. For ten days I’d been eating poorly. At least I’d lose weight. I missed food from home. When there was no guava jelly, there was nothing that I liked. Even if it did stick to your teeth, it was good. It reminded me of my childhood. Reminded me of the North-east. I wanted to eat an apple. I hadn’t had an apple for a long time. The only fruit they had there were bananas. I wanted an apple, an avocado. I was dying for an avocado smoothie.

A cockroach came into the cubicle. I had to kill it with my hands. There was no other tool within reach. The cubicles are made for the person inside not to hurt anyone else, but also not to hurt himself. So that I wouldn’t hurt myself, there was nothing in the cubicle. We’re sometimes tied up at the beginning of our stay. Our treatment varies according to how dangerous we
are.

They haven’t done lobotomies for ages. Electroshock therapy only gets administered under sedation. There’s the movement against mental hospitals. But where do you put all the people with no family, who are lost causes?

I was afraid of the future. Maybe this was it, living with all kinds of people. Sane people, crazy people, cops, street cleaners. I had nothing against the street cleaners. They were very clean and always wanted to clean up. But being locked up all day long, watching everything from afar. It was sad. It started raining, pouring down. I got even sadder. I couldn’t remember love. The last time I was loved, she said she didn’t love me. She’d fallen in love with the craziness in me. Sometimes lunatics are very seductive. I missed reading a good book on a cold day. On a hot day, too. I wanted to read Henry Miller.

There were lots of slums around the mental hospital. In twenty years everything would be taken over by the
favela
. The slums kept swallowing up the hillside, and there was less and less green space, and more roofs and ramshackle housing. In that cubicle it was always winter. It was always cold. It didn’t bother me, I like the cold. You don’t have to take off your shirt. No fat guy likes to take off his shirt. Showing off his flab isn’t a fat guy’s idea of
fun.

I hate mirrors. Mirrors are just good for showing how we deteriorate with age. The first thing I broke at home was the mirror. I didn’t even care about the seven years of bad luck. Then I went for the booze and, seized with undeniable madness, I started throwing the whisky bottles to the floor, one by one. It turned into a dangerous place. A sea of glass shards. Some things didn’t break, like the glass top of the big table in the lounge, which proved to be indestructible. A table decoration was also unbreakable. There were things that melted away at the slightest touch, that self-destructed when I stroked them, and others that remained steadfast. My father came and asked me to stop. I didn’t stop. My little niece was screaming. My brother was screaming. My mother was screaming. My sister was screaming. Our cleaning lady was screaming.

No, not
that!

Yes, that. I’m breaking it and I’m going to break more. I’m breaking. I’m breaking. Breaking.

The police arrived and handcuffed
me.

They took me to Pinel, the public psychiatric hospital.

Why did you break everything?

I broke everything because I’m made of shards and when the shards invite me to, I wreak havoc. Everything was very calm. Except for me. I swallowed a chip. I drank a beer on the street and they slipped a chip into my beer. I swallowed the chip that’s making me do all this, even what I don’t want to
do.

But I could only hurt myself with all those shards, especially walking around barefoot on the shards.

We’re going to move you to the Clinic. We’re overcrowded.

I don’t want to go to the Clinic, or to stay
here.

And I started wrecking the doctor’s office, until a nurse came with a bayonet.

Why don’t you
die?

There are so many old people
here.

You wait, I’ll survive long enough to expose this whole dirty
game.

I got close to Jesus. From my cell you could see the Christ statue. They put me there to see if I’d die a little of shame for not believing in God. There were butterflies all around. The asylum was a place full of beautiful flowers, but rotten on the inside. The asylum model had to be changed. But how could my family deal with me wrecking everything? In lucid moments, I ask myself: what could they have done? On the day of the crisis, no one could do anything. And what can you do to avoid a crisis?

You’re a lost cause. You’re an idiot, you’re fat, and vile. You’re just saying that because I’m tied
up.

Everything went golden. The sky was golden. Christ was golden. The ambulance was golden. The golden nurses were touching me with their golden hands.

Everything went blue. Blue kiskadees, blue roses, blue ballpoint pens, the troglodyte nurses.

Everything went yellow. That was when I saw Rimbaud trying to hang himself with Mayakovsky’s necktie, and I wouldn’t let
him.

Why, Rimbaud? Let them hate us. Let them throw us in a flea-infested old dump. Let life seep in through your pores. Don’t kill yourself, brother. If you die, I don’t know what will happen to me. I think about you thinking about me. Rimbaud, everything will turn whichever colour you want. You can’t see the sea from here. But you’re going to get
out.

Everything went green like the colour of my brother Bruno’s eyes and the colour of the sea. The sea. Rimbaud was happy and decided not to kill himself.

Everything went Van Gogh. The light of things changed.

Finally they gave me some glasses. But with the glasses I could only look inside people.

It was like diving. They took me out of the cubicle. Finally. Now I was walking around like an equal among equals. Some people looked at me in fear. Others asked me for a cigarette. If you ever visit an asylum, take cigarettes. Everyone smokes. Just imagine that bunch smoking a spliff, a nice big joint.

I felt as free as a butterfly taking its first flight. I knew it was the first step towards getting out of there.

Rimbaud appeared and showed me some of his new friends … Peter Perfect liked to walk around holding hands with Clark Kent. Demolition Man made out with Batman. There was free love in Rimbaud’s games with his little
men.

Rimbaud, stop playing around with little
men.

Fuck you, you don’t know how to play. I’m all about playing. I play, play and
play.

Rimbaud took the Joker out of his pocket and told me, You have the Joker’s smile. I don’t know if you’re my hallucination, or if I’m yours.

I sucked the air of freedom into my lungs and left Rimbaud talking to himself.

Maybe I didn’t walk all that far in the dark night. It was just three kilometres in the pitch black, and what he saw was a black magic ritual. Then he swallowed that cricket. The cricket I swallowed is the same as the chip I have
now.

He’s mentally ill, schizophrenic. He has delusional disorder, persecutory delusions. No one believes a person with delusional disorder and persecutory delusions. Even if they were actually being persecuted, no one would believe their story.

Rimbaud and his dolls. The Commander is fucking Barbie.

Get out, Rimbaud. I’m not speaking to you until you grow
up.

I play, play and
play.

I held out my hand for Fearsome Madman to shake. Fearsome acted like he didn’t see me. I went after
him.

Why won’t you shake my
hand?

You’re Daddy. And Daddy beats
me.

So I discovered that I must look like or remind Fearsome of his dad. He was afraid of his dad, therefore he was afraid of me. I was happy. The guy everyone feared was afraid of me. Me, of all people, just quivering jelly.

I picked up one of Rimbaud’s figures and rubbed it in his face. Don’t you see that this is kids’ stuff?

I want to be a kid. I’m Rimbaud.

The Benzetacil cured my erysipelas. They started giving me medication orally. I’d spit it all out. I’d hide it under my tongue, and throw it down the drain.

They put me in a room with two others. Rimbaud, you sleep on the floor. But the other two couldn’t stand sleeping with me. I snored a lot. I started smoking again and then stopped. I threw up a lot. So I spent some time alone in a room with three
beds.

I’ve wanted to sleep with my aunt. But I never could. I’ve wanted to screw my cousin. Cousins are tasty morsels. The most beautiful thing God put on this earth. My aunt was a stunner. She was five foot nine, big thighs and arse. I’ve never wanted to screw my sister. She’s so annoying that I wouldn’t even get a hard-on.

A bunch of ants came out of their anthill one by one. They formed a powerful army. They came into my room and took Rimbaud. Ants are more disgusting than cockroaches. Rimbaud kicked and screamed and no one did a thing. I went after the procession. It looked like a cartoon. I was going deep into the jungle. Rimbaud was stood upright by two witch doctors and when they cut his arm, I gave a Sioux war cry that I learnt from the Daniel Boone films. Everybody ran. It wasn’t the first time I’d helped Rimbaud out. He doesn’t know how to get out of his messes on his own. I always have to step in and save him. I’m his superhero.

The good thing was that I could spend my days alone in the room. Rimbaud and I spent the afternoons playing poker.

Rimbaud wasn’t used to modern stuff. He was a guy from another time. He had to learn everything. He’d never written another poem. But he was a good companion for wasting away the hours and for poker.

After a while a depressed guy came to my room. He slept all day long. He slept with one hand touching the floor. His hand looked like a snake, a cobra that would sometimes rise up and come to attack me and Rimbaud.

You must be wondering if my relationship with Rimbaud was sexual. Even though I knew Rimbaud was in love with me, I didn’t really encourage him, so that I wouldn’t break the poet’s heart. After all, I was just looking for friendship. Rimbaud behaved himself and never left my side. He was a loyal friend, a squire.

He liked flowers. Sometimes we girded ourselves with flowers. Sometimes we walked around naked. Me fat and him all skinny. We were like Laurel and Hardy.

One day I saved a house from its wicked termites. It was supernatural. The termites were encrusted in everything. I only left termites on the devil’s horns. Everywhere else was freed of termites. At fifteen, I already showed powers. I truly emanated transcendental powers. I’d swallowed a cricket that was wriggling around in my
lung.

Like hell you swallowed a cricket!

You’re crazy. Good heavens, you need treatment.

He’s just fine. What he needs is a good beating.

They beat me with a stool.

That was the last time I took a beating, after I arrived in Rio. They beat me out of shame.

Do you think that’s manly, thinking a cricket got you?
You’re
a talking cricket.

I wasn’t friends with Rimbaud yet. If he had been my friend, he wouldn’t have let them beat me so
much.

I had another friend, Baudelaire, who only came round every once in a while. But with him it was another story. Baudelaire never picked up, not even with me begging and calling him, leaving messages. Moody git. But that afternoon they were both there, Rimbaud and Baudelaire, talking about poetry and modern life. And all of a sudden she walked past me. She came in white, all in white, pretty and smelling of perfume. Porcelain white. I was invaded by the
song,

she comes all in white, all wet and dishevelled

how wonderful is my love

Jorge Ben took me by the hand. And I watched the woman in a lab coat walk by. Rimbaud and Baudelaire disappeared. But then Rimbaud came back with a daisy behind his left ear, and danced and danced. I laughed with him and laughed at him. Rimbaud was a lot of fun. Many people must be wondering if it was Rimbaud’s fault that I smashed up the whole house. Of course it was Rimbaud who gave me the
idea.

Break everything. Show them you’re a
man.

I didn’t become more of a man for smashing up my house. Sometimes that Rimbaud lets me down. I’ll go for days without seeing him, but he always comes
back.

I stopped getting bayoneted. I started oral medication. Oral medication is easy to trick your way out of. I know which drugs I take. I always spit the ones I don’t want down the sink. The ideal way to deter that would be effervescent drugs. Of course the feebleminded are totally out of it and take their drugs properly.

Time to watch television. Time for the Addams family to get together. All the nutters would get together to watch the soap opera. A sergeant, a street cleaner, other dimwits and one guy who beats his head against the wall every two minutes.

I’ve already told that little doctor that he’s going to do his head in. He’s going to have a serious stroke. I blsjdsomdkm0ooooeeirrrriruuuuruuiirrriiirii.

No one understands what you’re saying. Mad fool. I’m going to Paracambi. If you die, you’ll go to
Caju.

I want to get out of this
‌
place, I’m leaving for Pasargadae
⁶
.

You know Ana? She’s going to kill Marcos. Olivier is coming back for Marcos. Pereira is breaking up with Maju. Lina is going to end things with Maciel. Ernesto’s going to punch Parado.

It was the TV, talking about soap operas.

I’m samba. I’m Jesus Christ. I’m everything and nothing. I’m a cool
‌
kind of crazy.
Epahei, Iansan!
⁷
Ogum bolum ai iê
.

Rimbaud was dancing to the city rubbish collector’s rap. He was there detoxing.

See, son. You’re here to detox. Your son won’t want to see you this
way.

I drooled.

I went inside myself, cut myself off. While everyone watched TV, I played solitaire with Rimbaud in the empty room. Rimbaud stared at me. He tried to distract
me.

I looked at the horizon. The sky was opening up. Why is the sky so blue here in the asylum? Why are the days bluer?

Nature is so beautiful and reminds me of a cemetery.

The Attorney General came in for the first time on a stretcher and went to a
room.

Sir, there are a number of KGB agents surrounding the
site.

He’s old, seventy-five. Already a bit senile.

My brother came to see me and reminded him of his youngest son, Erbert!

Is that you, Erbert? Come talk to your dad! CIA agents are surrounding the building. We’re all being monitored.

Why do all crazy people have the same paranoias? They’re always being followed by a secret agent. The CIA is nearly always involved. My own case (swallowing a chip) was only possible thanks to the CIA and the
KGB.

The chip had a strange effect inside me and gradually I came to understand how it worked. Rimbaud was the one who helped me with
this.

He checked my blood pressure with a machine he himself had invented. They were strange ways to check blood pressure.

He had a medicine that was entirely his own. He was some kind of witch doctor. Rimbaud told me it was him who cured the problem with my leg. And yet Rimbaud was a cripple. When I voiced my doubts, he used to say that his powers were for others and couldn’t be used on himself.

The boy stopped, looked at his
dad.

Dad, where are you living? Do you live here at
home?

My dad was a doctor. Days and nights on end he’d be on duty. After I said that to him, he started doing fewer shifts. My dad was always a good man, very calm and quiet.

I caused a lot of trouble at school. I’d been expelled from four schools. I was sixteen. They warned me that I’d have to go to night school, with adults. My dad cried so
hard.

That was the story of my life: making my dad
cry.

An American guy was committed. The guy had been a combatant in Vietnam.

Motherfucker. Fire in the line zone, he shouted.

Fire, he shouted.

The sergeant soon fell in with the American.

Rimbaud used to do a dance called the Dance of the Blue Pelican. It was one hell of a wiggly dance, using all parts of his body. He learnt it in Africa, he says. But were there pelicans in Africa? He was free to say whatever he wanted. Actually we all are, but whether it’s true or not is another matter. The truth can be such a sloppy invention and still convince everyone. You just have to be forceful. Or take advantage of people’s natural gullibility.

I’ve defecated on myself on occasion. I wet the bed on my first day in the asylum so they wouldn’t take me away from where I was. This is a life full of abject acts. A life full of fears.

I never eat shit. Nor am I given to macabre rituals. I’m loco-lite, the diet version. Even though my problem with the chip is pretty hardcore.

When I was a little boy, I wanted to be a fireman. I had the outfit, little engine and everything. I had such a happy smile back then. A smile that’s gotten grimy over time, like those big family portraits. I was always happy like Rimbaud. Nowadays I think about everything I do and I know when I screw up: when I’m made to swallow a chip and I wreck the whole house. God, I messed things up. How old do you have to be, to be happy? You’re only happy in the past. I’m alone in the room. No one’s been to visit me for a while. I didn’t get locked up because I’d harmed anybody. The only person affected by my behaviour is
me.

Liar! Your mother picks up the tab for the things you broke.

All that damn jewellery.

And even your grandmother’s china cabinet.

Why did I do it? The guilt won’t go away … Tear down a door. A rickety door. Why did they call the police? Nowadays it’s the police who come to get you. I had a row with the cops, made them understand it was a chip. One of them didn’t even know what a chip
was.

What he wanted to do was slip the handcuffs
on.

I had my first attack at fifteen. At thirty-six I’ve still got problems. Wonder what the next problem will be? I’m a walking problem.

It rains and I cry. I cry and it rains. The sounds of Rio funk raping my eardrums.

Go Serginho.

I imagine being out of this place. I’d throw a huge party at my house. Rimbaud showed up: Where am I in your thoughts?

You’re playing with Baudelaire.

I hate Baudelaire. He acts like an old man. He’s very formal. I want to be with
you.

Don’t tell me you’re in
love.

I was always distant. When I was a teenager I took the bus by myself from Campos to São João da Barra. I took the wrong bus. Alone. By myself. And so I wound up walking for three hours in the middle of some scrubland. I wasn’t allowed to travel because I’d screw up. One time I went to Rio Grande do Sul and slept outside my friend’s house. I ended up at the police station, accusing my friend of nothing. The police didn’t take me seriously. He’s just another nutcase. His poor parents. Get a load of this story, what a pile of crap! You should walk around a bit. Walk over there and back again.

A banana bar. Who wants a banana bar? A banana bar. Who wants a banana bar? Who wants to buy a banana
bar?

The sun was a ball of mango ice cream. It was beach weather. And there was everyone burning like sardines in a frying pan. On drips. Dripping with sweat.

I heard a scream from inside. I ran to see. Fearsome was upside down in a corner of his room. Who killed Fearsome Madman? It was you. He was afraid of you. You’re going to be crucified. Fearsome had had a heart attack. No one saw. But there was a lunatic who kept saying I was guilty. Detectives
–
A detectives and B detectives
–
had gone undercover among us to see who killed Fearsome. I was smart and had already figured out that the cops had infiltrated
us.