The Complete Stories (49 page)

Praça Mauá

The cabaret on the Praça Mauá was called “Erótica.” And Luísa’s stage name was Carla.

Carla was a dancer at the “Erótica.” She was married to Joaquim who worked himself to death as a carpenter. And Carla “worked” in two ways: dancing half-naked and cheating on her husband.

Carla was beautiful. She had small teeth and a tiny waist. She was utterly fragile. She barely had any breasts but her hips were nice and curvy. It took her an hour to do her makeup: afterward she looked like a porcelain doll. She was thirty but looked a lot younger.

She didn’t have children. She and Joaquim didn’t have much to do with each other. He worked until ten at night. She started work right at ten. She slept all day.

Carla was a lazy Luísa. She’d show up at night, when it was time for her to perform, start yawning, feeling like being in her own bed in a nightie. It was also because she was shy. As incredible as it might seem, Carla was a shy Luísa. She’d strip, sure, but those first moments of dancing and gyrating were filled with shame. She only “warmed up” a few minutes later. Then she pulled out all the stops, gyrating, giving it her all. The samba was her specialty. But a really romantic blues number also got her going.

She’d get called over for a drink with customers. She got a commission for every bottle. She’d pick the most expensive one. And pretend to drink: it wasn’t alcohol. She’d let the customer get drunk and spend money. Chatting with them was a chore. They’d caress her, run their hands over her tiny breasts. And she’d be wearing a sparkly bikini. Gorgeous.

Once in a while she’d sleep with a customer. She’d take the money, tuck it safe and sound in her bra and the next day go shopping for clothes. Her closet was overflowing. She’d get blue jeans. And necklaces. Loads of necklaces. And bracelets, rings.

Sometimes, just to mix it up, she’d dance in blue jeans and no bra, her breasts swaying between her glittering necklaces. She’d have bangs and make a little beauty mark near her lips with black eyeliner. She was darling. She’d wear long, dangly earrings, sometimes pearls, sometimes fake gold.

Whenever she was feeling down she’d be saved by Celsinho, a man who wasn’t a man. They really got each other. She’d vent bitterly to him, complaining about Joaquim, complaining about inflation. Celsinho, a popular transvestite, listened to it all and gave her advice. They weren’t rivals. Each had their own partner.

Celsinho came from an upper-class family. He’d left everything behind to follow his calling. He didn’t dance. But he wore lipstick and false eyelashes. The sailors on the Praça Mauá adored him. And he played hard to get. He only gave in at the last second. And he got paid in dollars. He invested the money he exchanged on the black market at Halles Bank. He was awfully afraid of growing old and helpless. Especially because an old tranny is a pitiful sight. To keep up his strength he took two packets of protein powder daily. He had wide hips and, from taking so many hormones, had acquired a facsimile of breasts. Celsinho’s stage name was Moleirão.
*

Moleirão and Carla made good money for the owner of the “Erótica.” The smoky atmosphere reeked of alcohol. And there was the dance floor. It was rough being dragged out to dance by a drunk sailor. But what could you do. Everyone’s got their “
m
étier
.”

Celsinho had adopted a four-year-old girl. He was a real mother to her. He didn’t sleep much because he was taking care of his little girl. There was nothing she lacked: everything she had was the very best. And a Portuguese nanny. On Sundays, Celsinho would take Claretinha to the zoo, in the Quinta da Boa Vista. And they’d both eat popcorn. And feed the monkeys. Claretinha was afraid of the elephants. She’d ask:

“How come their noses are so big?”

Celsinho would then tell a whimsical story involving evil fairies and good fairies. Or then he’d take her to the circus. And they’d suck noisily on their candy, the two of them. Celsinho wanted a brilliant future for Claretinha: marriage to a wealthy man, children, jewels.

Carla had a Siamese cat that gazed at her with hard blue eyes. But Carla barely had time to take care of her pet: she was either sleeping, or dancing, or shopping. The cat’s name was Leléu. And it lapped up milk with its delicate little red tongue.

Joaquim barely ever saw Luísa. He refused to call her Carla. Joaquim was fat and short, of Italian stock. He’d been given the name Joaquim by a Portuguese neighbor woman. His name was Joaquim Fioriti. Fioriti? there was nothing flowery about him.

Joaquim and Luísa’s maid was a cheeky black woman who stole as much as she could. Luísa hardly ate, to maintain her figure. Joaquim would drench himself with minestrone. The maid knew about everything but kept her mouth shut. And she was in charge of polishing Carla’s jewelry with Brasso and Silvo. While Joaquim was sleeping and Carla was working, the maid, named Silvinha, would wear her mistress’s jewelry. And she was a somewhat ashy black color.

Here’s how what happened, happened.

Carla was telling secrets to Moleirão, when she was asked to dance by a tall man with broad shoulders. Celsinho lusted after him. And was consumed with envy. He was vindictive.

When the dance ended and Carla came back to sit with Moleirão, he could barely contain his anger. And there sat Carla, innocent. It wasn’t her fault she was attractive. And she’d taken quite a liking to that big hunky man. She said to Celsinho:

“I’d sleep with that one without charging a cent.”

Celsinho silent. It was nearly three in the morning. The “Erótica” was full of men and women. Lots of housewives went there for fun and to make a little extra cash.

Then Carla said:

“It’s so nice to dance with a real man.”

Celsinho jumped up:

“But you’re not a real woman!”

“Me? what do you mean I’m not?” gasped the girl who that night was dressed in black, a full-length gown with long sleeves, she looked like a nun. She did it purposely to excite the men who wanted a pure woman.

“You,” Celsinho sputtered, “aren’t a woman at all! You don’t even know how to fry an egg! And I do! I do! I do!”

Carla turned into Luísa. Pale, bewildered. She’d been stung in her innermost femininity. Bewildered, staring at Celsinho who looked like an old hag.

Carla didn’t say a word. She rose, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and, without a word of explanation, ditching the party at its peak, left.

There she stood, all in black, on the Praça Mauá, at three in the morning. Like the cheapest of whores. Alone. With nowhere to turn. It was true: she didn’t know how to fry an egg. And Celsinho was more woman than she.

The square was dark. And Luísa took a deep breath. She looked at the lampposts. The empty square.

And in the sky the stars.

Pig Latin

(“A língua do ‘p’”)

Maria Aparecida—Cidinha, as they called her at home—was an English teacher. Neither rich nor poor: she got by. But she dressed impeccably. She looked rich. Even her suitcases were high quality.

She lived in Minas Gerais and was taking the train to Rio, where she’d spend three days, and then catch a plane to New York.

She was a highly sought-after teacher. She prized perfection and was affectionate, yet strict. She wanted to perfect her skills in the United States.

She took the seven a.m. train to Rio. It was cold out. There she was in a suede jacket with three suitcases. The train car was empty, just a little old lady asleep in a corner under her shawl.

At the next station, two men boarded and sat in the row across from Cidinha’s. The train in motion. One of the men was tall and skinny, with a thin mustache and a cold stare, the other was short and bald, with a gut. They looked at Cidinha. She averted her gaze, looked out the train window.

There was an unease in the car. As if it were too hot. The girl nervous. The men watchful. My God, the girl thought, what do they want from me? There was no answer. And to top it all off, she was a virgin. Why, but why had she thought of her own virginity?

Then the two men started talking to each other. At first Cidinha didn’t understand a word. It seemed like a game. They were talking too fast. And the language seemed vaguely familiar to her. What language was that?

It suddenly dawned on her: they were speaking flawless Pig Latin. Like this:

“Idday ouyay eckchay outway atthay ettypray irlgay?”

“Uresay idday. E’sshay away ockoutknay. Itsway inway ethay agbay.”

They meant: did you check out that pretty girl? Sure did. She’s a knockout. It’s in the bag.

Cidinha pretended not to understand: understanding would be dangerous for her. That was the language she used, in childhood, to keep adults away. The men went on:

“Iway annaway angbay atthay irlgay. Owhay outbay ouyay?”

“Emay ootay. Onnagay appenhay inway ethay unneltay.”

What they meant was that they were going to bang her in the tunnel . . . What could she do? Cidinha didn’t know and trembled in fear. She hardly knew herself. Moreover she’d never gotten to know herself on the inside. As for knowing others, well, that was even worse. Help me, Virgin Mary! help me! help me!

“Ifway eshay utspay upway away ightfay eway ancay illkay erhay.”

If she put up a fight they could kill her. So that’s how it was.

“Ithway away ifeknay. Andway obray erhay.”

Kill her with a knife. And they could rob her.

How could she let them know she wasn’t rich? that she was fragile, the slightest gesture would kill her. She took a cigarette from her purse to smoke and calm down. It didn’t help. When was the next tunnel coming? She had to think fast, fast, fast.

Then she thought: if I pretend I’m a prostitute, they’ll change their minds, they don’t like whores.

So she hiked up her skirt, made sensual movements—she didn’t even know she knew how, so little did she know herself—unbuttoned the top of her blouse, letting her cleavage show. The men suddenly shocked.

“E’sshay azycray.”

She’s crazy, they meant.

And there she was gyrating like a samba dancer from the slums. She took some lipstick from her purse and smeared it on. And started humming.

Then the men burst out laughing. They thought Cidinha’s antics were funny. She herself feeling desperate. And the tunnel?

The conductor came. He saw the whole thing. Didn’t say a word. But he went to the engineer and told him. The latter said:

“Let’s take care of it, I’ll turn her in to the cops at the first station.”

And the next station came.

The engineer got off, spoke to a soldier by the name of José Lindalvo. José Lindalvo wasn’t one to play games. He boarded the car, spotted Cidinha, grabbed her roughly by the arm, gathered her three suitcases as best he could, and they got off.

The two men roaring with laughter.

At the little blue and pink station was a young girl holding a suitcase. She looked at Cidinha with scorn. She boarded the train and it departed.

Cidinha didn’t know how to explain herself to the police. There was no explanation for Pig Latin. She was taken to the jail and booked. They called her the worst names. And she was stuck in the cell for three days. They let her smoke. She smoked like a madwoman, taking long drags, stamping out her cigarettes on the concrete floor. There was a fat cockroach creeping along the floor.

Finally they let her go. She caught the next train to Rio. She’d washed her face, she was no longer a prostitute. What worried her was this: when the two men had talked about banging her, she’d wanted to be banged. She was utterly brazen. Andway I’mway away utslay. That’s what she’d discovered. Eyes downcast.

She arrived in Rio exhausted. Went to a cheap hotel. Soon realized she’d missed the flight. At the airport she bought a ticket.

And she wandered the streets of Copacabana, she miserable, Copacabana miserable.

Then on the corner of the Rua Figueiredo Magalhães she saw a newsstand. And hanging there was the newspaper
O Dia
. She couldn’t say why she bought it.

A bold headline read: “Girl Raped and Murdered on Train.”

She trembled all over. So it had happened. And to the girl who had scorned her.

She started crying on the street. She threw away that damned newspaper. She didn’t want the details. She thought:

“Esyay. Atefay isway implacableway.”

Fate is implacable.

Better
Than to Burn

(“Melhor do que arder”)

She was tall, strong, hairy. sister Clara had dark hair on her upper lip and deep black eyes.

She had entered the convent at her family’s insistence: they wanted her sheltered in God’s embrace. She obeyed.

She carried out her duties without complaint. Her duties were manifold. And there were the prayers. She prayed fervently.

And she confessed every day. Every day the white host that crumbled in her mouth.

But she began to tire of living only among women. Women, women, women. She chose a friend as her confidante. She told her she couldn’t bear it any longer. The friend counseled her:

“Mortify your body.”

She began sleeping on the cold stone floor. And castigated herself by wearing sackcloth. It was no use. She got violent fevers and chills, had scratches all over.

She confessed to the priest. He ordered her to keep mortifying herself. She did.

But whenever the priest touched her mouth while giving her the host she’d have to stop herself from biting the priest’s hand. He noticed, didn’t say a word. There was a silent pact between them. Both mortified themselves.

She could no longer look at Christ’s half-naked body.

Sister Clara was the daughter of Portuguese parents and, in secret, shaved her hairy legs. If anyone ever found out, she was in for it. She told the priest. He went pale. He imagined how strong her legs must be, how shapely.

One day, at lunchtime, she began to cry. She didn’t tell anyone why. Not even she knew why she was crying.

And from then on she was always crying. Though she hardly ate, she was gaining weight. But there were purplish circles under her eyes. When she sang in church, she was a contralto.

Until she told the priest in the confessional:

“I can’t bear it any longer, I swear I can’t bear it any longer.”

He said meditatively:

“It’s better not to marry. But it’s better to marry than to burn.”

She requested an audience with the mother superior. The mother superior fiercely reprimanded her. But Sister Clara stood firm: she wanted to leave the convent, she wanted to find a man, she wanted to get married. The mother superior asked her to wait another year. She answered that she couldn’t, that it had to be now.

She packed her few things and took off. She went to live in a boardinghouse for young women.

Her black hair grew abundantly. And she seemed in the clouds, dreamy. She paid for the boardinghouse with the money her northern family sent. Her family didn’t approve. But they couldn’t let her starve to death.

She made her own quaint dresses out of cheap fabric, on a sewing machine lent by another girl at the boardinghouse. The dresses had long sleeves, high collars, went below the knee.

And nothing happened. She prayed often for something good to happen to her. In the form of a man.

And indeed it did.

She went down to the corner bar to buy a bottle of Caxambu mineral water. The owner was a handsome Portuguese man who was enchanted by Clara’s demure manner. He didn’t let her pay for the Caxambu water. She blushed.

But she went back the next day to buy some coconut sweets. She didn’t pay for those either. The Portuguese, named Antônio, got up the nerve to ask her to the movies. She declined.

The next day she went back to have some coffee. Antônio promised he wouldn’t touch her if they went to the movies. She accepted.

They went to see a movie and didn’t pay any attention to it. By the end, they were holding hands.

They began meeting for long strolls. She, with her black hair. He in a suit and tie.

Then one night he said to her:

“I’m rich, the bar makes enough money for us to get married. How about it?”

“Yes,” she answered solemnly.

They got married in church and at City Hall. In church the person who married them was the priest who had told her marrying was better than burning. They had a steamy honeymoon in Lisbon. Antônio left his brother in charge of the bar.

She came back pregnant, satisfied, happy.

They had four children, all boys, all hairy.