Categoria: herons and scavengers… (novel)

20. Parties

Translated by Angela Telles-Vaz

At the end of the year, maybe October or November, a tiny group of aloof and smiling five year old boys arrived at the school. Sempiternal deities! Five year olds! From which orphanage were they left over? Which nun had to separate them, by choosing this or that criterion those that should find shelter amidst that collection of human zoology, rats, dogs and jackals? Which slim and delicate fingered-hands could no longer rock those little creatures, caressing their round faces, smoothing the soap foam on the backs and soft thighs of those little pieces of people? Five year olds!
Some still spoke wrongly. Not many. I suppose five or six, maybe more because soon at the parties they will take part in a little theater play about the vowels and punctuation marks.
We all adopted those little sufferers. It was as if they belonged to the flock of the big brothers. Their toys were protected, their objects taken care from usurping hands. We just got used to the little ones.
From that moment on, I stopped being one of the youngest of the school. Nevertheless, my position of receiving general protection was never shaken. I never felt jealous of the little ones, like for instance, I felt of Little Marcos, everything stayed as before. Would it be because of the classes? Geography and multiplication tables…
It’s strange that these little porcelain figurines left a mark inside of me only because of a short episode but a very significant one. During Christmas, they took part in a play to be seen by everyone. That’s how their vivid image remained with me, disguised as letters and punctuation marks.
We were lined up, cover, mark steps, rest… The nervous teachers arrived at the theater, someone gave the signal and the little play began.
The small flock of birds entered. I was in ecstasy. They had hung on their chest a very white piece of cardboard. The first one represented the letter “a”, he went forward and spoke a verse. The “e”, and “i” followed and all the vowels spoken. Then, it was time for the punctuation mark, the comma and the period… The interrogation mark struck me a lot, I don’t remember if it was the verse or the precise drawing, the curve well drawn or the child that played the part.
I don’t know how the others reacted. I was simply amazed by it all.
It was Christmas day. I knew already that Santa Claus didn’t exist. I couldn’t notice if there was something bright or enlightened in the air. No one heard different songs, no sounds but the everyday cries, besides the routine of slangs and curse words. The only difference was that we were told that it was Christmas day. Christmas was the day that he was born, the one that lived at the church, lying inside a glass coffin, dressed in purple with real hair and eyes – thankfully – closed.
I also knew, somewhat, what it meant to die. The most remote memory of my life, which I recall, happened in Manhuaçu: I participated in the funeral of a kitten organized by Zélia. And the same had happened to that man born on Christmas. And every year, he returned to be crucified with nails that would break our hands.
In the afternoon, the bell rang. It should be Christmas by now. Because the air was full of a bronze sound that took long to stop, slowly lowering, another sound pounding strongly like a hammer and the monotonic music went on and on. That afternoon bell was very sad. It stopped hurting the heart when someone shouted that they were going to give away the milk candy to every one of us.
Milk candy!
The milk candy was like a smile, it was a bell without sorrow, the tearless look of the widow-mother on the other side of the train window. I don’t know. It was sweet, tasty, melted slowly. It was inversely proportional to that thick and foul-smelly goo that we had to take to get rid of the worms. While that goo was swallowed down to be settled inside of each one for a number of days, the milk candy, though inversely, melted quickly and everything hadn’t been more than a dream spell.
That sweet was a great lie.
My heart stumbles while I write.
Prometheus rachitic heart doesn’t resist to all the pecking.
I will only mention that during that whole afternoon and confused dreams at night, the lights and sounds seemed to come from a fantasy world where the sisters live, the mermaids, the colorful cars, the mother, the grandmother, the bath soaps, the blankets…
That lie lasted very little.

to be continued on next sunday.

19. Patchwork

Translated by Angela Telles-Vaz

There is an anxious bunch of little souvenirs annoying me, requiring registration. They are tiny cranes, restless, harmless and blurred. Striving in the cages of my memory and, if I release them, they leave in a vertigo.
Or simply go.
It will be like a quilt; little pieces of any moment, for one reason or another, unforgettable.
I only remember of one dream. I find myself amid the whole family wandering on top of a hill being careful not to slip. I know that my mother is there, however, I don’t see her. I feel great joy that I’m in Manhuaçu, this then means that I have left the school. Among the ones present, I can only see Zélia, who smiles and holds my hand. She has bangs on her hair and wears a short dress, similar to the one in some of the few family pictures, the father, the mother and ten or twelve children: the eldest was already married. Suddenly, we find a tomato plant on the slope. We circled the plant holding our hands as if we were playing wheel. Then, everything begins to fade. I remember I was in great despair when I woke up. That day went by in a slow agony. I forgot everything, lost there, confused, feeling strange pins in my heart, tightness in my soul, so many things…
One day a wasp stung the back of my neck. It was despair. I felt that something stuck there, I touched it with my hand and the creature flew away, yellow and black, there were so many!, leaving me with a burning neck. I put water to cool it, the burning sensation lasted a whole day.
Once I was playing and there came Geraldo with a black friend. This young man is tall and thin, ah, I know, he was the one that slept on the bottom of the bunk bed and it was on top of him that I pissed while sleeping. I was told to pray so we could leave that place. They couldn’t help much for they had already sinned, but I was the innocent one,
    and if someone wants to molest an innocent…
and if I prayed with faith we would make it. I did feel, for sure, a kind of innocence, for I asked if I had to pray like the little saint cards with hands put to pray and a lost glare at the sky. I was told that I prayed as I wished, the important thing was to have faith. Everyone left full of hope and, I asked myself astonished, what should people do to become a sinner. I began to pray every night, to find out with horror that: I had no faith. I was afraid. If I had faith I would finish the prayer. And I always got distracted, looking around, listening to the conversations.
And what about marching time? Attention! In line! Cover! Mark time! Mar…ch!  Someone played a bass drum and everyone began to march. Wasn’t there a student nicknamed Bird? Wasn’t he a little retarded? Wasn’t he the one that marched out of rhythm?, with both arms forward, backward, forward…
One time, while the bunch was climbing down from the dorm, I felt something falling on my head. I touched my head and spit disgusted. Someone spat in the air and it fell on top of me. They used to do it a lot, but I had never been awarded before. I spent much time with my head under the faucet and it took a while for that white and greenish gooey to come off.
I have never spoken about the escape attempts. Sometimes, some of them would disappear forever. Most frequently, they were captured and beaten “like hell”. Some were found with a hoe in their hands, wearing straw hats without having changed their uniforms.
Someone made a comment:
They are goofy! They didn’t change the most important thing.
But when they disappeared for real they became heroes.
Wasn’t it true that one of them was found very, very far away? He caught a train, was able to get some clothing, so many difficult tasks! And there he was, back, surrounded by listeners, all bruised and with swollen hands, explaining in successive details his frustrated adventure. Like an old Native, telling a tale to the inexperienced and fearful Native children on how he almost managed to reach the domain of Mother-Moon.
One time, Valdemar, Bucket, Zé da Silva, Hermes and I, were talking about ghosts. The day was ending and it was almost dark. They said that someone had seen some forks and knives dancing at the cafeteria. Or a Saci Pererê, the one-legged Brazilian mythological character, curling tobacco. One of us made a remark that, on the wall in front of us, there was a large drawing of the devil, a frown face with horns and goatee. Who did say first that the drawing seemed to look at us? Who did continue to say that it was laughing? From whom came the idea that it moved on the wall? And I do swear that it began to move. Our poor hearts jumped, we all turned white and, after any sound, desperation made us run cowardly towards the group of the older ones. One of us then said that the devil mask was moving. Sinuca took the lead and we followed behind him, full of awe showing the still and stupid drawing. It was an ugly mockery. I was ashamed and didn’t know anymore whether the devil laughed at me or not, moving its frown face.
Did I mention the nets they made? With wire spool, a kind of lace work and a little stick was needed. They weaved the opened lace with which they made a net to hold their hair back. They were works of art. I learned how to weave them but I have already forgotten.
These are strange memories. They are in pieces. They are broken. Shards of glass…
I don’t want to forget to talk about music. We sang very little, some children’s songs but very few. However, there were the patriotic hymns. Later, I really learned them while participating in the school choirs. From then on, what stayed in my memory was just the idea that all songs of the world were very sad. They hurt me inside and tattooed a doubt that I’ll carry forever in my heart: would all music to be beautiful, need really to be sad?

to be continued on next sunday.

18. Impressions of a distant world

Translated by Angela Telles-Vaz

I have always asked myself about my learning and reactions, at that time, regarding sexual problems. I’m aware that the situation was chaotic, abnormal and dense. But I have learned that through other ways like reading, movies, documents, reasoning. Therefore, I question myself about what I already knew, what I saw, what I learned there.
I was six years and nine months old when I went to live there. I left when I was eight years and six months of age. I knew nothing, except that there were men and women. I knew that something happened between men and women but what they did, up to then, was not the subject of my ruminations.
Soon, on the train, I heard that cold and sharp phrase forcing me to redo my ideas.
Aluísio is Antonio’s wife.
It was a new and very complex element.
First of all, I must emphasize that sex was a topic that never bothered me and it shouldn’t either bother the other ones because we never talked about it. We watched, listened, it was as if they spoke about complicated aircrafts that had nothing to do with our precious cars made of clay.
They sang a hard-core song that brought a new concept:
    I saw your mother at the Brothel,
with her pussy dripping blood,
with a hand full of money,
at the expense of a sailor.

It must have been then that I learned what was to be a prostitute; obviously this inexpressive euphemism was never used. They would say the other name soundly. They would also tell fictitious adventures like the one about the hero that was playing with a flashlight and put it under the table, flaring between the legs of his aunt, saying openly, with a innocently and no prejudice what he had seen.
Another song didn’t say much, because I didn’t understand the meaning of the keyword, only later at Pedro II School, I learned its meaning. The melody is a well known catholic hymn:
    The angels play wank,
The angels play wank,
Black chicken is the ass of your mom.
Black chicken is the ass of your mom.

Gradually, the new world was coming out of the mist. With obscene movements they told what was done with women, in front of everybody, I didn’t understand. But I filed it. The same movements were used to attack the back of a distracted companion. It was too easy. I had only to understand the lesson, repeated as many times as necessary.
They played a shocking and widely game. If one of our peers sat on the ground, playing or talking, another one came from behind and drew an enormous phallus linked to the boy’s buttocks without being noticed by the victim. On the other end, he drew the testicles on each side, then, he sat there and with the same gestures followed by groans like the ones done by a wounded cat. Everybody laughed and when the distracted boy realized what was happening, he quickly got up and removed the traces of such a public humiliation.
I remember that all of us showered in the same bathroom, the older ones over there and we over here. I never paid any attention to them, unless during one opportunity I had when I realized that they had hair on their genitals and we didn’t. This discovery was also filed by me, but it’s now, completely detached from any emotion.
The fact is that we didn’t pay much attention to those details. We rarely heard the chats until the end because we didn’t understand much of what was being spoken.

There is, though, within me, the memory of a very complex episode. It’s an obscure scene, blurred, but at the same time, details of penetrating clarity. I have spoken before with equal intensity about the night at the teacher’s house and the swim in the river hugged at the back of the supervisor. I named that episode: The Happening.
It’s confusing to wonder why I kept some details of the fact so well outlined, without knowing, however, to link its parts. Apparently, it doesn’t indicate anything serious or very unpleasant, besides the knife a little tucked away and a threat of hypothetical violence. This brings me to the conclusion that what happened must have had something to do with sex, because it left a mark on my memory in a halo of tremor and awe.
There is a step ladder against the wall. One of the older boys was sitting up there wearing shorts. Antonio came closer and they started talking. I was playing with clay right under the step ladder. Antonio holds a knife in his hands, he shows and hides it. I can’t hear the first sentence, no, no, the only I heard of the whole thing was:
If you tell someone, I’ll kill you.
They argue for a long time. The young man, a strong and pretty blond, unwillingly starts to be persuaded. Their voices are stifled. He tries a new argument but, Antonio stops him harshly, speaking firmly but very calm.
I looked up and saw that the young man’s gland was showing, I suppose that nobody there was circumcised. The curious thing is the fact that it was the only time I can remember paying attention to a genital organ of any of them, something nobody ever hid.
The rest is confusion, darkness and doubt.
I ask myself: why did it bring in me the impression of being a sexual problem? Because of what was said? Because what I saw had bothered me? My censorship must have erased the first and last words failing to destroy the filed emotion.
It’s obvious that, now as I write, things become more evident due to the intellectual that I have about situations like that one, youngsters of all ages, supervisors, confinement… Let’s say that it was something very disturbing. The knife… If you tell someone, I’ll kill you… Up there, the young man had his sex stretched out…

to be continued on next sunday.