What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel - Plot & Excerpts
CHAPTER SOMETIMES I THINK I’m the one who’s dead, that I died instead of my father and I, my father, live on Príncipe Real I mean the park and all that, the cedar tree and all that, the café up ahead there and all that, the old lady in a fur cape in August giving corn to the pigeons and the pigeons running away from her and all that, one day I could have sworn my mother was spying on us, I ran into the kitchen like a shot—Mothermy father was on the verge of a faint it was obvious as his hands pulled at the shade all nervous and getting the cord caught in the roller, and he squatted down to peek, the room got dark from top to bottom, the walls disappeared, the crack in the plaster with the shape of a wry face mocking us, fix the crack father, my father checking to see if his heart could take it with his open hand, peeking again, the blind flew up and day came back with a jolt, from bottom to top and the face on the wall with a corner of it behind the molding ha ha—It isn’t your mother it’s the old ladythe old lady with her bag of corn surrounded by kernels, maybe when my father gets to be her age he’ll be waiting too for whatever the old lady was waiting for, you couldn’t figure out what she was waiting for but she was waiting, she was waiting for what she knew wouldn’t ever be coming and she amused herself with the pigeons while whatever it was took its time in calling her, two or three hours later she would pick up the corn that she’d left on the bench and go off with the strut of a duchess, what would happen if I said—HelloI said—Here I amI said—I got herethe small myopic look running up and down the boxwood trees, some little-girl thing in the timid question—Cesário?just like my father—Rui?forgetting the ironing whenever the key was in the door, the small myopic look a few years from now father, not too many, his glasses falling to the ground and his two sad fingers brushing leaves away to pick them upnot finding them, looking farther off, asking him if I could help and your face father, if you could have seen your face with a smile just like the smirk on the wall except not one of mockery but of entreaty—My glasses Paulomaybe even, but it’s not true—My glasses sonson finally, not nephew, not godson, son, his feeling around like a blind man, discouraged—My glasses sonon hands and knees around the bench—My glasses sonand—Ruiand since there wasn’t any Rui, there isn’t any Rui, there never was a Rui, father, it was unclear what he could have been waiting for but it was obvious that he was waiting—My glasses sonRui who didn’t even sleep with him, would come in the morning smothered in scarves and excuses, my father accusing me about the Cape Verdeans, I who didn’t know a thing about Chelas, it was Rui who introduced me to the Mulattoes, an air of mystery, promises, I’m going to show you something come here, just about the time when the face on the wall began to mock us, bring along a bag for the pigeons father, put the leftover corn in your pocket, leave with your little duchess strut, Dona Aurorinha telling my father about the other woman, a doctor, a piano it seems, maids, a chauffeur, Dona Aurorinha’s mother her seamstress on Thursdays, baskets and baskets of clothes, expensive shirts, neckties, and now this idée fixe, giving corn to the pigeons, explain to me why, they’d bring my mother a tray with lunch to eat at the machine and my mother afraid that a pitcher, a piece of crystal, a knickknack on the floor, tapping me on the hands—Don’t get into anything Aurorinhapaintings on the ceiling of gods and nymphs and now corn for the pigeons, an aunt who gave my mother an egg candy—For your little girl, Lucindamy mother in a rush timidly shaking me by the arm—Thank the lady where are your mannersand while—Thank the lady where are your mannersa second mouth on the gods, on the nymphs muttering at me with my mother’s voice—Wait till you get outside to eat the candy, ninnyher thumb and forefinger or those of a nymph on the archway, that chubby one, naked, with a twisted pinch—That’s the way you little rapscallion I’m sorry ma’amnot completely naked, covered with a sheet, half-naked and angelic, me clutching the candy curious, the nymph with her eye on a goat that was playing a flute leaning against a rock, its hair in braids like those of the aunt with the egg candies and the insistent pinch—Wait till you get outside to eat the candy, ninnyRui doesn’t sleep at home father, don’t make excuses, don’t lie, getting up whenever there are steps outsidehow many months is it that Rui hasn’t slept at home, his wave of an arm showing boredom, annoyanceLeave me alone Soraiaif his expression could only be seen, if he could only show it to you in a mirrorthe niece in a fur cape a little worn don’t you think, where are the gods, the nymphs, my mother’s friend leaning against a board that was changing into a rock and eating a pomegranate—Aurorinhamy father always got up when there were footsteps outside, he would go over to the doormat not daring to open, the slippers back to bed because it was the slippers that were holding up his body, his body wanted to stay there until the next cough or the next key, the slippers at rest sleeping one beside the other and you in bed smoking, a sigh that came from the pillow, not of disappointment, of wearinessa wish to die father?take it easy, you’re not dying—Did you ever see me Paulo?the cedar tree and the café outlined by the halo of the night, the circles of a flower bed in the shadows, a barrel by the cedar where he told me to wait, the pond where the water was resting without any stuff of dreams, Dona Aurorinha maybe awakened too while people with wings, naked women, gods—Thank the gentleman Aurorinhanot really naked, their chubby feet stepping and stepping on her, the insistent pinches—Wait until he leaves Aurorinhamy father on his backI died in your place father, I left you alive, if I could be capable of forgiving you, accept it, if you want I’ll go with you to the park and maybe at four in the morning the pigeons, my father on his back listening to the raindon’t you hear the rain father?me listening to the rain at Anjos and the church clock shuffling the night and forgetting about its hands full of sparrows, insomnia’s gigantic strolling, noises that were scolding me—Thank Mr.
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