The Complete Stories (51 page)

I gave countless interviews. They changed what I said. I no longer give interviews. And if the whole business really is based on invading my privacy, then they should pay for it. They say that’s how it’s done in the United States. And another thing: there’s one price just for me, but if my precious dog gets included, I charge extra. If they distort me, I charge a fine. Sorry, I have no wish to humiliate anyone but I have no wish to be humiliated. While there I said I might go to Colombia and they wrote that I was going to Bolivia. They switched the country for no reason. But there’s no danger: all I concede about my own life is that I have two sons. I am not important, I am an average person who wants a little anonymity. I hate giving interviews. Come on, I am a woman who’s simple and a tiny bit sophisticated. A mix of peasant and a star in the sky.

I adore Brasília. Is that contradictory? But what isn’t contradictory? People only go down the deserted streets by car. When I had a car and drove, I was always getting lost. I never knew where I was coming from and where I was going. I am disoriented in life, in art, in time and in space. Unbelievable, for God’s sake.

There people have dinner and lunch together—it is to have people to populate them. This is good and very pleasant. It is the slow humanization of a city that for some hidden reason is arduous. I really enjoyed it, they pampered me so much in Brasília. But there were some people who wanted me gone in a flash. I was tripping up their routine. For those people I was an inconvenient novelty. Living is dramatic. But there is no escaping it: we are born.

What will a person born in Brasília be like when he grows up and becomes a man? Because the city is inhabited by nostalgic outsiders. Exiles. Those born there will be the future. A future sparkling like steel. If I am still alive, I shall applaud the strange and highly novel product that will emerge. Will smoking be banned? Will everything be banned, my God? Brasília seems like an inauguration. Every day it is inaugurated. Festivities, my dears, festivities. Let them raise the flags.

Who wants me in Brasília? So whoever wants me can call me. Not just yet, because I am still stunned. But in a while. At your service. Brasília is at your service. I want to speak with the hotel maid who said to me when she found out who I was: I wanted to write so badly! I said: go on, woman, and write. She answered: but I’ve already suffered too much. I said severely: so go ahead and write about what you’ve suffered.

Because there needs to be someone crying in Brasília. The eyes of its inhabitants are much too dry. In that case—in that case I am volunteering to cry. My maid and I, we, girlfriends. She told me: when I saw you ma’am, I got goose bumps on my arm. She told me she was a psychic.

Yes. I’ve got goose bumps. And I am shivering. God help me. I am mute like a moon.

Brasília is full-time. I have a panicked fear of it. It is the ideal place for taking a sauna. Sauna? Yes. Because there you don’t know what to do with yourself. I look down, I look up, I look around—and the reply is a howl: noooooooo! Brasília stupefies us so much it’s scary. Why do I feel so guilty there? what did I do wrong? and why haven’t they erected right in the city center a great white Egg? It is because there is no center. But it needs the Egg.

What kind of clothes do people wear in Brasília? Metallic?

Brasília is my martyrdom. And it has no nouns. It’s all adjectives. And how it hurts. Ah, my dear little God, grant me just one little noun, for God’s sake! Ah, you don’t want to? then pretend I didn’t say anything. I know how to lose.

Oh stewardess, try to give me a less numbered smile. Is that the sandwich we’re supposed to eat? all dehydrated? But I’ll do like Sérgio Porto: I heard that on a plane a stewardess once asked him: can I offer you some coffee, sir? And he answered: I’ll take everything I have a right to.

In Brasília it is never night. It is always implacably day. Punishment? But what did I do wrong, my God? I don’t want to hear it, He says, punishment is punishment.

In Brasília there is practically nowhere to drop dead. But there is one thing: Brasília is pure protein. Didn’t I say that Brasília is a tennis court? Because Brasília is blood on a tennis court. And as for me? where am I? me? poor me, with my scarlet-stained handkerchief. Do I kill myself? No. I live in brute reply. I am right there for whoever wants me.

But Brasília is the opposite sound. And no one denies that Brasília is: goooooooooal! Though it slightly warps the samba. Who is that? who is that singing hallelujah and whom I hear with joy? Who is it that traverses, like the sharpest of swords, the future and always future city of Brasília? I repeat: pure protein, you are. You have fertilized me. Or am I the one singing? Listening to myself I am moved. There’s Brasília in the air. In the air unfortunately lacking the indispensable support of corners for people to live. Have I already mentioned that nobody lives in Brasília? they reside. Brasília is bone dried out from pure astonishment under the merciless sun on the beach. Ah white horse but what a rustic mane. Oh, I can’t wait any longer. A little airplane, please. And the ashen moonlight that enters the room and watches me, I, pale, white, cunning.

I don’t have a corner. My transistor radio isn’t picking up any music. What’s wrong? Not that way either. Do I repeat myself? And does it hurt?

For the love of Cod, (I was so startled I even mixed up the word God) for the love of God, please forgive me those of you who reside in Brasília for saying what I am forced to say, I, a lowly slave to the truth. I do not mean to offend anyone. It is just that the light is too white. I have sensitive eyes, I am invaded by the stark brightness and all that red land.

Brasília is a future that happened in the past.

Eternal as a stone. The light of Brasília—am I repeating myself?—the light of Brasília wounds my feminine modesty. That is all, people, that is all.

Aside from that, long live Brasília! I will help hoist the flag. And I will forgive the slap I got in my poor face. Oh, poor little me. So motherless. It is our duty to have a mother. It is a thing of nature. I am in favor of Brasília.

In the year 2000 there will be a celebration there. If I am still alive, I want to join in the revelry. Brasília is an exaggerated general revelry. A little hysterical, it’s true, but that’s fine. Bursts of laughter in the dark hallway. I laugh, you laugh, he laughs. Three.

In Brasília there are no lampposts for dogs to pee on. It badly needs a peepee-dog. But Brasília is a gem, dear sir. There everything works as it should. Brasília envelops me in gold. I’m off to the hairdresser. I’m talking about Rio. Hello, Rio! Hello! Hello! I really am frightened. God help me.

But there comes a time when I’ll tell you, my friend, there comes a time when Brasília is a hair in your soup. I am very busy, Brasília, to hell with you and leave me alone. Brasília is located nowhere. Its atmosphere is indignation and you know why. Brasília: before being born it was already born, the premature, the unborn, the fetus, in a word me. Oh the nerve.

Not just anyone can enter Brasília, no. You need nobility, lots of shamelessness and lots of nobility. Brasília is not. It is merely the picture of itself. I love you, oh extragantic one! oh word I invented and do not know the meaning of. Oh furuncle! crystallized pus but whose? Warning: there’s sperm in the air.

I, the scribe. I, fated to be the unfortunate definer. Brasília is the opposite of Bahia. Bahia is buttocks. Ah how I long for the soaked Place Vendôme. Ah, how I long for the Praça Maciel Pinheiro in Recife. So much poverty of soul. And you demand it of me. I, who can do nothing. Ah how I long for my dog. Such a dear friend. But a newspaper took his picture and he was standing at the end of the street. He and I. We, little brother and sister of St. Francis of Assisi. Let us be silent: it is better for us.

I’m going to get you, Brasília! And you’ll suffer terrible torture at my hands! You annoy me, o ice-cold Brasília, pearl among swine. Oh apocalyptic one.

And suddenly the big disgrace. All that racket. Why? Nobody knows. Oh God, how did I not see it right away? because isn’t Brasília “Women’s Health”? Brasília can’t figure out what it wants: it’s a tease. Brasília is a chipped tooth right in front. And it is the summit too. There is one main reason. What is it? secrets, lots of secrets, murmurs, whispers and whisps. Rumors that never end.

Healthy, healthy. Here I am a physical education teacher. I go tumbling. That’s right: I raise hell. Brasília is a heavenly hell. It is a typewriter: click-click-click. I want to sleep! leave me alone!!! I am ti-i-red. Of being in-com-pre-hen-si-ble. But I do not want to be understood because I will lose my sacred intimacy. It is very serious, what I am saying, very serious indeed: Brasília is the ghost of an old blind man with a cane going click-click-click. And with no dog, poor guy. And me? how can I help? Brasília helps itself. It is a high-high-high-pitched violin. It needs a cello. But what a racket. This was surely uncalled for. I guarantee it. Though Brasília has no guarantor.

I want to return to Brasília to Room 700. So I can dot the “i.” But Brasília does not flow. It goes in the opposite direction. Like this: wolf (flow).

It is mad yet functional. How I hate the word “yet.” I only use it because it’s needed.

When night falls Brasília becomes Zebedee. Brasília is a round-the-clock pharmacy.

The girl frisked me all over at the airport. I asked: do I look like a subversive? She said laughing: actually you do. I have never been so thoroughly felt up, Holy Mary, it’s practically a sin. Her hands patted me down so much I don’t know how I could stand it.

Brasília is slim. And utterly elegant. It wears a wig and false eyelashes. It is a scroll inside a Pyramid. It does not age. It is Coca-Cola, my God, and will outlive me. Too bad. For Coca-Cola, of course. Help! Help!
help me
!
Do you know how Brasília answers my cry for help? It is formal: may I offer you some coffee? And what about me? don’t I get any help? Treat me well, got it? like that . . . like that . . . nice and slow. That’s it. That’s it. What a relief. Happiness, my dear, is relief. Brasília is a kick in the rear. It is a place where the Portuguese get rich. And what about me, who plays the lottery and doesn’t win?

Oh what a pretty nose Brasília has. So delicate.

Did you know that Brasília is etc.? Well now you know. Brasília is
X P T R
. . . as many consonants as you like but not a single vowel to give you a break. And Brasília, well dear sir, sorry, but Brasília left off right there.

Look, Brasília, I’m not just anyone, not at all. Show more respect, do me the favor. I am a space traveler. I demand lots of respect. Lots of Shakespeare. Ah but I don’t want to die! Oh, what a sigh. But Brasília is waiting. And I can’t stand waiting. Blue phantom. Ah, how annoying. It’s like trying to remember and not being able to. I want to forget Brasília but it won’t let me. What a dried-up wound. Gold. Brasília is gold. A gem. Sparkling. There are things about Brasília that I know but can’t say, they won’t let me. Guess.

And may God help me.

Go ahead, woman, go and fulfill your destiny, woman. Being the woman I am is a duty. Right this instant-now I am hoisting the flags—but what a fierce southern wind!—and here I am saying hurrah!

Oh I am so tired.

In Brasília it is always Sunday. But now I am going to speak very softly. Like this: my love. My great love. Have I said it? You’re the one who answers. I am going to end with the most beautiful word in the world. Nice and slow like this: my love how I have longed for you. L-o-v-e. I kiss you. Like a flower. Mouth to mouth. How bold. And now—now peace. Peace and life. I-am a-live. Maybe I don’t deserve so much. I am afraid. But I don’t want to end with fear. Ecstasy.
Yes, my love
. I surrender. Yes.
Pour toujours
. Everything—but everything is absolutely natural.
Yes
. I. But above all you are the guilty one, Brasília. However, I pardon you. It’s not your fault you’re so lovely and pitiful and poignant and mad. Yes, a wind of Justice is blowing. So I say to the Great Natural Law: yes. Hey cracked mirror: who is prettier than me? No one, the magic mirror replies. Yes, I am well aware, it’s us two. Yes! yes! yes! I said yes.

I call humbly for help. They’re robbing me. Am I the whole world? General astonishment. This isn’t a high wind, sir, it’s a tornado. I am in Rio. I finally got off the flying saucer. And a friend comes up saying—hello there Carmen Miranda!—telling me there’s a song called “Tar Baby Doll” that goes more or less like this: here I come all pinched with my aching corns, almost choking in my tight collar, to see my baby.

I have landed. My voice is weak but I will say what Brasília wants me to: bravo! bravíssimo! And that is enough. Now I am going to live in Rio with my dog. Please do me the favor of remaining silent. Like this: si-lence. I am so sad.

Brasília is a wildly twinkling blue eye that burns in my heart.

Brasília is Malta. Where is Malta? It’s in the day of the super-never. Hello! hello! Malta! Today it’s Sunday in New York. In Brasília, the gleaming one, it’s already Tuesday. Brasília just skips Monday. Monday is the day you go to the dentist, what can you do, boring things have to get done too, woe is me. In Brasília I bet they’re still dancing, unbelievable. It’s six-twenty in the evening, almost night. At 6:20 nothing happens. Hello! Hello! Brasília! I want an answer, I’m in a hurry, I have just come to terms with my death. I am sad. The stride is too big for my legs though they are long. Help me die in peace. As I may have said, I want a beloved hand to hold mine when it is time for me to go. I go under protest. I. The phantasmagoric one. My name does not exist. What exists is a picture faked from another picture of me. But the real one died already. I died on the ninth of June. Sunday. After lunch in the precious company of those I love. I had roast chicken. I am happy. But lack true death. I am in a hurry to see God. Pray for me. I died elegantly.

I have a virgin soul and therefore need protection. Who will help me? The paroxysm of Chopin. Only you can help me. Deep down I am alone. There are truths I haven’t even told God. And not even myself. I am a secret under the lock of seven keys. Please spare me. I am so alone. I and my rituals. The phone doesn’t ring. It hurts. But God is the one who spares me. Amen.