The Girl in the Photograph (3 page)

“No,” says the Seducer Angel out loud. Quickly I light an incense tablet, oh perverse
mind. I’d like to be a saint. As pure as this perfume of roses that enfolds me and
makes me drowsy, Astronaut
used to get sleepy too when I would light the incense. And he would stretch the same
way I do; I learned how to stretch from watching him. Worthless cat, what’s become
of you? Hmm? He used to give daily lessons in lasciviousness and indolence, but he
would never repeat his movements, all ballet dancers should have a cat. The cunning.
At the same time, the abandon. The scorn for things that were really to be scorned.
And that calculated obsession. Made entirely of dangerous delicacies, my cat. Or was
he a demon? During the pauses between lessons, he would stare at me, so much more
conscious than I in my unconsciousness, how could I know? I didn’t even know M.N.
yet, I didn’t spend hours and hours woolgathering, Lord, how I’ve wool-gathered lately.
Only Jesus understands and pardons, only He who went through everything like us, Jesus,
Jesus, how I love You! I’m going to play a record in your honor, I offer music just
like Abel offered the lamb, of course, a lamb is much more important, but Jesus knows
I have a horror of blood, my offerings will have to be musical ones. Jimi Hendrix?
Listen, my beloved, listen to this last little tune he composed before he died, he
died of drugs, poor thing, they all die of drugs, but hear it and I know you’ll lower
Your hand in blessing upon his sweat-stained, dusty Afro hair, dear Jimi!…

With an elastic leap, Lorena threw herself onto the gilded iron bed, which was the
same color as the wallpaper. She practiced a few dance steps, raising her leg until
her bare foot touched the iron bar of the bedstead, and jumped down onto the blue
stripe of the jute rug. She straightened up, shook her hair back and, looking straight
ahead, moved forward by balancing herself on the stripe until she got to the record
player.

“Jimi, Jimi, where are you?” she asked, examining the pile of records on the bookshelf.
She was wearing a pair of soft pajamas, white with yellow flowers, and around her
neck was a chain with a small gold heart. She held the record by the tips of her fingers.
“And you, Romulo? Where are you now?”

Squeezing her damp eyes shut, she placed the record on the turntable. Softly, she
raised the needle and guided it as if it were the beak of a blind bird seeking a dish
of water. She let it fall.

“Lorena!”

The voice was coming from the garden. Quickly she pulled
her hair together, wound it up at the back of her neck, and stood on tiptoe. Opening
her arms, she walked on the spiral stripe of the carpet, tense as an acrobat on a
highwire.

“Lorena, come to the window, I want to talk to you!”

She hesitated dangerously, her right foot planted on the stripe, her left suspended
in the air. Only when she managed to put the left one down in front of the other without
losing her balance did she relax; she had made it across the wire. She bowed deeply
to both sides, her arms arched backwards, her hands touching like the tips of half-opened
wings. She waved her thanks to the audience as she moved back slightly, smiling modestly
downward. But she thrilled to catch a flower in the air, kissed it threw it triumphantly
to the grandstand and went whirling toward the window. She waved to the young woman
who was waiting, arms crossed, in the middle of the driveway. Bringing her hands to
the left side of her chest, she sighed loudly and said:

“My dear, welcome! Look what a lovely day! It’s spring, Lião,
primavera
. Vera, truth, prima, first, naturally, the first truth. Hum? On a morning like this
I have to hold onto myself, otherwise I fly right off, look at the daisies, they’ve
all opened!” She pointed to the flower box under the window. “How sweet. Good morning,
my little daisies!”

“Lorena, do you think you could listen to me for a minute?”

“Speak, Lia de Melo Schultz, speak!”

With a brusque motion, Lia pulled her heavy white socks up to her knees. Her leather
tote bag slid to the ground but she kept her eye attentively on the socks, as if she
expected to see them slip downwards immediately. She picked up the bag.

“Do you think your mother could lend me the car? After dinner. Let’s say about nine,
understand.”

Lorena leaned out the window and smiled.

“Your socks are falling.”

“Either they strangle my knees or they keep slipping. Look at that. When they were
new, this elastic was so tight my legs would get purple.”

“But what are you thinking, dear, wearing socks in this heat? And mountain-climbing
boots, why didn’t you put on your sandals? Those brown ones match your bag.”

“Today I have to walk all over the place, dammit. And if I don’t wear socks, I get
blisters.”

Probably on the soles of her feet. Super-hick. The only thing worse than blisters
is bunions, like Sister Bula’s. Bunions must come from onions, there was once an old
lady with bumps on her feet like onions, and her grandchildren inherited the deformity,
bumps, onions, bunions. Oh Lord. Spring, I’m in love, and Lião talking about blisters
on her feet.

“I’ve got some great socks, I haven’t even worn them yet, you want them?”

“Only if they’re French, see?”

“They’re Swiss.”

“I don’t like Switzerland, it’s too clean.”

And they won’t even fit her, imagine, she must wear size twelve. How can she possibly
wear socks that make her ankles even thicker, the poor thing has legs like an elephant’s.
Even so, she’s thinner, political subversiveness is thinning.

“Lião, Lião, I’m in love. If M.N. doesn’t phone, I’ll kill myself.”

I’m much too annoyed to stand here listening to Lorenense sentiments, oh! Miguel,
how I need you. I speak softly but I must be breathing fire.

“Lena, listen, I’m not joking.”

“Well, am I? What’s the hurry? Come on up and listen to Jimi Hendrix’s last album.
I’ll make some tea, I have some marvelous biscuits.”

“English?” I ask. “I prefer our biscuits and our music. Enough cultural colonialism.”

“But our music doesn’t move me, dearest. If your Bahians say that they’re desperate,
I believe them, I think it’s great, but if John Lennon comes along and says the same
thing, then I’m turned on, I become mystic. I
am
mystic.”

“You’re silly.”

“Silly, Lião? You said
silly
,” she repeats.

She leans farther out the window and, in the middle of a laugh, turns sideways, puts
her thumbs in her head, and wiggles her hands like ears, oh! it takes patience to
put up with this girl.

“Lorena, it’s serious. I need the car tomorrow,” I say.

She doesn’t hear me. Suddenly she becomes angelic as she waves to somebody inside
the big old house, Mother Alix? Mother Alix who opens the window and is exactly the
same height, her hand raised in the manner of the Queen of England.
But as soon as the nun goes away, she makes a worse face, the one she reserves for
last. Oh, Miguel, “stay cool,” you said, and that’s what I’m trying to do. But at
times I go hollow, don’t you see? I can’t explain it but it’s just too hard to go
on in the routine, I wish I were in jail, in your place, why couldn’t I go in your
place? I wish I could die.

“The university is still on strike,” groans Lorena, yawning. “What have you got there?
A machine gun?”

She straightens up as if she were using one, squinting down the sights, shoulders
shaken by the discharge, tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat … She aims at the house, tat-tat-tat-tat-tat,
and fires at Sister Bula who pretends to play with Cat but whose attention is riveted
on us. I am grinning because I know that Miguel would react exactly that way.

“Loreninha, don’t start in, I don’t like this game. Are you going to get the car?
I’ll give it back the next day, like the last time. No problem.”

“You guys should kidnap M.N., Lião. Why don’t you kidnap M.N.? He could stay hidden
under my bed
per omnia seculum seculorum, Amen
.”

I light a cigarette. What do I care if I sleep beside the drunks, the whores, the
live coal against my breast, yes it hurts, but if I knew you were free, sleeping beside
the road or under the bridge—! Only free. I can’t stand other people’s suffering,
understand. Your suffering, Miguel. Mine I could stand all right, I’m tough. But if
I think about you I get flaky, I feel like crying. Dying. And we are dying. One way
or another, aren’t we dying? Never have the masses been so far away from us, they
don’t want anything to do with us. We even make them angry, the masses are afraid,
oh, how afraid they are. The bourgeoisie resplendent at the top. Never have the rich
been so rich, they can build houses with door handles of gold, not just the cutlery
but the door handles too. The faucets in the bathrooms. All pure gold like the Greek
gangster had them on his island. Intact. Watching out the windows and thinking it’s
funny. There’s still the mass of urban delinquents left. Urban neurotics. And half
a dozen intellectuals; the friendly sympathizers. I can’t explain it but the intellectuals
make me sicker than the cops do, the cops at least don’t wear a mask. Oh, Miguel.
I need you so badly today, I feel so much like crying. But I don’t cry. I don’t even
have a handkerchief, Lorena wouldn’t think it was nice to blow my nose on my shirttail.

“Lorena, lend me a handkerchief, I’ve got a cold,” I say, wanting to wipe my face
which is wet with tears. Handkerchief, hell, what I want is the car. “I want the car,
Lorena. Can I count on you?”

“I have white, pink, blue and light green. Ah, and turquoise. Look how beautiful this
turquoise one is. So, Lia de Melo Schultz, what color does Madame prefer?”

I gaze at the box of handkerchiefs she brings. She keeps everything in little boxes
covered with flowered cloth, this one has red and blue poppies on a black background.
Plus the silver and leather boxes which sit on her shelf. And bells. Wherever her
brother travels he sends her a bell. Other people collect stamps, or ties. Still others
get in line to go to the movies. Maurício grinds his teeth until they break. He doesn’t
want to scream so he grinds his teeth when the electric rod goes deeper into his anus.
In the cartoon, the cat takes a walloping that makes its teeth and bones splinter.
But in the next scene they glue themselves together and the cat comes back in one
piece. It would be nice if it were like in the cartoons. Sylvia Flute-player. Gigi.
Jap. And you, Maurício? When the electric rod goes deeper, you faint. Faint quick,
die! We ought to die, Miguel. As a sigh of protest, we should all simply die. “We
would, if it would do any good,” you said, remember? I know, nobody would pay the
slightest attention. We could rip our hearts out, look, here’s my blood, here’s my
heart! But some guy shining shoes nearby would say, What color shoe polish does the
gentleman prefer?

“Green.”

I take the pale green one, which is third down in the pile, from the box. So delicate,
the handkerchiefs Remo sent from Istanbul, farewell, my little hanky. Lião is capable
of cleaning her big old shoes with you but think about the “if” for hankies: dust
is just as noble as tears. It won’t be moon dust, so white and fine, earth dust is
heavy, especially that on my friend’s shoes. But never mind, BE A HANDKERCHIEF. I
drop it into space. It opens lightly like a parachute which Lião grabs impatiently.

“Are you depressed, Lião? Existential anguish?”

“Exactly. Existential.”

Oh Lord, she’s furious with me. She’s changed so much, poor thing. Meaning Miguel
is still in prison? And that Japanese
guy. And Gigi. And others, they’re all going, what madness. Suppose she’s next? Ana
Clara did see somebody suspicious looking hanging around the gate; Aninha lies all
the time, of course, but that could be true. Yes, Our Lady of Fatima Roominghouse,
a name above investigation. But whenever nuns or priests come onto the horizon, everyone’s
ears perk up.

“I’ll give it back tomorrow,” she says, folding the handkerchief.

“Not at all, keep it. Would you like another one?”

I throw her the pink handkerchief which doesn’t open as the green one did. Why does
my heart stay closed too? Romulo in Mama’s arms, I looked for a handkerchief and couldn’t
find one, a handkerchief to wipe up all that blood bubbling out. Bubbling out. “But
what happened, Lorena!” A game, Mama, they were playing and then Remo went to get
the shotgun, Run or I’ll shoot, he said taking aim. All right, I don’t want to think
about this now, now I want sunshine. I sit in the window frame and stretch my legs
toward the sun.

“I get red, and I want to get tan, look at me, Fabrízio told me my nickname in the
Department is Fainting Magnolia, can you imagine?”

“And the old guy? Nothing yet?”

I count to ten before answering, grrrrr! Why does she call M.N. old? First of all,
he is
not
old. Second, she
knows
I’m the complicated type, with me things just can’t be resolved so fast. Third—what
was the third thing? I am making an effort to seem unshakable.

“He said he’d call me for dinner. Want to come?”

“What I need is a western movie.”

Imagine, the movies. A danger zone, there are thousands of danger zones where his
wife or his cousin … I think the best place for us to meet is in the hospital because
if the world is big, that hospital is even bigger. Is Dr. Marcus Nemesius in? I ask
and the head nurse speaks to the subordinate nurse who speaks to the subordinate subordinate,
who in turn speaks to another one far on down the line, the one who escaped the current,
her shoes white, her memory white. “By any chance are you the one who’s waiting to
see Dr. Melloni?” she comes and asks after two and a half hours. No, not that doctor.
By any chance I’m waiting for Dr. Marcus Nemesius, is he in? “He just left,” she answers.
“Won’t another doctor do?”

“If he doesn’t phone, let’s go together, Lião. I’ve got yenom enough for caviar.”