What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

care of yourself
    the river tomorrow as I say goodbye to the doctor, today the yard and the fence, a friendly cigarette, a coin for a friendly cup of coffee, I’m not a patient, friend, they’ve imprisoned me here, the basket of peaches abandoned by the plane tree, Mr. Couceiro helped me with my suitcase, clothes, slippers, a poster of my father in an evening gown that I hadn’t even remembered bringing with me
    —Why Carlos?
    —No
    —Why father?
    and Mr. Couceiro quickly folded it up and it disappeared in among the shirts, if I asked
    —Why father?
    my father would be mute, it looked as though he was going to speak and he was mute
    speak to me tell me
    I’d wake up in Bico da Areia with the bedsprings moving on the other side of the partition, with the springs my mother’s leg
    ever so slowly on top of a sleeping leg, an endless pause during which the horses
    the sea
    a silence, the sleeping leg escaped with a creaking of boards, my father’s voice
    —No
    —Why father?
    and the horses or the sea or neither sea nor horses, my mother’s slippers on the floor and the grumbling bedsprings moved back into shape, I could tell that she’d hurt herself bumping into the clothes closet, we always hurt ourselves bumping into the clothes closet, our house tripped us up, startled at first and then angry, we’d grab our knee with both hands, the furious reflex before our mouth came out with
    —God damn it
    I could sense her going down the steps, her hands on the outer door from the creaking of the hinges, no moon no pine trees, only the scaly surface of the water, I sensed her strange breathing, her nightgown pulled up, something white that was leaping about and I said
    —Don’t cry
    no sea no horses, blowing her nose on her sleeve, her hands half embracing me and half pushing me away
    —Go inside you’ll catch cold, dummy
    finally embracing me, gathering in her nightgown more, her body so warm, tears that didn’t belong to me that became mine now, don’t cry Paulo don’t cry, and Dona Helena would pick me up and take me away, maybe Mr. Couceiro would talk to me about Timor, maybe they’d fill my mouth with spoonfuls of guava jam, when I lifted my head I saw my father at the window
    oh to trot with the horses
    when he saw that I’d seen him he disappeared from the window frame and the frosted glass, when I went in I saw him crucified up against the wall far behind me there, not in a nightgown, in pajamas
    —Do you want to borrow my hose father?
    the nightgowns only at Príncipe Real, red, silvery, not cotton, silk, if I happened to catch him without his wig a small irritated cry, little fingers that shooed me away
    —Oh! Paulo
    and without the wig the bald head, the freckles, he’d put on a kerchief when he went to bed, the cedar at Príncipe Real said to me
    —Don’t stare at cripples it’s not nice
    Dona Aurorinha in the vestibule with her shopping bag, her cheap ring, two potatoes, wilted vegetables, feeling her way upstairs
    —Let me give you a hand
    pondering her worries as she put her foot on each step
    —How’s Paulo’s father, Dona Aurorinha?
    her uncle a sergeant
    —My uncle was a sergeant
    and consequently an important matter for Dona Aurorinha, poor thing, if people didn’t show her respect she’d threaten them with the Army
    —I’m going to report you to headquarters
    she’d introduce herself to the sentry with her ring, the potatoes, her rundown blouse, she’d raise her umbrella in a solemn salute, take the photo of an old man in uniform from her purse, clean it with the hem of her jacket with dignified pomp, examine the flag with the familiarity of a relative
    —I’m the niece of Sergeant Quaresma of the Second Infantry sure that the colonels, fearful
    —She’s the niece of Sergeant Quaresma and that makes everything all right
    Sergeant Quaresma’s niece coughing all night long, at the funeral no colonel, no sentry, no military honors, some sparrows in the cypresses but