translated from the Portuguese by Cristina Ferreira Pinto-Bailey

Many are the ways to satisfy a body’s cravings and desires, because, since the beginning of time, that’s really what living is, but now what afflicts Rosálio, more and more, is a hunger he feels deep inside his soul, a craving for words, for feelings, for people, a hunger that isabsolute loneliness, like a dark void inside his chest, the blindness of someone who sees with eyes wide open everything there is to see here, which is not a single living thing, not even an ant, a smell of nothing, the walls of gray, dry wood boards, the piles of gravel and sand, gray, the huge skeleton of colorless reinforced concrete, buildings that banish the horizon, a heavy and low gray ceiling touching the tops of the buildings, a dense layer of leaden clouds that don’t move, don’t sketch out a bird, or a lamb, or a giant’s face, hold no secret message, and that’s all there is to see, there’s no sunrise or sunset, no morning or night, everything is so tight, so close that your eyes wander only so far, they soon hit a wall and retract, unable to reach out farther, neither outside or inside, struggling like a bird new to its cage, drowning, blind. Everything is just plain nothing, and Rosálio isn’t even able to recall any stories that would help him leap into other lives, because his eyes find no color with which to paint them. He hungers for shades of green, yellow, red.

A whirlwind spins around the loose sand and makes the shack’s door squeak, calling Rosálio to seek the paths hidden behind those towering walls outside: leave, run away, go look for other people and for pasture to feed your hungry soul. He’s come down these roads, paths that bend back onto themselves, tricking those who arrive stunned by the silent words, letters that surround the illiterate man, watching and mocking him. Rosálio came shouting questions that the wind blew away along with crumpled scraps of dirty paper, got no answer or even a nod from the passersby, let himself be guided by the scent that his hungry body helped sift from the many other strange, gray odors hovering among the walls, and turned up here, where so many other melancholy Rosálios had arrived, walking the same roads, wrapped in gray sadness, and was told he could stay if he wanted, there they had a roof and wooden pallets to rest on, there was a large, black, dented pot, beans served on credit, pieces of wood to burn and warm up the place, a faucet and a bucket, they had shovels and hoes, he could work, mix the sand and cement, he could work if he wanted. He ate beans, worked, washed himself, and fell asleep; ate beans, worked, washed himself, and fell asleep; ate beans, worked, washed himself, and fell asleep. Today everyone is gone, only the world’s gray silence and noncolor remain, and Rosálio feels the craving for voices and shades of red stir inside him. He finally remembers a story Bugre had told him, fills his pockets with handfuls of gravel, and walks out aimlessly, holding by its rope strap the box of ipê wood he never leaves behind, to search for some life and colors on the empty streets. Where did all humanity go? Did they all disappear? Turned into werewolves, boitatás, haunting spirits, headless mules? Rosálio leaves a trail of small rocks to mark the way back, because he isn’t ready yet to let himself loose in the world again without knowing how to return, and he still owes for the beans he’s eaten.

Irene, tired, so tired, how much effort it takes to think about nothing! How much it takes to shoo away from her thoughts her child in the old woman’s shriveled arms in that shack stuck in the mud, the yellow paper with the test result, the doctor talking, talking, talking, and time passing, passing, passing in such a hurry, practically every day is already Monday, when she has to take money to the old woman, find out if the promised medication has come, pick up a pack of rubbers, and listen to the social worker tell her to turn her life around. Irene smiles a bitter, crooked smile with only one side of her mouth, to hide the missing teeth on the other side, even if nobody sees her now, even if nobody looks straight at her, ever. That social worker is funny, “leave this life,” sure, I’ll leave this life, I don’t mind if everything is over right this instant, because there’s only one open door in my life and it leads to the cemetery, are you going to look after the kid and the old woman, ma’am? That would be nice, for Irene can’t even get money to bring to them every week, most men want nothing to do with a rubber, they go find another hooker, and she can’t do what Anginha does, she’s full of hate, trying to spread the disease to everyone, not Irene, she can’t hurt any living being, none . . .

Stop thinking, girl, don’t think, let your mind be empty like the street below, mind your elbows, sore from all the time you spend leaning against the windowsill, I’m so skinny!, it’s the disease . . . She moves away from the window, crosses the room, the floorboards wobbling under her feet, one of these days this floor is going to cave in, and the ground will swallow me. The lounge is empty, there’s nobody, no clients, they’ve had too much to eat and drink, they’re sleeping in their hideouts somewhere around this vast, abandoned city, on Sunday afternoons everything sleeps, all the other women are sleeping, only Irene can’t go to sleep, hopefully waiting for some client to show up, who knows, for something to happen, tomorrow, Monday, the kid and the old woman, she drags her feet across the grimy marble floor to the rotten door of this once-upon-a-time-stately house, later a tenement, now a brothel, she looks out again at the sunny street, feels faint, holds onto the doorway. Opening her eyes, she sees the man carrying a box walk toward the house, his eyes fixed on her, and it lifts her spirit: he’s probably from the countryside, recently arrived, still smelling of soil and the backwoods, young, naïve, it doesn’t hurt to give him a try, naïve, he’ll believe the rubber is a gift, a novelty from an experienced whore, come on, hon, come on.

At first, Rosálio sees the red shape moving about, surprising him as he turns the street corner, a flash of light, a breath of fresh air that brings relief to his throat choked by the grayness all around him, and only after a while he sees the woman inside the red dress, half of a smile slowly opening on her face, her hand beckoning repeatedly, “come on, come on,” he’s going, “come on,” her hand holds his, the hallway, the bedroom, it reeks of humanity, ancient, multiple, heavy odors, dull, smudged colors, but colors nonetheless, all the colors of the rainbow, in ragged clothes, bed covers, curtains, faded pillows, and broken dolls, in the remains of paint and shreds of wallpaper, images of saints and candle stubs, in plastic flowers and chipped knickknacks, in empty bottles of fanciful shapes, jars and boxes with torn labels, colors from lives cut short, but lives nonetheless, still pulsing in those colors doubled and multiplied in broken mirrors, in shiny patches of satin and in the fringes of the red lampshade,sparkles of sparse sequins and beads left on those objects, all exhausted like the woman, tired as if they had arrived there after a long journey, survivors like Rosálio. The woman’s eyes are a hopeful plea, her half smile an open wound on her face, as her hands unbutton his shirt, pull the box out of his hand, and push him toward the bed, her hands seeking ways to arouse his body that seems distant, for Rosálio is absorbed in the realm of words, yearning for them, dying to hear and say them, to exchange words with someone, but nothing comes out of her mouth, only her feverish hands, her skinny legs, and her destitute female animal body demand that he give up his solid male animal body, just like that, no words, and, defeated by the sorrowful grimace on her face, he does what she wants. He gives her his body, but his spirit stays alert, trying to decide the words he’ll want to gift the woman once she’s willing to listen.

Irene lets go of the man’s hand and shuts the jammed door, which gives out a long sigh as if it’s coming from inside her chest, looks at the bed, how nice it’d be to simply lie down, go to sleep, sleep, maybe dream forever, maybe, but tomorrow is Monday, the kid, the old woman . . . Like a good professional, Irene sustains her forced smile, her trained fingers find the buttons of his shirt and keep moving, she pushes him onto the bed, let’s do what we gotta do, quickly, she doesn’t even remove her dress, this guy isn’t going to make a fuss or demands, he’s really trusting, lets me take the lead, doesn’t even act like he wants it, I bet he’ll say “thank you” when it’s over, and Irene’s competent, efficient hands, the rubber, quick movements and, there, done, now time to get paid, get him out of the room, wash up and go to sleep, sleep, sleep.

Rosálio lets her do what she wants, anticipating what she’ll finally say, he has so many words and hasn’t decided how to begin, awaiting her first words, “It’s fifteen, mister,” Rosálio doesn’t understand, looks at her as she smooths her dress, stares at the floor, extends her open hand, begging, how humble that hand is! He fixes his pants, his shirt, takes that offering hand, feeling sorry for her. “What is it, are you gonna pay, or what?” then a light dawns on him, and Rosálio realizes what this woman is and what he owes her, he has to pay, that’s why she did what she did, for the money he doesn’t have, his pockets heavy, but with rocks.

Irene can’t believe her ears, “Money, I don’t have any,” tomorrow is Monday, she has nothing to bring, nothing, nothing, she feels anger rising up her chest, exploding in her throat, cheater, jerk, leech! raises her hands to protect her face from the beating that will certainly come, she doesn’t even care if he hurts her, he can go ahead, hit, kill her, she screams, asshole, cheater, son of a gun, I want my money, my money! waits for the first beating, “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t know, you wanted it, me, I really didn’t, I went along to be nice,” his sweet voice, the beating that doesn’t happen, her anger waning, she just wants to quit everything, go to sleep, sleep, but tomorrow is Monday. She sees the bulge in his pockets, sticks her hands inside and pulls them out full of gravel, which she throws out the window, the money, where’s the money? “There’s no money, I don’t have any, nothing, I’m sorry.” Irene sees the box on the floor, tries to break the lock, that’s where the money is for sure, he has money, gimme the fucking key! and only then does she notice the key hanging from the chain he removes from around his neck and hands to her without a fight. Inside the box there’s a slingshot, a spinning top, and old books, lots of them, their corners worn thin by so much use, the pages dark like the leaves of tobacco her grandfather used to roll as he swayed in his hammock, for a moment Irene is back on the porch of the old house and can smell his smoke, she feels dizzy, tired, just wants to sleep, sleep in the hammock, but tomorrow is Monday, she searches in between the pages of each book, one by one, and finds nothing, only words. What good are they? Words, “Words the sea takes away,” says that old song. She wants to rip the books to pieces, but her hands are weak, wants to break something, destroy everything, let out her anguish and anger. Attempting a threatening gesture, she raises a trembling hand, translucent as tracing paper, and steps forward toward the man, who stares at her full of surprise and pity, he doesn’t dodge, doesn’t try to protect himself, but stretches out his arms and offers her his open chest, how long, how long it’s been since Irene knew what it was like to have someone to lean on! to lean against this man’s chest, hard but also soft, feels like finally arriving at a place of her own, it’s like going back to the beginning when nothing has been lost, . . . where she’s still whole, no longer trembling, where there’s no anger, and no Mondays yet.

Rosálio feels so sorry, so much pity for this woman! She reminds him of that scarlet ibis, with long legs skinny like reeds, that he once found entangled in the branches of a thorn shrub, its feathers redder than ever, crimson from its own blood, he released and wanted to treat it but, wary and skittish, the bird escaped from him to, who knows? to bleed to death alone, helpless, in the distant wilderness of the mangroves it had come from; but not this one, this one fell right onto his chest, it’s not going to escape, Rosálio isn’t letting her, his arms encircle her like a fence, he rocks her slowly and begins to tell a story:

Once, I was walking alone down a deserted path, just me and God in that desolate place, an endless field of dry and scarce brushwood, looking for a place where I could find a living soul and a shelter, when, in that dead silence I heard a moan so sad it pierced my heart, and I saw a red ibis entangled in a thorn brush, struggling to get free, poor thing . . .

Rosálio doesn’t even know why he’s telling her such a sad story, why not think of something to cheer up this sad woman? he just goes on and on telling the story, slowly, stretching out the words, adding colorful details, while he senses the trembling of the red ibis in his arms let up and turn into sobs, moistening his chest.

Don’t stop, man, tell me more, it’s too early for you to leave, it’s not yet dawn, tell me your story while it’s still night, tell me more so I can dream, Irene asks, she, who never asked anyone for a favor and so arrived here pushed along by life’s beat,she has nothing, to tell the truth, not even a life she has now. Tell me where you came from, tell me, tell me . . .

Rosálio thinks of his construction work, of what he owes for the beans, he knows he has to go back to that gray place, but he also owes the woman and only has words with which to pay her. He searches his memory for other stories to tell, but she’s already falling asleep and asleep she smiles, a toothless but genuine smile, that has nothing to hide. Rosálio leaves quietly, follows the trail of pebbles and drops the remaining ones along the way, to reinforce the thread that can bring him back. His heart, now of a deeper red, reassures him that tomorrow he will be back. ■

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