Rain Read online

  Many nights later, the family relived their earlier suffering. Jonasse was nowhere to be found. The miner was out digging the earth full of holes on the night shift. Back at the house, his wife’s eyes rested over the rim of the light coming from the xipefo, as they called the oil lamp. She stitched together swaddlings of nothing, tiny clothes for a son who, as they well knew, would never come. Little Novidade dozed at the woman’s side. The girl began to curl up, convulsing, her epilepsy an epic lapse. Her mother quickly tended to her. In her panic, she shattered the light to pieces, overturning the gas lamp and its glowing light. As she calmed the girl, who was all lips and heavy breathing, Veronica Manga sought the matches above the chest. Only then did a muddy sound from the mountain outside call her attention. What was that? The mine exploding? Good heavens! She broke out in goosebumps. And Jonasse, her husband?

  The woman zigzagged through the house in a run-or-die, moved from anxiety to alarm, a fly in a bull’s tail. And then came even bigger explosions. Seen from the window, the mountain was transformed into a fire-breathing pangolin. Would boulders and bedrock tumble down upon the houses? No, the mountain, that one at least, had a tough constitution. And what about Jonasse? The woman knew she would have to wait till morning for news of her husband. But the young girl didn’t wait for the morning light. In silence, she gathered up her tiny things in a basket and a sack. Then she arranged her mother’s belongings in an old suitcase. Finally a few meagre words, in a gentle command, came from her mouth.

  —Let’s go, Mother!

  Without stopping to think, the girl’s mother abandoned her post, the spot where she’d nested for so many years. She let the young girl lead her by the hand, trusting in who knows what intuition. Along the way, the two of them crossed some others, like them, on the run. And Veronica asked them:

  —This thing we’re hearing: What is it?

  It wasn’t coming from the mine. Those were military explosions, the war was approaching. And our husbands, where can they go to save themselves?

  —There’s no time. Climb onto the truck, the others responded.

  And up they went. Veronica situated her things better than herself, and made Novidade sit on top of the basket. The motor turned over, spinning more slowly than her eyes in their anxious search to find Jonasse emerging from the clouds of smoke and chaos. The truck pulled away, leaving behind only debris and explosions. Mother stood looking at her daughter, the composure in her expression, her dirty dress. What was she doing? Humming. In the midst of that whirlwind, the girl panned for bits of joy amid her quiet songs. Was she defanging that moment pregnant with disaster?

  Between bombs and gunshots, the truck pulled forward until it reached the front of the mine where Jonasse worked. And then the girl, disregarding the moment’s developments, leapt to the ill-advised ground. She took a few steps forward, ironing out the wrinkles in her little dress, turned backward to offer her mother a sign of affection. Horrified, the vehicle came to a halt. Little Novidade resumed her path, crossing the road exposed to certain danger. The truck honked its horn in fury: the only thing that took its time there was death. The girl didn’t appear to even hear. She stood in the road as if the way were entirely hers. In the dictionary of her footsteps, there was no sign of arrogance, nor any grand declarations. The fact that she was standing in the road, upsetting the chaos, wasn’t an act of defiance but of distraction, plain and simple. She put the blue of her eyes to use. The driver, all nerves, called for her one last time. And the rest of the passengers screamed for her mother to order her to return. But Veronica didn’t utter a word.

  Atop a pile of sand pulled from the mine, Little Novidade leaned down to pluck wildflowers, the kind one spots on roadsides. She chose them at a cemetery pace. She stopped before some tiny blue petals, identical to the colour of her eyes. The truck, tired of waiting, beset by the distressed clamour of its passengers, darted down the road. The mother refused to look away from her daughter, as though she wished to see her fate in its final form. What happened next, no one knows. Only she could see it. There, amid the dust: what happened was the flowers, the ones with a blue glimmer, began to swell and soar toward the sky. Then, all together, they plucked the girl. The flowers grabbed hold of Little Novidade with their petals and pulled her down into the earth. The girl seemed to expect this, as, smiling, she was swept away into the same womb where she’d seen her father extinguished, out of sight and out of time.

  Blind Estrelinho

  Blind Estrelinho was a man of no moment: were it not for his guide, Gigito Efraim, his story could be recounted and discounted. Gigito’s hand had led the unvisioned man for ages and ages. That hand was separate yet shared, an extension of one man into the other, siamesely. And so it had been almost from birth. Estrelinho’s memory had five fingers and they were those of Gigito, gripped firmly in his own hand.

  The blind man, curious, wanted to know everything. He didn’t make a fuss about life. For him, always was too seldom and everything insufficient. He would say, with these words:

  —I’ve got to live right away, or else I’ll forget.

  Little Gigito, however—he described what wasn’t there. The world he detailed was fantasies and fine-lacery. The guide’s imagination bore more fruit than a papaya tree. The blind man’s mouth filled with waters:

  —What marvellosity, this world. Tell me everything, Gigito!

  The guide’s hand was, after all, a manuscript of lies. Gigito Efraim was as Saint Thomas never had been: he saw to not believe. The aide spoke through his fingertips. He peeled open the universe, abloom in petals. His imagination was such that even the blind man, at times, believed he could see. The other man would encourage him in these brief illusions:

  —Get rid of your cane, you’re on the right path.

  A lie: Estrelinho still couldn’t see a palm tree in front of his nose. Nevertheless, the blind man did not accept his sightlessness. He embodied the old adage: he was the legless man who was always trying to kick. Only at night would he become discouraged, suffering from fears older than humanity. He understood that which, in the human race, is the least primitive: the animal.

  —Does it trouble you that there is no light at night?

  —Trouble is having a white bird spread its wings in your sleep.

  A white bird? In your sleep? The place for birds is in the heights. They even say God made the heavens to justify birds. Estrelinho tried to mask his fear of omens with subterfuge:

  —And now, Little Gigito? Now, looking up in this direction, am I facing the sky?

  What could the other man say? For a blind man, the sky is everywhere. It was with night’s arrival and his guide fast asleep that Estrelinho lost his footing. It was as if a new darkness had appeared inside him. Slowly and stealthily he nested his hand in that of his guide. The only way to fall asleep. Is the clam’s shyness the reason for its shell? The following morning, the blind man admitted: If you die, I’ve got to die right after you. If not, how do I find the way to heaven?

  It was in the month of December that they took Little Gigito away. Took him from the world to send him to war: they required his military services. The blind man protested: the boy could un-come of age. And the service the boy provided him was life-giving and lifelong. The guide called Estrelinho aside and calmed him down:

  —Don’t go lonering around now. I already sent for my sis to take my place.

  The blind man stretched his arm as if hoping to hold onto their goodbye. But the other was no longer there. Or had he turned away on purpose? Then, with neither time nor tide, Estrelinho listened as his friend pulled away, engulfed, fargotten, inevitably invisible. For the first time, Estrelinho felt disabled.

  —Now, only now, am I one who turns a blind eye.

  In the minutes that followed, the blind man spoke loudly, all to himself, as if conjuring the presence of his friend: Listen, my brother, listen to this silence. The mistake people ma
ke is to think that all silences are the same. They’re not: there are distinct qualities of silence. It’s like this. The dark, this snuffed-out nothingness that these eyes of mine touch: each one is unique, colourless in its own way. Understand me, brother Gigito?

  But a response from Gigito never came, and silence followed, this one, yes, repeated and the same. Dis-tended to, Estrelinho stood watching the in-sights, his eyes surrounded by sunspots and milky no-ways. It was a moonless night, its dark dye unending. Squinting, the blind man took in the darkness, its shapes and its fragments. The world bruised his uncoupled hand. His solitude hurt like a kink in a giraffe’s neck. He recalled the words of his guide:

  —Lonely and sad is rheum in a blind man’s eye.

  Fearing the night, he set off wandering, staggering along. His theatrical fingers played the role of eyes. Stubborn as a pendulum he went, choosing a route. Stumbling, snagging, he ended up falling down on the side of the road. There he fell asleep, his dreams zigzagging in search of Little Gigito’s hand.

  Then, for the first time, he saw the heron. Just as Little Gigito had described: the soaring bird, white like dawn. Its wings throbbing, as though its body occupied no space at all.

  Anguished, he averted his empty gaze. It was a vision to invite misfortunes. When he returned to himself, it seemed as if he knew the place he’d stumbled upon. As Gigito would say: that was a place that snakes came to refill their venoms. But he couldn’t muster the strength to leave.

  He remained on the side of the road, like a balled-up handkerchief soaked with sadness, one of those that always appear at separations. Until the timid touch of a hand on his shoulders roused him.

  —I’m Gigito’s sister. My name is Infelizmina.

  From then on, the girl led the blind man. She did so with great care and long silences. It was as if Estrelinho had, for a second time, lost his sight. The young girl showed absolutely no talent for invention. She described each snippet of the landscape with reason and factuality. The world the blind man had come to know dimmed. Estrelinho no longer had the lustre of fantasy. He stopped eating, stopped asking, stopped complaining. Weak, he wanted someone to carry him along, no longer just his hand but his entire body. At each turn, she pulled the blind man to her. He went along feeling the roundness of her breasts, his hand no longer sought only another hand. Until, at last, he accepted the invitation of desire.

  That night, for the first time, he made love, intoxicated and overcome. In an instant, Gigito’s teachings returned to him. What before had been scarce became abundant and the seconds surpassed eternities. His head swooped like a swallow and he let his heart be guided like bats: by the echo of passion. For the first time, the blind man felt sleep come over him without any anguish. And he fell asleep curled up in the girl, his body imitating fingers dissolved in another hand.

  In the middle of the night, however, Infelizmina awoke, mugged by alarm. She’d seen the great white heron in her dream. The blind man felt a thud, as if wings had beat against his chest. But he feigned tranquility and began to soothe the girl. Infelizmina returned to bed, night-drowned.

  The morning brought the news: Gigito had died. The messenger was brief, as a soldier ought to be. His message resonated infinitely, as the wounds of war ought to. It was strange the way the blind man reacted without the least surprise, as if he were already aware of the loss. The girl stopped speaking, orphaned of her brother. From that death on, she only grew sadder, withering away. And so she remained, unable to resume her life. Until the blind man approached and led her to the house’s veranda. Then he began to describe the world, outdoing himself as he detailed the heavens. Little by little, a smile began to spread: the girl’s soul was healing. Estrelinho befancied all manner of lands and landscapes. Yes, the girl agreed. She’d slumbered in such landscapes before she was born. She looked at the man and thought: I held him in my arms before this life. And when she had already shaken loose her sadness, she risked the question:

  —All this, Estrelinho? All this exists where exactly?

  And the blind man, confident in stride and course, responded:

  —Come, I’ll show you the way!

  The Delivery

  The couple approached in dual obscurity. Both asked the shadow to pass. The woman was more bent over than a cave on the side of a mountain. She was pregnant, nearly to term. Arriving at the light, they declared themselves to be Diamantinho, the nearest neighbour among the village residents, and his rotund wife, Tudinha Rosa, writhing in pains and grimaces. The poor thing woozier and woozier, swimming in a sea of dizziness. Diamantinho, however, appeared aloof to his wife.

  The couple showed up at the home of Ananias and Maria Cascatinha, their affable neighbours. The two ladies stood on the veranda, a mat extending for come-what-may. Maria Cascatinha smiled, timidiminutive: that was her most personal mat. It wasn’t a simple object for sitting. On that mat, all her children, amid cooing and moaning, had been conceived.

  Diamantinho entered, granting himself perch and position, more homeowner than house guest. He sat, ordered a drink, made use of the comforts. Ananias, the host, even called for his attention: Was he not going to help his bowed wife? The other only smiled, savouring pleasures of this and other lives. Ananias insisted:

  —You, Diamintinho, don’t you share in the family suffering?

  —You’re right, Ananias, I only think about from my gut to here. Truly, I’m not worth her troubles. But I’ve been like this ever since my father’s belly.

  Of his wife, Diamantinho made no mention. Tudinha Rosa remained outside on her back, unwound. Nevertheless, she’d declined the mat. Childbirth ought to take place above the earth, mother of mothers. Such is tradition’s commandment. Maria Cascatinha gave thanks that the mat was spared. Then she rolled it up carefully in the corner. Tudinha now sat above the world. But the earth’s caress hardly relieved her. The woman remained in pain: her eyes uneven, her insides imploding.

  In the other room, her husband enjoyed the beverages offered, his eyes wandering lazily. And he continued threading conversation, always in the most concise inexactitude:

  —I feel rusty, Ananias. It’s not that I may be older than you. It’s that I was born before…

  Ananias was growing irritated with the visitor’s attitude, more insistent in his indifference than a pangolin. It’s well known: childbirth is a matter for women alone. Diamantinho, meanwhile, seemed far too aloof. And, more seriously, things were growing complicated outside. Tudinha regressed from open-eyed to cross-eyed. She mixed up everything, even prayers: the Hail Father and the Our Mary. Distressed, Ananias proposed actions and precautions. Wouldn’t it be better to bring the expectant woman to town? The candidate for father, serene as a river in the flatlands, didn’t seem to care. He ordered Ananias to sit still. Then he extended his cup to request another top-up. All without hesitation.

  The woman, his irrefutable wife, was doubled over, shrieking and screaming. Several young girls gathered in a circle, all bent forward over the suffering mother. The nervous circle of women could be seen through the window. Finally, Ananias was summoned to help. Ananias suggested the two of them lend assistance, but the other man responded that he was finishing his drink. After that he would leave, at a time and in a mood to fulfill his duty. For now, he peeled back time, impassible like the trunk of a baobab tree.

  Ananias broke with tradition, joining the delivery that dragged and the midwives who were growing uneasy. Fundamental doubts grew. Everyone, after all, knows: a drawn-out delivery signals a wife’s infidelity. To save the situation, the expectant mother should admit her sin, divulge the name of the child’s true father. If she doesn’t, then the baby remains stuck in the womb, with neither month nor sign.

  Then, amidst cries, sighs, and so much perspiring, Tudinha Rosa confessed to trading affections with Ananias, the very same and present host. Maria Cascatinha entered a state of not-even-there: her husband, father of a s
trange bud? However, she continued her midwife’s toils, unalterable. Only her eyes defied her, spilling over. Without a word, she finished the work of disbellying her sudden adversary. In the beginning, Tudinha’s confession had been a simple murmur, going unheard beyond the vicinity. During her final efforts, however, the gestant went on praising the consummated betrayal:

  —It was Ananias, it was him!

  Inside, all was heard. It was as if the world had split open in rocks and rifts. Diamantinho, amid the outburst, turned from sunrise to sunset.

  He went out to the veranda looking every bit the husband, with airs of hard looks and hard fists. In a word: shocked and shaken. He moved from fellow to guy, from guy to so-and-so. Never before was such metamorphosis seen. He grew enraged to the point of blades and grenades. He yelled threats and improprieties: he, Ananias, must kiss the feet that trampled him. Between the two men, resounding blows ensued.

  As pummels and insults were traded, the new boy migrated toward the light. Diamantinho and Ananias took no notice of the birth. Tudinha and the newborn were brought to an inside room. Ananias, reeling from so many drubbings, retreated into the same room as his respective expectant. There he stayed for many lifetimes. From the living room, Diamantinho gusted with furies, invoking vexes and the evilest eye against Ananias. Then he wore himself out, miserable as a peel without the banana. Maria Cascatinha, appearing with equal sorrow, came to the aid of the betrayed Diamantinho. She laid her arm on his shoulder and told him she’d accompany him homeward. They say Maria Cascatinha never returned. Not even to fetch the sacred mat.

  The Perfume

  Today we’re going dancing! is how Justino announced himself, extending hands full of a package the colour of a gift. Gloria, his wife, wasn’t sure how to accept it. He was the one who ended up untying the knots and pulling from the colourful wrapping paper a dress no less vivid. The woman, accustomed to living low, had spent so long waiting she’d already forgotten what it was she was waiting for. Justino oversaw the railroad, one hour fused with the next, one enormous cloud of steam, a minute hand buried in his heart. Time, that stale thief of spontaneity, was an uninvited guest driving a wedge between husband and wife. What remained was a landscape of weariness, uninterest, and uh-huhs. Love—in the end, what was the point?