when she writes, oh, the moon, oh, the lake.
“You know the latest, Lião? A poetess from the Amazon is going to arrive, how about that? She must be an Indian. She’s going to be your roommate, dear.”
“Why my room? You here in this penthouse and with a bathroom even, dammit. Indians like baths. Ana Clara’s room would hold a whole tribe, too.”
“No, not there, imagine! The Indian maiden in her natural state, Ana Clara would be too much of a culture shock, poor thing.”
“But by January isn’t she supposed to be married to the industrialist? Driving a black Jaguar with red seats. A diamond the size of a saucer on her finger.”
“And a full-length leopard coat. Stiiiiinking chic!” I roll my eyes upward and imitate Aninha when she adopts her femme fatale air. But Lião is still sober.
“Crazy Ana isn’t doing so well. She’s already doped up in the mornings now. And she piles up debts something awful, there’s swarms of bill collectors at the gate. The nuns are in panic. And that boyfriend of hers, the pusher—”
“Max? He’s a pusher?”
“Come on, you mean you don’t know?” mutters Lião, tearing a piece of fingernail from her thumb. “And it’s not just speed and pot, I’ve seen the needle marks time and again. She should be put into the hospital immediately. Which wouldn’t do any good at this point, she’s so far gone. A wreck, in short.”
I open my hands on the rug and examine my fingernails.
“It would be fantastic if the millionaire fiancé married her. I’ll put out the yenom for the plastic surgery in the southern zone, he would only marry a virgin, she has to become a virgin. Oh Lord.”
“You think a rich marriage is going to help anything?” Lião asks with a sad smile. “You should be ashamed to think that way, Lorena. And will there even be a wedding? Doesn’t the guy know how she gets her kicks? Instead of hoping for a miraculous wedding, you should hope for a true miracle, understand? I don’t know why, but you Christians have such a funny mentality.”
I go to the teakettle and fill the cups again, then stop halfway back. He sang while on drugs, this half-hoarse voice, isn’t it doped? The twisted voice of someone who cries for help but who doesn’t want to be helped.
“Yesterday she was so lucid. She says Mother Alix helps, she’s going to start in again with her analysis. Who knows, eh, Lião?”
“Do you think at this point an analyst is going to help? It would have to be an analyst of the Saint Sebastian brand, that one with the arrows, beautiful and good. Then she’d fall in love with him and be saved through love, like in the comic books she adores reading. And get her Jaguar and her leopard coat to boot.”
Lorena hands me the teacup with its handsome design of birds and flowers. The linen tablecloth matches the cup, a tablecloth with an exuberant tropical pattern. The small light-colored armchairs. The rare objects.
“Everything here is very attractive, very pretty. Are you still rich, Lorena?”
She became serious, relaxing from her exercises.
“Mieux’s so-called advertising agency came to nothing. With the interior-decorating store, Mama spent money like crazy. And she keeps on spending, a thirst for novelty. They remind me of those American millionaires in Europe in the twenties, you know?”
“I don’t know. I asked if you had money.”
“I take care of my part. Why? Do you need some, Lião?”
I pour more tea into my cup. Damn good tea. I jump over Lorena who has stopped pedaling and is now doing her respiratory exercises, she has already explained to me that there is solar respiration and lunar respiration.
“I think I’m going to, Lorena. For some operations far different from Crazy Ana’s.”
“Oh Lord. I feel so sorry for her.”
She feels so sorry for everyone. No doubt she felt sorry for me when I told her I tore up the novel. Isn’t it just a way of hiding her feeling of superiority? Isn’t feeling sorry for others a way of feeling superior over others? I tore up the novel, I said. And she was silent. I drink the warm tea. She’s a good girl. Ana Clara is a good girl too. I’m a good girl.
“How’s the collection coming?” I ask examining the bells arranged on the shelf.
“My brother Remo promised me one of those Bedouin ones from Tunisia, he’s there now, living in a gorgeous house in Carthage, can you imagine? Carthage still exists, Lião. Delenda, delenda! But it still exists.”
The other day, all excited, she asked to come to one of the group meetings, this same Lorena who stands there ringing her little bells, ting-ting, tang-tang, tong-tong. She imagines our meetings are sort of like debating festivals: She would go with this leotard, boots and a red turtleneck to break the monotony of black. The intellectuals with their little films on the Vietcong. So much hunger, so much blood on the screen made from a sheet. So terrible to see so much death, dammit. How can it be, my God, how can it be? Revolt and nausea. “Sartrean nausea,” murmurs an inexperienced guest. Who shuts up when she feels the icy stares fixed on her in the dark. Silence again, only the exasperated buzzing of the projector, the enjoyment is prolonged, there’s miles of film waiting in the little cans. The lights come on, but the faces take some time to light up, how awful. Whiskey and paté to relieve the atmosphere. Considerations about the probable names on the next lists. The films go back into their respective cans while little by little the people go back to their respective houses. Those who don’t have transportation ask for rides in the available cars going their way. They are good-humored, the intellectuals. There are even a few jokes.
But, in all justice, they’re watchful. Above all, informed. They should be, going to meetings all the time. They know you were imprisoned and tortured, a courageous boy this Miguel, one needs to have courage, bravo, bravo. They know Sylvia Flute-player was raped with an ear of corn, the cop knew about the episode in the novel, somebody told him and he found it amusing. “Cooked corn or raw?” his helper asked him, and he went into detail. “Dried corn, with those pointed kernels!” The intellectuals are too moved to speak, they only continue shaking their heads and drinking. It’s fortunate that the whiskey isn’t a national brand. Some of the more fanatic ones get irritated with the tone of the meetings; after all, it wasn’t held only for the wine and cheese when the news is the worst possible: Eurico still hasn’t been found; he was arrested just as he disembarked and up to now nobody knows anything about him. He disappeared just like a science-fiction character, when the metallic man emits a ray and the guy dissolves, gun and all, and only a grease spot is left in the place. Jap left a briefcase in his brother’s house; he said he would come to get it the next day.
“This one’s Greek, Lião. Listen what a divine sound.”
I told her I tore up my book and I might as well have said I had torn up a newspaper. She doesn’t like what I write. Nobody does, it must be absolute shit. But do people know what’s good? Or what’s bad? Who knows? And is it valid? I shouldn’t have torn it up. But I know it by heart, maybe I could use the text in a diary, I’d like to write a diary. Simple, direct style. I’d dedicate it to him.
“Perfect. Perfect,” she repeats and picks up the bag. “Don’t forget about the car, Lena.”
“Lia
