Читать книгу Funhouse - Sergio Kokis - Страница 15

NOW THATI KNOW HOW TO READ, we’re being transferred to another school to prepare our First Communion. Idon’t understand why, but that’s the way it is. Maybe we’ll learn something new. English is important, it’s the language of success, my father says. All the products he buys for his job have English names: Sylvania, General Electric, Westinghouse and others Ican’t pronounce. People who speak several languages are sure to succeed. Even if they’re shoeshine boys, they’ll end up rich. My father knows a lot of stories like that, from America, about poor but brave workers who invent modern things and become bosses on account of they know English.

Papa believes in inventions; he thinks one day he’ll be as rich as the Americans. That’s why he’s sending us to learn English at the Colegio Anglo-Americano, a big building on the seafront with a swimming pool, a gymnasium full of athletic equipment and buses to carry the pupils to and from school. My brother and I know he’s wrong. Nobody at the Colegio speaks a word of English, and the teachers are just like at our old school: they’re always losing their temper. I don’t think it’s a change for the better.

The place is a fraud, and it starts in the schoolbus. The monitor is so strict she won’t even let us talk. The trip to school is no fun, and it only lasts a few minutes. The gym is like the playground at our old school: we’re not allowed to dirty it. Only children whose parents pay an extra fee can use the equipment. The rest of us watch from a distance. I wish my mother would pay for boxing or fencing lessons for me, but paying for the new college is sacrifice enough, she says, plus I’m an ingrate and I’ll end up a salesman’s apprentice with the Portuguese. No swimming in the pool either. The schoolyard is as grey as the uniforms they make us wear. Running and heading for the edges of the playground is forbidden, too, because the monitors won’t tolerate commotion. The girls don’t even dance. They just stroll around in circles, looking down their noses at us. The other boys think that’s normal, and no one goes outside to piss. Among all the rich kids, the teacher has already singled me out. My problem is that I don’t have the right school supplies. My mother won’t buy them. They don’t serve tea because they’re too busy selling Coca-Cola, and if you can’t afford it, you can drink water. It’s hard to get to know my classmates. But the girls are prettier, dreamier, sweeter-smelling. They soften me, sadden me, enrage me — all at the same time.

In class, I’m always getting caught staring out the window instead of paying attention. If the teacher moves me away from the window, I can always find another pastime that’s just as interesting: examining the cracks in the paint on the walls, my classmates’ faces, the girls’ hair and the few marks there are on the desktops. The teacher finally got used to me. Especially since my grades are good. Since I never think about anything, everything the teacher says fastens itself automatically in my memory, and when she asks me a question I play everything back. I don’t have the slightest idea what she’s talking about, but my answers seem to satisfy her. My written work is another story, due to the ink blot problem. The other pupils use ballpoint pens that don’t leak. Our work has to be well presented, and we’re supposed to find all the illustrations we need at home. I try not to think about that part, since my grades are good enough. Besides, she can’t blame me for not pasting cutout illustrations on my homework after she told me I couldn’t use romance pictures.

At school, my many loves are secret. In my class alone, I’m in love with at least three girls. I can stare at their pretty faces all day long without ever unraveling the mystery. At every turn, they reveal new expressions, smiles or pouts that weren’t there the minute before. The girls realize how curious I am, even though I try to hide it by looking absent-minded. They know I’m watching them without even turning their heads; they can even make me look at them in spite of myself. I tried the same thing with boys: they didn’t even know I was looking. But the girls catch me every time, even the ones I’m not in love with. They turn around immediately, or fidget and wiggle, as if irritated by a hovering insect. Then they smile and flutter their eyelashes, and I catch a special gleam in their eyes. Watching girls is my principle occupation at the new school. I don’t know why, but it makes me sad.

Making ink splotches on blotting paper is another of my favourite things. My deskmate has a splendid wooden blotter with several thicknesses of paper and a metal handle to hold them in place. Since he’s always in a hurry, he spreads the ink even more, and increases the size of the spot he wanted to soak up. His exercises are full of smudges, and so is his blotter. But he can’t stand ink stains on his blotter paper, so he replaces it frequently and passes the used sheets on to me. Sometimes he gives me sheets that are almost clean so he can see what I can do with pen and ink.

The result is spectacular: by moving the pen slowly I can create all kinds of spirals, round spots and drips. Then I transform them into sinister forms, ghosts, trees or insects. The teacher thinks I’m doing the assignment. Besides, she’d rather I have blotting paper to keep the damage from my pen to a minimum. As soon as I finish my exercises, which I do as fast as I can, I get to work. My deskmate also has a selection of pens with different coloured inks. He can’t use them in class because only the teacher can write in red, green or purple. But he lets me use them to colour in my ink spots, then he dries them with his blotter to make a reverse print. Sometimes he lets me draw directly onto the sheets of absorbent paper attached to his blotter, either pouring ink right on them or spattering them with his pen. It’s a messy business, but when we pull back the sheets, the gradations of ink stains growing fainter with each layer produce remarkable effects. Besides, he gives me all the used sheets, so I can rework them any way I want to, adding more ink or moistening them with saliva to enlarge the spots. I’ve got a big collection of sheets of blotting paper, all of them very beautiful.

First Communion was as disappointing as changing schools. Religion for my mother is what English is for my father: the key to success. She doesn’t try to hide her ambition: she wants one of her sons to be a priest. Fortunately, Father doesn’t like priests. He’s a Protestant, but he doesn’t like pastors any better, or anything having to do with religion. Religion is like macumba, he says. It’s for women and ignorant people. My mother doesn’t like the way my father talks about sacred things. She finally convinced him we should start going to church. But he knew very well that in the end we’d see he was right.

Mother goes to church at St. Rita de Cassia, just around the corner from our house. She attends mass every Sunday and sometimes during the week, when she orders a memorial mass for her brothers. The priest told her about catechism classes, and she quickly decided it was the solution for me. The Host is to sick kids what baptism is for babies: it keeps you out of hell. My brother isn’t sick but he’s old enough for his First Communion.

Every Saturday afternoon we go to church to pray, then to catechism classes in the sacristy. The church is pretty, prettier than St. Anthony’s, all decorated in blue and gold, and full of pictures of St. Rita and the Virgin Mary. They look just like sisters, except that the Virgin is always holding her baby and Rita isn’t married. Sometimes the Virgin hands Jesus to Rita because there’s a snake on the ground, and Rita acts a little like Lili does. But she doesn’t look whorish, though, because Rita is a saint. I always get the two confused, praying to one, thinking she’s the other. They both have cute little feet that peep out from under their dresses. I can’t figure out why there aren’t any pilgrimages where men can touch their legs to request favours.

Catechism classes are given by Father Giovanni, an Italian priest who can’t speak our language very well. He has a girl named Aurora helping him, otherwise we wouldn’t understand a thing. Father says the only thing priests are good for is seducing women, and it’s true because Miss Aurora is really in love with Giovanni. But he doesn’t seem to realize it, despite the glances she keeps throwing his way, especially when he’s upset with our trouble-making.

If you ask me, Miss Aurora is beautiful. She looks just like the pictures of the Virgin and Rita. Her legs and her tiny feet make me think of a saint’s. Sometimes she’s a little hairy, but after she shaves, the resemblance is remarkable. She’s nice, and never gets mad at us. The other kids are loud and rambunctious. They come from Acre Street, near the harbour, and they all know each other. A few of them have become my friends, and they tell me amazing things about the priest and the schoolmistress: they’re lovers and they hug and kiss in the sacristy after class is over.

These friends are not afraid to shout obscenities in loud voices. They run among the benches, snitch crackers and make a bee-line for the snacks before the end of class. Some of them bring their marbles and start playing as if it was the most natural thing to do.

There’s no point listening to the priest and Miss Aurora; you can’t understand a word. You have to learn it all by heart: you’re supposed to be good, go to mass on Sundays, respect the priest, love your parents, not use bad words or think bad thoughts, not steal, kill or lie, or hide in the church. All the rest is adult stuff that our parents make us recite. I don’t want to get mixed up or forget anything, so I memorize the whole list of sins, including sins of the flesh. Because in our language, we use the same word to name that particular sin and say “meat,” and Father insists that we not eat fish on Fridays, just to show that he doesn’t like priests. Giovanni won’t tolerate that, and every time I confess to the sin of the flesh, he slaps me in the face. The other kids rather not say anything about that subject, because if they do, the Host will bleed in their mouths. I don’t talk about those things at home, to keep from admitting that my mother is right. That’s how it is with penance. You’ve got to suffer in silence.

We’re a bunch of perverts, and nothing good will ever come of us, Giovanni says. But at the last minute he agreed to give us Communion, even if we did whistle through the movie about Maria Goretti. He wanted to show us a movie as a reward for finishing the course. We got excited, and we all were hoping for one of our favourite heroes: Tom Mix, Tarzan, Zorro or Flash Gordon.

But Giovanni was lying. The Goretti movie wasn’t for kids. It was a dark, dreary picture for priests and pious ladies, plus the film kept breaking. You can’t imagine the racket that broke out in the hall when this poor peasant begged Goretti to kiss him. She was an ugly, stuck-up girl. Either she was in love with someone else, or she wanted to be a nun, we never could figure it out. But with that stupid face of hers, she might have been two-timing him. Maybe that’s why he wanted to kill her. The kids were shouting dirty words and making fart noises because the movie was so idiotic. The peasant wasn’t even strong or good-looking, and the Goretti chick couldn’t even find herself a half-decent guy. What a disaster! Miss Aurora was crying — that served Giovanni right. That would teach him to lie to kids! I was amazed that my father didn’t punish us. It just goes to show you that priests are a shameless lot, he said. All they think about is showing dirty movies to little boys to pervert them. He practically forbade us from going back to church. Mother kept her silence, since she had hidden intentions of her own.

When Communion day came, I was disappointed by the Host, though I’d heard so much about it. Just a regular piece of flattened bread, pasty and totally ineffective against my tuberculosis. At home, they baked a cake and took pictures of us in our white suits. That’s all there was to it. Then my brother and I fell into a trap.

It all started with us having to go to mass every Sunday with Mother. Father waved good-bye, told us to pray for his soul and went out by himself. That was the end of our Sunday walks. Mass was long, drawn out, full of singing and noise, the crowd of believers surged forward, crushing me, blocking my view. I couldn’t follow the priest’s movements, so I settled for gazing at the plaster statues and the paintings. The more contact I have with religious matters, the greater my fascination with the Virgin’s feet, which leaves me feeling confused. You have to love the Virgin, I know that, but sometimes I think I love her a little like the heroes in the romance stories love each other. I love some of the girls at school, too. I feel even more confused because the clatter of the old ladies’ dentures as they pray makes me think of my aunts washing themselves on the bidet. I get them mixed up with the Virgin. Or I think of St. Rita going to the toilet with the door wide open, and I can hear the noise. I know it’s not nice, and I’d better not say a word to anyone. The atmosphere during mass brings some very strange thoughts into my head. The drone of the prayers, with the odour of incense and the murmuring of the faithful, puts me to sleep. Yet I walk out of church light-footed, in a state of grace, like a robot. I don’t even miss the walk with my father. All I want to do is go home and sleep. My brother feels drowsy, too, but he claims it’s on account of the Host.

Finally, my mother confesses her true intentions. She has succeeded in contacting the elderly parish priest, Canon Bezerril. They two of them plotted it all out ahead of time. The Canon is an obese character with a malignant look who cares only about the wealthy Portuguese of the parish. The difference between him and Giovanni is like Laurel and Hardy in the movies. Beneath his black robe, Giovanni is thin as a rail, and when he’s not in the confessional he likes children. Bezerril, on the other hand, is usually dressed in white, and always wearing his stole to look more important, like an army officer. Giovanni has the look of poverty about him. He has nothing to do with church decoration, or with reserving seats close to the altar. Those things are very important to Bezerril, especially since people pay separately for the flowers, and that brings in money for the parish. Decoration is at the root of all my problems. Bezerril was looking for two kids to hold the silver candelabras. I don’t know what my mother cooked up with him, but we were taken on as altar boys.

“Tall, blond, as innocent as angels,” said Bezerril as he welcomed us.

We had plenty of things to learn and not much time to learn them. We had to be on time to put on our robes and comb our hair. Then get down to the sacristy to help Giovanni prepare for low mass. A priest can’t get dressed by himself. If he’s not given the right vestments, he stands there frozen in mid-gesture, not budging a hair. Or he starts to shout. You can’t drop things either, on account of they’re sacred and he’ll have to kiss them despite the dust on the floor. Then you light the candelabras and escort him into the church. Stoke up the censer and swing it to and fro without making too much smoke and stopping the mass, and be sure you kneel at the right time. You ring the bell, but only when you’re supposed to. Don’t start fighting, don’t roll the candle wax into balls. Don’t fall when you carry the big book, don’t forget to genuflect, don’t stand between the priest and the altar. Don’t spy on people when they’re praying, don’t pick your nose and don’t giggle. And don’t cough when everyone’s kneeling and the priest is playing with the big Host. If the beadle isn’t there, you have to handle the little bottles of water and wine, then hold the plate so the Host doesn’t fall out of people’s mouths during Communion.

During low mass Giovanni helps us out. He tells us what to do or does it himself, and never loses his temper. Besides, it doesn’t matter if we make a mistake because the church is almost empty. The only worshippers are old ladies in black who don’t like crowds. But the solemn high mass at ten o’clock with Bezerril is a real nightmare. The church is bursting at the seams, the chorus and the organ struggle to get in tune, Bezerril has an attack of the flutters because he can’t put on his costume and rehearse his sermon at the same time.

He wears special vestments that we pull from the closet and brush before he dons them. The air is heavy. People are talking in loud voices and pushing their way towards the altar, pushed forward by others who are still trying to enter the church. Some argue over the best seats, and the women shout insults at one another. Our job is to clear a path with our candelabras and confront the hungry stares, showing neither tears nor fatigue. Bezerril hisses at us that the smoke is too thick, but it’s too late to stop it. To get the censer fired up, I opened all the ventilation holes to the maximum, and now the thing is red hot and burning smoke pours out, clearing the crowd around me. If I start swinging it back and forth things will get worse. The chains are too hot to handle. The beadle dashes over to help and I shrink into the shadows. The crowd shifts and takes a deep breath, and now Bezerril wades into the ritual with his customary aplomb. I crouch in a corner, halfasleep. My brother turns slowly on his toes, like a top. I have to use all my devices to keep my head up and survive until the sermon.

When the moment comes, the congregation sits down to listen to the Canon’s deep, mellifluous voice. He loves to talk and say the same thing over and over again, dragging out the pauses to put as many people as possible to sleep and give the beadle lots of time for the collection. The Portuguese are generous, and from high atop his pulpit Bezerril looks down and nods in approval at the most substantial donors without losing the thread of his argument. The beadle’s black bag grows heavy at the end of its long handle. His progress determines the length of the sermon. The faithful track the little bag with their eyes as if to weigh each contribution, admiring the gestures of the merchants. The collection proceeds with viscous slowness, to the contentment of the spectators.

Then we launch into the second half of the mass with the choir singing at the top of its voice and the rustling of gowns getting ready to kneel. Now comes the serious stuff, the ringing of the bell we must not forget, then silence. Bezerril fumbles around inside the tabernacle, pulls out the big Host and blesses the chalice. He mutters the elevation, making sure he pours out just the right amount of wine and takes Communion with broad movements of his lips and cheeks, just like people drinking cachaça in the bars as they nibble on grilled sardines. He savours the Host with closed eyes, then purses his lips as he swallows it.