Читать книгу Funhouse - Sergio Kokis - Страница 7

I’M STILL A LITTLE KID. Lili likes to rub against me when we take our afternoon nap. She pulls down her panties. They smell strong. It’s because the baby pissed on them, she says. It feels good and scratchy at the same time. I go along with it and say nothing. My aunt’s kind of cute, especially when she’s not angry, when she sighs and curls her damp legs around me. The room is warm and stuffy, and a strange feeling comes over me that makes me drowsy. The room smells of sleeping baby, sweat and Lili’s panties. When I wake up she’s gone, and I can’t remember a thing. Only the smells linger, mingled with the odour of mould that creeps across the walls. Slanting through the closed shutters, the sunlight carves bright columns of dust in the sultry half-darkness. I’ve got to piss, I can’t wait. Almost every day we play this game, then I get up, weary and lazy.

There’s nothing to do in the house, there are no toys. I crawl under the beds or look out the window, that’s about it. The baby is too young to play with and my older brother doesn’t like my games. It’s always been that way, we’re the kind of family where everyone goes his own way. Later on, the baby will be my friend, especially when my big brother picks on him. We all live crammed into this apartment, and we all sleep in the same room. Only Lili sleeps on the floor in the living room. Something is missing, something that would make us a family. Everyone seems to be busy with his own troubles.

Lili still lives with us, but at fifteen, she’s turning towards the street. As soon as she finishes helping my mother, she steps out for a breath of fresh air. Sometimes she goes out at night, too, when there are no cars on the avenue, but before the bars close. She lives in a state of constant irritation, something physical that drives her to anger the moment she puts the baby down. She’s the godmother. St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost causes, is the godfather, so that Lili will find herself a husband as quickly as possible. It’s strange how she can be so sweet when she’s not prey to temptation. But those occasions are rare. Since it’s better for her not to go out alone, and since the baby would get in the way, she takes me along when she goes out at night. I like that a lot, even if I have to be on my best behaviour and act like I’m not there. I do what I’m told because I know the cigarette-vendor will give me empty cigar boxes to play with behind the counter while he sits with Lili. Pretty, sweet-smelling boxes made of dark wood wrapped in colourful labels. I always bring home a few of them for me and my big brother. We turn them into ships, buses, houses or even monsters.

The shop reeks of tobacco and the sawdust that covers the floor, and the stale beer that drips from the stacked-up barrels. I’m not supposed to get dirty or talk too much. But the more they laugh and tickle each other, the faster they forget I’m there. The customers who are drinking make a lot of noise, and some of them even fight. Others know Lili and give her lemon soda. Meanwhile, I pick up beer-bottle caps for my collection, edging away without her noticing. I go and chat with the drunks at their tables, the ones who are nice and who know I’m with Lili. Once I’ve got my cigar boxes, filled my pockets with beer-bottle caps and drunk my pop, time seems to slow down. It moves so slowly that sometimes I fall asleep in a corner waiting for her to stop chattering. Poor Lili, these outings wear her out. We make our way back home through the empty streets, the two of us, walking fast because it’s late, because I’m sleepy and she’s nervous. But I’m bringing back my booty; it’s been a good night for me. All Lili gets are packs of cigarettes. They’re small and easy for the guys to stuff them into the pockets of her skirt, all the way down, tickling her as they go. Everybody has their own games.

I can’t figure out Lili. I don’t know how to stop her from getting mad. I don’t know what sets off her tantrums, so my best bet is to keep my distance. Then there are times, just as I’m expecting a smack in the face, when she’s as nice as can be. Take St. Anthony’s Day. We go every year. The place is scary. The convent of Largo da Carioca towers over the plaza on its rock spire. It’s a windowless fortress made of yellowish clay like a prison. On the feast day, early in the morning, crowds of moaning women fill the plaza. They come to pray and touch the hem of the saint’s cloak, and caress the statue’s plaster thighs. The monks pretend not to see, because they feel sorry for the desperate women, and also because the women stuff the collection plate with sweat-soaked, crumpled bills they pull out from deep in their undergarments. Everybody knows that when you need a man, you must pray to St. Anthony because he works wonders. Nobody venerates him quite like my mother’s sisters and their friends. He’s the baby’s godfather, after all. Maybe that’s why Lili won’t give him up. The sisters are a little embarrassed about attending this feast of spinsters, so they always find a pretext to drag me along. It’s a dangerous adventure with everyone pushing and shoving, a motley, high-strung female crowd baking in the sun. The women all wear brightly coloured dresses and veils, white for the virgins, black for the widows and married women, blue for the rest. Husbands get upset when their wives go to visit the saint, but the women can’t be stopped.

We have a long wait before we can get close to the convent stairs where a better organized line is beginning to form. Since I’m small, I end up crushed by huge buttocks and breasts that assault me from every direction. They trample me, squeeze me, wrap me in piercing odours as I grab on to my aunts’ skirts to keep from being carried away by the heaving surge of flesh. The heat only quickens the women’s impatience, the sun beats down and worst of all, there’s the disheartening spectacle of all the other pilgrims who got there before us, and who are now climbing the narrow staircase that leads within the walls. It’s a stampede, a mad rush. The crowd has become a mighty beast, jealous of the early arrivals, flailing about for fear that the saint will be swallowed whole before its turn comes. The women surge forward, wave after wave, like a flood tide. Soon I lose my way, I disappear and lag behind. They have to come back and get me, but I’m swept away again as my aunts try once more to pull me back. My limbs are nearly ripped off, I’m scratched and grabbed by the hair as I struggle not to lose my shoes. It’s one endless horror until we reach the narrow metal gangway. I always expect the worst, and usually it happens. People smack me in the head, their bony elbows jab my face, they pinch my arms and my back. Literally smothered by the compacted, greasy mass funneled into dresses and girdles, I feel like a stalk of sugar cane in the gears of the press.

But I survive. Though I’ve slowed them down, nobody thinks of punishing me. Strange. At home, I get a hiding without so much as a word of explanation. Matters of the heart soften women up, like my father says. Besides, the feast of St. Anthony is a holy day, which is the argument Mother always uses against the old man’s blasphemous grin. Maybe it’s a mixture of all those things. A greater sense of charity arises from the proximity of the plaster statue painted in shades of pink beneath its homespun cassock. If there were men in the crowd, blood would flow for sure. But among themselves, the women just push and shove, each one convinced she’s better than her neighbour.

Grim and unstoppable, the human wave surges forward like a whale stranded in a tidal pool. Women of all kinds, rich and poor, young and old. Only the poorest blacks are stuck at home, working.

Time drags on, my hair sticks to my sweaty forehead, and I let myself go, carried along by the crowd. Scuffling breaks out one last time as we reach the gangway and begin the long climb up the wall.

Already people have become more civilized, casting triumphant, disdainful glances at the crowd milling around in the square below. The women adjust their veils and mop their brows, their faces grow calmer, their hands join in prayer. They forget about me.

Suddenly total darkness replaces the blinding sunlight. The narrow, sinister corridor is as cool as a crypt. The press of bellies against the back of my head eases, and suddenly I’m cold. The chattering comes to a halt. Their faces serious now, the women start to pray, and dream. Lit by candles, the image of the venerated male gleams yellow at the far end of the long passage. We make our way slowly towards him, brushing the narrow walls. My head grows heavy: the odour of incense and candle smoke mingles with the sugary perfumes and the whiff of sweat, and other smells, too. My eyes smart as I wipe away my tears with my clammy hands; the smoke grows denser the closer we draw to the saint.

I can hardly see. The saint’s face and the Christ child he holds in his arms have almost vanished among the searching hands that stroke his feet and reach frenetically under his homespun cloak. From my level, I can clearly make out the women’s hands sliding down the fronts of their skirts, squeezing their thighs and in between, trembling. Lili has to pee, and her legs press tightly together as she kisses the saint’s feet. Gazing down beatifically, the statue accepts the adoration of women whose faces are contorted into curious shapes, frantic, their mouths twisting into strange grimaces, their tongues hanging out and their eyes rolling. It’s a sacred moment. I can feel the tension in the air. Next to the statue, a monk stands impassively, holding out the collection plate and muttering in Latin lest he succumb to temptation.

Suddenly they pull me forward, breaking the spell of my first mystical experience. I feel uncomfortable and afraid, though I don’t know why. The crowd moves off from the saint and surges into the church to pray. The women leave me to my own devices. I wander through the flock looking at the statues, paintings and gilded ornaments of the baroque interior. In the dim light, candles glitter against the gold-studded firmament of the blue walls. I can breathe again. In the silence, the sound of the women murmuring their prayers is like ebbing rain. Now and again, a piping cry of contrition escapes one of the veiled heads, far away, followed by its soothing echo. The melancholy, pervasive desire for Prince Charming accompanies them on their pilgrimage. Curious, I explore the church, discovering the beauty of the place, touching the carved pews polished by countless generations of unappeased backsides. In their alcoves, the statues undulate in the chiaroscuro of flickering candles while incense dulls my weary eyelids. With heavy steps, we make our way out through the far door of the convent. My aunts didn’t notice I’d gone exploring. They’re being nice to me. They even buy me an ice cream cone that runs down my fingers, sticky in the heat of the sun.