Читать книгу Saudade - Traci Brimhall - Страница 13

In Which the Chorus Describes Cafuné on the Eve of the Passion

MARIA HELENA

The night in costumes, in church bells, in pews sucking on free salted caramels.

MARIA THEREZA

In the general’s breath before he pinches the child’s jaw open and spits in her mouth.

MARIA HELENA

We did nothing to stop it. Why would we? We only witness, record, recite.

MARIA THEREZA

Besides, no one else tried to stop history from bringing itself to the stage. Everyone fantasized a different present.

MARIA DE LOURDES

In the pews, the unrepentant traced their hands onto hymnal pages. Behind the curtain, the toothless, the leprous, burying themselves in scherzos and nude boas.

MARIA THEREZA

Jesus makes it onstage but forgets his lines, the new Passion simmers in the journalist, the priest, the poet, watching the dictator’s parade from an unlit room, composing meager epics and running the planchette across the letters written on the wall:

MARIA MADALENA

Will we survive?

MARIA APARECIDA

Of course not.

MARIA MADALENA

Will the country?

MARIA APARECIDA

Ask again later.

MARIA MADALENA

Is God’s love absolute?

MARIA APARECIDA

Nana, nenê.

MARIA DE LOURDES

The night is ripping its dress to bind soldiers’ wounds. It’s painting the church with the blood on the torturer’s floor.

MARIA HELENA

It’s nailing together the gallows.

MARIA THEREZA

It’s combing men’s hair with its fingers, singing, o nenê dorme no

chão, and measuring their necks.