What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel by António Lobo Antunes Page A

that the clover, or whatever it was, was part of their daughter, a ring for the chrysanthemums that were sold at the entrance and Noémia Couceiro Marques’s words thickened by fungi, the jackdaw that would chase us much later in Chelas invisible now whistling its two notes in the willows, Rui deciding
    —It can’t be the same jackdaw, stupid
    even so he looked for it frightened, as a child they’d made him kiss his grandmother in her coffin and he swore that her hands
    those vines that grab you and pull you
    they tried to carry him off, he asked me for half of my fix so he could forget her, both of us in a cold sweat like my mother when the wine ran out and she’d wave her arms around bumping into things
    —Go ask for some on account at the café, Paulo
    the pups with pine cones at the corner of the neighborhood keeping watch on the gate, the herons lined up along the bridge beams predicting rain, clouds on the Cova do Vapor, clouds of sulphur at the Alto do Galo, a lost mare trotting aimlessly along the street, her eyes just like my father’s
    —Rui?
    the same despair as though there was someone who could take him away from there and save him, no one can save your father, it’s over, the mare was scratching her haunch on the trunks of the fir trees, a vein on the neck which if I had ones like that I wouldn’t need any rubber hose, the ring on my father’s throat appeared and disappeared as he breathed, his empty gums sort of spongy, pale
    —Where are your teeth father?
    the mare turned around among flowerpots and my mother unaware of the rain, of the waves of the northeaster that was coming into the backyards, of the wailing of the herons unable to protect their eggs
    —Go ask for some on account at the café, Paulo
    and there I was along with the mare unable to find my way, a watering can and pieces of newspaper in the bottom of the gutter, the awning drawn up, the owner’s wife, barefoot on the terrace, disappearing off with the tables, an apron spread out in a shadow where glasses gleamed
    —Your mother’s asleep don’t wake her now
    me motionless in the doorway not daring to go in
    the café owner leaned over the bar looking at me just as a Gypsy struggled with the mare covered with a hood my father disappeared, Rui disappeared from the beach but the policeman was asking me
    —Do you know who he is do you know him?
    and they didn’t have to tie me to the bed, I wandered about the yard chatting with the box trees, a coin for a cup of coffee friend, a cigarette friend, he was picking up the butts the orderlies left burning attracting the pigeons, the wife of the owner of the café came back struggling with the ribs of the umbrella
    —What does this one want here?
    and her husband to me
    —Your mother’s asleep don’t wake her up now
    my mother wasn’t asleep, a lie, she was in front of the wardrobe and calling him while she trembled, chasing spiders that weren’t there in the corners of the room, shaking imaginary mice out of the folds in her blouse, Mr. Couceiro watching her cleaning a speck from the glass
    —Don’t you think her color’s better this afternoon?
    soon the dwarf from Snow White split in two, soon the drawer with the flatwear in the flower patch, soon she was speaking to no one
    —Why Carlos?
    and I was rumpling the quilt and smoothing it as though there was makeup left on my cheeks, in a little while she told me
    —Get out of my house Carlos
    and I was all alone on the stoop, all alone by the main entrance trying to explain to her I’m not father mother, I was five years old
    they cover me with a hood and don’t even inject me
    trying to explain to her
    —I’m your son mother
    don’t throw pine cones at me, don’t squash me against the pillow stopping me from breathing, seven times eight fifty-six, seven times nine sixty-three, don’t tie my wrists, don’t bring an old couple for me to live with in the name of some bangs, some skinny little legs, a bicycle with a flat