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

tire rusting in the laundry room, give me a bottle of wine, half a bottle of wine, a pint of wine, we’ll pay at the end of the month and saying that Dona Aurorinha with her bag of groceries hanging from her hand gathering her strength on the step, my mother
    —Wait there Paulo
    to the tallest pup
    two small figures on a wedding cake, what can have become of the pearls, the perfume, the wedding?
    —How much money have you got pup?
    and me with my mind made up not to listen, hearing from beyond her the waves down there, not the sea yet, the dampness left by the ebb tide covered with straw and mud, smudges of motor oil, boards, on one occasion an almost intact cradle with a rattle hanging on it, a plaque carved with a saint, my mother was counting out one small bill and three or four damp coins in her palm, translating them into wine, she rose up in the mirror and disappeared from it, excuse me for keeping on ringing the bell on the bicycle Dona Helena but I don’t want to come upon her
    —Come in
    I don’t want to sit on the step waiting, noticing how Lisbon only exists upside down in the river, the bottom half of playing cards, buildings, monuments, lights and no sound in the house, during that time when my father was working as a photographer he’d put a red bulb in the washroom, cover the door with a piece of oilcloth, sink white tapes into a tub and at the bottom of the tub traces that came together into the faces of clowns, the bodies of clowns, too much hair, never Noémia Couceiro Marques, well-built clowns, smiling triumphantly, my mother brought the bottle and didn’t wave her arms at the mirror, she wasn’t shaking and the dwarf was safe
    —Who are these girls Carlos?
    let me ring the bell on the bicycle and stop the question
    —Who are these girls Carlos?
    stop Mr. Couceiro from cleaning that speck off my eyelid with his sleeve
    —Don’t you think his color’s better this afternoon?
    my mother Judite my father Carlos
    as though I belonged to them and I didn’t belong to them, I don’t belong to anything unless it’s the Cape Verdeans in Chelas, as though I was their son and I’m not, as though I was only a gravestone in the cemetery and I haven’t died yet, I’m not dying, tomorrow I’m going back to Anjos, help me with my suitcase in the hospital Mr. Couceiro, no more coins for a cup of coffee friend, no more a butt friend, the plane trees calm, all the pigeons where there’s a basket of peaches, the tallest pup left our house and went down the steps without seeing me, my mother searching in the living room, under the pillow, in her apron
    —Did you see the money Paulo?
    hearing the waves, not hearing her, the gulls on the bridge beams, the imbecilic jackdaw from chimney to chimney
    —It wasn’t me it wasn’t me
    my mother rummaging in the coffeepot where on happier days buttons, keys, pennies and where my father stored herbs in a bag and heated tisane, she was staring at me in the mirror
    —Did you steal my money Paulo?
    no pup outside, the café deserted, the two of us all alone at Bico da Areia, peeking into a boot because sometimes there are things there, my mother went over to the mirror taking the jackdaw away from me
    —It wasn’t me it wasn’t me
    —My money Paulo
    my father never got mad at Rui, he’d see him with his wallet open on his lap, wouldn’t ask any questions, wouldn’t shout, wouldn’t threaten, tell me you don’t understand Paulo, I’m not asking you to understand, tell me to get rid of him, he was working in a different place in order to pay the Mulattoes, not a disco with a foreign name, a place in Caxias, you turned left at the prison and there was a dirt road, you went past an arch and some unfinished buildings, a shed under an elm tree, my father in a dressing gown, with more frills and makeup than in the places with music
    —I’m a clown Paulo
    two or three men drinking in a small room with him, black leather couches that had silver legs with the