Cló

Translated by Flora Thomson-DeVeaux

 

This must’ve been the third person to sit down at his table. He took no pleasure in rubbing elbows with strangers; but what was one to do on a Shrove Monday, when all the café tables are packed and the etiquette of other days crumbles and melts away?

The first two people were unprepossessing fellows, but the third guest at the table made up for all the unpleasantness of the rest. A beautiful, well-presented woman is always a sight for sore eyes, even if she is a stranger, or perhaps all the more for it…

Old Maximiliano was sitting there, overlooked and lost in thought, drinking his beer, obedient to old habits. If it were a normal day, he’d be surrounded by friends; but popular men, as he was, are never so during popular festivities. They’re popular in their own way, among those who haunt the city’s most famous streets, cafés, and tearooms on normal days; but never for the crowd that pours down from the outskirts, the suburbs, neighboring provinces, which stifles them and drives them away. And even so, he didn’t feel out of place…

Five empty bottles had gone by, and the place kept on filling up and emptying out, emptying out and filling up. Outside, the falsetto of the masked revelers trotting along, the long, drawn-out songs of the cordões, laughter and lewd ditties filled the street with a muddle of sounds, and into the café wafted the thrill of living, a tingle of life and lust that only made the old teacher want to stay there even longer, drinking, putting off his return home.

And that tingling of life and lust that shakes the city for three days straight during its signature festivities, just then, that tingle helped to ease his old sorrows, and that day’s stubborn little sorrow in particular. It had left him morose and solitary amidst the whirlwind of laughter and joy, the hubbub, the drunkenness and the lust of others, on that Shrove Monday. He’d bet in vain on the “alligator” and the “hundred.” And so capricious fate had robbed him of the hope of winning just over a thousand – a sweet hope, fading bitterly away in that twilight of mirth and pleasure.

And the trouble he’d gone to, making that hope bloom in his chest bright and early! What throngs of interpretations, presentiments, cabalistic divinations! He might have been a Roman augur, come to tell the consul whether to wage battle or not…

No sooner had it appeared before his eyes than he was certain of his route, confidently sailing across the foggy sea of Mystery, bound for that point – the “alligator” – where he was to find peace, shelter, if for only a few days!

And now that the fog had passed, where was he? Still at sea, almost no provisions left, too weak to steer the boat to salvation… How was he ever to buy atomizers, confetti, paper ribbons, rent an automobile? And – what was worse – how was he to pay for the dress his daughter had been needing to show herself off that Saturday, on Ouvidor Street, in the full splendor of her beauty, forged (not even he knew how) from firm Italian flesh and an overpowering, exotic sexual allure…

How on earth was he to give her the dress?

With those calm eyes in which there was no longer any surprise, nor disapproval, nor hope, the old teacher looked around the café, still thrilling for a few hours yet with youth, talent and beauty. He saw a few poets he knew, thought of waving them over, but upon further consideration decided to keep to himself.

Old Maximiliano never tired of observing those men and those women, one by one, those men and women riddled with vices and moral deformities; and for a moment he reflected whether life by and large would even be possible without the vices that drove them along, degrading them all the while.

Just then, he noticed the curiosity and envy with which one group of girls in from a poor neighborhood was examining the clothes and affectations of the demi-mondaines in the café.

At his table, drawing all their gazes, was the lovely, legendary Eponina, the city’s most beautiful lady of the night, the product of Spanish and Italian immigration combined, extraordinarily stupid, but with eyes that yawned onto an abyss of seduction, promise and passion.

And the old instructor was taking this all in, unhurriedly, with all the self-indulgence of misery, when he came to think of house and home, his own home, where luxury was a source of bitterness and pain, blunted by music, song, laughter and alcohol.

Then he thought of his daughter, Clôdia – Cló, the family called her – whose temperament and spirit were those of a grand hetaira. With chaste admiration, he recalled her velvety, quivering skin, her love of sultry dances, her devotion to clothes and perfume, her weak sense of morality, her taste for strong liqueurs; and suddenly, for a moment, he saw her crowned with ivy, her magnificent nakedness barely covered, her skin mottled, holding the thyrsus aloft, dancing and divinely drunk, overcome with sacred fury: “Hail, Bacchus!”

This ancient vision passed before his eyes as Eponina rose from the table, her bracelets and bangles jingling and riveting the gaze of Mrs. Rego da Silva, who, with her husband and her dear friend Dulce – rumor had it Dulce was a lover to both – was having ice cream at a distant table.

Seeing the jewels and the dress, Maximiliano was reminded that his “alligator” had come up empty; and he began a reflection, possibly profound but certainly bitter, on how poorly our society is organized. But that went nowhere, and he sought then to decipher the problem of his multiplication in Cló, that marvelous, rare specimen. How had he given rise to such a dainty, depraved daughter? What obscure cell of his had created a riotously flowering female human? Had it come from him, or his wife? Or both? Or from his wife alone, from the passionate, eager flesh that trembled as he gave her piano lessons at her parents’ house?

But he was unable to solve the mystery. André was heading his way, with that face like a Peruvian idol’s, immovable and coppery, against which his gold-framed pince-nez gleamed, lighting up his sleek beard.

He was a strong man, broad-shouldered and muscular, with a barrel chest; and despite his bowlegs, he was still a fine specimen of the human race.

Maximiliano wished he weren’t an obscure politician with a cheap law degree. His lack of mental agility, malleability, ductility, his ineptitude at abstraction and poor reasoning were no impediment to his diploma or to his political career. He would have been perfectly suited, not to politics, but to kinghood, rowing in a dugout along vast rivers or bending back a powerful palm-tree bow, poised to fire off arrows tipped with curare.

André was his most recent friend, and yet the most constant guest at his Lucullan table.

A politician, as we’ve seen, and a rich man, he was the gallant, generous representative of a sleepy Northern trading post, serving in the city’s bourgeois salons; and while he was married, the old piano teacher’s daughter, Cló, hoped to marry him under the Religion of the Sun, a new sect just lately founded by an enlightened, unemployed land surveyor.

On this, old Maximiliano had no fixed opinion; he neither approved nor disapproved. He limited himself to diffident admonishments against the wedding being celebrated without the blessing of the priest of the Sun, or any other sort of priest.

And this was only to keep things from moving too fast; he preferred events that unfolded naturally, gentle landscapes and mild inflections, and detested abrupt shifts from one state to another.

– Still here, are you? asked the rich politician, taking a seat.

– It’s true, the old man replied. “I’m making sacrifices, taking communion… This is the fifth… What’ll you have?

– A Madeira… And how’s Carnival?

– The same as it ever was.

Then, turning to the waiter:

– Another beer, and a Madeira for the gentleman. And take the bottle.

The waiter went off with the empty bottle, and André asked:

– Isn’t Isabel with you?

– No, my wife doesn’t like Shrove Monday, she finds it dull… She and Cló stayed home, getting ready for the costume party at the Silvas’… Would you like to go along?

– Will you be going?

– No, my good sir; the only thing I like about Carnival is the racket from the street, that wild syncopated music, the scrapers, the tambourines, the bass drums, the nasal whining brasses… I even like the bass drum all on its own! That racket does my soul good. I won’t be going. But if you’d like to… Cló will be going as a Negress from Mina.

– That should suit her quite well… I can’t go, but I’ll come by your house to see your wife and daughter all dressed up. You ought to, yourself…

– Dress up?

– What?

– Oh, my good man! I’m always wearing a mask.

And he smiled bitterly. André didn’t seem to understand, and said:

– But you’re not as decrepit as all that…

Maximiliano was about to make some objection when the waiter came by with their drinks, just as Mr. and Mrs. Rego da Silva got up with little Dulce, who was a lover to them both, according to half the town.

The politician gave them a long look, with the self-assured air of a man who can do as he pleases. He heard the whispers of “ménage à trois” as they passed. The insinuation failed to penetrate his provincial naivety, and he turned back to the old teacher:

– Will you be dining at home?

– We will; wouldn’t you like to join us?

– Thank you, but I can’t today… I have an important engagement. But I’ll surely come by before you leave, for a dram of whiskey… If I may?

Oh! You’re always welcome, of course. You can’t imagine how everyone talks about you. Isabel thinks of you every waking moment; and Cló, well! Even Caçula doesn’t bark at you, he always wags his tail.

– I’m truly…

– Just a few days ago, Isabel said to me: ‘Maximiliano, I’ve never had a Chambertin like the one André sent to us…’ My son Fred even knows one of your speeches by heart; and he’s repeated it so often, I think I have a few passages down pat.

With great effort, the idol’s rigid features cracked slightly; and he said, plainly wanting the opposite:

– Don’t tell me you’re going to recite it.

– Of course not. I don’t mean to embarrass you; but I may certainly say here that you have a tremendous imagination, beautiful imagery, and magnificent form.

– Since I’m still a novice, I can safely accept the compliment and thank you for your enthusiasm.

He paused, took a sip of wine, and went on in a measured tone:

– You know perfectly well which bonds tie me to your family… A feeling from above, a call, some ineffable element that you and yours have brought into my life…

– Well, then, Maximiliano burst in, overcome, “to us!”

He raised his glass and they toasted, and the politician resumed the thread:

– Did you teach classes today?

– No. I came out to clear my head and hustle something up. This is no life… ‘hustle!’ How it pains me to say that! But what’s one to do? Making a pittance… What is a teacher making 800 mil-réis? A family, keeping up appearances… on a pittance! Even more so now – times are tight, and Cló’s started bathing in milk…

– What an idea! Where’d she get that?

– I wish I knew! She says it has such-and-such properties, virtues… The devil of it is, I owe the milkman a fortune. She’s bathing in gold, that’s what it is! I tried my luck today… Today I could’ve sworn by the alligator…

The waiter came by, and he called out:

– Baldomero, another beer. Won’t you have another Madeira?

– All right, then. So did you win anything?

– Hardly! And it’s left me high and dry!” “If you like…

– Oh, my good sir, please! Will this become a habit?

– What of it? Don’t stand on ceremony; think of me as your son…

– Oh, no… I couldn’t possibly…

Pretending not to have understood, André took a handsome bill from his wallet, the face value of which, in Maximiliano’s pocket, quickly erased his unfortunate run-in with the alligator.

The politician lingered a while longer; soon, however, he bid farewell, reiterating that he’d come by later to see the two women in their costumes.

Maximiliano had another beer, and once it was gone, he left slowly, somewhat unsteadily.

Darkness had fallen long ago. It was well into the night. The groups of revelers kept on going by, drumming, slapping, bellowing frantically. Men and women of all colors, the pillars of the nation, in their stocking feet, colorful feathered headdresses and skirts, playing at Indians, danced out ahead to the African beat thrashed out on savage instruments, some twanging, others shrilling. The dancers shook their hips sensually, legs flashed back and forth helter-skelter, bodies crumpled and snapped back.

The costumed merrymakers’ muscle memory had retained the ancient gestures of their forebears, but they could no longer piece them together, much less explain them. These were remnants of war dances, or religious rituals from the savages most of them descended from, which time and other influences had transformed into the mere antics of Carnival…

During the centuries of slavery, their ancestors who lived in cities would only have been able to relive the ceremonies of their hutments or villages during Carnival. The tradition was passed down to their children, then their grandchildren, who continued to observe an inevitably warped version of it.

Maximiliano, as a passionate music lover, an old piano teacher, in the name of living and edifying himself, lingered a while to hear those bizarre, barbaric songs, reflecting on those people’s utter lack of musical inventiveness. One strain, clumsy and short, was soon cut off, interrupted, jostled by the thuds, the squawks, the squeals of savage, artless instruments. For a moment he thought of listening longer to the songs, of making them whole; and the aria came fully fledged to his ear, and the old pianist felt moved to stop the “Shower of Gold” in their tracks, so that he could teach the singers the product of his imagination.

He regretted having sympathized with that racket; however, the music lover won out over the malcontent. He wanted those people to raise their voice in a melody, a hymn, a song by any name, but one with discipline and beauty. But – the thought occurred – what for? Would any more or less artistic music correspond to their innermost thoughts? Could it truly represent their dreams, fantasies, and sorrows?

And he made his way slowly down the street, bestowing his sympathy on all the apparent childishness of those grimaces and hoots, which he felt to be the deep, authentic expression of those rude creatures of so many races, who found in that barbaric, deafening hullabaloo a way to release their sufferings as a race and as individuals, and to express their yearning for joy.

He headed straight home. The house was shuttered; but there were lights in the living room, music and dancing.

He walked across the small yard, listening to the piano. It was his wife playing; he could sense her velvety touch, the way she struck the notes sweetly, just barely pressing them with her fingers. How well she played that tango! What passion she was able to bring to such an inferior genre!

Then he recalled the cordões and the ranchos, their artless and barbaric songs, the rhythm unique to them that so moved his wife and enraptured his daughter. By what path had their blood, their flesh been imbued with that taste, that proclivity for those sorts of music? What was the connection between them and the two women’s souls?

He couldn’t be sure; but he saw, in society as a whole, a seething, complicated mass of exchanges and influences, exchanges of ideas and sentiments, influences and passions, tastes and inclinations.

When he walked in, the piano had fallen silent; his daughter was resting on the sofa, having been rehearsing some suggestive dance with her brother. With an indulgent ear, the old man heard his son say:

– That’s how they dance at the Democráticos Club.

As soon as she saw him, Cló ran to hug him; and, embracing her father, she asked:

–Isn’t André coming?

–He will.

And then, in a harsh tone, he added:

–But what do you want with André?

– Nothing, Papa, he’s just such a good man…

Maximiliano would have liked to be severe; he yearned to shrug on the mantle of a respectable husband and father; he wanted to perform the age-old rite of sacrifice to the Penates; but he was too skeptical, too doubtful, he no longer even believed in his own rituals or his own authority. He did, however, rebuke her weakly:

– You really must behave yourself, Cló. André is married, it’s not becoming.

At this, everyone burst into explanations. The respectable teacher was defeated, convinced that his daughter’s affection for the politician was the most innocent, natural thing in the world. They sat down to supper. The meal was a quick one. Fred, however, was still able to report on the next day’s Carnival parades. The Fenianos were bound to lose. The Democráticos had spent over sixty thousand, and they were going to put on a show like nobody had ever seen. The lead float, a Japanese temple, was going to be a “smashing success.” And the women were the prettiest of all… They’d all be there, Alice, Charlotte, Lolita, Carmen…

– Still hitting the ether? Cló asked.

– Still is, her brother shot back, and went on: it’ll be a sight to see, a triumph, at night, under the electric lights, down the broad streets…

And for a moment Cló bit her lip, let herself go, and saw herself there too, atop one of the floats, lit up by the sparklers, showered with applause by the boys, the young men, the girls, the whole city’s bourgeoisie. It was her triumph, her life’s goal; it was her beauty multiplying beyond measure into dreams, yearnings, ideas, violent desires within those narrow little souls, prisoners to convention, rules, and morality. She drained her beer in a gulp, wiped the foam away, and the lovely down on her upper lip emerged above her diminutive red mouth. Then she asked her brother:

– What do those women make?

– Please! scoffed her brother. Can’t you see it’s an honor?

And dinner ended on a serious, familial note, although neither beer nor wine were lacking for devotees of either drink.

Just after the meal, perhaps twenty minutes later, André announced his presence. He apologized to the ladies; he hadn’t been able to come for dinner, political matters, a speech… He asked their indulgence to offer them a few Carnival mementoes, and handed one small box to Isabel and a larger one to Cló. The jewels emerged, winking proudly at the dazzled onlookers. For the mother, a ring; for the daughter, a bracelet.

– Oh, sir! Isabel exclaimed. You’re being too generous, we can’t accept this…

– Nonsense, Dona Isabel! They’re false, they’re a trifle… Since I knew Dona Clôdia was going as a Negress from Mina, I thought to bring her this bauble…

Cló thanked him with a smile, and her gentle mouth moved to let that broad smile of joy and gratitude linger on her lips. The music resumed. Dona Isabel sat down at the piano, and, since she was playing after dessert, a time for melancholy and philosophical discussions, as previously noted, she struck up something sad.

It was time for them to get ready for the Silvas’ costume party. The ladies withdrew, and the men remained in the living room, drinking whiskey. André, impatient and distracted; the old teacher, indifferent and warm, telling droll stories slowly and carefully; the son, always trying to find a way to show off his knowledge of all things Carnival. The conversation was dying out when the old man said to the politician:

– Have you heard Gottschalk’s “Bamboula”?

– No… I don’t know that one.

– I’ll play it.

He sat down at the piano, opened the album with the piece in it, and began striking the notes of that black music from New Orleans, filtered and civilized by the famous pianist.

His daughter came in, beautiful, fresh, and velvety, a pano da Costa over one shoulder, a turban, her plump, marble-white bosom entirely bare, set off from her sculpted neck by a necklace of false turquoise. The bracelets and beads jingled on her breast and arms, which were, strictly speaking, completely nude; and the needlepoint on her linen blouse adorned the roots of her firm breasts, which could barely tolerate the ivory prison in which they were being held.

She was able to shimmy to the last measures of “Bamboula,” in the slippers that covered half her feet; and, wreathed in smiles, she sat down, waiting for her Solomon in gold pince-nez to whisper in her ear:

“Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.”

Maximiliano left the piano stool, and while the politician, sitting quite close to Clódia, may not have spoken as King Solomon did to the Queen of Sheba, he did flare his nostrils to take in the pungent scent of that girl, made even more intoxicating in the garb of a wretched slave.

The room filled up with other guests, and the music drifted into popular songs and modinhas. Fred sang, as did Cló, egged on by André. The automobile hadn’t come yet; she had time…

Dona Isabel accompanied her; and the girl, putting every last drop of seduction into her voice, into her little brown eyes, sang “The Song of the Mina Negress”:

Peppers, eggplant, okra, cassava;

I sell ‘em cheap, you buy me, massa!

As she finished, her eyes and voice full of flirtation, it was with special satisfaction, with a sigh of inner pleasure, that she, swaying her hips and resting the backs of her hands at her waist, bent over André and said ambiguously:

You buy me, massa!

And she repeated it with even more pleasure, one more time:

You buy me, massa!