Rubem Fonseca - Winning the Game and Other Stories

I listened to it all, attentively, making neutral but appropriate comments, which she interpreted as obvious interest on my part in what she was saying and feeling.

I choose another English-language poet. I have no predilection for the English language but cultivate English for the same reason that Descartes knew Latin. Agnes arrives with a basket of tangerines.

“You never have tangerines in the house.”

“They’re out of season,” I said.

“But I found some. I chose this poem.”

“Oh?”

“The poet says he knows the night, he has walked and still walks in the rain, beyond the lights of the city, without looking at the people, without the desire to give explanations, imagining the sounds of distant houses; the time that the clock shows is neither wrong nor right. You know I’m enjoying this?”

“Why?”

“I wanted to understand what poets say, and I learned with you that it’s secondary,” says Agnes. “Every literary text is capable of generating different readings, but besides that wealth of meanings, poetry has the advantage of being mysterious even when it says two and two is four.”

“You’re right. And, especially, poetry is never totally consumed. However much you devour a poem, the feeling it evokes is never exhausted.”

“How complex life is,” says Agnes, pretending to sigh.

“You’ll see that’s how it is,” I say, lightly touching her arm. She moves away from the contact unaffectedly, without drama.

“How what is?”

“Life is complex.”

“Is that what poets say?”

“I don’t know. Let’s have dinner.”

Did I blunder by touching her? I think, as we eat the gastronomic delicacies prepared by Maria do Céu.

I’ve been at this undertaking for many days. I sense that Agnes is starting to become more vulnerable. But as the Bible says, for everything there is a season, and it’s not yet time to harvest.

“Is there such a thing as feminine poetry?” Agnes asks. “If someone didn’t know the author’s name, would he discover that this verse—‘the deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint’—was written by a woman? Is that a masculine or a feminine sentence?”

“It was a woman who wrote it, but it could have been written by a man.”

We’ve finished dinner and are in the middle of our conversation when the doorbell rings. Maria do Céu goes to open the door and returns immediately, with an apologetic expression, followed by Negrinha.

“I didn’t know you had company,” says Negrinha.

“I told her you were with someone,” protests Maria do Céu, who knows that this unexpected appearance by Negrinha can only mean trouble: she witnessed Negrinha hit my hump when I gave her the pink slip.

“I didn’t hear her,” says Negrinha, noticing the book on the table. “Ah, poetry. Am I interrupting chitchat about poetry? This devil is full of tricks.”

Agnes gets up from her chair.

“It’s time for me to go.”

“You haven’t introduced me to your friend,” says Negrinha.

“Some other time,” says Agnes. “Ciao.”

Agnes’s ciao is always a bad sign. I go to the door with her.

“Wait a moment, I’m going to get the book.”

She takes the book and leaves in a rush; I barely have time to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s always the same magic,” says Negrinha sarcastically. “The man who can talk about the beauty of music, painting, poetry. And that fools the idiots, doesn’t it? It worked with me. Music here, poetry there, and when the imbecile opens her eyes you’re already sticking your dick in her.”

“Negrinha, stop it.”

“You’re a prick. That hussy left before I could tell her what a 24-carat son of a bitch you are.”

“Negrinha—”

“I came here because I was feeling sorry for you, thinking you were by yourself, but no, I find another idiot being seduced, the next victim. Does she know that after you screw her you’ll kick her out on her ass?”

“Do you want something to drink? Sit here. Some wine?”

“Water.”

I bring her a glass of water. Negrinha takes a swallow. She’s calmer now.

“I think I’m going to accept that wine.”

I place the glass and the bottle of Bordeaux, the wine she likes, beside her.

“Who is that woman? Is she that Venus, the one you wrote love poems for?”

“I already told you: that Venus was a fictitious figure.”

“You said you were in love with another woman. With that hussy, the classical dumb blonde?”

“She’s a redhead.”

“The same shit.”

Negrinha empties and refills the wine glass.

“And how could you fall in love with another woman when you were screwing me all the time? Why did you leave me? You liked me; you still like me, don’t you?

She reaches out her hand, but I move away.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you? Just wait till you let me grab your dick.”

She downs another glass of wine, in a single gulp.

“Negrinha, remember Heraclites—”

“Fuck Heraclites. You’ve never read a book on philosophy; you read those For Dummies books.”

“I have to go out, Negrinha.”

“Don’t call me Negrinha. My name is Barbara.”

“I have to go.”

“You’re afraid to go to bed with me.”

“I have an important appointment.”

“Coward.”

I go to my bedroom and start changing clothes, rapidly. Negrinha invades the room. She seems a little drunk. As I quickly dress, she undresses with the same haste. We finish at practically the same time. Negrinha lies down, nude, on the bed, showing me the tip of her moistened tongue.

“I came here to talk with you,” she says.

I run out of the room and descend the stairs. In the street I take the first taxi I see.

Agnes disappears for a couple of days. When we meet again, she seems calm, and different.

“I liked that poem,” Agnes says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s only three lines.”

“And what does the author say in those three lines?”

“Does it matter?” Agnes asks. “Or is what’s important what I felt?”

“Yes, what you felt.”

“The poet says that she doesn’t like poetry, but when she reads it, with total disdain, she discovers after all in poetry a place for the truth. I understood something, but I think she means something different. I was overcome by a feeling that I can’t explain. That’s how it should be, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Who was that woman who came here? She’s very pretty.”

I kiss Agnes, lightly, on the cheek.

“Do you think I could be your girlfriend?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“You have a handsome face, but you’re a hunchback. How can I be your girlfriend?”

“After a time you won’t even notice this physical characteristic of mine.”

“What will other people say?”

“Others won’t know, or suspect, or imagine. We’ll go live somewhere else. We’ll tell the neighbors we’re brother and sister.”

“And who was that woman? I have to admit that she’s beautiful.”

“Must be some crazy.”

“I’m speaking seriously.”

“She’s a woman who has a thing for me.”

“I’m not lazy.”

I kiss her again, this time on the lips.

“This is very good,” she says.

I take her by the arm and lead her gently to the bedroom. We remove our clothes in silence.

After the surrender, she sighs in exhaustion. Lying beside her, I feel in my mouth the delectable taste of her saliva.

“Promise you’ll always talk to me,” says Agnes, embracing me.

I’m going to live with Agnes in a different house, in a different area.