António Antunes - The Splendor of Portugal

“You haven’t changed you haven’t changed at all come in”

the cuckoo bird looking gaudy in her fripperies and necklaces, her fingernail polish chipped away at the edges, her hair dyed at some beauty school that even a Gypsy would scoff at, a pair of glasses hanging around her neck on a metal chain that made me realize that for them, but not for me, fifteen years had passed, they were like cousins who live in the country or elderly servants who had moved up in the world and no longer address you as young lady they address you by your name even though it sounds unnatural or uncouth when they say it and then they go back to addressing you as young lady, waiting for you to sit before they sit, getting out the fine china, shooing the cat off of the nicest armchair

“Sit here sit here”

hurriedly hiding a broom behind a window curtain, I realized that fifteen years had passed for them, they’d suffered illnesses, gained weight, had liver spots on their hands, I realized that even worn-out furniture can become more worn-out, that damp spots on the ceiling can get even darker, that dust can accumulate on top of dust until the first layer of dust disappears entirely, I realized that there can be old age on top of old age, wrinkles on top of wrinkles, webs of cracked plaster on top of other webs of cracked plaster, like on the frescoes you see in churches, Lena happy to see me, putting on her glasses

“You haven’t changed young lady you haven’t changed at all come in”

me uncomfortable on the uneven springs of the couch, its velvet fabric once blue now purple, spotted with tallow and grease stains, one of my butt cheeks higher than the other, something that felt like a metal thorn digging into my leg bone, a wooden crossbar bruising my back, Carlos bringing me a glass of water on a tray with fingerprint smudges on it and decorated with an embroidered cloth

(a chapel, peasants dancing, a stork perched on a chimney)

pushing aside a miniature lighthouse figurine on the end table, setting the tray down next to me

“Are you thirsty young lady?”

solicitous, anxious, emotional, grateful that I came, that I deigned to converse with them, as I left they’d dry their eyes on their sleeves, write to their children to tell them all about it, explain who I was to the neighbors, rifle through drawers to find a picture of me when I was little, one of its corners bent, and putting it up in place of the miniature lighthouse, still emotional as I drink the water, they’d bring out a package of cookies on a second tray with a second embroidered cloth, blowing some tiny crumbs off of it

“Would you like another glass of water young lady some cookies?”

Lena’s ankles swollen, breathing heavily like a fat person, pausing for a moment to catch her breath when speaking, her hand on her chest, fingers splayed and touching her necklaces, just like Maria da Boa Morte or Damião, just like Luís Filipe on the afternoons he was able to get the job done

“Sweetie”

the afternoons when he didn’t apologize to me afterward, it’s all the work at the office sweetie, all the pressure in this business, it was such a hassle trying to persuade those Frenchmen, if a few things come together we’ll spend a weekend in Madrid or the Canary Islands, lying out under the sun at a nice hotel with no cell phone, no worries, no problems, spending the whole time together just the two of us, spending the whole time snuggling and kissing, I’m a much better lover than I seem right now, you’ll see, I’ll be like a twenty-year-old kid, twenty, forget that, fifteen or even twelve years old so I can be your little baby, your little son, who knows maybe this will be the last Christmas we have to spend apart, the last one where I leave you all alone, without me, turn off the cartoons, grab the dress and bracelet I gave you, put the bouquet in a vase, put the check in your purse before you lose it, sit on my lap and don’t cry, most importantly don’t cry, it’s not worth crying because I’m all yours for two hours every Tuesday and Saturday, I’m here to take care of you, to talk to you, to keep you company, what more could a woman, frankly, dry those tears for me, what more could a woman want out of life.

And so I decided that we’d celebrate Christmas at home this year. I told the servants to use whatever was left of the generator to light up whatever was left of the garden, there’s got to be a gas can somewhere around there, forgotten in some corner of the storehouse or underneath a pile of ashes in the basement and maybe if a couple of the generator parts were fixed it would start up again, I want everyone to be able to see the big azalea blossoms and the golden rain tree properly, the neat flower beds, the cut grass, the metal bars on the front gate without a spot of rust, the patio covered with big blue canopies, and me making my grand entrance the way I did on my father’s arm as we walked around the churchyard, my father and I in front, smiling, and my husband behind us fidgeting with the wedding ring on his finger, fidgeting in his rented, misbuttoned double-breasted suit coat, which you could immediately tell was used because the elbows and knees were shiny from overuse and the stitches on the breast pocket were coming undone, even the carnation in his lapel, which he certainly rented along with the suit itself, looked withered to me, a carnation that wasn’t quite red, faded, with petals that had wilted over the years, worn-out after dozens of weddings, weddings of foremen and managers, poor things, weddings of poor people

my dear lady, Mr. Eduardo, Dona Isilda, bowing solemnly and repeatedly, guests looking out the window of the car as they drove off and there they were, still waving good-bye

dozens of weddings and probably a number of baptisms at least, the wives of my father’s friends pointing at Amadeu whispering into their gloves their fans the veils of their hats

pregnant pregnant I’d bet my niece’s dowry that she’s pregnant and me glaring at them furiously without ever ceasing to smile which they clearly took note of

“I’m a virgin”

the bishop with his secretary, the governor with his aide-de-camp, the police chief, not that one, the one that they’d sent to Baixa de Cassanje before we complained in Luanda, the one who never arrested anyone, not even a measly adolescent, the Jingas just did whatever they wanted without regard for anyone else, buying their dried fish and tobacco at the general stores in the villages and giving the excuse that it was cheaper than our company store, and we were either obligated to let them go at the end of the harvest because they didn’t owe us anything or pay them a salary that was almost as much as a white person would get, tables covered with gladiolas and roses, Dutch porcelain and silver-plated utensils that we used for the first time after we bought them at the estate auction of a Belgian man who’d passed away, and which had come all the way from Bié in straw-filled crates, my mother to Josélia as she held up the plates, blowing the dust off them one by one

“Be careful”

my father running his thumb along the edges looking for cracks, flaws, silverware, porcelain, crystal glasses that didn’t match, you’d tap one with a knife and it would make this interminable sound, as if it contained all the sadness of an ailing dog, the simple fact of their existence seemed to make them suffer, perhaps, or else it was the sound of the Belgian man bemoaning the loss of some of his cattle via the crystal that once belonged to him

pregnant pregnant I’d bet my niece’s dowry that she’s pregnant

the Belgian man who instead of getting on a ship bound for Europe hanged himself from a roof beam in his barn with his ticket in the pocket of his vest, he piled up all his suitcases balanced on top of them took a step forward and good-bye