Raduan Nassar: A Cup of Rage

The sun already wanted to do things to the fog, that was easy to see, you only had to look at the cold, porous meat of the mass covering the small farm to realize that a glow as fine as dust was trying to penetrate it, and I remembered that Dona Mariana, her eyes lowered but pleased with her turn of phrase, had said some minutes ago that ‘yesterday’s heat was only a taster’, and sitting there in the conservatory I had a good view of what was happening, and my eyes roved over my land’s trees and shrubs, not forgetting the smaller things in the garden, and abandoned to this calm pursuit I felt my lungs thank my fingers every time the cigarette rose to my mouth, and she where she sat, I could feel it, was watching me and smoking like me, only that with her there was also an edge of anticipation, certainly questioning me with her spiky gestures, but I wasn’t paying that any attention, I wanted silence, since I was enjoying letting my eyes linger on the fresh leaves of the mulberry trees, which stood out in the landscape because of their brazen greenness (beautiful as anything!), but my eyes were suddenly led, and when these things happen you never really know what devil’s at work, and, in spite of the mist, I see this: a gap in my hedge, oh misery, I press my finger into the ashtray, get burnt, uncomprehending she asked me ‘what is it?’, but without replying I half threw myself, half tripped down the stairs (Bingo was already on the patio, waiting for me, electrified) and she followed me, almost screaming ‘but what is it?’, and Dona Mariana had come running from the kitchen with the commotion, her eyes wide behind her thick lenses, dumbstruck at the top of the stairs, a pot and cloth in her hands, but I didn’t see anything, I left the two of them behind and hurtled over, out of my mind, and when I got close I couldn’t bear what I saw ‘fucking leaf-cutter ants’, and then I screamed even more loudly ‘bloody fucking leaf-cutter fucking ants’, as I saw whole handbreadths of hedge had been gnawed away, saw whole handbreadths of earth covered with little leaves, you need to have farming blood in your veins to know what this spells, I was rigid as I surveyed the damage, I was livid about that gap, and could only think the privet shouldn’t be their feast, such hard work just for the leaf-cutters to set their maws to it, and in a flash I rushed, armed, to the neighbouring plot, and straight away found the trail that would lead me to their colony, following the path concealed in the high grass, I who at this hour would surprise them in their hideaway — those who’d been so active all night with the cutting and harvesting, and without delay, trembling and foaming, I find it and already holding the bucket in my hand I pour a double dose of poison into each anthill, with a malice that only I know for what it is because only I know what I feel, livid with these wonderfully orderly ants, livid with their model efficiency, livid with how fucking organized they are that they left the weeds well alone and ate my privet hedge, for that I apportioned them one hell of a binge, flooding their tunnels with a thick broth of insecticide, careful not to leave anything there alive by grinding closed the mouths of the tunnels with my heel, and I was already coming back from that barren plot, sending sparks flying as I went, when I noticed that she and Dona Mariana by this point were having a chat on the patio between the house and the lawn, her little bum leant against the car’s mudguard, the brightness of the day quickly restoring her confidence as an emancipated chit, her dress of a carefully chosen simplicity, her bag hung from one shoulder down to the opposite hip, a cigarette between her fingers, and prattling away ever so democratically with a common person, that being one of her favourite accessories by the way, she, of all people, who never deigned to visit the house’s utility room, having me serve her in bed and the housekeeper serve her in the conservatory, leaving breakfast to me if Dona Mariana wasn’t around, I only know that, with an irritated look on my face, and without a glance at them, I stooped and entered the tool cupboard under the stairs, left the equipment there that I had taken to finish off the leaf-cutters, but thinking ahead I used the supplies on the shelves to stock up with other poisons, as well as swigging away surreptitiously in that rustic chamber, among the brushes, charcoal and left-over paint, at a gallon of acid, concerned as I was to redecorate my guts, knowing in advance that it wouldn’t be in vain, I only know that when I went out to the patio again the two weren’t talking any more, and although side by side, were very wisely standing apart, not only had she made the housekeeper her audience, but she was waiting for me with this look, just unbelievable, that made me want to give her a slap, and as if that weren’t enough she also said, ‘it’s not a big deal, especially for a rational little boy like you’, and I have to admit that ‘little boy’ was a kick in the shins, that was tough, even more so because of how she said it, for it contained that poised casualness she put in everything, which in this case was something like distancing herself, as if this must necessarily establish how sensible her comment was, and this only served to make me even more angry, ‘right’ I said to myself as if I were saying ‘now’s the time’, and I getting hung up on that ‘boy’ could perfectly well have said to her, ‘time has taken more of a toll on me’ (although she wouldn’t have understood what advantage I drew from this), and could also have given her an earful for her essentially boring use of a nasty irony, not that I nurture a boiling hunger for harsh words, a bent towards the tragic, it was neither that nor the opposite, but it would do her good, she who saw in her irony the exercise of high intelligence, if I were to sensibly remind her that irony and a solid character don’t mix, and I could have said many other things in reply to her comment, because it was easy to see, half-revealed, half-hidden, multiple accusations in her words, whether of my extreme dedication to animals and plants, or the perhaps even stronger accusation that I didn’t act at that same temperature in bed (that is, with the same ardour that I had in exterminating the ants), and what’s more she, her eye on the blood of the thermometer, had also made it her job to regulate reasoning’s mercury, not suspecting that my reason was at that moment working at full steam, suspecting even less that reason is never cold and passionless, the contrary only believed by those who don’t in their reflections reach the powering core, to see this you need to be penetratingly sharp, not that she wasn’t intelligent, without a doubt she was, but not enough, just what would do, and I could daringly have given my reasoning free rein, squeezing to a pulp the kernel of her sarcasm, but I didn’t say a thing, not a squeak, I locked my word away, she didn’t have enough, just what would do, I was thinking, that was why she was already oiling her viper’s tongue, which had been numb all night, snuggled up against my feet and etcetera, I only know that I continued to advance with my head down, the things here inside grinding away, and Dona Mariana, this was easy to see, was first in line, but it wasn’t Dona Mariana, nor was it her, it wasn’t anyone in particular to make things perfectly clear, but even so I asked ‘where’s Antônio?’ and I asked the housekeeper this in a more or less calm way and like someone who almost, but only almost, has himself under control, but nor did it matter if it wasn’t like that, my stomach itself was a nest of ants and they were coming up my throat, not to mention that I was already pulling onto the stage whoever was within reach, for it wasn’t going to be to her liking, but,