FUN HOUSE
FUN HOUSE
TRANSLATED BY
DAVID HOMEL
AND FRED REED
FUN HOUSE
a novel
SERGIO KOKIS
English Translation Copyright © Dundurn Press and David Homel and Fred Reed 1999
This work was first published in French by XYZ éditeur, Montréal, in 1994, under the title Le pavillon des miroirs. Copyright © XYZ éditeur and Sergio Kokis
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.
Editor: Marc Côté
Copyeditor: Barry Jowett
Printer: Transcontinental Printing Inc.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Kokis, Sergio, 1944-
[Pavillon des miroirs. English]
Funhouse
Translation of: Le pavillon des miroirs.
ISBN 0-88924-286-0
I. Homel, David. II. Reed, Fred ?., 1939- . III. Title: Pavillon des miroirs. English.
PS8571.0683P3913 1999 C843’.54 C99-930508-5
PQ3919.2.K64P3813 1999
1 2 3 4 5 03 02 01 00 99
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council and the Book Publishing Industry Development Program of the Department of Canadian Heritage.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.
Set in Perpetua Designed by Scott Reid
| Simon & Pierre8 Market StreetSuite 200Toronto, CanadaM5E 1M6 | Simon & Pierre73 Lime WalkHeadington, Oxford,EnglandOX3 7AD | Simon & Pierre2250 Military RoadTonawanda, NYU.S.A. 14150 |
For André, Nicolas and Ilse,
my companions
They’re sleeping They’re all asleep They’re sleeping And their sleep is deep
Manuel Bandeira
1
I’M STILL A LITTLE KID. Lili likes to rub against me when we take our afternoon nap. She pulls down her panties. They smell strong. It’s because the baby pissed on them, she says. It feels good and scratchy at the same time. I go along with it and say nothing. My aunt’s kind of cute, especially when she’s not angry, when she sighs and curls her damp legs around me. The room is warm and stuffy, and a strange feeling comes over me that makes me drowsy. The room smells of sleeping baby, sweat and Lili’s panties. When I wake up she’s gone, and I can’t remember a thing. Only the smells linger, mingled with the odour of mould that creeps across the walls. Slanting through the closed shutters, the sunlight carves bright columns of dust in the sultry half-darkness. I’ve got to piss, I can’t wait. Almost every day we play this game, then I get up, weary and lazy.
There’s nothing to do in the house, there are no toys. I crawl under the beds or look out the window, that’s about it. The baby is too young to play with and my older brother doesn’t like my games. It’s always been that way, we’re the kind of family where everyone goes his own way. Later on, the baby will be my friend, especially when my big brother picks on him. We all live crammed into this apartment, and we all sleep in the same room. Only Lili sleeps on the floor in the living room. Something is missing, something that would make us a family. Everyone seems to be busy with his own troubles.
Lili still lives with us, but at fifteen, she’s turning towards the street. As soon as she finishes helping my mother, she steps out for a breath of fresh air. Sometimes she goes out at night, too, when there are no cars on the avenue, but before the bars close. She lives in a state of constant irritation, something physical that drives her to anger the moment she puts the baby down. She’s the godmother. St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost causes, is the godfather, so that Lili will find herself a husband as quickly as possible. It’s strange how she can be so sweet when she’s not prey to temptation. But those occasions are rare. Since it’s better for her not to go out alone, and since the baby would get in the way, she takes me along when she goes out at night. I like that a lot, even if I have to be on my best behaviour and act like I’m not there. I do what I’m told because I know the cigarette-vendor will give me empty cigar boxes to play with behind the counter while he sits with Lili. Pretty, sweet-smelling boxes made of dark wood wrapped in colourful labels. I always bring home a few of them for me and my big brother. We turn them into ships, buses, houses or even monsters.
The shop reeks of tobacco and the sawdust that covers the floor, and the stale beer that drips from the stacked-up barrels. I’m not supposed to get dirty or talk too much. But the more they laugh and tickle each other, the faster they forget I’m there. The customers who are drinking make a lot of noise, and some of them even fight. Others know Lili and give her lemon soda. Meanwhile, I pick up beer-bottle caps for my collection, edging away without her noticing. I go and chat with the drunks at their tables, the ones who are nice and who know I’m with Lili. Once I’ve got my cigar boxes, filled my pockets with beer-bottle caps and drunk my pop, time seems to slow down. It moves so slowly that sometimes I fall asleep in a corner waiting for her to stop chattering. Poor Lili, these outings wear her out. We make our way back home through the empty streets, the two of us, walking fast because it’s late, because I’m sleepy and she’s nervous. But I’m bringing back my booty; it’s been a good night for me. All Lili gets are packs of cigarettes. They’re small and easy for the guys to stuff them into the pockets of her skirt, all the way down, tickling her as they go. Everybody has their own games.
I can’t figure out Lili. I don’t know how to stop her from getting mad. I don’t know what sets off her tantrums, so my best bet is to keep my distance. Then there are times, just as I’m expecting a smack in the face, when she’s as nice as can be. Take St. Anthony’s Day. We go every year. The place is scary. The convent of Largo da Carioca towers over the plaza on its rock spire. It’s a windowless fortress made of yellowish clay like a prison. On the feast day, early in the morning, crowds of moaning women fill the plaza. They come to pray and touch the hem of the saint’s cloak, and caress the statue’s plaster thighs. The monks pretend not to see, because they feel sorry for the desperate women, and also because the women stuff the collection plate with sweat-soaked, crumpled bills they pull out from deep in their undergarments. Everybody knows that when you need a man, you must pray to St. Anthony because he works wonders. Nobody venerates him quite like my mother’s sisters and their friends. He’s the baby’s godfather, after all. Maybe that’s why Lili won’t give him up. The sisters are a little embarrassed about attending this feast of spinsters, so they always find a pretext to drag me along. It’s a dangerous adventure with