We have a long wait until they call out our number. My mother plops me down and goes off towards the other wards, trying to find the nurses she knows who are aware of my problem. Nurses she trusts because they agree with her on the subject of tuberculosis. Some of them might even give me a BCG in secret, or maybe some other lung remedy that even the doctors have never heard of. It’s the same routine every time, ending with interminable arguments between my mother and the doctors. Finally we go home without my BCG, but weighed down with advice about plenty of rest, good, fresh food, sunshine and vitamins. She sulks while I hide my sense of relief behind the downcast face of a sickly child to help her save face. I keep my voice down, too, so no one’11 notice, since she still thinks I’ll end up infecting everybody.
All that matters to me is getting back on the trolley and heading in the opposite direction. The cars are big and green and filled to overflowing. Knots of human beings hang on wherever they can find a fingerhold. The steps are steep and hard to climb, and you’ve got to be fast on your feet because the conductor doesn’t wait long at the stops. Strange hands pull me up on board. I wiggle through the crowd to find a spot between the seats where I can look out. Streetcars are fun, like big fat insects rolling along the rails, hanging from a wire. At night they shoot out blue and green sparks at the crossings, and white smoke like from cigarettes. Cool breezes blow in from every direction. The streets and storefronts parade by slowly enough for me to see everything, and taste everything. Here’s the Mango Canal again, with its stink of sulfur and iodine, its algae and slimy water dotted with brownish refuse and oil slicks. All along the main street are fabric stores with their wares displayed on the sidewalk like the decorations at a fair. There are kitchenware shops with their shiny new aluminum and copper pots. Factories, warehouses, garages, strong-smelling breweries. Along the narrow sidestreets I catch a glimpse of the customers waiting outside the brothels of the district they also call the Mango. You mustn’t say the word “Mango” at home because it’s not a nice one. It makes my aunts titter and glance at each other, whisper and even want to pee. They don’t like to think that they live so close to the Mango. If any of their girlfriends live there, they say they come from the Zone. That sounds better. Lili is crazy to see what it’s like. From a distance. I want to see it up close because everyone looks like they’re out strolling, like at some kind of fair, but nobody can tell me what they’re doing there. My mother’s always saying that such-and-such woman will end up in the Mango. In the trolley, the passengers’ interest picks up, and sometimes they joke and whistle as we trundle by. Then we reach Praça Republica, full of people and not a ghost in sight. Next is Praça Tiradentes, crammed with small shops and so different when the dancehall lights are off. By now, we’re almost home. I’m happy to have escaped tuberculosis for another few months.
Our Sundays are a lot better, as if the sun shone on them. The weather’s always nice on Sunday. You can tell from the moment you open your eyes. My brothers and I go out with our father, just the men of the family. He fixes us breakfast his own way, perfectly organized, methodically laying out the triangular slices of toast spread with jam. He smiles as he watches us eat, as if he were seeing us for the first time, and he tells us to help ourselves to more. The women are careful, they keep their distance. We put on our Sunday best. Father brings along his camera, and he has a cigar in his mouth. The streets are empty and cool; a few Portuguese are washing down their bars. We walk along slowly, in no hurry, just looking around. Papa examines everything: the macumba bundles, the sleeping beggars, the dead bodies along the way. The shop windows, the passing automobiles, the posters on the walls, the overflowing garbage cans, the pigeons and the sugarcane press at the juice stand — everything is a subject for the minutest observation. If he buys a newspaper, we take a seat in the shade at the Avenida bar, near the trolley stop. He orders a gin and tonic for himself and lemon soda for us, with well-salted potato chips. His movements are slow and studied, there’s an absent-minded look on his face, his glance hardly ruffles the surface of things. He likes to watch life, he says, and see time go by. Well ensconced in my seat, I learn how to look at things. I watch him carefully as he leafs through his newspaper, but I have no way of telling what he’s thinking. He’s not thinking about anything, he tells me when I ask.
Our walk leads us towards Praça Quinze and the Niteroi docks. The fish warehouse gives off a powerful scent, and the surface of the water is littered with flotsam rising and falling with the swell. Overlooking the square is the public market, with its blinding colours, sugary smells and squadrons of flies. It’s a noisy, busy place, with awnings under which the vendors hawk their wares in shrill voices. The fish stalls attract me the most, and I can spend all the time I want watching the fishmongers hacking up flesh and weighing out slimy octopuses, the heaps of sardines and the baskets full of crabs with their vicious mauve and blue claws crawling among the seaweed. Then come the mountains of coconuts with their fuzzy brown hair, whole troops of soft bananas alongside piles of pineapple. The women bustle through the stalls, prodding and squeezing the merchandise and bargaining with the Portuguese, while letting themselves be prodded and squeezed in turn by wandering hands. Like flies, a legion of poverty-stricken children hovers nearby, volunteering to carry bags for the ladies. Some of the smaller ones scoot about in improvised wagons pushed by older children, making no attempt to hide their infirmities or their deformed limbs, their harelip mouths grinning broadly, their raggedy clothes barely covering their bodies. Others dash past, teasing the mulatto women, pilfering as they go. Astonished, I watch these vagabond children and silently compare myself to them, my mind filled with conflicting feelings.
Father has nothing to buy. He has come to watch the show, to mingle with the crowd and dive into this festival of the senses. Then he turns off towards the seafront where the fishermen’s boats are tied up. The boiled crab and grilled sardine vendors are cooking their wares in fat kettles full of seawater or on makeshift barbecues. My father loves crabs. He always stops here and takes a seat on a wooden crate to make small talk and eat a few, teaching us to like them, too. We never eat them at home; my mother says crabs eat the bodies of dead people. This is our secret. Later, if Mother throws a tantrum because she came across an old crab claw in my collection, he smiles at me and winks.
On the way back, he always stops to buy us candies. I like candy, but with Father it’s a real passion. He loves sugary things of all kinds. Even when we have fruit salad, he always sprinkles it with plenty of sugar. As he reads his newspaper after dinner, he devours all the candies, and homemade cakes with their molasses coating. That’s when his smile is at its craftiest.
Some Sundays he takes us to the Botanical Gardens. It’s his favourite outing, and mine, too. You can lose yourself in the woods and the endless trails. Here, no running or getting too excited. Father insists we pay close attention to everything. He loves showing us all the exotic stuff, from the plants, flowers and insects to the strange fruits he lets us taste. He notices the smallest details, as if this were his garden. Before taking a picture, he’ll seek out the perfect spot, studying the composition of his photograph carefully while we stand motionless. This is the high point of the outing for him. I like the cactus and the carnivorous plants best. We can stay as long as it takes to observe them. He’s never in a hurry, and he studies them, too. Sometimes we discover strange insects, or seeds for my collection, or ants’ nests. He likes feeding the fish in the pond with dry bread he brings along.
The Sunday meal is the only one that brings the whole family together: roast chicken in a greasy sauce. Papa makes himself a drink with cachaça and fruit, then sips it slowly as he listens to opera. The sound isn’t very good. He has to put his ear up to the radio to hear, particularly if his favourites, Gigli and Chaliapin, are singing. It’s complete silence at the table until desert. At the house, he seems to lose his voice, and he doesn’t like it if anyone else talks. Talk spoils your digestion, he says.
Then comes the long, humdrum, silent evening. My father reads his newspaper. My mother painstakingly deciphers the recipe pages, the dress patterns, the horoscope and other items for women. I lie on the floor, or nestle in the cave of the big bed, looking at the illustrations in the paper. The evenings are grey and interminable, the silence so thick I can see it, even hear it as I watch them read. Sometimes I’m sure they’re going to scream — but they only yawn. I shut my eyes and picture the city again, the riot of colours, the trees and insects that must be sleeping now. I try