Funhouse. Sergio Kokis

with the odour of sulfur and phosphorus. They are the fireworks displays of my childhood, so poor, yet awaited with such anticipation by my eyes thirsting for colour. Father loved the fireworks we would buy on St. John’s day in the little shacks that sprang up all over the city. The shacks themselves were painted in bright colours to tempt the eye and sharpen desire. He would always buy the least expensive, but with a concern for variety. He would light them, teaching me how to set off a multitude of scintillating explosions: sulfur and coppery greens, near-white magnesium yellows, cadmium pinks and purples as pale as the wrappers of expensive candies. I was so fascinated by the flames reflected in the eyes of people watching me that I risked getting burned. The white smoke of these magic matches acted as a soothing balm for my cough, as did tobacco, the moment I left the house. Exploding firecrackers added to the charm, along with the whining of skyrockets, the flowering of Roman candles and the vortex of sparking pinwheels. Then Papa would take us to see other fireworks displays, or watch people releasing rice-paper balloons that swayed to and fro as they climbed upward against the night sky. We were in no hurry. We weren’t supposed to go to sleep early. The winter solstice brought ceremonies that celebrated the moon, and that celebrated other, more secret things, that took place behind closed doors, which children were not to disturb. We sailed through the night in search of coloured lights. The same colours that still gleam in my studio. Suddenly my pipe seems to produce sulfur, and the painting on the easel turns into a sparkler. That fire was my first object of desire, one so intense it’s a wonder I didn’t turn into a pyromaniac.

      9

      NOW THATI KNOW HOW TO READ, we’re being transferred to another school to prepare our First Communion. Idon’t understand why, but that’s the way it is. Maybe we’ll learn something new. English is important, it’s the language of success, my father says. All the products he buys for his job have English names: Sylvania, General Electric, Westinghouse and others Ican’t pronounce. People who speak several languages are sure to succeed. Even if they’re shoeshine boys, they’ll end up rich. My father knows a lot of stories like that, from America, about poor but brave workers who invent modern things and become bosses on account of they know English.

      Papa believes in inventions; he thinks one day he’ll be as rich as the Americans. That’s why he’s sending us to learn English at the Colegio Anglo-Americano, a big building on the seafront with a swimming pool, a gymnasium full of athletic equipment and buses to carry the pupils to and from school. My brother and I know he’s wrong. Nobody at the Colegio speaks a word of English, and the teachers are just like at our old school: they’re always losing their temper. I don’t think it’s a change for the better.

      The place is a fraud, and it starts in the schoolbus. The monitor is so strict she won’t even let us talk. The trip to school is no fun, and it only lasts a few minutes. The gym is like the playground at our old school: we’re not allowed to dirty it. Only children whose parents pay an extra fee can use the equipment. The rest of us watch from a distance. I wish my mother would pay for boxing or fencing lessons for me, but paying for the new college is sacrifice enough, she says, plus I’m an ingrate and I’ll end up a salesman’s apprentice with the Portuguese. No swimming in the pool either. The schoolyard is as grey as the uniforms they make us wear. Running and heading for the edges of the playground is forbidden, too, because the monitors won’t tolerate commotion. The girls don’t even dance. They just stroll around in circles, looking down their noses at us. The other boys think that’s normal, and no one goes outside to piss. Among all the rich kids, the teacher has already singled me out. My problem is that I don’t have the right school supplies. My mother won’t buy them. They don’t serve tea because they’re too busy selling Coca-Cola, and if you can’t afford it, you can drink water. It’s hard to get to know my classmates. But the girls are prettier, dreamier, sweeter-smelling. They soften me, sadden me, enrage me — all at the same time.

      In class, I’m always getting caught staring out the window instead of paying attention. If the teacher moves me away from the window, I can always find another pastime that’s just as interesting: examining the cracks in the paint on the walls, my classmates’ faces, the girls’ hair and the few marks there are on the desktops. The teacher finally got used to me. Especially since my grades are good. Since I never think about anything, everything the teacher says fastens itself automatically in my memory, and when she asks me a question I play everything back. I don’t have the slightest idea what she’s talking about, but my answers seem to satisfy her. My written work is another story, due to the ink blot problem. The other pupils use ballpoint pens that don’t leak. Our work has to be well presented, and we’re supposed to find all the illustrations we need at home. I try not to think about that part, since my grades are good enough. Besides, she can’t blame me for not pasting cutout illustrations on my homework after she told me I couldn’t use romance pictures.

      At school, my many loves are secret. In my class alone, I’m in love with at least three girls. I can stare at their pretty faces all day long without ever unraveling the mystery. At every turn, they reveal new expressions, smiles or pouts that weren’t there the minute before. The girls realize how curious I am, even though I try to hide it by looking absent-minded. They know I’m watching them without even turning their heads; they can even make me look at them in spite of myself. I tried the same thing with boys: they didn’t even know I was looking. But the girls catch me every time, even the ones I’m not in love with. They turn around immediately, or fidget and wiggle, as if irritated by a hovering insect. Then they smile and flutter their eyelashes, and I catch a special gleam in their eyes. Watching girls is my principle occupation at the new school. I don’t know why, but it makes me sad.

      Making ink splotches on blotting paper is another of my favourite things. My deskmate has a splendid wooden blotter with several thicknesses of paper and a metal handle to hold them in place. Since he’s always in a hurry, he spreads the ink even more, and increases the size of the spot he wanted to soak up. His exercises are full of smudges, and so is his blotter. But he can’t stand ink stains on his blotter paper, so he replaces it frequently and passes the used sheets on to me. Sometimes he gives me sheets that are almost clean so he can see what I can do with pen and ink.

      The result is spectacular: by moving the pen slowly I can create all kinds of spirals, round spots and drips. Then I transform them into sinister forms, ghosts, trees or insects. The teacher thinks I’m doing the assignment. Besides, she’d rather I have blotting paper to keep the damage from my pen to a minimum. As soon as I finish my exercises, which I do as fast as I can, I get to work. My deskmate also has a selection of pens with different coloured inks. He can’t use them in class because only the teacher can write in red, green or purple. But he lets me use them to colour in my ink spots, then he dries them with his blotter to make a reverse print. Sometimes he lets me draw directly onto the sheets of absorbent paper attached to his blotter, either pouring ink right on them or spattering them with his pen. It’s a messy business, but when we pull back the sheets, the gradations of ink stains growing fainter with each layer produce remarkable effects. Besides, he gives me all the used sheets, so I can rework them any way I want to, adding more ink or moistening them with saliva to enlarge the spots. I’ve got a big collection of sheets of blotting paper, all of them very beautiful.

      First Communion was as disappointing as changing schools. Religion for my mother is what English is for my father: the key to success. She doesn’t try to hide her ambition: she wants one of her sons to be a priest. Fortunately, Father doesn’t like priests. He’s a Protestant, but he doesn’t like pastors any better, or anything having to do with religion. Religion is like macumba, he says. It’s for women and ignorant people. My mother doesn’t like the way my father talks about sacred things. She finally convinced him we should start going to church. But he knew very well that in the end we’d see he was right.

      Mother goes to church at St. Rita de Cassia, just around the corner from our house. She attends mass every Sunday and sometimes during the week, when she orders a memorial mass for her brothers. The priest told her about catechism classes, and she quickly decided it was the solution for me. The Host is to sick kids what baptism is for babies: it keeps you out of hell. My brother isn’t sick but he’s old enough for his First Communion.

      Every Saturday afternoon we go to church to pray, then to catechism