http://tragedia.fernandop.info

Espero que tudo dê certo.
Rezem.

LISA

A pensão na cidade grande era miserável. O nome pomposo: Pensão Palácio. Eu cursava o segundo ano da faculdade de Direito. Meu pai era capataz numa fazendo e suas economias me foram entregues para que eu pudesse completar os estudos. Desde criança eu o ouvia dizer: quero que o menino olhe o mundo por um buraco diferente daquele que eu olhei. Eu nunca entendia se o mundo é que seria diferente ou se o buraco seria outro ou se o mundo seria novo olhado por um diferente buraco. A frase era complexa e ambígua demais para mim, tão criancinha. Bem. A pensão tinha poucos hóspedes e todos me pareciam tristes. Ou era só impressão? Um deles me fascinava. Baixo, magro, os olhos claros sob os óculos fininhos, o cabelo carapinhado e loiro. Fascinava por quê? Alguma coisa infantil desesperada imanava do homem. Ele era dono de uma pequena e dócil macaca: Lisa. Parecia gostar muito do animalzinho. Uma vez ouvi-o contar à dona da pensão que um bando de moleques capturou a macaca e queria matá-la para comer. Ele deu um bom dinheiro para os meninos e salvou a bichinha. Durante o dia Lisa ficava no modesto quintal atrás da casa, na goiabeira. À tarde ficava inquieta e lá pelas cinco hras ia postar-se junto à porta do quarto de seu dono. Todo mundo sabia que eram cinco horas e que o homem não deveria tardar. Ele chegava, ela subia-lhe pelas pernas, alcançava os ombros, dava gritinhos, coçava-lhe a carapinha loira. Uma noite ouvi gemidos no corredor dos quartos e fiquei curioso. Entre o meu quarto e o do homem havia um cômodo vazio onde a dona da pensão guardava cadeiras velhas, tampos de mármore rachados, um grande relógio muito estreito e alto, geringonças. A mulher abriu o quarto uma única vez à minha chegada “para que você não pense que há algum namorado meu escondido aí”, ela dizia às gargalhadas. A porta do quarto vivia trancada, ninguém se interessava pelos badulaques empilhados ali. No dia seguinte aos estranhos gemidos, comprei uma chave de fenda e alguns dias mais tarde, ouvindo-os novamente, concluí que vinham do quarto do homem e com muita cautela abri a porta do quarto de guardados, excitado na bestagem dos meus 19 anos. Uma luz azulada entrava pelas frestas da outra porta contígua ao quarto do homem. Então vi: o homem nu, deitado, e Lisa acaraciando-lhe o sexo com as mãozinhas escuras, delicadas. Entre pequenos gemidos e fracos soluços o homem dizia: “minha amada, minha adorada Lisa, temos apenas um ao outro, somos apenas nós dois neste sórdido mundo de agonia e de treva”. Lisa olhava alternadamente para o rosto e para o sexo do homem. Quando ele enfim ejaculou, ela enrodilhou-se lenta aos pés da cama. Ele apagou a luz. Ouvi-o dizer ainda: “obrigado, amiga”. Fiquei muito tempo encostado atrás daquela porta. Nunca o mundo me pareceu tão triste, tão aterrador, tão sem Deus. No dia seguinte escrevi ao meu pai dizendo-lhe que não tinha mais paciência para os estudos, queria voltar para a roça. Estranhou muito. Nunca me perguntou coisa alguma, nem eu saberia explicar-lhe o patético, o dilacerado de tudo aquilo que eu havia visto, nem eu saberia dizer para mim mesmo o porquê de abandonar os estudos. O pai morreu muitos meses depois. Ouvi-o dizer à mãe antes do para sempre morto: “Presta atenção no rapaz, não é mais o mesmo”. Ele estava certo. Nunca mais fui o mesmo.

[ . . . ]

HILST, Hilda. Contos d’escárnio: textos grotescos. São Paulo: Globo, 2002. p. 43-45

the night I want.
(Anne Sexton)

Sempre achei que morrer fosse como passar frio. As coisas vão ficando difíceis, desagradáveis, as juntas se solidificam, os joelhos dóem. No final, tudo incomoda e só se pensa em ficar quieto, dormindo, esperando o corpo fazer calor suficiente para tudo ficar bem. E não fica. E tudo acaba.

Meu pai morreu já faz tempo — pela quarta, décima, centésima vez, não sei. Foi morrendo aos poucos, sem dúvidas. A vez em que ele morreu de fato foi causada por algum distúrbio do coração, uma imagem poética (algum distúrbio do coração) mas ao mesmo tempo terrivelmente real e fisiológica.

O coração parou de bater, enfim.

Não lhe dei nenhum neto, nem nunca o agradei — talvez quando era pequeno e ainda nos dávamos bem. Morreu e eu não pude fazer nada, porque nunca se pode fazer nada. Além dos laços de sangue, provavelmente compartilhamos o laço de insatisfação com nossas vidas (como quando se sente traído mas não se encontram provas).

8 8 8

Como não vou deixar filhos no mundo, nunca poderá ser comentado sobre as coisas dele.

Estou escutando pombos na minha janela. Eles nunca haviam vindo aqui antes.

Sinto frio e o chá acabou.

Nunca vou saber o que meu avô conversou com o Diabo.

Je mourrai d’un cancer de la colonne vertébrale
Ça sera par un soir horrible
Clair, chaud, parfumé, sensuel
Je mourrai d’un pourrissement
De certaines cellules peu connues
Je mourrai d’une jambe arrachée
Par un rat géant jailli d’un trou géant
Je mourrai de cent coupures
Le ciel sera tombé sur moi
Ça se brise comme une vitre lourde
Je mourrai d’un éclat de voix
Crevant mes oreilles
Je mourrai de blessures sourdes
Infligées à deux heures du matin
Par des tueurs indécis et chauves
Je mourrai sans m’apercevoir
Que je meurs, je mourrai
Enseveli sous les ruines sèches
De mille mètres de coton écroulé
Je mourrai noyé dans l’huile de vidange
Foulé aux pieds par des bêtes indifférentes
Et, juste après, par des bêtes différentes
Je mourrai nu, ou vêtu de toile rouge
Ou cousu dans un sac avec des lames de rasoir
Je mourrai peut-être sans m’en faire
Du vernis à ongles aux doigts de pied
Et des larmes plein les mains
Et des larmes plein les mains
Je mourrai quand on décollera
Mes paupières sous un soleil enragé
Quand on me dira lentement
Des méchancetés à l’oreille
Je mourrai de voir torturer des enfants
Et des hommes étonnés et blêmes
Je mourrai rongé vivant
Par des vers, je mourrai les
Mains attachées sous une cascade
Je mourrai brûlé dans un incendie triste
Je mourrai un peu, beaucoup,
Sans passion, mais avec intérêt
Et puis quand tout sera fini
Je mourrai.

the night I lean toward,
(Anne Sexton)

Meu avô conversou com o Diabo. Essa é mais uma das histórias que meu pai conta — e são várias. Todas facilmente cheiram a perda, a saudade, como se hoje não fosse nunca mais o que poderia ter sido um dia, como se antes as coisas prometiam ofertas melhores e mais gordas (traição!). Sempre conta as mesmas histórias, e conforme o tempo passa, elas se tornam mais e mais sortunas.

Digo. Não explicitamente soturnas, mas sim que o aroma de velhice aumenta e o desgosto, inimaginável quando jovem, impossível, se tornou a motivação do contar histórias — ou estórias, como ele prefere. Percebe-se facilmente que não é mais ele falando do seu pai, o meu avô, e sim é outra pessoa, alguém magoado que a vida não foi como prometera ser. Percebe-se sem fazer esforço. Eu, ao menos, percebo. E me pego contando histórias sobre ele da mesma forma que ele conta histórias sobre seu pai, meu avô, aquele que conversou uma vez com o Diabo — “coisa de cinema”.

* * *

Ele morreu e o próximo sou eu.

Jóias da família.

-

Editado pela última vez em 23 de agosto de 2011.

I am in a crate,
the crate that was ours,
full of white shirts and salad greens
the icebox knocking at our delectable knocks,
and I wore movies in my eyes,
and you wore eggs in your tunnel,
and we played sheets, sheets, sheets
all day, even in the bathtub like lunatics.
But today I set the bed afire
and smoke is filling the room,
it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt,
and the icebox, a gluey white tooth.

I have on a mask in order to write my last words,
and they are just for you, and I will place them
in the icebox saved for vodka and tomatoes,
and perhaps they will last.
The dog will not. Her spots will fall off.
The old letters will melt into a black bee.
The nightgowns are already shredding
into paper, the yellow, the red, the purple.
The bed — well, the sheets have turned to gold —
hard, hard gold, and the mattress
is being kissed into a stone.

As for me, my dearest Foxxy,
my poems to you may or may not reach the icebox
and its hopeful eternity,
for isn’t yours enough?
The one where you name
my name right out in P.R.?
If my toes weren’t yielding to pitch
I’d tell the whole story —
not just the sheet story
but the belly-button story,
the pried-eyelid story,
the whiskey-sour-of-the-nipple story —
and shovel back our love where it belonged.

Despite my asbestos gloves,
the cough is filling me with black,
and a red powder seeps through my veins,
our little crate goes down so publicly
and without meaning it, you see,
meaning a solo act,
a cremation of the love,
but instead we seem to be going down
right in the middle of a Russian street,
the flames making the sound of
the horse being beaten and beaten,
the whip is adoring its human triumph
while the flies wait, blow by blow,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.

September 27, 1974

There were ninety-seven New York advertising men in the hotel, and, the way they were monopolizing the long-distance lines, the girl in 507 had to wait from noon till almost two-thirty to get her call through. She used the time, though. She read an article in a women’s pocket-size magazine, called “Sex Is Fun-or Hell.” She washed her comb and brush. She took the spot out of the skirt of her beige suit. She moved the button on her Saks blouse. She tweezed out two freshly surfaced hairs in her mole. When the operator finally rang her room, she was sitting on the window seat and had almost finished putting lacquer on the nails of her left hand.

She was a girl who for a ringing phone dropped exactly nothing. She looked as if her phone had been ringing continually ever since she had reached puberty.

With her little lacquer brush, while the phone was ringing, she went over the nail of her little finger, accentuating the line of the moon. She then replaced the cap on the bottle of lacquer and, standing up, passed her left–the wet–hand back and forth through the air. With her dry hand, she picked up a congested ashtray from the window seat and carried it with her over to the night table, on which the phone stood. She sat down on one of the made-up twin beds and–it was the fifth or sixth ring–picked up the phone.

“Hello,” she said, keeping the fingers of her left hand outstretched and away from her white silk dressing gown, which was all that she was wearing, except mules–her rings were in the bathroom.

“I have your call to New York now, Mrs. Glass,” the operator said.

“Thank you,” said the girl, and made room on the night table for the ashtray.

A woman’s voice came through. “Muriel? Is that you?”

The girl turned the receiver slightly away from her ear. “Yes, Mother. How are you?” she said.

“I’ve been worried to death about you. Why haven’t you phoned? Are you all right?”

“I tried to get you last night and the night before. The phone here’s been–”

“Are you all right, Muriel?”

The girl increased the angle between the receiver and her ear. “I’m fine. I’m hot. This is the hottest day they’ve had in Florida in–”

“Why haven’t you called me? I’ve been worried to–”

“Mother, darling, don’t yell at me. I can hear you beautifully,” said the girl. “I called you twice last night. Once just after–”

“I told your father you’d probably call last night. But, no, he had to-Are you all right, Muriel? Tell me the truth.”

“I’m fine. Stop asking me that, please.”

“When did you get there?”

“I don’t know. Wednesday morning, early.”

“Who drove?”

“He did,” said the girl. “And don’t get excited. He drove very nicely. I was amazed.”

“He drove? Muriel, you gave me your word of–”

“Mother,” the girl interrupted, “I just told you. He drove very nicely. Under fifty the whole way, as a matter of fact.”

“Did he try any of that funny business with the trees?”

“I said he drove very nicely, Mother. Now, please. I asked him to stay close to the white line, and all, and he knew what I meant, and he did. He was even trying not to look at the trees-you could tell. Did Daddy get the car fixed, incidentally?”

“Not yet. They want four hundred dollars, just to–”

“Mother, Seymour told Daddy that he’d pay for it. There’s no reason for–”

“Well, we’ll see. How did he behave–in the car and all?”

“All right,” said the girl.

“Did he keep calling you that awful–”

“No. He has something new now.”

“What?”

“Oh, what’s the difference, Mother?”

“Muriel, I want to know. Your father–”

“All right, all right. He calls me Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948,” the girl said, and giggled.

“It isn’t funny, Muriel. It isn’t funny at all. It’s horrible. It’s sad, actually. When I think how–”

“Mother,” the girl interrupted, “listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from Germany? You know–those German poems. What’d I do with it? I’ve been racking my–”

“You have it.”

“Are you sure?” said the girl.

“Certainly. That is, I have it. It’s in Freddy’s room. You left it here and I didn’t have room for it in the–Why? Does he want it?”

“No. Only, he asked me about it, when we were driving down. He wanted to know if I’d read it.”

“It was in German!”

“Yes, dear. That doesn’t make any difference,” said the girl, crossing her legs. “He said that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I should’ve bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please.”

“Awful. Awful. It’s sad, actually, is what it is. Your father said last night–”

“Just a second, Mother,” the girl said. She went over to the window seat for her cigarettes, lit one, and returned to her seat on the bed. “Mother?” she said, exhaling smoke.

“Muriel. Now, listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Your father talked to Dr. Sivetski.”

“Oh?” said the girl.

“He told him everything. At least, he said he did–you know your father. The trees. That business with the window. Those horrible things he said to Granny about her plans for passing away. What he did with all those lovely pictures from Bermuda–everything.”

“Well?” said the girl.

“Well. In the first place, he said it was a perfect crime the Army released him from the hospital–my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there’s a chance–a very great chance, he said–that Seymour may completely lose control of himself. My word of honor.”

“There’s a psychiatrist here at the hotel,” said the girl.

“Who? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. Rieser or something. He’s supposed to be very good.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Well, he’s supposed to be very good, anyway.”

“Muriel, don’t be fresh, please. We’re very worried about you. Your father wanted to wire you last night to come home, as a matter of f–”

“I’m not coming home right now, Mother. So relax.”

“Muriel. My word of honor. Dr. Sivetski said Seymour may completely lose contr-”

“I just got here, Mother. This is the first vacation I’ve had in years, and I’m not going to just pack everything and come home,” said the girl. “I couldn’t travel now anyway. I’m so sunburned I can hardly move.”

“You’re badly sunburned? Didn’t you use that jar of Bronze I put in your bag? I put it right–”

“I used it. I’m burned anyway.”

“That’s terrible. Where are you burned?”

“All over, dear, all over.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I’ll live.”

“Tell me, did you talk to this psychiatrist?”

“Well, sort of,” said the girl.

“What’d he say? Where was Seymour when you talked to him?”

“In the Ocean Room, playing the piano. He’s played the piano both nights we’ve been here.”

“Well, what’d he say?”

“Oh, nothing much. He spoke to me first. I was sitting next to him at Bingo last night, and he asked me if that wasn’t my husband playing the piano in the other room. I said yes, it was, and he asked me if Seymour’s been sick or something. So I said–”

“Why’d he ask that?”

“I don’t know, Mother. I guess because he’s so pale and all,” said the girl.

“Anyway, after Bingo he and his wife asked me if I wouldn’t like to join them for a drink. So I did. His wife was horrible. You remember that awful dinner dress we saw in Bonwit’s window? The one you said you’d have to have a tiny, tiny–”

“The green?”

“She had it on. And all hips. She kept asking me if Seymour’s related to that Suzanne Glass that has that place on Madison Avenue–the millinery.”

“What’d he say, though? The doctor.”

“Oh. Well, nothing much, really. I mean we were in the bar and all. It was terribly noisy.”

“Yes, but did–did you tell him what he tried to do with Granny’s chair?”

“No, Mother. I didn’t go into details very much,” said the girl. “I’ll probably get a chance to talk to him again. He’s in the bar all day long.”

“Did he say he thought there was a chance he might get–you know–funny or anything? Do something to you!”

“Not exactly,” said the girl. “He had to have more facts, Mother. They have to know about your childhood–all that stuff. I told you, we could hardly talk, it was so noisy in there.”

“Well. How’s your blue coat?”

“All right. I had some of the padding taken out.”

“How are the clothes this year?”

“Terrible. But out of this world. You see sequins–everything,” said the girl.

“How’s your room?”

“All right. Just all right, though. We couldn’t get the room we had before the war,” said the girl. “The people are awful this year. You should see what sits next to us in the dining room. At the next table. They look as if they drove down in a truck.”

“Well, it’s that way all over. How’s your ballerina?”

“It’s too long. I told you it was too long.”

“Muriel, I’m only going to ask you once more–are you really all right?”

“Yes, Mother,” said the girl. “For the ninetieth time.”

“And you don’t want to come home?”

“No, Mother.”

“Your father said last night that he’d be more than willing to pay for it if you’d go away someplace by yourself and think things over. You could take a lovely cruise. We both thought–”

“No, thanks,” said the girl, and uncrossed her legs. “Mother, this call is costing a for–”

“When I think of how you waited for that boy all through the war-I mean when you think of all those crazy little wives who–”

“Mother,” said the girl, “we’d better hang up. Seymour may come in any minute.”

“Where is he?”

“On the beach.”

“On the beach? By himself? Does he behave himself on the beach?”

“Mother,” said the girl, “you talk about him as though he were a raving maniac–”

“I said nothing of the kind, Muriel.”

“Well, you sound that way. I mean all he does is lie there. He won’t take his bathrobe off.”

“He won’t take his bathrobe off? Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess because he’s so pale.”

“My goodness, he needs the sun. Can’t you make him?

“You know Seymour,” said the girl, and crossed her legs again. “He says he doesn’t want a lot of fools looking at his tattoo.”

“He doesn’t have any tattoo! Did he get one in the Army?”

“No, Mother. No, dear,” said the girl, and stood up. “Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow, maybe.”

“Muriel. Now, listen to me.”

“Yes, Mother,” said the girl, putting her weight on her right leg.

“Call me the instant he does, or says, anything at all funny–you know what I mean. Do you hear me?”

“Mother, I’m not afraid of Seymour.”

“Muriel, I want you to promise me.”

“All right, I promise. Goodbye, Mother,” said the girl. “My love to Daddy.” She hung up.

“See more glass,” said Sybil Carpenter, who was staying at the hotel with her mother. “Did you see more glass?”

“Pussycat, stop saying that. It’s driving Mommy absolutely crazy. Hold still, please.”

Mrs. Carpenter was putting sun-tan oil on Sybil’s shoulders, spreading it down over the delicate, winglike blades of her back. Sybil was sitting insecurely on a huge, inflated beach ball, facing the ocean. She was wearing a canary-yellow two-piece bathing suit, one piece of which she would not actually be needing for another nine or ten years.

“It was really just an ordinary silk handkerchief–you could see when you got up close,” said the woman in the beach chair beside Mrs. Carpenter’s. “I wish I knew how she tied it. It was really darling.”

“It sounds darling,” Mrs. Carpenter agreed. “Sybil, hold still, pussy.”

“Did you see more glass?” said Sybil.

Mrs. Carpenter sighed. “All right,” she said. She replaced the cap on the sun-tan oil bottle. “Now run and play, pussy. Mommy’s going up to the hotel and have a Martini with Mrs. Hubbel. I’ll bring you the olive.”

Set loose, Sybil immediately ran down to the flat part of the beach and began to walk in the direction of Fisherman’s Pavilion. Stopping only to sink a foot in a soggy, collapsed castle, she was soon out of the area reserved for guests of the hotel.

She walked for about a quarter of a mile and then suddenly broke into an oblique run up the soft part of the beach. She stopped short when she reached the place where a young man was lying on his back.

“Are you going in the water, see more glass?” she said.

The young man started, his right hand going to the lapels of his terry-cloth robe. He turned over on his stomach, letting a sausaged towel fall away from his eyes, and squinted up at Sybil.

“Hey. Hello, Sybil.”

“Are you going in the water?”

“I was waiting for you,” said the young man. “What’s new?”

“What?” said Sybil.

“What’s new? What’s on the program?”

“My daddy’s coming tomorrow on a nairiplane,” Sybil said, kicking sand.

“Not in my face, baby,” the young man said, putting his hand on Sybil’s ankle. “Well, it’s about time he got here, your daddy. I’ve been expecting him hourly. Hourly.”

“Where’s the lady?” Sybil said.

“The lady?” the young man brushed some sand out of his thin hair. “That’s hard to say, Sybil. She may be in any one of a thousand places. At the hairdresser’s. Having her hair dyed mink. Or making dolls for poor children, in her room.” Lying prone now, he made two fists, set one on top of the other, and rested his chin on the top one. “Ask me something else, Sybil,” he said. “That’s a fine bathing suit you have on. If there’s one thing I like, it’s a blue bathing suit.”

Sybil stared at him, then looked down at her protruding stomach. “This is a yellow,” she said. “This is a yellow.”

“It is? Come a little closer.” Sybil took a step forward. “You’re absolutely right. What a fool I am.”

“Are you going in the water?” Sybil said.

“I’m seriously considering it. I’m giving it plenty of thought, Sybil, you’ll be glad to know.”

Sybil prodded the rubber float that the young man sometimes used as a head-rest. “It needs air,” she said.

“You’re right. It needs more air than I’m willing to admit.” He took away his fists and let his chin rest on the sand. “Sybil,” he said, “you’re looking fine. It’s good to see you. Tell me about yourself.” He reached in front of him and took both of Sybil’s ankles in his hands. “I’m Capricorn,” he said. “What are you?”

“Sharon Lipschutz said you let her sit on the piano seat with you,” Sybil said.

“Sharon Lipschutz said that?”

Sybil nodded vigorously.

He let go of her ankles, drew in his hands, and laid the side of his face on his right forearm. “Well,” he said, “you know how those things happen, Sybil. I was sitting there, playing. And you were nowhere in sight. And Sharon Lipschutz came over and sat down next to me. I couldn’t push her off, could I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, no. No. I couldn’t do that,” said the young man. “I’ll tell you what I did do, though.”

“What?”

“I pretended she was you.”

Sybil immediately stooped and began to dig in the sand. “Let’s go in the water,” she said.

“All right,” said the young man. “I think I can work it in.”

“Next time, push her off,” Sybil said. “Push who off?”

“Sharon Lipschutz.”

“Ah, Sharon Lipschutz,” said the young man. “How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire.” He suddenly got to his feet. He looked at the ocean. ”Sybil,” he said, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll see if we can catch a bananafish.”

“A what?”

“A bananafish,” he said, and undid the belt of his robe. He took off the robe. His shoulders were white and narrow, and his trunks were royal blue. He folded the robe, first lengthwise, then in thirds. He unrolled the towel he had used over his eyes, spread it out on the sand, and then laid the folded robe on top of it. He bent over, picked up the float, and secured it under his right arm. Then, with his left hand, he took Sybil’s hand. The two started to walk down to the ocean.

“I imagine you’ve seen quite a few bananafish in your day,” the young man said.

Sybil shook her head.

“You haven’t? Where do you live, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Sybil.

“Sure you know. You must know. Sharon Lipschutz knows where she lives and she’s only three and a half.”

Sybil stopped walking and yanked her hand away from him. She picked up an ordinary beach shell and looked at it with elaborate interest. She threw it down. ”Whirly Wood, Connecticut,” she said, and resumed walking, stomach foremost.

“Whirly Wood, Connecticut,” said the young man. “Is that anywhere near Whirly Wood, Connecticut, by any chance?”

Sybil looked at him. “That’s where I live,” she said impatiently. “I live in Whirly Wood, Connecticut.” She ran a few steps ahead of him, caught up her left foot in her left hand, and hopped two or three times.

“You have no idea how clear that makes everything,” the young man said.

Sybil released her foot. “Did you read ‘Little Black Sambo’?” she said.

“It’s very funny you ask me that,” he said. “It so happens I just finished reading it last night.” He reached down and took back Sybil’s hand. “What did you think of it?” he asked her.

“Did the tigers run all around that tree?”

“I thought they’d never stop. I never saw so many tigers.”

“There were only six,” Sybil said.

“Only six!” said the young man. “Do you call that only?”

“Do you like wax?” Sybil asked.

“Do I like what?” asked the young man. “Wax.”

“Very much. Don’t you?”

Sybil nodded. “Do you like olives?” she asked.

“Olives–yes. Olives and wax. I never go anyplace without ‘em.”

“Do you like Sharon Lipschutz?” Sybil asked.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” said the young man. “What I like particularly about her is that she never does anything mean to little dogs in the lobby of the hotel. That little toy bull that belongs to that lady from Canada, for instance. You probably won’t believe this, but some little girls like to poke that little dog with balloon sticks. Sharon doesn’t. She’s never mean or unkind. That’s why I like her so much.”

Sybil was silent.

“I like to chew candles,” she said finally.

“Who doesn’t?” said the young man, getting his feet wet. “Wow! It’s cold.” He dropped the rubber float on its back. “No, wait just a second, Sybil. Wait’ll we get out a little bit.”

They waded out till the water was up to Sybil’s waist. Then the young man picked her up and laid her down on her stomach on the float.

“Don’t you ever wear a bathing cap or anything?” he asked.

“Don’t let go,” Sybil ordered. “You hold me, now.”

“Miss Carpenter. Please. I know my business,” the young man said. “You just keep your eyes open for any bananafish. This is a perfect day for bananafish.”

“I don’t see any,” Sybil said.

“That’s understandable. Their habits are very peculiar.” He kept pushing the float. The water was not quite up to his chest. “They lead a very tragic life,” he said. ”You know what they do, Sybil?”

She shook her head.

“Well, they swim into a hole where there’s a lot of bananas. They’re very ordinary-looking fish when they swim in. But once they get in, they behave like pigs. Why, I’ve known some bananafish to swim into a banana hole and eat as many as seventy-eight bananas.” He edged the float and its passenger a foot closer to the horizon. “Naturally, after that they’re so fat they can’t get out of the hole again. Can’t fit through the door.”

“Not too far out,” Sybil said. “What happens to them?”

“What happens to who?”

“The bananafish.”

“Oh, you mean after they eat so many bananas they can’t get out of the banana hole?”

“Yes,” said Sybil.

“Well, I hate to tell you, Sybil. They die.”

“Why?” asked Sybil.

“Well, they get banana fever. It’s a terrible disease.”

“Here comes a wave,” Sybil said nervously.

“We’ll ignore it. We’ll snub it,” said the young man. “Two snobs.” He took Sybil’s ankles in his hands and pressed down and forward. The float nosed over the top of the wave. The water soaked Sybil’s blond hair, but her scream was full of pleasure.

With her hand, when the float was level again, she wiped away a flat, wet band of hair from her eyes, and reported, “I just saw one.”

“Saw what, my love?”

“A bananafish.”

“My God, no!” said the young man. “Did he have any bananas in his mouth?”

“Yes,” said Sybil. “Six.”

The young man suddenly picked up one of Sybil’s wet feet, which were drooping over the end of the float, and kissed the arch.

“Hey!” said the owner of the foot, turning around.

“Hey, yourself. We’re going in now. You had enough?”

“No!”

“Sorry,” he said, and pushed the float toward shore until Sybil got off it. He carried it the rest of the way.

“Goodbye,” said Sybil, and ran without regret in the direction of the hotel.

The young man put on his robe, closed the lapels tight, and jammed his towel into his pocket. He picked up the slimy wet, cumbersome float and put it under his arm. He plodded alone through the soft, hot sand toward the hotel.

On the sub-main floor of the hotel, which the management directed bathers to use, a woman with zinc salve on her nose got into the elevator with the young man.

“I see you’re looking at my feet,” he said to her when the car was in motion.

“I beg your pardon?” said the woman.

“I said I see you’re looking at my feet.”

“I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor,” said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.

“If you want to look at my feet, say so,” said the young man. “But don’t be a God-damned sneak about it.”

“Let me out here, please,” the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.

The car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.

“I have two normal feet and I can’t see the slightest God-damned reason why anybody should stare at them,” said the young man. “Five, please.” He took his room key out of his robe pocket.

He got off at the fifth floor, walked down the hall, and let himself into 507. The room smelled of new calfskin luggage and nail-lacquer remover.

He glanced at the girl lying asleep on one of the twin beds. Then he went over to one of the pieces of luggage, opened it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts he took out an Ortgies calibre 7.65 automatic. He released the magazine, looked at it, then reinserted it. He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.

Son of mine, thankful!?

Writing reading singing
No dirty hands
No spit on his chin

Son of mine, wrong!
(Son of yours, yours! (you!))

Alguns colegas já notavam, apesar de não comentarem. Não se comenta esse tipo de coisa, ainda mais com apenas conhecidos. Também ficava assim no horário de almoço, quando sentava-se de frente para a janela, no restaurante, para não ser visto (ou ser visto apenas de costas) e ver a rua — e a humanidade toda que estava lá fora, circulando, vivendo.

Perdia-se vendo os rostos na rua e os rostos, atrás de si próprio, refletidos no vidro da janela. Esquecia-se de comer, ou comia muito lentamente, sem gosto, por costume.

Chegava em casa e trabalhava. Tentava ler, mas cansava-se da ficção e logo ia dormir. Não sonhava. Banhava-se (dia sim, dia não), definhava a olhos vistos, engordava, amolecia. E aquele vazio, aquele vazio facilmente emocionável, crescia.

Ou talvez crescesse e se tornasse mais raso, mais simplório, mais estanque. Emocionável facilmente porque, talvez, fosse mais fácil emocionar uma poça rasa do que um poço profundo. Acabava, e aquele vazio crescia.