Spilt Milk E-Book

Chico Buarque

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

LONGLISTED FOR THE 2013 IMPAC DUBLIN LITERARY AWARDS. Centenarian Eulalio Assumpcao has reached the end of his long life. From his modest bed in a Rio public hospital, as his mind falters, he grandly recounts his past to passing nurses, his visiting daughter and the whitewashed ceiling. His eccentric stories are seemingly nothing more than the ramblings of a dying man, yet as he overlaps each confused memory, they begin to coalesce into a brilliant and bitter eulogy for himself and for Brazil. Charting his own fall from aristocracy, Eulalio's feverish monologue sprawls across the last century, from his empire-building ancestors to his drug-dealing great-great grandson. He confronts his senator father who squandered the family fortune on women and cocaine, and recalls the imperious mother who he always disappointed; but as he drifts through each shifting episode, he never stops searching for Matilde, the girl with cinnamon skin, who danced her way into his heart and then broke it when she disappeared.

Leseprobe

Spilt Milk

Novels by Chico Buarque

Benjamin

Turbulence

Budapest

First published in Brazil as Leite Derramado in 2009 by Companhia das Letras.

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Chico Buarque, 2009 Translation © Alison Entrekin, 2012

The moral right of Chico Buarque to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

The moral right of Alison Entrekin to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

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, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

Obra publicada com o apoio do Ministério da Cultura do Brasil / Fundação Biblioteca Nacional / Coordenadoria Geral do Livro e da Leitura. This work is published with the support of the Ministério da Cultura do Brasil / Fundação Biblioteca Nacional / Coordenadoria Geral do Livro e da Leitura.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN: 978 1 84887 488 6 Ebook ISBN: 978 1 78239 014 5

Designed by Nicky Barneby @ Barneby Ltd Printed in Great Britain

Atlantic Books An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd Ormond House 26–27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZwww.atlantic-books.co.uk

Spilt Milk

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

1

When I get out of here, we’ll get married on the farm where I spent my happy childhood, over at the foot of the mountains. You’ll wear my mother’s dress and veil, and I’m not saying this because I’m feeling sentimental, it’s not the morphine speaking. You’ll have my family’s lace, crystal, silver, jewels and name at your disposal. You’ll give orders to the servants, ride my late wife’s horse. And if there’s still no electricity on the farm, I’ll have a generator installed so you can watch TV. There’ll also be air conditioning in every room of the farmhouse, because it’s very hot on the coastal flats these days. I don’t know if it’s always been so, if my ancestors sweated under all those clothes. My wife sweated a lot, but she was of a new generation and didn’t have my mother’s austerity. My wife liked the sun and always came back glowing from afternoons on the sands of Copacabana. But our chalet there has been knocked down, and in any case I wouldn’t live with you in a house from a previous marriage. We’ll live on the farm at the foot of the mountains. We’ll marry in the chapel that was consecrated by the Cardinal Archbishop of Rio de Janeiro in eighteen hundred and something. On the farm you’ll look after me and no one else, so that I’ll make a complete recovery. And we’ll plant trees, and write books, and, God willing, raise children on my grandfather’s land. But if you don’t like the foot of the mountains, because of the tree toads and the insects, or the distance, or anything else, we could live in Botafogo, in the mansion my father built. It has huge bedrooms, marble bathrooms with bidets, several drawing rooms with Venetian mirrors and statues, monumentally high ceilings and slate roof tiles imported from France. There are palm, avocado and almond trees in the garden, which became a parking lot after the Danish Embassy moved to Brasilia. The Danes bought the mansion from me for a song because of the mess my son-inlaw made of things. But if I decide to sell the farm, with its two thousand acres of crops and pastures, divided by a stream whose water is safe to drink, perhaps I could buy back the mansion in Botafogo, restore the mahogany furniture, have my mother’s Pleyel piano tuned. I’ll have things to tinker with for years on end, and if you wish to continue working, you’ll be able to walk to work, as there are plenty of hospitals and private practices nearby. In fact, they built an eighteen-story medical centre on our land, which reminds me, the mansion isn’t there anymore. And come to think of it, I think they expropriated the farm at the foot of the mountains in 1947, for the highway. I’m thinking out loud so you can hear me. And I’m speaking slowly, as if I were writing, so you can transcribe it for me without having to be a stenographer. Are you there? The soap opera, the news and the film are all over: I don’t know why they leave the TV on after the broadcast has finished. It must be so the static will drown out my voice and I won’t bother the other patients with my rambling. But there are only grown men here, almost all of them rather deaf. If there were elderly ladies nearby I’d be more discreet. For example, I would never mention the little whores hunkering down in hysterics, as my father tossed five-franc coins onto the floor of his suite at the Ritz. There he’d be, concentrating deeply, while the naked cocottes squatted there like frogs, trying to pick the coins off the rug without using their fingers. He would send the winner down to my room with me, and back in Brazil he would assure my mother I was making good progress with the language. At home, as in all good homes, family affairs were dealt with in French when in the presence of servants, though, for Mother, even asking me to pass the salt was a family affair. And even then she spoke in metaphors, because in those days even your average nurse spoke a little French. But the girl’s not in the mood for chit-chat today, she’s in a sulk. She’s going to give me my injection. The sedative doesn’t kick in right away any more, and I know the road to sleep is like a corridor full of thoughts. I hear the noises of people, of viscera, a guy with tubes in him making rasping sounds; perhaps he’s trying to tell me something. The doctor on duty will hurry in, take my pulse, perhaps say something to me. A priest will arrive to visit the sick; he’ll murmur words in Latin, but I don’t think they’ll be for me. Sirens outside, telephone, footsteps, there’s always an expectation that stops me from falling asleep. It’s the hand that holds me by my thinning hair. Until I stumble upon a door to a hollow thought, which will suck me down into the depths, where I tend to dream in black and white.

2

I don’t know why you don’t try to lessen my pain, Miss. Every day you open the blinds brutishly and the sun strikes me in the face. I don’t know what you find so amusing about my grimaces; I feel a twinge every time I breathe. Sometimes I inhale deeply and fill my lungs with an unbearable air, just to have a few seconds of comfort as I exhale the pain. But long before my illness and old age, I suppose my life was already quite like this, a niggling little pain jabbing away at me, then suddenly an excruciating jolt. When I lost my wife, it was excruciating. And anything I remember now is going to hurt; memory is a vast wound. But you still won’t give me my meds, you bully. I don’t even think you’re on the nursing staff; I’ve never seen your face around here before. Of course, it’s my daughter standing with her back to the light. Give me a kiss. I was actually going to call you to come keep me company, read me newspapers, Russian novels. This TV stays on all day long and the people here aren’t very sociable. Not that I’m complaining: that would be a sign of ingratitude to you and your son. But if the lad’s so rich, I don’t know why on earth you don’t have me admitted to a traditional care home, run by nuns. I would have been able to pay for travel and treatment abroad myself if your husband hadn’t ruined me. I could have taken up residence abroad, spent the rest of my days in Paris. If the urge were to take me, I could die in the same bed at the Ritz that I had slept in as a boy. Because in the summer holidays your grandfather, my father, always took me to Europe by steamer. Later, every time I saw one in the distance, on the Argentine route, I’d call your mother and point: there goes the Arlanza! The Cap Polonio! The Lutétia! And I’d wax lyrical about what an ocean liner was like on the inside. Your mother had never seen a ship close up. After we married she rarely left Copacabana. And when I announced that we’d soon have to go to the docks to meet the French engineer, she got all coy. Because you were a newborn, she couldn’t just leave the baby and so on, but then she took the tram into town and cut her hair à la garçonne. When the day came, she dressed as she thought appropriate, in an orange satin dress and an even more orange felt turban. I had already suggested she save the finery for the following month, for the Frenchman’s departure, when we could board the ship for a drinks reception. But she was so anxious that she was ready before me and stood waiting by the door. She looked like she were on tiptoe in her high-heeled shoes, and she was either blushing a lot or wearing too much rouge. And when I saw your mother in that state I said, you’re not going. Why, she asked in a tiny voice, but I didn’t give her a reason, I took my hat and left. I didn’t even stop to think about where my sudden anger had come from, all I knew was that the blind anger her cheerfulness provoked in me felt orange. And that’s enough talking from me, because the pain is only getting worse.

3

No one believes me, but the woman who came to see me is my daughter. She ended up all skew-whiff like that and missing a few screws because of her son. Or grandson; now I’m not sure if the lad’s my grandson or great-great-grandson or what. As the future narrows, younger people have to pile up any which way in some corner of my mind. For the past, however, I have an increasingly spacious drawing room where there is more than enough space for my parents, grandparents, distant cousins and friends from university that I’d already forgotten, with each of their drawing rooms full of relatives and in-laws and gatecrashers with their lovers, as well as all of their memories, all the way back to Napoleon’s time. For instance, right now I’m looking at you, so loving with me every night, and I’m embarrassed to ask you your name again. On the other hand, I can recall every hair of my grandfather’s beard even though I only knew him from an oil painting. And from the little book that must be over there on the dresser, or upstairs on my mother’s bedside table; ask the housemaid. It’s a small book with a sequence of almost identical photos, which, when you flick through them, give the illusion of movement, like in the cinema. They show my grandfather walking in London, and when I was a child I liked to flick through them backwards, to make the old boy walk in reverse. It’s of these old-fashioned people that I dream, when you tuck me in. If I had my way I would dream of you in Technicolor, but my dreams are like silent films, and the actors died a long time ago. The other day I went to fetch my parents from the playground, because in my dream they were my children. I went to call them with the news that my newborn grandfather was going to be circumcised; he’d become a Jew, just like that. From Botafogo, my dream cut to the farm at the foot of the mountains, where we found my grandfather with a white beard and whiskers, walking in his coat-tails past the British Parliament. He was going at a fast, hard pace, as if he had mechanical legs, thirty feet forward, thirty feet backward, just like in the little book. My grandfather was a prominent figure under the Empire, a Grand Master and a radical abolitionist. He wanted to send all Brazil’s blacks back to Africa, but it didn’t work out that way. His own slaves, after they had been freed, chose to remain living on his properties. He owned cacao plantations in Bahia, coffee plantations in São Paulo, made a fortune, died in exile and is buried in the family cemetery on the farm at the foot of the mountains, with a chapel blessed by the Cardinal Archbishop of Rio de Janeiro. His closest freed slave, Balbino, faithful as a dog, sat on his grave forever. If you call a taxi, I can show you the farm, the chapel and the mausoleum.