That morning was the first in forty years that the greengrocer’s didn’t open its doors. Inside was Senhor Manuel, collapsed on the floor and surrounded by the oranges on which he’d tried to support himself when he felt the first signs of a stroke. The stroke paralyzed the right side of his body and left him with an expression even grumpier than the one he’d assumed after his wife’s death.
The old Portuguese man soon discovered that the worst consequence of his stroke wasn’t the loss of movement but the lack of control over his fate. If before it had been Senhor Manuel who had laid down the rules, now it was his daughters who ordered him around. The two of them decided (in some fantasy world, in his opinion) that from then on, Guida would take care of their father.
His contorted face didn’t look so bad after all, he began to think. Manuel had no plans to exchange anything but a few grunts with his daughter. Guida, for her part, did her best to muffle her own grunts. The old man in the bed was responsible for so many years of suffering after denying her return when Chico was on the way. But the old man was also the one who had made her paper boats on days of torrential rain, for them to launch down the little rivers that formed in the streets. It was he who came up with foolproof salves when she scraped her knees. And it was he, principally, who taught her about the heart, explaining the sound she heard in his chest when she leaned against his chest to sleep.
Father and daughter had always been mirror images of each other. He grunted, she grunted. He grew ornery, she grew ornery. He thought he knew everything, and she thought she knew everything, too.
This resemblance had been cause for Dona Ana’s celebration. Each time another similarity appeared, she wrapped in a smile a well done that she never verbalized. Arguments with her husband were always the same: ‘Why didn’t you you stain the sheets on our honeymoon? Where was it you went wandering about when you were single? How can I be certain that Guida is my daughter?’ Ana would respond timidly, saying that she’d never so much as hugged another man aside from her brothers, and in those early years she began to think that it was those hugs that had taken her virginity.
Later, when they established themselves in Rio, the greengrocer’s prospered and they had some money for a private doctor, Ana sought out a specialist. She regretted having made the appointment as soon as the assistant called her name in the waiting room. With great effort, much hand-wringing, and a story that involved many facts but left out many exchanged words, Ana described her wedding night with enough clues for the doctor to reconstitute the scene.
The doctor was an immutable man, with glasses that made his eyes appear smaller and lips that never formed a smile. He was deeply interested in the fountain pen in his hands. He peered at the Parker as he responded to his patient, in the same dialect used by Ana. He told her that what had happened to her was quite possible, that not all women were born the same. That the private parts of some women were different from those of others, that an abundance of what’s expected was not always in fact abundant – it could be minute, or nearly non-existent. That there was no reason to worry, for there was certainly something there that was imperceptible but real. That she would be all right and shouldn’t think about that subject anymore, and that if she felt it was necessary he could recommend an elixir to help with her nerves.
When she returned to the store, Manuel asked how the doctor’s visit had gone.
‘He said that these ailments are a matter of age and that there’s no reason for us to worry.’
She told her husband about the purchase of the elixir as she tied her apron over her clothes and walked to the other corner of the store. Explaining to her husband the true motive for her visit to the doctor and his vague response was beyond what Ana could handle, and beyond what Manuel could handle hearing.
It was the passing of time that brought Ana’s revenge. Guida looked as though she’d been born only of her father. The two had the same high cheekbones and the same pointy nose. They both needed to shake their feet to sleep and snored softly when they caught a cold. They needed to have another daughter for Ana to see herself in, and yes, she saw herself in Euridice. Especially when the girl cast a sad glance towards the window, as though thinking of all the experiences left to have and which would never be hers. Ana knew this feeling. It was squashed by this life spent in clogs, her world transformed into the opening and closing of the doors of the greengrocer’s. She was as intelligent as Euridice but could never see beyond the dozens of tomatoes.
After Manuel rebuffed his daughter he felt a deep regret, that Portuguese sort of regret that involves not letting anyone ever discover what you’re thinking. When Dona Ana died this feeling grew even stronger, and he became even more Portuguese, never letting anyone know about anything. Everything would be all right, as long as he could spend his days in the store, sitting in his usual spot behind the counter.
It was Guida who suggested she take care of her father when she learned of his stroke. She had been far away from Dona Ana when she died and had no desire to add to her guilt. ‘We’ll sort out our differences,’ she promised Euridice.
Moving to Santa Teresa would be good for Guida, Antonio, and Chico. That year, sales at the store had fallen. Antonio attributed this to the opening of a bigger stationery store in the neighborhood, and Guida attributed it to the incident between Zélia and Antonio. The business was put up for sale, the money invested in some land, and the three of them installed themselves in the apartment above the greengrocer’s, together with Senhor Manuel.
As the months passed, Senhor Manuel began to recover from his stroke, eventually reaching the point where no one knew whether he grunted because of the stroke or his grumpiness. The one who found the old man’s attitude a lot of fun was Chico, who’d always wanted a grandfather. He liked to read the poems of Guerra Junqueiro – his favorites – to Manuel.
It is so sad to watch them fall,
To see them scattered through the air,
The illusions we once erected
Over our mother’s breasts, that eternal altar.
We no longer even know how, nor when
Our souls will one day come to rest!
For our souls wander aimlessly and float amid
The electric current of the seacrest.
Chico pretended not to see his grandfather’s moistening eyes. He went on thinking about that old man with the crooked lips, who had never done anything with his life but sell fruit and who liked, in his free time, to ponder the souls lost amid the sea’s electric currents.
Euridice would come to visit them two or three times per week, with a sea-green turban on her head and the smell of mint on her lips. She couldn’t come more often because she had begun her history degree at the Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro. She was an outstanding student during that first year, more-or-less outstanding in the second, an interested student in the third, and a cynic during the fourth. She continued to write a lot, and she took Chico to some of the student protests that occurred after the military coup of 1964.
The family came together on Sundays for lunch at Euridice’s house. Senhor Manuel would sit on the sofa near the window and stare at the Atlantic for hours, perhaps in search of souls lost amid electric currents, perhaps thinking about Ana, perhaps looking at some young girl’s rear – how could she wear such a short skirt? Things aren’t the way they used to be. Cecilia more or less participated in these gatherings, listening less to the conversations and paying more attention to the ringing of the telephone. It could be a friend inviting her to the movies or – after one of those parties she was always going to – she thought it could be him, oh my God, it could be him! Afonso continued keeping most of his words to himself. He ate in silence and had a habit of breaking up with his girlfriends after taking them out in the car for one last encounter, parked in the deserted streets of São Conrado. Antonio was always in a good mood, whether looking at Guida or at Euridice. Chico read, ate, traded a few words with Euridice, and then left the table. Antenor became even more Antenorish. Full of himself, sure of everything, incapable of fault, and woe betide anyone who said that he had failed in any way – if everyone failed the way he did, Brazil would be a world power.
When the family moved to Ipanema, Maria continued working in the house, but she had to leave her job in the second year. It was her legs that hurt, she told them. Through some acquaintances, Euridice arranged for a doctor’s consultation at the hospital. It seemed Maria would have to undergo an operation, but no one knew anything else. Antenor and Euridice couldn’t keep a maid who couldn’t clean above the refrigerator. They paid her severance, gave her a few more cruzeiro notes, and Maria disappeared into the world, as quietly as ever.
After the 1964 coup, Euridice began to write with greater agitation, evidenced by the increased intensity of the tack-tack-tack of the typewriter. She sent a few texts to the Jornal do Brasil, which the newspaper never published. She tried out other newspapers, but never received a response.
Life in Ipanema, she soon discovered, wasn’t so different from life in Tijuca. Sure, the sea brought in a refreshing breeze, and artists, journalists and writers could always be found discussing their ideas in bars, but still the unpleasant winds of rumors swept in as certain neighbors made their way down the sidewalk.
With a daughter who grew more different from her with each passing day, a son that was hers only because he had come out from between her legs, and a husband who came close only to kiss her on the forehead, Euridice retreated even further into herself, and into her book-lined study. She never took off her medallion of Our Lady, even after she stopped believing in God.
Life continued much in this way, and no matter what, a single sound could always be heard:
Tack-tack-tack, tack-tack-tack, tack-tack-tack…
Tack-tack-tack, tack-tack-tack, tack-tack-tack…
Tack-tack-tack, tack-tack-tack, tack-tack-tack…