Twenty-fifth, Christmas. Quissimusse, as they call it here. Mariazinha waits at the door for the annual visit of Sidónio Vidas, her occasional spouse. Here he is now, a conspicuous apparition, God bless him and his vainglorious vehicle. Never before had he arrived with such fanfare. He does so with the same effect as rain upon dried-up watercourses: by causing a flood after a long absence.
Mariazinha looks like a widow, standing with her two children in the doorway. She contemplates the bulky Sidónio, who resembles gelatin being pried away from the bottom of a glass cup. Mariazinha whispers awkwardly to her kids:
—You know what to do: when I give the secret sign, make yourselves scarce!
Her children peep at their mother out of the corner of their eye, scarcely recognizing her: a perfumed dress, her coiffure styled at the hairdresser’s, her nails manicured. And they once again fear that this may be less of an encounter and more of a disencounter. It had been like that from the start: a night without a wedding, the husband a shooting star, and an oath of loyalty without a viable time limit.
The kids already knew: their father worked far away in a very foreign land, so distant that he could only visit his family on the night of the twenty-fifth. Every year, their father would turn up, always in a new car. He would bleep his magic remote control and, from the trunk, a whole array of presents would emerge, like a line of sledges, a chain of joyful excitement.
This Christmas, once again, the car has changed but nothing else. Their father opens the trunk of the car and pulls out packets in wrapping and Cellophane. It’s more about decoration than contents, but isn’t that what parties are all about: more illusion and glitter than substance? The kids, squealing with delight, fall on the presents. And they stay out in the garden, absorbed in their gifts.
Sidónio enters the living room with a governor’s demeanour. His wife follows him, diminutively, as custom demands. The man surveys the room. On the dresser, there is an improvised nativity scene. Only the little bits of straw under the newly born child are real. The rest has been cobbled together in a hurry: the top of a Coca-Cola bottle, bits of wire, and some leftover trash.
The husband lounges around at the table in proprietorial fashion. He undoes the buckle on his belt, just in case he needs to. Mariazinha leans out of the front door and reaffirms her command: her children should keep away. The moment belongs to them alone, this night of all nights.
—I fried some fish, the one you say you could die for.
Sidónio smacks his lips and gobbles it up, bones and all. His wife eats while standing, her plate balanced in her hand, as she contemplates her husband. The gold chain glistens against his neck, both chain and neck more abundant than ever. The gold looks genuine. The wearer is the one who’s a fake, without a hallmark or a guarantee of origin. Whenever he comes, he displays more and more chains and rings, lasting ornaments, so that Mariazinha shouldn’t think that he left as a horse and came back as a donkey.
—Be careful, husband, mind you don’t get a bone caught in your gullet.
—A gullet is what poor folk have, Sidónio corrects her. People like me have a throat, understand?
Sidónio belches to signal the end of the first course. Quieter than a god, distant and self-assured. His cell phone rings loud and clear, he grunts a few syllables in no particular language. And he turns it off, as if he were turning off his caller rather than the gadget.
—Is there a dessert? A little pudding?
—I didn’t have any sugar, but Alves, the neighbour …
—Ah! So that’s it, sugar out of the kindness of Alves, the neighbour.
There is irony, hurt, and suspicion in his tone of voice. Was Alves the neighbour too much of a neighbour?
—Mariazinha, are you being faithful to me?
—Me? Sidónio, I …
She is lost for words and bursts into tears. Could he, as a human being, doubt her?
—Be quiet, woman. Don’t say anything.
All this commotion is upsetting his digestion. Sidónio is satisfied he is being obeyed. He strokes his belly with the same tenderness as pregnant women do with their coming baby.
—I don’t want your pudding.
—But, Sidónio, I made it especially for you, with so much love …
—Well, I don’t feel like it, so there.
Mariazinha gathers up the plate along with her tears. Back in the kitchen, she tidies herself, looking out at the husband’s luxurious car through the cracked window. Those who go to war give as good as they get. But she had gone in peace, and had only been on the receiving end. There is his Mercedes, full of its own self-importance. But instead of envy she gets a happy sense of fulfillment. As if the car belonged to her, and she could display her curves from time to time on its seats.
She returns to the living room and stands leaning against the dresser. The furniture sways and the little figurines drop off. Christ tumbles out of his crib. For the first time, Sidónio deigns to look at his wife. He seems to confirm the adage: a man is as old as his age and a woman is as old as she looks. He looks at her hands, and notices her nail varnish. Mariazinha draws her nails in, hurriedly concealing her vanity.
—I did them this morning, I asked a neighbour to lend me a pot of varnish.
—I may have to review your monthly allowance.
—Ah! I haven’t received your allowance for months …
—I’ve got my priorities, Mariazinha.
With the meal over, Sidónio takes off his shoes, reclines in the armchair, and closes his eyes, absorbed in his own insides. Then something unexpected happens. His wife suddenly leans over him, all flirtatious, revealing expanses of her flesh.
—I feel like dancing. Won’t you play a bit of music, husband?
—What music?
—The music from your car.
Sidónio struggles to his feet. Her eyes still glint, full of hope. But he’s not getting up for her. It’s time, he’s off. At the door, she still murmurs:
—Will you come back next year?
—I don’t know, woman, I don’t know. Things aren’t easy, you know …
—But you can bring the others … your children’s brothers and sisters. And you can bring … her, too. I don’t mind, Sidónio.
But the man’s no longer interested in talking. He summons his children to say goodbye, and makes for his car. While he squeezes in behind the steering wheel, Mariazinha tells the kids:
—That’s one of the few good men left in the world.
And the youngest one, squeezing his mother’s hand, asks:
—Is Father that man they call Father Christmas?
A sad laugh vanishes from his mother’s face as Sidónio disappears into the darkness of the highway. Mother and children stand contemplating the night, as if they have forgotten they have a home to go to. All of a sudden, the eldest tugs at his mother’s skirt and says:
—Look, Mother, here comes Mister Alves, the neighbour.
Mariazinha hurriedly smooths her dress and smiling, murmurs:
—You know what to do, children: when I give you the sign, make yourselves scarce!