MONA LEARNED ABOUT the President and the Nation from Ruben; Rosa spoke little of it. And then there was Diogen. When they were alone, Diogen would say things like: “Forget authority. It’s made to put you down and make you small. Don’t listen to any of them, be a real woman, know your power, Mona.” But Mona had little grasp of what he meant. That morning, she had gone to the library and found the book Tips for Girls. There were all kinds of tips; Mona found a quiet corner and read with care. She looked for entries about how to kiss for the first time and how to know if you are a lesbian.
Mona and her best friend Maia used to play Adults together. They would sit with their legs crossed, holding cigarette chewing gum between their fingers like they’d seen their mothers do. They sat like that, pouted, sucked on the pretend cigarettes, stirred coffee cups that hovered in mid air, and said things like: Oh dear; you won’t believe what she said to me; no, he didn’t; oh my; what a cheek! Mona would show the new perfume she’d bought and spray Maia with thin air. They were as serious as possible. Inevitably the boys would come and shoot them down with their stick machine guns, driving off in their cars, which the girls only knew were cars because they made that revving noise with their mouths, dust rising in their wake.
But this was an old game. Her and Maia rarely played it now, only in moments when their childhood selves emerged. Lately, Mona had felt more confused more often; her body had started doing new things, things she did not want it to do. Her armpits stank at the most unexpected times; her breasts, previously the same as the boys’ had started to swell and ache. She had hair growing in places where it had not grown before. All of it felt odd, out of control, and she had no idea when it would stop. It didn’t help that her parents’ friends would see her and say, “Oh, you’re turning into a little lady, aren’t you!” and Mona would blush and hate them.
Most of all, it was her feelings that confused her. Lately, she would break out in a sweat, her heart beating fast when Maia’s older sister, the beautiful and indomitable Clarice (she had given herself that name, her real name was Jovanka), appeared. Clarice named herself after a Brazilian author, Maia told her, that Jovanka—as she was still known at the time—had come across on someone’s book shelf. She styled herself in the author’s image, apparently, adorning herself with beads, painting her nails, her eyes lined into almond-shaped magnets, smoking cigarettes and wearing clothes she had sewn for herself so that they were like the author’s. In Mona’s eyes, Clarice was enchantment itself. She was eighteen years old, a world away from Maia and herself—they had recently turned fourteen. Clarice held the promise of womanhood; when she flicked her hair, smoked with painted lips, the way she moved, the confidence, the confidence! Clarice also had progressive thoughts about the revolution, in tune with those that were being discussed at the student protests; although Mona could not fully grasp what they meant, the ideas that the students—or rather, Clarice—talked about made more sense to her than her father’s. When the students said “Down with the Red Bourgeoisie,” it was clear they were referring to the communist elites, living in luxury. “This goes against the very fabric of the communist ideal,” said Clarice, “against everything that our parents fought for, the classless society, the equality, the questioning of our values.” Mona was enchanted.
When Mona visited Maia at home, she longed to be able to see through walls, into Clarice’s room, imagining her sitting intensely over a piece of paper, writing her revolutionary novel, as she had told them she was doing when she sat down on a cypress branch with them, smoking a cigarette.
“My novel will break all the rules, just like Clarice’s did,” she said, exhaling the smoke upward, through crimson lips, gazing at the clouds as if she was reading the future for them.
“Have you ever tried reading the Brazilian author?” Mona asked Maia.
“I have. I didn’t understand any of it. Clarice says I am too young to get it.”
Mona tries it. Clarice Lispector. The Passion According to G.H. She finds the book in the library, sits on the floor, and goes to page one. “I’m searching, I’m searching. I’m trying to understand. Trying to give what I’ve lived to somebody else and I don’t know to whom, but I don’t want to keep what I lived.” Even though she does not understand the text, reading it makes Mona feel closer to Clarice. Closer, without having to actually be close. She hates the effect Clarice has on her when she’s near; the pounding of her heart, the dry throat, the nothingness of herself, knowing she is invisible to her except as her younger sister’s friend, the pull of her gaze onto Clarice’s body, its shape a woman’s shape, and Mona’s own limbs so skinny and long and straight and her body thin like an adder’s. The protruding breasts felt unwelcome, she was not looking forward to their fuller form, and she felt she understood Clarice Lispector when she wrote “I don’t trust what happened to me.” Mona doesn’t trust what happens to her, constantly.
She used to think that Ruben’s words and Rosa’s organization were her stable ground; also that the President’s image protected her. Since Rosa lost the baby, the little baby boy, lost him to sleep—went to pick him up one day and he just wasn’t breathing—Rosa mainly ordered things and watered the plants. When Mona saw the image of the Virgin Mary at her grandmother’s house, she recognized Rosa’s face in it, in the months following the baby’s death. He is with God now, said grandmother, and Rosa just shook her head. There was talk of God’s mysterious ways. Mona had been six years old. There were no more babies after that.
She did not understand if she fit into the picture of the order that had been presented to her; man—woman—child; school—university—marriage—child. She saw Clarice and she felt dizzy; she saw boys and felt nothing at all. She could not speak to her mother about it, felt ashamed to speak to her of such things, of bodily things, and matters of the heart.
Perhaps only when she was curled up like a fetus in the warm uterus of her duvet, did Mona feel an inkling of order. Only then did the body feel like it fit somewhere safe and familiar.