My Sweet Orange Tree Read online

  For

  Mercedes Cruañes Rinaldi

  Erich Gemeinder

  Francisco Marins

  as well as

  Helene Rudge Miller (Birdie!)

  Nor can I forget

  my ‘son’

  Fernando Seplinsky

  * * *

  For those who have never died

  Ciccillo Matarazzo

  Arnaldo Magalhães de Giacomo

  * * *

  In loving memory of my brother Luís (King Luís) and my sister Glória. Luís gave up on life at the age of twenty, and Glória, at twenty-four, didn’t think life was worth living either.

  Equally as precious is my memory of Manuel Valadares, who taught me the meaning of tenderness at the age of six.

  May they all rest in peace!

  and now

  Dorival Lourenço da Silva

  (Dodô, neither sadness nor nostalgia kill!)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One: At Christmas, Sometimes The Devil Child is Born

  Chapter One: The Discoverer of Things

  Chapter Two: A Certain Sweet-Orange Tree

  Chapter Three: The Lean Fingers of Poverty

  Chapter Four: The Little Bird, School and the Flower

  Last Chapter of Part One: ‘In a Prison I Hope You Die’

  Part Two: When The Baby Jesus Appeared in All his Sadness

  Chapter One: Piggybacks

  Chapter Two: Making Friends

  Chapter Three: Conversations, Here and There

  Chapter Four: Two Memorable Beatings

  Chapter Five: A Strange, but Gentle, Request

  Chapter Six: Little by Little, Tenderness Is Born

  Chapter Seven: The Mangaratiba

  Chapter Eight: Many Are the Old Trees

  Last Chapter: Final Confession

  A Few Words from the Translator

  About the Publisher

  Copyright

  Part One

  AT CHRISTMAS, SOMETIMES THE DEVIL CHILD IS BORN

  Chapter One

  THE DISCOVERER OF THINGS

  We were strolling down the street hand in hand, in no hurry at all. Totoca was teaching me about life. And that made me really happy, my big brother holding my hand and teaching me things. But teaching me things out in the world. Because at home I learned by discovering things on my own and doing things on my own; I’d make mistakes and because I made mistakes I always ended up getting beaten. Until not long before that, no one had ever hit me. But then they heard things and started saying I was the devil, a demon, a sandy-haired sprite. I didn’t want to know about it. If I wasn’t outside, I’d have started to sing. Singing was pretty. Totoca knew how to do something besides sing: he could whistle. But no matter how hard I tried to copy him, nothing came out. He cheered me up by saying it was normal, that I didn’t have a whistler’s mouth yet. But because I couldn’t sing on the outside, I sang on the inside. It was weird at first, but then it felt really nice. And I was remembering a song Mother used to sing when I was really little. She’d be standing at the washtub, with a cloth tied about her head to keep the sun off it. With an apron around her waist, she’d spend hours and hours plunging her hands into the water, turning soap into lots of suds. Then she’d wring out the clothes and take them to the clothes line, where she’d peg them all out and hoist it up high. She did the same thing with all the clothes. She washed clothes from Dr Faulhaber’s house to help with the household expenses. Mother was tall and thin, but very beautiful. She was brown from the sun and her hair was straight and black. When she didn’t tie it up, it hung down to her waist. But the most beautiful thing was when she sang, and I’d hang around, learning.

  Sailor, sailor

  Sailor of sorrow

  Because of you

  I’ll die tomorrow …

  The waves crashed

  Dashed on sand

  Off he went

  My sailor man …

  A sailor’s love

  Lasts not a day

  His ship weighs anchor

  And sails away …

  The waves crashed …

  That song had always filled me with a sadness I couldn’t understand.

  Totoca gave me a tug. I came to my senses.

  ‘What’s up, Zezé?’

  ‘Nothing. I was singing.’

  ‘Singing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then I must be going deaf.’

  Didn’t he know you could sing on the inside? I kept quiet. If he didn’t know, I wasn’t going to teach him.

  We had come to the edge of the Rio–São Paulo Highway.

  On it, there was everything. Trucks, cars, carts and bicycles.

  ‘Look, Zezé, this is important. First we take a good look one way, and then the other. Now go.’

  We ran across the highway.

  ‘Were you scared?’

  I was, but I shook my head.

  ‘Let’s do it again together. Then I want to see if you’ve learned.’

  We ran back.

  ‘Now you go. No baulking, ’cause you’re a big kid now.’

  My heart beat faster.

  ‘Now. Go.’

  I raced across, almost without breathing. I waited a bit and he gave me the signal to return.

  ‘You did really well for the first time. But you forgot something. You have to look both ways to see if any cars are coming. I won’t always be here to give you the signal. We’ll practise some more on the way home. But let’s go now, ’cause I want to show you something.’

  He took my hand and off we went again, slowly. I couldn’t stop thinking about a conversation I’d had.

  ‘Totoca.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you feel the age of reason?’

  ‘What’s this nonsense?’

  ‘Uncle Edmundo said it. He said I was “precocious” and that soon I’d reach the age of reason. But I don’t feel any different.’

  ‘Uncle Edmundo is a fool. He’s always putting things in that head of yours.’

  ‘He isn’t a fool. He’s wise. And when I grow up I want to be wise and a poet and wear a bow tie. One day I’m going to have my picture taken in a bow tie.’

  ‘Why a bow tie?’

  ‘Because you can’t be a poet without a bow tie. When Uncle Edmundo shows me pictures of poets in the magazine, they’re all wearing bow ties.’

  ‘Zezé, you have to stop believing everything he tells you. Uncle Edmundo’s a bit cuckoo. He lies a bit.’

  ‘Is he a son of a bitch?’

  ‘You’ve already been slapped across the mouth for using so many swear words! Uncle Edmundo isn’t that. I said “cuckoo”. A bit crazy.’

  ‘You said he was a liar.’

  ‘They’re two completely different things.’

  ‘No, they’re not. The other day, Father was talking about Labonne with Severino, the one who plays cards with him, and he said, “That old son of a bitch is a bloody liar.” And no one slapped him across the mouth.’

  ‘It’s OK for grown-ups to say things like that.’

  Neither of us a spoke for a moment.

  ‘Uncle Edmundo isn’t … What does cuckoo mean again, Totoca?’

  He pointed his finger at his head and twisted it around.

  ‘No, he isn’t. He’s really nice. He teaches me things, and he only smacked me once and it wasn’t hard.’

  Totoca started.

  ‘He smacked you? When?’

  ‘When I was really naughty and Glória sent me to Gran’s house. He wanted to read the newspaper but he couldn’t find his glasses. He searched high and low, and he was really mad. He asked Gran where they were but
she had no idea. The two of them turned the house upside down. Then I said I knew where they were and if he gave me some money to buy marbles, I’d tell him. He went to his waistcoat and took out some money.

  ‘“Go get them and I’ll give it to you.”

  ‘I went to the clothes hamper and got them. And he said, “It was you, you little rascal!” He gave me a smack on the backside and put the money away.’

  Totoca laughed.

  ‘You go there to avoid getting smacked at home and you get smacked there. Let’s go a bit faster or we’ll never get there.’

  I was still thinking about Uncle Edmundo.

  ‘Totoca, are children retired?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Uncle Edmundo doesn’t do anything, and he gets money. He doesn’t work, and City Hall pays him every month.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, children don’t do anything. They eat, sleep and get money from their parents.’

  ‘Retired is different, Zezé. A retired person has already worked for a long time, their hair’s turned white and they walk slowly like Uncle Edmundo. But let’s stop thinking about difficult things. If you want to learn things from him, fine. But not with me. Act like the other boys. You can even swear, but stop filling your head with difficult things. Otherwise I won’t go out with you again.’

  I sulked a bit and didn’t want to talk any more. I didn’t feel like singing either. The little bird that sang inside me had flown away.

  We stopped and Totoca pointed at the house.

  ‘There it is. Like it?’

  It was an ordinary house. White with blue windows. All closed up and quiet.

  ‘Yeah. But why do we have to move here?’

  ‘It’s good to stay on the move.’

  We stood gazing through the fence at a mango tree on one side and a tamarind tree on the other.

  ‘You’re such a busybody, but you have no idea what’s going on at home. Father’s out of a job, isn’t he? It’s been six months since he had the fight with Mr Scottfield and they kicked him out. Did you know Lalá’s working at the factory now? And Mother’s going to work in the city, at the English Mill? Well there you go, silly. It’s all to save up to pay the rent on this new house. Father’s a good eight months behind on the other one. You’re too young to have to worry about such sad things. But I’m going to have to help out at mass, to pitch in at home.’

  He stood there a while in silence.

  ‘Totoca, are they going to bring the black panther and the two lionesses here?’

  ‘Of course. And old slave-boy here is going to have to take apart the chicken coop.’

  He gave me a kind of sweet, pitiful look.

  ‘I’m the one who’s going to take down the zoo and reassemble it here.’

  I was relieved. Because otherwise I’d have to come up with something new to play with my littlest brother, Luís.

  ‘So, you see how I’m your friend, Zezé? Now it wouldn’t hurt for you to tell me how you did “it” …’

  ‘I swear, Totoca, I don’t know. I really don’t.’

  ‘You’re lying. You studied with someone.’

  ‘I didn’t study anything. No one taught me. Unless it was the devil who taught me in my sleep. Jandira says he’s my godfather.’

  Totoca was puzzled. He even rapped me across the head a few times to try to get me to tell him. But I didn’t know how I’d done it.

  ‘No one learns that kind of thing on their own.’

  But he was at a loss for words because no one had actually seen anyone teach me anything. It was a mystery.

  I remembered what had happened a week earlier. It had left the family in a flap. It had started at Gran’s house, when I sat next to Uncle Edmundo, who was reading the newspaper.

  ‘Uncle.’

  ‘What is it, son?’

  He moved his glasses to the tip of his nose, as all grown-ups do when they get old.

  ‘When did you learn to read?’

  ‘At around six or seven years of age.’

  ‘Can five-year-olds learn to read?’

  ‘I suppose so. But no one likes to teach them because it’s really too young.’

  ‘How did you learn to read?’

  ‘Like everyone else, with first readers. Going “B plus A makes BA”.’

  ‘Does everyone have to learn like that?’

  ‘As far as I know, they do.’

  ‘Absolutely everyone?’

  He looked at me, intrigued.

  ‘Look, Zezé, that’s how everyone learns. Now let me finish reading. Go look for guavas in the backyard.’

  He pushed his glasses back up his nose and tried to concentrate on reading. But I didn’t leave.

  ‘What a shame!’

  It was such a heartfelt exclamation that he moved his glasses back down his nose.

  ‘I’ll be darned. You’re persistent, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s just that I walked all the way over here just to tell you something, sir.’

  ‘OK then, tell me.’

  ‘No. Not like that. First I need to know when your next pension day is.’

  ‘Day after tomorrow,’ he said with a little smile, studying me.

  ‘And what day is after tomorrow?’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘Well, on Friday could you bring me a Silver King from the city?’

  ‘Slow down, Zezé. What’s a Silver King?’

  ‘It’s the little white horse I saw at the cinema. Its owner is Fred Thompson. It’s a trained horse.’

  ‘You want me to bring you a little horse on wheels?’

  ‘No, sir. I want the sort with a wooden head and reins. That you stick a tail on and run around. I need to practise because later I’m going to work in films.’

  He laughed.

  ‘I see. And if I do, what’s in it for me?’

  ‘I’ll do something for you, sir.’

  ‘You’ll give me a kiss?’

  ‘I’m not big on kisses.’

  ‘A hug?’

  I looked at Uncle Edmundo and felt really sorry for him. The little bird inside me said something. And I remembered what I’d heard people say so many times, that Uncle Edmundo was separated from his wife and had five children. But he lived all on his own and walked so slowly … Maybe he walked slowly because he missed his children? And his children never came to visit him.

  I walked around the table and hugged him tight. I felt his white hair brush my forehead. It was really soft.

  ‘This isn’t for the horse. What I’m going to do is something else. I’m going to read.’

  ‘Come again, Zezé? You can read? Who taught you?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  I backed away and from the doorway I said, ‘Bring me my horse on Friday and you’ll see if I can read or not!’

  Later, when it was night time and Jandira lit the lantern because the power company had cut off the electricity because the bill hadn’t been paid, I stood on tiptoes to see the ‘star’. It was a picture of a star on a piece of paper with a prayer underneath it to protect the house.

  ‘Jandira, can you pick me up? I’m going to read that.’

  ‘Enough with the tall tales, Zezé. I’m busy.’

  ‘Pick me up and I’ll show you.’

  ‘Look, Zezé, if you’re up to something, you’ll be in trouble.’

  She picked me up and took me behind the door.

  ‘Go on, then, read. This I want to see.’

  Then I read, for real. I read the prayer that asked the heavens to bless and protect the house and to ward off evil spirits.

  Jandira put me down. Her mouth was open.

  ‘Zezé, you memorized that. You’re tricking me.’

  ‘I swear, Jandira. I can read everything.’

  ‘No one reads without having learned to. Was it Uncle Edmundo? Gran?’

  ‘No one.’

  She went to fetch a page from the newspaper and I read it without any mistakes
. She gave a little shriek and called Glória. Glória became nervous and went to get Alaíde. In ten minutes, a crowd of neighbours had gathered to see the phenomenon.

  That was what Totoca wanted me to tell him.

  ‘He taught you and promised you the horse if you learned.’

  ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘I’m going to ask him.’

  ‘Go ahead. I don’t know how to explain it, Totoca. If I did, I’d tell you.’

  ‘Then let’s go. You’ll see. When you need something …’

  He grabbed my hand angrily and began to drag me home. Then he thought of something to get revenge.

  Serves you right! You learned too soon, silly. Now you’ll have to start school in February.’

  It had been Jandira’s idea. That way the house would be peaceful all morning long and I’d learn some manners.

  ‘Let’s practise crossing the highway again. Don’t think that when you go to school I’ll be your nanny, taking you across all the time. If you’re so clever, you can learn this too.’

  * * *

  ‘Here’s the horse. Now, let’s see this.’

  He opened the newspaper and showed me a sentence in an ad for a medicine.

  ‘In all good pharmacies and drugstores,’ I read.

  Uncle Edmundo went to get Gran from the backyard.

  ‘Mother. He even read “pharmacies” correctly.’

  They both started giving me things to read and I read everything.

  Gran started muttering that all was lost.

  Uncle Edmundo gave me the horse and I hugged him again. Then he held my chin and, in a wavering voice, said, ‘You’re going to go far, you little monkey. It’s no accident your name’s José. You’ll be the sun, and the stars will shine around you.’

  I didn’t get it, and wondered if he really was a bit cuckoo.

  ‘That’s something you don’t understand. It’s the story of Joseph. I’ll tell you when you’re a bit bigger.’

  I was crazy about stories. The harder they were, the more I liked them.