What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire?: A Novel by António Lobo Antunes Read Free Book Online Page A

pretending he was a visitor, was putting on a toothy, complicated smile calling my father madame, checking his chest for the mascara the clown wasn’t wearing, begging our pardon as the drops from his eyes stained the knot of his necktie, the mastiff with a bow nuzzled intimately against his legs and the man with graying hair was sort of begging, believe me, if it’s not too much to ask please believe me
    —I’ve never crossed paths with this beast in my life
    at Bico da Areia, in December, the rain mournful like that against the windowpanes, I’d watch the clouds arrive one by one, storming out of the east over the crest of the mountains, clouds afraid of their comrades, their friends, their wives
    —If it’s not too much to ask please believe us
    I went over to the window where the sea was close to the house, when the waves withdrew, a drowned horse on the beach and an albatross keeping watch over us from up above, the Gypsies tied the horse’s legs together with a rope, attached the rope to a van and dragged it off with the wind to the pine grove, my mother was leaning against the door after she’d covered the windows, fussing with some towels and with fear covering her face too, legs and arms tied together by the rope, the slippers and stockings left behind, the horse buried, my mother buried, and winter chasing me into the house, maybe it was the dwarf from Snow White or one of the bedsprings
    —He’s there
    they never discovered me, the springs on my father’s side where he’d be rumpling and smoothing out the quilt, checking the folds of his shirt, thinking there was a stain, protesting, bustling, checking his hair with cupped hands, everything in place father, don’t be so concerned about yourself, studying himself in profile with the posture of a bullfighter or an Egyptian frieze and no trace of a belly, father was satisfied
    did he quiet down?
    stop rumpling and smoothing out the quilt, returning to the stain that stood out on the cloth
    —I could have sworn that a scab
    once my mother’s buried who’s going to take care of me, feed me, put me to bed, not my father, always smoothing out the quilt, pushing away an invisible hair or feather, holding them up against the light, the suitcase on the step outside, the wardrobe open, the mirror toward the wall and yet we
    what a mess
    nowhere unless it’s here, when I’m in the mirror I’m far away and left-handed, I’m living among things in reverse, which don’t tell me anything, my name isn’t Paulo, the clown at the bus stop beyond the pine grove carrying the coat like a living thing, still checking to see that there was no stain, at Príncipe Real headdresses, top hats with satin ribbons, gold berets, plumes, not Rui during those days, Luciano, Tadeu, the skinny Indian clerk in a jewelry shop, motionless on the threshold watching Dona Helena, giving back the money to the man with graying hair
    —Keep this
    a voice I didn’t know, her lip quivering, what could there have been in her gestures
    —Be quiet
    I touched the headdress, pulling it down so as not to see it, only the floor and on the floor the ankles of the barefoot Indian, my mother at Bico da Areia rumpling the quilt without ever smoothing it, going to get some scissors in the dresser to cut it up, every twenty minutes the Lisbon bus would pass by on the highway and the rubble in the living room got more scattered, a dim bulb gave us the shadows that the scissors were cutting up, the shadow of the chandelier, the shadow of the dwarf
    —Cut up the dwarf, scissors
    the bulb grew brighter and the dwarf was whole even today, twenty years later, I’d smash him if I could on days when he had a cold Mr. Couceiro would fold up the newspaper like an accordion as little pieces dropped onto the floor, then he would open up the page and there was a string of people holding hands, the church clock fluttered through the curtain
    the curtain was all right, it was the clock that fluttered, its hands,