Macunaíma, page 10
Ants aplenty and nobody’s healthy,
So go the ills of Brazil!
like I said . . . Next day Pauí-Pódole wanted to go live up in the sky so he wouldn’t suffer anymore from the ants of our land, so he did. He asked his lil compadre the firefly to light the way with his tiny green lantern shining bright. Cunavá the firefly, the compadre’s nephew, went ahead lighting the way for Camaiuá then asked his brother to go ahead lighting the way for him too. The brother asked his father, the father asked the mother, the mother asked her whole generation, the chief of police, the local sheriff and many many more, a whole cloud of fireflies went lighting the way for each other. Up they went, took a liking to it there, and going up and away one by one never did come back down from the vast field of the heavens. It’s that trail of light you can see from here shooting across space. Then Pauí-Pódole flew up to the sky and stayed there. My fine folks! those four stars ain’t the Cruzeiro—Southern Cross no way no how! It’s the Father of the Mutum! The Father of the Mutum! my fine folks! That’s the Father of the Mutum, Pauí-Pódole floating up there in the vast field of the Heavens! . . . And that’s all.”
Macunaíma stopped, clean worn out. Then there rose from the masses a lengthy murmur of joy making the folks twinkle even more, the fathers of birds fathers of fishes fathers of insects fathers of trees, all the folks they knew floating up there in the field of the heavens. And the contentment in that crowd of Paulistanos was immense as they cast wonderstruck eyes up at those folks, at all those fathers of the living, shining at home up there in the sky. And all those wonders were people at-first then afterward became the mysterious wonders who brought all the living beings into existence. And now they’re the little stars in the sky.
The people went away deeply moved, glad in their hearts full of explanations and full of the living stars. No one made a fuss anymore about Cruzeiro Day or the fountain machines mingling with the electric lamp machine. They went home to tuck sheepskins under the sheets since on account of playing with fire that night, they’d be sure to wet the bed. Everyone went to sleep. And darkness fell.
Macunaíma had stayed out there alone stock-still atop the statue. He too was feeling moved. He peered high up above. Southern Cross no way no how! That was Pauí-Pódole it was clear to see from here . . . And Pauí-Pódole was laughing at him, thanking him. Suddenly Pauí-Pódole let out a long screech sounding like a steam engine. It wasn’t a train but a screech and that breath blew out all the lights in the park. Then the Father of the Mutum waved a wing gently bidding the hero farewell. Macunaíma was about to thank him, but the bird took flight in a cloud of dust leaving a long streak spilling across the vast field of the heavens.
Chapter 11. Old Ceiuci
The next day the hero woke up very constipated. It was because in spite of the sweltering night he’d slept with his clothes on for fear of the Fogmull that comes to get anyone who sleeps naked. But he was all puffed up with pride from the success of his speech the day before. He waited impatiently for the fifteen days the ailment lasted eager to tell more stories to the people. However by the time he was feeling better it was early morning and he who tells tales by the light of day, grows a guinea pig tail straight away. That’s why he asked his brothers to come hunting, so they did.
When they got to the Bosque da Saúde the hero murmured:
“This’ll do.”
He left his brothers lying in wait, set a fire in the grove and hid with them in the bushes waiting for a deer to come out so he could catch it. But there weren’t any deer in there and when the flames died down, did the alligator come out? well, neither did any forest deer or caatinga deer, just two scorched rats. So the hero caught the two scorched rats, ate em and went back to the boarding house without calling his brothers.
When he got there he rounded up all the neighbors, servants the landlady womenfolk typists students civil-servants, lotsa civil-servants! all them neighbors and told em he’d gone hunting at the market on Arouche Square and killed two . . .
“. . . deer, no wait not forest deer, no it was two caatinga deer that me and my brothers ate. I even brought back a piece for you guys but see, I tripped on the corner, took a tumble dropped the bundle and a dog ate it up.”
Everybody was dumbfounded by what had happened and didn’t believe the hero one bit. When Maanape and Jiguê came home, the neighbors went to ask em if it was true that Macunaíma had caught two caatinga deer at the market on Arouche Square. The brothers got all bent out of shape cause they didn’t know how to lie and yelled in exasperation:
“Hold on what kinda deer was it! The hero ain’t never killed no deer! Weren’t no deer out there to hunt! He’s all bark and no bite, folks! Matter of fact it was two scorched rats that Macunaíma caught and ate.”
That’s when the neighbors realized it was all a pack of lies, got mad as heck and burst into the hero’s room demanding satisfaction. Macunaíma was tootling away on a little flute made from a papaya stem. He paused between breaths and whittled the flute’s mouth hole, looking mildly bemused:
“What’s this ragtag bunch doing in my room now! . . . It’s bad for your health, folks!”
They asked him:
“So what pray tell did you catch, hero?”
“Two forest deer.”
Then the servants womenfolk students civil-servants, all them neighbors started laughing at him. Macunaíma sat whittling away at the little flute’s mouth hole all the while. The landlady crossed her arms and scolded him:
“Come now, dearie, why on earth did you say it was two deer when it was really just two scorched rats?!”
Macunaíma fixed his eyes on her and answered:
“I lied.”
All the neighbors got sheepish and everyone went home feeling even-stevens. And Steven was a neighbor who always got a fair deal. Maanape and Jiguê exchanged looks, jealous of how intelligent their brother was. Maanape started in again:
“But why on earth did you lie, hero!”
“It wasn’t on purpose . . . I just wanted to tell em what happened to us and next thing you know I was lying . . .”
He tossed the flute aside, grabbed a ganzá shaker cleared his throat and sang to the beat. All the livelong afternoon he sang a ballad so mournful, oh so mournful, that his eyes streamed with tears at every verse. He stopped cause his sobs wouldn’t let him go on. He put down the ganzá. The view outside was the most sorrowful gloaming drenched in mist. Macunaíma felt most forlorn and his heart longed for the unforgettable Ci. He called his brothers over so they could take comfort together. Maanape and Jiguê sat next to him on the bed and the three talked a good while about the Mother of the Forest. And chasing away the blues they talked about the forests and plains rolling mists gods and treacherous banks of the Uraricoera. Up where they’d been born and had laughed together for the first time in their little macurus . . . Nestled in the maquiras past the clearing near the mocambo the guirá cuckoos would go on singing more than the day is long and they numbered over five hundred, the families of guirá . . . Near fifteen times a thousand animal species darkened the forest made of so many millions of trees well past counting . . . One time a white man had brought down from the land of the English, in a gothic saddlebag, the constipation that was now making Macunaíma cry his eyes out with longin’ . . . And the constipation had gone to live inside the lair of the dark black mumbuca ants. In the gloom the heat would ease up like getting out of water; to work you had to sing; our mother was laid facedown in a grassy knoll in a place called Father of the Tocandeira . . . Ah, just so lazy . . . And the three brothers could hear the murmuring Uraricoera so very close! Oh! life was good up there . . . The hero flung himself back on the bed sobbing.
When he didn’t feel like crying anymore, Macunaíma shooed the mosquitoes and wanted to take his mind off things. He remembered to insult the giant’s mother with a brand new swear word from Australia. He turned Jiguê into a telephone machine but his brother was still out of sorts from that whole rigamarole with the hero’s lies and there was no way to call. The apparatus was on the fritz. So Macunaíma smoked some paricá beans to have delectable dreams and slept soundly.
Next day he remembered he needed to get revenge on his brothers and decided to pull a fast one on them. He got up at the crack of dawn and went to go hide in the landlady’s bedroom. He played around to pass the time. Afterward he came back breathlessly telling his brothers:
“Hey brothers, I found some fresh tapir tracks right in front of the Commodities Exchange!”
“Say what, chicken butt!”
“Well I’ll be. Who’d a thunk it!”
Nobody had ever killed a tapir in the city before. The brothers were dumbfounded and went with Macunaíma to hunt the animal. They got there, started looking round for tracks and that wide world of folks wholesalers resellers shortsellers Matarazzos, seeing the three brothers hunched over the asphalt looking around, started searching too, that whole wide world of folks. They kept looking around looking around, didya find anything? neither did they! So they asked Macunaíma:
“So where exactly did you find those tapir tracks? Sure aren’t any round here!”
Macunaíma never stopped searching repeating all the while:
“Tetápe dzónanei pemonéite hêhê zeténe netaíte.”
And the brothers traders hawkers peddlers Magdalenes and Hunkies went back to looking around for tracks. When they got tired and stopped to ask questions, Macunaíma searching all the while would answer:
“Tetápe dzónanei pemonéite hêhê zeténe netaíte.”
And that whole wide world of folks kept looking. Night was fast approaching when they got discouraged and gave up. Then Macunaíma begged their pardon:
“Tetápe dzónanei pemo . . .”
They wouldn’t even let him finish, everybody asking what the heck that phrase was s’posed to mean. Macunaíma replied:
“Beats me. I learned those words at home when I was little.”
And everybody got all fired up. Macunaíma backed away playing dumb:
“Take it easy, folks! Tetápe hêhê! I didn’t say there are tapir tracks, nossir, I said there were! Now there’s not anymore.”
That was worse. One of the merchants really blew his lid and the reporter right next to him seeing the other guy in conniptions went positively apoplectic.
“This will not stand, nossir! Here we are busting our tails day in and day out just to put food on the table and along comes this wise guy bamboozling us out of a day’s work just to go chasing after some lousy tapir tracks!”
“But I didn’t ask anybody to go looking for tracks, young man, beg your pardon! It was my brothers Maanape and Jiguê who went around asking, not me! It’s their fault!”
Then the people who were already seething with rage turned on Maanape and Jiguê. It was everybody now, lotsa folks! all itching for a fight. Then a student jumped on the hood of a car and gave a speech denouncing Maanape and Jiguê. The people were in an uproar.
“My dear gentlemen, life in a great urban center such as São Paulo presently requires such relentless hard work that it can no longer permit even the most fleeting passage of innocuous beings amidst the magnificent intermeshing gears of its progress. We must rise up una voce against deleterious miasmas that sully our social organism and since the Government turns a blind eye and depletes the coffers of the Nation, we ourselves must become the enforcers of justice . . .”
“Lynch em! Lynch em!” the people started shouting.
“Lynching no way no how!” yelled Macunaíma, sticking up for his brothers.
And everybody turned on him again. Now they were in a downright uproar. The student went on to himself:
“. . . and when the honest work of the people is disrupted by a stranger . . .”
“What! who’re you calling a stranger!” hollered Macunaíma, offended to his depths.
“You!”
“Am not, so there!”
“Are too!”
“Hey mind your own beeswax, junior! Your dear old mother’s a goddamn stranger, ya hear!” then turning toward the people: “What’s got into your heads, huh? I ain’t scared, nossir! not of a single one a yous not of two not of ten thousand and right about now I’m gonna smash the whole lot to smithereens!”
One of the Magdalenes, who was standing right in front of the hero, turned to the merchant behind her and snapped:
“Get your paws off me, you shameless pig!”
The hero, blind with rage, thought she was talking to him and:
“Now it’s ‘get your paws off’! I ain’t tryna cop a feel on no one, you skinny ol’ busybody!”
“Lynch the creep! Stick it to him!”
“Come and get me, bastards!”
And he lunged into the mob. The lawyer tried to get away but Macunaíma shoved a foot in his back and charged into the crowd tripping and headbutting folks left and right. Suddenly he came face to face with a very good-looking tall blond man. And the man was a traffic cop. Macunaíma was furious at all that handsomeness and landed a savage blow square on the cop’s mug. The cop bellowed, saying something in a foreign language as he seized the hero by the scruff of the neck.
“You’re under arrrrest!”
The hero froze.
“Under arrest for what?”
The policeman replied with a buncha stuff in a foreign language and held on tight.
“I’m not doing anything!” the hero muttered fearfully.
But the cop didn’t wanna hear it and marched down the steep lane with all the people close behind. Another traffic cop showed up and the two of them said lotsa stuff, a whole lot! in a foreign language and kept shoving the hero down the hill. Someone who’d witnessed the whole thing recounted what happened to an old man standing in the doorway of a greengrocer and the old man was so indignant that he cut through the crowd and made the officers stop. They were already at Rua Líbero. Then the old man gave the coppers a whole speech, about how they shouldn’t throw Macunaíma in jail cause the hero hadn’t done a thing. A whole buncha traffic cops had gathered but none of em understood the speech cause none of em spoke a word of Brazilian. The women were all a-wailing feeling awful sorry for the hero. The cops were talking up a storm in a foreign language and a voice shouted:
“Oh no ya don’t!”
And once again the people were really spoiling for a brawl and from all sides now they started shouting: “Let him go!,” “Don’t take him away!,” “Oh no ya don’t!,” “Oh no ya don’t!,” a complete ruckus, “Let him go!” A farmer had a mind to give a speech insulting the Police. The traffic cops didn’t understand a word and kept gesticulating, confounded as all get out, yammering away in a foreign language. A fearsome riot broke out. Then Macunaíma took advantage of the mayhem and let his legs carry him willy-nilly! A trolley was coming round the bend bells a-clanging. Macunaíma hopped the moving trolley and went to see how the giant was doing.
Venceslau Pietro Pietra was now on the mend from the beating he’d taken during the Macumba ceremony. The house was sweltering cause it was time to cook polenta and it was nice and cool outside on account of the southern breeze. That’s why the giant with his old Ceiuci their two daughters and all the help brought some chairs out so they could sit by the front door and enjoy the fresh air. The giant was still swaddled up and looked just like a walking bale of cotton. They took a seat.
That kid Drizzle was going around misting up the neighborhood and ran into Macunaíma lurking on the corner. He stopped short gawking at the hero. Macunaíma turned around:
“Ain’t nothing to see here!”
“What the heck’re you doing there, buddy!”
“I’m scaring Piaimã the Giant and his family.”
Drizzle ribbed him:
“Come on! I’d like to see him get spooked by the likes of you!”
Macunaíma glared at the dropsied kid and got mad. He wanted to hit him but remembered by heart: “Any time you start losing your head, just count up your buttons three times instead,” so he counted and calmed back down. Then answered:
“Wanna bet? Just wait and see, I guarantee you Piaimã’s gonna run back inside scared as heck of me. Hide right over there so you can hear what they say.”
Drizzle warned:
“Hey, buddy, watch out for that giant! You know all too well what he’s capable of. Piaimã may be weak as weak can be right now, but it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie . . . If you’re really not scared, then it’s a bet.”
He turned into a droplet and dripped right past Venceslau Pietro Pietra along with his wife their daughters and all the servants. Then Macunaíma grabbed the first bad-word from his collection and threw it in Piaimã’s face. The cuss word slammed into him but Venceslau Pietro Pietra didn’t even bat an eye, just like an elephant. Macunaíma launched an even filthier profanity at the caapora crone. The insult slammed into her but didn’t bother nobody in the least. So then Macunaíma hurled his entire collection of dirty words and it was ten thousand times ten thousand dirty words. Venceslau Pietro Pietra said to his old Ceiuci, very softly:
