Macunaíma, page 14
“Off went her eyes and the black tiger was blind. Aimalá-Pódole was out there and thwap! swallowed up the tiger’s eyes. Palauá had a bad feeling that was gonna happen cause the Father of the Traíra was giving off a mighty strong smell. She was fixing to bolt. However the black tiger who was mighty ferocious had a notion she was about to split and said to the puma:
“ ‘Hold on a sec, sister!’
“ ‘Dontcha know I gotta go rustle up dinner for my cubs, comadre. Alright, till next time.’
“ ‘First make my eyes come back, sister, I’ve had my fill of the dark.’
“Palauá cried:
“ ‘Come back from the seashore, yellow eyes o’ my sister the tiger, fast as fast can be!’
“But the eyes didn’t come back, nossir, and the black tiger was fury itself.
“ ‘Now I’m gonna swallow you whole, sister!’
“And she chased after the puma. They streaked through the woods in such a mad dash that eeek! the little birds went itty bitty teeny tiny with fright and the night had such a bad scare that she got paralyzed. That’s why whenever it’s day-time up in the treetops, down in the woods it’s always night. The poor thing can’t move anymore . . .
“After Palauá ran a league and a half she looked back clear worn out. The black tiger was getting close. Well now, Palauá made it to a mountain called Ibiraçoiaba and happened upon a giant anvil, the very one that belonged to the foundry of Afonso Sardinha back in the beginnings of Brazilian life. Next to the anvil were four abandoned wheels. So then Palauá strapped em to her paws so she could glide without too much effort and, so they say: she gave the slip again, off like a shot! The puma covered a league and a half in the blink of an eye but the tiger was hot on her heels and gaining fast. They kicked up such a ruckus that the little birds got itty bitty teeny tiny with fright and the night grew even heavier on account of she couldn’t move. And the clamor got even spookier with the nightjar a-moaning . . . The nightjar is the Father of the Night, youngsters, and he was wailing over his daughter’s misery.
“Hunger gnawed at Palauá. That tiger right on her tail. But Palauá just couldn’t go on running like that with her stomach all tied up in knots, now then, a ways up ahead just as she was speeding past the sandbar off Boipeba Island where the Wicked One dwells, she saw a motor close by and swallowed it whole. No sooner did the motor plop into the puma’s belly than the poor thing got a second wind and shot off like blazes. She made it a league and a half and looked back. Just like that the black tiger was practically pouncing on her. The darkness was so thick on account of the night’s melancholy, you had to see it, that right before the edge of a ravine the puma ran smack into a hillside, and by the skin of her teeth, that was nearly the last of Palauá! Well now, she scooped up two great big fireflies in her mouth and held em in her jaws to light the way ahead. No sooner had she gone another league and a half than she looked back. That there tiger breathing down her neck. It was on account of the puma was giving off a mighty strong smell and that blind varmint had the nose of a bloodhound. Well now, Palauá guzzled some castor oil laxative, got a can of that substance known as gasoline, dumped it in her X and off she went vroomvroom! vroom! just like one a them pooting donkeys. The racket was so loud you couldn’t even hear the ghostly tinkling of plates breaking over on Whistler Mountain. The black tiger was completely discombobulated on account of she was blind and couldn’t pick up her comadre’s stink anymore. Palauá ran a ton more and looked back. She didn’t see the tiger. And she couldn’t run no more neither with all that heat steaming out her nostrils. Close by was a whopping banana grove on a swampy spit of land, cause by then Palauá had made it all the way to the port of Santos. Well now, the creature poured some sluggish water into her muzzle and cooled down. Then she hacked off a humongous banana leaf and hid underneath, draping the leaf over her like a great big cape. She fell asleep like that. The black tiger who was mighty ferocious even passed right by, not a peep from the puma. And the other feline passed awful close without even sensing her comadre’s presence. Then the puma was so afraid that she never did let go of all the things that helped her escape. She roams all around with wheels on her paws, a motor in her belly, castor oil in her gullet, water in her nostrils, gasoline in her derriere, those two great big fireflies in her mouth, with that banana leaf cape on top, holy moly! ready to take off like a shot. Specially if she steps on a line of what they call taxi ants and a little guy marches up her shiny fur and bites her ear, whoa! she’ll shoot off faster’n God Almighty! . . . And she even took up a funny name to disguise herself even more. It’s the automobile machine.
“But on account of drinking that sluggish water Palauá got all foggy-headed. Owning an automobile makes you foggy in the head, youngsters.
“They say later on the puma gave birth to an enormous litter. She had sons and daughters. Some boy cubs some girl cubs. That’s why we call a Ford a ‘he’ and a Chevy a ‘she’ . . .
“And that’s all.”
Macunaíma stopped. Gut emotion wailed from the mouths of the youngsters. The cool air floated belly-up over the water. The young man dunked his head to hide his tears and brought back a tambiú in his teeth, its tail flapping like crazy. He shared the snack with the girl. Then over by the front door a Fiat puma opened its maw and roared at the moon:
“Awooga! Awooga!”
A formidable din was heard and the air seized up with the overpowering stench of fish. It was Venceslau Pietro Pietra arriving. The driver sprang up and so did the maid. They held out their hands to Macunaíma, inviting him along:
“Mr. Giant’s back home from his trip, shall we all go see how he is?”
So they did. They came upon Venceslau Pietro Pietra at the front gate chatting with a reporter. The giant chuckled at the three of em and said to the driver:
“Shall we go in?”
“Sure thing!”
Piaimã had pierced ears on account of his earrings. He stuck one of the young man’s legs in his right ear, the other in his left and carried the boy on his back. They crossed the park and went in the house. Right smack in the middle of the entry hall paneled in acapu and furnished with couches woven out of titica vines by a German Jew from Manaus, you could see an enormous hole with a japecanga vine swing over it. Piaimã sat the boy on the vine and asked if he wanted to swing for a bit. The boy nodded. Piaimã sent him swingalinging, then yanked all of a sudden. Japecangas have thorns . . . The thorns dug into the chauffeur’s flesh and blood started flowing into the hole.
“Okay! that’s enough for me!” cried the chauffeur.
“Swing, I say!” answered Piaimã.
The blood was flowing. The giant’s ol’ caapora crone was standing under the hole and the blood was dripping into a vat of pasta that she was making for her sweetie. The young man moaned on the swing:
“If only Mama and Papa were here godwillin’, I wouldn’t be stuck in the hands of this villain! . . .”
Then Piaimã gave the vine a mighty yank and the boy fell into the pasta sauce.
Venceslau Pietro Pietra went to fetch Macunaíma. The hero was already laughing with the little maid. The giant said to him:
“Shall we go in?”
Macunaíma stretched his arms whispering:
“Ah! . . . just so lazy! . . .”
“C’mon let’s go! . . . Shall we?”
“Sure alright . . .”
Then Piaimã did the same to him as he did to the chauffeur, carrying the hero upside down on his back with his feet stuck through the holes in his ears. Macunaíma aimed his blowgun and riding upside how he was, it was like watching a sharpshooter at the circus, hitting his target right in the peanuts. The giant got real irritated turned round and saw what was going on.
“Cut that out, my noble countryman!” he said.
He took the blowgun and hurled it away. Macunaíma grabbed all the branches that brushed past his hands.
“Hey what’re you doing?” asked the giant suspiciously.
“Can’t you see those branches are hitting me in the face!”
Piaimã turned the hero right side up. Then Macunaíma tickled the giant’s ears with the branches. Piaimã howled with laughter and hopped in delight.
“Quit pestering me, my noble countryman!” he went.
They got to the entry hall. Under the stairs was a golden cage full of little songbirds. And the giant’s songbirds were snakes and lizards. Macunaíma leaped into the cage and started eating snakes on the sly. Piaimã called him over to the swing but Macunaíma was swallowing snakes counting:
“Five to go . . .”
And he swallowed another varmint. Finally the snakes were all gone and the hero burst furiously out of the cage right foot first. Seething with rage he glared at the muiraquitã robber and growled:
“Grrr . . . just so lazy!”
But Piaimã insisted the hero have a go.
“I don’t even really know how to swing . . . You better go first,” Macunaíma growled.
“Fat chance, hero! It’s easy as pie! Just giddyup on that japecanga ’n go: I’m a-swinging!”
“Okay I’ll go but you first, giant.”
Piaimã insisted, but he kept telling the giant to go first. So then Venceslau Pietro Pietra got up on the vine and Macunaíma swung him harder and harder. He sang:
Rock-a-bye, captain,
O captain, my captain,
Sword at his waist and
Steed in his hand!
He yanked hard. The thorns pierced the giant’s flesh and blood gushed out. The caapora crone down below didn’t know all that blood was coming from her giant and she caught the downpour in the pasta. The sauce was getting thicker.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Piaimã.
“Swing, I say!” Macunaíma replied.
He swung till the giant was dizzy as can be then gave the japecanga vine a tremendous yank. It was cause he’d eaten snakes and was a raging ball of fury. Venceslau Pietro Pietra fell into the hole bellowing in singsong:
“Ding dong ding . . . if I get outta this thing, I won’t eat anyone ever again!”
He caught sight of the steaming pasta below and bellowed at it:
“Outta the way or else I’ll swallow you whole!”
But did the alligator get outta the way? neither did that pot! The giant fell into the boiling pasta and such a powerful stench of cooked leather wafted into the air that every last sparrow in the city dropped dead and the hero keeled over. Piaimã put up a good fight and was now hanging on by a thread. With a gargantuan effort he lifted himself from the bottom of the vat. He swatted away the noodles streaming down his face, rolled his eyes upward, licked his bristling mustache:
“IT NEEDS CHEESE!” he shouted . . .
And breathed his last.
That was the end of Venceslau Pietro Pietra who was Piaimã the Giant, eater of men.
When Macunaíma came to, he went to fetch the muiraquitã and took the trolley machine back to the boarding house. And he sobbed a-wailing like this:
“Muiraquitã, muiraquitã of my lovely, you’re all I see, but where oh where is she! . . .”
Chapter 15. Oibê’s Innards
And so the three brothers returned to their native birthplace.
They were pleased as punch but the hero was happiest of all since he possessed those feelings that only a hero can: an immense satisfaction. They set off. While crossing Jaraguá Peak, Macunaíma turned round contemplating the mighty city of São Paulo. He ruminated mournfully a long while and in the end shook his head murmuring:
“Ants aplenty and nobody’s healthy, so go the ills of Brazil . . .”
He dried his tears, steadied his quivering bottom lip. Then he cast a caborje spell: waving his arms in the air he turned that gigantic taba into a sloth made entirely of stone. They set off.
After much deliberation, Macunaíma had spent every last penny on what thrilled him most from the Paulista civilization. He took with him a Smith & Wesson revolver a Patek Philippe watch and a pair of leghorn chickens. Macunaíma had made the revolver and watch into earrings and carried a cage with the hen and rooster. Not one red cent was left from all his lottery winnings but there swingalinging from his pierced bottom lip was the muiraquitã.
And on account of it the going was easy. There they went rolling down the Rio Araguaia and when Jiguê paddled Maanape would steer with his little oar. They were feeling real lucky-duck again. Meanwhile Macunaíma sat ready for action in the bow, taking note of all the bridges that needed to be built or repaired in order to better the lives of the people of Goiás. After night-fall, catching sight of the flickering lights of drowned folk dancing a mellow samba across the flooded marshlands, Macunaíma sat gazing gazing and fell sound asleep. He sprang wide awake the next day and standing tall in the bow of the igarité with his left arm looped through the birdcage handle, he strummed his little guitar singing his cares to the world belting out his longing for his native land, like this:
Antianti the tapejara guides us,
—Pirá-fish hey hey,
Ariramba the cook feeds us,
—Pirá-fish hey hey,
Taperá, where’s our long-lost tapera
Home on the banks of the Uraricoera?
—Pirá-fish hey hey . . .
And his gaze went skimming skimming along the surface of the river seeking his childhood homeland. Down the river they went and every whiff of fish every cluster of craguatá every single everything sent a jolt of excitement through him and the hero sang his cares to the world like a madman improvising dueling ballads and nonsense medleys:
Taperá tapejara,
—Caboré,
Arapaçu paçoca,
—Caboré,
C’mon brothers, let’s light out for
The banks of the Uraricoera!
—Caboré!
The Araguaia’s waters went murmuring along coaxing the igarité on course with its soft crooning and from a long ways off came the lyrical siren song of the uiaras. Vei, the Sun, lashed at the sweat-slicked backs of Maanape and Jiguê as they paddled and at the hero’s hairy body as he stood there. The sweltering heat fanned the flames of delirium in the trio. Macunaíma remembered that he was Emperor of the Virgin-Forest. He gestured fiercely at the Sun, shouting:
“Eropita boiamorebo!”
All at once the sky went dark and a reddening cloud rose up from the horizon, dusking over the calm of day. The reddening came closer came closer and it was that flock of scarlet macaws and jandayas, all them chatterboxes, it was the trumpeter-parrot it was the yellow-faced parrot it was the bobtail parakeet it was the xarã the purple-breasted parrot the blue-fronted ajuru-curau the ajuru-curica arari ararica araraúna araraí araguaí arara-taua maracanã maitaca ararapiranga catorra teriba camiranga anaca anapura blue-and-gold macaws blue-winged parrotlets parakeets galore, all of em, that bright-dappled cortege of Macunaíma the emperor. And all them chatterboxes formed a canopy of squawking and wings shielding the hero from the Sun’s vengeful spite. It was such a clamor of waters gods and birdies that nothing else whatsoever could be heard and the igarité came to a near standstill in bewilderment. But every so often Macunaíma would gesture fiercely at everything, spooking the leghorns as he hollered:
“There once was a brown cow that went moo, whoever talks first has to eat up its poo! Ring-a-ding stop!”
The world went mute not uttering a peep and the silence slackened the sultry air in the shade of the igarité. And far far away faintly faintly you could hear the babbling Uraricoera. And it got the hero all the more excited. The little guitar twanged on. Macunaíma would hock and spit in the river and as the sinking gobs transformed into sickening little matamatá turtles, the hero sang his cares to the world like a madman with no clue what the heck he was singing, like this:
Panapaná pá-panapaná,
Panapaná pá-panapanema:
Boop-oop-a-doop on the poop-oop-a-doop,
—Lil sister,
On the banks of the Uraricoera!
Afterward the yawning-night swallowed up all the clamoring and the world went to sleep. The only one left was Capei, the Moon, big and fat, chubby-cheeked just like one of them Polack broads after one of them nights, hoo boy! all that gleeful getting up to no good all pretty girls and all that caxiri! . . . Then Macunaíma was struck with longing for all that had happened in that great big Paulistano taba. He saw all those ladies with skin so very pale who he’d played husband and wife with, what good times! . . . He whispered sweetly, “Mani! Mani! little daughters of manioc! . . .” His bottom lip started quivering from so much emotion that the muiraquitã just about fell in the river. Macunaíma stuck the tembetá back in his lip. Then he thought very solemnly about the muiraquitã’s mistress, that vixen, that delectable hellcat who used to beat him up so bad, Ci. Ah! Ci, Mother of the Forest, that she-devil who’d become unforgettable on account of making him sleep in a hammock woven out of her hair! . . . “When far and away true loves must part, long is the labor for the suffering heart . . .” he cogitated. What a bewitching she-devil! . . . And she was drifting around brooding up there in the field of the heavens in high style all done up roaming around playing with who only knows . . . He got jealous. Flinging his arms in the air and spooking the leghorns he prayed to the Father of Love:
Rudá! Rudá!
Thou who art in the heavens above
And sendest forth the rains to us.
Rudá! make it so that my beloved,
For as many lovers as she may take,
Finds that they all wimp out!
Awaken in that she-devil
Longin’ for her he-devil!
Make her remember me tomorrow
When the Sun goes down in the west! . . .
He gazed hard at the sky. There was no sign of Ci up above, just Capei, that fatty, hogging everything. The hero lay down in the igarité, used the cage for a pillow and fell asleep among the black flies no-see-ums skeeters.
