Macunaíma, page 17
So all the parrots flew off to eat corn up in the land of the English. But first they turned into parakeets so that way, they’d eat their fill and the parakeets would take the rap. The only parrot remaining was a chatterbox aruaí. Macunaíma consoled himself figuring, “The devil makes away with ill-gotten gains . . . so be it.” He spent his days wallowing in tedium and amused himself by making the bird repeat in his tribe’s language all the hero’s adventures starting from childhood. Ahhh . . . Macunaíma would yawn letting cashew fruit dribble out, sprawling languid in his hammock, hands making a pillow behind his head, the pair of leghorns perched on his feet and the parrot on his belly. Evening would fall. Fragrant with cashew fruit the hero would drift into a deep sleep. When dawn’s rays appeared the parrot would pull his beak from his wing and have breakfast gobbling up the spiders that would spin their night-time webs between the branches and the hero’s body. Afterward he’d say:
“Macunaíma!”
The sleepyhead wouldn’t move a muscle.
“Macunaíma! hey Macunaíma!”
“Lemme sleep, aruaí . . .”
“Wake up, hero! It’s day-time!”
“Oh . . . just so lazy! . . .”
“Ants aplenty and nobody’s healthy,
So go the ills of Brazil! . . .”
Macunaíma would burst into laughter and scratch his head full of red mites which are chicken-lice. Then the parrot would repeat the episode he’d learned the night before and Macunaíma would puff up with pride at all those past glories. He’d get real excited and start telling the aruaí an even more outlandish tale. And that’s how it went day after day.
Whenever Papaceia, who is the Evening Star, appeared telling every thing to go to sleep, the parrot would get all worked up at having the story break off right in the middle. One time he insulted Papaceia the star. Then Macunaíma told him:
“Don’t go insulting her, aruaí! Taína-Cã is good. Taína-Cã who is Papaceia the star takes pity on the Earth and orders Emoron-Pódole to grant the peace of sleep to all the things in this world that can have peace on account of not having thoughts the way we do. Taína-Cã is a person too . . . He used to twinkle up there in the vast field of the heavens and the oldest daughter of Zozoiaça, the morubixaba of the Carajá tribe, was an old maid named Imaerô who said:
“ ‘Father, Taína-Cã twinkles so handsomely that I want to be his wife.’
“Zozoiaça laughed heartily on account of he couldn’t possibly give Taína-Cã to his daughter in marriage. Well now, at night-time down the river came a piroga made of silver, a paddler got out, knocked on the bench by the doorway and said to Imaerô:
“ ‘I am Taína-Cã. I heard your wish and came down in a piroga made of silver. Marry me please!’
“ ‘Yes,’ said she, overjoyed.
“She let her betrothed have her hammock and went to go sleep with her younger sister named Denaquê.
“The next day when Taína-Cã leaped out the hammock everyone was thunderstruck. He was an old geezer all wrinkly wrinkly, trembling just like the light from Papaceia the star. Well now, Imaerô said:
“ ‘Get away, you geezer! You won’t see me marrying some old fogey! For me it’s gotta be a brave strong young man of the Carajá nation!’
“Taína-Cã felt so sad and blue so sad and blue and started pondering the injustice of men. However the youngest daughter of the morubixaba Zozoiaça took pity on the geezer and said:
“ ‘I’ll marry you.’
“Taína-Cã shimmered with pleasure. They were a match. Denaquê would sing night and day preparing her trousseau:
“ ‘Tomorrow at this hour, bah-doom-boom-boom . . .’
“Zozoiaça would answer:
“ ‘And me with your mother, bah-doom-boom-boom . . .’
“After all the fingers on your hands would be long gone, parrot, still waiting on a groom, they played around doing the dance of love in the hammock woven by Denaquê, bah-doom-boom-boom.
“No sooner was day breaking past the horizon, than Taína-Cã leaped from the hammock and told his gal:
“ ‘I’m going off to clear a field in the woods. Now you stay in the mocambo and don’t ever go spying on me out there.’
“ ‘Yes,’ said she.
“And she stayed in the hammock, ruminating pleasurably on that strange old-timer of hers who’d given her the most delightful night of love that folks can imagine.
“Taína-Cã cleared some trees, set fire to all the little ant macurus and tilled the land. Back then the Carajá nation still didn’t know about the good plants. Fish and game were all that the Carajá ate.
“As the next night came to a close Taína-Cã told his gal that he was going out to find seeds to sow and repeated the warning. Denaquê lay in the hammock a little longer, ruminating on the fierce delights from those nights of love that her dear old geezer had given her. And she went off to weave.
“Taína-Cã hopped up to the sky, went over to Berô the creek, said a prayer and placing a leg on either bank, kept a lookout for water. Soon enough there came seeds of cururuca corn, tobacco, manioc, all those good plants streaming along the bristling water. Taína-Cã gathered everything that went past, came down from the sky and went to sow the field. He was busting his tail in the Sun when Denaquê showed up. It was cause she was pining for her man who gave her such fierce delights on their nights of love. Denaquê gave a cry of joy. Taína-Cã wasn’t a geezer at all! Turns out Taína-Cã was a brave strong young man of the Carajá nation. They made a leafy mound of tobacco and manioc and played around romping under the Sun.
“When they got back to the mocambo laughing and laughing with each other, Imaerô flew into a tizzy. She screamed:
“ ‘Taína-Cã is mine! He came down from the sky for me!’
“ ‘Scram, you’re bad luck!’ said Taína-Cã. ‘When I wanted it you didn’t, so now go play with yourself!’
“And he climbed into the hammock with Denaquê. Most unhappy Imaerô sighed:
“ ‘Just wait till later, alligator, cause the whole lake’s gonna dry up! . . .’
“And she took off into the woods shrieking. She turned into the araponga bird that screams yellow with envy at the quiriri hush-hush of the diurnal forest.
“Ever since then, it’s thanks to the goodness of Taína-Cã that the Carajá have manioc and corn to eat and tobacco to liven them up.
“And whatever the Carajá needed, Taína-Cã would go up to the sky and bring it back. Well of course Denaquê, who wanted it all, started making eyes at every star in the sky! Yes indeed, and Taína-Cã who is Papaceia saw everything. He even got dewy with such sorrow, rounded up his odds and ends and went up to the vast field of the heavens. There he remained, nothing more did he bring, nossir. If Papaceia had kept on bringing things from the far side of yonder, heaven would be right here, all ours. Now it belongs only to our desires.
“And that’s all.”
The parrot was sound asleep.
One time after January came round Macunaíma woke late to the foreboding cry of the tincuã bird. However, the day was well underway and the heavy mist had already gone back to its hole . . . The hero shivered and clutched the magic amulet dangling from his neck, a little bone from a dead pagan boy. He looked around for the aruaí, who’d disappeared. Just the rooster and hen fighting over one last spider. The sweltering heat was so still, so immense that you could hear the glassy chime of the locusts. Vei, the Sun, slid down Macunaíma’s body, tickling him, now become a maiden’s hand. It was the vengeful mother’s wicked spite, all because the hero hadn’t married one of the daughters of light. The maiden’s hand came and slid oh so gently oh! down his body . . . Oh the desire that shot through his muscles perking up for the first time in so long! Macunaíma remembered that he hadn’t played around in ages. They say that cold water’s good for splashing away desire . . . The hero slid out his hammock, tore at the feathery cobwebs cloaking his whole body and heading down into the Vale of Tears, went to bathe in a nearby pond that the rainy season floods had turned into a big lagoon.
Macunaíma set the leghorns gently on the beach and went up to the water. The lagoon was all covered in gold and silver, then showed its face, revealing what lay in its depths. And way down deep Macunaíma caught sight of the loveliest girl, so very pale, and his desire ached even worse. And this loveliest of girls was the Uiara.
She swam up acting like she couldn’t care less, frolicking, winking at the hero, as if to say, “Get away, young master!” and backed away frolicking like she couldn’t care less. It filled the hero with such immense desire that his whole body expanded and his mouth watered:
“Mani! . . .”
Macunaíma wanted the lady. He dipped his big toe in the water and in a flash the lagoon covered its face again in strands of gold and silver. Macunaíma felt the water’s chill, pulled his toe out.
So it went over and over. The day was reaching its peak and Vei was seething with rage. She’d been hoping Macunaíma would fall into the treacherous arms of the lagoon maiden and there was the hero afraid of the cold. Vei knew that the maiden was no maiden at all, it was the Uiara. And the Uiara swam up frolicking again. What a beauty she was! . . . Dark-haired and rosy-cheeked just like the face of day and just like the day ever encircled by night, her face was swirled about by short hair as black black as the wings of the graúna. Her sharp profile possessed a nose so dainty it wasn’t any good for breathing. Yet since she only showed her front and backed away without turning Macunaíma didn’t see the hole in her nape through which the perfidious creature breathed. And the hero hesitating, do-I-or-don’t-I. Sun lost her temper. She grabbed an armadillo-tail whip made of heat and slashed at the hero’s back. The lady over there, so they say, started opening her arms wide revealing her charm closing her eyes languidly. Macunaíma felt flames down his spine, shuddered, took aim, flung himself right on top of her, thwap! Vei wept in triumph. Her tears fell into the lagoon in showers of gold upon gold. It was the peak of day.
When Macunaíma made it back ashore it was clear that he’d had quite a tussle down in those depths. He lay facedown for a spell, his life hanging on each ragged breath. He was bleeding and bitten all over, missing his right leg, missing his big toes and his Bahian-coconuts, missing his ears his nose all his treasures. Finally he managed to get up. When he took stock of all that he’d lost he was furious at Vei. The hen clucked as she laid an egg on the beach. Macunaíma grabbed it and hurled it into the Sun’s smug fat face. The egg went splat across her cheeks staining them yellow forevermore. The afternoon waned.
Macunaíma sat on a rock slab that had once been a jabuti tortoise in olden times and went counting up all the treasures he’d lost underwater. And it was a whole lot, it was a leg his big toes, his Bahian-coconuts, his ears his two earrings made from the Patek Philippe machine and the Smith & Wesson machine, his nose, all those treasures . . . The hero jumped up with a cry that cut short the day. The piranhas had also eaten his lower lip and the muiraquitã! He went crazy.
He uprooted a mountain of timbó açacu tingui cunambi, all those plants, and poisoned the lagoon forevermore. All the fish died and went floating belly-up, blue bellies yellow bellies rosy bellies, all those bellies coloring the lagoon’s cheek. It was late-afternoon.
Then Macunaíma gutted all those fish, all the piranhas and all the river dolphins, groping around for the muiraquitã in that mess of bellies. It was one helluva bloodbath flowing over the earth and everything was stained with blood. It was night-fall.
Macunaíma went searching searching. He found his two earrings found his toes found his ears his nuqiiris his nose, all those treasures, and stuck them all back in their places with sapé grass and fish glue. But neither his leg nor the muiraquitã turned up, nossir. They’d been swallowed by the Ururau Gator Monster that can’t be killed by any club or timbó. The blood had congealed to black all over the beach and lagoon. And it was night-time.
Macunaíma went searching searching. He burst into such cries of lament the clamor cut down to size that whole bevy of beasts. Not a thing. The hero crossed the field, jumping on his one leg. He shouted:
“My memento! Lone memento of my she-devil true! Not a thing do I see, not her not you!”
And he hopped along. Tears dropped from his little blue eyes onto the little white flowers in the field. The little flowers were stained blue and became forget-me-nots. The hero couldn’t go on, stopped short. He crossed his arms in such heroic despair that everything expanded in space to contain the silence of that suffering. Just one measly little mosquito bedeviled the hero’s misery even more, buzzing ever so faintly: “I came from Minas . . . I came from Minas . . .”
And so Macunaíma no longer took a shine to this land. A brand new Capei was gleaming up there in the glittering mineral sky. Macunaíma deliberated, still a bit undecided, unsure whether to go live up in the sky or on the Isle of Marajó. For a moment he even considered living in the city of Pedra with the indefatigable Delmiro Gouveia, but couldn’t muster the verve. To go live there, just the way he’d lived before was impossible. It was indeed for this very reason that he no longer took a shine to this Earth . . . All of his existence, in spite of so many adventures so much playing around so many illusions so much suffering so much heroism, in the end had amounted to no more than just drifting through life; and to settle down in Delmiro’s city or on the Isle of Marajó which belong to this Earth, there had to be a purpose. And he didn’t have the gumption to get things off the ground. He made up his mind:
“Nothing doing! . . . When the vulture’s down on his luck, the one at rock bottom craps on the top, this world’s lost its spark so I’m headed for the sky!”
He was headed up to the heavens to live with his she-devil. He was off to be the pretty but useless twinkle of yet another constellation. It wasn’t so bad being a useless twinkle, not at all, at least it was the same as all that kin, as all the forefathers of all the living beings of his land, mothers fathers brothers sisters-in-law women girlies, all those familiar folks who now go on living in the useless twinkle of the stars.
He planted a seed of the matamatá vine, child-of-the-moon, and as the vine grew he grabbed a sharp itá and wrote on the slab that had once been a jabuti tortoise way back in olden times:
I DIDN’T COME INTO THIS WORLD TO BE A STONE
The plant had already grown tall and was clinging to a tip of Capei. The one-legged hero looped his arm through the leghorns’ cage and went climbing up to the heavens. He sang mournfully:
Let us say goodbye,
—Taperá,
Like the swallow who knew best,
—Taperá,
Took wing to the sky,
—Taperá,
A lone feather in the nest.
—Taperá . . .
After making it up there he knocked at Capei’s maloca. The Moon came down to the yard and asked:
“What d’ya want, saci?”
“Dear Godmother bless me please, wontcha gimme some bread and cheese?”
Then Capei saw that it wasn’t the one-legged saci at all, it was Macunaíma the hero. But she didn’t want to give him lodging, remembering the hero’s former stench. Macunaíma blew his stack. He socked the Moon in her face a whole buncha times. That’s why she’s got those dark spots on her face.
Then Macunaíma went knocking at the home of Caiuanogue, the morning star. Caiuanogue came to the little window to see who it was and befuddled by the black of night and the hero’s one-legged hopping, asked:
“What d’you want, saci?”
But she soon realized that it was Macunaíma the hero and didn’t so much as wait for an answer remembering how much he really stank.
“Go take a bath!” she said shutting the window.
Macunaíma blew his stack again and shouted:
“Let’s take it to the street, you lowlife scum!”
Caiuanogue was scared outta her wits, shaking as she peered through the keyhole. That’s how come that pretty little star is such a pipsqueak and shivers so much.
Then Macunaíma went knocking at the home of Pauí-Pódole, Father of the Mutum. Pauí-Pódole was mighty fond of him since Macunaíma had defended him from that most mulatto of all mulattos during the Cruzeiro celebration. But he yelled:
“Aw, hero, you piped up too late! Would’ve been a great honor to welcome into my humble fly-trap a descendant of the jabuti tortoise, the first race of them all . . . In the beginning the Great Jabuti was all that existed in this life . . . It was he who in the silence of night plucked from his belly a man and his woman. They were the first living so-and-so’s and the first folks of your tribe . . . After that came the others. You got here too late, hero! We already make twelve and with you it’d be thirteen at the table. Awful sorry, but there’s no use crying over it!”
“Too bad, so sad, I’m glad!” the hero yelled.
Then Pauí-Pódole felt bad for Macunaíma. He cast a spell. He took three sticks and tossed em up high making a cross and turned Macunaíma and his whole kit and caboodle, rooster hen cage revolver watch and all, into a brand new constellation. That constellation is Ursa Major.
They say it was a German professor, naturally, who went around claiming that Ursa Major was the saci on account of having just one leg . . . No way, no how! Saci’s still hopping around this world setting fires and braiding together the manes of wild colts . . . Ursa Major is Macunaíma. Yes indeed it’s that one-legged hero who suffered so much in this land where ants come plenty and nobody’s healthy, that he got fed up with it all, took off and goes drifting around brooding all by his lonesome up there in the vast field of the heavens.
Epilogue
Now ends the story and death comes for glory.
There was nobody left round there. The Tapanhumas tribe had got jinxed and its children dropped off one by one. There was nobody left round there. Those places those meadows waterways woodcutter trails tracks tricky ravines, those mysterious forests, all was desert solitude. An immense silence slumbered along the riverbanks of the Uraricoera.
