Macunaíma, page 6
Then Piaimã told the French lady that he was a celebrated collector, he collected stones. And the French lady was Macunaíma, the hero. Piaimã confided that the jewel of his collection was precisely the muiraquitã in the shape of an alligator purchased for a thousand contos from the Empress of the Icamiabas on the faraway beaches of Lake Jaciuruá. And it was a whole pack of lies made up by the giant. Now then, he sidled up to the French lady in the hammock, right up close! and murmured that with him it was all or nothing, he wouldn’t let the stone go up for sale or out on loan but he just might be liable to give it away . . . “So long as . . .” What the giant really wanted was to play around with the French lady. When the hero understood from Piaimã’s manner what this “so long as” meant, he got real nervous. He wondered, “Does the giant actually think I’m a French lady?! . . . Get away, you shameless Peruvian!” And dashed out into the garden. The giant chased after him. The French lady dove into a bush to hide but there was a little black girl there. Macunaíma whispered to her:
“Caterina, get outta there wontcha?”
Caterina wouldn’t budge. Macunaíma, getting cross with her, whispered:
“Caterina, get outta there or I’ll hit you!”
The little mulatta just stood there. Then Macunaíma gave the brat a hearty slap and his hand stuck fast.
“Caterina, let go my hand and get outta here or I’ll slap you silly, Caterina!”
But Caterina was a doll made of carnaúba palm wax that the giant had put there. She stood stock-still. Macunaíma slapped her again with his free hand and got stuck even worse.
“Caterina, Caterina! let go my hands and get outta here you nappyhead! or else I’ll kick you!”
He kicked her and got stuck even worse. Eventually the hero got all tangled up in the little Catita. Then Piaimã showed up with a basket. He plucked the French lady from the trap and bellowed to the basket:
“Open your mouth, basket, open your big mouth!”
The basket opened its mouth and the giant dumped Macunaíma inside. The basket shut its mouth again, Piaimã brought it back home. Instead of a purse the French lady had been carrying a mênie quiver for blowgun darts. The giant set the basket down by the front door and went in the house to stash the mênie with his stone collection. But the mênie was made from cloth that reeked of game. This made the giant suspicious and he asked:
“Is your mama as plump and sweet-smelling as you, my pet?”
And rolled his eyes in delight. He reckoned that the mênie was the French lady’s little tot. And the French lady was the hero Macunaíma. From inside the basket he heard the question and started getting exceedingly nervous. “So does this Venceslau guy really think I went under nature’s rainbow and came out the other way? Get thee back, for crissake!” Then he blew on some cumacá root powder that frays rope, frayed the basket, and hopped out. While getting away he ran into the giant’s mangy mutt Xaréu, named after a fish so he wouldn’t catch hydrophobia. The hero was scared outta his wits and sped off like a shot into the park. The hound chased after him. They ran and ran. They passed right by Calabouço Point, headed for Guajará Mirim then veered east again. Macunaíma made it to Itamaracá with just enough time to eat a dozen jasmine-mangos said to have sprung from the body of Dona Sancha. The two headed southwest and in the highlands of Barbacena the fugitive spotted a cow at the top of a steep lane paved with pointy cobblestones. He remembered to drink some milk. He was wise to stride up the middle of the flagstone path so he wouldn’t get worn out but the cow was that feisty Guzerat breed. She hid her meager milk. But Macunaíma said a prayer that went like this:
Our Lady, give me strength,
Oh Saint Anthony of Nazareth,
Meek cows give their milk with ease,
Feisty ones, only if they please!
The cow was tickled, gave him some milk, and the hero shot off toward the south. Crossing Paraná already on his way back from the Pampas, he was itching to climb one of those trees but there came that yipping hot on his tail and gaining fast and the hero just couldn’t shake that mangy mutt. He yelled:
“Outta my way, tree!”
And dodged every nut tree, every pau-d’arco, every cumaru good for climbing. Just past the city of Serra in Espírito Santo he nearly busted his head on a rock carved with lotsa paintings he couldn’t understand. It had to be buried money . . . But Macunaíma was in a hurry and darted off to the sandy riverbanks of the Isle of Bananal. Finally he spotted an anthill a hunnerd feet tall with an opening on the ground floor. He barged his way in wriggling up the hole and hid at the top. The mangy mutt sat back on its haunches ready to pounce.
Then the giant came and found his mutt cornering the anthill. The French lady had accidentally dropped a silver chain right at the entrance. “My precious treasure is here,” the giant murmured. And then the mutt vanished. Piaimã yanked up an inajá palm roots and all, not a trace in the ground. He chopped the root bulb off the tree and stuck it in the hole to make the French lady come out. But did the alligator come out? neither did she! She opened her legs and the hero got impaled on the inajá, so they say. Seeing that the French lady really wasn’t coming out, Piaimã went to get some pepper. He brought back a whole swarm of anaquilã ants, which is pepper for giants, stuck them in the hole, they stung the hero. But that didn’t even make the French lady come out. Piaimã swore vengeance. He chucked the ants away and yelled at Macunaíma:
“Now I’m really gonna get you cause I’m gonna find Elitê the jararaca viper!”
This made the hero freeze. Ain’t nothing you can do against the jararaca viper. He hollered at the giant:
“Hold on a sec, giant, I’m coming out.”
However to buy some time he pulled the pointy banana flowers from his chest and put them at the mouth of the hole saying:
“But first take this out, pretty please.”
Piaimã was so steaming mad that he hurled the banana flowers into the distance. Macunaíma kept a close eye on the giant’s temper.
He took off the décolleté machine, placed it at the mouth of the hole, saying once more:
“Take this out, pretty please.”
Piaimã flung the dress even farther. Then Macunaíma put the girdle machine out, then the shoes machine and so on with the rest of the clothes. At this point the giant was seething with rage. He tossed everything into the distance without even looking at what it was. Then ever so gently the hero put his yessiree-bob at the mouth of the hole and said:
“Now just take this last stinky gourd out for me.”
Blind with rage Piaimã grabbed the yessiree-bob without seeing what it was and hurled the yessiree-bob, hero and all, a league and a half away. And he stood there waiting endlessly while the hero was already gaining the mororó trees in the distance.
He made it back to the boarding house in a doozy, asking the dog’s blessing and calling the cat uncle, you had to see it! sweating buckets all banged up with fire in his eyes, huffing and puffing his lungs out. He took a breather and seeing as he was hungry enough to eat a horse, slapped together some baked mussels from Maceió, dried duck from Marajó and washed it all down with mocororó. He rested a spell.
Macunaíma was very upset. Venceslau Pietro Pietra was a celebrated collector and he wasn’t. He was sweating with envy and finally made up his mind to do like the giant. But he didn’t see any fun in collecting stones cause his land already had a whole crapload of em scattered throughout the towering peaks, in mountain springs rushing rapids rugged passes and alpine deposits. And all those stones had once been wasps ants mosquitoes ticks animals birdies folks ladies and girlies and even the charms of the ladies and girlies . . . What good is more stones when all they do is weigh you down! . . . He stretched his arms languidly and murmured:
“Ah! just so lazy! . . .”
He mulled it over mulled it over and made up his mind. He’d make a collection of bad-words which he liked so much.
He got right down to business. In a split-second he gathered zillions of em in all the living tongues and even in the Greek and Latin languages that he’d been studying a bit. His Italian collection was complete, with words for every time of day, every day of the year, every single life circumstance and human sentiment. Every foul mouthful! But the jewel of his collection was a phrase from India that you can’t even say.
Chapter 7. Macumba
Macunaíma was very upset. He hadn’t managed to recover the muiraquitã and this made him furious. Best thing to do was go kill Piaimã . . . So he left the city and went out to the So-and-So Forest to test his strength. He searched for a league and a half and finally spotted a peroba tree that went on and on. He stuck his arm into the massive tangle of roots and heaved with all his might to see if he could yank out the tree but only the wind rustled the leaves at the tippy top. “Nope, ain’t strong enough yet,” Macunaíma reckoned. Seizing a tooth from a little rat called crô, he made a big gash in his leg, as prescribed for weaklings, and headed back to the boarding house bleeding. He was feeling downhearted cause he wasn’t strong yet and went along so awful distracted that he stubbed his toe. It hurt so bad that the hero saw the stars up above and in their midst he saw the crescent Capei cloaked in fog. “When the Moon’s a-waning, you’re best off refraining,” he sighed. And it cheered him on his way.
Next day it was freezing cold and the hero decided to get revenge on Venceslau Pietro Pietra by giving him a good walloping to heat things up. But seeing as he wasn’t strong he was scared as heck of the giant. So he decided to hop a train to Rio de Janeiro to get some help from Exu the devil in whose honor they were holding a Macumba ceremony the next day.
It was June and the weather was freezing cold. The Macumba was being held out in the Mangue area in that big ol’ rowdy house run by Tia Ciata, a sorceress like no other, a renowned mãe-de-santo and guitar-picking songstress. Macunaíma got to that hole in the wall at eight o’clock in the evening with the requisite bottle of booze under his arm. There were lotsa folks there, upstanding folk, poor folk, lawyers garçons bricklayers apprentices congressmen crooks, all them folks, and the main event was just getting started. Macunaíma took off his socks and shoes like everyone else and slipped around his neck a milonga amulet made of tatucaba wasp wax and dried açacu root. He went into the crowded room and shooing away the mosquitoes dropped to all fours to pay his respects to the Candomblé priestess sitting motionless on a three-legged stool, not uttering a sound. Tia Ciata was an old black woman with a century of suffering, exceedingly tall and thin as a rail with white hair fanning out like rays round her petite head. Nobody could see her eyes anymore, she was just a buncha bones all hangingdangling drowsily to the ground.
Now then, a young son of Oxum, so they said, son of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception whose Macumba celebration was held in December, went round passing out a lit candle to each and every one of the sailors joiners journalists fat-cats jerry-riggers hussies civil-servants, lotsa civil-servants! all them folks and he turned off the gas lamp lighting the room.
Then the Macumba ceremony really got going with everyone joining a sairê to hail the saints. And it went like this: At the head came the ogã playing the atabaque, a towering black son of Ogum, a pockmarked fado musician by profession, who went by the name of Olelê Rui Barbosa. The drum went poundingpounding a steady rhythm that guided the whole procession. And the candles cast slow wavering shadows like ghosts onto the floral wallpaper. Behind the ogã came Tia Ciata barely moving, just her lips chanting the prayer in monotone. Following her came lawyers deckhands healers poets the hero crooks senators Portagees, all them folks dancing and singing in response to the prayer. And it went like this:
“Let’s-go sa-ra-vá! . . .”
Tia Ciata sang the name of the saint they were hailing:
“Oh Olorung!”
And the folks replying:
“Let’s-go sa-ra-vá! . . .”
Tia Ciata kept going:
“Oh Dolphin-Tucuxi!”
And the folks replying:
“Let’s-go sa-ra-vá! . . .”
Softly chanting in steady monotone.
“Oh Iemanjá! Anamburucu! and Oxum! three Mothers-of-Water!”
“Let’s-go sa-ra-vá! . . .”
Like that. And when Tia Ciata came to a halt shouting with a sweeping gesture:
“Come out Exu!”
for Exu was the limping devil, a malevolent bealseybub, but good nevertheless for playing dirty tricks, a tumult afflicted the room howling:
“Oohwoo! . . . oohwoo! . . . Exu! Our father Exu! . . .” And the name of the devil resounded with a thundering boom, dwindling the immense night out there. The sairê went on:
“Oh King Nagô!”
“Let’s-go sa-ra-vá! . . .”
Chanting softly in that monotone.
“Oh Baru!”
“Let’s-go sa-ra-vá! . . .”
When all of a sudden Tia Ciata came to a halt shouting with a sweeping gesture:
“Come out Exu!”
for Exu was ol’ splitfoot, a malevolent jananaíra. And once more came that tumult afflicting the room howling:
“Oohwoo! . . . Exu! Our father Exu! . . .”
And the name of the devil resounded with a thundering boom cutting short the night.
“Oh Oxalá!”
“Let’s-go sa-ra-vá! . . .”
So it went. They hailed all the saints of the Pajelança ceremony, the White River Dolphin who brings love, Xangô, Omulu, Iroco, Oxosse, the fierce Mother Boiuna, Obatalá who gives strength for lotsa playing around, all them saints, and the sairê was done. Tia Ciata sat on her three-legged stool in a corner and all them sweaty folks, doctors bakers engineers shysters cops maids hack reporters hit men Macunaíma, they all came over to set their candles round the stool. The candles cast the shadow of the motionless mãe-de-santo onto the ceiling. Most everybody had already peeled off some clothes and was wheezing on account of the smell mingling animal musk Coty perfume fishy fumes together with all their sweat. Then it came time to drink. And that’s when Macunaíma had his very first taste of that formidable caxiri that goes by the name of cachaça. He tasted it smacking his lips with glee and burst into laughter.
After that drink, in between drinks, came the chanting invocations. Everybody was restless, ardently yearning for a saint to show up to that evening’s Macumba. It had been a while since any had come no matter how much the others prayed. Because Tia Ciata’s Macumba wasn’t one of them fake Macumbas, nossir, where the pai-de-terreiro was always pretending that any ol’ Xangô or Oxosse whoever had shown, just to satisfy the Macumbeiros. Hers was a serious Macumba and when saints appeared, they appeared for real without no hocus-pocus. Tia Ciata wouldn’t let anyone tarnish the reputation of her house like that and it had been twelve months and counting since either Ogum or Exu had appeared out there in the Mangue. Everyone was a-yearning for Ogum to show. Macunaíma wanted Exu just so he could get revenge on Venceslau Pietro Pietra.
Between sips of the first round, some kneeling, others on all fours, all them half-naked folks chanted in a circle round the sorceress praying for a saint to appear. At midnight they went inside to eat the goat whose head and hooves were already in the peji shrine room, in front of the effigy of Exu that was an ant nest with three shells for his eyes and mouth. The goat had been killed in the devil’s honor and seasoned with powdered horn and the spurs of a fighting cock. The mãe-de-santo kicked off the feasting, respectfully making the sign of the cross three times. All them folks vendors bibliophiles bums academics bankers, all them folks dancing round the table were singing:
Bamba querê
Come out Aruê
Mongi gongô
Come out Orobô
Hey! . . .
Oh mungunzá
Good acaçá
C’mon Nhamanja
From Pai Guenguê,
Hey! . . .
And while chatting carousing they devoured the consecrated goat and every one of em was looking round for his own bottle of booze cause nobody was s’posed to go drinking from nobody else’s, they were all drinking lotsa rum, a whole lot! Macunaíma was howling with laughter and suddenly spilled wine on the table. It was a sign of boundless joy for him and everyone thought the hero was the chosen one on that holy night. Nope, wasn’t him.
No sooner had the chanting started back up than they saw a hussy leap into the middle of the room hushing them all with her wailing moan and starting up a new song. A tremor went through everyone and the candles cast the young woman’s shadow into a corner of the ceiling looking just like a writhing monster, it was Exu! The ogã struggled to catch the crazy rhythms of this new song with the beat of his tabaque drum, a free melody, full of breathless notes arduously jumping octaves, a raving mad low-pitched ecstasy a-trembling furiously. And the Polack tart with the painted face, her slip straps torn off, was shuddering in the middle of the room, her fat rolls almost entirely bared. Her breasts went swingalinging slapping her shoulders her face then her belly, thwap! with a thundering boom. And that redhead there just singing and singing. Finally as foam flecked from her smeared lips, she let out a shriek that dwindled the immense night even more, swooned onto the saint and lay rigid.
A span of sacred silence passed. Then Tia Ciata rose from her stool so a little mazomba girl could swap it out quick for a fresh seat never been used, now it was auntie’s. The mãe-de-terreiro came closer came closer. The ogã came with her. Everyone else was leaning up against the wall. Only Tia Ciata came closer came closer and got up real close to the Polack tart’s body lying rigid right smack in the middle of the room. The sorceress took off all her clothes, stark naked, with nothing but her necklaces bracelets silver-beaded earrings dripping over her bones. From the gourd bowl that the ogã brought over she started spooning the curdled blood from the devoured goat and rubbing the paste on the head of the babalaô. But when she poured the greenish efém from above, the stiff lady started writhing and moaning and the air went heady with an iodine stench. Then the mãe-de-santo intoned Exu’s sacred prayer, a monotone melopoeia.
