Macunaíma, page 9
For the selfsame reason, São Paulo is endowed with an exceedingly warlike and voluminous Police Force, which resides in white palaces engineered at great cost. This Police Force is further tasked with balancing out the excesses of public wealth, so as not to devalue the Nation’s innumerable stores of gold; and it employs such diligence in this undertaking, to such an extent that it doth devour the national money supply in every which way, be it in parades and gleaming apparel, or in physical fitness regimens from the highly commendable Eugenia, whose acquaintance we have not yet had the pleasure of making; or finally in attacking the heedless bourgeoisie returning home from their theatre, their cinema, or taking their automobiles for a spin through the pleasant orchards that encircle the capital. This Police Force is tasked, moreover, with entertaining the Paulistano class of housemaids; and to their credit ’tis said that they do so with daily expediency, in parks, which are constructed “ad hoc,” such as Parque Dom Pedro II and the Jardim da Luz. And whenever the expenditures for this Police Force do increase, their men are dispatched to the country’s distant and less fertile plateaus, so that they may be devoured by rogue bands of cannibal giants, which infest our geography, engaged in the inglorious task of toppling honest Governments to the ground, and to the utter delight and general consent of the population, as absolved at the ballot box and in government banquets. These rabblerousers grab the policemen, roast them, and eat them in the German style; and the piles of bones strewn across the barren land serve as excellent fertilizer for future coffee plantations.
Thus do the well-organized Paulistas live and prosper in the most perfect order and progress; and scarce do they lack the time to build generous hospitals, thus attracting lepers hither from all over South America, from Minas Gerais, Paraíba, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, Paraguay, who, prior to venturing off to live in those ever so lovely leper colonies, and being served by damsels of dubious and decadent beauty—damsels, always!—do enliven the highways of the State and the streets of the capital, in jovial caravans on horseback or in superb marathons that are the pride of our sporting race, in whose aspect pulses the blood of the heroic bigae and quadrigae Latin chariots!
Nevertheless, my dear mesdames! There remain still, throughout this grandiose country, diseases and insects to which we must attend! . . . Everything rushes headlong into ruin, we are eaten away by morbidity and myriapods! In brief time shall we again become a colony of England or North America! . . . Whereupon and on behalf of the eternal memory of these Paulistas, who are the only useful people in this country, and hence known as locomotives, we have devoted ourselves to the task of composing a dictum, which doth encompass the secrets of so much misfortune:
ANTS APLENTY AND NOBODY’S HEALTHY,
SO GO THE ILLS OF BRAZIL.
This dictum is what we deemed best to set down in the register of Illustrious Visitors to the Butantan Institute, on the occasion of our visit to that establishment, renowned in Europe.
The Paulistanos live in imposing palaces of fifty, one hundred storeys or more, which, during the mating season, are invaded by clouds of mosquitoes, multifarious in specie, greatly to the liking of the natives, which bite the men and ladies with such propriety in their distinctive parts, that they have no need of stinging nettles to give titillating massages, as is the practice amongst the inhabitants of the jungle. The mosquitoes take up this task; and do perform such miracles that, in the most wretched neighborhoods, innumerable masses of rambunctious lads and lasses, whom we call “wee Italians,” surge forth annually; destined are they to feed the factories of the gilded potentates, and to serve, as slaves, at the perfumed leisure of every Croesus.
These and other multimillionaires are the ones who have erected the twelve thousand silk factories that environ the urbs, as well as the famous Cafés in every secluded corner, the greatest in the world, replete with ornately carved rosewood adorned in gold leaf, and inlaid with seabrined tortoiseshell.
And the Government Palace is made entirely of gold, in the style of the Queen of the Adriatic; and, at the close of each day, the President, who maintains several spouses, goes riding about in silver carriages lined with the finest of furs, smiling in repose.
Of still further and manifold grandiosities might we elaborate, Mesdames Amazons, were it not to prolongate this epistle in excess; however, in affirming this to be, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the most beauteous of terrestrial cities, much have we accomplished on behalf of these most distinguished men. But we should hang our head in shame were we to occlude in silence, a singular curiosity of this people. Now ye shall know that their wealth of intellectual expression is so prodigious, that they speak in one language and write in another. Having thus arrived in these hospital provinces, we fell to the task of immersing ourselves in the ethnology of the region, and amidst the great many surprises and wonders that we encountered, this linguistic originality was not the least of them, to be sure. In conversation, the Paulistanos employ a barbarous and multifarious dialect, crass in feature and impure in its vernacularity, yet not wanting, nevertheless, in a particular force and flavour inherent to its interjections, as well as in its utterances for playing around. Of this and more have we gained intimate acquaintance, with utmost solicitude; and it shall be a most pleasing enterprise to instruct you upon our arrival thither. If the natural born inhabitants of this land employ such deplorable language in their conversation, no sooner do they take up the quill, than they do strip themselves of so much coarseness, and thus emerges Homo Latinus, derived from Linnaeus, expressing himself in an entirely separate language, approaching that of Virgil, in the words of one panegyrist, a tender idiom, which, with imperishable gallantry, is granted this title: the language of Camões! Of such originality and richness ye cannot but feel gratified to possess cognizance, and ye shall be further struck with wonder to discover, that for the vast and near total majority, these two languages do not yet suffice, but rather are enriched by the most authentic Italian, being more musical and charming, and which is fluently spoken throughout every corner of the urbs. Of all this have we become most satisfactorily acquainted, thanks be to the gods; and many an hour have we spent profitably, discoursing upon the z in the term “Brazil” and the matter of the personal pronoun “se.” Likewise have we acquired various bilingual books, known as “ponies,” as well as the Petit Larousse dictionary; and we are now possessed of the circumstances in which to cite, in the original Latin, various celebrated phrases from the philosophers and texticles of the Bible.
At long last, Mesdames Amazons, ye must perforce know further that this great city hath been elevated to these heights of progress and shining civilization, by dint of its elders, also known as politicians. This appellation designates a most refined race of learned gentlemen, so unfamiliar to you, that ye would deem them monsters. Monsters they are, in sooth, but for the incomparable grandiosity of their audacity, sapience, honesty, and morality; and though they may resemble something akin to men, they are descended from the regal uirauaçu harpy eagles and have passing little to do with humans. They all obey an emperor, known as Big Daddy in the common parlance, and who resides in the oceanic city of Rio de Janeiro—the most beautiful in the world in the opinion of all the foreign poets, and verified with mine own eyes.
Finally, Mesdames Amazons and most beloved subjects, a great deal have we suffered and borne of arduous and constant travails, after the duties of our position caused us to part from the Empire of the Virgin Forest. Hereabouts ’tis but delight and fortuitous ventures, yet we shall have neither enjoyment nor rest, so long as we have yet to recover our lost talisman. We deem it best to repeat notwithstanding that our relations with Sir Venceslau are as excellent as possible; that negotiations are under way and moving along swimmingly; and ye may very well dispatch the aforementioned reward in advance. Your abstemious Emperor shall be content with a pittance; should ye be unable to dispatch two hundred igaras laden with cacao beans, then do send one hundred, or even fifty!
Receive herewith the blessing of your Emperor, along with good health and fraternal affection. Heed these poorly scrawled lines with respect and obedience; and, most importantly, forget not the reward and the Polish girls, of which we have utmost
necessity.
May Ci protect Your Excellencies.
Macunaíma,
Imperator
Chapter 10. Pauí-Pódole
Venceslau Pietro Pietra had been beat to a pulp and was swathed head to toe in bunches of cotton. He was laid up in his hammock for months. Macunaíma couldn’t even make a move to take back the muiraquitã that was now tucked away in that snail under the giant’s body. He thought about sticking termite ants in the giant’s sandals cause it’s deadly they say, but Piaimã’s feet faced backwards and he didn’t wear sandals. Macunaíma was very upset at this fish-or-cut-bait situation and lay in his hammock all day munching on tapioca pancakes in between long swigs of hooch. Right about then Antônio the Indian, the famous saint, came round looking for lodging at the boarding house with his lady friend, Mother of God. He paid Macunaíma a visit, gave a speech and baptized the hero in front of the god to come who took the form of neither fish nor tapir. That’s how Macunaíma joined the Caraimonhaga faith that was all the rage in the backlands of Bahia.
Macunaíma made the most of waiting around by honing his proficiency in the two languages of the land, spoken Brazilian and written Portuguese. By now he knew the names of everything. One time it was Flower Day, a celebration invented so Brazilians would be charitable, and there were so many mosquitoes that Macunaíma quit studying and went downtown to give his ideas a breath of fresh air. Off he went and saw a whole mess of things. He stopped in front of every shop window and examined heap after heap of monsters in each one, so many that it looked like the Ererê Mountains where everything took refuge back when the great flood inundated the world. Macunaíma went strolling strolling along and came upon a girl with an urupema basket overflowing with roses. The little missy made him stop and stuck a flower in his lapel, saying:
“That’ll cost a buck.”
Macunaíma was very upset cause he didn’t know the name of that little hole in the clothes machine where the girl had inserted the flower. And the hole was called a buttonhole. He racked his brain, rummaging around in his memory, but he’d never nohow heard the name of that hole before. He wanted to call it a hole but saw immediately how it would be confused with the other holes in this world and felt ashamed in front of the girl. “Orifice” was the word that folks wrote but nobody nohow never said “orifice.” After he stood thinking and thinking on it awhile there really wasn’t any way to figure out the name of that thing and suddenly he realized that he’d walked from Rua Direita where he’d met that girl all the way out to São Bernardo, past Master Cosme’s place. So he went back, paid the young lady and declared with his nostrils flaring:
“Ma’am, you’ve given me a real doozy of a day. Don’t go sticking any more flowers in this here . . . in this here puíto, lady!”
Macunaíma was a big potty mouth right then. He’d uttered an awfully dirty word, indeed! The girl didn’t have a clue that puíto was a bad-word and as the hero marched back to the boarding house with his head spinning from the episode, she chuckled to herself, charmed by that funny word. “Puíto . . .” she kept saying. And repeating in delight, “Puíto . . . Puíto . . .” She figured it was the latest thing. So then she started asking everybody if they wanted her to stick a rose in their puíto. Some did others didn’t, the other girls heard the word, started using it and “puíto” caught on. Nobody mentioned a boutonnière ever again for example; just puíto, puíto was all you ever heard.
Macunaíma sat stewing for a week, not eating not playing not sleeping all because he wanted to learn the languages of the land. He remembered to ask other folks what the name of that hole was but he was ashamed on account of them thinking he was ignorant and tongue-tied. Finally Sunday Funday rolled around and it was Cruzeiro Day, a new holiday invented so Brazilians could rest some more. In the morning there was a parade in the Mooca neighborhood, at noon an open-air mass at the Coração de Jesus parish church, at 4 p.m. a motorcade with confetti along Avenida Rangel Pestana and in the evening, after elected officials and the unemployed had marched down Rua Quinze, they’d have a fireworks display in Ipiranga. So to take his mind off things Macunaíma went to see the fireworks in the park.
No sooner did he leave the boarding house than he happened upon a fair maiden, blonde as can be, a little daughter of manioc through and through, dressed all in white with a red tucumã straw hat covered in little daisies. Her name was Fräulein and she was ever in need of protection. They went off together and made it to the park. It was a sight to behold. There were so many fountain machines mingling with the electric lamp machine that folks were leaning on each other in the dark clutching hands just to take in all that wonder. That’s what the lady did and Macunaíma whispered sweetly:
“Mani . . . little daughter of manioc! . . .”
Well then, the little German lass, a-weeping with emotion, turned round and asked whether he’d let her slip that daisy in his puíto. At first the hero was absolutely taken aback, indeed! and he was fixing to give her a piece of his mind but then he put two and two together and realized that he’d been quite intelligent indeed. Macunaíma burst into laughter.
Turns out that “puíto” had already made it into the journals dedicated to the highly scientific study of written and spoken languages and was now well beyond firmly established via the laws of catalepsis ellipsis syncope metonymy metaphony metathesis proclisis prosthesis aphaeresis apocope haplology popular etymology, all those laws, and the word “buttonhole” had eventually led to “puíto,” by means of an intermediary word, “rabanitius” in Latin parlance (buttonhole-rabanitius-puíto), given that rabanitius, though not to be found among medieval manuscripts, has nevertheless been affirmed by the experts to have most certainly existed and to have circulated in popular usage in the sermo vulgaris.
Right that moment a most mulatto of all mulattos climbed atop a statue and launched into a lively speech explaining to Macunaíma what Cruzeiro Day was all about. There wasn’t a cloud in the wide open night sky not even Capei. People could make out those they knew, the fathers of trees fathers of birds fathers of beasts and their kin brothers fathers mothers aunties sisters-in-law ladies girlies, all those stars twinklingwinking happy as can be in that land without ills, where everybody was healthy and ants weren’t so plenty, up there in the firmament. Macunaíma listened very appreciatively, agreeing with the long-winded lecture that the orator was giving him. It was only after the man started pointing a bunch and describing a bunch that Macunaíma noticed that this Cruzeiro was none other than those four stars that he darn well knew were the Father of the Mutum living up in the field of the heavens. He was angry at the mulatto’s lies and yelled:
“No it ain’t!”
“. . . My dear gentlemen,” the fellow was holding forth, “those four stars scintillating like ardent tears, in the words of the sublime poet, are the sacrosanct and traditional Southern Cross, which . . .”
“No it ain’t!”
“Shh!”
“. . . the most sublime . . .”
“No it ain’t!”
“Hear, hear!”
“Beat it!”
“Shh! . . . Shh! . . .”
“. . . and ma-marvelous symbol of our be-be-loved fatherland is that mysterious, shimmering Southern Cross that . . .”
“No it ain’t!”
“. . . y-you can see with . . .”
“Quit mucking it up!”
“. . . its . . . four . . . bright spangles all silv . . .”
“No it ain’t!”
“No it ain’t!” cried the others too.
All that hullabaloo finally flummoxed the mulatto and everyone there got riled up by the hero’s “No it ain’t!” itching to raise a ruckus. But Macunaíma was trembling in such a tizzy that he didn’t even notice. He hopped up on the statue and started telling the story of the Father of the Mutum. And it went like this:
“No it ain’t! My dear ladies and gentlemen! Those four stars up there are the Father of the Mutum! I swear it’s the Father of the Mutum, my fine folks, floating up there in the vast field of the heavens! . . . This was back in the time when animals were no longer men and it took place in the great So-and-So Forest. Once upon a time there were two brothers-in-law who lived very far away from each other. One was called Camã-Pabinque and he was a Catimbó shaman. One time Camã-Pabinque’s brother-in-law went into the woods cause he felt like hunting a bit. That’s what he was doing when he ran into Pauí-Pódole and his lil compadre Camaiuá the firefly. And Pauí-Pódole was the Father of the Mutum. That great bird was sittying pretty up on the top branch of the acapu tree, taking it easy. Well now, the shaman’s brother-in-law went back to the maloca and told his gal that he’d run into Pauí-Pódole and his compadre Camaiuá. And way back in olden times, both the Father of the Mutum and his lil compadre used to be folks just like us. The man also said he’d wanted so bad to kill Pauí-Pódole with his blowgun but couldn’t reach the Father of the Mutum’s perch high up in that acapu. So he grabbed his pracuuba spear with a taboca tip and went off fishing for carataís. Soon enough Camã-Pabinque showed up at his brother-in-law’s maloca and said:
“ ‘Hey sister, what exactly did your husband tell you?’
“Well the sister told the shaman everything and said that Pauí-Pódole was perched high up in an acapu with his compadre Camaiuá the firefly. First thing the next morning Camã-Pabinque left his papiri and found Pauí-Pódole chirping away in the acapu tree. So then the Catimbó shaman turned into Ilague the tocandeira ant and started climbing up the tree but the Father of the Mutum spotted that big ol’ ant and screeched, blowing hard as he could. An enormous wind kicked up, so mighty that the shaman plummeted from the tree, landing in the capituvas on the forest floor. Then he turned into Opalá the much tinier tacuri and started climbing back up but Pauí-Pódole spotted the ant again. He huffed and puffed and there came a breezy gust that whooshed Opalá down onto the trapoerabas on the forest floor. Then Camã-Pabinque turned into the foot-washer called Megue, that itty bitty fire ant, climbed the acapu, stung the Father of the Mutum right in his little nose hole, curled up her teensy body and bringing her you-know-what between her pincers, thwap! squirted formic acid up there. Jeez! my fine folks! After that, Pauí-Pódole took wing all discombobulated from the pain and sneezed out Megue far far away! The shaman couldn’t even leave Megue’s body anymore, he’d had such a fright. And so we got stuck with yet another plague, the itty bitty foot-washer fire ant . . . Folks!
