The Alarming Revenge of a Domestic Pet

OF THE MANY HORRIBLE THINGS THAT I’VE HEARD IN recent years, the one that made the deepest impression on me was the following story, told to me by a young girl.

“Once when I was going through Milan,” she said, “I had to visit an aunt, already fairly elderly, whom I hadn’t seen for several years. It would have been terrible if she came to hear that I had been in Milan and hadn’t gone to see her. She’d have been mortally offended. But as I was busy in the afternoon, I telephoned her to say that I’d see her that evening, after supper. The tone of her reply implied that she was absolutely delighted—too delighted, really—at the prospect of my visit.

“She lived somewhere near Via Settembrini in a quiet, elegant house; she had an old apartment in it, kept scrupulously clean, but so full of furniture, pictures, carpets, screens, vases, curtains, stools, work baskets and general bric-a-brac that on entering you felt positively weighed down with its fussiness, with dust even. And then the lamps had the most complicated shades and gave out a depressing sort of light. No sooner was I inside the door than I felt I wanted to get out and into the open again as soon as possible.

“My aunt was in the dining room, and she wasn’t alone. Seated opposite her, on the other side of the table, was another elderly woman, a close friend I assumed from the familiar way in which she behaved. But I remember now that there were at least three other people: they were sitting farther back, in the shadow, and I couldn’t see them very well, but from what I remember there was a young woman of about thirty, another little woman rather older, quite unremarkable, and a very fulsome man, with glasses, of about fifty. As far as one could tell, they lived in the same house and came to see my aunt every evening.

“The conversation was taking the course one might expect (news of my family, our mutual relatives, the war), so that I was surprised at the way my aunt and her friends were looking at me: intensely, as though they expected not simply a polite visit but something far more important, something about which they were extremely anxious.

“At the same time, I was struck by the incredible jumble of furniture and ornaments of all sorts: here it was somehow even more stifling than in the other rooms I’d come through. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could live and move in that jungle of antiquated junk. It made me feel physically sick.

“The central table in particular was heaped almost to overflowing with a whole collection of things: a low flower stand with some unhealthy-looking little green plants, a bonbonnière, a photograph album, an inkstand, balls of wool, little vases, books and, among other things, a large tray filled with bottles, flasks and glasses. From the look of them, the bottles probably contained syrups or sticky rosolios, and I felt sickened at the thought that I would probably be offered some. In the middle, hanging from the ceiling but so low that it almost touched the central flower stand, was an art nouveau lampshade like an upside-down lily, shading a lighted lamp; at the bottom was a strange sort of protruding handle, like those on coffee grinders but of shiny brass; I thought it might have something to do with raising and lowering the lamp.

“Then suddenly, through the gloom, I saw a small animal moving restlessly about on the left arm of my aunt’s armchair. For some reason I was immediately convinced that it was a bat, though I can’t think why, since it really had very little in common with one. My aunt obviously kept it in the drawing room like a kitten and found it delightful. It had a small droopy face like a little dog rather than a mouse, a thin slender body and a long ratlike tail; but what struck me particularly were its four tiny legs, about seven inches long, with webbed feet like a duck’s, only black.”

“So it had no wings?”

“No, no wings. But with its blackish color and those slimy webbed feet, it looked more like a bat than all the bats I’ve ever seen put together.

“Weirdly elegant, the little animal moved from its position on the arm of the chair where it had been perched and began to jump strangely sideways until it reached the edge of the table, at which juncture it leapt back to the arm of the chair; it did this several times, always jumping with all four feet at a time. It kept its eyes fixed on me.

“‘A bat?’ I asked stupidly, hoping to please my aunt.

“‘Yes,’ she said, smiling rather sadly. ‘Such a sweet little thing!’

“Meanwhile the bat (as I may as well call it) continued its delicate crab-like leaping: it was gradually coming closer to me, swaying languidly, almost flirting. At one of its more determined leaps in my direction I couldn’t control a movement of disgust and drew back.

“‘Oh, dear!’ hummed my aunt mellifluously, as if I’d disappointed her. ‘Now, what harm could it do you?’

“But the bat had noticed my movement and had drawn back itself with a graceful leap, for all the world as though it were offended. It withdrew to the middle of the table, where the collection of glasses, flasks and bottles was thickest, picking its way among them with extraordinary delicacy, without so much as brushing them.

“Not only my aunt but her friends too were smiling in a pleased, hopeful, expectant manner—like a mother whose child is about to recite a much talked-of poem to a guest—and were glancing first at me, then at the bat. Were they expecting me to take it on my lap and stroke it? I was well aware of their ridiculously anxious glances but I didn’t dare return them. Were they somehow in awe, in fear of the hateful little thing? Worried that I might maltreat it? Or did they expect me to join in their abject admiration? By now I was convinced of one thing: the feeling of expectancy I’d noticed on coming into the room was in some way connected with the presence and behavior of the bat. ‘Just look at the sweet thing,’ murmured my aunt, no longer able to contain herself.

“Its webbed feet were at that moment carrying out a series of mysterious maneuvers among the bottles. Incredible though it may seem, I had to admit to myself that it was plainly trying to lift one of the glass stoppers of a Louis XV decanter half-full of a thick raspberry-colored liquid.

“‘Maria,’ said my aunt nervously, nodding with great affection at the efforts of the abominable creature, ‘would you like a glass of Prunella Ballor?’

“Prunella Ballor? I wanted to laugh. Could that revolting concoction really be an expensive liqueur?

“But my aunt didn’t move to pour it for me. She was watching the antics of the bat. I was about to murmur vague thanks when I understood: the creature itself was to pour my drink.

“‘Will you have one, Maria?’ pressed my aunt.

“‘You really must,’ interposed the man with glasses.

“You’d have thought their whole life depended on my answer. They stared at me fixedly, they seemed to be imploring. If only to goodness I would accept, would allow the bat to perform this singular feat, be pleasant to it, not annoy it, they seemed to be saying.

“‘No thank you,’ I answered firmly. ‘Honestly, I never drink anything in the evening.’

“A querulous voice came from the shadows (it must have been the young woman): ‘Come come, don’t feel you have to refuse just out of politeness.’

“‘Please, Maria,’ insisted my aunt. ‘Just a little, one drop.’” She was behaving as though her life was at stake, her voice trembling with emotion.

“What does this absurd pantomime mean, I wondered. To please them, must I bow down to this wretched creature?

“I answered firmly, ‘No thank you, Aunt, I won’t have anything, please don’t press me.’ And without really knowing why, I stood up to go.

“At my words, an inexplicable look of horror appeared on the faces of my aunt and her friends.

“‘Oh, God, what have you done!’ exclaimed my aunt, her eyes wide with fear.

“Meanwhile the bat, turning its little face toward me for the last time, suddenly moved away from the bottles and leapt lightly onto the handle which protruded from the lamp; with a sudden angry movement, perhaps in retaliation to the insult, it gave the lever a push.

“Instead of going upward, as I’d imagined, the lamp swung around on itself and the light suddenly fell.

“At the same time there was a violent series of tremendous explosions and the distant crash of bombs echoed through the whole city, shaking the houses: the air was filled with the roar of a thousand planes.”

Happy Birthday (Clarice Lispector)

The family began arriving in waves. The ones from Olaria were all dressed up because the visit also meant an outing in Copacabana. The daughter-in-law from Olaria showed up in navy blue, glittering with “pailletés” and drap- ing that camouflaged her ungirdled belly. Her husband didn’t come for obvious reasons: he didn’t want to see his siblings. But he’d sent his wife so as not to sever all ties—and she came in her best dress to show that she didn’t need any of them, along with her three children: two girls with already budding breasts, infantilized in pink ruffles and starched petticoats, and the boy sheepish in his new suit and tie.

Read more: Clarice Lispector: Brazil’s Virginia Woolf

Since Zilda—the daughter with whom the birthday girl lived—had placed chairs side-by-side along the walls, as at a party where there’s going to be dancing, the daughter-in-law from Olaria, after greeting the members of the household with a stony expression, plunked herself down in one of the chairs and fell silent, lips pursed, maintaining her offended stance.“I came to avoid not coming,” she’d said to Zilda, and then had sat feeling offended. The two little misses in pink and the boy, sallow and with their hair neatly combed, didn’t really know how to behave and stood beside their mother, impressed by her navy blue dress and the “pailletés.”

Then the daughter-in-law from Ipanema came with two grandsons and the nanny. Her husband would come later. And since Zilda—the only girl among six brothers and the only one who, it had been decided years ago, had the space and time to take in the birthday girl—and since Zilda was in the kitchen with the maid putting the finishing touches on the croquettes and sandwiches, that left: the stuck-up daughter-in-law from Olaria with her anxious-hearted children by her side; the daughter-in-law from Ipanema in the opposite row of chairs pretending to deal with the baby to avoid facing her sister-in-law from Olaria; the idle, uniformed nanny, her mouth hanging open.

And at the head of the large table the birthday girl who was turning eighty-nine today.

Zilda, the lady of the house, had set the table early, cov- ered it with colorful paper napkins and birthday-themed paper cups, scattered balloons drifting along the ceiling on some of which was written “Happy Birthday!”, on others “Feliz Aniversário!”. At the center she’d placed the enormous frosted cake. To move things along, she’d decorated the table right after lunch, pushed the chairs against the wall, sent the boys out to play at the neighbor’s so they wouldn’t mess up the table.

And, to move things along, she’d dressed the birthday girl right after lunch. Since then she’d fastened that pendant around her neck and pinned on her brooch, sprayed her with a little perfume to cover that musty smell of hers—seated her at the table. And since two o’clock the birthday girl had been sitting at the head of the long empty table, rigid in the silent room.

Occasionally aware of the colorful napkins. Looking curiously when a passing car made the odd balloon tremble. And occasionally that mute anguish: whenever she watched, fascinated and powerless, the buzzing of a fly around the cake.

Until four o’clock when the daughter-in-law from Olaria arrived followed by the one from Ipanema.

Just when the daughter-in-law from Ipanema thought she couldn’t bear another second of being seated directly across from her sister-in-law from Olaria—who brimming with past offenses saw no reason to stop glaring defiantly at the daughter-in-law from Ipanema—at last José and his family arrived. And as soon as they all kissed the room started filling with people greeting each other loudly as if they’d all been waiting down be- low for the right moment to, in the rush of being late, stride up the three flights of stairs, talking, dragging along startled children, crowding into the room—and kicking off the party.

The birthday girl’s facial muscles no longer expressed her, so no one could tell whether she was in a good mood. Placed at the head was what she was. She amounted to a large, thin, powerless and dark-haired old woman. She looked hollow.

“Eighty-nine years old, yes sir!” said José, the eldest now that Jonga had died.“Eighty-nine years old, yes ma’am!” he said rubbing his hands in public admiration and as an imperceptible signal to everyone.

Everyone broke off attentively and looked over at the birth- day girl in a more official manner. Some shook their heads in awe as if she’d set a record. Each year conquered by the birthday girl was a vague step forward for the whole family.“Yes sir!” a few said smiling shyly.

“Eighty-nine years old!” echoed Manoel, who was José’s business partner. “Just a little bean sprout!” he said joking and nervous, and everyone laughed except his wife.

The old woman showed no expression.

Some hadn’t brought her a present. Others brought a soap dish, a cotton slip, a costume jewelry brooch, a little potted cactus—nothing, nothing that the lady of the house could use for herself or her children, nothing that the birthday girl herself could really use and thereby save money for the lady of the house: she put away the presents, bitter, sarcastic.

“Eighty-nine years old!” repeated Manoel nervously, looking at his wife.

The old woman showed no expression.

And so, as if everyone had received the final proof that there was no point making any effort, with a shrug as if they were with a deaf woman, they kept the party going by themselves, eating the first ham sandwiches more as a show of enthusiasm than out of hunger, making as if they were all starving to death. The punch was served, Zilda was sweating, not a single sister- in-law was really helping, the hot grease from the croquettes gave off the smell of a picnic; and with their backs turned to the birthday girl, who couldn’t eat fried food, they laughed nervously. And Cordélia? Cordélia, the youngest daughter-in-law, seated, smiling.

“No sir!” José replied with mock severity,“no shop talk today!” “Right, right!” Manoel quickly backed down, darting a look at his wife whose ears pricked up from a distance.  “No shop talk,” José boomed,“today is for Mother!”

At the head of the already messy table, the cups dirtied, only the cake intact—she was the mother. The birthday girl blinked.

And by the time the table was filthy, the mothers irritated at the racket their children were making, while the grandmothers were leaning back complacently in their chairs, that was when they turned off the useless hallway light so as to light the candle on the cake, a big candle with a small piece of paper stuck to it on which was written“89.” But no one praised Zilda’s idea, and she wondered anxiously if they thought she was trying to save candles—nobody recalling that nobody had contributed so much as a box of matches for the party food that she, Zilda, was serving like a slave, her feet exhausted and her heart in revolt. Then they lit the candle. And then José, the leader, sang with great gusto, galvanizing the most hesitant or surprised ones with an authoritarian stare,“come on! all together now!”—and they all suddenly joined in singing loud as soldiers. Roused by the voices, Cordélia looked on breathlessly. Since they hadn’t coordinated ahead of time, some sang in Portuguese and oth- ers in English. Then they tried to correct it: and the ones who’d been singing in English switched to Portuguese, and the ones who’d been singing in Portuguese switched to singing very softly in English.

While they were singing, the birthday girl, in the glow of the lit candle, meditated as though by the fireside.

They picked the youngest great-grandchild who, propped in his encouraging mother’s lap, blew out the candle in a single breath full of saliva! For an instant they applauded the unexpected power of the boy who, astonished and exultant, looked around at everyone in rapture. The lady of the house was wait- ing with her finger poised on the hallway switch—and turned on the light.

“Long live Mama!” “Long live Grandma!”

“Long live Dona Anita,”said the neighbor who had shown up. “Happy Birthday!” shouted the grandchildren who studied English at the Bennett School.

A few hands were still clapping.

The birthday girl was staring at the large, dry, extinguished cake.

“Cut the cake, Grandma!” said the mother of four, “she should be the one to cut it!” she asserted uncertainly to every- one, in an intimate and scheming manner. And, since they all approved happily and curiously, she suddenly became impet- uous: “cut the cake, Grandma!”

And suddenly the old woman grabbed the knife. And without hesitation, as if in hesitating for a moment she might fall over, she cut the first slice with a murderer’s thrust.

“So strong,” the daughter-in-law from Ipanema murmured, and it wasn’t clear whether she was shocked or pleasantly sur- prised. She was a little horrified.

“A year ago she could still climb these stairs better than me,” said Zilda bitterly.

With the first slice cut, as though the first shovelful of dirt had been dug, they all closed in with their plates in hand, el- bowing each other in feigned excitement, each going after his own little shovelful.

Soon enough the slices were divided among the little plates, in a silence full of commotion. The younger children, their mouths hidden by the table and their eyes at its level, watched the distribution with mute intensity. Raisins rolled out of the cake amid dry crumbs. The anguished children saw the raisins being wasted, intently watching them drop.

And when they went over to see, wouldn’t you know the birthday girl was already devouring her last bite?

And so to speak the party was over.

Cordélia looked at everyone absently, smiling.

“I already told you: no shop talk today!” José replied beaming.

“Right, right!” Manoel backed down placatingly without glancing at his wife who didn’t take her eyes off him. “You’re right,” Manoel tried to smile and a convulsion passed rapidly over the muscles of his face.

“Today is for Mother!” José said.

At the head of the table, the tablecloth stained with Coca- Cola, the cake in ruins, she was the mother. The birthday girl blinked.

There they were milling about boisterously, laughing, her family. And she was the mother of them all. And what if she suddenly got up, as a corpse rises slowly and imposes mute- ness and terror upon the living, the birthday girl stiffened in her chair, sitting up taller. She was the mother of them all. And since her pendant was suffocating her, she was the mother of them all and, powerless in her chair, she despised them all. And looked at them blinking. All those children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of hers who were no more than the flesh of her knee, she thought suddenly as if spitting. Rodrigo, her seven-year-old grandson, was the only one who was the flesh of her heart, Rodrigo, with that tough little face, virile and tousled. Where’s Rodrigo? Rodrigo with the drowsy, conceited gaze in that ardent and confused little head. That one would turn out to be a man. But, blinking, she looked at the others, the birthday girl. Oh how despicable those failed lives. How?! how could someone as strong as she have given birth to those dimwitted beings, with their slack arms and anxious faces? She, the strong one, who had married at the proper hour and time a good man whom, obediently and independently, she respected; whom she respected and who gave her children and repaid her for giving birth and honored her recovery time. The trunk was sound. But it had borne these sour and unfortunate fruits,  lacking even the capacity for real joy. How could she have given birth to those frivolous, weak, self-indulgent beings? The resentment rumbled in her empty chest. A bunch of communists, that’s what they were; communists. She glared at them with her old woman’s ire. They looked like rats jostling each other, her family. Irrepressible, she turned her head and with unsuspected force spit on the ground.

“Mama!” cried the lady of the house, mortified.“What’s going on, Mama!” she cried utterly mortified, and didn’t even want to look at the others, she knew those good-for-nothings were exchanging triumphant glances as if it was up to her to make the old woman behave, and it wouldn’t be long before they were claiming she didn’t bathe their mother anymore, they’d never understand the sacrifice she was making.“Mama, what’s going on!” she said softly, in anguish.“You’ve never done this before!” she added loudly so everyone would hear, she wanted to join the others’ shock, when the cock crows for the third time you shall renounce your mother. But her enormous humiliation was soothed when she realized they were shaking their heads as if they agreed that the old woman was now no more than a child.

“Lately she’s been spitting,” she ended up confessing apologetically to everyone.

Everyone looked at the birthday girl, commiserating, respectful, in silence.

They looked like rats jostling each other, her family. The boys, though grown—probably already in their fifties, for all I know!—the boys still retained some of their handsome features. But those wives they had chosen! And the wives her grandchildren—weaker and more sour still—had chosen. All vain with slender legs, and those fake necklaces for women

who when it comes down to it can’t take the heat, those wimpy women who married off their sons poorly, who didn’t know how to put a maid in her place, and all their ears dripping with jewelry—none, none of it real gold! Rage was suffocating her.

“Give me a glass of wine!” she said.

Silence fell suddenly, everyone with a glass frozen in their hand.

“Granny darling, won’t it make you sick?” the short, plump little granddaughter ventured cautiously.

“To hell with Granny darling!” the birthday girl exploded bitterly. “The devil take you, you pack of sissies, cuckolds and whores! give me a glass of wine, Dorothy!” she ordered.

Dorothy didn’t know what to do, she looked around at everyone in a comical plea for help. But, like detached and un- assailable masks, suddenly not a single face showed any expression. The party interrupted, half-eaten sandwiches in their hands, some dry piece stuck in their mouths, bulging their cheeks with the worst timing. They’d all gone blind, deaf and dumb, croquettes in their hands. And they stared impassively.

Forsaken, amused, Dorothy gave her the wine: slyly just two fingertips’ worth in the glass. Expressionless, at the ready, they all awaited the storm.

But not only did the birthday girl not explode at the miserable splash of wine Dorothy had given her but she didn’t even touch the glass.

Her gaze was fixed, silent. As if nothing had happened. Everyone exchanged polite glances, smiling blindly, abstractedly as if a dog had peed in the room. Stoically, the voices and laughter started back up. The daughter-in-law from Olaria, who had experienced her first moment in unison with the others just when the tragedy triumphantly seemed about to be unleashed, had to retreat alone to her severity, without even the solidarity of her three children who were now mingling traitorously with the others. From her reclusive chair, she critically appraised those shapeless dresses, without any draping, their obsession with pairing a black dress with pearls, which was anything but stylish, cheap was all it was. Eyeing from afar those meagerly buttered sandwiches. She hadn’t helped herself to a thing, not a thing! She’d only had one of each, just to taste.

And so to speak, once again the party was over.

People graciously remained seated. Some with their attention turned inward, waiting for something to say. Others vacant and expectant, with amiable smiles, stomachs full of that junk that didn’t nourish but got rid of hunger. The children, already out of control, shrieked rambunctiously. Some already had filthy faces; the other, younger ones, were already wet; the afternoon was fading rapidly. And Cordélia, Cordélia looked on absently, with a dazed smile, bearing her secret in solitude. What’s the matter with her? someone asked with a negligent curiosity, head gesturing at her from afar, but no one answered. They turned on the remaining lights to hasten the tranquility of the night, the children were starting to bicker. But the lights were fainter than the faint tension of the afternoon. And the twilight of Copacabana, unyielding, meanwhile kept expand- ing and penetrating the windows like a weight.

“I have to go,” one of the daughters-in-law said, disturbed, standing and brushing the crumbs off her skirt. Several others rose smiling.

The birthday girl received a cautious kiss from each of them as if her so unfamiliar skin were a trap. And, impassive, blinking, she took in those deliberately incoherent words they said to her attempting to give a final thrust of enthusiasm to something that was no more than the past: night had now fallen almost completely. The light in the room then seemed yellower and richer, the people older. The children were already hysterical.

“Does she think the cake takes the place of dinner,” the old woman wondered in the depths of herself.

But no one could have guessed what she was thinking. And for those who looked at her once more from the doorway, the birthday girl was only what she appeared to be: seated at the head of the filthy table, her hand clenched on the tablecloth as though grasping a scepter, and with that muteness that was her last word. Fist clenched on the table, never again would she be only what she was thinking. Her appearance had finally surpassed her and, going beyond her, was serenely becoming gigantic. Cordélia stared at her in alarm. The mute and severe fist on the table was telling the unhappy daughter-in-law she irremediably loved perhaps for the last time: You must know. You must know. That life is short. That life is short.

Yet she didn’t repeat it anymore. Because truth was a glimpse. Cordélia stared at her in terror. And, for the very last time, she never repeated it—while Rodrigo, the birthday girl’s grandson, tugged at Cordélia’s hand, tugged at the hand of that guilty, bewildered and desperate mother who once more looked back imploring old age to give one more sign that a woman should, in a heartrending impulse, finally cling to her last chance and live. Once more Cordélia wanted to look.

But when she looked again—the birthday girl was an old woman at the head of the table.

The glimpse had passed. And dragged onward by Rodrigo’s patient and insistent hand the daughter-in-law followed him in alarm.

“Not everyone has the privilege and the honor to gather around their mother,” José cleared his throat recalling that Jonga had been the one who gave speeches.

“Their mother, comma!” his niece laughed softly, and the slowest cousin laughed without getting it.

“We have,” Manoel said dispiritedly, no longer looking at his wife.“We have this great privilege,” he said distractedly wiping his moist palms.

But that wasn’t it at all, merely the distress of farewells, never knowing just what to say, José expecting from himself with perseverance and confidence the next line of the speech. Which didn’t come. Which didn’t come. Which didn’t come. The others were waiting. How he missed Jonga at times like this—José wiped his brow with his handkerchief—how he missed Jonga at times like this! He’d also been the only one whom the old woman had always approved of and respected, and this gave Jonga so much self-assurance. And when he died, the old woman never spoke of him again, placing a wall between his death and the others. She’d forgotten him perhaps. But she hadn’t forgotten that same firm and piercing gaze she’d always directed at the other children, always causing them to avert their eyes. A mother’s love was hard to bear: José wiped his brow, heroic, smiling.

And suddenly the line came:

“See you next year!” José suddenly exclaimed mischievously, finding, thus, just like that, the right turn of phrase: a lucky hint! “See you next year, eh?” he repeated afraid he hadn’t been understood.

He looked at her, proud of the cunning old woman who al- ways slyly managed to live another year.

“Next year we’ll meet again around the birthday cake!” her son Manoel further clarified, improving on his business partner’s wit. “See you next year, Mama! and around the birthday cake!” he said in thorough explanation, right in her ear, while looking obligingly at José. And the old woman suddenly let out a weak cackle, understanding the allusion.

Then she opened her mouth and said: “Sure.”

Excited that it had gone so unexpectedly well, José shouted at her with emotion, grateful, his eyes moist:

“We’ll see each other next year, Mama!”

“I’m not deaf!” said the birthday girl gruffly, affectionately. Her children looked at each other laughing, embarrassed, happy. It had worked out.

The kids went off in good spirits, their appetites ruined. The daughter-in-law from Olaria vengefully cuffed her son, too cheerful and no longer wearing his tie. The stairs were difficult, dark, it was unbelievable to insist on living in such a cramped building that would have to be demolished any day now, and while being evicted Zilda would still cause trouble and want to push the old woman onto the daughters-in-law— reaching the last step, the guests relievedly found themselves in the cool calm of the street. It was nighttime, yes. With its first shiver.

Goodbye, see you soon, we have to get together. Stop by sometime, they said quickly. Some managed to look the oth- ers in the eye with unflinching cordiality. Some buttoned up their children’s coats, looking at the sky for some hint of the weather. Everyone obscurely feeling that when saying goodbye you could maybe, now without the threat of commitment, be nice and say that extra word—which word? they didn’t know exactly, and looked at each other smiling, mute. It was an in- stant that was begging to come alive. But that was dead. They started going their separate ways, walking with their backs slightly turned, unsure how to break away from their relatives without being abrupt.

“See you next year!” José repeated the lucky hint, waving with effusive vigor, his thinning, white hair fluttering. He really was fat, they thought, he’d better watch his heart.“See you next year!” José boomed, eloquent and grand, and his height seemed it might crumble. But those already a ways off didn’t know whether to laugh loudly for him to hear or if it was enough to smile even in the darkness. More than a few thought that luck- ily the hint contained more than just a joke and that not until next year would they have to gather around the birthday cake; while others, already farther off in the darkness of the street, wondered whether the old woman would hang on for another year of Zilda’s nerves and impatience, but honestly there was nothing they could do about it. “Ninety years old at the very least,” thought the daughter-in-law from Ipanema melanchol- ically.“To make it to a nice, round age,” she thought dreamily.

Meanwhile, up above, atop the stairs and contingencies, the birthday girl was seated at the head of the table, erect, defini- tive, greater than herself. What if there’s no dinner tonight, she mused. Death was her mystery.