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Fiction

The Hunchback and Botticelli’s Venus

By Rubem Fonseca
Translated from Portuguese by Clifford E. Landers

Fluttering locks of reddish hair whipped by the wind and rain, smooth and radiant skin, she is Botticelli’s Venus walking down the street. (The one in the Uffizi, born from a seashell, not the one in the Staatliche Museen, with a black background, which is similar but has dry hair arranged around the head, descending evenly down the body.)

Don’t think that I boast any extraordinary perspicacity, but the fact is that even if the woman I observe is as motionless as a statue, I can still tell the rhythm of her steps when she moves. I understand not only muscles, but also skeletons and, given the symmetry of the bone structure, can predict the articulation of the ankles, knees, and ilium, which determine the rhythm of the body’s movement.

Venus walks unbothered by the rain, sometimes turning her head toward the sky to wet her face even more, and, I can say without the slightest poetic stuffiness, that it’s the walk of a goddess.

I have to create an elaborate strategy to get close to her and achieve what I need, a difficult task, as women, at first contact, feel repulsion toward me.

I follow her to where she lives. I watch the building for several days. Venus likes to walk in the streets and to sit in the square near her home, reading. But she stops all the time, looks at people, especially children, or else feeds the pigeons, which in a way disappoints me; pigeons, like rats, roaches, ants and termites, don’t need any help. They’ll be around after bacteria finally put an end to us.

Looking at her from a distance, I am more and more impressed by the harmony of her body, the perfect balance among the parts that make up her wholeness—the extension of the members in relation to the vertical dimension of the thorax; the length of the neck in relation to the face and head; the narrowness of the waist in combination with the firmness of the buttocks and chest. I need to approach this woman as soon as possible. I’m racing against time.

On a day of heavy rain, I sit beside her under the downpour, on a bench in the square. I have to find out right away if she likes to talk.

“Too bad the rain doesn’t allow reading today,” I say.

She doesn’t answer.

“That’s why you didn’t bring a book.”

She pretends not to hear.

I insist: “He makes the sun shine on the good and the bad, and sends the rain on the just and the unjust.”

The woman then stares at me quickly, but I keep my gaze on her forehead.

“Are you talking to me?”

“God makes it rain on the just and the—” (My eyes on her forehead.)

“Ah, you were speaking of God.”

She gets up. Standing, she knows she’s in a favorable position to thwart the advances of an intruder.

“Don’t take it wrong. I saw that you must be one of those evangelicals looking to save souls for Jesus, but don’t waste your time, I’m a lost cause.”

I follow her as she walks slowly away.

“I’m not a Protestant pastor. In fact, I doubt you can guess what I do.”

“I’m very good at that. But I don’t have time today, I have to get to an art exhibit.”

Her voice displays less displeasure. She possesses the virtue of curiosity, which is very good for me. And another essential quality as well: she likes to talk. That’s even better.

I offer to accompany her and, after a slight hesitation, she agrees. We walk, with her a short distance away from me as if we weren’t together. I try to be as inconspicuous as possible.

At the exhibit there is a single attendant, sitting at a table, filing her nails. Negrinha, my current lover, says that women who file their nails in public have trouble thinking, and filing their nails helps them reflect better, like those women who reason more clearly while removing blackheads from their nose in front of the mirror.

While I look at the paintings with studied indifference, I say to her, “Avant-garde from the last century, spontaneous abstract vestiges, subconscious, sub-Kandinsky I prefer a Shakespearean sonnet.”

She doesn’t reply.

“I’m trying to impress you.”

“It wasn’t enough, but mentioning poetry helped a little. I’d like to understand poetry.”

Poetry isn’t to be understood; poetry is no pharmaceutical instruction sheet. I’m not going to tell her that, not for the time being.

“How about getting an espresso?” she asks.

I look for a place where we can sit. Being taller than I, Venus makes my hump look larger when we’re standing side by side.

“Now I’m going to find out what you do,” she says, appearing to be amused by the situation. “You do something, don’t you? Don’t tell me, let me guess. Well, we already know you’re not a Protestant pastor, and you’re not a teacher; teachers have dirty fingernails. Lawyers wear ties. Not a stockbroker, obviously not. Maybe a systems analyst, that hunched-over position in front of the computer… Uh… Sorry.”

If I had looked in her eyes, what would I have seen when she referred to the spinal column of a guy bent over in front of the computer? Horror, pity, scorn? Now do you understand why I avoid, in the initial contacts, reading their eyes? True, I might have seen only curiosity, but I prefer not to risk glimpsing something that could undermine my audacity.

“And you, do you know what I do?”

“Clean nails without polish. You like to read on a park bench. You like getting wet in the rain. You have one foot larger than the other. You want to understand about poetry. You’re lazy. Disturbing signs.”

“Does it show?”

“You could be a photographer’s model.”

“Does it show?”

“Or an idle, frustrated housewife who goes to a fitness center where she does dance, stretching, bodybuilding, specific exercises to strengthen the gluteus. The, the—”

“The ass. Is that the word you’re looking for? What about the ass?”

“After the breasts, it’s the part of the body most exposed to danger,” I add.

I’m a bit surprised at her naturalness in using that vulgar word in a conversation with someone she doesn’t know, despite the fact that I know from long experience that no one employs euphemisms with hunchbacks. Or other niceties: it’s common for people to belch and fart absentmindedly in my presence.

“Does it show?” she repeats.

“Or else it’s none of that, and you have a bookbinding workshop in your house.”

“You didn’t answer. Does it show?”

“What?”

“That I have one foot larger than the other?”

“Show me the palm of your hand. I see you’re planning a trip. There’s a person that has you concerned.”

“Right again. What’s the trick?”

“Everyone has one foot larger than the other, is planning a trip, has somebody who makes life difficult for them.”

“It’s my right foot.”

She extends her leg, shows her foot. She’s wearing a flat leather shoe styled like a sneaker.

“But, anyway, what’s my profession?”

“Bookbinding. A woman who works with books has special charm.”

“There you’re wrong. I don’t do anything. But you got one part right. I’m lazy. Is that one of my disturbing signs?”

“It’s the main one,” I reply. “A famous poet felt laziness to be a delicious state, a sensation that relegated poetry, ambition, and love to a secondary plane. The other unique sign is enjoying reading on a park bench. And finally, liking to get wet in the rain.”

I don’t tell her that lazy people suffer from the instinctive impulse to achieve something but don’t know what. The fact of Venus being lazy was, to me, great luck. All the women I’ve seduced were lazy, dreaming of doing or learning something. But, especially, they enjoyed talking—speaking and listening—which in reality was what was most important. I’ll get back to that.

“You’re a professor of some kind; your clean fingernails threw me off.”

“You can call me professor.”

“All right, Professor. And what about you? What’re you going to call me? Lazy girl?”

“I already have a name for you. Venus.”

“Venus? Horrible.”

“Your Venus is the one by Botticelli.”

“The painting? I can’t remember what it’s like anymore.”

“Just take a look in the mirror.”

“Silly flattery. Why is liking to get wet in the rain a disturbing sign?”

“That’s something I’m not going to tell you today.”

“Here’s the book. I couldn’t read it in the rain,” she says, taking a book from the pocket of her raincoat. “Ciao.”

It was only then that I saw her blue eyes: neutral. She had already become accustomed to my appearance and, perhaps, managed to see that my face wasn’t as ugly as my body.

That was our first meeting. Venus’s liking poetry was going to help me, but if she appreciated music, or theater, or cinema, or the plastic arts it wouldn’t change my strategy at all. Negrinha only liked music and wasn’t a lot of trouble, as she liked to talk, especially to complain about the man who lived with her before me, who only spoke of practical things, short-, medium- and long-term plans, schedules, notes in appointment books, errands, cost-benefit analysis of expenses, whether for a trip or buying a garlic press, and when she wanted to talk about some other topic he simply didn’t listen.

Besides being a good listener, I can say interesting things, trivia from almanacs as well as more profound things that I’ve learned from books. I’ve spent my life reading and becoming informed. While others were kicking balls around, dancing, dating, strolling, driving cars or motorcycles, I was at home convalescing from failed operations and reading. I’ve learned a lot; I’ve deduced, thought, verified, discovered. I’ve become a bit prolix, it’s true. But I grew, during my martyrdom of shadows, by studying and planning how to reach my objectives.

A guy who’s had twenty operations on his spine, one failure after the other, has to have, among his major virtues, that of persistence. I discover, through the doorman of the building where she lives, that Agnes is the name by which Venus is known in the world of mortals. I leave an envelope with a note for her at the reception desk in her building.

The note: I suspect that you’ve read little poetry. You read the books in the park and skip pages. They must be short stories; no one reads poems that way. Lazy people like to read short stories; they finish one story on page twenty then skip to the one on page forty, and in the end they read only part of the book. You need to read the poets, even if it’s only in the manner of that crazy writer for whom books of poetry deserve to be read only a single time and then destroyed so that dead poets can yield way to the living ones and not leave them petrified. I can make you understand poetry, but you’ll have to read the books I indicate. You need me, more than you need your mother or your Pomeranian. Here’s my telephone number. P.S.: You’re right, it’s better to be named Agnes than Venus. Signed: The Professor.

To make the simpleton understand poetry! But she liked that literary genre, so therefore the topic of our conversations would be poetry. The things a hunchback is capable of doing to make a woman fall in love with him.

When I’m looking for a new girlfriend, the old one is discarded; I need to concentrate on the main objective. It was time to say good-bye to Negrinha.

Astutely, I write some obvious love poems to Agnes and leave them, on purpose, in the printer tray on the computer table, a place that Negrinha always pries into. She’s all the time going through my things; she’s very jealous.

Negrinha becomes furious when she discovers the poems. She curses me, utters hard words, which I answer gently. She beats against my chest and my hump, says that she loves me, that she hates me, while I respond with soft words. I read somewhere or other that in a separation it’s the one who doesn’t love that says affectionate things.

Truthfully, I was very interested in Negrinha until she fell in love with me. But I am not and never was in love with her, or with any other woman I’ve been involved with. I’m a hunchback and I don’t need to fall in love with a woman, I need for some woman to fall in love with me—and another, then another. I remember the pleasant moments I spent with Negrinha, in bed, talking, listening to music, and mixing our saliva. They say that this transparent liquid secreted by the salivary glands is tasteless and serves merely to fluidify food and facilitate ingestion and digestion, which only proves that people lack the sensitivity to perceive the taste of even their own saliva, and, worse yet, the necessary gustative subtlety to take delight in the taste of another person’s saliva. When they mix, the two salivas acquire an ineffable flavor, comparable only to the nectar of mythology. An enzymatic mystery, like others in our body.

I’m sad at having made Negrinha suffer. But I’m a hunchback. Good-bye, Negrinha, your saliva was delectable and your green eyes possessed a luminous beauty.

It takes Agnes a week to reply to my letter.

Her note: I do need my Pomeranian, but I don’t need my mother, maybe her checkbook. I’m going to stop by there.

When Agnes arrives, I’m already prepared to receive her. How does a hunchback prepare to receive a beautiful woman who must be arduously induced to give herself to him? By making plans beforehand, all the contingencies, as is the essence of planning; remaining calm, as we must when we receive the surgeon or the plumber come to fix the toilet in the bathroom; wearing loose clothing and sticking out the chest; remaining alert so that our face always appears benign and our gaze permanently gentle. A distracted hunchback, even if not Quasimodesque and having a good-looking face, as in my case, always exhibits a sinister mien.

Agnes comes in and observes the living room with a keen feminine eye. I’ve been living here for only a year; I move constantly, and my living room, despite being elegantly furnished, has something vaguely incomplete about it, as if it lacked light fixtures, furniture with no function, and other useless ornaments that result from the prolonged occupation of domestic spaces. The fine wooden bookcases, which hold my books, CDs and DVDs of film, music, opera, and the plastic arts, and which always go with me when I change residences, are modular and easily disassembled.

Agnes stops in front of the bookcases that cover the walls of the living room and asks, without turning toward me, “Do you own this apartment?”

“It’s rented.”

“What are the books mentioned in your note?”

“You’ll find out in due time. It’s a schedule without preset period of duration. You’ll read a poem daily. The poets will never be repeated. You’ll have the entire day to read the poem. At night you’ll come here, we’ll have dinner, and you’ll talk to me about the chosen poem. Or about anything you wish, if you don’t feel like talking about the poem. I have the best cook in the city. Would you like something to drink?”

Agnes, who had kept her back to me till then, suddenly turned, exclaiming, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I must be mad. Am I going to become a student? Is that it?”

“You’re a pretty woman, but you feel an emptiness inside, don’t you?”

“Ciao.”

Over twenty operations to correct a hump that never went away. Constant awareness of furtive expressions of contempt, blatant mockery—Hey, little man, can I rub my hand on your hump for luck?—daily and immutable reflections of repugnant nakedness in the mirror in which I contemplate myself, not to mention what I used to read in the gaze of women, before I learned to wait for the right moment to read women’s gazes—if all of that didn’t break me, what effect can an oblique ciao followed by a disdainful withdrawal have? None.

To select what Agnes should read, I decide, for the sake of convenience, to use the works I have in my bookcase. I think about beginning with a classical licentious poet, but it’s too early to introduce poems that say questo è pure un bel cazzo lungo e grosso or fottimi e fà de me ciò che tu vuoi, o in potta o in cul, chio me ne curo poco; she might get scared. This obscene poet is to be used in the phase when the woman has already been conquered. I forgot to say that I choose poets who are already dead, despite the existence of living poets much better than certain renowned poets who’ve kicked the bucket, but my decision is dictated by convenience; the best of the dead had the opportunity to find their way to my shelves, and I can’t say the same about the living ones.

I sent Agnes a poem that says that the art of losing is not hard to learn. I know it will provoke a reaction. Lazy people are constantly losing things, not to mention missing flights.

It’s raining on the first day of the program. As soon as she enters, Agnes asks, “How did you know that for me losing things is always a disaster, despite all the rationalizations I make?”

“The same way I knew that you have one foot larger than the other. Shall we talk more about the poem? We can have dinner afterward.”

“Tomorrow. Another thing, the foot of Botticelli’s Venus is very ugly. Mine’s prettier. Ciao.”

A hunchback knows how he sleeps. We go to sleep on our side, but we wake up in the middle of the night lying face up, with pains in the back. Sleeping face down demands that one leg be bent and the opposite arm stuck under the pillow. We hunchbacks wake up several times during the night, looking for a comfortable position, or at least a less uncomfortable one, tormented by nocturnal thoughts that haunt our sleep. A hunchback never forgets, he is always thinking about his misfortune. People are what they are because they once made a choice; if they had chosen otherwise their fate would be different, but a born hunchback makes no choice, he didn’t intervene in his lot, didn’t roll the dice. This intermittent affirmation robs us of sleep, forces us to get out of bed. Besides which, we like being on our feet.

When Agnes arrives the next day, the cook is already preparing dinner. A guy with his vertebrae in place can take the woman he wants to seduce to get a hot dog on the street. I can’t allow myself that luxury.

“The poet—Is it poet or poetess?”

“The dictionary says poetess. But you can call all of them poet, man or woman.”

“The poet says that when talking to the man she loved, she realized that he was hiding a tremor, the tremor of his mortal suffering. I sensed that when I spoke with you.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Do you find it . . . bothersome to be a hunchback?”

“I’ve gotten used to it. Besides that, I’ve seen without anguish all the movie hunchbacks of Notre Dame, and I’m familiar with all the Richard IIIs—did you know that the real Richard III wasn’t a hunchback, as can be deduced from his armor, which has been preserved to the present day? I also know by heart Dylan Thomas’s poem about a hunchback in the park.”

Agnes imitates me.

“Interesting.”

I ask her to read me the new poem she’s chosen. She leafed through the pages, reading poorly, her face buried in the book. You can’t read decently with your face stuck in the book. And reading a poem is even more difficult; poets themselves don’t know how to do it.

“Talk about the poem.”

“The woman laments the death of the man she loved… Her fate was to celebrate that man, his strength, the brilliance of his imagination, but the woman says she’s lost everything, forgotten everything.”

“Did you feel anything?”

“A certain sadness. The poem bothered me a lot.”

“Talk some more,” I request.

Agnes speaks, I listen; she speaks, I listen. I intervene only to provoke her to speak more. As I know how to listen, it’s very easy. Making them speak and listening to them is my tactic.

“I think that in Russian it must be more tormenting still,” she says.

“That’s the problem of poetic translation,” I reply.

“The reader either knows all the languages in the world,” says Agnes, “or has to get used to it: poems being less sad or less happy or less pretty or less meaningful, or less et cetera when translated. Always less.”

“An American poet said that poetry is what’s lost in translation.”

“Who was it?”

“You’re going to have to discover that. How about our having dinner?”

I’m not going to describe the delicacies of the dinner, the wines of noble provenance that we drank, specifications of the crystal glasses we used, but I can say that the table of the greatest gourmet in the city is no better than my own. My father was skilled in matters of business, and when he died—my mother died first, I think she couldn’t bear my misfortune, her misfortune—he left me in a comfortable situation. I’m not rich, but I can move, when necessary, from one beautiful residence to another even better, and I have a good cook and free time to accomplish my plans.

I call a cab. I accompany her to her home, despite her protests that she could go by herself. I return very tired. 

I get out of bed quite early, in doubt as to the next poet to recommend. Choosing the books makes me feel even more shameless, like one of those know-it-all scholars who make their living by creating canons, or rather, catalogs of important authors. Actually, as I’ve already said, I only want to use the authors I have on my shelves, and even the bookcases of a hunchback don’t necessarily have the best authors.

 I ask Agnes to read the poem in which the author describes allegorically an act of cunnilingus.

“Please read this poem to me.”

She reads. Her French is perfect.

“Talk about the poem.”

“The poet, after saying that his loved one is nude like a Moorish slave, contemplates the thighs, the woman’s hips, her breasts, and her belly, ces grappes de ma vigne, observes enthralled the narrow waist that accentuates the feminine pelvis, but what leaves him in ecstasy and sighing is the haughty red of the woman’s face.”

“Was that what you understood? The poet sees her pelvis and becomes ecstatic over the rouge on her face? Remember, he’s staring at the lower part of the woman’s trunk; the haughty red part that catches his attention can only be the vagina. Except he’s not lecherous enough to dispense with metaphors.”

“It could be. What’s on today’s menu?”

“You’re the one who said she wanted to understand.”

“What’s on today’s menu?”

“Grenouille.”

“Love it.”

Several days have passed since our first encounter. I maintain control; patience is one of the greatest virtues, and that’s true also for those who aren’t hunchbacks. Today, for example, when Agnes, upon sitting down in front of me, shows her knees I feel like kissing them, but I don’t even look at them for long.

Agnes picks up the book.

“This here: ‘the lover becomes transformed into the thing loved, by virtue of so much imagining . . . what more does the body desire to achieve?’ What the devil does the poet mean by that?”

“Agnes, you read the poem unwillingly. It was you who chose this poem. There were other easier ones.” 

“Can we say it’s a solipsistic sonnet?”

“Just for the pleasure of alliteration?”

“That too. Or should we call it an ascetic sonnet? Or a Neo-Platonic sonnet? See, I’m starting to sound like my own professor.”

“Can one have a philosophy without knowing the philosopher who conceived it?” I ask.

Her face remains immobile; she has the habit of being like that, without moving her eyes, much less her lips—those gestures of someone wanting to demonstrate that they’re meditating. It’s as if she had gone deaf. But she quickly resumes speaking, with enthusiasm. And I listen. Knowing how to listen is an art, and enjoying listening is part of it. Anyone who feigns liking to listen is soon unmasked.

I don’t touch her, either that day or in the days that follow.

There are women with dull white skin, others with an almost verdigris whiteness, others faded like plaster or bread-crumb flour, but Agnes’s white skin has a splendid radiance that makes me want to bite it, sink my teeth into her arms, her legs, her face; she has a face meant to be bitten, but I restrain myself. I give her another erotic poem to read. I confess that I’m taking a calculated risk. How will she react when she reads the tongue licks the red petals of the pluriopen rose, the tongue tills a certain hidden bud, and weaves swift variations of subtle rhythms, and licks, languorously, lingeringly, the liquory hirsute grotto? Agnes had changed the subject when I tried to make an erotic exegesis (isn’t that what she wants—to understand?) of the cunnilingus poem, read by her two days earlier. How would she act now, after reading another poem on the same topic and even more daring?

“I thought that poetry didn’t show such things, that fellatio and cunnilingus were only clichés used in films,” Agnes says, after reading the poem. “I don’t know if I liked it. ‘Licks, languorously, lingeringly’ is an amusing alliteration. But ‘liquory hirsute grotto’ is horrible. Is the next one going to be like that?”

I don’t fathom the true implications of what she’s telling me. Displeasure, disappointment? Mere curiosity? An opening? Better not to go into it too deeply.

We have been at the game for several days.

We read a poem about a guy who asks if he dares to eat a peach.

“Eating peaches?”

I play her game: “Let’s say it’s about old age.”

“And old men don’t have the courage to eat peaches?”

“I think it’s because old people wear dentures.”

“I thought that poems always spoke of beautiful or transcendental things.”

“Poetry creates transcendence.”

“I hate it when you show off.”

“I’m not showing off. Prostheses are not merely the thing they represent. But some are more meaningful than others. Penis implants more than false teeth.”

“Mechanical legs more than false fingernails?”

“Pacemakers more than hearing aids.”

“Silicone breasts more than wigs?”

“Right. But always transcending the thing and the subject, something outside it.” 

“Is that implant much used? The one—”

“For the penis? Put yourself in the place of a man who has that implant. See the poetic simplicity of the metaphysical gesture of rebellion against the poison of time, against loneliness, anhedonia, sadness.”

“May I ask an indiscreet question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you use, or rather, would you use that prosthesis?”

“I’m a true hunchback. A hunchback doesn’t need it.”

I could have told her that a hunchback from birth, like me, either sublimates his desires forever—in which case, why the implant?—or else, as an adult, like me who until twenty-eight never had a sexual relationship, comes to be dominated by a paroxysmic lubricity that makes his dick get hard at the slightest of stimuli. A hunchback either becomes impotent or burns in a fire of lasciviousness that never cools for a single instant, like the heat of hell. But she’ll find that out for herself in due time.

“There’s no dentures in the poem,” says Agnes, “or any kind of implant.”

“Poets never show everything clearly. But the dentures are there, for one who knows what to look for.”

“Old age is there, and the fear of death.”

“And what is old age in a man?” I ask.

“I agree: it’s false teeth, baldness, the certainty that the sirens no longer sing to him. Yes, and also the fear of acting. ‘Do I dare?’ the poet asks the whole time. He hates the horrendous symptoms of old age, but doesn’t dare commit suicide. ‘Do I dare to eat a peach?’ means will I have the courage to put an end to this shit that is my life? The peach is a metaphor for death. But I accept that there’s also a denture involved. Am I learning to understand poetry?”

“Yes. The poem can be understood any way you like, which in itself is a step forward, and other people may, or may not, understand it in the same fashion as you. But that’s not important in the least. What matters is that the reader must feel the poem, and what one feels upon reading the poem is exclusive, it’s unlike the feeling of any other reader. What needs to be understood is the short story, the novel, those lesser literary genres, full of obvious symbolism.”

“I think you talk too much,” she says, good-naturedly.

Caveat: if a woman doesn’t have a minimum of humor and intelligence I am not able to fuck her. How could I carry on a conversation with her? That’s awful for a lascivious hunchback who must confront a real uphill battle to seduce women, whose first impression on seeing him could be the same one they’d have upon seeing a basilisk, if that cross-eyed reptile with lethal breath existed. Can you imagine me investing, blind with desire, days and days on a seduction only to discover later, in the middle of the undertaking, that I’m dealing with a dummy who’ll make me go limp at the moment of truth? Once a hunchback goes limp, he’s limp for the rest of his life, as if infected by a polyresistant bacteria. You’ll say that if Agnes were intelligent she’d find me prolix and an exhibitionist. But in actuality I merely provoked her so she would talk. She was impressed with herself, believed she was learning not just to see but to understand that though the person may be nearsighted he can’t keep his eyes closed.

Another thing: just as for the poet writing is choosing—creating options and choosing—I too had to create options and choose.

My member is rigid. The hardness and size of my penis give me confidence, very great courage, greater even than my cerebral astuteness. I feel like placing her hand on my dick, but the moment for that hasn’t arrived yet. The alternative hasn’t been created yet.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned already that the name of my cook is Maria do Céu, or Mary from Heaven. She deserves that name, and tonight she graces us with a magnificent meal.

After dinner we talk until the early hours. Several times I ask, Isn’t it late for you? And she replies that she’s not sleepy and doesn’t feel like going home. We have wine, but I’m careful to avoid getting her drunk. Lucidity, both hers and mine, is essential to my plan.

I tell pointless jokes that make her laugh, precisely because they’re pointless. For the first time she speaks of personal matters, the least complex ones, like her mother’s grouchiness. There are women who even after they’re no longer adolescents continue to feel resentment toward their mother. I listen to everything, attentively. Agnes also speaks of her former boyfriend, who was a good person but didn’t talk to her. On one occasion, they went out for dinner and she decided that she’d keep quiet the entire evening. At the restaurant, her boyfriend consulted the menu, suggested the dishes, placed the order, and, once served, asked Agnes if her dish was tasty. He didn’t say anything else, and didn’t even note the silence. He might have noticed if she had refused to eat, but she was hungry. When they returned home, they went to bed and made love in silence. Then the boyfriend said “Good night, dear,” rolled over, and went to sleep.

I listened to it all, attentively, making neutral but appropriate comments, which she interpreted as obvious interest on my part in what she was saying and feeling.

I choose another English-language poet. I have no predilection for the English language but cultivate English for the same reason that Descartes knew Latin. Agnes arrives with a basket of tangerines.

“You never have tangerines in the house.”

“They’re out of season,” I said.

“But I found some. I chose this poem.”

“Oh?”

“The poet says he knows the night, he has walked and still walks in the rain, beyond the lights of the city, without looking at the people, without the desire to give explanations, imagining the sounds of distant houses; the time that the clock shows is neither wrong nor right. You know I’m enjoying this?”

“Why?”

“I wanted to understand what poets say, and I learned with you that it’s secondary,” says Agnes. “Every literary text is capable of generating different readings, but besides that wealth of meanings, poetry has the advantage of being mysterious even when it says two and two is four.”

“You’re right. And, especially, poetry is never totally consumed. However much you devour a poem, the feeling it evokes is never exhausted.”

“How complex life is,” says Agnes, pretending to sigh.

“You’ll see that’s how it is,” I say, lightly touching her arm. She moves away from the contact unaffectedly, without drama.

“How what is?”

“Life is complex.”

“Is that what poets say?”

“I don’t know. Let’s have dinner.”

Did I blunder by touching her? I think, as we eat the gastronomic delicacies prepared by Maria do Céu.

I’ve been at this undertaking for many days. I sense that Agnes is starting to become more vulnerable. But as the Bible says, for everything there is a season, and it’s not yet time to harvest.

“Is there such a thing as feminine poetry?” Agnes asks. “If someone didn’t know the author’s name, would he discover that this verse—‘the deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint’—was written by a woman? Is that a masculine or a feminine sentence?”

“It was a woman who wrote it, but it could have been written by a man.”

We’ve finished dinner and are in the middle of our conversation when the doorbell rings. Maria do Céu goes to open the door and returns immediately, with an apologetic expression, followed by Negrinha.

“I didn’t know you had company,” says Negrinha.

“I told her you were with someone,” protests Maria do Céu, who knows that this unexpected appearance by Negrinha can only mean trouble: she witnessed Negrinha hit my hump when I gave her the pink slip.

“I didn’t hear her,” says Negrinha, noticing the book on the table. “Ah, poetry. Am I interrupting chitchat about poetry? This devil is full of tricks.”

Agnes gets up from her chair.

“It’s time for me to go.”

“You haven’t introduced me to your friend,” says Negrinha.

“Some other time,” says Agnes. “Ciao.”

Agnes’s ciao is always a bad sign. I go to the door with her.

“Wait a moment, I’m going to get the book.”

She takes the book and leaves in a rush; I barely have time to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s always the same magic,” says Negrinha sarcastically. “The man who can talk about the beauty of music, painting, poetry. And that fools the idiots, doesn’t it? It worked with me. Music here, poetry there, and when the imbecile opens her eyes you’re already sticking your dick in her.”

“Negrinha, stop it.”

“You’re a prick. That hussy left before I could tell her what a 24-carat son of a bitch you are.”

“Negrinha—”

“I came here because I was feeling sorry for you, thinking you were by yourself, but no, I find another idiot being seduced, the next victim. Does she know that after you screw her you’ll kick her out on her ass?”

“Do you want something to drink? Sit here. Some wine?”

“Water.”

I bring her a glass of water. Negrinha takes a swallow. She’s calmer now.

“I think I’m going to accept that wine.”

I place the glass and the bottle of Bordeaux, the wine she likes, beside her.

“Who is that woman? Is she that Venus, the one you wrote love poems for?”

“I already told you: that Venus was a fictitious figure.”

“You said you were in love with another woman. With that hussy, the classic dumb blonde?”

“She’s a redhead.”

“The same shit.”

Negrinha again emptied and refilled the wine glass.

“And how could you fall in love with another woman when you were screwing me all the time? Why did you leave me? You liked me, you still like me, don’t you?     

She reaches out her hand, but I move away.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you? Just wait till you let me grab your dick.”

She downs another glass of wine, in a single gulp.

“Negrinha, remember Heraclites—”

“Fuck Heraclites. You’ve never read a book on philosophy, you read those For Dummies books.”

“I have to go out, Negrinha.”

“Don’t call me Negrinha. My name is Barbara.”

“I have to go.”

“You’re afraid to go to bed with me.”

“I have an important appointment.”

“Coward.”

I go to my bedroom and start changing clothes, rapidly. Negrinha invades the room. She seems a little drunk. As I quickly dress, she undresses with the same haste. We finish at practically the same time. Negrinha lies down, nude, on the bed, showing me the tip of her moistened tongue.

“I came here to talk with you,” she says.

I run out of the room and descend the stairs. In the street I take the first taxi I see.

Agnes disappears for a couple of days. When we meet again, she seems calm, and different.

“I liked that poem,” Agnes says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s only three lines.”

“And what does the author say in those three lines?”

“Does it matter?” Agnes asks. “Or is what’s important what I felt?”

“Yes, what you felt.”

“The poet says that she doesn’t like poetry, but when she reads it, with total disdain, she discovers after all in poetry a place for the truth. I understood something, but I think she means something different. I was overcome by a feeling that I can’t explain. That’s how it should be, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Who was that woman who came here? She’s very pretty.”

I kiss Agnes, lightly, on the cheek.

“Do you think I could be your girlfriend?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“You have a handsome face, but you’re a hunchback. How can I be your girlfriend?”

“After a time you won’t even notice this physical characteristic of mine.”

“What will other people say?”

“Others won’t know, or suspect, or imagine. We’ll go live somewhere else. We’ll tell the neighbors we’re brother and sister.”

“And who was that woman? I have to admit that she’s beautiful.”

“Must be some crazy.”

“I’m speaking seriously.”

“She’s a woman who has a thing for me.”

“I’m not lazy.”

I kiss her again, this time on the lips.

“This is very good,” she says.

I take her by the arm and lead her gently to the bedroom. We remove our clothes in silence.

After the surrender, she sighs in exhaustion. Lying beside her, I feel in my mouth the delectable taste of her saliva.

“Promise you’ll always talk to me,” says Agnes, embracing me.

I’m going to live with Agnes in a different house, in a different area.

The deafening street howls around me when a woman dressed completely in black, with long dark hair, passes by, tall and slim, enhancing by her movements her beautiful alabaster legs. (Life imitates poetry.) I follow her to where she lives. I have to create an elaborate strategy to get close to her and achieve what I need, a difficult task, as women, at first contact, feel repulsion toward me.


© Rubem Fonseca. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Clifford Landers. All rights reserved. 

English Portuguese (Original)

Fluttering locks of reddish hair whipped by the wind and rain, smooth and radiant skin, she is Botticelli’s Venus walking down the street. (The one in the Uffizi, born from a seashell, not the one in the Staatliche Museen, with a black background, which is similar but has dry hair arranged around the head, descending evenly down the body.)

Don’t think that I boast any extraordinary perspicacity, but the fact is that even if the woman I observe is as motionless as a statue, I can still tell the rhythm of her steps when she moves. I understand not only muscles, but also skeletons and, given the symmetry of the bone structure, can predict the articulation of the ankles, knees, and ilium, which determine the rhythm of the body’s movement.

Venus walks unbothered by the rain, sometimes turning her head toward the sky to wet her face even more, and, I can say without the slightest poetic stuffiness, that it’s the walk of a goddess.

I have to create an elaborate strategy to get close to her and achieve what I need, a difficult task, as women, at first contact, feel repulsion toward me.

I follow her to where she lives. I watch the building for several days. Venus likes to walk in the streets and to sit in the square near her home, reading. But she stops all the time, looks at people, especially children, or else feeds the pigeons, which in a way disappoints me; pigeons, like rats, roaches, ants and termites, don’t need any help. They’ll be around after bacteria finally put an end to us.

Looking at her from a distance, I am more and more impressed by the harmony of her body, the perfect balance among the parts that make up her wholeness—the extension of the members in relation to the vertical dimension of the thorax; the length of the neck in relation to the face and head; the narrowness of the waist in combination with the firmness of the buttocks and chest. I need to approach this woman as soon as possible. I’m racing against time.

On a day of heavy rain, I sit beside her under the downpour, on a bench in the square. I have to find out right away if she likes to talk.

“Too bad the rain doesn’t allow reading today,” I say.

She doesn’t answer.

“That’s why you didn’t bring a book.”

She pretends not to hear.

I insist: “He makes the sun shine on the good and the bad, and sends the rain on the just and the unjust.”

The woman then stares at me quickly, but I keep my gaze on her forehead.

“Are you talking to me?”

“God makes it rain on the just and the—” (My eyes on her forehead.)

“Ah, you were speaking of God.”

She gets up. Standing, she knows she’s in a favorable position to thwart the advances of an intruder.

“Don’t take it wrong. I saw that you must be one of those evangelicals looking to save souls for Jesus, but don’t waste your time, I’m a lost cause.”

I follow her as she walks slowly away.

“I’m not a Protestant pastor. In fact, I doubt you can guess what I do.”

“I’m very good at that. But I don’t have time today, I have to get to an art exhibit.”

Her voice displays less displeasure. She possesses the virtue of curiosity, which is very good for me. And another essential quality as well: she likes to talk. That’s even better.

I offer to accompany her and, after a slight hesitation, she agrees. We walk, with her a short distance away from me as if we weren’t together. I try to be as inconspicuous as possible.

At the exhibit there is a single attendant, sitting at a table, filing her nails. Negrinha, my current lover, says that women who file their nails in public have trouble thinking, and filing their nails helps them reflect better, like those women who reason more clearly while removing blackheads from their nose in front of the mirror.

While I look at the paintings with studied indifference, I say to her, “Avant-garde from the last century, spontaneous abstract vestiges, subconscious, sub-Kandinsky I prefer a Shakespearean sonnet.”

She doesn’t reply.

“I’m trying to impress you.”

“It wasn’t enough, but mentioning poetry helped a little. I’d like to understand poetry.”

Poetry isn’t to be understood; poetry is no pharmaceutical instruction sheet. I’m not going to tell her that, not for the time being.

“How about getting an espresso?” she asks.

I look for a place where we can sit. Being taller than I, Venus makes my hump look larger when we’re standing side by side.

“Now I’m going to find out what you do,” she says, appearing to be amused by the situation. “You do something, don’t you? Don’t tell me, let me guess. Well, we already know you’re not a Protestant pastor, and you’re not a teacher; teachers have dirty fingernails. Lawyers wear ties. Not a stockbroker, obviously not. Maybe a systems analyst, that hunched-over position in front of the computer… Uh… Sorry.”

If I had looked in her eyes, what would I have seen when she referred to the spinal column of a guy bent over in front of the computer? Horror, pity, scorn? Now do you understand why I avoid, in the initial contacts, reading their eyes? True, I might have seen only curiosity, but I prefer not to risk glimpsing something that could undermine my audacity.

“And you, do you know what I do?”

“Clean nails without polish. You like to read on a park bench. You like getting wet in the rain. You have one foot larger than the other. You want to understand about poetry. You’re lazy. Disturbing signs.”

“Does it show?”

“You could be a photographer’s model.”

“Does it show?”

“Or an idle, frustrated housewife who goes to a fitness center where she does dance, stretching, bodybuilding, specific exercises to strengthen the gluteus. The, the—”

“The ass. Is that the word you’re looking for? What about the ass?”

“After the breasts, it’s the part of the body most exposed to danger,” I add.

I’m a bit surprised at her naturalness in using that vulgar word in a conversation with someone she doesn’t know, despite the fact that I know from long experience that no one employs euphemisms with hunchbacks. Or other niceties: it’s common for people to belch and fart absentmindedly in my presence.

“Does it show?” she repeats.

“Or else it’s none of that, and you have a bookbinding workshop in your house.”

“You didn’t answer. Does it show?”

“What?”

“That I have one foot larger than the other?”

“Show me the palm of your hand. I see you’re planning a trip. There’s a person that has you concerned.”

“Right again. What’s the trick?”

“Everyone has one foot larger than the other, is planning a trip, has somebody who makes life difficult for them.”

“It’s my right foot.”

She extends her leg, shows her foot. She’s wearing a flat leather shoe styled like a sneaker.

“But, anyway, what’s my profession?”

“Bookbinding. A woman who works with books has special charm.”

“There you’re wrong. I don’t do anything. But you got one part right. I’m lazy. Is that one of my disturbing signs?”

“It’s the main one,” I reply. “A famous poet felt laziness to be a delicious state, a sensation that relegated poetry, ambition, and love to a secondary plane. The other unique sign is enjoying reading on a park bench. And finally, liking to get wet in the rain.”

I don’t tell her that lazy people suffer from the instinctive impulse to achieve something but don’t know what. The fact of Venus being lazy was, to me, great luck. All the women I’ve seduced were lazy, dreaming of doing or learning something. But, especially, they enjoyed talking—speaking and listening—which in reality was what was most important. I’ll get back to that.

“You’re a professor of some kind; your clean fingernails threw me off.”

“You can call me professor.”

“All right, Professor. And what about you? What’re you going to call me? Lazy girl?”

“I already have a name for you. Venus.”

“Venus? Horrible.”

“Your Venus is the one by Botticelli.”

“The painting? I can’t remember what it’s like anymore.”

“Just take a look in the mirror.”

“Silly flattery. Why is liking to get wet in the rain a disturbing sign?”

“That’s something I’m not going to tell you today.”

“Here’s the book. I couldn’t read it in the rain,” she says, taking a book from the pocket of her raincoat. “Ciao.”

It was only then that I saw her blue eyes: neutral. She had already become accustomed to my appearance and, perhaps, managed to see that my face wasn’t as ugly as my body.

That was our first meeting. Venus’s liking poetry was going to help me, but if she appreciated music, or theater, or cinema, or the plastic arts it wouldn’t change my strategy at all. Negrinha only liked music and wasn’t a lot of trouble, as she liked to talk, especially to complain about the man who lived with her before me, who only spoke of practical things, short-, medium- and long-term plans, schedules, notes in appointment books, errands, cost-benefit analysis of expenses, whether for a trip or buying a garlic press, and when she wanted to talk about some other topic he simply didn’t listen.

Besides being a good listener, I can say interesting things, trivia from almanacs as well as more profound things that I’ve learned from books. I’ve spent my life reading and becoming informed. While others were kicking balls around, dancing, dating, strolling, driving cars or motorcycles, I was at home convalescing from failed operations and reading. I’ve learned a lot; I’ve deduced, thought, verified, discovered. I’ve become a bit prolix, it’s true. But I grew, during my martyrdom of shadows, by studying and planning how to reach my objectives.

A guy who’s had twenty operations on his spine, one failure after the other, has to have, among his major virtues, that of persistence. I discover, through the doorman of the building where she lives, that Agnes is the name by which Venus is known in the world of mortals. I leave an envelope with a note for her at the reception desk in her building.

The note: I suspect that you’ve read little poetry. You read the books in the park and skip pages. They must be short stories; no one reads poems that way. Lazy people like to read short stories; they finish one story on page twenty then skip to the one on page forty, and in the end they read only part of the book. You need to read the poets, even if it’s only in the manner of that crazy writer for whom books of poetry deserve to be read only a single time and then destroyed so that dead poets can yield way to the living ones and not leave them petrified. I can make you understand poetry, but you’ll have to read the books I indicate. You need me, more than you need your mother or your Pomeranian. Here’s my telephone number. P.S.: You’re right, it’s better to be named Agnes than Venus. Signed: The Professor.

To make the simpleton understand poetry! But she liked that literary genre, so therefore the topic of our conversations would be poetry. The things a hunchback is capable of doing to make a woman fall in love with him.

When I’m looking for a new girlfriend, the old one is discarded; I need to concentrate on the main objective. It was time to say good-bye to Negrinha.

Astutely, I write some obvious love poems to Agnes and leave them, on purpose, in the printer tray on the computer table, a place that Negrinha always pries into. She’s all the time going through my things; she’s very jealous.

Negrinha becomes furious when she discovers the poems. She curses me, utters hard words, which I answer gently. She beats against my chest and my hump, says that she loves me, that she hates me, while I respond with soft words. I read somewhere or other that in a separation it’s the one who doesn’t love that says affectionate things.

Truthfully, I was very interested in Negrinha until she fell in love with me. But I am not and never was in love with her, or with any other woman I’ve been involved with. I’m a hunchback and I don’t need to fall in love with a woman, I need for some woman to fall in love with me—and another, then another. I remember the pleasant moments I spent with Negrinha, in bed, talking, listening to music, and mixing our saliva. They say that this transparent liquid secreted by the salivary glands is tasteless and serves merely to fluidify food and facilitate ingestion and digestion, which only proves that people lack the sensitivity to perceive the taste of even their own saliva, and, worse yet, the necessary gustative subtlety to take delight in the taste of another person’s saliva. When they mix, the two salivas acquire an ineffable flavor, comparable only to the nectar of mythology. An enzymatic mystery, like others in our body.

I’m sad at having made Negrinha suffer. But I’m a hunchback. Good-bye, Negrinha, your saliva was delectable and your green eyes possessed a luminous beauty.

It takes Agnes a week to reply to my letter.

Her note: I do need my Pomeranian, but I don’t need my mother, maybe her checkbook. I’m going to stop by there.

When Agnes arrives, I’m already prepared to receive her. How does a hunchback prepare to receive a beautiful woman who must be arduously induced to give herself to him? By making plans beforehand, all the contingencies, as is the essence of planning; remaining calm, as we must when we receive the surgeon or the plumber come to fix the toilet in the bathroom; wearing loose clothing and sticking out the chest; remaining alert so that our face always appears benign and our gaze permanently gentle. A distracted hunchback, even if not Quasimodesque and having a good-looking face, as in my case, always exhibits a sinister mien.

Agnes comes in and observes the living room with a keen feminine eye. I’ve been living here for only a year; I move constantly, and my living room, despite being elegantly furnished, has something vaguely incomplete about it, as if it lacked light fixtures, furniture with no function, and other useless ornaments that result from the prolonged occupation of domestic spaces. The fine wooden bookcases, which hold my books, CDs and DVDs of film, music, opera, and the plastic arts, and which always go with me when I change residences, are modular and easily disassembled.

Agnes stops in front of the bookcases that cover the walls of the living room and asks, without turning toward me, “Do you own this apartment?”

“It’s rented.”

“What are the books mentioned in your note?”

“You’ll find out in due time. It’s a schedule without preset period of duration. You’ll read a poem daily. The poets will never be repeated. You’ll have the entire day to read the poem. At night you’ll come here, we’ll have dinner, and you’ll talk to me about the chosen poem. Or about anything you wish, if you don’t feel like talking about the poem. I have the best cook in the city. Would you like something to drink?”

Agnes, who had kept her back to me till then, suddenly turned, exclaiming, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I must be mad. Am I going to become a student? Is that it?”

“You’re a pretty woman, but you feel an emptiness inside, don’t you?”

“Ciao.”

Over twenty operations to correct a hump that never went away. Constant awareness of furtive expressions of contempt, blatant mockery—Hey, little man, can I rub my hand on your hump for luck?—daily and immutable reflections of repugnant nakedness in the mirror in which I contemplate myself, not to mention what I used to read in the gaze of women, before I learned to wait for the right moment to read women’s gazes—if all of that didn’t break me, what effect can an oblique ciao followed by a disdainful withdrawal have? None.

To select what Agnes should read, I decide, for the sake of convenience, to use the works I have in my bookcase. I think about beginning with a classical licentious poet, but it’s too early to introduce poems that say questo è pure un bel cazzo lungo e grosso or fottimi e fà de me ciò che tu vuoi, o in potta o in cul, chio me ne curo poco; she might get scared. This obscene poet is to be used in the phase when the woman has already been conquered. I forgot to say that I choose poets who are already dead, despite the existence of living poets much better than certain renowned poets who’ve kicked the bucket, but my decision is dictated by convenience; the best of the dead had the opportunity to find their way to my shelves, and I can’t say the same about the living ones.

I sent Agnes a poem that says that the art of losing is not hard to learn. I know it will provoke a reaction. Lazy people are constantly losing things, not to mention missing flights.

It’s raining on the first day of the program. As soon as she enters, Agnes asks, “How did you know that for me losing things is always a disaster, despite all the rationalizations I make?”

“The same way I knew that you have one foot larger than the other. Shall we talk more about the poem? We can have dinner afterward.”

“Tomorrow. Another thing, the foot of Botticelli’s Venus is very ugly. Mine’s prettier. Ciao.”

A hunchback knows how he sleeps. We go to sleep on our side, but we wake up in the middle of the night lying face up, with pains in the back. Sleeping face down demands that one leg be bent and the opposite arm stuck under the pillow. We hunchbacks wake up several times during the night, looking for a comfortable position, or at least a less uncomfortable one, tormented by nocturnal thoughts that haunt our sleep. A hunchback never forgets, he is always thinking about his misfortune. People are what they are because they once made a choice; if they had chosen otherwise their fate would be different, but a born hunchback makes no choice, he didn’t intervene in his lot, didn’t roll the dice. This intermittent affirmation robs us of sleep, forces us to get out of bed. Besides which, we like being on our feet.

When Agnes arrives the next day, the cook is already preparing dinner. A guy with his vertebrae in place can take the woman he wants to seduce to get a hot dog on the street. I can’t allow myself that luxury.

“The poet—Is it poet or poetess?”

“The dictionary says poetess. But you can call all of them poet, man or woman.”

“The poet says that when talking to the man she loved, she realized that he was hiding a tremor, the tremor of his mortal suffering. I sensed that when I spoke with you.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Do you find it . . . bothersome to be a hunchback?”

“I’ve gotten used to it. Besides that, I’ve seen without anguish all the movie hunchbacks of Notre Dame, and I’m familiar with all the Richard IIIs—did you know that the real Richard III wasn’t a hunchback, as can be deduced from his armor, which has been preserved to the present day? I also know by heart Dylan Thomas’s poem about a hunchback in the park.”

Agnes imitates me.

“Interesting.”

I ask her to read me the new poem she’s chosen. She leafed through the pages, reading poorly, her face buried in the book. You can’t read decently with your face stuck in the book. And reading a poem is even more difficult; poets themselves don’t know how to do it.

“Talk about the poem.”

“The woman laments the death of the man she loved… Her fate was to celebrate that man, his strength, the brilliance of his imagination, but the woman says she’s lost everything, forgotten everything.”

“Did you feel anything?”

“A certain sadness. The poem bothered me a lot.”

“Talk some more,” I request.

Agnes speaks, I listen; she speaks, I listen. I intervene only to provoke her to speak more. As I know how to listen, it’s very easy. Making them speak and listening to them is my tactic.

“I think that in Russian it must be more tormenting still,” she says.

“That’s the problem of poetic translation,” I reply.

“The reader either knows all the languages in the world,” says Agnes, “or has to get used to it: poems being less sad or less happy or less pretty or less meaningful, or less et cetera when translated. Always less.”

“An American poet said that poetry is what’s lost in translation.”

“Who was it?”

“You’re going to have to discover that. How about our having dinner?”

I’m not going to describe the delicacies of the dinner, the wines of noble provenance that we drank, specifications of the crystal glasses we used, but I can say that the table of the greatest gourmet in the city is no better than my own. My father was skilled in matters of business, and when he died—my mother died first, I think she couldn’t bear my misfortune, her misfortune—he left me in a comfortable situation. I’m not rich, but I can move, when necessary, from one beautiful residence to another even better, and I have a good cook and free time to accomplish my plans.

I call a cab. I accompany her to her home, despite her protests that she could go by herself. I return very tired. 

I get out of bed quite early, in doubt as to the next poet to recommend. Choosing the books makes me feel even more shameless, like one of those know-it-all scholars who make their living by creating canons, or rather, catalogs of important authors. Actually, as I’ve already said, I only want to use the authors I have on my shelves, and even the bookcases of a hunchback don’t necessarily have the best authors.

 I ask Agnes to read the poem in which the author describes allegorically an act of cunnilingus.

“Please read this poem to me.”

She reads. Her French is perfect.

“Talk about the poem.”

“The poet, after saying that his loved one is nude like a Moorish slave, contemplates the thighs, the woman’s hips, her breasts, and her belly, ces grappes de ma vigne, observes enthralled the narrow waist that accentuates the feminine pelvis, but what leaves him in ecstasy and sighing is the haughty red of the woman’s face.”

“Was that what you understood? The poet sees her pelvis and becomes ecstatic over the rouge on her face? Remember, he’s staring at the lower part of the woman’s trunk; the haughty red part that catches his attention can only be the vagina. Except he’s not lecherous enough to dispense with metaphors.”

“It could be. What’s on today’s menu?”

“You’re the one who said she wanted to understand.”

“What’s on today’s menu?”

“Grenouille.”

“Love it.”

Several days have passed since our first encounter. I maintain control; patience is one of the greatest virtues, and that’s true also for those who aren’t hunchbacks. Today, for example, when Agnes, upon sitting down in front of me, shows her knees I feel like kissing them, but I don’t even look at them for long.

Agnes picks up the book.

“This here: ‘the lover becomes transformed into the thing loved, by virtue of so much imagining . . . what more does the body desire to achieve?’ What the devil does the poet mean by that?”

“Agnes, you read the poem unwillingly. It was you who chose this poem. There were other easier ones.” 

“Can we say it’s a solipsistic sonnet?”

“Just for the pleasure of alliteration?”

“That too. Or should we call it an ascetic sonnet? Or a Neo-Platonic sonnet? See, I’m starting to sound like my own professor.”

“Can one have a philosophy without knowing the philosopher who conceived it?” I ask.

Her face remains immobile; she has the habit of being like that, without moving her eyes, much less her lips—those gestures of someone wanting to demonstrate that they’re meditating. It’s as if she had gone deaf. But she quickly resumes speaking, with enthusiasm. And I listen. Knowing how to listen is an art, and enjoying listening is part of it. Anyone who feigns liking to listen is soon unmasked.

I don’t touch her, either that day or in the days that follow.

There are women with dull white skin, others with an almost verdigris whiteness, others faded like plaster or bread-crumb flour, but Agnes’s white skin has a splendid radiance that makes me want to bite it, sink my teeth into her arms, her legs, her face; she has a face meant to be bitten, but I restrain myself. I give her another erotic poem to read. I confess that I’m taking a calculated risk. How will she react when she reads the tongue licks the red petals of the pluriopen rose, the tongue tills a certain hidden bud, and weaves swift variations of subtle rhythms, and licks, languorously, lingeringly, the liquory hirsute grotto? Agnes had changed the subject when I tried to make an erotic exegesis (isn’t that what she wants—to understand?) of the cunnilingus poem, read by her two days earlier. How would she act now, after reading another poem on the same topic and even more daring?

“I thought that poetry didn’t show such things, that fellatio and cunnilingus were only clichés used in films,” Agnes says, after reading the poem. “I don’t know if I liked it. ‘Licks, languorously, lingeringly’ is an amusing alliteration. But ‘liquory hirsute grotto’ is horrible. Is the next one going to be like that?”

I don’t fathom the true implications of what she’s telling me. Displeasure, disappointment? Mere curiosity? An opening? Better not to go into it too deeply.

We have been at the game for several days.

We read a poem about a guy who asks if he dares to eat a peach.

“Eating peaches?”

I play her game: “Let’s say it’s about old age.”

“And old men don’t have the courage to eat peaches?”

“I think it’s because old people wear dentures.”

“I thought that poems always spoke of beautiful or transcendental things.”

“Poetry creates transcendence.”

“I hate it when you show off.”

“I’m not showing off. Prostheses are not merely the thing they represent. But some are more meaningful than others. Penis implants more than false teeth.”

“Mechanical legs more than false fingernails?”

“Pacemakers more than hearing aids.”

“Silicone breasts more than wigs?”

“Right. But always transcending the thing and the subject, something outside it.” 

“Is that implant much used? The one—”

“For the penis? Put yourself in the place of a man who has that implant. See the poetic simplicity of the metaphysical gesture of rebellion against the poison of time, against loneliness, anhedonia, sadness.”

“May I ask an indiscreet question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you use, or rather, would you use that prosthesis?”

“I’m a true hunchback. A hunchback doesn’t need it.”

I could have told her that a hunchback from birth, like me, either sublimates his desires forever—in which case, why the implant?—or else, as an adult, like me who until twenty-eight never had a sexual relationship, comes to be dominated by a paroxysmic lubricity that makes his dick get hard at the slightest of stimuli. A hunchback either becomes impotent or burns in a fire of lasciviousness that never cools for a single instant, like the heat of hell. But she’ll find that out for herself in due time.

“There’s no dentures in the poem,” says Agnes, “or any kind of implant.”

“Poets never show everything clearly. But the dentures are there, for one who knows what to look for.”

“Old age is there, and the fear of death.”

“And what is old age in a man?” I ask.

“I agree: it’s false teeth, baldness, the certainty that the sirens no longer sing to him. Yes, and also the fear of acting. ‘Do I dare?’ the poet asks the whole time. He hates the horrendous symptoms of old age, but doesn’t dare commit suicide. ‘Do I dare to eat a peach?’ means will I have the courage to put an end to this shit that is my life? The peach is a metaphor for death. But I accept that there’s also a denture involved. Am I learning to understand poetry?”

“Yes. The poem can be understood any way you like, which in itself is a step forward, and other people may, or may not, understand it in the same fashion as you. But that’s not important in the least. What matters is that the reader must feel the poem, and what one feels upon reading the poem is exclusive, it’s unlike the feeling of any other reader. What needs to be understood is the short story, the novel, those lesser literary genres, full of obvious symbolism.”

“I think you talk too much,” she says, good-naturedly.

Caveat: if a woman doesn’t have a minimum of humor and intelligence I am not able to fuck her. How could I carry on a conversation with her? That’s awful for a lascivious hunchback who must confront a real uphill battle to seduce women, whose first impression on seeing him could be the same one they’d have upon seeing a basilisk, if that cross-eyed reptile with lethal breath existed. Can you imagine me investing, blind with desire, days and days on a seduction only to discover later, in the middle of the undertaking, that I’m dealing with a dummy who’ll make me go limp at the moment of truth? Once a hunchback goes limp, he’s limp for the rest of his life, as if infected by a polyresistant bacteria. You’ll say that if Agnes were intelligent she’d find me prolix and an exhibitionist. But in actuality I merely provoked her so she would talk. She was impressed with herself, believed she was learning not just to see but to understand that though the person may be nearsighted he can’t keep his eyes closed.

Another thing: just as for the poet writing is choosing—creating options and choosing—I too had to create options and choose.

My member is rigid. The hardness and size of my penis give me confidence, very great courage, greater even than my cerebral astuteness. I feel like placing her hand on my dick, but the moment for that hasn’t arrived yet. The alternative hasn’t been created yet.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned already that the name of my cook is Maria do Céu, or Mary from Heaven. She deserves that name, and tonight she graces us with a magnificent meal.

After dinner we talk until the early hours. Several times I ask, Isn’t it late for you? And she replies that she’s not sleepy and doesn’t feel like going home. We have wine, but I’m careful to avoid getting her drunk. Lucidity, both hers and mine, is essential to my plan.

I tell pointless jokes that make her laugh, precisely because they’re pointless. For the first time she speaks of personal matters, the least complex ones, like her mother’s grouchiness. There are women who even after they’re no longer adolescents continue to feel resentment toward their mother. I listen to everything, attentively. Agnes also speaks of her former boyfriend, who was a good person but didn’t talk to her. On one occasion, they went out for dinner and she decided that she’d keep quiet the entire evening. At the restaurant, her boyfriend consulted the menu, suggested the dishes, placed the order, and, once served, asked Agnes if her dish was tasty. He didn’t say anything else, and didn’t even note the silence. He might have noticed if she had refused to eat, but she was hungry. When they returned home, they went to bed and made love in silence. Then the boyfriend said “Good night, dear,” rolled over, and went to sleep.

I listened to it all, attentively, making neutral but appropriate comments, which she interpreted as obvious interest on my part in what she was saying and feeling.

I choose another English-language poet. I have no predilection for the English language but cultivate English for the same reason that Descartes knew Latin. Agnes arrives with a basket of tangerines.

“You never have tangerines in the house.”

“They’re out of season,” I said.

“But I found some. I chose this poem.”

“Oh?”

“The poet says he knows the night, he has walked and still walks in the rain, beyond the lights of the city, without looking at the people, without the desire to give explanations, imagining the sounds of distant houses; the time that the clock shows is neither wrong nor right. You know I’m enjoying this?”

“Why?”

“I wanted to understand what poets say, and I learned with you that it’s secondary,” says Agnes. “Every literary text is capable of generating different readings, but besides that wealth of meanings, poetry has the advantage of being mysterious even when it says two and two is four.”

“You’re right. And, especially, poetry is never totally consumed. However much you devour a poem, the feeling it evokes is never exhausted.”

“How complex life is,” says Agnes, pretending to sigh.

“You’ll see that’s how it is,” I say, lightly touching her arm. She moves away from the contact unaffectedly, without drama.

“How what is?”

“Life is complex.”

“Is that what poets say?”

“I don’t know. Let’s have dinner.”

Did I blunder by touching her? I think, as we eat the gastronomic delicacies prepared by Maria do Céu.

I’ve been at this undertaking for many days. I sense that Agnes is starting to become more vulnerable. But as the Bible says, for everything there is a season, and it’s not yet time to harvest.

“Is there such a thing as feminine poetry?” Agnes asks. “If someone didn’t know the author’s name, would he discover that this verse—‘the deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint’—was written by a woman? Is that a masculine or a feminine sentence?”

“It was a woman who wrote it, but it could have been written by a man.”

We’ve finished dinner and are in the middle of our conversation when the doorbell rings. Maria do Céu goes to open the door and returns immediately, with an apologetic expression, followed by Negrinha.

“I didn’t know you had company,” says Negrinha.

“I told her you were with someone,” protests Maria do Céu, who knows that this unexpected appearance by Negrinha can only mean trouble: she witnessed Negrinha hit my hump when I gave her the pink slip.

“I didn’t hear her,” says Negrinha, noticing the book on the table. “Ah, poetry. Am I interrupting chitchat about poetry? This devil is full of tricks.”

Agnes gets up from her chair.

“It’s time for me to go.”

“You haven’t introduced me to your friend,” says Negrinha.

“Some other time,” says Agnes. “Ciao.”

Agnes’s ciao is always a bad sign. I go to the door with her.

“Wait a moment, I’m going to get the book.”

She takes the book and leaves in a rush; I barely have time to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s always the same magic,” says Negrinha sarcastically. “The man who can talk about the beauty of music, painting, poetry. And that fools the idiots, doesn’t it? It worked with me. Music here, poetry there, and when the imbecile opens her eyes you’re already sticking your dick in her.”

“Negrinha, stop it.”

“You’re a prick. That hussy left before I could tell her what a 24-carat son of a bitch you are.”

“Negrinha—”

“I came here because I was feeling sorry for you, thinking you were by yourself, but no, I find another idiot being seduced, the next victim. Does she know that after you screw her you’ll kick her out on her ass?”

“Do you want something to drink? Sit here. Some wine?”

“Water.”

I bring her a glass of water. Negrinha takes a swallow. She’s calmer now.

“I think I’m going to accept that wine.”

I place the glass and the bottle of Bordeaux, the wine she likes, beside her.

“Who is that woman? Is she that Venus, the one you wrote love poems for?”

“I already told you: that Venus was a fictitious figure.”

“You said you were in love with another woman. With that hussy, the classic dumb blonde?”

“She’s a redhead.”

“The same shit.”

Negrinha again emptied and refilled the wine glass.

“And how could you fall in love with another woman when you were screwing me all the time? Why did you leave me? You liked me, you still like me, don’t you?     

She reaches out her hand, but I move away.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you? Just wait till you let me grab your dick.”

She downs another glass of wine, in a single gulp.

“Negrinha, remember Heraclites—”

“Fuck Heraclites. You’ve never read a book on philosophy, you read those For Dummies books.”

“I have to go out, Negrinha.”

“Don’t call me Negrinha. My name is Barbara.”

“I have to go.”

“You’re afraid to go to bed with me.”

“I have an important appointment.”

“Coward.”

I go to my bedroom and start changing clothes, rapidly. Negrinha invades the room. She seems a little drunk. As I quickly dress, she undresses with the same haste. We finish at practically the same time. Negrinha lies down, nude, on the bed, showing me the tip of her moistened tongue.

“I came here to talk with you,” she says.

I run out of the room and descend the stairs. In the street I take the first taxi I see.

Agnes disappears for a couple of days. When we meet again, she seems calm, and different.

“I liked that poem,” Agnes says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s only three lines.”

“And what does the author say in those three lines?”

“Does it matter?” Agnes asks. “Or is what’s important what I felt?”

“Yes, what you felt.”

“The poet says that she doesn’t like poetry, but when she reads it, with total disdain, she discovers after all in poetry a place for the truth. I understood something, but I think she means something different. I was overcome by a feeling that I can’t explain. That’s how it should be, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Who was that woman who came here? She’s very pretty.”

I kiss Agnes, lightly, on the cheek.

“Do you think I could be your girlfriend?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“You have a handsome face, but you’re a hunchback. How can I be your girlfriend?”

“After a time you won’t even notice this physical characteristic of mine.”

“What will other people say?”

“Others won’t know, or suspect, or imagine. We’ll go live somewhere else. We’ll tell the neighbors we’re brother and sister.”

“And who was that woman? I have to admit that she’s beautiful.”

“Must be some crazy.”

“I’m speaking seriously.”

“She’s a woman who has a thing for me.”

“I’m not lazy.”

I kiss her again, this time on the lips.

“This is very good,” she says.

I take her by the arm and lead her gently to the bedroom. We remove our clothes in silence.

After the surrender, she sighs in exhaustion. Lying beside her, I feel in my mouth the delectable taste of her saliva.

“Promise you’ll always talk to me,” says Agnes, embracing me.

I’m going to live with Agnes in a different house, in a different area.

The deafening street howls around me when a woman dressed completely in black, with long dark hair, passes by, tall and slim, enhancing by her movements her beautiful alabaster legs. (Life imitates poetry.) I follow her to where she lives. I have to create an elaborate strategy to get close to her and achieve what I need, a difficult task, as women, at first contact, feel repulsion toward me.


© Rubem Fonseca. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Clifford Landers. All rights reserved. 

O Corcunda Vênus de Botticelli

O CORCUNDA E A VÊNUS DE BOTTICELLI

 

Esvoaçantes ­mechas de cabe­los rui­vos fus­ti­ga­dos pelo vento e pela chuva, pele cre­mo­sa e radian­te, é a Vênus de Botticelli andan­do pela rua. (Aquela que está na Uffizi, nas­cen­do de uma con­cha, não a do Staatliche Museen, com fundo preto, que é seme­lhan­te mas tem os cabe­los secos arru­ma­dos em torno da cabe­ça, des­cen­do lisos pelo corpo.)

Não pen­sem que me gabo de uma pers­pi­cá­cia extraor­di­ná­ria, mas o fato é que se a ­mulher que ob­ser­vo esti­ver para­da como uma está­tua, sei qual é a cadên­cia dos seus pas­sos, quan­do ela se move. Entendo não só de mús­cu­los, mas tam­bém de esque­le­tos e, con­for­me a sime­tria da ossa­tu­ra, pre­ve­jo a arti­cu­la­ção dos tor­no­ze­los, dos joe­lhos e do ilía­co, que dão ritmo ao movi­men­to do corpo.

A Vênus cami­nha sem se inco­mo­dar com a chuva, às vezes viran­do a cabe­ça para o céu a fim de ­molhar ainda mais o rosto, e, posso dizer, sem o menor ranço poé­ti­co, que é o andar de uma deusa.

Tenho que criar uma estra­té­gia rebus­ca­da para me apro­xi­mar dela e con­se­guir o que pre­ci­so, tare­fa difí­cil, as mulhe­res, no pri­mei­ro con­ta­to, sen­tem repul­sa por mim.

Eu a sigo até onde ela mora. Vigio o pré­dio duran­te ­alguns dias. Vênus gosta de cami­nhar pela rua, e de ficar sen­ta­da na praça perto da sua casa, lendo. Mas a todo momen­to para, olha as pes­soas, prin­ci­pal­men­te crian­ças, ou então dá comi­da aos pom­bos o que, de certa forma, me decep­cio­na, os pom­­­bos, como os ratos, as bara­tas, as for­mi­gas e os ­cu­pins, não pre­ci­sam de ajuda, eles per­ma­ne­ce­rão quan­do afi­nal as bac­té­rias aca­ba­rem conos­co.

Olhando‑a de longe, fico cada vez mais impres­sio­na­do com a har­mo­nia do seu corpo, o per­fei­to equi­lí­brio entre as par­tes que con­so­li­dam a sua intei­re­za — a exten­são dos mem­bros em rela­ção à dimen­são ver­ti­cal do tórax; a altu­ra do pes­co­ço em rela­ção ao rosto e à cabe­ça, a lar­gu­ra estrei­ta da cin­tu­ra com­bi­na­da ao for­ma­to firme das náde­gas e do peito. Preciso me apro­xi­mar dessa ­mu­lher o quan­to antes. Estou cor­ren­do con­tra o tempo.

Num dia de chuva forte, sento‑me ao lado dela sob o agua­cei­ro, num banco da praça. Tenho que saber logo se ela gosta de con­ver­sar.

Hoje infe­liz­men­te a chuva não per­mi­te a lei­tu­ra, digo.

Ela não res­pon­de.

Por isso você não trou­xe um livro.

Ela finge que não ouve.

Insisto: Ele faz nas­cer o sol sobre bons e maus, e faz cho­ver sobre jus­tos e injus­tos.

A ­mulher então me fita rapi­da­men­te, porém man­te­nho meus olhos na sua testa.

Está falan­do comi­go?

Deus faz cho­ver sobre os jus­tos e os… (Meus olhos na testa dela.)

Ah, você fala­va de Deus.

Ela se levan­ta. Em pé, sabe que fica em posi­ção favo­rá­vel para recha­çar os avan­ços de um intru­so.

Não leve a mal, já vi que o ­senhor deve ser um des­ses evan­gé­li­cos bus­can­do sal­var almas para Jesus, mas desis­ta, sou um caso per­di­do.

Vou atrás dela, que se afas­ta len­ta­men­te.

Não sou um pas­tor pro­tes­tan­te. Aliás, duvi­do que a senho­ra des­cu­bra o que faço.

Sou muito boa nisso. Mas hoje estou sem tempo, pre­ci­so ir a uma expo­si­ção de pin­tu­ra.

Sua voz já demons­tra menos desa­gra­do. Ela pos­sui a vir­tu­de da curio­si­da­de, o que é muito bom para mim. E tam­bém outra qua­li­da­de essen­cial: gosta de con­ver­sar. Isso é ­melhor ainda.

Proponho‑me a acom­pa­nhá‑la e, após algu­ma hesi­ta­ção, ela con­cor­da. Caminhamos, ela um pouco sepa­ra­da de mim, como se não esti­vés­se­mos jun­tos. Tento ser o mais incons­pí­cuo pos­sí­vel.

Na expo­si­ção, há ape­nas uma aten­den­te, sen­ta­da numa mesa, lixan­do as unhas. Negrinha, a minha atual aman­te, diz que mulhe­res que lixam as unhas em públi­co têm difi­cul­da­de para pen­sar, e o lixar das unhas as ajuda a refle­tir ­melhor, como aque­las que racio­ci­nam com mais cla­re­za quan­do tiram cra­vos do nariz na fren­te do espe­lho.

Enquanto olho os qua­dros com estu­da­da indi­fe­ren­ça, vou dizen­do para ela: avant‑garde do sécu­lo pas­sa­do, tra­ços abs­tra­tos espon­tâ­neos, sub­cons­cien­tes, sub­kan­dins­ki, pre­fi­ro um sone­to de Shake­speare.

Ela não res­pon­de.

Estou que­ren­do impres­sio­nar você.

Não foi o sufi­cien­te, mas falar em poe­sia aju­dou um pouco, eu gos­ta­ria de enten­der de poe­sia.

Poesia não é para ser enten­di­da, poe­sia não é bula de remé­dio. Não vou dizer isso a ela, por enquan­to.

Que tal um expres­so? ela per­gun­ta.

Procuro um lugar onde pos­sa­mos sen­tar. Sendo mais alta do que eu, a Vênus faz avul­tar a minha cor­co­va quan­do fica­mos de pé, lado a lado.

Agora vou des­co­brir o que você faz, diz, pare­cen­do se diver­tir com a situa­ção. Você faz algu­ma coisa, não faz? Não diga, deixe que eu des­cu­bra. Bem, pas­tor pro­tes­tan­te já sabe­mos que não é, pro­fes­sor tam­bém não, pro­fes­sor tem as unhas sujas. Advogado usa gra­va­ta. Corretor da bolsa não, é ób­vio que não. Talvez ana­lis­ta de sis­te­mas, aque­la posi­ção cur­va­da na fren­te do com­pu­ta­dor… ummm… Desculpe.

Se eu tives­se olha­do nos seus olhos, o que teria visto, quan­do se refe­riu à colu­na ver­te­bral do sujei­to cur­va­do na fren­te do com­pu­ta­dor? Horror, pie­da­de, escár­nio? Entenderam agora por que evito, nos pri­mei­ros con­ta­tos, ler os olhos delas? Sim, eu podia ter visto ape­nas curio­si­da­de, mas pre­fi­ro não cor­rer ris­cos, vis­lum­bran­do algo que possa enfra­que­cer mi­nha audá­cia.

E você, sabe o que eu faço?

Unhas lim­pas sem esmal­te. Gosta de ler no banco da praça. Gosta de se molhar na chuva. Tem um pé maior do que o outro. Quer enten­der de poe­sia. É pre­gui­ço­sa. Indícios per­tur­ba­do­res.

Dá para per­ce­ber?

Pode ser mode­lo foto­grá­fi­co.

Dá para per­ce­ber?

Ou dona de casa ocio­sa e frus­tra­da que fre­quen­ta uma aca­de­mia onde faz dança, alon­ga­men­to, mus­cu­la­ção, ginás­ti­ca loca­li­za­da para for­ta­le­cer os glú­teos. A, a —

A bunda, é essa a pala­vra que você está pro­cu­ran­do? A bunda o quê?

Depois dos seios, é a parte mais peri­cli­tan­te do corpo, acres­cen­to.

Fico um pouco sur­pre­so, com a sua natu­ra­li­da­de ao usar aque­la pala­vra chula num diá­lo­go com um des­co­nhe­ci­do, não obs­tan­te eu este­ja farto de saber que aos cor­cun­das não se con­ce­dem eufe­mis­mos. Nem ­outras deli­ca­de­zas: é comum arro­ta­rem e pei­da­rem dis­trai­da­men­te na minha pre­sen­ça.

Dá para per­ce­ber?, ela repe­te.

Ou então não é nada disso, tem uma ofi­ci­na de enca­der­na­ção de ­livros em casa.

Você não res­pon­deu. Dá para per­ce­ber?

O quê?

Que tenho um pé maior do que o outro?

Mostre‑me a palma da sua mão. Vejo que está pla­ne­jan­do fazer uma via­gem. Há uma pes­soa que a deixa preo­cu­pa­da.

Acertou nova­men­te. Qual é o tru­que?

Todo mundo tem um pé maior do que o outro, pla­ne­ja fazer uma via­gem, tem uma pes­soa que lhe com­pli­ca a vida.

É o pé direi­to.

Ela esti­ca a perna, mos­tra o pé. Usa um sapa­to sem salto, de couro, com for­ma­to de tênis.

Mas afi­nal, qual é a minha pro­fis­são?

Encadernação. Uma ­mulher que mexe com ­li­vros tem um encan­to a mais.

Agora errou. Não faço nada. Mas você acer­tou uma parte. Sou pre­gui­ço­sa. Esse é um dos meus indí­cios per­tur­ba­do­res?

É o prin­ci­pal, res­pon­do. Um famo­so poeta acha­va a pre­gui­ça um esta­do deli­cio­so, uma sen­sa­ção que dei­xa­va em segun­do plano a poe­sia, a ambi­ção, o amor. O outro sinal sin­gu­lar é gos­tar de ler num banco da praça. E final­men­te, gos­tar de se ­molhar na chuva.

Não digo a ela que as pes­soas pre­gui­ço­sas ­so­frem de impul­sos ins­tin­ti­vos de rea­li­zar algu­ma coisa, mas não sabem o quê. O fato de a Vênus ser pre­gui­ço­sa era, para mim, a sorte gran­de. Todas as mulhe­res que con­quis­tei eram pre­gui­ço­sas, sonhan­do fazer ou apren­der algu­ma coisa. Mas, prin­ci­pal­men­te, gos­ta­vam de con­ver­sar — falar e ouvir —, o que na ver­da­de era o mais impor­tan­te. Voltarei a isso.

Você é pro­fes­sor de algu­ma coisa, as suas unhas lim­pas me con­fun­di­ram.

Pode me cha­mar de pro­fes­sor.

Está bem, pro­fes­sor. E você? Vai me cha­mar de quê? Preguiçosa?

Já uso um nome para você. Vênus.

Vênus? Horrível.

A sua Vênus é a de Botticelli.

A pin­tu­ra? Nem me lem­bro mais como ela é.

É só se olhar no espe­lho.

Elogio bobo. Por que gos­tar de se ­molhar na chuva é um indí­cio per­tur­ba­dor?

Isso eu não vou lhe dizer hoje.

O livro está aqui, não dava mesmo para ler na chuva, diz ela tiran­do um livro do bolso da capa. Tchau.

Só nessa hora vejo os olhos azuis dela: neu­tros. Já se acos­tu­ma­ra com o meu aspec­to e con­se­gui­ra, tal­vez, notar que o meu rosto não era feio como o corpo.

Esse foi o nosso pri­mei­ro encon­tro. A Vênus gos­tar de poe­sia iria me aju­dar, mas se ela apre­cias­se músi­ca, ou tea­tro, ou cine­ma, ou artes plás­ti­cas, isso não afe­ta­ria em nada a minha estra­té­gia. Negrinha só gos­ta­va de músi­ca e não deu muito tra­ba­lho, pois gos­­ta­va de con­ver­sar, prin­ci­pal­men­te de quei­xar‑se do homem que vivia com ela antes de mim, que só fala­va de coi­sas prá­ti­cas, pla­nos a curto, médio e longo prazo, horá­rios, ano­ta­ções nas agen­das, pro­vi­dên­cias, rela­ção custo‑bene­fí­cio dos gas­tos que rea­li­za­vam, fosse uma via­gem ou a com­pra de um espre­me­dor de alho, e quan­do ela que­ria con­ver­sar sobre outro assun­to ele sim­ples­men­te não ouvia.

Além de bom ouvin­te, posso dizer coi­sas inte­res­san­tes, tri­via­li­da­des de alma­na­que e tam­bém coi­sas mais pro­fun­das, que apren­di nos ­livros. Passei a vida lendo e me infor­man­do. Enquanto os ­outros chu­ta­vam bolas, dan­ça­vam, namo­ra­vam, pas­sea­vam, diri­giam car­ros ou moto­ci­cle­tas, eu fica­va em casa con­va­les­cen­do de ope­ra­ções fra­cas­sa­das e lendo. Aprendi muito, dedu­zi, pen­sei, cons­ta­tei, des­co­bri. Tornei‑me um tanto pro­li­xo, é ver­da­de. Mas cres­ci, duran­te o meu cal­vá­rio de som­bras, estu­dan­do e pla­ne­jan­do a manei­ra de alcan­çar os meus obje­ti­vos.

Um sujei­to que fez vinte ope­ra­ções na colu­na, um fra­cas­so atrás do outro, tem que ter, entre as suas prin­ci­pais vir­tu­des, a per­ti­ná­cia. Descubro, com o por­tei­ro do pré­dio onde ela mora, que Agnes é o nome pelo qual Vênus é conhe­ci­da no mundo dos mor­tais. Deixo um enve­lo­pe com um bilhe­te para ela na por­ta­ria do seu pré­dio.

O bilhe­te: Suspeito que leu pouca poe­sia. Você lê os ­livros na praça e vai pulan­do pági­nas, devem ser con­tos, nin­guém lê poe­sia assim. Preguiçosos gos­tam de ler con­tos, aca­bam um conto na pági­na vinte e pulam para aque­le que está na pági­na qua­ren­ta, no fim leem ape­nas uma parte do livro. Você pre­ci­sa ler os poe­tas, nem que seja à manei­ra daque­le escri­tor malu­co para quem os ­livros de poe­sia mere­cem ser lidos ape­nas uma vez e ­depois des­truí­dos para que os poe­tas mor­tos deem lugar aos vivos e não os dei­xem petri­fi­ca­dos. Posso fazer você enten­der de poe­sia, mas terá que ler os ­livros que eu indi­car. Você pre­ci­sa de mim, mais do que pre­ci­sa da sua mãe ou do seu cachor­ro lulu. Este é o núme­ro do meu tele­fo­ne. P.S. Você tem razão, é ­melhor se cha­mar Agnes do que Vênus. Assinei: Professor.

Fazer a paler­ma enten­der de poe­sia! Mas ela gos­ta­va desse gêne­ro lite­rá­rio, e o assun­to das nos­sas con­ver­sas seria, por­tan­to, poe­sia. As coi­sas que um cor­cun­da é capaz de fazer para que uma ­mulher se apai­xo­ne por ele.

Quando estou pro­cu­ran­do uma nova namo­ra­da, a anti­ga é des­car­ta­da, pre­ci­so estar con­cen­tra­do no obje­ti­vo prin­ci­pal. Estava na hora de dizer adeus à Negrinha.

Astuto, escre­vo uns ­óbvios poe­mas de amor para Agnes, e deixo‑os impres­sos, de pro­pó­si­to, na gave­ta da mesa do com­pu­ta­dor, um local que Negrinha sem­pre vas­cu­lha. Ela vive fuçan­do ­minhas coi­sas, é muito ciu­men­ta.

Negrinha fica furio­sa quan­do des­co­bre os poe­mas. Xinga‑me, pro­fe­re pala­vras duras, res­pon­di­das com do­çu­ra por mim. Esmurra o meu peito e a minha cor­cun­da, diz que me ama, que me odeia, enquan­to res­pon­do com pala­vras mei­gas. Li não sei onde que, numa sepa­ra­ção, aque­le que não ama é o que diz as coi­sas cari­nho­sas.

 Na ver­da­de, eu me inte­res­sei muito por Ne­grinha até ela ficar apai­xo­na­da por mim. Mas não estou nem nunca esti­ve apai­xo­na­do por ela, ou por qual­quer outra ­mulher com quem me envol­vi. Sou um cor­cun­da e não pre­ci­so me apai­xo­nar por ­mulher algu­ma, pre­ci­so que algu­ma ­mulher se apai­xo­ne por mim — e outra, e ­depois outra. Recordo os agra­dá­veis momen­tos que pas­sei com Ne­grinha, na cama, con­ver­san­do, ouvin­do músi­ca e mis­tu­ran­do nos­sas sali­vas. Dizem que esse líqui­do trans­pa­ren­te segre­ga­do pelas glân­du­las sali­va­res é insí­pi­do e serve ape­nas para flui­di­fi­car os ali­men­tos e faci­li­tar sua inges­tão e diges­tão, o que ape­nas com­pro­va que as pes­­soas não têm sen­si­bi­li­da­de para sen­tir nem mesmo o sabor da pró­pria sali­va, e pior ainda, falta‑lhes a neces­sá­ria suti­le­za gus­ta­ti­va para se deli­ciar com o gosto da sali­va do outro. Ao se mis­tu­ra­rem, as sali­vas adqui­rem um pala­dar ine­fá­vel, com­pa­rá­vel ape­nas ao néc­tar mito­ló­gi­co. Um mis­té­rio enzi­má­ti­co, como ­outros do nosso corpo.

Fico tris­te por ter feito Negrinha ­sofrer. Mas sou um cor­cun­da. Adeus, Negrinha, tua sali­va era delei­tá­vel e os teus olhos ver­des pos­suíam uma bele­za lumi­no­sa.

Agnes demo­ra uma sema­na para res­pon­der a minha carta.

O bilhe­te dela: Preciso do meu cachor­ro lulu, mas não pre­ci­so da minha mãe, tal­vez do talão de che­ques dela. Vou dar uma pas­sa­da aí.

Quando Agnes chega, já estou pre­pa­ra­do para rece­bê‑la. Como é que um cor­cun­da se pre­pa­ra para rece­ber uma ­mulher linda que deve ser ardua­men­te indu­zi­da a se entre­gar a ele? Fazendo pre­via­men­te os seus pla­nos, todos con­tin­gen­tes, como é da essên­cia dos pla­nos; per­ma­ne­cen­do tran­qui­lo, como, aliás, deve­mos ficar quan­do rece­be­mos o cirur­gião ou o bom­bei­ro que vai con­ser­tar a des­car­ga do banhei­ro; usan­do rou­pas lar­gas e pro­je­tan­do o peito para a fren­te; per­ma­ne­cen­do aler­ta, para que o nosso rosto se mos­tre sem­pre bon­do­so e o nosso olhar per­ma­nen­te­men­te doce. Um cor­cun­da dis­traí­do, mesmo não sendo qua­si­mo­des­co e tendo um rosto boni­to, como é o meu caso, exibe sem­pre um sem­blan­te sinis­tro.

Agnes entra e obser­va a sala com um argu­to olhar femi­ni­no. Moro aqui há um ano ape­nas, mudo de casa cons­tan­te­men­te, e a minha sala de estar, ape­sar de ele­gan­te­men­te mobi­lia­da, tem algo vaga­men­te trun­ca­do em seu aspec­to, como se nela fal­tas­sem lumi­ná­rias, ­móveis sem ser­ven­tia e ­outros orna­tos inú­teis que resul­tam das ocu­pa­ções pro­lon­ga­das dos espa­ços domés­ti­cos. As estan­tes de madei­ra nobre — que abri­gam meus ­livros, cds e dvds de cine­ma, músi­ca, ópera e artes plás­ti­cas —, que sem­pre me acom­pa­nham nas mudan­ças, são pré‑mol­da­das e ­fá­ceis de desar­mar.

Agnes para na fren­te das estan­tes que ocu­pam as pare­des da sala e per­gun­ta, sem se virar para mim:

Este apar­ta­men­to é seu?

É alu­ga­do.

Que ­livros são aque­les men­cio­na­dos no seu bilhe­te?

Você sabe­rá, opor­tu­na­men­te. É um pro­gra­ma sem tempo deter­mi­na­do de dura­ção. Diariamente você lerá um poema. Os poe­tas nunca serão repe­ti­dos. Você terá o dia intei­ro para ler o poema. À noite você vem aqui em casa, jan­ta­mos e você me fala­rá sobre a poe­sia esco­lhi­da. Ou do que você qui­ser, se não sen­tir von­ta­de de falar do poema. Tenho a ­me­lhor cozi­nhei­ra da cida­de. Quer beber algu­ma coisa?

Ela, que até então se man­ti­nha de cos­tas para mim, virou‑se subi­ta­men­te, excla­man­do:

Não sei o que estou fazen­do aqui. Acho que ­fiquei malu­ca. Vou virar estu­dan­te? É isso?

Você é uma ­mulher boni­ta, mas sente um vazio den­tro de você, não sente?

Tchau.

Mais de vinte ope­ra­ções dolo­ro­sas para cor­ri­gir uma cor­cun­da que não saiu do lugar. Captações cons­tan­tes de expres­sões fur­ti­vas de des­pre­zo, cha­co­tas osten­si­vas — ei, cor­cun­di­nha, posso pas­sar a mão nas suas cos­tas para dar sorte? —, refle­xos diá­rios e imu­tá­veis de nudez repug­nan­te no espe­lho em que me con­tem­plo, para não falar do que leio no olhar das mulhe­res, antes de apren­der a espe­rar o momen­to certo para ler o olhar das mulhe­res, se tudo isso não aca­bou comi­go, que efei­to pode ter um tchau dito de esgue­lha segui­do de uma reti­ra­da des­de­nho­sa? Nenhum.

Para sele­cio­nar o que Agnes deve ler, deci­do, por como­dis­mo, usar os livros que tenho na minha estan­te. Penso em come­çar com um poeta clás­si­co fes­ce­ni­no, mas é cedo para lhe apre­sen­tar poe­mas que dizem ques­to è pure un bel cazo lungo e gros­so ou então fot­ti­mi e fá de me ciò che tu vuoi, o in potta o in cul, ch’io me ne curo poco, ela pode­ria ficar assus­ta­da, este poeta obs­ce­no é para ser usado numa fase em que a ­mulher já foi con­quis­ta­da. Esqueci de dizer que esco­lho poe­tas já mor­tos, não obs­tan­te exis­tam poe­tas vivos muito melho­res do que cer­tos poe­tas con­sa­gra­dos que já bate­ram as botas, mas essa minha deci­são é dita­da pela con­ve­niên­cia, os melho­res mor­tos tive­ram opor­tu­ni­da­de de encon­trar o cami­nho das ­minhas estan­tes, e não posso dizer o mesmo dos vivos.

Envio para Agnes um poema que fala que a arte de per­der não é difí­cil de apren­der. Sei que isso irá pro­vo­car uma rea­ção. Os pre­gui­ço­sos vivem per­den­do coi­sas, e não falo ape­nas de via­gens.

Chove no pri­mei­ro dia do pro­gra­ma. Assim que entra na minha casa Agnes per­gun­ta:

Como é que você sabia que, para mim, per­der as coi­sas é sem­pre um desas­tre, ape­sar de todas as racio­na­li­za­ções que faço?

Da mesma manei­ra que eu sabia que você tem um pé maior do que o outro. Vamos falar mais sobre o poema? Podemos jan­tar ­depois.

Amanhã. Outra coisa, o pé da Vênus de Botticelli é muito feio, o meu é mais boni­to. Tchau.

O cor­cun­da sabe como se deita. Nós nos dei­ta­mos de lado, mas acor­da­mos no meio da noite esten­di­dos em decú­bi­to dor­sal, com dor nas cos­tas. Deitar de bar­ri­ga para baixo exige que uma das per­nas seja dobra­da e o braço opos­to enfia­do sob o tra­ves­sei­ro. Nós, cor­cun­das, acor­da­mos ­várias vezes no meio da noite, pro­cu­ran­do uma posi­ção cômo­da, ou menos des­con­for­tá­vel, ator­men­ta­dos por pen­sa­men­tos so­tur­nos que nos atra­pa­lham o sono. Um cor­cun­da não esque­ce, pensa sem­pre na sua des­gra­ça, as pes­soas são o que são por­que um dia fize­ram uma esco­lha, se tives­sem feito outra o seu des­ti­no seria dife­ren­te, mas um cor­cun­da de nas­cen­ça não fez nenhu­ma esco­lha, não inter­fe­riu na sua sorte, não lan­çou os dados. Essa cons­ta­ta­ção inter­mi­ten­te nos tira o sono, nos força a sair da cama. Além disso, gos­ta­mos de ficar de pé.

Quando Agnes chega, no dia seguin­te, a cozi­nhei­ra já está pro­vi­den­cian­do o jan­tar. Um sujei­to com as vér­te­bras no lugar pode levar a ­mulher que quer con­quis­tar para comer um cachor­ro‑quen­te no bote­quim. Eu não posso me dar a esse luxo.

A poeta… É poeta ou poe­ti­sa?

O dicio­ná­rio diz poe­ti­sa. Mas pode cha­mar todos de poe­tas, ­homens e mulhe­res.

A poeta diz que ao con­ver­sar com o homem que amava per­ce­beu que ele escon­dia um tre­mor, o tre­mor do seu sofri­men­to mor­tal. Eu senti isso quan­do con­ver­sa­va com você.

Interessante, eu disse.

Você acha… chato ser cor­cun­da?

Já me acos­tu­mei. Além disso, vi sem afli­ções todos os cor­cun­das de Notre Dame no cine­ma, conhe­ço todos os Ricardos iii — você sabia que o ver­da­dei­ro Ricardo iii não era cor­cun­da, como se pode dedu­zir da sua arma­du­ra que ficou pre­ser­va­da até nos­sos dias? —, sei de cor o poema do Dylan Thomas sobre um cor­cun­da no par­que. Con­templo o Corcovado da minha jane­la, toda noite.

Agnes me imita:

Interessante.

Peço a ela que leia para mim o novo poema que esco­lheu. Ela ­folheia o livro, lê mal, a cara enfia­da no livro. Não se pode ler de manei­ra decen­te enfian­do a cara no texto. E ler um poema é ainda mais difí­cil, os pró­prios poe­tas não sabem fazer isso.

Fale do poema.

A ­mulher lamen­ta a morte do homem que amava… O seu des­ti­no era cele­brar aque­le homem, a força, o bri­lho da ima­gi­na­ção dele, mas a ­mulher diz que per­deu tudo, esque­ceu tudo.

Você sen­tiu algu­ma coisa?

Uma certa tris­te­za. Esse poema me inco­mo­dou muito.

Fale mais, eu peço.

Agnes fala, eu ouço; fala, eu ouço. Apenas inter­ve­nho para pro­vo­cá‑la a falar mais. Como sei ouvir, isso é muito fácil. Fazê‑las falar e ouvi‑las é a minha táti­ca.

Acho que em russo deve ser mais ator­men­ta­dor ainda, diz ela.

Esse é o pro­ble­ma da tra­du­ção poé­ti­ca, res­pon­do.

O lei­tor ou sabe todas as lín­guas do mundo, diz Agnes, ou tem que se habi­tuar com isto: os poe­mas fica­rem menos tris­tes ou menos ale­gres ou menos boni­tos ou menos sig­ni­fi­ca­ti­vos, ou menos et cete­ra quan­do tra­du­zi­dos. Menos sem­pre.

Um poeta ame­ri­ca­no disse que poe­sia é o que se perde na tra­du­ção.

Quem foi?

Você vai ter que des­co­brir. Que tal jan­tar­mos?

Não vou des­cre­ver as igua­rias do jan­tar, os ­vi­nhos de nobre ori­gem que bebe­mos, as espe­ci­fi­ca­ções dos copos de cris­tal que usa­mos, mas posso dizer que a mesa do ­melhor gour­met da cida­de não é ­melhor do que a minha. Meu pai era ati­la­do em maté­ria de negó­cios e quan­do mor­reu — minha mãe mor­reu antes, creio que não supor­tou a minha des­gra­ça, a des­gra­ça dela — me dei­xou em situa­ção con­for­tá­vel. Não sou rico, mas posso mudar, quan­do neces­sá­rio, de uma bela resi­dên­cia para outra ainda ­melhor, tenho uma boa cozi­nhei­ra e tempo ocio­so para rea­li­zar meus pla­nos.

Chamo um táxi. Acompanho‑a até a sua casa, ape­sar dos pro­tes­tos de que pode­ria ir sozi­nha. Volto muito can­sa­do.

Saio muito cedo da cama, em dúvi­da sobre o outro poeta que indi­ca­rei. Escolher os ­livros faz com que eu me sinta ainda mais safa­do, como um des­ses scho­lars sabi­chões que ­ganham a vida crian­do câno­nes, ou ­melhor, catá­lo­gos de auto­res impor­tan­tes. Na ver­da­de, como já disse, só quero usar os auto­res que tenho nas ­minhas estan­tes, e mesmo as estan­tes de um cor­cun­da não têm, neces­sa­ria­men­te, os melho­res auto­res.

Peço a Agnes que leia o poema em que o autor des­cre­ve ale­go­ri­ca­men­te uma cuni­lín­gua.

Leia, por favor, este poema para mim.

Ela lê. Seu fran­cês é per­fei­to.

Fale sobre o poema.

O poeta, ­depois de dizer que a sua amada está nua como uma escra­va mou­ris­ca, con­tem­pla as coxas, os qua­dris da ­mulher, o seu peito e a sua bar­ri­ga, ces grap­pes de ma vigne, obser­va embe­ve­ci­do a cin­tu­ra estrei­ta que acen­tua a pél­vis femi­ni­na, mas o que o deixa exta­sia­do e sus­pi­ro­so é o ver­me­lho sober­bo do rosto da ­mulher.

Foi assim que você enten­deu? O poeta vê a pél­vis e exta­sia‑se com o ruge do rosto? Lembre‑se, ele está fitan­do a por­ção infe­rior do tron­co da ­mulher, a parte rouge super­be que chama a sua aten­ção só pode ser a vagi­na. Apenas ele não era fes­ce­ni­no o bas­tan­te para des­pre­zar as metá­fo­ras.

Pode ser. Qual é o menu de hoje?

Foi você quem disse que quer enten­der.

Qual é o menu de hoje?

Grenouille.

Adoro.

 

 

Já se pas­sa­ram ­vários dias desde o nosso pri­mei­ro encon­tro. Mantenho o con­tro­le, a paciên­cia é uma das maio­res vir­tu­des, e isso vale tam­bém para aque­les que não são cor­cun­das. Hoje, por exem­plo, quan­­do Agnes, ao sen­tar‑se na minha fren­te, mos­tra os joe­lhos, sinto desejo de beijá‑los, mas nem ­sequer olho‑os por muito tempo.

Agnes pega o livro.

Isto aqui: trans­for­ma‑se o ama­dor na coisa ama­da, por vir­tu­de de muito ima­gi­nar… que mais dese­ja o corpo de alcan­çar? Que diabo o poeta quer dizer com isso?

Agnes, você leu o poema de má von­ta­de. Foi você que esco­lheu esse poema. Havia ­outros mais ­fáceis.

Podemos dizer que é um sone­to solip­so?

Pelo pra­zer da ali­te­ra­ção?

Também. Ou o cha­ma­ría­mos de sone­to ascé­ti­co? Ou sone­to neo­pla­tô­ni­co? Você vê, já estou pare­cen­do o meu pró­prio pro­fes­sor.

Pode‑se ter uma filo­so­fia sem conhe­cer o filó­so­fo que a con­ce­beu? per­gun­to.

O rosto dela fica imó­vel, ela cos­tu­ma ficar assim, sem mexer os olhos, muito menos os ­lábios, essas mími­cas de quem quer demons­trar que está medi­tan­do. É como se tives­se fica­do surda. Mas logo em segui­da reco­me­ça a falar com entu­sias­mo. E eu ouço. Saber ouvir é uma arte, e gos­tar de ouvir faz parte dela. Quem finge gos­tar de ouvir é logo des­co­ber­to em sua impos­tu­ra.

Não toco nela, nesse dia, nem nos pró­xi­mos dias.

Há mulhe­res de pele bran­ca baça, ­outras de uma bran­cu­ra quase azi­nha­vra­da, ­outras des­co­ra­das como gesso ou fari­nha de rosca, mas a pele bran­ca de Agnes tem uma radiân­cia esplên­di­da, dá‑me von­ta­de de mordê‑la, cra­var os den­tes nos seus bra­ços, suas per­nas, seu rosto, ela tem um rosto para ser mor­di­do, mas con­te­nho‑me. Dou‑lhe, para ler, outro poema eró­ti­co. Confesso que corro um risco cal­cu­la­do. Como ela rea­gi­rá ao ler — a lín­gua lambe as péta­las ver­me­lhas da rosa plu­ria­ber­ta, a lín­gua lavra certo ocul­to botão, e vai tecen­do lépi­das varia­ções de leves rit­mos, e lambe, lam­bi­lon­ga, lam­bi­len­ta, a lico­ri­na gruta cabe­lu­da? Agnes mudou de assun­to quan­do ten­tei fazer uma exe­ge­se (é isso que ela quer, não é? Entender?) eró­ti­ca do poema da cuni­lín­gua, lido por ela dois dias antes. Como se com­por­ta­ria agora, ao ler outro poema com o mesmo tópi­co e ainda mais ousa­do?

Pensei que a poe­sia não mos­tras­se isso, que fela­ção e cuni­lín­gua fos­sem cli­chês usa­dos ape­nas nos fil­mes, diz Agnes, após ler o poema. Não sei se gos­tei. Lambe lam­bi­lon­ga lam­bi­len­ta é uma ali­te­ra­ção engra­ça­da. Mas lico­ri­na gruta cabe­lu­da é hor­rí­vel. O pró­xi­mo vai ser assim?

Não per­ce­bo as ver­da­dei­ras impli­ca­ções con­ti­das no que ela me diz. Desagrado, decep­ção? Mera curio­si­da­de? Uma aber­tu­ra? É ­melhor não me apro­fun­dar.

 

 

Estamos nesse jogo há mui­tos dias.

Lemos um poema sobre um sujei­to que per­gun­ta se ousa­rá comer um pês­se­go.

Comer pês­se­gos?

Faço o jogo que ela quer:

Digamos que seja sobre a velhi­ce.

E ­velhos não têm cora­gem de comer pês­se­gos?

Creio que é por­que ­velhos usam den­ta­du­ra.

Pensei que poe­mas sem­pre falas­sem de coi­sas belas ou trans­cen­den­tais.

A poe­sia cria a trans­cen­dên­cia.

Odeio quan­do você se exibe.

Não estou me exi­bin­do. As pró­te­ses não são ape­nas a coisa que repre­sen­tam. Mas umas são mais sig­ni­fi­ca­ti­vas do que ­outras. Implantes de pênis mais do que den­ta­du­ras.

Pernas mecâ­ni­cas mais do que unhas pos­ti­ças?

Marca‑pas­sos car­día­cos mais do que arte­fa­tos audi­­ti­vos.

Seios de sili­co­ne mais do que peru­cas?

Isso. Mas sem­pre trans­cen­den­do a coisa e o sujei­to, algo fora dele.

Esse implan­te é muito usado? O do…

Do pênis? Coloque‑se na posi­ção de um homem que faz esse implan­te. Veja a sin­ge­le­za poé­ti­ca desse meta­fí­si­co gesto de revol­ta con­tra o vene­no do tem­po, con­tra a soli­dão, a ane­do­nia, a tris­te­za.

Posso fazer uma per­gun­ta imper­ti­nen­te?

Pode.

Você usa, ou ­melhor, usa­ria essa pró­te­se?

Sou um cor­cun­da ver­da­dei­ro. Um cor­cun­da não pre­ci­sa disso.

Poderia dizer a ela que um cor­cun­da de nas­cen­ça, como eu, ou subli­ma os seus dese­jos para sem­pre — nesse caso, para que o implan­te? — ou então, na idade adul­ta, como eu, que até os vinte e oito anos nunca tive uma rela­ção sexual, passa a ser domi­na­do por uma lubri­ci­da­de paro­xís­ti­ca que faz o seu pau ficar duro ao menor dos estí­mu­los. Um cor­cun­da ou fica broxa ou arde numa foguei­ra de las­cí­via que não arre­fe­ce um ins­tan­te ­sequer, como o calor do infer­no. Mas isso ela com­pro­va­rá opor­tu­na­men­te.

Não há nenhu­ma den­ta­du­ra no poema, diz Agnes, nem implan­te de qual­quer natu­re­za.

Os poe­tas nunca mos­tram tudo cla­ra­men­te. Mas a den­ta­du­ra está lá, para quem olhar bem.

A velhi­ce está lá, e o medo da morte.

E o que é a velhi­ce num homem?, per­gun­to.

Concordo: é den­ta­du­ra, cal­ví­cie, a cer­te­za de que as ­sereias não can­tam mais para ele. Sim, e tam­bém o medo de agir. Ousarei?, o poeta per­gun­ta o tempo intei­ro. Ele odeia os hor­ren­dos sin­to­mas da velhi­ce, mas não ousa se matar. Ousarei comer um pês­se­go? sig­ni­fi­ca, terei cora­gem de aca­bar com essa merda que é a minha vida? O pês­se­go é uma metá­fo­ra da morte. Mas acei­to que exis­ta tam­bém uma den­ta­du­ra no meio. Estou apren­den­do a en­­­ten­der poe­sia?

Sim. O poema pode ser enten­di­do como você qui­ser, o que já é um avan­ço, e ­outras pes­soas pode­rão, ou não, enten­dê‑lo da mesma manei­ra que você. Mas isso não tem a menor impor­tân­cia. O que impor­ta é que o lei­tor deve sen­tir o poema e o que ­alguém sente ao ler um poema é exclu­si­vo, não é igual ao sen­ti­men­to de ­nenhum outro lei­tor. O que neces­si­ta ser enten­di­do é o conto, é o roman­ce, esses gêne­ros lite­rá­rios meno­res, ­cheios de sim­bo­lis­mos ­óbvios.

Eu acho que você fala ­demais, ela diz, bem‑humo­ra­da.

Caveat: se uma ­mulher não tiver um míni­mo de humor e inte­li­gên­cia eu não con­si­go fodê‑la. Como pode­ria con­ver­sar com ela? Isso é pés­si­mo para um cor­cun­da las­ci­vo que enfren­ta uma ver­da­dei­ra pe­drei­ra para con­quis­tar mulhe­res, cuja pri­mei­ra im­pres­são ao vê‑lo pode­ria ser a mesma que ­teriam ao ver um basi­lis­co, se esse rép­til cao­lho de bafo mor­tal exis­tis­se. Já me ima­gi­na­ram inves­tin­do, cego pelo dese­jo, dias e dias numa con­quis­ta para ­depois, no meio da emprei­ta­da, cons­ta­tar que estou lidan­do com uma estú­pi­da, que me fará bro­xar na hora H? Quando um cor­cun­da broxa uma vez, broxa para o resto da vida, como se ino­cu­la­do por uma bac­té­ria mul­tir­re­sis­ten­te. Dirão, se Agnes fosse inte­li­gen­te, ela me acha­ria pro­li­xo e exi­bi­cio­nis­ta. Mas na ver­da­de eu ape­nas a pro­vo­ca­va para que ela falas­se. Ela esta­va impres­sio­na­da con­si­go, acre­di­ta­va que esta­va apren­den­do não ape­nas a ver, mas a enten­der que a pes­soa pode ser míope, porém não pode ficar com os olhos fecha­dos.

Outra coisa: assim como para o poeta escre­ver é esco­lher — criar ­opções e esco­lher —, tam­bém eu tinha que criar ­opções e esco­lher.

Estou com o meu mem­bro rígi­do. A tesu­ra e o tama­nho do meu pênis dão‑me uma con­fian­ça, uma cora­gem muito gran­de, maior mesmo do que a minha astú­cia cere­bri­na. Sinto von­ta­de de colo­car a mão dela no meu pau, mas ainda não che­gou o momen­to para isso. A alter­na­ti­va ainda não foi cria­da.

Não sei se já disse que o nome da minha cozi­nhei­ra é Maria do Céu. Ela mere­ce esse nome, e esta noite nos brin­da com uma mag­ní­fi­ca refei­ção.

Depois do jan­tar fica­mos con­ver­san­do até de madru­ga­da. Pergunto algu­mas vezes, não é tarde para você? E ela res­pon­de que está sem sono e sem von­ta­de de ir para casa. Tomamos vinho, mas tenho o cui­da­do de evi­tar que ela se embria­gue. A luci­dez, a minha e a dela, é essen­cial ao meu plano.

Conto ane­do­tas sem graça, que a fazem rir, exa­ta­men­te por­que não têm a menor graça. Pela pri­mei­ra vez ela fala de assun­tos pes­soais, os menos com­ple­xos, como a rabu­gi­ce da sua mãe. Há mulhe­res que mesmo tendo saído da ado­les­cên­cia con­ti­nuam man­ten­do o res­sen­ti­men­to con­tra a mãe. Ouço tudo, aten­to. Agnes fala tam­bém sobre o seu anti­go namo­ra­do, que era uma boa pes­soa mas não con­ver­sa­va com ela. Certa oca­sião, foram jan­tar fora e ela deci­diu que fica­ria cala­da a noite intei­ra. No res­tau­ran­te o namo­ra­do con­sul­tou o menu, suge­riu os pra­tos, fez os pedi­dos e, ­depois de ser­vi­dos, per­gun­tou a Agnes se a comi­da dela esta­va gos­to­sa. Não disse mais nada, e nem ­sequer per­ce­beu o silên­cio de Agnes. Talvez tives­se repa­ra­do se ela tives­se recu­sa­do a comi­da, mas ela esta­va com fome. Chegando em casa foram para a cama e fize­ram amor em silên­cio. Depois o namo­ra­do disse boa noite, minha que­ri­da, virou‑se para o lado e dor­miu.

Ouvi tudo aten­to, fazen­do comen­tá­rios neu­tros, mas ade­qua­dos, que ela inter­pre­ta­ria como um evi­den­te inte­res­se da minha parte pelo que ela dizia e sen­tia.

Escolho outro poeta de lín­gua ingle­sa. Não tenho pre­di­le­ção pela lín­gua ingle­sa, mas cul­ti­vo o ­inglês pela mesma razão que Descartes sabia latim. Agnes chega com uma cesta de tan­ge­ri­nas.

Nunca tem tan­ge­ri­na na sua casa.

Não é época de tan­ge­ri­na.

Mas eu achei. Escolhi este poema.

E então?

O poeta diz que conhe­ce a noite, andou e anda na chuva, além das luzes da cida­de, sem olhar para as pes­soas, sem von­ta­de de dar expli­ca­ções, ima­gi­na os ruí­dos das casas dis­tan­tes; o tempo que o reló­gio marca não está erra­do nem certo. Sabe que estou gos­tan­do disto?

Por quê?

Eu que­ria enten­der o que os poe­tas dizem, e apren­di com você que isso é secun­dá­rio, diz Agnes. Todo texto lite­rá­rio tem a capa­ci­da­de de gerar dife­ren­tes lei­tu­ras, mas, além dessa rique­za de sig­ni­fi­ca­dos, a poe­sia tem a van­ta­gem de ser mis­te­rio­sa mes­mo quan­do diz que dois e dois são qua­tro.

 Você tem razão. E, prin­ci­pal­men­te, a poe­sia nunca é total­men­te con­su­mi­da. Por mais que você devo­re um poema, o sen­ti­men­to que ele pro­vo­ca ­jamais se esgo­ta.

Ai que vida com­ple­xa, diz Agnes, fin­gin­do sus­pi­rar.

Vai ver é isso, eu digo, tocan­do de leve no seu braço. Ela se afas­ta do con­ta­to com natu­ra­li­da­de, sem drama.

Isso o quê?

A vida é com­ple­xa.

É isso o que os poe­tas dizem?

Não sei. Vamos jan­tar.

Será que fiz bes­tei­ra, tocan­do‑a? penso, enquan­to come­mos as delí­cias gas­tro­nô­mi­cas pre­pa­ra­das por dona Maria do Céu.

 

 

Estou há mui­tos dias nesta emprei­ta­da. Sinto que Agnes come­ça a ficar mais vul­ne­rá­vel. Mas, como diz a Bíblia, há um tempo certo para tudo, e ainda não está na hora de ­colher.

Existe uma poe­sia femi­ni­na?, per­gun­ta Agnes. Se ­alguém não sou­bes­se o nome do autor des­co­bri­ria que este verso — o sen­ti­men­to mais pro­fun­do sem­pre se mos­tra em silên­cio; não em silên­cio, mas em con­ten­ção — foi escri­to por uma ­mulher? Esta é uma frase mas­cu­li­na ou femi­ni­na?

Foi uma ­mulher que a escre­veu, mas pode­ria ter sido escri­ta por um homem.

Acabamos de jan­tar e esta­mos no meio da nossa con­ver­sa quan­do a cam­pai­nha toca. Maria do Céu vai abrir a porta e logo volta, com ar com­pun­gi­do, segui­da de Ne­grinha.

Não sabia que você tinha visi­ta, diz Negrinha.

Eu disse que o ­senhor esta­va com uma pessoa, pro­tes­ta Maria do Céu, que sabe que aquela apa­rição ines­pe­ra­da só pode cau­sar pro­ble­mas: ela tes­te­mu­nhou Negrinha esmur­rar a minha cor­cun­da quan­do lhe dei o bilhe­te azul.

Não ouvi, diz Negrinha, notan­do o livro sobre a mesa. Ah, poe­sia, vim atra­pa­lhar uma con­ver­si­nha sobre poe­sia? Esse demô­nio é cheio de tru­ques.

Agnes se levan­ta da cadei­ra.

Está na hora de ir embo­ra.

Você não me apre­sen­tou a sua amiga, diz Negrinha.

Em outra oca­sião, diz Agnes. Tchau.

O tchau de Agnes é sem­pre um mau sinal. Vou até a porta com ela.

Espera um pouco que vou pegar o livro.

Ela rece­be o livro e sai apres­sa­da, só tenho tem­po de dar um beijo no seu rosto.

É sem­pre a mesma mági­ca, diz Negrinha iro­ni­ca­men­te. O homem que sabe con­ver­sar sobre a bele­za da músi­ca, da pin­tu­ra, da poe­sia. E isso enga­na as tolas, não é? Funcionou comi­go. Música pra cá, poe­sia pra lá, quan­do a pár­voa abre o olho você já está enfian­do o pau nela.

Negrinha, para com isso.

Você é um escro­to. Aquela siri­gai­ta foi embo­ra antes que eu lhe dis­ses­se que gran­des­sís­si­mo filho da puta você é.

Negrinha…

Vim aqui com pena de você, achan­do que esta­va sozi­nho, mas não, encon­tro outra idio­ta sendo sedu­zi­da, a pró­xi­ma víti­ma. Ela sabe que ­depois que for comi­da você vai dar um pon­ta­pé na bunda dela?

Quer tomar algu­ma coisa? Senta aqui. Quer um vinho?

Água.

Trago um copo com água para ela. Negrinha bebe um gole. Agora está mais calma.

Acho que vou acei­tar aque­le vinho.

Coloco o copo e a gar­ra­fa de bor­deaux, o vinho que ela gosta, ao seu lado.

Quem é aque­la ­mulher? É a tal Vênus, para quem você escre­via poe­mas de amor?

Já lhe disse que aque­la Vênus era uma figu­ra fic­tí­cia.

Você disse que esta­va apai­xo­na­do por outra. Por essa siri­gai­ta, a clás­si­ca loura burra?

Ela é ruiva.

A mesma merda.

Negrinha esva­zia e volta a ­encher o copo de vinho.

E como é que você podia se apai­xo­nar por outra, se vivia me comen­do? Por que você me aban­do­nou? Você gos­ta­va de mim, você gosta de mim, quer ver?

Ela esten­de a mão, mas eu me afas­to.

Está com medo, não é? Quero ver você me dei­xar pegar no seu pau.

Ela bebe outro copo de vinho, num só gole.

Negrinha, lem­bre‑se de Heráclito…

Heráclito é o cara­lho, você nunca leu livro algum de filo­so­fia, leu esses folhe­tos para bar­bei­ros e mani­cu­ras.

Eu vou ter que sair, Negrinha.

Não me chame de Negrinha, meu nome é Bárbara.

Tenho que sair.

Está com medo de ir para a cama comi­go.

Tenho um com­pro­mis­so impor­tan­te.

Covarde.

Vou para o meu quar­to e come­ço a tro­car de roupa, rapi­da­men­te. Negrinha inva­de o quar­to. Pa­rece‑me um pouco embria­ga­da. Enquanto me visto apres­sa­do, ela se des­nu­da com o mesmo aço­da­men­to. Terminamos pra­ti­ca­men­te ao mesmo tempo. Negrinha deita‑se, nua, na cama, mos­tran­do para mim a ponta da sua lín­gua úmida.

Vem aqui con­ver­sar comi­go, ela pede.

Saio do quar­to cor­ren­do e desço pelas esca­das. Na rua pego o pri­mei­ro táxi que apa­re­ce.

 

 

Agnes desa­pa­re­ce por uns dois dias. Quando nos encon­tra­mos nova­men­te, ela me pare­ce calma, e dife­ren­te.

Gostei deste poema, diz Agnes.

Por quê?

Não sei. Talvez por­que tenha três ­linhas.

E o que a escri­to­ra diz nes­tas três ­linhas?

Isso inte­res­sa?, Agnes per­gun­ta. Ou o que impor­ta é o que eu senti?

Sim, o que você sen­tiu.

A poeta diz que não gosta de poe­sia, mas que ao lê‑la, com total des­pre­zo, des­co­bre na poe­sia, afi­nal, um lugar para a ver­da­de. Entendi algu­ma coisa, mas acho que ela quer dizer algo dife­ren­te. Fui toma­da por um sen­ti­men­to que não sei expli­car. É assim que deve ser, não é?

É.

Quem era aque­la ­mulher que veio aqui? Ela é muito boni­ta.

Dou um beijo, leve, no rosto de Agnes.

Você acha que eu posso namo­rar você?, ela per­gun­ta.

Acho que pode.

Você tem um rosto boni­to, mas é cor­cun­da. Como posso ser sua namo­ra­da?

Depois de algum tempo você nem per­ce­be­rá essa minha carac­te­rís­ti­ca físi­ca.

O que dirão os ­outros?

Os ­outros não sabe­rão, não des­con­fia­rão, não ima­gi­na­rão. Vamos morar em outro lugar. Diremos aos vizi­nhos que somos ­irmãos.

E quem era aque­la ­mulher? Tenho de admi­tir que ela é linda.

Deve ser algu­ma malu­ca.

Estou falan­do sério.

É uma ­mulher que cis­mou comi­go.

Eu não sou pre­gui­ço­sa.

Dou outro beijo nela, agora na boca.

Isto é muito bom, ela diz.

Pego‑a pelo braço e a con­du­zo gen­til­men­te para o quar­to. Tiramos nos­sas rou­pas em silên­cio.

Depois da entre­ga, ela sus­pi­ra esgo­ta­da. Deitado ao seu lado, sinto em minha boca o gosto delei­tá­vel da sua sali­va.

Promete que vai sem­pre con­ver­sar comi­go, diz Agnes, me abra­çan­do.

Vou morar com Agnes numa outra casa, em outro bair­ro.

 

A rua ensur­de­ce­do­ra uiva em volta de mim quan­do uma ­mulher toda de preto, cabe­los negros com­pri­dos, passa, alta e ­esguia, real­çan­do, em seus movi­men­tos, as belas per­nas alabas­tri­nas. (A vida copia a poe­sia.) Eu a sigo até onde ela mora. Tenho que criar uma estra­té­gia rebus­ca­da para me apro­xi­mar dela e con­se­guir o que pre­ci­so, tare­fa difí­cil, as mulhe­res, no pri­mei­ro con­ta­to, sen­tem repul­sa por mim.

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