Selected Cronicas

A HUNDRED YEARS’ PARDON

Those who have never stolen would not understand. And those who have never stolen roses would never be capable of understanding me. For when I was a little girl, I used to steal roses.

In Recife there were lots of streets with large villas on either side, surrounded by extensive gardens, where rich people lived. I used to play a game with another little girl in order to decide who owned those villas. ‘That white one is mine.’ ‘No, it isn’t, we’ve already agreed the white ones are mine.’ But that one isn’t all white for the windows are green. Sometimes we would stand there for ages, our faces pressed against the railings as we peered in.

The stealing began as follows. We were playing this game of ours one day when we stopped in front of a villa which looked like a little castle. At the far end there was an enormous orchard. And in front of the villa there were neat flower-beds full of flowers.

And all alone in the middle of one of the beds there was a bright pink rose which had just started to open. I stood there gaping, lost in admiration for that proud rose which was not yet in full bloom. And then suddenly it happened: I wanted that rose with all my heart. I wanted it, just for me, oh, how I wanted it. And there was no way of getting it. Had the gardener been there I should have asked him for the rose, although most likely he would have chased us away as if we were street-urchins. But there was no gardener around, not a soul to be seen. And to keep out the sun, the blinds were drawn. No trams passed along this street and there were few cars. In the midst of my silence and that of the rose, there was my desire to possess it just for myself. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to smell it until I became intoxicated by its perfume.

Until I could bear it no longer. Overcome with desire, I lost no time in drawing up a plan. And determined to succeed, I gave clear instructions to my little friend and carefully explained the part she was to play. She would keep an eye on the windows and watch out for the gardener, who might suddenly appear, or for any passers-by. Meanwhile, I slowly eased open the gates which were rather rusty, fully expecting them to creak a little. I eased them open just enough for my skinny frame to squeeze through. And then, moving quickly, I tiptoed over the pavingstones between the flower-beds. My heart was beating fast and it seemed to take forever to reach that rose.

At last, the rose was within reach. I paused for a second, perilously, because close up, it looked even lovelier. Reaching out to break the stem, I scratched my hand on the thorns and licked the blood from my fingers.

Then suddenly — I held that entire rose in my hand. I crept back to the gate as quietly as possible and I slipped through the gate which I had left ajar, clutching my prize. And then the rose and I, both of us deathly pale, took to our heels and ran away from the villa as fast as my legs could carry us.

What did I do with my rose? Now that it was mine, this is what I did:

I took it home and put it in a glass of water where it triumphed in all its beauty, the petals thick and velvety in various shades of pink. The colour deepened in the middle until it turned almost crimson.

It was such a wonderful feeling.

That rose gave me so much pleasure that I simply began stealing more and more roses. The ritual never varied: the other little girl kept a lookout while I went in, snapped the roses from their stems and made my escape. With my heart beating fast and forever with that sense of triumph no one could take from me.

I also stole cherries. There was a Presbyterian church near my home. The grounds were enclosed by a green hedge, which was so tall and dense that it was impossible to see the church apart from one tiny corner of the church steeple. The hedge consisted of Surinam cherry bushes and the cherries of this species are concealed amongst the branches. No cherries could be seen from the road. So, after looking carefully, first right then left, to make sure no one was coming, I pushed my hand through the railings, and fumbled inside the hedge until I could feel the moist cherries. In my haste, I often squashed the overripe ones, staining my fingers with their blood-red juice. I picked a handful which I ate on the spot, although some were too green and had to be thrown away.

No one ever caught me. And to this day I feel no remorse. Anyone who steals roses and cherries deserves a hundred years’ pardon. Besides, cherries would prefer to be eaten once they ripen rather than be allowed to rot on the branch, their virginity intact.