Selected Cronicas

THE OLD LADY

She lived in a boarding-house on São Clemente Street. She was enormous and smelled like a chicken when it is brought half-cooked to the table. She had five teeth, withered lips and a dry throat. Her past reputation was no invention. She still spoke in French whenever she found an opportunity, even if the other person spoke Portuguese and would have preferred to be spared the embarrassment of listening to his or her own poor accent. The absence of saliva removed any trace of fluency, and gave the old girl an air of restraint. There was majesty in that huge body supported on tiny feet, in the strength of those five teeth, in those stray hairs which escaped from a sparse bun and trembled with the slightest breeze.

But one Monday morning instead of coming down from her room, she came in from the street. Her skin looked smooth, her neck washed, and there was no longer any smell of half-cooked chicken. She explained that she had spent Sunday at her son’s house where she had stayed overnight. She was wearing a dowdy black satin dress. Instead of going up to her room to change into an old cotton dress and revert to being a lonely guest living in a boarding-house, she sat in the lounge to make the most of her Sunday and commented that the family is the pillar of society. She referred in passing to the leisurely bath which she had enjoyed in her daughter-in-law’s comfortable bathroom, which explained why she looked clean and was no longer smelling. She made the other residents, who were still in their pyjamas and dressing-gowns, feel awkward as she sat there for hours on end by the tall vase of flowers in the lounge, holding a conversation intended for some invisible audience.

As the afternoon wore on, it became clear that her boots were pinching, but she continued to sit there, all dressed up, holding her large head erect as if she were a prophet. When she enthused about the sumptuous meals served at her son’s house, her eyes closed with nausea. She rushed to the bathroom. They could hear her vomit but she refused any offer of assistance when they knocked at the door.

When it was time for dinner she came down to ask for a cup of tea; there were brown circles round her eyes, and she was wearing an ankle-length floral-patterned dress, and was once again without a bra. What still looked strange was the clearness of her skin. The other guests avoided looking at her in her distress. She spoke to no one: King Lear. She was silent, enormous, dishevelled, and clean. Her happiness had been short-lived.