Selected Cronicas

THE SLOTH

They asked the sloth.

— Sloth, would you like some porridge?

The sloth replied slowly:

— Yeeeees, pleeeeease.

— Well, come and get some.

— Nooooo, thaaaaanks … I’ve change my miiiiind …

A rainy day makes one feel so lazy. When it rains I can never settle down to write. I am on my way to spend the weekend in Nova Friburgo. It is raining and near the main bus station I come across some sloths. It is more than I can bear and almost sends me to sleep. I stare at those soggy sloths, motionless, and dying of sloth. They give off a nice animal smell. The colour of stone, one could almost say they have no colour.

Nova Friburgo is quite a place. And the farm where we are staying has everything: horses, chickens, jaboticaba trees, daisies, banana plants, lemons, roses. It has an open-air oven for baking bread. In other words, a real farm. And Nova Friburgo itself has an aristocratic air. I go to the main bus-station where I find a copy of the Jornal do Brasil [The Brazilian Times] with an article by Drummond de Andrade. I lunch on steak au poivre. Only instead of being served beef, my steak is pork. This is on a Saturday which is my own special day in the week. Last night I had such a vivid dream that I got up, dressed, and put on some make-up. When I realized it was all a dream, I went back to bed but not before eating something, for I suddenly felt famished. In my dream, I had become a man. I was on my way to meet someone and was anxious not to be late. I must not say any more. The details are much too personal.

On the farm I inspect the cattle and poultry. This morning I had bacon and eggs for breakfast. Nova Friburgo is delightful. The houses are painted pink and blue. Nature seems so peaceful when it rains! I can still see those sloths rooted to the same spot and soaking wet. Never stirring. The same could be said of me. This is my day for sloth. But I do not want to sleep: I want to take advantage of being on a farm with lots of animals. Time seems to have stopped still in Nova Friburgo. How I wish that oven were still in good working order and I could watch bread being baked. I see a coffee tree and this is enough to make me feel like drinking coffee. Scanning the pages of the Jornal do Brasil, I have come to the conclusion that the world is MAD. I missed the Charity Fair in Rio because of this trip to Nova Friburgo. I forgot to mention that there is a dog on the farm. A cross between a greyhound and a mongrel: a really friendly and playful dog. I must have another cup of coffee. I won’t be long.

I am back again. My transistor radio is tuned in to Mozart. Such a light-hearted piece of music. On the farm I have also seen a white horse which is completely naked. The rain has stopped. Time to get down to some work. But I have nothing to say. What am I going to say, for heaven’s sake? I shall say I picked a daisy and put it in the buttonhole of my black leather jacket where it looked so pretty. I must take another look at the sloths and inhale their damp odour. It is October, a neutral month. September, like May, is a happy month. The horse only comes back to sleep, and me too. I have decided to have a rest after lunch. A siesta does one good. I shall lunch at midday and read Portnoy’s Complaint while I am eating. A truly courageous book. I fall asleep halfway through it.

After my siesta I shall go back into town. I should like to visit the Faculty of Letters. But it seems unlikely. I have a special affection for this Faculty and for Marly de Oliveira: a great poet and one of the most cultured women I know. I want to go into town but I feel drowsy. I must drink some Coca-Cola to wake me up. It was Joāo Henrique who taught me that Coca-Cola with coffee helps to keep you awake. He assured me that long-distance lorry drivers drink this concoction. Joāo Henrique taught me many things. I am eternally grateful to him. I now seem to remember that Miriam Bloch told me the same thing.

I finally went into town. Crowds had gathered on the streets. I inquired what was happening. They told me the police were looking for a rapist who had stabbed six women before escaping into the bush. I was horrified. I am afraid of dying. Death is so awful.

For some strange reason I found myself heading for the Faculty of Letters. I was not interested in visiting the library. I am not cultured. The nun in charge was unable to give me any information. There was a lecture that evening on the History of Art. I felt no inclination to attend. I have heard quite enough about art even though I am something of an artist myself. It makes me feel almost ashamed to be a writer. Such a meaningless word. And it gives the impression of something much more intellectual than intuitive.

It is beautiful when the sun goes down in Nova Friburgo. I can also hear loud singing coming from the general store where they sell alcohol, which keeps the men cheerful. Here everything is cheerful, except for those attacks on women. I wonder if the police have caught the rapist yet? Let us hope so.

Nature is so indolent. The horses go on grazing. Now they are neighing. I can also hear crickets. Someone is playing the flute. Music by Bach or perhaps Vivaldi. It is four o’clock in the morning and all is silent. Only now can I hear the toads croaking. I have already drunk my coffee. Now I am smoking a cigarette. There are no pictures on the walls in this house. Unlike the place where I stayed in Cabo Frio which had some excellent paintings by Scliar, João Henrique and José de Dome. Scliar has a weakness for ochre. João Henrique likes green while José de Dome prefers a paler yellow. But there is a very attractive soup tureen on the dresser. What I miss most of all is my typewriter. I have two at home: an Olivetti and an Olympia. I prefer the Olivetti which is stronger and can withstand the constant pressure of tapping fingers. Everyone is asleep. Everyone, that is, except me. There is a horseshoe hanging on the wall to bring good fortune. The little birds outside are chirping with hunger. Everything here seems too good to be true. I am reading a thriller by Simenon. I adore his books. They read much better in French than in any translation. Let me give you a brief quotation: ‘Falling across the room, a broad beam of light revealed fine particles of dust. It was as if that light were suddenly exposing the intimate life of the atmosphere.’ Don’t you find that splendid?