Selected Cronicas

IMPASSE

She was sobbing. And as if the bright glare of the afternoon were not enough, she had red hair.

In the empty street, the stones vibrated with heat — the little girl’s head was aflame. Seated on the steps in front of the house, she was bearing up. The street was deserted except for a solitary figure waiting in vain at the tram-stop. As if her submissive and patient gaze were not enough, her sobs kept coming back, causing her chin to tremble as it rested meekly on one hand. What was to be done with a sobbing little girl with red hair? We looked at each other in silence, dismay confronting dismay. In the deserted street there was no sign of a taxi. In a land of brunettes, to have red hair was an involuntary act of rebellion. Who cared if one day this red hair of hers would cause her to raise her woman’s head with an air of defiance? For the present, she was seated on the doorstep which was sparkling under a hot sun at two o’clock in the afternoon. What saved her was a woman’s discarded handbag, with a broken strap. She held it as if experienced in conjugal love, pressing it to her knees.

At that moment she was approached by her other half in this world, a soul-mate in Grajaú. The possibility of communication arose on a street-corner in a haze of sweltering heat; accompanying a woman and embodied in the image of a dog. It was a beautiful and wretched little basset-hound, sweet beneath the spell of its destiny. It was a red-haired basset.

There he came, trotting, ahead of his owner, dragging that long body of his. Suspecting nothing, tame dog.

The little girl opened her eyes in astonishment. Gently prepared, the dog stopped in his tracks before her. His tongue quivered. They eyed each other.

Among so many creatures who are ready to become the owners of another creature, there was the little girl who had come into this world to possess that dog. He trembled nervously without barking. She looked at him from under her fringe, spellbound and solemn. They seemed to be there for ages. A great sob shook her whole body as she watched him defiantly. The basset did not so much as flinch. She, too, overcame her sobbing and continued to stare at him.

Both of them had short, red hair.

What did they have to say to each other? No one knows. All we know is that they communicated rapidly with each other, for there was no time to lose. We also know that, without speaking, they entreated each other. They entreated each other with urgency, embarrassment and surprise.

Trapped among so many vague obstacles under that hot sun, there was the solution for the red-haired girl. And among so many streets to be trotted, so many bigger dogs, and so many dry sewers — there was a little girl like the flesh of his own red flesh. They stared hard at each other, infatuated, remote from Grajaú. Another second and their hovering dream would shatter, yielding perhaps to the solemnity with which they entreated each other.

But they were both pledged. He to his imprisoned nature. She to her impossible childhood, the centre of that innocence which could only open out when she became a woman.

The dog’s owner waited impatiently beneath her parasol. The red-haired basset finally detached himself from the little girl and trotted off as if in a dream. She remained there terrified, holding on to this encounter, stunned into a silence which neither a father nor a mother could understand. She accompanied the basset with black eyes, watching him in disbelief, slumped over the handbag pressed against her knees, until she saw him disappear round the next corner.

But he was stronger than she was. He did not look back even once.