Selected Cronicas

HATEFUL CHARITY

Was it an afternoon of sensitivity or susceptibility? I was walking hurriedly along the street, deep in thought, as sometimes happens. When suddenly, there was a tugging at my skirt. Thinking my skirt had got caught on something, I turned round and saw a grubby little hand. It belonged to a small boy whose squalor and the blood coursing through his veins brought a glow to his cheeks. The child was standing in the doorway of a large pâtisserie. It was his eyes, rather than his half-garbled words, which made me aware of his patient distress. Too patient by far. I vaguely perceived a plea, before understanding what it really meant. Somewhat perplexed, I looked at him, still uncertain whether my thoughts had really been interrupted by that child’s hand.

— Something to eat, lady, buy me something to eat.

I finally woke up. What had I been thinking of before encountering this child? The fact is that his plea seemed to fill a void, to offer a reply which could serve for any question, just as a heavy downpour of rain can quench the thirst of someone who only wanted a few drops of water.

Without looking around me, perhaps because I felt embarrassed, I carefully avoided looking at the tables inside where some acquaintance might be seated having tea or eating ice-cream, I went up to the counter and said with a firmness only God can explain: Give this child a pastry.

What was I afraid of? I was not looking at the child and wanted to get this humiliating episode over and done with as soon as possible. I asked him: Which pastry do you…?

Before I could finish, the boy told me, quickly pointing with his finger: that one there with chocolate on top.

Bewildered for a second, I quickly recovered and brusquely ordered the assistant to serve him.

— What else would you like? I asked the swarthy child.

Impatiently fidgeting with his hands and mouth as he waited to be served the first pastry, he paused, looked at me for a moment and said with unbearable delicacy, baring his teeth: I don’t want another one. He was sparing my generosity.

— Go on, have another one, I insisted eagerly, pushing him forward. The child hesitated, then said: the yellow one made with egg yolks. He received a pastry in each hand and held them above his head as if afraid of crushing them. Even the pastries were out of the reach of that dark-skinned boy. And without even looking at me, he did not so much disappear as escape. The assistant was looking on:

— So he found a charitable soul at long last. That little fellow has been hanging round the door for over an hour begging from passers-by, but they all ignored him.

I walked away, flushed with shame. But was it really shame? I tried without success to revive my earlier thoughts. I was swamped by feelings of love, gratitude, rebellion and shame. But as the saying goes, the Sun shone brighter than ever. I had had the opportunity of … An opportunity provided by a thin, dark-skinned child-by a child to whom others had denied a pastry.

And what about the people having tea and eating ice-cream? Now then, what I wanted to know with self-inflicted cruelty was this: had I been afraid that the others might have seen me or that the others might not have seen me? The fact is that when I crossed the street, what could have been compassion had already been stifled by other feelings. And now that I was alone, my earlier thoughts slowly returned but they were meaningless.

Instead of taking a taxi, I caught a bus. I found a seat.

— Are my parcels in the way?

— The woman who spoke had a baby on her lap and various parcels wrapped in newspapers at her feet. Not at all, I reassured her. ‘De dum, de dum, de dum’ prattled the baby girl, stretching out her tiny hand and grabbing the sleeve of my dress. ‘He likes you’, the mother said smiling. I returned her smile.

— I’ve been on the road all morning, the woman informed me. I went to visit some friends but they were not at home. One had gone out to lunch, the other was off somewhere with her family.

— And what about your little girl?

— He’s a boy, she corrected me, he’s dressed in girl’s clothes but he’s a boy. I’ve fed him. But I haven’t had anything to eat yet.

— Is he your grandson?

— My son, he’s my son, I have three more. The child’s taken a fancy to you…Play with the lady, my little one! Would you believe that we live in what is no more than a narrow corridor and it costs us a fortune. We still owe last month’s rent. And We’ll soon be at the end of this month. The landlord wants us out. But God willing, I’ll find the two thousand cruzeiros I still owe him. I’ve got the rest. But he won’t accept it. He thinks that if I pay him some in advance, he’ll never see the rest.

That unfortunate woman was experienced in the ways of mistrust. There was nothing she did not know, but felt obliged to act as if she knew nothing — the reasoning of the powerful banker. She reasoned as a cautious landlord would reason without allowing things to upset her.

But I suddenly turned cold. The penny had dropped. The woman went on talking. Whereupon I took two thousand cruzeiros from my bag and, filled with self-loathing, I handed the notes to the woman. Without a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed the notes and pushed them into a secret pocket concealed between her various skirts, almost dropping the baby boy-cum-girl in her haste.

— May the Good Lord reward you, she blurted out as readily as a beggar-woman.

Turning crimson, I continued to sit there with folded arms. The woman went on sitting beside me.

But we no longer spoke. She had more dignity than I suspected. Once she had got the money, she had nothing more to say to me. And I was no longer allowed to fuss over that little boy dressed as a girl. I deserved at least that little pleasure, having paid for it in advance.

What I am trying to say is that a certain uneasiness had descended upon the woman and myself.

— Leave the lady in peace, Zezinho, she scolded the child.

We avoided any contact with our elbows. There was nothing more to be said, and it was a long journey. Dismayed, I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She looked weary and unwashed. And the woman knew I had given her a furtive look.

Then an atmosphere of resentment sprang up between us. Only that tiny hybrid infant continued to glow with happiness, his gentle prattling resounding throughout the bus: ‘De dum, de dum, de dum.’