Written by Saren Camargo
Edited by Iana A.
Translated by Natalle Moura
Copyedited by Júlia Serrano
The noises of the woods made an old part of her mind buzz with distress. That was not her place. She wished to run back over the wall she had jumped and forget about it.
Not that there was anywhere to go back to.
She bit her lip as she tried to breathe slowly to keep her mind calm.
The white rammed earth[1] house looked like a ghost in the dark, and she could have sworn fireflies followed her steps like an escort until her feet found the dirt path that led to the door.
She looked over her shoulder. The glare from the spotlights at the electricity distribution station was still visible beyond the wall. It was as if the city ended there, a well-marked border before the unknown.
She felt security wrap her shoulders when she continued walking. That certainty that she didn't want to go back, that there was nothing in the city for her anymore. She was tired of underemployment and crooked eyes, of the way they despised her knowledge and expected her to submit to the expectations of that gray world. It was almost a physical pain having to get out of bed in her small flat — while smelling the stagnant smell and hearing the noises of the overpass outside, near her window — and knowing that there was a life beyond the wall, where you could feel the threads of reality to get the things you wanted. A place where the symbols her grandmother had taught her as a child, chalked across the floor, would have a much more vibrant power, where no one would question the reality of her body; there was so much to live and do beyond the wall.
As she had heard her deceased granny tell her, she pushed open the raw wooden door, the groan of the hinges embedded into the wood revealed the small house full of darkness, lit only by the embers of the wood stove. She took a deep breath and crossed the space to the door that opened onto the backyard. She remembered the houses she used to visit as a child, her grandmother used to take her by the hand as she went to say prayers and blessings; the refreshing air of the rammed earth left the heat outside along with her fears. She remembered every detail her grandmother insisted she memorize about what to do if she found that little house beyond the wall. She drank water from the clay jug near the door to calm herself, the freshness and clayey taste sharpened her mind, the electric sensation of her blood roused in her veins and expelled the gray life that had crept into her thin body during her time in the city. She drank as she went out into the dirt-paved yard, where coffee beans were still drying, the unknown herbs planted behind the tangled bamboo fence[2]. She grabbed a bucket and went to draw water from the well. She kept listening carefully to make sure the owner of the house was still far away. It was vital she did everything her grandmother had instructed her to do before the old lady returned because the woman could sense someone’s intent from afar and could take a life with little more than a gesture.
Just as her grandmother had taught her when she was a little girl, she started the fire by adding wood to the stove carefully as to not smother the embers. The dark didn't flee from the firelight, like a fabric that only got a little more translucent, but still covered everything.
She filled a kettle with water from the well, found a pot, and went snooping around until she had everything she needed. Cornmeal, milk, molasses. She could feel the tiny eyes of everything that watched her in every crack and every shadow, with intelligence that little things like that shouldn't have.
The smell of corn porridge spread as the wooden spoon made a rhythmic sound in the bottom of the iron pot; fluffy and fragrant, food and memory.
She served a small bowl for the little house spirits who watched her. It was as if the house suddenly welcomed her.
“Don’t go burning your mouth, okay?” As she spoke, she didn’t dare to look at what they were.
Her hand trembled as she lit a candle on the stove and went to find the curtain that separated the bedroom from the rest of the house.
Inside, she struggled to finally find an oil lamp. That one did dissipate the darkness, it revealed the simple bed, the mat, the bedside table, bookcases, pots, and bottles. She tried not to notice how the lamp's body was shaped like a white skull.
She bit her lip while searching, distressed with the brief time she still had, until she found the broom. She swept, removed the cobwebs, dusted off pillows, and fluffed the straw of the mattress.
It took longer than she would have liked to find the coffee-making things, the anguish of not finishing in time kept getting stronger in her chest.
She sat on a three-legged stool near the stove as the water boiled. The sequined small case resting on her lap while she counted the pills to see how many days she had before she had to ask the lady of the house for help with her hormones — she knew she would have answers because the lady understood the things of all women.
She had just poured the hot water and herbs for the footbath into the basin when she heard a noise outside. Through the open door, she saw emerge from the corner of the bamboo fence a white, white-haired cowboy, dressed also in white, on a pale horse, who crossed the yard and walked further away. Her heart sped up, that feeling that she had seen something that was a secret of what lay behind the common world. The sun rose, the house filled with the dim light of that first hour of the day.
A minute later and the door opened.
The young lady jumped to the side of the door with her head down, and offered to pick up the heavy bag the old woman was carrying.
“Bença[3], godmother.”
The old woman squinted her eyes as she watched the young person standing there. The denim shorts were made of cropped pants, the tank top was too big for the thin body, the long legs were marked with scratches and bruises. The shaved short hair, the ears pierced but with no earrings, the clumsy, rough face of someone who has barely grown up and has seen so much.
“My blessing, I think.”
The young woman smiled.
“This goddaughter of yours wanted to be useful, godmother. You must be tired.”
She led the old woman full of distrust to the table, poured a bowl of porridge, brought her a mug of coffee. She was about to offer to wash her feet when the lady clicked her tongue, her serious voice issued orders.
“Take the biscuit tin from the shelf and some cheese.”
Her heart pounded with anticipation as she carried the things to the table. The yellowish porridge seemed to make the sun brighter as the old woman ate, and the fragrant coffee seemed to bring the shadows into her as she drank. Each bite of the butter biscuit seemed to bring closer the day's noises.
The lady took a knife from her belt and cut a slice of cheese for herself and another for the young woman.
“So, my goddaughter wants to learn my craft.”
She took the offered slice of white cheese, which melted in her mouth, and knew she wouldn't be able to lie even once to the old woman because the lie would melt the same way. She nodded, unsure. The old woman pulled the lady’s hand suddenly, looked at her palm lines with an unreadable expression, and she knew that every secret of her past or future was known.
“Hmm. That'll have to do.”
The young lady smiled. The old woman looked in a stern way, then slapped her hand on her thigh.
“We'll get you a dress and a scarf for your hair. There's a lot of work for you here in exchange for your education, but nobody's going to say that granny doesn't take care of her daughters.”
The old woman stood up, pushed the coffee mug towards the young woman. She drank in a gulp, rose to follow her godmother and knew that, for the rest of her days, she would remember that morning as the one that started her destiny.
As they crossed the curtain, in the backyard, a red cowboy, with red hair, also dressed in red, on a red horse, galloped cracking his whip, and outside it was already noon.
[1] Taipa, in Portuguese. They are traditional dwellings made of whitewashed mud, common in Portugal and Brazil.
[2] Cerca de taquara, in Portuguese.
[3] An old catholic tradition of asking the respected elders for their blessing. It’s a condensed version of “may you bless me?” in which the elder answers “(my) blessings (to) you”. It is quite common in some regions of Brazil.
Saren Camargo
Saren writes and creates visual mishmash. He is an art teacher and a cultural agitator for a living—in every meaning. Raised by the Paulista ABC, he lives in São Paulo with his partners. He is queer and trans.
Comments