Learning Portuguese
Timothy’s at School Falls Dramatically after he Fails to Bring the
Dead Dog to Show and Tell
Robert was beating him up again. Even Jennifer had given it
him, one time, with a blow from her Book of Discipline, but
Timothy knew she hadn’t really meant to break his finger. He
really was very brittle.
Timothy gets an F for Show and Tell
“I didn’t know they graded show and tell”
“They do. You got an F.”
Even the teacher was disappointed.
Timothy Thinks (Briefly) About Ending it All
The only real problem in life is the problem of suicide,
Timothy realised. The thought was a great comfort to him.
Timothy Returns from School to Find his Mother has Disposed of
the Dead Dog
“But he was my dog!”
“It’s only a dog dear. Besides it was dead.”
Nobody understood him.
Timothy’s Father Returns from Hospital and Plays Catch with
Timothy in the Front Garden
They didn’t have a ball so used a melon instead, which
was heavier than you’d expect. Timothy’s father smiled and
sniffled and sometimes mewled uncontrollably, all of which
made Timothy uncomfortable. Father, he thought he’d say.
Father, calm down. Let me talk to you, Father, about the
problem of suicide. Father!
Christmas Dinner at Timothy’s House and Talk Turns to the Dead
Dog
It really had been most uncharacteristic of them, they all
agreed. A dead dog! Timothy felt he had learnt something
of the magnitude of death, he told them. Timothy’s mother
was glad, she told him. This was all Timothy’s father had ever
wanted, Timothy’s father told him. But then what had it all
meant, Timothy wondered. Timothy’s father burst into tears.
Timothy Leaves for University
After he’d gone, Timothy’s parents sat at the long family
dining table in the long family dining room and Timothy’s
mother served macaroni cheese. There was a long family silence.
“Perhaps we should get a dog”, Timothy’s mother said.
Timothy’s Parents’ Timothy Substitute, the ‘Not Dead’ Dog, Dies
“We could still keep him”, Timothy’s father said hopefully.
Timothy’s mother felt otherwise.
Timothy Takes Some Time Off From University
And thinks a lot about how absurd it all was.
Timothy has an Epiphany
!
Timothy’s Father Dies, Timothy’s Mother Remarries, Timothy
Dislikes his Father-in-Law, Timothy’s Father-in-Law Dies, Timothy
Marries, Timothy’s Mother Dies, Timothy has a Boy, Timothy has
a Girl, Timothy Dies, Timothy’s Wife Dies, Timothy’s Children and
their Children and their Children Die
Etc.
Tom Wells
Note: the following story is from a series inspired by
certain Portuguese words that cannot be translated into
English.
Maria had lived in the building for thirty years, in many different
rooms. She was born on the sofa of room 68, her father died
in room 385. Her mother rented out room 460 for romantic
trysts while they lived next door in 461. She had slipped in the
shower of room 79 which had left the scar on the right side
of her face, and she lost her virginity aged 15 to a window
cleaner in room 103 where she had snuck after school before
her mother came home. Now she lived in room 513 on the
twenty-third floor with 15 glass head-shaped wig stands lined
up along her bookshelf with a statue of the Virgin Mary and a
bottle of cachaça.
‘Can I get you a drink? A beer?’
Her body was swollen like a Botero painting, her eyes magni-
fied ten times over behind thick prescription lenses. I had been
sent by the landlord to paint her room. I had seen inside many
rooms in the building, but none like this. I took a sip of beer
from the counter. A white pedigree with a bow tied in its hair
yapped at my feet.
Most of the furniture had already been cleared away from the
wall, and I set about covering everything with white sheets to
protect the upholstery. Kneeling down, I pushed the sleeves of
my t-shirt into the hair and sweat under my arms. From next
door I could hear people having sex, thudding over and over
against the wall. Thud. Thud. Thud. I took a knife and forced it
beneath the rusty edge of the lid, making an unpleasant scrap-
ing sound as the lid uncovered a perfect orange circle as round
as the sun. I dipped the brush inside and painted a stripe on
the peach wall. As the paint on the brush thinned to nothing,
I covered it with orange once more. I reached a spot where a
frame had been hung, a perfect grey square on the wall with a
nail stuck in the middle. I painted over it to match the perfect
orange page.
Maria sat down on the arm of a chair beside the window. The
window where she had stood on the ledge one morning six
months before, not knowing that at precisely the same time
a woman three floors above her in room 573 stood on a
similar ledge, looking down, before stumbling back inside hot
and shaking.
‘Do you know how a cashew nut grows?’ she asked. I didn’t
know.
‘On the tree hangs a delicate fruit. They are green and waxy
near the ground, but turn to pinks and yellows as the branches
climb higher and higher towards the sun. They swing like low
testicles, ripening and full of soft flesh that crushes in your
hand. From the base of each caju grows a small boxing glove
shaped drupe, which contains a single seed. A cashew.’
That afternoon she related to me all the stories of the women
whose hair she had ever cut, so that they would not be lost.
She smoked as she spoke, and by the time I left there was a
pile of cigarette ends with lipstick on in an ashtray on the table.
The following afternoon was much the same, and when the
job was done she tucked 25 reals into my back pocket; the 20
she owed and an extra 5 for being a sweetheart.
A week later, I received a call to visit the same floor. I took the
lift up to the twenty-third floor to room 520 where Mr Sara-
mago lived. The door was ajar so I went inside to hear singing
and the sound of rushing water on bathroom tiles.
‘Mr Saramago!’ I shouted, ‘I am here to paint your walls.’
‘Sometimes I burst out laughing upon remembering the past, I
never thought of love, I never loved nor was I loved!’
‘Hello! I am here to paint your kitchen! Hey, get out of the
shower!’
‘If you judge that I’m lying, I can swear by it. It was a mere
dream that came and went, nothing more!’
The hot, intrusive laughter of a neighbour came in through
a vent in the kitchen, as the singing grew louder, and steam
rushed out from under the door. There was no peace here,
except for the respite which could be found in the sounds of
other people, in the warm respiring chest of the neighbours
overleaf: Grace Warde-Aldam