The Pageant

It was the time I liked the most, definitely. Three in the afternoon, sheets whitening on the clothesline, the sun blazing on the flagstones of the porch, the four of us in the back yard, having fled the house with a colorful bundle of clothes under our arms: a carmine silk dress, a lacy pink skirt, our dead father’s dark suit coat, a light-blue satin blouse that mummy had been given as a present and had never worn, poor thing. Maria, so fair, carried a parasol. And sometimes the necklace of fake pearls (so fancy!), and the patent leather shoes that would one day be mine but not yet, mummy used to say, and daddy’s favourite belts, now black and brown stripes on the wall in the corner behind the wardrobe, after what happened, stored, stolen.

 

[private]Maria, always first, my little sister, boldly clambering up the rocks, steadying herself atop the wall, and walking in that baby-sister way of hers with her parasol of bright flowers on a yellow background, high heels, red lipstick, rouge, patting her chestnut curls, wanting to be prettier than mummy. Maria holding her head high, willowy, trying to be thin, ever so poised, until she bumped into the branch of the guava tree, which no one ever pruned, and tumbled almost into Rita’s arms. Rita, the oldest and most suntanned, always laughing, even at daddy, the only one, scooping Maria up as if she were her own daughter and planting kisses on her weeping until they were both rolling across the yard dirtying satin, shoes, suit coat, mixing dust, leaves, the two of them laughing at branches and tumbles, and finally hugging one another, exhausted, on the ground, bellies up, mouths open to the sky, like always, mummy used to say, the two loonies.

 

Then Clarice, the oh-so pretty one, more than mummy I thought but never said it. Light, her delicate little feet bare, wearing just a large white shirt of daddy’s, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Clarice pulling back her long, straight black hair, fastening it at the back of her neck, smiling at the three of us down below and looking, being, definitely prettier than mummy but no one ever said anything, not even daddy. Clarice, the only olive-skinned one, coloured by the sun and some plants I think, her skin tanned but not red like Rita’s, so like the Indian woman on the wall in our room hypnotising my sleepless nights, dreaming I was her, the Indian woman, and Clarice, her colour contrasting with the white of the shirt and the teeth that she revealed and hid in such a bewitching smile that it even seemed on purpose.

 

Clarice motioning to me, for me to get up there with her, not afterwards, like normally, but together this time. The rocks, the wall, and suddenly me in a crimson dress, navy blue suede shoes, a silver clasp in my hair, seeing my sister there next to me, with me, gazing at me pretty, so like the afternoon. I felt a lump growing in my throat, this thing, wanting to be said, and I realised I urgently needed something wondrous, from me, slowly leaving my mouth as if I didn’t want it to come out like that, in the form of a word. But it did: Clarice, you are… splendid!

 

First, silence, centuries-long. Then applause. The three of them clapping, Rita and Maria below, Clarice next to me, my three sisters making me the winner of that afternoon, for the first time in my life, before I’d even begun my parade, always the weakest, poor thing. And then this: there I was, a statue, hearing clap clap clap, and Maria and Rita’s laughter laced with dust, sunshine and leaves, and my sister Clarice, with her enchanted gaze, splendid.[/private]

 

 

Born in Goiânia, Brazil, in 1962, Flávio Carneiro writes novels, short stories and books for children, teenagers and adults. His two film scripts have been awarded prizes he has recently been awarded the Jabuti Prize for The Distance of Things (A Distância das Coisas).

 

Alison Entrekin has translated works by Brazilian and Portuguese authors, including City of God by Paulo Lins, The Day I Killed My Father by Mario Sabino, and Budapest by Chico Buarque, which was voted one of the ten best books published in the UK. In 2002 she received the American Literary Translators’ Association Fellowship for her translation of stories by Brazilian author Augusta Faro. She is currently working on the award-winning novel The Eternal Son by Cristovão Tezza, for Scribe Publications in Melbourne.

 

“The Pageant”, by Flávio Carneiro, was originally published in English in Brazil: A Traveler’s Literary Companion, ed. Alexis Levitin (Whereabouts Press).

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