The Discovery of America by the Turks (6 page)

Before even getting into the details of the tangled hodgepodge, Jamil declared he was quite satisfied with the place where he lived and did business. He had no intention of leaving it. He hadn’t grown wealthy yet, no, but if houses kept on being built his store for mule drivers would become an important business just as sure as two and two make four. Do you know Colonel Noberto de Faria? Just ask him and he’ll tell you so. If he let go of something that had cost him so much privation, effort, and sacrifice and that promised a wealthy
future, it would have to be for an offer of something that was really worthwhile.

At the start of the negotiations, Ibrahim offered him the position of manager, with a salary and a small share of the profits. He watered the proposal with some vermouth. Jamil laughed to his face with that great whiplike guffaw he used when he set prices for small farmers, hired hands, and gunmen in that cacao-growing last end of the earth. At that moment in the wrangle Glorinha Goldass got them even angrier as she went on praising Chico Lopes, a perfect gentleman—and he had such a nice way with words! The opposite of the two rude and ignorant Turks, who’d left her there all by herself. What in hell had Jamil come to the cabaret for in the first place? To have a good time, to get his thoughts far away from what was bugging him? Or was it to spend the night in that endless gabbing with Ibrahim? Ibrahim, another numbskull, instead of taking up all her man’s time, should have been looking for a woman to sleep with himself before the colonels grabbed all those present, leaving him without a howdy-do. She was right. Jamil gave her his arm and led her to the dance floor. Ibrahim took advantage of the break and the advice as he spotted Cockeye Paula all by herself beside the orchestra. He invited her for a polka. But both of them, Jamil and Ibrahim, were dancing without any interest in it, paying no attention, their minds set on their machinations.

When they got back to the table Ibrahim put forth the possibility of a partnership if Adma were included in the transaction. In that way the other daughters and their respective husbands would have no grounds for complaint. Other daughters, which ones? What tune were those new sons-in-law playing? While Glorinha was taking care of her invitations from plantation owners and traveling salesmen for square dances and rejecting offers to leave the cabaret and the Turk—Colonel Raimundo Barreto threatened to carry her off by force, but she, with great skill, convinced him to take somebody else—the two fellow countrymen, between successive rounds of vermouth and cognac, were
advancing, detail by detail, trying to untangle the thread. Ibrahim, although drunk, controlled himself and didn’t vomit up the final secrets. He made it honorably clear that his daughter Adma didn’t figure in the gallery of local beauties. About her character he revealed nothing. There’s time for everything even when you’re in a hurry.

“If I understand it right, my friend, you want to retire—you’ve already worked too much; you feel tired. You want someone you can trust who’s able to take your place behind the counter in the store, since your son-in-law can’t cut it. On the other hand, you’ve got an unmarried daughter and you want to set her up. Putting the two ends together, whoever marries the girl becomes a partner in the busines.…”

They left the cabaret early in the morning. Ibrahim, a lightweight when it came to drinking, was staggering along the street. Cockeye Paula hadn’t kept her promise to wait for him and had gone off with a bad-tempered plantation owner, a certain Cláudio Portugal, crazy for cross-eyed girls.

“Promise me and don’t give me any shit! Either you come with me, or I’ll save some time and finish off those bums right now.…” He threatened to pull out his pistol.

The owner of the Bargain Shop consoled himself with stuffy-nosed Haydée, who made up for the nasality of her voice with a range of skills. In the state capital she’d worked in a house of French and Polish women, and she could do anything, according to her whim.

In Glorinha Goldass’s room the lamp cast its light on the mirror hanging on the wall and the print of Saint George. The sheets and pillowcases smelled of patchouli. While he waited for the angry woman to clean herself over a basin in preparation for resuming their game of bird and snare, Jamil reviewed the facts he’d collected. Before he went any further, he would have to bring out into the open the true condition of the store, the confused business of the partnership, observe the daughters and sons-in-law, and lastly, get to know the ugly one. He had been destined to have a pretty wife, but in the backwoods wilderness where he did his
business, in that out-of-the-way place where he’d set himself up, small farmers were used to eating well one day and poorly the next, on vermin and weeds, without complaining or raising a fuss. In the harsh weather of the cacao farms, mules, mares, and donkeys all grazed and came out okay.

Even though he was tied up all the next day with suppliers, goods, and payments, Jamil Bichara found time to have a look at the store. From the brief inventory done with the help of Ibrahim, he came away with a favorable impression, which he kept to himself. He wasn’t going to trumpet his triumphs to his adversary. He called attention to the negative aspects: the delay in payments, the decline in sales, negligence, incompetence.

The lively Alfeu and the merry cherub felt they were on an eternal honeymoon, a romantic and ruinous attitude. Nighttime was not sufficient for their screwing, which they continued well into the morning. Added to that was the baby’s wailing, the changing of diapers, pacifiers. It was impossible to keep a tight schedule. They opened and closed the doors of the establishment when it suited their fancy. Drowsy, they continued their billing and cooing behind the counter without giving proper attention to the seamstresses and housewives who, in exchange for a few small purchases—a thimble, a dozen buttons, hairpins, two yards of ribbon—demanded a little talk and consideration.

Sálua’s clientele, which had been faithful and numerous, had begun to dwindle, leaving for merchants less in love and more solicitous. Nor was the proprietor much help to the store’s progress. The night before in the cabaret, Ibrahim had confessed he had been completely detached from the store during his wife’s life. Sálua had taken care of all obligations and responsibilities and also kept the accounts. He remembered Sálua with moist eyes. Were these easy
tears a touch of cunning, or the expression of a sincere and sorrowful longing for a good life and a good home?

In spite of its obvious decline, the Bargain Shop, located on a downtown street, a privileged site with plenty of room, looked to Jamil like a gift from China. The recent difficulties had shaken up only slightly the good reputation the firm had enjoyed in the business world during all those previous years. In capable hands the store would be able to recoup its golden years quite quickly, and it had the makings of being transformed, with a little effort, into a well-stocked bazaar where a little of everything would be sold: men’s and women’s clothing, shoes and hats, suspenders, bows, stockings, and neckties. All that called for a strong hand, an aptitude for business, and hard work, proven virtues of Jamil Bichara. The problem lay in the number of daughters and sons-in-law, too many people. If he decided to join the family and the firm, he would have to make a serious study of the clauses in the contract.

They were going over bills and receipts when, from the living quarters in the rear and into the store, came a slender little tootsie, who kissed Jamil’s countryman’s hand—“Your blessing, Father”—and smiled at Jamil as her curious and calculating eyes examined him from top to bottom, as though evaluating his merits as a male. Could she be the ugly one? Impossible. There was nothing ugly about her; quite the contrary.

“My daughter Samira,” Ibrahim explained. “The one who’s married to the telegrapher.”

“Jamil Bichara, at your service.”

“Jamil Bichara? I’ve heard that name before.…”

“He’s a friend of my old chum Raduan.”

“Of Uncle Raduan? Oh, now I remember.” She pointed at Jamil and said mischievously, “The sultan of the cabaret, right?”

Jamil laughed, a bit embarrassed. “Sultan’s what he calls me. He has his little joke.…”

The lively girl kept looking him over, and all of a sudden she burst into a peal of crystalline and mocking laughter,
without explaining what had brought it on. Uncle Raduan had bits of gossip for the interest and pleasure of anyone who wished to listen, but he kept his spicy tales of bohemian life for Samira and a few other preferred women, revealing places and episodes forbidden to married ladies. Uncle Raduan was the Devil incarnate, with that velvety voice and the most innocent of looks as he divulged every little tidbit. In order to explain his friend Jamil’s success with the hookers, he’d make reference to one aspect of his anatomy: It was enormous, like a table leg. Judging from his great build, it must have been true. Samira closed her eyes to give herself a better picture.

As for Uncle Raduan, since he wasn’t a blood relative, there was nothing to stop his gossiping to bring on laughs and pass the time. The double entendres, the hints, the spicy tone, the inconsequential flirting were all fine. Necking and nooky, those were the pleasures of Samira, who had been destined for a storybook marriage. Exchanging glances and smiles, dubious words, feeling the surreptitious touch of a foot, a hand, a lip, by chance or by intent, could anything be better? There were those who called her shameless and said she had put horns on Esmeraldino the riddle maker; others swore that Samira wouldn’t go that far with her liberties. She’d play along, all right, but at H-hour she’d drop out, the little cheat, with her I-never-said-that.

As she bent over to pick up a spool of thread in front of Jamil, she let him take in the curve of her loose breasts. Wanting to or not, who can tell? Before leaving she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, as if they were dry. Dry or thirsty, whichever way you want to interpret it. A sister-in-law isn’t a relative, Jamil reflected. Going over the accounts again in his mind, he placed Samira in the column of the store’s assets.

Had it not been for the presence of Adma, the dinner would have been perfect. A most tasty Arab meal prepared by Samira with the help of Fárida the cherub, who had also picked some flowers to decorate the table, as if the two of them were not enough, exotic, dressed and coiffed in the latest style. They were sorry about the absence of Jamile, hidden away on the farm along with her husband. Speaking of husbands, Samira’s, the telegrapher, was in attendance and scintillating, cordial and good-natured, showing a gluttonous appreciation of the kibbe and the esfiha. Making for a refined sense of well-being were Raduan Murad, wise and witty, and Samira’s right knee, as she was seated to the left of Jamil. She didn’t know how to sit still.

Unfortunately there was also Adma, a baleful figure but an indispensable guest. In order for Jamil to get a look at her and chat with her, Ibrahim had invited him to dine with the family in their upstairs living quarters. Cautious, he’d said nothing to his daughters about the plan he was hatching. To do so before his countryman had met the intended would have been foolhardy.

No sooner did Jamil set eyes upon Adma than he realized the enormous challenge. It wasn’t any use to bedeck her in bows and ribbons, cute trinkets from the store. It was insufficient compensation for her complete lack of physical attributes. Adma would have to be a saint on an altar for any citizen in possession of his faculties to decide to take her in matrimony. May God bestow that sainthood! During the
course of the evening Jamil had proof of the Lord’s indifference. He hadn’t bestowed one single shitty bit of it.

Jamil was given a knockout punch when he faced Adma upon their introduction. But being who he was, one hardened by ambushes, by the quid pro quos of life, he didn’t immediately drop right then and there his idea of transforming the Bargain Shop into the bazaar with the most goods and the most customers in Itabuna. He’d thought of finding an ugly old maid on whose uninviting face was reflected, however, enough natural goodness that almost reached the point of rendering her pretty. Ugly but pleasant, active at household chores, genteel in manner, a charming conversationalist, all in all an affable old maid whose only defect consisted in not being pretty. Thinking that, he came face-to-face with a hag, a toad-faced hag!

Sitting across from Jamil, Adma was governing the table from one end to the other, reproving with her look, her gestures, and her voice anything that might have meant merriment, laughter, and contentment. She was harsh in her condemnation of a new very funny riddle put forth by Esmeraldino to test the guests’ intelligence.

“Listen! Listen! It’s quite easy. What everyday action can turn you into someone filthy?”

He looked around triumphantly and then gave the answer himself. “Walking down the street. That makes you a streetwalker, a prostitute. Ha ha ha!”

Very good, very good, a nice riddle. The cherub clapped her hands, all worked up by her brother-in-law’s ingenious invention. “Indecent!” thundered Adma. Indecent were the kisses exchanged by Alfeu and Fárida between mouthfuls; intolerable was the satisfied belching of Ibrahim, his belly full. She didn’t dare interrupt Raduan Murad, but she tightened her face as she listened to him declaiming poetry in Arabic about women and wine: filth! Immune to the noisy jollity, apart from the general well-being, intolerant and unhappy. At a certain moment, in order to serve the coffee better, Samira leaned over in front of Jamil, and her neighbor had no way of preventing his eyes from landing on the
open neck of her dress. That was enough for Adma to lock her sister in a deadly stare, along with the hateful guest and the heedless riddler. Jamil trembled.

The malignant look of accusation and repugnance followed Jamil outside when, after dinner, gathering up his courage, Ibrahim asked the gentlemen present. “Shall we take a walk around the square, to help digest our food?”

With the exception of Alfeu, still on his honeymoon, as has been noted, and Esmeraldino, who started along but held back when Samira wanted to know, “So who’s going to take me home?” addressing her husband without taking her roguish eyes off Jamil.