Where Tigers Are at Home (93 page)

On the way back she called in on Paco to place her order. One hour later a first injection was finally sealing up the widest fissures of her ill-being.

After dark she heard a knock at the door. “
Carinha!
It’s us.” It was Thaïs. “Open up, we know you’re there.”

Moéma felt she was caught in a trap. Don’t move, play dead. One word and that was it, she’d end up letting them in.

“Open up, please,” Roetgen said in reasonable-sounding tones. “We saw your light. We have to talk, the three of us, it’s stupid to leave things like this …”

The light. She should have realized they’d see it. Them or someone else. She didn’t want to hear about it, not anymore. It was her night, her solitary vigil before her forthcoming wedding with life. Was it not enough for them to have betrayed her, to have abandoned her to the filth of the embankments?

“Moéma,” Thaïs went on again, “what’s up with you? We were pissed, surely you can understand that. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. Don’t be silly, open up, come and have a drink with us at the
beira-mar
 …”

A whirlwind had started inside her head, sucking up everything as it went. Thaïs’s voice, Thaïs’s smile, Thaïs’s body … She was her sister, her lover, the only friend who had shared her hopes, her fears. Shouldn’t she forgive her, not make intransigence the foundation stone of her new life?

“Come on, open up,” Roetgen begged. “We’ve been worried about you.”

What a creep! If he hadn’t been there she would at least have opened the door a crack, just to assess the truth in Thaïs’s look. The guy made her want to puke! He’d taken advantage of them like the filthy swine he was. Tell him that! Tell him that men were all selfish bastards who could think of nothing but screwing while the world went to pieces around them … Yes, open the door, tell him to fuck off and let Thaïs in.

She took two or three deep breaths, checked that she was presentable and opened the door, resolved to carry out the plan she’d made. No one. The cretins had gotten fed up with waiting. Fine.
To hell with them, she said out loud as she felt the tears well up, to bloody hell with them!

ON THE MORNING
of the Feast of Yemanjá thousands of people started to converge on the Future Beach in honor of the goddess of the sea. Riding in trucks or carts, the
terreiros
of Fortaleza moved en masse, bringing all the faithful behind their spiritual leaders. Once a year this ceremony combines the fervor of all the houses of the Umbanda and Candomblé religions. To get to the appointed place, Moéma had to go in the opposite direction to the stream of traffic filling the seafront. People in their finery were already crowding the pavements, a veritable exodus—mostly
faveleros—in
their long walk to the festival.

The
terreiro
of Dadá Cotinha was like a ship of fools. People in fancy dress, drummers trying out their drums at full pitch, mulattos in sky-blue gowns, boxes of
cachaça
, bouquets of roses and carnations, cries, tears, gesticulations … from top to bottom the whole building was bubbling over with party spirit. Dressed up as Prince Roland in a plumed helmet and red cloak, Uncle Zé was shouting out instructions for the loading of his truck.

“Ah, there you are, Princess,” he said when he saw Moéma. He seemed agreeably surprised, like someone whose worst fears have turned out to be unfounded. “How’s things today? I hope you slept well, it’s going to be a tough day.”

Moéma had spent a sleepless night entirely devoted to the pitiful miracles coke can produce. She was wearing dark glasses but was brimming over with nervous, almost painful energy.

“Come on, come on, I’ll introduce you. It’s Dadá herself who’s going to get you ready.”

They threaded their way into a small room where some old women were laughing as they fussed around little girls they were
dolling up. Dadá Cotinha, a cheerful, buxom dame with the air of a nanny to the child of a Southern general, praised Zé’s choice then gently shooed him out. Time was running short, the girl had to be dressed.

Surrendering to the flock of hands fluttering round her, Moéma allowed herself to be put into costume without flinching. She squeezed into a flesh-colored swimsuit that molded her curves perfectly. Sewn in at the right place, two rubber teats emphasized the tips of her breasts. She blushed bright red when the old women went into raptures about her ample bosom. Then there were the trousers in silver lamé that imitated scales. When her legs were pushed tight together, two triangles of the same materials made a fish-tail at her ankles.

“You must have lovely hair,” Dadá Cotinha said in a reproachful tone, “What a pity you had it cut. If I could get my hands on the bungling idiot who gave you that pineapple head …”

“I wanted to have a bit of a change,” Moéma said, making a face, “but I obviously didn’t go to the right person. Is it really that awful?”

“Don’t worry, girl, we can sort that out, you’ll see.” Out of the cardboard box, from which she had fished out every element of her outfit, Dadá took a wig with very long black hair which she fitted on Moéma’s head. “It’s real hair … Fatinha’s, it came down to her heels. Quite a sacrifice she made there …”

Pins, mascara, face powder, blusher, lipstick, when it was all done and she appeared in the great hall, escorted by her old fairies, Moéma set off a chorus of exclamations and drums:

For everyone she was now simply Yemanjá, the siren-with-the-voluminous-breasts, the one who that very day would emerge from the depths of the sea. Dadá Cotinha was obliged to step in to stop the most fervent adepts from touching her. She made a little sign and Uncle Zé gave the order to leave.

“What about Nelson?” Moéma asked. “Isn’t he coming?”

“I don’t know what he’s up to,” Uncle Zé said with annoyance. “He should have been here ages ago. We can’t wait for him any longer. Anyway, he knows where it is.”

He’s found out that I’ve borrowed his money! Moéma immediately feared. Impossible, he would have come here right away to tell his friend. Her concern was unnecessary.

“Time to go, Princess,” Uncle Zé said, helping her up onto the trailer, uncovered for the occasion.

“You knew that he’s got a pistol in his shack?” Moéma asked without thinking.

“A pistol? A real pistol?”

“Yes. I don’t know about these things, but it looked like a policeman’s gun …”

“How do you know? Did he tell you?”

She was sorry now she’d mentioned it. Her carelessness was taking her onto dangerous ground. “No, he’d hidden it. He doesn’t know I’ve seen it …”

“We’ll sort that out later,” Uncle Zé said with an inscrutable expression, as he went off to climb into the cabin of his tractor trailer.

THERE WERE HUNDREDS
of trucks like theirs, of all sizes, all colors, streams of them rattling along all the roads. Piled into the back of one, in the middle of an improbable number of passengers, the samba orchestras drowned out the roar of the engines.
Men and women were jigging to the rhythm of the accordions and marimbas, clinging onto the rails, the people were laughing, singing, calling out to each other: Yayá, Yemanjá! May she bless you! May she hear your prayers! Moéma was all eyes. The power of these people, their contagious joy, but also their irreverence, the disillusioned cynicism engendered by poverty that she could read in the inscriptions on the trucks. All along the route these puns and maxims passed like the pages of an intangible book: Four full tires for an empty heart … Friend of the night, companion of the stars … Sadness is rust on the soul … From Amazonia to Piaui I only stop for a pee … I’ve looked down the blouse of distance at the breasts of melancholy … A girl’s kiss cleans better than dentifrice … Your God is mine as well, millionaire … Lucky old Adam with no mother-in-law or toothbrush … The only time the poor are in front is when the police are running after them … I’m parked in the garage of solitude … If my mother asks for news of me, tell her I’m happy … If your father is poor, it’s down to bad luck, if your father-in-law is, it’s because you’re a dumb cluck … If the world was perfect, its creator would be living in it … Light of my eyes … The good life is that of other people … The only one who’s made money out of running all over the place is Pelé …

Today is the first day of my life
was written on the billboard they finally stopped beside. Moéma felt a surge of self-confidence; there were signs for her everywhere, signs of rebirth.

THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE
were milling around on the Future Beach, adherents of the
terreiros
, city folk keen on folklore, young people with nothing better to do. Divided up into innumerable sections, makeshift enclosures with improvised altars, the shore disappeared under the boisterous disorder of the crowd. From the road where Zé had just parked his truck it looked like a huge
demonstration squashed into the wide corridor separating the dunes from the sea. Bathed in the light of a sun that seemed to renew its strength with every second, this teeming, tumultuous mass formed a contrast with the pale green of the Atlantic. A continuous stream of reinforcements came pouring down toward this deafening magma. Hanging from their poles, the banners billowed in the wind like the sails of a schooner; basic canvas shelters shook violently, threatening to take off. Shimmering, shining, like café advertisements against the glorious sky, huge flags flapped the three colors of Brazil.

The new arrivals made their way toward the location Dadá Cotinha had chosen two days before. Surrounded by women bearing flowers and garlands and earnest little girls in their immaculate dresses—ceaselessly readjusting the white pschents they were wearing on their heads—with men laden with baskets large and small bringing up the rear, Moéma-Yemanjá walked with her head held high.

As in a crystal cut in facets, the siren goddess multiplied: young women in more or less successful costumes, papier-mâché giants or modest votive statuettes, each idol gathering its group of faithful round it. So many clusters, so many syncopated tunes, benedictions, laughs jostling together without producing any discord at all. Deriving from the
cordels
and
congadas
, the army of Charlemagne deployed in all its pasteboard splendor. The beach was awash with limp plumes and wooden swords—belonging to the avatars of Roland, like Uncle Zé; of Oliver; of Guy of Burgundy; but also of the Saracens, Fierabras to the fore; or even of
Galalão
, the traitor Ganelon of the
Song of Roland
, who seemed unconcerned by their expiatory role. The latter pretended to attack the spectators to give the valiant heroes the opportunity of defending them, a ploy that led to violent single combats, fights between Sicilian marionettes in the course of which these puny paladins cut
each others’ throats before laughing as they bit the dust. Slightly worried despite everything, a few tourists with fair hair and red faces smiled inanely, one hand on the zip of their belt, the other securing the shoulder strap of their Nikon.

When Dadá Cotinha’s people joined the little group that had waited all night for them on the beach—men she could trust, whose job it was to keep the candles to Yemanjá alight along the shore—they quickly set up their stand. Moéma had to take her place at the top of a large wooden stepladder where she towered above the crowd. The steps were decorated with flowers and pieces of cloth, then a big basket of flowers was placed at her feet.

A new center of the world had come into being, similar to all those filling the beach, yet different, unique, not replaceable by any of the others.

Sitting facing the sea, which was breaking on the shore some thirty yards in front of her, Moéma breathed in deeply the windborne spray. He breasts had swelled with excitement, the star on her pearl diadem blazed. The souls in torment on this earth came one by one to place their offerings in the basket. For hours on end they raised eyes clouded with tears to the hope and mercy she represented. Deeply moved, aware of her role, she listened to the people beseeching her:

“Hail,
Yemanjá Iemonô
, oldest goddess, richest, farthest away in the sea! See that my children always have something to eat. I give you this perfume sample so that you will smell good …”

“Hail,
Yemanjá Iamassê
, violent goddess with blue eyes, you who live on the reefs! See that my husband finds work and stop him beating me up. I give you some salt and onions because I haven’t enough for a duck …”

“Hail,
Yemanjá Yewa
, timid goddess! Make Geralda respond to my advances. Here is a comb for your long hair and a lipstick …”

“Hail,
Yemanjá Ollossá
, you whose look is unbearable, who always appear in profile, such is your haste to turn away from the ugliness of the world! Make my little girl regain her sight. She gives you her only doll so that you will recognize her. Don’t worry, I’ll make her another one …”

“Hail,
Yemanjá Assabá
, you who live in the surf of the beach, clothed in mud and gooseberry-colored seaweed! Make me win the lottery so I can return to the Sertão with my family. I leave you some soap and a pretty bracelet …”

“Hail,
Yemanjá Ogunté
, you who care for the sick, you who know all the remedies! Cure my husband of
cachaça
or make him die, we can’t go on living like this. I give you this piece of cloth to make a dress or whatever you like …”

“Hail,
Yemanjá Assessu
, you who live in the eddies! I give you this postcard with a picture of a duck because I know you like them. Make things change, I beg you. You know what I mean. I also give you my lunch for today and this necklace of shells …”

Others left their requests in little messages folded in four, people threw armfuls of roses or bougainvillea into the basket, ribbons, lace, mirrors, anything that might please the goddess-with-seven-paths and bring down her favors.