A sad story! Oh, women, how often you are the cause of a great man’s unhappiness! Women, is it not because of you that so many great men often do not leave descendants behind them? Fellow Portuguese, the upbringing of your daughters is your responsibility! Do not turn your daughters into home wreckers! The end.
There will be no newspaper tomorrow, on account of the editor’s birthday.
Fellow Portuguese! Those of you who have not paid in full for your newspaper subscription, please make haste!
“Poor Madame Tanner!” whispered Amaranta, having skimmed this little tale. “Poor woman! How unhappy she is! Oh, how fortunate I am by comparison! How fortunate!”
Amaranta, cheered by the thought that there were people in this world who were more miserable than she, carefully folded the newspaper page, put it back into the box, got undressed, and went to bed, glad that she wasn’t Madame Tanner.
She slept until she was awakened by a terrible hunger, as personified by Alfonso Zinzaga.
“I am famished!” said Zinzaga. “Get dressed, my dear, and go ask your madre for some money. Apropos, I apologize. I was mistaken. I just found out from the Russian writer Derzhavin, who came here with Lehrrrmontofff, another Russian writer, that there are two novels, completely unlike each other, that share the title The Sleepwalker Upon the Seas. Get going, my dear!”
While Amaranta was dressing, Zinzaga told her about an incident that he intended to write up, remarking, as he did, that recording this incredibly moving incident would entail a certain sacrifice on her part.
“Your sacrifice, my dear, will be a small one!” he said. “You will have to take dictation from me for no more than, say, seven or eight hours, and prepare a clean draft, and further, in passing, one might say, make a full critique of my entire literary oeuvre. You are a woman. Most of my readers are women . . .”
A white lie. Actually all of Zinzaga’s readers were women. One woman, in fact: Amaranta.
“Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Amaranta said quietly, then turned pale and fainted. She collapsed right on top of the dusty, tattered encyclopedia that was always lying about.
“What amazing creatures women are!” exclaimed Zinzaga. “How right I was, when, in A Myriad of Lights, I called woman a being that will always be an enigma and a wonder to mankind! The slightest hint of joy and she collapses to the floor! Oh, those delicate nerves . . .”
Happy Zinzaga went down on one knee before unhappy Amaranta. He kissed her forehead.
And there you have it, my dear women readers!
You know what, single girls and young widows? Don’t you go marry an artist! “May tarnation strike ’em!” as the Ukrainians say. It is better, my dear single girls and young widows, to live in a tobacco shop or to sell geese at the market than to reside in the best suite of the Hotel of the Venomous Swan with the best protégé of Count Barabanta-Alimonda!
Far better!
A view of the Capital City of Lisbon (The Street of the Four Gravediggers). Based on a photograph taken by Francesco d’Akchenzo.
* Anthony Van Dyck (1599–1641) was a Flemish artist.
† Peter the Hermit (c. 1050–1115) was a leader of the First Crusade.
* Distilled water (Latin).
† Silver nitrate (Latin).
PAPA
MAMA, lean as a Holland herring, walked into the study of Papa, fat and round as a beetle, and gave a little cough. As she entered, the maid jumped off Papa’s lap, darting behind the curtains; Mama paid no attention. She was used to Papa’s little weaknesses. She was the intelligent wife of a civilized husband. She understood.
“Dumpling,” she said, perching on Papa’s lap, “my own, I’ve come to you for some advice. Dry your lips, let me give you a kiss.”
Papa blinked rapidly. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Listen, Papa . . . What are we going to do about the boy?”
“What’s the matter?”
“You don’t know? My God! How little fathers care. It’s just terrible! Dumpling, if you can’t be—if you don’t want to be—a proper husband, can’t you at least try to be a proper father?”
“There you go again! I’ve heard it all a thousand times.”
Papa shifted impatiently, Mama almost tumbled off his knees.
“You men are all the same: You just don’t want to hear the truth.”
“Did you come here to talk about the truth or about the boy?”
“All right, all right, I’ll stop . . . Dumpling, the boy’s brought home a bad report card once again.”
“So what?”
“What do you mean, so what? He’s not going to be able to take his qualifying exams! He won’t advance to fourth grade!”
“So he won’t. No great disaster. Just as long as he’s at school and not making trouble here.”
“But Papa, he’s fifteen years old! How can a fifteen-year-old still be in the third grade? Can you believe it: That nasty math teacher failed him again . . . Outrageous, isn’t it?”
“He needs a good beating, that’s what I say.”
Mama ran her pinkie around Papa’s fat lips. She frowned coquettishly (or so she imagined).
“No, Dumpling, not a word about a punishment . . . This isn’t our boy’s fault. They’re all out to get him. Why be modest: Our son is gifted; he has to know that silly math. He knows it perfectly, I’m sure!”
“He’s a fraud, that’s what he is! If he’d studied instead of making trouble . . . Why don’t you go sit down on a chair, my dear? I’m sure you can’t be all that comfortable on my lap.”
Mama slipped off Papa’s lap and glided over to the armchair like a swan (or so she imagined).
“God, how callous you are,” she whispered. She sat down and closed her eyes. “No, you don’t love our son! Our son is so good, so smart, so handsome . . . There’s a plot against him, I tell you, a plot! He mustn’t be held back another year! I won’t let it happen!”
“And what can you do, if the good-for-nothing never studies? Oh, you mothers! Well, in any case, enough. Go and may the good Lord be with you. I have something to take care of.”
Papa turned his attention to a paper on the table. Wary as a dog at his bowl, he glanced at the curtains.
“No, Papa, I won’t go. I won’t go! I can see that I’m a burden, but you’ll just have to put up with it. Papa, go to the math teacher and tell him to give the boy a good grade. Tell him that he knows his math but that his health is poor. That’s why he can’t cater to everyone’s whims! Force him to do it! Can you imagine a boy his age, practically a grown man, in the third grade? Do your best, dumpling! Did you know that Sofia Nikolaevna thinks our son is as handsome as Paris?”
“Yes, he’s a chip off the old block, but still, I’m not going! I don’t have time to go tramping back and forth.”
“You’ll go, Papa!”
“I won’t. That’s my final word. Go and the good Lord be with you, my dear. I have things to take care of.”
Mama stood and shouted, “You will go!”
“I will not!”
“You will!” shrieked Mama. “And if you don’t, if you won’t take pity upon your only son, then—” Mama screeched and pointed like an infuriated tragedian at the curtains. Papa was flustered and embarrassed. He started to sing. He took off his jacket. He always got flustered and acted like a total idiot when Mama pointed at the curtains. He surrendered. The boy was called for and an explanation demanded. Junior became angry, frowned, and scowled. He said that he knew math better than the teacher, that it wasn’t his fault if in this world of ours only girls, rich kids, and suck-ups got good grades. Then he burst into tears and produced his teacher’s address. Papa shaved, ran a comb over his bald spot a few times, dressed for the occasion, and set off to “take pity upon his only son.”