By AIRTON PASCHOA*
Two short pieces
Just cause
My maid spied on another life. And I don’t say that because of the way she looks at me. I know I’ve been feeding the fantasy of many of them. They would come in happy and efficient and, time goes by, sometimes they would be negligent—a kind of law of domestic work that has been in force since I became a widow. I thought about getting married again, but I backed away from the idea of adding to the problem. The solution was to hire a lady. An excellent one, by the way, but now she’s starting to intrigue me. I caught her once, under the pretext of cleaning it, caressing it, page by page, the book sometimes open (she’s practically illiterate), sometimes closed, her finger following the ridges on the cover that only she could see. When I opened my eyes the other day, I caught her sitting next to me, listening to Mozart, the coffee on the tray getting cold:
– So sad…
Truth be told, lapses aside, perfectly human, he remains impeccable like no one else. But today I thought he started to go too far. In front of a Matisse, a beautiful reproduction framed and hung for personal enjoyment, his arms hanging down, as if he didn't have the courage to dust it, he didn't make the slightest gesture when he sensed my presence. He just echoed from a distance:
– Same song, right?
How do we know? What does the empty case prove? The window opening? Is it or isn't it? Is there music or isn't there? Is it not coming from the wind, the sea, the noisy summer of the bathers? Is it coming from the terrace or from the interior, from ours? Yes, maybe it was, so what? But it wasn't for her, it wasn't for us, it wasn't for anyone, you hear? And that's why she's leaving, do you hear? Go away!
Tisania
She struggled, she struggled, and it wasn't colic, poor thing, she was a housewife, and a Catholic. She was always thinking about or doing all kinds of courses, IT, Nursing, Makeup, Hairdressing, Manicure, whatever came her way. I think she even tried English. She didn't finish any of them, of course, because sometimes it was the money, sometimes her head that didn't give it. She had been with me for years, always the same, appearing from time to time with some new cursive; lately, however, she seemed to be seized by a new frenzy; she would throw away magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, brochures... She smiled, you know, her mother had been a housewife, her sister was a housewife, and her daughter, apart from the lottery, would have no different luck.
Nothing had changed, it was just another creed in sight, she was still as efficient as ever, and discreet, aware of her place, a priceless quality, as you know, and for which she paid the best she could. She said good morning, good afternoon, when she was out walking around looking for a course, and good night, when she retired (or shrank, an impression I always had and never understood). Good night? I had started to hear a certain noise... strange, and no matter how much I listened, I couldn't make out what it was, scraping, rubbing, papers? It seemed, sanding, papers or paws? I never slept a wink or took my ears off again. Any noise, the crack of wood, in the living room? in the hallway? gnawing? and I would hear it with my slipper.
Early one day, encouraged by the light, I tiptoed and picked it up, kneeling on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together, praying mantis? No, praying mantises don't make that noise, that hideous gurgling of those who eat without restraint and without restraint from growing as they eat, snotsnotsnots. Another day, another night, I swore, I crashed into the walls, flying blindly, blindly and cross-eyed, ever shallower, I opened the Hail Mary with shivers, did I still remember? – a wing, it could only be, immense, mortuary, shroud, it couldn't be paper, nor a sheet, it covered my head, rustling, tea, tea, tea, until the final thud on the bedroom door. I picked it up and thanked it, it was shaking? the cup, had you noticed? of herbal tea.
The next morning, after another night as clear and dark as day, when I suddenly came across her up high, her arms raised, open, stuck together, thrashing against the window glass, bubbles? eggs? dripping… ti… sân… nia! yes, that was it, it was her, it was the one, Thysania agrippina! I had read it once, I remembered now, the impossible moth, one day it would break, I was sure, more fear than certainty, but I was, empress, and I demanded, yes, yes, I demanded, this obsession with courses only plundered the savings, which I didn't have but could have, if it weren't for this hell, it even promised a raise, as long as I slept in peace and in peace I also left the pain - I swallowed. I smiled, you know, that was all it took. Out, Agrippina! I screamed inside, and threw her out.
*Airton Paschoa is a writer. Author, among other books, of Paperweight(e-galaxy, 2022).[https://amzn.to/3XVdHE9]
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