A Cup of Rage Read Free

handbreadths of
hedge had been gnawed away, saw whole handbreadths of earth covered with little leaves,
you need to have farming blood in your veins to know what this spells, I was rigid as I
surveyed the damage, I was livid about that gap, and could only think the privet
shouldn’t be their feast, such hard work just for the leaf-cutters to set their
maws to it, and in a flash I rushed, armed, to the neighbouring plot, and straight away
found the trail that would lead me to their colony, following the path concealed in the
high grass, I who at this hour would surprise them in their hideaway – those
who’d been so active all night with the cutting and harvesting, and without delay,
trembling and foaming, I find it and already holding the bucket in my hand I pour a
double dose of poison into each anthill, with a malice that only I know for what it is
because only I know what I feel, livid with these wonderfully orderly ants, livid with
their model efficiency, livid with how fucking organized they are that they left the
weeds well alone and ate my privet hedge, for that I apportioned them one hell of a
binge, flooding their tunnels with a thick broth of insecticide, careful not to leave
anything there alive by grinding closed the mouths of the tunnels with my heel, and I
was already coming back from that barren plot, sending sparks flying as I went, when I
noticed that she and Dona Mariana by this point were having a chat on the patio between
the house and the lawn, her little bum leant against the car’s mudguard, the
brightness of the day quickly restoring her confidence as anemancipated chit, her dress of a carefully chosen simplicity, her bag hung from one
shoulder down to the opposite hip, a cigarette between her fingers, and prattling away
ever so democratically with a common person, that being one of her favourite accessories
by the way, she, of all people, who never deigned to visit the house’s utility
room, having me serve her in bed and the housekeeper serve her in the conservatory,
leaving breakfast to me if Dona Mariana wasn’t around, I only know that, with an
irritated look on my face, and without a glance at them, I stooped and entered the tool
cupboard under the stairs, left the equipment there that I had taken to finish off the
leaf-cutters, but thinking ahead I used the supplies on the shelves to stock up with
other poisons, as well as swigging away surreptitiously in that rustic chamber, among
the brushes, charcoal and left-over paint, at a gallon of acid, concerned as I was to
redecorate my guts, knowing in advance that it wouldn’t be in vain, I only know
that when I went out to the patio again the two weren’t talking any more, and
although side by side, were very wisely standing apart, not only had she made the
housekeeper her audience, but she was waiting for me with this look, just unbelievable,
that made me want to give her a slap, and as if that weren’t enough she also said,
‘it’s not a big deal, especially for a rational little boy like you’,
and I have to admit that ‘little boy’ was a kick in the shins, that was
tough, even more so because of how she said it, for it contained that poised casualness
she put in everything, which in this case was something like distancing herself, as if
this must necessarily establish how sensible her comment was, and this only served to
make me even more angry, ‘right’ I said to myself as if I were saying
‘now’s the time’, and I getting hung up on that ‘boy’
could perfectly well have said to her, ‘time has taken more of a toll on me’
(although she wouldn’t have understood what advantage I drew from this), and could
also have given her an earful for her essentially boringuse of a nasty
irony, not that I nurture a boiling hunger for harsh words, a bent towards the tragic,
it was neither that nor the opposite, but it would do her good, she who saw in her irony
the exercise of high intelligence, if I were to sensibly remind her