A Cup of Rage Read Free Page A

that irony and a
solid character don’t mix, and I could have said many other things in reply to her
comment, because it was easy to see, half-revealed, half-hidden, multiple accusations in
her words, whether of my extreme dedication to animals and plants, or the perhaps even
stronger accusation that I didn’t act at that same temperature in bed (that is,
with the same ardour that I had in exterminating the ants), and what’s more she,
her eye on the blood of the thermometer, had also made it her job to regulate
reasoning’s mercury, not suspecting that my reason was at that moment working at
full steam, suspecting even less that reason is never cold and passionless, the contrary
only believed by those who don’t in their reflections reach the powering core, to
see this you need to be penetratingly sharp, not that she wasn’t intelligent,
without a doubt she was, but not enough, just what would do, and I could daringly have
given my reasoning free rein, squeezing to a pulp the kernel of her sarcasm, but I
didn’t say a thing, not a squeak, I locked my word away, she didn’t have
enough, just what would do, I was thinking, that was why she was already oiling her
viper’s tongue, which had been numb all night, snuggled up against my feet and
etcetera, I only know that I continued to advance with my head down, the things here
inside grinding away, and Dona Mariana, this was easy to see, was first in line, but it
wasn’t Dona Mariana, nor was it her, it wasn’t anyone in particular to make
things perfectly clear, but even so I asked ‘where’s Antônio?’
and I asked the housekeeper this in a more or less calm way and like someone who almost,
but only almost, has himself under control, but nor did it matter if it wasn’t
like that, my stomach itself was a nest of ants and they were coming upmy throat, not to mention that I was already pulling onto the stage whoever was within
reach, for it wasn’t going to be to her liking, but,
sui generis
, I was
to put on a show without an audience, that’s why I challenged the once again
bashful Dona Mariana harshly, asking her ‘where’s Antônio?’, this
time making my voice as mean as the mask of my face, using both tools together, the
pliers and the crowbar, to wrench a word out of her, not that I was about to demand that
her husband compensate me for the gap, not that he could be made responsible for the
ants’ fury, but – harnessed to my rage – like a horse, I only needed a
starting shot, a reply, only a reply, any throw-away phrase from the housekeeper would
be enough ‘Tônio’s just gone down there, but he’ll be right
back’, or more cautiously Dona Mariana could justify his absence ‘he left
very early to get the milk at the store and must be almost back by now’, or she
could even, in one of her bursts of eloquence, say drily ‘Tônio was in one of
the anthills and must be in his last convulsions now along with the leaf-cutters’,
and even were she to say, with some truth as it happens, that it wouldn’t have
made a difference whether her husband was there or not, explaining to me (as if it were
news) that leaf-cutters tended to work in the black of night, the truth was it
didn’t matter what she told me, only an idiot wouldn’t have seen that, and
whether her reply was conscientious or aloof, I only know that no sooner had Dona
Mariana opened her mouth than I came charging out: ‘I’ve already told you
that the hours here are six to four, after that I don’t even want to see you in
the house, nor to stumble across him, but within these hours I won’t allow it, do
you understand? and you should tell that to your husband, are you listening?’ and
my roar was strong, even if its only substance was its vibration (which isn’t to
be scoffed at), and its effect was such that Dona Mariana didn’t know what to do,
whether to call her husband so that he could do what I had just ordered (apart from the
factthat I had only demanded he take care, it