The Marble Army. Gisele Firmino

she kept coming back. Somehow listening to our mother’s optimistic, if not delirious, stories seemed to soothe her and her unborn baby. Mãe must have been her afternoon escape.

      …

      As we reached the final days of October, our mother began to gradually repopulate our first floor. She opened it all up and decorated it with more flowers than usual, hoping the spring air would blossom life back into that house. Tia Mercedes would often bring flowers she had picked up along the way, and would watch as Mãe turned them into what she considered perfect arrangements. She would spend entire afternoons as our mother worked in the kitchen, baking bread, roasting beef, cooking rice, squeezing fresh fruit into juice, and chopping every single kind of fruit she could get her hands on into a fruit salad. She’d place a huge bowl on the center of the table, arranging it so every single fruit would be fairly featured. She’d stand over the table, tilting her head to the side just a little while pondering whether the arrangement was good enough.

      “It’s gorgeous, Rose!” Tia Mercedes would always say.

      Every single day became an event as my mother worked tirelessly to set up family meals downstairs. Her low heels echoed against the steps as she transferred everything downstairs then brought it back up again.

      “I’m driving to the city tomorrow, Rose,” our father announced one evening while our mother served us fruit salad in a silver chalice.

      That was another change. We stopped using our daily dishes and silverware since what had happened at the mine. My mother wasn’t willing to wait for special occasions.

      “Uhum.” She picked a few grapes from the bowl, placing them carefully in the chalice, by the honeydew. Our father would go to Porto Alegre every week in search of a home for us, of a job, and of space. Every once in a while he’d invite her.

      “There are two houses I was hoping you’d see. I think you’ll like them, Rosey. They both have decent sized backyards; we could plant a few vegetables.” He watched her.

      “Oh, honey, there’s just too much to do around the house. I promise you I’ll be fine with whatever you choose. I trust you.” She brought her chalice closer to her and was aimlessly moving pieces around with her fork. “Besides, I don’t think I want to see it beforehand. I might as well just see it when it’s time.” She tried a smile.

      Pablo shuffled in his seat as he finished his meal. His hair was growing longer, and our mother had stopped bothering him to let her cut it.

      “Do you want to come with me, Pablo?”

      “Nah,” he replied. “I have a paper due on Friday.”

      “How about you, Luca?”

      He seemed exhausted from the amount of effort it took to act normal and talk through a meal.

      “Sorry, Pai, I have a lot of homework.” He nodded as if he already knew what my answer would be. “Maybe next time?”

      “Sure.” He finished his juice. “Now, will you excuse me?”

      We all nodded, and my mother watched him go. It was a clear night outside, and through the windows we could hear the frogs and crickets singing their laments as the breeze announced the coming rain. I thought about how it had been a while since we all had a conversation. I looked at my father and wondered whether conversations would gradually feel more and more artificial. I wondered if our lives had become a desperate attempt to hold on to the memories of people who no longer existed. And if we could ever be content with whom we had become.

      My father washed his hands and mouth in the kitchen sink; age seemed to catch up to him a lot faster since he stopped working. Pai seemed hopeless, as his mind fueled his body’s decay. Our mother, on the other hand, behaved as if she was all hope.

      For the most part, I thought Pablo and my father didn’t notice how much our mother needed them to just be present for one moment, to actually look at her. One decent conversation was all it took to lighten up her day. One small meaningless exchange of words, and she’d put on a hopeful smile across her face and a twinkle in her hazel eyes. I would rarely go outside so that I could help her with her chores, and show her that I hadn’t changed, that she didn’t need to worry about me. It became my job to stay the same, and at times I felt it a burden. It took me years to realize how I was doing all that for myself and not my mother; how I was the one desperately counting on her to stay exactly the same.

      TWO

      WHEN HE ARRIVED in Porto Alegre that day, he didn’t hesitate on which streets to take, or which stop signs to ignore. The city was gradually becoming something familiar to him. He had been studying its paths with the similar intent he had devoted to the mine and its caves his whole life. My father created maps in his head. Maps of places, of people and the way they behaved. He was comforted by the illusion that he could tell how someone would react before that person even knew it. This would soon be the reason everybody around him became a disappointment.

      He drove slowly past some of the taller buildings, watching them carefully as he waited for pedestrians to cross the street at a busy corner. People were everywhere, and they walked fanning themselves with their hands, a piece of paper, a notebook, anything. My father unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and loosened his tie just a little. He rolled down the car window and put his elbow out as he made his way to the back streets where he would reach a house he wanted to look at. Um formigueiro, was what he thought downtown Porto Alegre looked like. Given the vastness of the country, how could there be that many people in just one place?

      When he was finally able to get through the crowds, he drove across Rua Duque de Caxias by the cathedral and went downhill until he turned right on Rua do Arvoredo, a small, quiet cobblestone street, strategically positioned between the city’s main church and its cemetery. One of the few homes with some land left downtown.

      He had already seen this house’s interior with the broker the last time he’d been to the city. But he’d decided to go back and look at its exterior yet again; its windows, what you could see from the veranda, what the earth in the front yard felt like on the tip of your fingers, what kinds of birds stopped by, and what songs they sang. He parked his car across the street. On the sidewalk sat a pile of trash bags waiting for collection, and he wondered which days of the week he would hear the trash truck drive by, how long it took for the pack of dogs to bark at the workers. He slowly made his way across the cobblestones to the house’s front gate. The gate was closed but one could easily open the latch. He walked up the steps to the front porch, pushing his foot down with each step to test the wood’s condition. It seemed firm enough.

      He thought about going around the house, checking its windows, finding out whatever flaws were exposed, but instead he took a seat on the top step and watched the road for a while. He wanted to learn about the type of people who would walk by, the noises his wife would hear, and the speed with which cars would drive through this street. He could hear the traffic coming from everywhere. Honks, cars coming to a full stop, buses and trucks picking up speed. It wasn’t loud, but it was a constant reminder that being there made you part of something much bigger than what we were used to.

      He suddenly felt a light breeze kiss the back of his ear and swipe across his shoulders and he imagined it travelling all the way from Rio Guaíba to this house. To him. And that made him feel somewhat connected to this place. He was beginning to understand the way it existed with nature, the way it existed with this city, and the way it could exist once we were in it. He picked up an azedinha, and while munching on its stem, he looked back at the front window and pictured the living room he had seen not too long ago. He imagined my mother’s flower arrangements giving life to the place. He pictured himself sitting in that same living room, pulling up a chair to the window to listen to his radio while watching the life outside. He stared at that shut window for a while, then got up to make sure you could really lock it.

      Finally, my father walked through the front yard, searching for anything that had survived the long months of neglect since the house had been vacant. There was nothing but weeds and one tangerine tree. He dug his fingers into the earth and scooped out a small amount which he brought