Fado and Other Stories by Katherine Vaz

Author:Katherine Vaz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Pittsburgh Press

STILL LIFE

Margarida had just crushed an ant charging toward the bowl of lemons on the tablecloth. Her grandmother, Maria de Amparo, stood at the sink with the Galliano bottle, frowning at the gilt tear rolling over the lip because it would stain the label an old ivory.

The ant had been wild, scrambling; blots, especially moving ones, bothered her grandmother.

Maria de Amparo sponged away the sugary tear, then washed the yellow sponge and laid it on a paper towel. (Direct moisture would hasten the wearing away of the tile beneath. Never underestimate how much one drop of water can pound away stone.) Another ceremony of cleansing was finished.

Endless, they are, thought Margarida, before censoring herself with the reminder that now, of all times, she should be patient with her Vovó’s relentless cleaning.

You won’t persuade her to go. You know how stubborn she is, Margarida’s mother had warned.

Vovó poured two liqueur glasses of Galliano, gold-bright as melted tender. The sunlight marking up the floor collected into goblins that jumped onto her legs and tore at her stockings until they were a lace of shadow and light. She kept this floor so polished that one morning she slipped and broke her arm and kept the ambulance attendants waiting as she changed into a decent dress for the hospital.

Margarida begged, Come with me. I’ll take you. I know how much you wanted to last long enough to see my brother’s wedding.

I can’t be seen like this, said Vovó sharply. Margarida should know better.

As Vovó sat down, one of the goblins stabbed her in the stomach.

Margarida colored from her cowardice. What she wanted to say was, Please put this off until I no longer disappoint you. Any day now I’m going to sell my paintings. You’ll see I’m not crazy. I’ll have a sofa at my art show for you in case you get tired. You’ll tell me that my great day gave you a reason to live, as you told my brother that the sole thing worth hanging on for was his wedding. Don’t give up, now that his day is here. (After my art opening, I’ll find someone to marry, too.)

Do you miss the Azores, Vovó? Margarida blurted. Your father’s pastelaria?

Stories have it that as a young girl you giggled from being up the whole night dancing, you wore bourbon vanilla behind your ears, you folded butter into pastry leaves that cracked and littered everywhere. Beneath your feet, ecru flowers got pressed into stars. What of those flaxen days that you tossed before you like confetti and left unswept? What sternness, what fear of derision, made you equate being a good American with orderliness? Do you miss your volcanic home?

Too late, isn’t it, said Vovó’s jaundiced face.

They sipped their Galliano. This same bottle, long and flared as a clarinet, was reserved for Margarida’s visits—theirs. Private essence of daisy. A yellow brilliant in its aging. Margarida’s brother did not drink. Through these last years, Maria de Amparo the party girl surfaced enough when Margarida

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