Soul Clap Hands and Sing by Paule Marshall

Author:Paule Marshall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Barakaldo Books
Published: 2020-04-22T00:00:00+00:00

BRAZIL

Three trumpets, two saxophones, a single trombone; a piano, drums and a bass fiddle. Together in the dimness of the night club they shaped an edifice of sound glittering with notes and swaying to the buffeting of the drums the way a tall building sways imperceptibly to the wind when, suddenly, one of the trumpets sent the edifice toppling with a high, whinnying chord that seemed to reach beyond sound into silence. It was a signal and the other instruments quickly followed, the drums exploding into the erotic beat of a samba, the bass becoming a loud pulse beneath the shrieking horns—and in the midst of the hysteria, a voice announced, first in Portuguese and then in English, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Casa Samba presents O Grande Caliban e a Pequena Miranda—The Great Caliban and the Tiny Miranda!”

The music ended in a taut, expectant silence and in the darkness a spotlight poured a solid cone of light onto the stage with such force smoke seemed to rise from its wide edge and drift out across the audience. Miranda stood within the cone of light, alone but for the shadowy forms of the musicians behind her, as rigid and stiff-faced as a statue. She was a startlingly tall, long-limbed woman with white skin that appeared luminous in the spotlight and blond hair piled like whipped cream above a face that was just beginning to slacken with age and was all the more handsome and arresting because of this. Her brief costume of sequins and tulle gave off what seemed an iridescent dust each time she breathed, and a smile was affixed like a stamp to her mouth, disguising an expression that was, at once, calculating and grasping—but innocently so, like a child who has no sense of ownership and claims everything to be his. Blue eye shadow sprinkled with gold dust and a pair of dramatic, blue-tinged eyelashes hid her sullen, bored stare.

She filled the night club with a powerful animal presence, with a decisive, passionless air that was somehow Germanic. And she was part German, one of those Brazilians from Rio Grande do Sul who are mixed German, Portuguese, native Indian and sometimes African. With her the German had triumphed. She was a Brunhild without her helmet and girdle of mail, without her spear.

There was a rap on the drums and Miranda clutched one of her buttocks as if she had been struck there; another rap, louder this time, and she clutched the other, feigning shock and outrage.

“Hey, lemme in, stupid!” a rough male voice called in Portuguese behind her, and she whirled like a door that had been kicked open as a dark, diminutive figure burst around her thigh, wearing a scarlet shirt with billowing sleeves and a huge C embroidered on the breast like the device of a royal house, a pair of oversized fighter’s trunks of the same scarlet which fell past his knees and a prize fighter’s high laced shoes.

He was an old man. His hair

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