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Those Lopes

A bad breed, who make for bad peace: I want to stay far miles from them. Even
from my sons, three in number. A free woman, I don’t feel old or worn-out. Quality
comes with age. I love a man, and my good ways make him marvel, his mouth
water. My desire now is to be happy, in my day-to-day, whether suffering or cel-
ebrating. I want to talk out loud. Let no Lopes come near, or I’ll chase him off
with bared teeth. What’s behind me, all I went through, repeated itself until it was
forgotten. At last I found the bottom of my heart. The greatest gift in the world is
to be a virgin.
But first it’s others who write our story.
As a little girl I saw myself dressed in flowers. But what stands out earliest is
poverty. What good were a mom and dad to a monetary orphan? I became a young
woman without abandoning innocence: I sang children’s tunes crossed with roman-
tic melodies. I wanted to be called Maria Miss, never caring for the name I was
named: Flausina.
God gave me this black beauty mark on the whiteness of my chin—I looked
pretty even when I saw my face in the trough, in the pigs’ swill. And he passed by,
Lopes, big hat, brim turned down. They’re all good for nothing, but this one, Zé
Lopes, was the worst, an arrogant seducer. He looked at me: standing there in my
helpless trembling, nailed by his gaze.
He passed on horseback, in front of the house, and my dad and mom greeted
him, sullen like they weren’t with others. Those Lopes were a breed apart, from
another riverbank. They bought or seized everything, and if it weren’t for God
they’d be here to this day, lording it over us. People should be meek, mild, like
flower blossoms. Mom and Dad didn’t lift a finger to defend me.
Little by little it comes back to me . . .
With barely enough time to weep, I wanted at least a trousseau, like other girls,
the illusion of an engagement. What did I get? No courtship and no church. With
his hot hands and short arms the man grabbed me and took me to a house, to his
bed. But I learned to be shrewd. Muffled my tears. Endured that body.
I did what he wanted: I talked dirty. That’s exactly what the devil makes some
men want from us: invention. Those Lopes! With them if there’s no hay, there’s no
milk. When he gave me money, I acted nice, I said, “I used to be a two-bit virgin.
Now I’ve got three bits.” He liked that. Didn’t know I was watching and waiting.
He put a scrawny black woman in the house to keep an eye on me. Miz’Ana.
Whom I learned to deceive, finagling accounts, and whom I called godmother and
friend. I managed to make life smooth on the outside. It was lying on my back that
I felt the world’s sordidness, the devil’s nightshirts.
No one has no idea what it’s like: all night scrunched up on a cot, with the dull
weight of the other hemming you in, his stink, his snoring, any one of those things
amounting to cruel and unusual abuse. I, a delicate girl, made into a captive, with
him always there, smothering me, in the dark. Ruination, the man hatching his

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326 Part III Modernism at Mid-Century (1945–1980)

hidden thoughts, like one day devouring another—how do I know what perversities
he snored? All of this tarnishes a bride’s whiteness, infects like a disease, pierces the
spirit. As sure as I’m here today in a way I never was before. I got squeezed smaller,
and on the wall my fingernail scratched prayers, my hankering after other horizons.
I traced the alphabet. Needed to learn how to read and write. In secret. I began
from the beginning, aided by the newspapers used to wrap groceries, and by the
kids who went to school.
And the money rolled in.
As far as I could, I managed all he had to my own profit. I saved up. Had titles
and instruments put in my name. He, oblivious, was making me rich. And once I
gave birth to his son, his trust in me was total, almost. He got rid of Miz’ Ana
when I trumped up false charges: that she’d goaded me to make carnalities with
another man, a likewise Lopes—who soon vanished from life, in nobody-knows-
how fashion.
Like they say: he who hears only half understands double.
I became a nest of vipers. In his liquor I put seeds, just a few, from the black
calabash tree; in his coffee, liana bark and belladonna. Merely to cool down his
rabid desire—I confess to no crime. Liana bark makes a man gentler, more refined.
He was already looking yellowish, like an egg just laid by an ostrich. In short order
he died. My life was quite lethal. After the funeral I swept the house and tossed
out the dust.
And do you think those Lopes left me in peace?
Two of them, tough types, demanded my hand—the cousin and brother of the
lately departed. I maneuvered in vain to keep the brutes at bay. One of them, Nicão,
set a due date: “Wait for me at the end of the requiem Mass.” Which would be in
thirty days’ time. But the other one, Sertório, lord and master, with gold and dagger
in hand, didn’t even wait seven days before barging into my house to claim me. I
suffered with composure. How did I lead my life? Year after year of submissive
subjection, as tiresome as catching rain in a gourd or chopping kale real fine.
Both men raging, oozing with jealousy. And for good reason—I set it up. Nicão
kept circling the house. Were the two sons I bore really Sertório’s? The sum total,
whatever was supposed to be his, I charged, quickly adding it to my account—
honor included. I acquired new graces and enjoyed them in the garden of myself,
all alone. I assumed a more maidenly air.
Smiling I leaned out the window, lips puckered: negotiable, impartial. Until my
idea hardened into action. I knew he was a Lopes: unruly, fiery, water boiling out
of the pan. I saw him leave the house, steaming with steam, clothed in fury, his
pockets full of slanders. I’d sent the other one messages, coated with sugar. Lately
I’d laughed for a definite reason. Good guy against good guy, my lightning bolts
faced off amid shots and flashing metal. Nicão died without delay. Sertório lasted
a few days. I wept brokenhearted, according to custom, pitied by all: unfortunate
woman, two and a half or three times a widow. On the edge of my yard.
But there was still one left. Sorocabano Lopes: the oldest one, loaded with land.
He saw me and got me into his head. I accepted with good grace; he was itching
for consolation. I stipulated: “From now on only if thoroughly married!” So great
was his fervor he agreed—which, for a man of his declining years, was like button-
 João Guimarães Rosa (1908–1967) 327

ing a button in the wrong hole. And this Lopes I treated very well and much better,
fulfilling his desire.
I wracked half my brain: I gave him rich, spicy meals and endless hours of
pleasure—the guy was sapped dry from so much love and cuddles. All good things
are bad and good for us. The one who died, at any rate, was him. And I inherited
all he had, without the slightest qualm.
So finally in the end at last I’m avenged. That vile breed is finished. As for my
sons, all of them equally Lopes, I gave them money so they could travel their cattle
far away from here. I’m done quarreling: I’ve found love. Those who don’t approve
can’t sway me. I love, truly. I’m old enough to be his mother? Save your breath.
I’m no respecter of calendars and dates.
I don’t intend to give him free rein over my body. But I’d like, for my own sake,
to have some children of another stripe, civilized and modern. I want the good
portion I never had, I want sensitive people. What use are money and understanding
to me, if I can’t settle with my memories? I, one day, was a very little girl . . .
Everybody lives to serve some purpose. Enough of those Lopes!—they turn my
stomach.