TE19 Iberian Adventure

José Luís Peixoto

boy’s eyes sought such a response. But silently she recalled her son’s costly adolescence—revolted, fixed ideas, poems with no rhyme and no grace, ravaging acne—and feared he would never grow up. Such immaturity, such lack of preparation for life, she blamed exclusively on her husband, José’s father. She had ceased to spend whole evenings dwelling on her husband’s disloyalty and cowardice, but did still blame him for everything. Despite the vertigo and breathlessness, José promptly recognized those men. They were the bouncers he used to meet at the Macau Street house. Heavoided looking straight at them, theirmenacing posture, muscles pushing their arms far apart from the torso, always angry, but distracted—he had observed them in detail. The first was shaven bald and had a thick scar around his throat, ear to ear, as if someone had unsuccessfully slit it. José could not precisely identify the second man’s birthplace—nor did he care while being grasped by his neck, eyes popped, head thickening red—but connections to Africa were likely; that calculation was achieved through the man’s complexion—earthy, fertile soil—, his curly hair, the placement of his facial features, and above all the way he said, “ Xi , job’s already done here.” The man let out that xi and outburst after inspecting the house in a few seconds—the old plates forming an uncoordinated pile in the sink, the books spread over the floor amid dirty clothes and garbage, the sheets pushed by feet to the end of the bed, the pillowcases stained by halitosis or rust, the bathroom unknowing of bleach, knowing of ~

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