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By: Clarice Lispector
The family began arriving in waves. The ones from Olaria were all
dressed up because the visit also meant an outing in Copacabana. The
daughter-in-law from Olaria showed up in navy blue, glittering with
pailletes and draping that camouflaged her ungirdled belly. Her husband
didn’t come for obvious reasons: he didn’t want to see his siblings.
But he’d sent his wife so as not to sever all ties and she came in her best
dress to show that she didn’t need any of them, along with her three children:
two girls with already budding breasts, infantilized in pink ruffles
and starched petticoats, and the boy sheepish in his new suit and tie.
Since Zilda the daughter with whom the birthday girl lived had
placed chairs side-by-side along the walls, as at a party where there’s
going to be dancing, the daughter-in-law from Olaria, after greeting
the members of the household with a stony expression, plunked herself
down in one of the chairs and fell silent, lips pursed, maintaining
her offended stance. I came to avoid not coming, she’d said to Zilda,
and then had sat feeling offended. The two little misses in pink and
the boy, sallow and with their hair neatly combed, didn’t really know
how to behave and stood beside their mother, impressed by her navy
blue dress and the pailletes.
Then the daughter-in-law from Ipanema came with two grandsons
and the nanny. Her husband would come later. And since Zilda
the only girl among six brothers and the only one who, it had been
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