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Soon enough the slices
were divided among the
little plates, in a silence
full of commotion. The
younger children, their
mouths hidden by the
table and their eyes at
its level, watched the
distribution with mute
intensity. Raisins rolled
out of the cake amid dry
crumbs. The anguished
children saw the raisins
being wasted, intently
watching them drop.
breathlessly. Since they hadn’t coordinated ahead of
time, some sang in Portuguese and others in English.
Then they tried to correct it: and the ones who’d been
singing in English switched to Portuguese, and the ones
who’d been singing in Portuguese switched to singing
very softly in English.
While they were singing, the birthday girl, in the glow
of the lit candle, meditated as though by the fireside.
They picked the youngest great-grandchild who,
propped in his encouraging mother’s lap, blew out the
candle in a single breath full of saliva! For an instant
they applauded the unexpected power of the boy who,
astonished and exultant, looked around at everyone in
rapture. The lady of the house was waiting with her finger
poised on the hallway switch and turned on the light.
‘Long live Mama! Long live Grandma!’
‘Long live Dona Anita’, said the neighbor who had
shown up. ‘Happy Birthday!’ shouted the grandchildren
who studied English at the Bennett School.
A few hands were still clapping.
The birthday girl was staring at the large, dry,
extinguished cake.
‘Cut the cake, Grandma!’ said the mother of four, ‘she
should be the one to cut it!’ she asserted uncertainly to
everyone, in an intimate and scheming manner. And,
since they all approved happily and curiously, she suddenly
became impetuous: ‘cut the cake, Grandma!’
And suddenly the old woman grabbed the knife. And
without hesitation, as if in hesitating for a moment she
might fall over, she cut the first slice with a murderer’s thrust.
‘So strong’, the daughter-in-law from Ipanema murmured,
and it wasn’t clear whether she was shocked or
pleasantly surprised. She was a little horrified.
‘A year ago she could still climb these stairs better
than me,’ said Zilda bitterly.
With the first slice cut, as though the first shovelful of
dirt had been dug, they all closed in with their plates in
hand, elbowing each other in feigned excitement, each
going after his own little shovelful.
Soon enough the slices were divided among the little
plates, in a silence full of commotion. The younger children,
their mouths hidden by the table and their eyes
at its level, watched the distribution with mute intensity.
Raisins rolled out of the cake amid dry crumbs.
The anguished children saw the raisins being wasted,
63
Register Magazine