Extract
Maria da Imaculada Conceição, Culadinha, was the ugliest girl in the village. She would have been beautiful, the most beautiful of them all, if it weren’t for the fact that she had her left eye where the right one should be, and vice versa. A quirk that completely ruled out any possibility of beauty. Otherwise, she had the right build, and long, well-proportioned bones which almost gave her a dancing gait as she walked. But since nobody could judge the tiny mismatch of her big eyes, Culadinha was the homeliest to everyone, except to herself, who could only see herself in the fragment of mirror, which, as it switched left and right, ended up correcting nature’s slip and giving her eyes their proper place. And, along with it, the tan beauty she didn’t possess. Culadinha was perfect in the mirror, but sufferable for life as a whole, which sometimes made her wish she had been born on the other side of the glass. And she would spend her days in hiding, envying the charm of her own reflection.
She had known the truth ever since she found the little piece of mirror. It was during childhood, as she was playing near the street where the maracatu revelers marched by on Sunday during Carnival. She was there to spy on the parade. As soon as the men danced by with their backs turned to her, she chased after them to hurl stones and insults. She didn’t do it out of anger; she even liked their colorful warrior robes and enjoyed the rusty rattle of their bells. She threw stones for the sheer fun of it. And it was when she stooped down to pick up another rock, one of the biggest and pointiest ones, that she found a beautiful face lying in the sand. Culadinha stopped short. A hot thrill raced from the center of her body to the ends of her limbs, as if the sun had risen in all her veins. She stared at the curious girl looking back at her from the ground. She came closer. She touched the glass and was startled — the girl was cold, as if made of water. The bit of mirror had fallen from the elaborate costume of a maracatu chieftain. She gazed at the Carnival banner as the men marched proudly on, far out of reach of her stones. She looked back at the fragment of a girl on the ground. As the maracatu dancers clanged and clashed in the distance like merry toy oxen, Culadinha realized it for the first time: she was beautiful. All the teasing and demeaning, to which she had never resigned herself, never made any sense. She was beautiful. The proof was right there, in the little square of decorate glass, in the girl crying in her hands.
The discovery took her by surprise.
She began responding to the taunts with greater anger, hurling the stones harder against the boys’ heads, breaking more clay dolls, and taking more pleasure in stealing the bones they used for their make-believe cattle. She took weeping refuge in the backyard straw-walled latrine. While others pestered her because of her ugliness, the girl in the mirror cursed her with her own grace. In the pestilent stench of the lean-to outhouse, she rued and loathed not being like she was. In return, she watched the beautiful reversed girl in the mirror yield in identical redoubled sorrow. She felt they were both shackled to themselves, captive in prisons, sharing the same gestures of a common misery. Until the warm breath of her crying fogged the mirror and Culadinha saw herself alone once again, locked up in the palm-leaf outhouse, before a mute lusterless looking glass.
As puberty began and her breasts budded, Culadinha’s seclusion was a mystery to her mother. For lack of a better explanation, the woman assumed that the girl was locking herself up to wait for her first period:
— She even takes along a little mirror — she thought.
As she witnessed how much the delay was bothering the girl, the mother decided she herself would spy on her daughter’s period. Each time she did the laundry, she searched her daughter’s clothes for the crimson stain that would mark the end of her fetid cloister. Since the stain refused to come, the woman took to wanting what she couldn’t — to speed up time. Now, the shouts from inside the outhouse were joined by her shouts from outside: each woman longing for the impossible. The mother decided that Culadinha’s quirkiness was postponing her period.
— Blood won’t flow in a befuddled mind.
She had to clear up her daughter’s senses. For days she devised a plan to entice Culadinha out of the outhouse by insisting that she participate immediately in the local festivities. She claimed the contact with friendly healthy people would get her on the track where she’d never been. The plan was a battle against the backed-up blood of the girl, who learned of her mother’s scheming through a beating from her father. A good thrashing, thought the woman, was sure to melt her last resistance, in addition to getting her blood flowing and setting the stage for her period to come.
Culadinha tried to resist the thrashing by struggling wildly from the moment they knocked down the straw door until the last five-fingered welt swelled up on her back. She had no time to cry. While she panted as best she could and they maneuvered her into a starched, cold-hemmed blue dress, she listened to the obligations she was supposed to meet at the long-awaited Corn Queen Festival. It was all too fast for her. Information was coming from every which way: the pain from the blows, the joy of the new dress, the taking part in the festival. In what seemed less than a minute, she emerged from the secluded little room into a Sunday dress burning against her hot skin, red with blood, fright and pain.
She had known the truth ever since she found the little piece of mirror. It was during childhood, as she was playing near the street where the maracatu revelers marched by on Sunday during Carnival. She was there to spy on the parade. As soon as the men danced by with their backs turned to her, she chased after them to hurl stones and insults. She didn’t do it out of anger; she even liked their colorful warrior robes and enjoyed the rusty rattle of their bells. She threw stones for the sheer fun of it. And it was when she stooped down to pick up another rock, one of the biggest and pointiest ones, that she found a beautiful face lying in the sand. Culadinha stopped short. A hot thrill raced from the center of her body to the ends of her limbs, as if the sun had risen in all her veins. She stared at the curious girl looking back at her from the ground. She came closer. She touched the glass and was startled — the girl was cold, as if made of water. The bit of mirror had fallen from the elaborate costume of a maracatu chieftain. She gazed at the Carnival banner as the men marched proudly on, far out of reach of her stones. She looked back at the fragment of a girl on the ground. As the maracatu dancers clanged and clashed in the distance like merry toy oxen, Culadinha realized it for the first time: she was beautiful. All the teasing and demeaning, to which she had never resigned herself, never made any sense. She was beautiful. The proof was right there, in the little square of decorate glass, in the girl crying in her hands.
The discovery took her by surprise.
She began responding to the taunts with greater anger, hurling the stones harder against the boys’ heads, breaking more clay dolls, and taking more pleasure in stealing the bones they used for their make-believe cattle. She took weeping refuge in the backyard straw-walled latrine. While others pestered her because of her ugliness, the girl in the mirror cursed her with her own grace. In the pestilent stench of the lean-to outhouse, she rued and loathed not being like she was. In return, she watched the beautiful reversed girl in the mirror yield in identical redoubled sorrow. She felt they were both shackled to themselves, captive in prisons, sharing the same gestures of a common misery. Until the warm breath of her crying fogged the mirror and Culadinha saw herself alone once again, locked up in the palm-leaf outhouse, before a mute lusterless looking glass.
As puberty began and her breasts budded, Culadinha’s seclusion was a mystery to her mother. For lack of a better explanation, the woman assumed that the girl was locking herself up to wait for her first period:
— She even takes along a little mirror — she thought.
As she witnessed how much the delay was bothering the girl, the mother decided she herself would spy on her daughter’s period. Each time she did the laundry, she searched her daughter’s clothes for the crimson stain that would mark the end of her fetid cloister. Since the stain refused to come, the woman took to wanting what she couldn’t — to speed up time. Now, the shouts from inside the outhouse were joined by her shouts from outside: each woman longing for the impossible. The mother decided that Culadinha’s quirkiness was postponing her period.
— Blood won’t flow in a befuddled mind.
She had to clear up her daughter’s senses. For days she devised a plan to entice Culadinha out of the outhouse by insisting that she participate immediately in the local festivities. She claimed the contact with friendly healthy people would get her on the track where she’d never been. The plan was a battle against the backed-up blood of the girl, who learned of her mother’s scheming through a beating from her father. A good thrashing, thought the woman, was sure to melt her last resistance, in addition to getting her blood flowing and setting the stage for her period to come.
Culadinha tried to resist the thrashing by struggling wildly from the moment they knocked down the straw door until the last five-fingered welt swelled up on her back. She had no time to cry. While she panted as best she could and they maneuvered her into a starched, cold-hemmed blue dress, she listened to the obligations she was supposed to meet at the long-awaited Corn Queen Festival. It was all too fast for her. Information was coming from every which way: the pain from the blows, the joy of the new dress, the taking part in the festival. In what seemed less than a minute, she emerged from the secluded little room into a Sunday dress burning against her hot skin, red with blood, fright and pain.
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