Veratrum

michel.mirondemelo@gmail.com

Michel Miron

Since the afternoon seemed so delicate, I decided to drink my tea on the

porch. I washed the porcelain and put it on my good dress. I filled my cup and
examined the liquid, but before I could drink it, my cat jumped the garden wall,
and crossed the grass towards my direction, holding something on his teeth. I
thought it was another insect or lizard, but when he jumped on the table, he
dropped near the teapot a woman's severed finger.

I didn't scream. I could see the phalange beneath the dark blood, but
January found me in a very peaceful moment. In fact, I took a while to
rationalize that piece of flesh -- January was asking for petting.

I always envied him. He was big, gray, and oblivious, and seemed to
exist like he didn't need anyone, which is something very common for a cat but,
in old age, we only envy what is common. My godson would love him.
Searching for blood or cemetery dirt in his fur, I asked him if he wanted
something, food, but his eyes started to fall asleep. I laughed a little. He was
never aggressive, but I imagined him assaulting some unsuspecting girl. I
imagined that that index finger was from a woman because it was thin, adult
and some rose, fingernail polish was peeling off the nail.

I got up and walked towards my living room, returning to my porch with

tissue to hold that index finger that was not bleeding or had the color of a dead
body. Maybe it was some kind of accident. With a knife. The cut looked clean.
Maybe my boy robbed it from someone's table.

But someone could be dead. I almost sit again, imagining the

possibilities, but I kept my son's gift in my purse, changed my dress, and found
my parasol -- January was in my garden when I was eating tangerines with my
dinner, he could not have gone too far. I was lying right there so a bolt of
lightning could destroy me that it was only the horror of the suffering of a
woman without one tinger that made me leave the house that day: January
gifted me with much more than gossip but with a destiny.

When people look at me, I know they imagine that I walk very slowly and
that I need a walking stick. I'm very thin, never liked eating, and in reality, I don't
remember the last time I needed to reach for something outside my house, by
myself, without Adriano, that would freak out and rip that finger from me without
much effort, and tell everything to the police. A police car would take too long to
arrive -- I was convincing myself of this while unlocking my gate. I wanted that
mystery, I realized. Some woman, alive or dead, needed my help.

My neighbors and I live in houses with the same skeleton, but with
different personalities, manifested by the color of the walls, the gardens, and the
gates that were always made from steel, with leakings in the form of silhouettes
that remembered flowers. The two-way street went down to a muddy lake that
didn't stink but looked dead. I walked there only once, when my nephew, in a
period where they would visit me frequently, said that he needed to see the
frogs that were born in the rainy season. I live at the top of the street, in the
house where kids say it is haunted.

Looking back at my house, I see that I can't blame them. I never make
noise and rarely get visits. The dark green from the walls was Francisco's idea,
way before the accident, and the money that he left me is not enough to
organize everything, only which is more important: the garden and the interior. I
love flowers. From them, it's possible to take many remedies, but my
neighborhood believes, I'm quite sure, that I'm some kind of witch.

I turned around and paid attention to them, as much as my myopia

allowed it. Everything seemed quiet like no one had lost a finger. I walked
towards Rosa, that lived next door. Between the sound of my dragging, I heard
the clicks of her pruning shears, big, red, and sharp. I decided not to comment
about the finger on my purse.

-- Good Afternoon, Luana. Something happened? -- she said to me,

quietly cleaning her hands on her garden apron.
 It is very hard to trust people. It's a challenge that doesn't change with
age. Of who I met, the only one who knew it was my mother. Trusted the right
persons until the day she died. This is art, the hardest of them. If you trust
wrong, you lose a little of your desire to try it again. Since life lasts so long, I
believe that this is why people get crazy when they get old. The doctors are yet
to discover this, but it will be too late, I won't be alive to say that I warned it.

I pondered Rosa, as well as my words, and decided to take advantage of

my fame.

-- I had a bad dream. I thought some neighbor could have been hurt. Do
you know anything?

Rosa blessed herself and shrunk her shoulders, searching for the rosary
on her chest. She widened her eyes like she had felt a shock, feeling very
Christian.

-- Oh my God, Luana. I was there?

-- No, love, I never had a bad dream about you.

-- I'm relieved, but tell me no more. I fear I might not sleep tonight. Did
you talk to the others?

I trusted in her fright and realized she wouldn't help me. All of this
because of a nightmare that never existed, what would she say if I had
unpacked the finger in front of her? She would blame me. That I've gone crazy.
Yes, I am. Yes, I think I must help, Rosa. Today of all days. I said goodbye and
continued walking down the sidewalk.

I clapped my hands in front of Adriano's house. They sounded so weak.

It wasn't because of my old age, I just wasn't hoping to see him again. Only
then I remembered the doorbell, and that is indeed a senile thing to do. Who
came to me running was Onion, pulling the gravel, jumping on the gate like he
was sure that he could break it with his weight. His fur was black, and he was
drooling the iron while searching for my hands, wagging his tail, standing on its
hind legs, two heads bigger than me. I tried to pet him from the crevices, taking
too much time to realize the wet and dirty red fur around his lips.
 I retreated, remembering yesterday. Adriano had shouted my name,
coming towards me, possessed, early in the morning. Asked me desperately for
advice, since he was never cheated before. I asked him to calm down. He sat in
front of the same garden where I almost drank my tea, his legs slowly getting
quiet, as I asked him to slowly explain to me what happened. He told me
everything while looking to nothing in particular, looking traumatized forever. He
didn't cry. His voice slowly lowered its volume and emotion, and before it could
become a whisper, he promised me that he would be wise about it. I put my
eyes on Cebola once again, and find out that I can't look at him. It can't be true.

Then Adriano shows up, smiling and coming to me. He looked like he
wanted to show tranquility. You don't need to. It's me, boy. Your godmother. If
you followed my advice, there's no reason for you to hide anything.

-- How are you, sweetie? -- My voice came out choked.

-- Good. Something is broken again? You could just call.

Adriano didn't sleep, I can see around his dark circles a lot of anger and
sorrow.

-- I just came to check if you're okay and if you waited for your head to
cool down.

-- I am. I went there but didn't dare to knock on her door.

I believed him, I was there when he was born, but it couldn't be a

coincidence. It's hard to trust men.

-- I know that I shouldn't have gone there. You're right, I'll wait a couple of
days.

-- I'm sure you're going to do the right thing, sweetie. What's this on
Onion's lips?

-- Hm? Oh, it's the beetroot that he stole from my groceries.

I nodded. But I don't know if I could recognize him anymore. I'm going
crazy. I'm I, right? I disguise my fear by saying that I'm going to continue with
my walk since I was in the mood to absorb the sunshine rays of the afternoon.
Okay, he says. If I need to talk, can I go to your place? I say of course.

I don't know if dogs like beetroot, or if I know my godson that well. Now I
go down the sidewalk not wanting to know who's the owner of that finger but to
seek help. If he killed her, I can't help him alone. I don't dare to ask him to
confess, to regret, go to the police, and stop acting like you didn't curse your
dog. Everybody put down dogs that taste human flesh because people believe
that the animal starts enjoying the taste. Because he remembers it. I would like
very much to lie down, but I keep walking until unfortunately I find Camilla.

She's opening her gate with a hose in hand, ready to water the sidewalk.
She takes a while to notice me. When she does, she also lingers to realize that
I'm in front of her.

-- Luana

-- I need your help, Camilla.

The water keeps going down the road. It was making a little noise like it
was tickling the stone.

-- What happened? She asks and smiles.

I tell her about January. I get closer, opening my purse. Camila almost
widens her eyes when realizes that I'm serious, that I'm going to unpack a
woman's severed finger and show it right there. I care to not touch the dried
blood. I wait for another reaction, then I breathe deeply a couple of times. I
almost cry, but I don't want to give her that taste. I start to unburden my fears
about Adriano, his ex-girlfriend, how he's angry, and how much I love him. Your
husband is at home?

-- How dare you, Luana?

-- Camila. I'm so sorry, but it's been a while, don't you agree?

But to me it looks like it was yesterday, she screams and continues. My

husband is very busy in his workshop and he won't be bothered by me, won't be
bothered by you, who comes here with this filthy thing on your purse thinking
that Adriano is a murderer, as you were crazy. Your loneliness must have killed
you, Luana. For you to come here without saying anything, without warning, and
without addressing me properly, not being polite. Imagining that everything is
okay now. Your filthy cat must have found this finger far way from here. She
talks more, a lot more, with more spite, and I begin to not listen to her.

I nod once again, and one more time when she ends. I turn around
towards my home, feeling angry about many things, even for January, who
brought me something impossible to bear when everything was ready this
afternoon, which looked so right. I took my time to return to my garden chair,
and my tea was already cold. I wanted to know if it would make much difference
if I heat it a second time, but I could only think about Adriano and the
unassuming way that January put me to walk. Like it was my destiny.

I sat on my porch again, the afternoon light was already leaving. But then
I saw that I didn't lock my gate: Camila's husband entered through it, waving
and smiling, the last nail of this day. He had hunched shoulders and was
cleaning his fingers with tissue from his back pocket, in a mood typical of the
diplomats, of those who think that can apologize for others.

-- Good evening, Luana. May I sit?

-- Of course.

-- I spent the day with my deliveries, and this afternoon looked so pretty,
and delicate. It was a shame to see it only when it was already ending.

I smiled and nodded.

He sits. He had a wood smell.

-- We don't know each other much, but I know that you're a good person,
Luana. You and my wife quarreled at a time when I didn't even have met her,
and this is so sad. I came here because I need to apologize in her place. You
didn't find her in a good mood too. She didn't have to make a scandal.

-- It's true, it isn't a good day, but I thought it was. You don't need to
apologize, Marcelo, this is not your fault.
 -- Yes, but we're all so connected, aren't we? All this neighborhood. My
wife knocked on my workshop door and screamed about a finger. It's true?

-- Yes -- I say, wanting to say no. But why? He could help.

-- Can I see it?

If it was Adriano who severed the finger, I didn't want to give it to a

stranger, I realized. That's why I came to Camila, instinctively, perhaps. I know
no one else in these houses. If it's to help Adriano descend even further into the
abyss that he dug, may he needs to be together with someone I know.

-- My wife said that your godchild could have made a mess.

-- Yes.

-- Are you sure?

-- He didn't confess.

But I could show the finger. Ask him to take me to the police, or
accompany me to Adriano. Marcelo seems like a reasonable man because
Camila deserves a good man. He can talk to my boy and negotiate. Get the
truth, and find out that I'm not crazy. Men tend to hear differently from other
men.

-- I get it, Luana. -- He adjusts himself on the chair and gets close to me
and the table. -- I know Adriano. I don't think he did something bad. He also told
me about the cheating, he wanted advice, and I think he's going to be fine. It's
awful what your cat brought from the street, you shouldn't have gone through
this kind of thing. That's what I propose: How about you give this finger to me,
and I get rid of it in some vacant lot, and we end the subject? We won't ever
need to talk about it anymore.

I'm speechless.

-- You have only him, right? I know what you're feeling, Luana. I was
alone before Camila. And the way this is going, I guess there are only two
possibilities: The first one is more likely, your cat simply found this finger very
far from here, a misfortune. The other, of course, isn't impossible. Your godson
might have done something wrong. He would go to jail. You're like a mother to
him, right? I don't think you want to ruin the man's life.

-- No, I have to find out. You don't get it, Marcelo. Someone cut off this
woman's finger. Might not be Adriano. But someone could be in trouble.

He smiles and agrees with his head, and only then I began to ask myself
why he was risking himself that much, willing to vanish with possible criminal
evidence. And if it wasn't a crime, but just an accident, why give the trouble to
disappear with a finger that a really sad someone, right now, is looking for to
patch it back? I don't understand. Not in the slightest. Adriano never talked
about Camila's husband.

I move away a little from the table. The chair makes a loud friction with
the ground, and Marcelo's face trembles, maybe from the fright, maybe from
stress.

-- I can make sure that it wasn't an accident. I can ask the rest of the
neighborhood. Understand this, Luana: If Adriano gets arrested, you're all alone
in this world. Camila got bitter when you created a life with her ex-husband, she
doesn't trust you with anything, but I can help you with her. Hand me the finger,
let's make this day easier. For your own good.

He gets up, and I notice how he's tall. He sees that I'm scared. Knows
that I can't do anything. If I scream, no one will hear me. Nevertheless, he's
proud, wants to do it right, looks at the teapot, and pretends that didn't freak out.

-- I'm sorry, I had a stressful day. Can I drink a little of your tea? I forgot
to drink water this afternoon.

-- I almost scream by impulse, saying that it's too cold, that I can heat
another, but I keep quiet and let him serve himself.

He sits and drinks. Knows that I already know that it was him. In some
way, it's him. He doesn't complain about the taste or that it's cold. He tries his
arguments again and tries not to be aggressive this time. Talks, talks, and talks
and starts to feel uncomfortable. He doesn't realize. He guesses that it's the
heat, his position on the chair. I move away from the table and he barely
notices. He starts to threaten me but finds out that he doesn't have enough
strength to grab me, and that he needs to worry about his chest. He falls,
twisted in suffering, the biggest that I have ever seen. He convulses for a couple
of seconds and stops to move, and the first thing that I think of is how much I
hate myself. But it was impossible to choose another flower: Veratrum is a very
pretty name.

I don't feel guilty, I get up and go to my desk, pick up the letters I wrote,
and burn them on a candle. I gather the strength to go to Adriano because we
need to run to Camila, enter her yard, in the workshop of her ex-husband.
There, some woman is dead or alive. I look for January too but I don't find him
and realize that he's not home once again, but that's okay, he already saved
me.