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“Maria da Silva - A glimpse of Brazilian reality”
Written By pedro marangoni
Copyright © 2017 pedro marangoni
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Lesley Sogl
Cover Design © 2017 antenesca fusco
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of
Babelcube Inc.
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Foreword
“Maria da Silva” is not entirely a work of fiction
but more like an unembellished glimpse of
Brazilian reality. A thin book about the short
life of a rubbish scavenger. The lack of
superfluous descriptions here is intentional so
the mind of the reader can recreate a setting
that is more familiar to him or her. A place
they might see on a day-to-day basis but
whose essence they do not understand.
"Marias da Silva" die every day of starvation
and untreated diseases in a brief and tragic
passage through life, taking with them a story
that is overlooked by most. It is time for us to
look at these people as human beings and
this thin little book may help with that. I feel
that this work is not mine. I am only the
deliverer of Maria da Silva's message. I
believe that if a few readers change after
reading this, even if only by the expression on
their faces when they see a rubbish
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scavenger - who lives from things unwanted
and not from begging - the mission I have
been given by chance will have been
accomplished.
p.marangoni
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This is not waking up, no one awakens to a
nightmare.
Rolled up in a blanket on top of an old,
mildew-ridden mattress, Maria opens her
eyes, veiled in misery, but remains
motionless. She is curled up with her squalid
arms wrapped around her knees, propping up
the threadbare blanket, a faded grey and red-
striped rag.
The mattress, now just the foam part, was
probably green or blue at some point in time
but is now stained brown by the mud of the
water channel where it was found. Mildew is
everywhere but to Maria it smells of safety,
the smell of home.
The human-shaped blanket continues
motionless. But not the mind. Maria is a
human being, despite the others, Gods
chosen ones, who can’t understand how she
thinks, feels and, above all, sees and
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evaluates her position in the world of men.
She knows she is expendable and she has
only one wish, to leave.
Maria doesn't want to wake up, arise and be
required to live. Her living gets mixed up with
surviving. Simply surviving, one day at a time,
with no breaks, no rest. She knows that for
animals the daily search for food is a way of
life but why does she have to do it and what
for? What does she get from it? What is so
great about it? Satiating hunger or quenching
thirst is not great. It is the fulfilment of a need
that she would gladly give up in exchange for
never having to wake up.
But she wakes up. An almost adolescent hag,
skin and bones and a probable age of 18 to
20. Her hair is auburn, sparse and straight,
and her pale skin shows through where the
street grime has not left its stain. Her breasts
droop, she only has a few teeth and her eyes
show only a shadow of dignity.
Opening her eyes, waking up, is always an
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unpleasant shock - the start of the nightmare.
She wants to close her eyes again and erase
her conscience, escape from the real. But
she knows she won't be able to because what
awakens her is not a good night’s sleep but a
stomach grumbling for its never-ending,
insatiable quota.
Born into the world with hunger as her
companion, she knows that she has no rights
and, therefore, little hope.
Much to her distaste, she begins to assume
the guise of a living being. She moves her
eyes - but only her eyes. Always hoping
futilely that she is actually in the middle of an
actual nightmare, a bad dream. She will soon
suddenly wake up in a clean bed - with a
brother, a mother, a father, a home, food,
knowing how to read, write, greet people and
be greeted on the street, truly exist.
Why then not transform into a street dog that
doesn't need to think, see itself or make
comparisons? She is not a dog, but she is
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also not human, what is she then? If she talks,
nobody answers. Sometimes she is shooed
away like a street dog but sometimes she is
given orders like those given to human
beings.
Her eyes survey the shack in the half light. It
measures more or less the length of one
plywood board, like those used to surround
construction sites, by two in width. Around
two by four metres. On the roof, one, two,
three… five blackened tin sheets pounded flat
with stones. She can see almost all of it
without moving her head. The gaps and holes
are covered with black, plastic sheets. She
leans her head a little to the right and the
board that she uses as a door comes into
view. If it is still there it means nothing was
stolen during the night.
The mouldy piece of cheese that she found
last night is safely tucked away under her
mattress but the rest of her belongings: the
small four-shelf cupboard, the plastic 20-litre
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water bottle half full with water from the
waterspout, the children's stroller now used to
carry cardboard, the plastic bag filled with
pages from magazines filled with glossy
photographs of models, may disappear just
like other precious belongings of hers did in
the past. Today, everything is in place. She
sighs. Now she has to sit up. Another day
begins.
She understands that there is nothing more
than air surrounding her but she knows that
by standing up she will feel as if the world
were squeezing her, pushing her into a corner
as if she were getting in the way, as if she
occupies a stranger's space - a large foetus in
a womb-world closing in on her. She breathes
more deeply. She trembles, a shudder runs
up her thin body. The air that fills her lungs is
not fresh, it is thick, acrid, full of dry urine, rot,
the smell of abandonment. But it is a familiar
smell. It is the smell of the animal's den. It is
the smell that means that her small amount of
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privacy is ensured. This minimal separation
from other human beings, afforded by a few
planks, tin sheets, plastic wraps, keeps her
from being seen, keeps her ignored. She feels
a certain amount of pleasure from being
ignored because she is invisible. It feels better
than going out and being ignored while in
plain sight.
“Do they see me as one of them, except
poorer? Do they see me as a 20-year old
woman? Yeah, that's about right, twenty
years, just like that guy at the bar said "she
looks about twenty..."
It has ended. The short sleep has come to an
end.
“Let's go twenty-year-old Maria,” she says
to herself while initiating her odd morning
ritual with the hope that it is all actually just a
dream.
She shuts her eyes again very tightly and
chants, “truth, lie, truth, lie, truth, lie!”
She jumps up with a shout, ready to face
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the world. Once again it is the truth... she is
Maria, just a piece of trash, alone, with
nothing. (…)
More:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/maria-da-silva-a-glimpse-of-brazilian-reality-pedro-marangoni/1125595024
https://www.kobo.com/gb/en/ebook/maria-da-silva-a-glimpse-of-brazilian-reality
https://pt.scribd.com/book/338123543/Maria-da-Silva-A-glimpse-of-Brazilian-reality
Soon: Amazon (ebook and paperback)