1

2

Maria da Silva

A glimpse of Brazilian

reality

pedro marangoni

Translated by Lesley Sogl

3

“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.

4

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

5

scavenger - who lives from things unwanted

and not from begging - the mission I have

been given by chance will have been

accomplished.

p.marangoni

6

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

7

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

8

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

9

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

10

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

11

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

12

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)