One Hundred Years after Tomorrow: Brazilian Women's Fiction in the Twentieth Century

Lya Luft / From The Left Wing of the Angel (1981)

Lya Luft A major theme in all ofLya Luft's novels is social and sexual identity-a theme derived in part from her own experiences as a child growing up in the large German immigrant community in Rio Grande do SuI, where she was born in 1938. The gothic quality some critics have referred to in describing Luft's novels has to do with the atmosphere of sexual fear and uncertainty surrounding her protagonists, whose dramas unfold in the claustrophobic space of the patriarchal home. One of her most unusual works in this vein is Bxilio (1987) (Exile), a bizarre tale about a woman who leaves her home and moves into a place known as the "Red House." The occupants of this place include an elderly woman, a lesbian couple, and an imaginary playmate from the protagonist's childhood, who returns as a cantankerous dwarf. Luft's early works, As Parceiras (1980) (The Partners) and A Asa Esquerda do Anjo (1981) (The Left Wing of the Angel), are particularly effective in portraying the confusion of women brought up speaking German in the home and obeying the German community's strictly moral, patriarchal codes. Although these women are born in Brazil, they are taught early on to see "Brazilians" as /I others"; the confusion that inevitably inflicts them is rooted in a hothouse atmosphere of nationalism and puritanism. 215 From The Left Wing of the Angel (1981) (Theglass of milk on the bedside table. Immaculate sheets on the brass bed where I've always sleptalone. This is the night. It's been three days since they buriedLeo, whom I loved but denied my body. What was the most beautiful tale in my childhood storybook called? The Snow Queen. Myfather wasting away in his room at the otherend of the hall. Footsteps on the stairs: I pretend not to hearthem, we nevertalk aboutthem duringthe day. My mothersighs, stopping briefly on the landing wherethe stairs curve. Now I needtoconcentrate on this ritual: I'll berelieved and clean afterthe horrendous birth. Lyingdown on this white bedand letting my body expel its violator. For a long timeit wasforgotten. Wasit hibernating? I thoughtit had died, or that it wasn't anything more than one of those fears that used to torment me-I was the most peculiar child in the Wolffamily. A family so important that our dead were placed in the Jaziqo, a pink stone mausoleum with purple stained-glass windows. But my tenant revived. Monstrous phoenix that appears in the night, fillingmy stomach, crawling up tomy throatas ifsomeone outside my lipswere calling: come, come, come. That's just how I imagined Mr. Max for many years, behindthecrack in that door, calling tosomething orsomeone that never came. Noonecalls tome. Noonedesires meany longer, now that Leo isdead. I'm alone, calm and strong. I need that strength. I canhardlybelieve that my lifedepends on thatglass ofmilk. A mereglass of white liquid, so innocent compared to what is about to take place. Wouldthe Snow Queen expose herprivate partstogivebirthorbeviolated? No one will know anything. My father nowadays pays little attention to things; when wetalk, hesometimesgetsdistracted andcalls meMaria. But I'm Gufsela, and I don't have the sweetness orjoy of lifeof my motherwho died, leaving this houseso silent. Shefellface down on the pavingstones, smeared with theyolksof eggs she 216 From The Left Wing of the Angel 21 7 wascarrying in herapron, whichwasfolded likea nest. Hergrayhairstained gold, like the tresses of my cousin Anemarie, whom I loved. But allthat waslong ago. I'm sitting on theedge ofthebed, and when I lie downtheoldstructure creaks asifindecent movements were being madeon top of it. My stomach jerks inward. I takeoffmy shoes thatfall tothefloor with a hollow sound. Gianttoads on thestones. Stomachs exploding in the cemetery. Thebronze Angelthat watches over our Jazigo points the difficult way to heaven, and pretends not to hear anything. I breathe deeply. Thecreature writhes inside me. I'll waita little longer-to summon up courage. This time neitherflight nor evasions will do any good. Nor dreams. In the meantime, I remember.) I'm seven or eight years old. At least three times a week I walk along this street to visit my grandmother and study piano in her music room. A ritual to be observed, like so many in an organized family: everything in the Wolf family is well organized to the beat of the curt voice of its matriarch, my grandmother. It's just that I...