My Uncle Juca’s room was locked all day long.
The only person who went in was the maid who cleaned and changed his bed
clothes. But when, on a Sunday he relaxed in his great hammock that dragged
along the ground, I used to stay with him. My uncle would put me by his side
and play with me. I was the only nephew that he was close to. He had a lot of
things to show me; his photograph albums, his picture books, the Mailed Fist to
which he subscribed, full of people pictured showing their profile. I read all
the stories in the Mailed Fist, with its portraits of politicians, and its
character John Everyman who had an answer for everything.
“Don’t touch that!” he told me, when by chance,
I touched a packet that was lying on top of the chest.
One day when I was left alone I made a bee line
for the prohibited thing: a collection of pictures of naked women, post cards
of them in all the possible obscene positions. I don’t know why my uncle kept
this disgusting display of filth. Whenever I managed to be left in his room
without him I went straight for the dirty postcards. I felt an irresistible
attraction for these shameless figures.
One day when he was out late somewhere I amused
myself with his pictures for a long time. My uncle caught me by surprise with
the pictures in my hand. He turfed me out of his room, not to be allowed in
again. I was unworthy of his trust, unworthy of the secrets of his alcove.
I missed his room and the pictures of all those
indecent men and women.
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