Necrológio by Victor Giudice

Victor Giudice, short-story writer from Brazil, is surely a spiritual brother. Here is an amazing story from this collection. Below his story is one I wrote some years back.

THE FILE CABINET
After only one year on the job, João was given a fifteen percent salary cut.

João was a young man. It was his first job. He did not show his pride, even though he was one of the few considered. After all, he had made an effort. He had never once missed work or come in late. He limited himself to smiling, to thanking the boss.

The next day, he moved to a room father away from the center of the city. With his reduced salary, he must pay a lower rent.

He started to take two buses to work. Nevertheless, he was satisfied. He got up earlier, and this seemed to brighten his disposition.

Two years later, another reward came.

The boss called him in and informed him of his second salary cut.

This time, the firm was in excellent shape. The cut was a little larger: seventeen percent.

More smiles, more thanks, another move.

Now João got up at five om the morning. He waited for three buses. In compensation, he ate less. He lost weight. His skin became less rosy. His contentment grew.

The fight went on.

However, in the next four years, nothing extraordinary happened.

João was worried. He lost sleep, poisoned by the intrigues of jealous colleagues. He hated them. He tortured himself with the lack of understanding of the boss. But he did not give up. He started to work two more hours a day.

one afternoon, almost at the end of the day, he was called into the head office.

His breath quickened.

"Mr. João. Our firm is greatly indebted to you."

João lowered his head in a sign of modesty.

"We are aware of all your efforts. It is our desire to give you substantial proof of our recognition."

His heart stopped.

"In addition to a salary reduction of sixteen percent, we decided, in yesterday's meeting, to demote you."

The revelation dazzled him. Everybody smiled.

"From today on, you will be assistant bookkeeper, with five days less vacation. Happy?"

Radiant, João stuttered something unintelligible, paid his respects to the board of directors, and returned to work.

That evening, João did not think about anything. He slept peacefully in the silence of the suburbs.

One more time, he moved. Finally, he stopped eating dinner. Lunch was reduced to a sandwich. He became thinner, felt lighter, more fragile. He did not need many clothes. He eliminated certain superfluous expanses, laundry, meals. He arrived how at eleven at night, got up at three in the morning. He drained his energy on the train and two buses to be sure to arrive at work half an hour early.

Life went by, with new rewards.

At sixty, his salary was the equivalent of two percent of his starting pay. His organism had accommodated itself to hunger. Once in a while, he tasted a roadside weed. He only slept fifteen minutes. He did not have any more worries about lodging or clothing. He slept in the fields, among refreshing trees, he covered himself with the rags of a sheet acquired a long time ago.

His body was a mass of smiling wrinkles.

Every day, an anonymous truck transported him to work.

When he had completed forty years of service, he was summoned by the directors.

"Mr. João. We have eliminated your salary. There will be no more vacation. And your job, starting tomorrow, will be to clean our bathrooms."

The dry skull shrank. From his yellowish eyes, ran a tenuous liquid. His mouth trembled, but he said nothing. Finally, he had achieved all of his objectives. He tried to smile:

"I am grateful for everything you have done on my behalf. But I would like to hand in my resignation."

The boss did not understand.

"But Mr. João, now that your salary has been eliminated? Why? In a few months you will have to pay the initial tax to remain in our organization. Throw all that away? After forty years? You are still so strong. What do you say?"

Emotion ruled out any reply. João walked away. He wilted lips extended. His skin hardened, turned smooth. His stature diminished. His head fused to his body. His forms became dehumanized, plane, compact. His sides formed angles. He turned gray.

João turned into a metal file cabinet. 

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OVERTIME
For many years Neal Merman commuted back and forth to his place of work like countless others. Neal performed the job of an everyday clerk in an insurance office; a room with blank walls, linoleum floor and forty desks under naked florescent lights.

This mechanical routine shifted abruptly, however, when Neal became part of his desk. First, the desk absorbed only two fingers, but by the end of that afternoon, his entire left hand was sucked up by the metal. The following morning Neal’s left leg from the knee down also became part of his desk. So it continued for a week until the only Neal to be seen was a right arm positioned beside a head and neck on the desktop.

When the other clerks arrived in the morning, all they could see of Neal was his head bent down, a pencil in hand, reviewing a file with utmost care. To aid his review, Neal would punch figures into his calculator fluently and with the dexterity of someone who knows he is in total command of his skill. Such acumen brought a wry smile to Neal’s face.

One day, Big Bart, the department boss, came by to check on Neal’s files. “Clerk, your work is better and better, although you are now more desk than flesh and bones.”

“What files do you want me to review today?” Neal asked, still scrutinizing some figures.

“Not too many files, clerk, but enough to keep you.” Big Bart withdrew and Neal followed him with his eyes until his boss could no longer be seen.

Later that day Neal’s right arm faded into the metal. Then, like a periscope being lowered from the surface of the sea, his neck, jaw and nose sank down, leaving his eyes slightly above the gray slab. Neal looked forward and saw his pencil straight on – a long gleaming yellow cylinder with shiny eraser band at the end. Over the pencil, his telephone swelled like some giant mountain. Hearing the phone ring, Neal instinctively reached for the receiver, but this was only a mental gesture. Neal felt his forehead sinking and closed his eyes.

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Note: Readers of English will find this Victor Giudice story in Oxford Anthology of the Brazilian Short Story, edited by K. David Jackson.


Victor Giudice, 1937-1997