Copyright © 2006. Oxford University Press. All rights reserved.

May not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except fair uses permitted under

J. J. Veiga
g(1915–1999)k

Known for introducing magic realism into Brazilian literature, J. J. Veiga’s stories
often carry sinister or menacing overtones in their estrangement and distortion of
strangely tranquil everyday realities. His major collections are Os Cavalinhos de
Platiplanto (1959) and A Máquina Extraviada (1968; The Misplaced Machine and
Other Stories, 1970). Veiga continued to refine his stories of eerie and catastrophic
events in Hora dos Ruminantes (1966), Sombras de Reis Barbudos (1972), Aquele
Mundo de Vasabarros (1982), and O Relógio Belisário (1995).

gk
The Misplaced Machine

You always ask what is new in this little town of ours and, at last, there is something
Big! Let me tell you that we now have a most imposing machine and it makes us
all very proud. Ever since it arrived, I can’t remember exactly when, I’m not very
good at dates, we have hardly talked of anything else; and the way the people here
get heated about the most infantile affairs it’s a wonder no one yet has started a
fight about it (except the politicos, of course).
The machine arrived one afternoon when most families were eating their din-
ners, and was unloaded in front of the Mayor’s office. When we heard the shouts
of the drivers and their helpers, a lot of us postponed dessert and coffee and went
to see what it was all about. As is usual on such occasions, the men were in bad
humor and would not stop to give any explanation; they bumped into the onlookers
on purpose, stepped on their feet without excusing themselves, threw the ends of
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greasy ropes on them—those who wanted to stay clean and unhurt had to get out
of the way.
Once the various parts of the machine were unloaded, the men covered them
with a tarpaulin and went off to eat and drink in a tavern in the square. A lot of
us townspeople gathered in the doorway to stare, but no one dared approach the
strangers because one of them, apparently guessing our intentions, kept filling his
mouth with beer and squirting it in our direction. We decided their disdain was
probably due to tiredness and hunger and thought it best to leave our unanswered

437
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 438 Part IV Contemporary Visions (after 1980)

questions for the following day. But when we went by their rooming house early
Copyright © 2006. Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except fair uses permitted under

next morning we were told they had put the machine together, more or less, during
the night and departed at dawn.
And so the machine remained, exposed to the elements, no one knowing who
had ordered it or what it was for. Of course, everyone had an opinion (and gave
it freely), but no opinion was more valid than another.
The children, no respecters of mysteries as you know, tried to take over the
novelty. Without asking anyone’s permission (and whose would they ask?) they
took off the tarpaulin cover and climbed all over the machine. They still do, playing
tag among the cylinders and shafts. They sometimes get caught in the gears and
scream their heads off until someone comes along to get them out; it’s no use
fussing, punishing, or spanking, those kids are plainly enamored of the machine.
Contrary to the opinion of some few who denied any enthusiasm and swore
that the novelty would wear off in a few days and rust take over the metal, interest
has not flagged in the least. Nobody goes by the square without stopping to look
at the machine, and each time there is some new detail to notice. Even the little old
church ladies passing by at daybreak and evening, praying and coughing, turn to-
ward the machine and bend a knee discreetly, almost, but not quite, crossing them-
selves. Brutish types, like that Clodoaldo (you know, the one who shows off in the
marketplace, grabbing bulls by the horns and throwing them to the ground) even
they treat the machine with respect. If occasionally one or another gives a lever a
hard tug or kicks at one of the shafts, you can tell it’s just bravado, to keep up his
reputation.
Nobody knows who ordered the machine. The Mayor swears it was not he and
says he consulted the files and found no document authorizing the transaction. But
apparently he does not want to wash his hands of it completely because, in a way,
he took it over when he designated an employee to look after the machine.
We have to admit—actually everyone does—that the employee is doing an ex-
cellent job. At any time of the day, even occasionally at night, he can be seen
clambering over it, disappearing here, reappearing there, whistling or singing, busy
and tireless. Twice a week he smears polish on the brass parts, rubs and rubs,
sweats, rests, rubs again—and the whole thing sparkles like a jewel.
We are so accustomed to the presence of the machine in the square that if one
day it should collapse, or if someone from another town came to fetch it, proving
(with documents) that he had a right to, I have no idea what would happen. I don’t
even want to think of it. It is our pride and glory—and don’t think I’m exaggerating.
We still don’t know what it’s for, but that doesn’t matter much. Let me tell you
that we have had delegations from other towns, in and out of state, wanting to buy
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the machine. They pretend not to want anything, they visit the Mayor, praise the
town, meander around the subject, throw out a little bait, and then show their
hand: how much do we want for the machine? Fortunately, the Mayor is honest
and smart, and doesn’t fall for soft-talk.
The machine is now part of the festivities on all civil occasions. You remember
how holidays used to be celebrated at the bandstand or on the football field? Now
everything happens near the machine. At election time all the candidates want to
stage their rallies in the shade of the machine and as it isn’t possible (there are too

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 J. J. Veiga (1915–1999) 439

many), there are always fights. Happily, the machine has not yet been damaged in
Copyright © 2006. Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except fair uses permitted under

these brawls, and I hope it won’t be.

The priest is the only person who has not paid homage to the machine, but you
know how cantankerous he is; he’s even worse nowadays, it’s his age. In any case,
he hasn’t yet tried anything, and Heaven help him if he does. As long as he keeps
to his veiled censuring we’ll put up with it; that’s his business. I heard he had been
talking about eternal punishment, but it didn’t cut any ice.
The only accident of any importance until now was when the delivery boy from
old Adudes’ store (spiky little old man, smears brilliantine on his moustache, re-
member?) got his leg caught in one of the gears of the machine, entirely his own
fault. The boy had been drinking at a serenata* and, instead of going home, decided
to sleep on the machine. He managed to climb to the top platform, no one knows
how, and in the early morning he rolled off; he fell on the gears and his weight
started the wheels going around. The whole town awoke with his yelling, people
ran to see what was the matter and had to get bars and levers to stop the wheels
that were eating into his leg. Nothing happened to the machine, fortunately. The
careless chap, without leg or job, now helps with the upkeep of the machine, looking
after the lower parts.
There is a movement afoot to declare the machine a municipal monument—but
it is only a movement so far. The priest, as always, is against it, wants to know
what it would be dedicated to. Have you ever known such sour grapes?
People say the machine has even performed miracles, but that (just between us)
I regard as an exaggeration, and I’d rather not dwell on the matter. Personally, I—
and probably the greater number of townspeople—don’t expect anything in partic-
ular of the machine. It is enough for me that it stay where it is, cheering, inspiring,
and consoling us.
My one fear is that, when we least expect it, some fellow will arrive from
abroad, a resolute know-it-all type, and will examine the machine inside and out,
think a bit, and then start to explain the purpose of it. To show how clever he is
(they’re always very clever), he will ask at the garage for a set of tools and, disre-
garding all protest, he will get underneath the machine, start tightening, hammering,
coupling, and the machine will start to function. If this happens, the spell will be
broken and the machine will cease to exist.
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* A loosely organized party at a chosen house, where all the participants take their musical
instruments and play, separately or together, for singing. The participants often bring their own
refreshments, but the owner of the house will usually offer something.

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