The specialist

Y’ALL have certainly already heard that we are living in the age of specialists. My trade is carpenter. At first I built houses, I built chicken coops, and I even built churches. But then I saw that a specialist was needed in my trade. I thought and thought until I found my specialty. I stayed with it! My people, y’all are talking to the best outhouse builder in all this Pixiri lowland.

My first customer was Pedrinho Sargão. He had heard that I was specialized and decided to try me out. I built him one of those with nothing new, for a large family, with three holes. With that job I made a name for myself, and since then all my time and all my sense have been in this specialty. To tell the truth, when work gets a little scarce, I make some little trunks to sell. But my heart is really in building outhouses. And do not think y’all that when I finish one, I have nothing more to do with it. No, sir! I give every customer a half-year guarantee, without charging a penny! I explained this to Pedrinho Sargão when I made his latrine. One fine day he came looking for me and said like this:

_ Look, Mané, when you can, stop by my place. That latrine you made is giving me trouble.

_ So then I climbed into my Model T Ford, drove to Pedrinho’s place and hid behind some trees so as to examine the situation.

It was right at harvest time and the man’s employees were going to the little house and staying in there for more than half an hour. Some, even an hour! Just imagine!

So I came up and said to him: “Listen, Pedrinho, you really got yourself a brute of a latrine problem.” I grabbed the toolbox and went in to examine the structure.

First I looked at the newspaper hanging on the nail, thinking the explanation might be there. But it was not even one of those with pictures to distract. Then I paid attention to the seat and right there I saw where the thing was: the hole I had made was too comfortable. So I took the saw and left the seat square, with a very sharp edge. Then I went back to the place from before; me here, the trees in the middle, and the latrine there. I stayed almost two hours watching the employees who went there. Sir, not one took more than four minutes!

After that, it had not even been a month and I had already finished two latrines side by side, for the school, and was finishing off an important big latrine, the biggest job ever done so far, one with eight holes, for the Italians’ tannery. Major Luciano was there and saw the work of this servant of yours.

_ Mané - he told me - I was looking at that eight-holer you made for the foreigners. Distinguished work, yours. I am more or less wanting to build one at the place that belonged to old Lourenção, and I even remembered to tell you that you should make the preparations and put a price on a decent outhouse.

_ Major, sir - I said to him - you knocked on the right door. That is work for a specialist. As soon as I finish the two-seat one I am making for the Police Chief, I will stop by there.

About two days later I drove to Major Luciano’s place. I got there at mealtime. I knocked on the door and saw that the man was at the table with a whole world of visitors. So, not wanting to bother anyone, I went around to the window and shouted: “So, Major, where do I put this latrine you asked me for?”

Major Luciano came outside and then we began looking for the best place. He was, that was decided, going to put it near a crooked little road, under a huge bitter orange tree. But I went right on saying: “Major, sir, I would not do that. And I will tell you why. To begin with, under trees is not right. The strangest sound in nature is that of rotten oranges falling on the roof. Afterwards, there is another thing. It is this little road that makes an elbow and passes under the tree. And I will tell you more: that ground there does not suck up moisture, and in winter it gets very slippery. Think of your father, Major, and remember that this is almost the old man’s only pleasure. Look at the poor fellow coming there on a rainy night, with his nightshirt beating against his shins, and the next morning you find the old man stuck in the mud, or who knows, maybe even with his belly stuck into one of those plows there by the curve. No, Major. Put this outhouse in line with the house, and if it makes no difference to you, a little beyond the woodpile. I will tell you why.

“Imagine a woman, for example, when she goes out there. On the way back she already brings some four sticks of firewood, and notice that on average women go out there four to five times a day. That makes twenty sticks of firewood inside the house, with no work at all.

“Another case may also happen. If the woman is a little embarrassed, when she sees some man nearby, it is guaranteed that she will not go in. So, to disguise it, she pretends she went to fetch firewood, takes the chance to bring a few sticks, and waits for another turn. In general, the somewhat bashful woman, even more if she is a new maid, can make up to ten trips to the woodpile before deciding to go in one way or another. On a lucky day, when noon comes, you already have all the firewood inside the house. Do you not see what an economy that is, Major?

“As for the hole, all care is little. Listen to what I tell you: dig a deep and very wide hole. It is much prettier to see a small outhouse on top of a large hole than a large outhouse with a small hole underneath. Another thing: when you open the hole properly, the hole stays open, and then you do not have that worry that sooner or later you will have to dig again.

“Now, as for the construction,” I said to him, “I can put slats or beams. Slats do the job. Beams cost a little more, but they are worth it. Beams are for the rest of one’s life. I am not saying I could not put slats, Major. But consider your old aunt, Dona Inácia, who has no more way of getting fatter. One of these days she goes there, when the slat no longer holds, and there you have the old lady embedded. Another thing you have to remember,” I told him, “is Saint John’s day. The young men go there in groups of four, six, all singing and drinking or something like that; and I want to tell you that there is nothing to spoil a party like having to unstick a fellow from inside there. Beams is what I tell you, beams so you can rest easy.

“And now, to speak of the roof, Major, I can make it shed-roof or gable-roof. Gable-roof costs a little more, but many good people have it made shed-roof. And I will tell you why.

“The shed roof has two fewer corners for wasps to make nests. And on a summer afternoon there is nothing that unsettles a man so much as wasps buzzing around him, when you are there reading a little, imagining, thinking. And then there is another thing, Major,” I told him, “a shed roof gives a higher door. Look at that son of yours growing like a pumpkin, and he does not grow downward like a horse’s tail. Gable-roof gives a low door; and there you have the boy splitting his forehead every time he goes to the little house. No, Major, put it shed-roof; it may not be so pretty but it is very practical.

“Now let us see the accessories. I can give you a big nail or a wire hook for the newspaper, and besides that, a little box for the corncobs. Consider your father, for example. An old man is always old-fashioned and he will want corncobs. So, do what I tell you, put both things, Major. The little box for corncobs will not cost you a penny more, and it serves to keep peace in the family. You do not take tricks out of an old horse. Nor do you straighten the shadow of a crooked stick.

“And since we are on the accessories, I will tell you something about a technical question they put to me the other day. The question was this: ‘What is the resistance, or in other words, how many days does the Sunday newspaper last for a family of eight people, in a common outhouse, with only one hole?’ To tell the truth, at first I got a little stuck. But afterwards, since it was a question of merit, I went on drawing my conclusion and saw that if you put the newspaper there on the first Sunday of the month it holds until Saturday of the following week. But that is not counting visitors from the city nor when it is guava season.

“And another thing: now they are putting advertisements with a red ink that is an outrage. You understand me, Major. A Christian who does not look first is capable even of going to the doctor. No, someone ought to do something about that, and I have even been rehearsing myself to write personally to Dr. Chateaubriand.

“As for the closing, I can give you a pull latch with a little string or a bolt to lock from inside. The latch with a little string, strictly speaking, costs you nothing; but, frankly, it is not a guaranteed thing. If someone starts feeling around at the door, the latch comes off or else the little string breaks. Now, with a bolt inside, if you want, it is yours for the whole afternoon. No, Major; put in a first-rate bolt and sit down calmly, because there is nothing to spoil a man’s nerves like being seated inside there, thinking, without a trustworthy closing.” And the Major had to agree with me.

“As for the window,” I told him, “some want one and others do not; now they are not very much in fashion anymore. If I were you, Major, I would not want to know about a window. And I will tell you why. Imagine a person who goes there. It may be that he is in a little hurry, or who knows, maybe he has already waited a lot. If the door is closed and you do not answer, you can count on it that they will go around to peep through the window, and then you already lose your concentration.

“Now let us deal with the vents, those little openings that I cut out in the doors. I can make them in the shape of a star, a triangle, or else a half-moon; there is not much to choose, since they all serve the same purpose. Many people like the star because it gives a shadow full of points. Others like the half-moon because they find it pretty. Last year everybody wanted a star, but now they are calming down and asking for half-moon. From time to time I make one heart beside the other for some new couple; and also a bunch of grapes for the big shots. But that is an extraordinary vent and I do not much like to recommend it because it takes time and costs money.

“Major,” I told the man, “if I were you I would not decide too quickly about the vent, because the vent has a lot to do with the beauty of the whole. One must also not exaggerate, like Dionísio of Três Vendas. He wanted both things, star and half-moon, without listening to the advice of one who knew more, and today he is sorry. But now it is too late; because when I cut a vent, there is no remedy anymore. Yes, my people; having to sit there every day, sometimes in the morning and in the afternoon, and always looking at a vent that is not to our taste, is a tiring thing.

“I never put wood with knots. It is always sound little boards. And I will tell you why. When the board has a knot, if the knot does not fall out by itself, people start pushing until they take it out. And if it is on the door, you can count on it that the hole is always too high for you, sitting inside there, to be able to look out; and always at a good height for some snooper to be able to look in, disrespecting the one who is quiet.

“And the door, Major? How do you want it to open? Inward or outward?” The man answered that he did not know. So I told him: “Inward, Major, always inward. And I will tell you why.” Then I explained: “Imagine yourself sitting there, Major. The door, let us say, neither open nor closed; with a crack of two big handspans. That way you have plenty of air and let the sun come in. Now, if someone appears, you, without getting up, give the door a kick and do not worry anymore. But if the door opens outward, where are you then, Major? You cannot risk opening the door to air it out and to bask a little in the sun; because, if someone appears, you cannot get up from where you are and still make a little turn to go outside and pull the door, without giving something to see, can you?” Then Major Luciano saw that I was completely right.

So I made his door like all my doors: opening inward, and facing the road, which is the sunny side. This is something I can tell all of y’all. There is nothing that rests a man so much as staying there in the early morning, on a very comfortable seat, with two handspans of door open. In winter the old sun hits you and sort of softens the body, g-i- v-i-n-g, g-i-v-i-n-g relief to you.

“And now, the painting,” I told him. “What color do you want, Major?” The man said his intention was to paint it red. “Major,” I replied, “I surely can paint it red, and red is a pretty color. I can also paint it green, and green is not ugly. There are so many colors there is no end to them, and all of them show very well. But it is not practical to paint it only one color. And I will tell you why. A thing of only one color cannot be seen very well at night. It is necessary to contrast, like at the barriers where the train passes, and put one color different from the other.

“If I were you, I would paint it strong red crossed with white stripes. It is pretty by day and, at night, when you do not have time to go searching, it is easy to see.

“Many people do not even know how much there is to calculate for a first-rate outhouse. No, Major, I will tell you, and you can believe that this is not work for an amateur. Peeping at the neighbor’s and thinking that you have understood everything is no use; there is always something you did not notice. The worst disgrace that happened around here in these years was because the sons of old Ataliba thought they knew a little of the trade and knew nothing.

“Old Ataliba, who is now past ninety, lives back there behind that hill with his sons. One day he sent for me and asked how much I would charge to do the work. Well, to shorten the story for you, they thought it was too expensive and decided to do it themselves. That is when the thing began.

“At that time I was making some little trunks to sell and, when I passed along the road, I saw their work. I am not a man to go sticking my nose into other people’s outhouses. So, when I was passing by and saw the old man’s sons, I only said as a neighbor: ‘So, building a little, are you?’ You can see that I did not meddle in what was not my business. But look, Major, not for one hour did it pass through my head that they would not have trouble with that latrine. And trouble they had indeed. To whoever looked from outside, it seemed a good job; but since they did not have knowledge of the trade, they did not fix the work as is right.

“Just imagine that I put in an eight-by-sixteen beam, whole, from top to bottom, and still bury the brute almost a meter and a half into the ground. That is why you never see a latrine of mine fallen on the ground. They may pull it out from above, but knock it down, they do not knock it down!

“Well, what happened was this: they did not drive that outhouse in enough and, on top of that, they painted it all red - one mistake after another!

“Then it was as I tell you: it was a night as dark as coal. Old Ataliba was inside there. At this came a mule and decided to scratch itself against the outhouse. Ah! It gave two or three scratches, loosened their little beams, and threw the latrine to the ground with the old man inside.

“The old man then began to shout and the sons heard that racket. One of them pricked up his ear and said: ‘What is that noise? It even sounds like they are beating the chickens.’ So they took the lantern and went to the chicken coop. They got there and saw nothing new. They went back to the house. Then they heard the dog barking and the other said: ‘The thing seems to be over there by the outhouse.’ But it was fallen over and, to top it off, all painted red; so it took them a while to find it.

“In the meantime the old man had got so frantic that he set about trying to get out through the hole in the seat, roaring like the devil. The sons recognized his voice and came running. As they were arriving, the old man slipped to one side and went down into the hole. Then they did not come near. They stayed there, only at the edge, calling ‘Come, father! Come, father!’ You see, Major, what a disgrace that was; and they say that since then the old man no longer has the prestige he used to have.”

Well, time went by and I finished Major Luciano’s outhouse. People: everybody says that, after my eight-holer, this is the best outhouse ever made in this municipality.

Sometimes, when I am wanting to get sad, imagining that I chose the wrong profession and should have been a veterinarian or a healer, I climb into my Model T Ford and drive along the road, calculating so as to arrive at the Major’s place at sunset time.

When the road begins to go down the hill, then we stop. From there you can see his whole place. So we stay right there, looking at the view. There is the outhouse, on a little rise, painted red with white stripes, full of wildflowers around it. And the old sun hiding itself, laying light over it. You hear a dog far away, bringing the cows in to be milked, and the Major’s windmill creaking, pulling water day in, day out, just like me.

And looking at that view of my work, I feel proud. I fill my chest with satisfaction and my eyes even burn. Then I say to myself: “The people are right. After my eight-holer, this is the best outhouse in the municipality. I know I did well to specialize. I am well set up in life. I only want my boy, who is growing like a pumpkin, to honor the trade when I leave this world.”

Then, looking one last time, I put my arm on the missus’s shoulder and say: “Firmina, Major Luciano has nothing to complain about in life: that man has one hell of a latrine!”

(*2) This tale, collected by the great José Martiniano de Azevedo Neto, appears in a little book from 1981 (which he called “Quod Vide”, that is, “Please See”, “Check It Out”) in which he gathered some texts that he considered important to record and which I transcribe in my “blog” as a tribute. In this little book (*1) appear the following notes:

(*1) Reproduction authorized by Editora Globo, from the book “O Especialista e outros contos”, Porto Alegre, 1968.

Humorist, author and actor, Charles Saie, Chic Saie, as he was known in theatrical circles, was a great scholar of Yankee folklore and a specialist in imitating North American hillbillies, who very much resemble our jeca.

The Specialist, later famous throughout the world, was first published in 1929. After 50 years, this classic of American humor continues to circulate as if it had just been released, and there have already been those who defined it as “innocently Rabelaisian”. Its observations are deep and amusing, but to appreciate them one must forget a little certain precepts of discretion that the protagonist understands very well but does not obey.

Miguel Fernández y Fernández, engineer, chronicler and columnist, member of the National Academy of Engineering and of the Institute of Engineering # R2026 Jan Ra, 16,010 characters.