by Luiz Ruffato
* * *
—
i wake up to yelling, “Get him!” “Get him, thief!” “Thief!” “Hold him!” “Hold him!” “Did you get him?” “Ow! You’re hurting me!” “I’ve got him!” “He’s got him!” I rise, put on my glasses, and rush to the window. Right beneath me, a lanky guy in a white woven shirt, jeans, and flip-flops clutches the twig-thin arm of a scraggy boy who comes up to his hip and is flailing furiously. “Let go of me, you asshole! Let go!” Soon they are surrounded by a crowd of rubberneckers. An elderly, well-dressed man spits out “You little shit!” and slaps the boy over the head. A pregnant woman walks over in tears in the company of another woman slightly older than her, who asks, “Did you get him? Have you got him?” The circle, more numerous by the minute, breaks open, and the lanky man displays the boy’s puny body, which he holds in his thin hands. The pregnant woman screams, “He stole my cell phone! Where’s my cell phone, huh? You little fucker! Where is it?” The lanky man jostles the boy, “Where’s her cell phone, kid! Where is it?” The boy, who had been trying to shake loose from his captor, now stands mute, indifferent, staring blankly. “Search him,” someone suggests, and right away a man begins ruthlessly patting down his torn shirt and dirty shorts, only to be disappointed, finding “there’s nothing here.” The pregnant woman despairs, “Oh my God, I never finished paying!” Someone ventures, “He probably handed it off to one of his buddies.” Another offers, “They always work in pairs. Never alone.” Yet another adds, “Yeah, that’s exactly how they do it.” Finally someone concludes, “Pros, aren’t they?!” The friend of the pregnant woman yells, “She’s not feeling well, someone call an ambulance, for the love of God, call an ambulance!” A man takes the keeling pregnant woman into his arms and leads her to the hotel lobby, where they probably seat her in one of the red, greasy armchairs. “Did somebody call the cops?” asks the voice of a woman filming the scene with her cell phone. “They’re on their way!” says a man. The boy remains withdrawn. Sweat runs down my forehead, temples, chest. “He’s a minor, tomorrow he’ll be out stealing again,” growls the old woman with the umbrella. “Smack him around a bit,” cries a teenager with gym-sculpted muscles. “Someone should kill the lot of them once and for all,” says someone else. All of a sudden, the cross-eyed desk clerk hurries out of the hotel lobby, followed by a man with the pregnant woman in his arms and by the slightly older woman. They all squeeze into a Monza Classic. For a second, the crowd is distracted by the pregnant woman. The boy looks up and our eyes meet, and for a moment he radiates such intense hatred and disdain, so much frustration and resentment, that I step back from the window, scared and ashamed. I need a shower. I open my backpack, take out my last pair of clean underwear and my last clean shirt, a toothbrush, drape the towel around my neck, unlock the door, and walk barefoot down the dusty floor to the end of the hall. I lock the bathroom door, hang my clean shirt and underwear on the ceramic bath hook, and arrange the towel over the curtain rod in the shower. I gaze into the face in the cracked and rusted mirror—five o’clock shadow, yellowed eyes. I brush my teeth. I need to get toothpaste. I carefully set my glasses in the sink. I pull down my pants and underwear, sit on the toilet to relieve my bladder and guts. The white wall tiles are soiled. The white floor tiles are soiled. Cobwebs cling to the corners of the ceiling. There are dark splotches of mildew. I wonder if the commotion downstairs is over. I’ll go visit Isinha. I’m out of clean clothes. Behind the door, a notice: Be quick. Leave the bathroom clean for the next person. That next person might be you. I get up. Flush. The water, meager, trickles down without force. I take off my pants and underwear and put them on top of the toilet cover. The plastic shower curtain, once maybe blue, has hardened and faded. I turn the left tap, the one with the letter H on it, and wait. I flush again. Several of the holes are blocked, and cold water spits this way and that in thin slivers. I turn the right tap, the one with the letter C on it, and wait. The water is still cold. I get in anyway, my body covered in goose bumps. The small bathroom window shows a hill behind the hotel. I need to buy soap. And shampoo. And conditioner. I run my hand over my wet skin. Malu…Malu…You know what I’d like to do right now? I’d like to sleep with you…Marilda…I’ve been cheating on you for years, Oséias. Years! Marília…Marilda…Marília…Marilda…Have you ever seen a naked woman? Really? Cidinha says she’ll show us her tits and her pussy. But it’ll cost us. Tufts of pubes bristling out from Dona Júlia’s panties…The woman standing at the entrance to the hotel…Was it in Pirassununga? Black, timid eyes. She’d walked upstairs in silence. The doorman, who probably took a small cut, had turned a blind eye. Seconds after entering the room, she was pulling off her clothes. When I came out of the bathroom, I was met with the starved body of a young girl with bird legs, and hardly any breasts. She shivered from the cold. How old are you? Over eighteen, she lied. I sat on the edge of the bed. A girl…I said, Look, get dressed, I don’t want anything from you. She turned to face me, wary. I took money from my wallet, put it in her hand, and again said, Get dressed, go home, it’s late. She dressed in silence, went downstairs. Shortly after, as I smoked out the window, I saw her hanging off another client. Her legs and shoulders bare in the cold July night…I turn off the shower. Grab the towel, pat myself dry. I pull on my underwear, shirt, and pants. I’m sweating again. I need to buy deodorant. There’s so much I need to buy…I put on my glasses. Oh, the squeegee. I push the water back into the shower, soaking the hem of my pants. I rest the squeegee against the wall. I look in the cracked and rusted mirror, now also fogged up, and comb what little hair I have left with my fingers. I grab my dirty underwear, the wet towel, and toothbrush, and leave the bathroom. I head down the hallway. Dust sticks to the soles of my damp feet, setting my teeth on edge. I unlock the door, walk in. Toss my toothbrush on the bed. Grab my sneakers and socks off the windowsill and stretch out the towel. I rummage through my backpack for my last pair of clean socks. I sit on the bed. Wipe the soles of my feet with my dirty underwear, then slip on my socks and shoes. I get up and tuck into my backpack the toothbrush, underwear, and dirty socks. I grab my hat and put it on. I gather up the money and my wallet and place them in various pockets. I wipe my glasses with the edge of my shirt. Take a deep breath. I lock the door, head into the half darkness of the hallway, and lumber down the stairs. “Good afternoon,” I say to the man behind the counter. He raises his black eyes. “Good afternoon,” he echoes, his voice nasal, his teeth crowded, his nose large and covered in sunspots. “Nine. Mr…. Nunes?” he hazards, hanging the key back on the corkboard. “Very well, Mr. Nunes, I should explain, in case you come back late at night, hehehe, not that you look like the kind of guy who’d come back late at night, hehehe, but, house rules, as Pereira likes to say, hehehe, I should explain, in case you come back late at night, what the procedure is—” From behind the counter steps a scarecrow, white long-sleeved shirt and baggy black slacks hanging off his body. “This is a good city, a great city, but you know how things are these days, hehehe, so, if for any reason, any reason at all, you find you have to come back late, just be careful, it’s not that the city is perilous, hehehe, but I should warn you, alert you, there are a good deal of vagrants around these parts, and a lot of crackheads, yeah, lots of crackheads, hehehe, it’s the crisis, you know, hehehe, and whores, tons of whores, and where there are whores there are transvestites, hehehe, so, if you happen to come back late,” he lingers at the doorway, just outside, “There’s this little doorbell here, see? All you’ve got to do is press it. Hehehe, Cleber, the night clerk, he’ll come and open the door for you. This is a good city, it really is, but these days, hehehe, drugs, you know, they’re targeting everybody, am I right? Hehehe. Just today, right here, right outside, I don’t know if you saw, one of those little mulato boys swiped a cell phone off a pregnant woman, he had a rough time of it, he did, hehehe. Pereira’s the one who helped her, if it wasn’t for him she might have miscarried. He hauled her into his Monza and took her to the ER, the man
treats his Monza like it’s his bride-to-be, the car’s just like new, spick-and-span, that’s Pereira for you, systematic, but if you need him, hehehe, he’s an angel, spares no effort, available around the clock. Spiritists are like that, you know, hehehe, they live to help their neighbors, hehehe. Well, Mr. Nunes…You see, I managed to memorize your name on the first try, hehehe, if I was to bump into you again in a year or ten, I’d say to you, Good afternoon, Mr. Nunes. I’m like that, I’ve got the memory of an elephant, as they say, hehehe, though I’ve never seen an elephant before, have you? Like in real life, hehehe.” I shake my head no, and say, “You’ll have to excuse me, I have an appointment to get to.” And he says, “Of course, Mr. Nunes, I don’t mean to intrude, hehehe, if you need anything at all, just say the word. The name’s Morais, Paulo Henrique Morais, at your service, hehehe.” I shake his hand then disappear into the passersby crowding the sidewalk. The sun is burning, even though it’s…What time is it? If asked, I could pinpoint the day everything started to fall apart: February 23, 1974. A Saturday night during Carnival. Isinha was hell-bent on watching the samba schools parade down Avenida Astolfo Dutra, and Dad, irritated but amenable, called Miguel Carroceira early that morning to help him haul three chairs from the house to the sidewalk, right next to the judge’s box. He sat there all day long, saving us a place. Around lunchtime, I took him a ceramic plate covered with another plate, wrapped in a kitchen towel. He gave me some change to buy two Americana guaraná sodas, one for me and one for him, and then grudgingly ate the rice and beans, grits, collards, and steak and onions that Mom had fixed up for him. Then he drank a whole reused Scott’s Emulsion bottle full of cold and treacly watered-down coffee. After returning the soda bottles to the bar opposite, I’d raced back home on my green Caloi bicycle. Mom had given me an old pillowcase to wear as a mask with three tears cut in it, two at eye level and one near the mouth. I’d put on a dress Lígia had gotten from her godmother for her thirteen birthday but never worn, a red dress with huge black polka dots exactly like the one Little Dot wore, and in my bare feet joined an improvised procession drumming at the entrance to Paraíso. We were having fun messing around, spritzing water out of a plastic tube that looked like a perfume bottle and showering passersby with talcum powder, at one moment eliciting laughter, the next curses, and then threats. Rosana had set off early to Dona Magnólia’s because that evening, she and her godmother were going to attend a dance at Clube do Remo. João Lúcio had taken the bus from Viação Marotti to Rodeiro the day before and would only be back after mass on Ash Wednesday. Lígia was at a spiritual retreat at the Seminário da Floresta in Juiz do Fora. Mom, an introvert, appreciated the Folia de Reis and bate-pau, but didn’t like the crush of Carnival, claiming she found all those people suffocating. Still, she donated a couple of outfits she’d made to the Luzu Samba School, which residents from Vila Teresa all the way to Saudade held in high regard—They asked, I can’t right turn them down, she explained. That year, Isinha felt she was all grown up and insisted on watching the parade. Mom gave into her in no time at all, and Dad, as ever, said neither yes nor no and instead just skulked about the house, grumbling to himself. At around six o’clock, Mom and Isinha, who was dressed as an Indian, and an excited Sino all headed out onto the street. Around ten, a rumor made its way around the neighborhood and finally reached my ears. Some men had burgled a house and the cops were on their heels. I took off in the direction of the incident, and imagine my surprise when I spied a patrol car parked in front of our house…Trembling from head to toe, I yanked off my mask, and, stammering, asked the soldier what was going on. He look at me, dressed as a girl, and said, Why? Do you live here? I nodded and he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the street. Sarge, this boy here lives in that house, he said, unable to contain his laughter. The sergeant held back and asked where my parents were. I told him, in tears, and sat on the curb. Our neighbor, Dona Arelene, took me by the hand to her house, where she served me coffee with milk and Marie biscuits. Mom, Dad, Isinha, and Sino arrived shortly after. Mom grabbed the key, hidden in the electricity meter, and swung the door open. A mob of people—cops, snoops, gossips, smart alecks—flooded the room. The burglars had jumped over the wall and forced open the kitchen door. They’d emptied the wardrobe, shifted the furniture, made a mess of everything, and even eaten the ubá mangoes we had picked from our yard and that would have soon been sweet enough for us to enjoy. Mom was given Maracugina and fennel tea. Though she didn’t shed a single tear, those of us who knew her could tell she was beating herself up inside, Why’d I insist on that darned parade? Why? Dad was beside himself. He paced this way and that, speculating on who had sounded the alarm and who had seen someone or something. But it was the night of costumes and of chaos, and no one knew who’d called the cops. Scared and weepy, Isinha clung to Mom. The house only emptied after daybreak. We slept in a pile on the bed, Mom, Isinha, and me, while Dad and Sino kept watch. The next day, we found unfiltered Paquetá cigarette butts on the floor—Dad smoked filtered Continentals—and footprints by the lock on the kitchen door as well as by João’s lettuce beds. For a long time, we kept finding new things that had gone missing. The jewelry box, which was what Mom called her little Memphis soap box, was found empty, and from it disappeared the never-worn, thick gold chain and small “R” pendant Rosana had received from Dona Magnólia on top of the simple gold chain we each got from our parents for our First Communion; Lígia’s gold earrings; all our baby teeth nestled in cotton pillows; Rosana’s pearl necklace; Mom’s engagement ring, whose small gemstone was apparently emerald; Dad’s prized pocket watch, an Omega, with eighteen jewels. A red lacquer purse. Three of Dad’s polyester shirts. The Keds João Lúcio wore to play indoor soccer at Senai. The money hidden under the mattress. Two of our four hens, one of which was broody. For a month Dad visited Deputy Aníbal Resende, to get updates, and though they’d beaten a couple of well-known, hard-up pot dealers in town, and squeezed a couple of crooks, they’d come up with nothing. They must be from out of town, Dr. Aníbal would justify, in a rage. Desperate, Dad bought himself a revolver, which he told no one about. I sit on a bench on Rui Barbosa Square, shirt drenched with sweat. I take off my hat, run my hand along my sopping bald spot and dry it on my pant leg, put my hat back on. I wipe my glasses with the edge of my shirt. The digital clock reads 16:46. 29°C. The sky is blue, cloudless. Now and then, in the masses of people, I think I recognize a face from the old days, or a face from the present with features from the past, probably the children or grandchildren of someone I once knew. A strong stench wafts from the bandstand, where a vagrant sleeps on a square of cardboard, flanked by a stray dog with brownish fur. To city hall! Who knows, I might get lucky. I walk toward Rua do Pomba, avoiding the strip between Rui Barbosa and Santa Rita Square, where Tamires’s deli is located. I have no interest in seeing anyone in that family. What a disgrace! Ricardo…Rosana…João Lúcio was right. He quickly realized it was a trap, got out and struck it rich. Everybody envies him. João Lúcio had been Uncle Ítalo’s pride and joy, and he used to go with him to the countryside, near Rodeiro, every chance he got. Uncle Ítalo, our uncle on our mother’s side, only had daughters, three of them—one, Verônica, was lame from having polio as a child—and out of frustration had sort of adopted João Lúcio, who felt like he was more his uncle’s son than his own father’s, a man he got along with about as well as water and oil. Mom also showed a clear preference for him. One day when it was just the two of us at the hospital, I asked her why she loved João Lúcio more than the rest of us. Lying on her back, voice thinned by the disease, she’d hemmed and hawed, and insisted she didn’t, it wasn’t true, before finally admitting that even if she may not love this child more than the other, there was always one son or daughter who expressed more tenderness, more devotion, more affection to their parent and found a special place in their heart, though this didn’t mean, it certainly did not mean, that she loved the others any less, To mothers, all children are equal, she concluded. Yes, Jo
ão Lúcio was special. As soon as he completed his military service, he grabbed his stuff and moved in with Uncle Ítalo, who by then had ditched the country for Rodeiro, where he ran a small, foundering sawmill he’d bought from one of the Bettios. I stop in front of a bakery. Walk in. Scan the items by the cash register. “How can I help you?” asks the server. Cigarettes. Gum. Candy. Chocolate. Oh, bonbons! I ask for two Sonhos de Valsa. He slips them into a small white paper bag. I stuff my hand in my back pocket, grab my wallet, pull out the exact amount of money, pay. I put my wallet away, walk outside, and keep walking. Isinha and Wellington were married the following year. A shotgun wedding with Isinha pregnant in her veil and garland, at São José Operário Church. Mom had been uneasy, while Dad had thought it was absurd for a woman who wasn’t a virgin to wear white at the altar, They can fool people but they won’t fool God, he’d said, smacking the table with his open hand and retreating to smoke on the sidewalk, shaking. I walk up the steps of city hall. No sign of Galego—I wonder where the old dog’s hiding? I greet the potbellied security guard and tell him I’m going in to have a chat with Valéria. He gestures in a way that I take to mean Go ahead. I cross the empty hall and beeline to the reception desk, on which there are two phones and a set of matte acrylic pencil and paper clip holders. “Hi, Valéria. Remember me?” She squints her jet-black eyes. “Peninha, the mayor’s friend. I was here yesterday,” I say as I pull out a bonbon from the white paper bag and slide it toward her. “Is that for me?” she smiles, surprised, perfect white teeth contrasting with her red lips. “Thank you so much! How are you doing today?” “All right…Is Marcim up there?” I asked, pointing at the ceiling. “Oh, no, Thursday’s when he goes around the city visiting different neighborhoods, his voter base, you know?” And then, as though she’s had a sudden thought, “Has he called?” “No, not yet.” “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure he’ll call.” “I’m sure he will. I appreciate your making the time.” I cut across the hall. I hear the sound of her opening the bonbon wrapper. I knock on the half-open door to the break room, “May I?” “Only if you come in peace,” answers the short and slender woman in open-toe sandals, laughing loudly. “This is for you.” I hand her the bag with the other bonbon. “For me, really?” She peeks inside. “In case you’re wondering, I’m married, and happily!” She howls with laughter. “Could I bother you for a glass of water?” “Sure thing!” She pulls a plastic cup from a freshly opened sleeve and asks, “Cold or room temp?” “Room temperature.” She fills the cup at the watercooler. “Is the mayor working today?” I ask. Planting her hands on her hips, she says, snidely, “No, today is when he visits his sidepiece in Muriaé,” I drain my cup and toss it in the wastebasket. “She’s a nurse. Thursdays are her day off,” she adds. “Is that right?” I ask, taken aback. “Yeah! Everybody knows, even his wife.” “Who’s his wife?” “Dr. Patrícia Antunes, a dentist.” Gawking, I ask, “Does she have a twin sister?” “As far as I’m aware, she’s got one sister, Dr. Denise, a physician. But one of them is blonde and the other brunette, so they’re probably not twins…” Dizzied, I keep mum. Marcim…Patrícia…“And she doesn’t…mind?” “Goodness knows, those rich folks are a whole different breed. If it were me, I’d already be two-timing him back. Hahahahaha…” The security guard had stopped silently behind me. “Dona Ivete, you’ll get yourself in trouble if you carry on like that…” “Carry on telling the truth, you mean? Sweetie, you see this white fuzz on my head?” She points at her bouffant cap. “I’m upwards of sixty now. They’d be doing me a favor by sending me home.” She takes the kettle off the cooktop, asks, “Coffee? You may as well, it’s the last one. My shift’s up.” The security guard hands her a ceramic mug with the Flamengo club shield. “What about you?” she asks. “Sure,” I say. She pours out fuming-hot coffee and hands the mug back to the security guard, who returns to his post. She passes me a cup and confides, “If you really want to meet the mayor, do what I said, come in the morning, at seven, seven thirty, through the garage. Wait for him there…You can’t go wrong.” I set the mug in the sink, thank her for her kindness, and head back across the hall, “Bye now, Mr. Peninha,” Valéria, congenial, waves. I nod at the security guard and walk down the steps, welcomed bitterly by the dregs of the afternoon. Where should I go? What should I do? No sign of Galego. Walk, walk, walk…As though walking fixed anything. At least it tires me out. Patrícia…Marcim…Denise…Patrícia, dentist…Denise, physician…Marcim, mayor…They all did well…Turned things around for themselves…And here I am, without a pot to piss in. What have I ever done with my life? Maybe if I’d stayed here…Maybe…No, I couldn’t have stayed. No, not after everything…João Lúcio was right…As a young boy he started hiding out in the country near Rodeiro with our Italian family…As soon as Uncle Ítalo bought the sawmill and moved to the city, João Lúcio stopped visiting Cataguases. Claiming he had to play ball for Spartano’s B team—he was a left fullback—he spent every weekend in Rodeiro, where he learned to turn logs into planks, boards, laths, rafters, and timbers. The moment he completed his military service, he used the confusion at home to move out once and for all. Uncle Ítalo was always bemoaning the fact that he only had daughters—who would inherit his business? He urged João Lúcio to marry one of his cousins, that way they could keep everything in the family. But then Uncle Ítalo was paralyzed by a stroke and needed money for treatment, so João Lúcio took out a loan from the bank and bought part of the sawmill, which he gradually turned into a furniture workshop. One day at a kermis, he met a young woman who was studying nutrition in Ouro Preto and spent holidays with a classmate from Rodeiro, and they became attached to one another. He didn’t think twice before backing out of the deal he’d made with Uncle Ítalo and marrying her instead. The young woman, Maria Teresa, dropped out of school, and her father, a man of means and a relation of the Barboza Vieira family, which at one point had even boasted a senator, invested in João Lúcio’s company, which in no time at all went from being a modest fabricator of beds and wardrobes for regional purchase to a national corporation with an enormous warehouse just outside the city: Pádua Furniture. Toffee-nosed Maria Teresa brought along Prazeres, the nanny who had looked after her from the moment she stopped nursing. Maria Teresa was spoiled, mean-spirited, and despotic. When Prazeres died, she asked to bury her in the Moretto family plot, a black granite tomb with photos of Nonno Anacleto Moretto and Nonna Luigia Peron. The Morettos put their foot down, refusing to entertain such insolence, and though she pushed, fought, and screamed, she ended up losing. Disgruntled and spiteful, Maria Teresa commissioned another tomb in white marble that was larger than ours and bore the turgid inscription “Barboza Vieira Netto and family”—she’d had Nunes struck from her daughters’ surname because it was too vulgar—and buried Prazeres there. I feel light-headed. I enter a boteco, and flop into a chair. The server, a young man, stalks toward me. I gesture to explain I’m not feeling well. He asks if I’d like a glass of water. I say no. I take a deep breath. “It’s the heat,” somebody says. “Yeah, it’s the heat,” another person chimes. I take a deep breath. Remove my hat, fan myself, and put my hat back on. My hands and legs are trembling. I’m queasy. My vision darkens, I think I might faint. The server rushes back, “You’re really pale!” he says. I take a deep breath. Open my eyes. Mumble, “I’m all right, thanks.” On the television, a TV presenter, elegant in his suit and tie, is in the middle of a diatribe about criminals, crooks, and hooligans. A man, dressed in blue serge pants, Rider sandals, and a white open shirt that reveals a prominent, hairy gut, stands with a beer in hand remarking loudly on the news. At the other table, with a tulip glass of draught beer, a paper plate holding rounds of salami speared with toothpicks, and half a lime, is a man with a long gray mustache, in oil-blue shorts, a green polo shirt, tennis shoes, and aviator glasses, staring longingly at the street. Leaning against the bar, an older guy with white hair and beard, a T-shirt with political slogans, threadbare jeans, and roughed-up flip-flops sips cachaça. I wipe my
glasses with the edge of my shirt, slowly get up, thank the server, and walk out. Still a little unsteady on my feet, I watch a bus pull up to the stop on the opposite sidewalk, direction Taquara Preta. A sign! I hurry across the street, climb the first step, and the door closes. I walk into the bus, reach into my back pocket for my leather wallet, pull out a bill, give it to the fare collector, and push through the turnstile as he hands me some change. The bus speeds across the new bridge, down below it, the dark and fetid waters of Rio Pomba. I sit next to a man in a once-black suit, yellow tie, and shoes splitting at the seams. Bible in hand and index finger marking a page, he nods in greeting then looks back down at the book, his eyes grazing on the chapters and verses of the Sacred History. What am I doing here? It’s a ridiculous idea to go looking for the pastor! What am I going to say to him? Hello, I lost your phone number…The bus stops, and in plod the workers who clocked out at six from Industrial Cataguases. Perspiring, they squeeze into the aisle and cling to the handrails, their faces drawn. I’ll get up and get off. The city multiplies like cancerous cells. A supermarket now stands over landfill where the Island used to be. The houses, erected right on the sidewalk, now have metal bars on the windows. The bus bucks like a wild horse into Beira-Rio, and a hot breeze drifts through the window. Botecos, bars, botecos, bars, butcher, pharmacy, bakery. Our house is coming up soon. No, I can’t get off here…There it is…We sold the place when Mom died. We thought of letting Isinha live in it—she needed the help—I didn’t mind, Rosana had agreed, but at the eleventh hour, João Lúcio, or rather, his wife, kicked up a fuss, wanting revenge on account of her nanny, Prazeres, since Isinha had insisted it would be ridiculous to bury a stranger in the family plot, adding, Especially a colored person! Maria Teresa never forgave Isinha. Dad hadn’t approved of Isinha’s relationship with Sizim, her first love, because Sizim was a mulato, and he was convinced mixed-race marriages never ended well. She retaliated by getting pregnant and marrying Wellington, who was blond and a member of the Scarano family, from Leopoldina. The rest is history. Maybe, if she’d stayed with Sizim…He has his own taxi license, a nice house in Imê Farage, is well liked, and once ran for city council. Though he may not have won, he certainly racked up plenty of votes. Meanwhile, Wellington…We enter Santa Clara. The man with the Bible excuses himself and gets up; the bus empties out. I have no choice now but to visit the pastor. When I get there I’ll say, Father, you probably don’t remember me. We met on Santa Rita Square and you gave me a phone number…for Dona…I forget her name…Dona…Never mind…The number for your parish secretary. Well, I’m afraid I lost the piece of paper…Careless of me, I know. Ridiculous, even. And he’d say, in that annoyingly mellow way of his, Mister, et cetera et cetera et cetera. No, I’ve got to get off! As I sit by the window, the fiberglass seat hard and uncomfortable on my back, my body clammy and rattling like the metal exterior of the bus as it speeds down the crooked paving stones of Reta da Saudade and melts into the twilight, I spy beaming streetlamps and the beaming headlights of cars rushing in the opposite direction. The military barracks, The price of freedom is eternal vigilance. No pleasant memories there. Sublieutenant Cortes and Sergeant Martinez treated me like Moretto’s Brother, the perfect soldier—obedient, responsible, fearless, honorable, combative, committed, an example for classes to come—not me, of course, but João Lúcio. I found it all insufferable: the physical exercises were brutal, the marches were stupid, the monitors were servile, Sergeant Martinez was sadistic, the combat boots gave me callouses, the sun burned, and my fellow citizen-soldiers were frivolous. The silhouettes of huge abandoned warehouses rise against the shadow of night, which stretches gently over the industrial zone. Old factories and mills—furniture, textile, metallurgy, apparel—that went bust, courtyards now overrun by wilderness, walls gouged by rain, roofs ripped up by the wind. Time, unrelenting, furtively gnaws at the passing present, like moths at a book. How many times had I ridden my green Caloi bike through that part of the city? It was nothing then but a dusty dirt road—on one side the occasional tree, stunted and shameful, while on the other, marshes along the banks of Rio Pomba, which flows so drowsily here it’s like an arrow at rest. Silence. Solitude. The bell tolls, I glimpse the church. I get up, shirt and hat drenched with sweat, and stand with my hand firmly gripping the back of the seat behind three women, the one right in front of me carrying a nylon bag heavy with groceries. The bus stops and I get off. I rush along the unpaved sidewalk and anxiously reach the gate. It’s locked! I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s for the best…I’ll take the same bus back. To hell with the pastor! I would’ve made a fool of myself…I walk across the street and into a boteco with a spring in my step. “Good evening,” I say to no one in particular, the half-light barely sketching the bodies scattered across the three or four red metal tables that boast ads for a popular brand of beer. I ask a man holding a filthy rag if I can use the restroom, and he grudgingly points at a closed blue door—WC painted in enormous, sloppy white letters—with a wire that fastens to a hook. I unhook the wire and the door opens, letting out a cloying scent of naphthalene that turns my stomach. I flip on the light, hold the door closed with the sole of my shoe, unzip my fly, and pee, unsteady on my feet. On the wall are drawn penises and disconnected phrases: I fucked Tatiane—below it, in different handwriting, Who hasn’t fucked her?—Uesli’s Aline sucks cock, Ratão’s a fag, I wasn’t put out after putting out / Have you put out? Romaria to Aparecida—Talk to Ninho, Shit here motherfucker, with an enormous arrow pointing at the bowl. Disgusted, I pull the chain, flip off the light, fasten the wire to the hook. No sink. I thank the boteco owner, who is carrying a bottle of beer by the neck, and ask him where I can find the bus stop. A man seated at a table gets up. “I’ll show you.” His breath is sour with the smell of cachaça. We go outside. “Walk to the end of this street then turn left,” he explains. “Thank you,” I say. I begin to make my way, then hear “Remember, left!” The night is muggy and smells of night-blooming cestrum and jasmine, of rice and beans. Broken lampposts form glades of darkness. Though the houses are hidden by tall walls, the light from the glowing television sets makes the tree branches shading the sidewalk shudder in spasms of green, red, and blue. Light spills off the fat moon onto the bodies of cars parked along the curb. A stray dog hungrily sniffs the air. Aha, the bus stop! Fixed to a wood post, a white circle with a red outline and the word Ônibus written in black, bullet holes in the O and B. On one side, a boteco, Beira Bar, its steel door shut. On the other, a vacant lot. I stand and anxiously wait. I need to wash my hands. Somewhere, there is the song and clapping of an evangelical service. The scent of ripe mango and cigarette smoke tickles my nose. I notice, then, an ember glowing at the mouth of a man leaning over a low cement-board wall. “Good evening,” he says. “Good evening,” I answer. “Hot, isn’t it?” he continues, trying to make conversation. “Baking,” I answer. “Imagine inside—it’s unbearable! Practically a furnace. And then there’s all those damned mosquitoes!” I feel as though I recognize his voice. “…Aedes aegypti, they’re called. A couple of people in the neighborhood have died of dengue hemorrha…” But where from? I comb through my memories. “…dangerous…They don’t look it, but they are!” A teacher…from school…“…You’re not from here, are you?” “Huh?” “You…you’re not from here, are you?” Mendonça! That’s it! “Excuse me, but aren’t you Mr. Mendonça?” “Why?” he asks, immediately suspicious. “I was a student of yours…at Colégio Cataguases. You were the art teacher.” “Hell, you’re right…How did you…How did you recognize me?” He flicks the cigarette butt into the distance, opens the gate, and steps toward me. It really is him! Tall, slender, a jet-black mop of hair, pajamas, flip-flops. I reach out my hand and he hugs me, reeking of smoke. “Wow, a former student! But how…How did you recognize me?” “I think it was the voice…” “Uh-huh, makes sense…At least that hasn’t changed much, right? Though I’m a little hoarser…From breathing in all that chalk dust. Hahaha…Aside from that…Never mi
nd. What are you doing here?” A teenager chugs by on a motorcycle with an exposed exhaust pipe. “I came looking for Father…” “The pastor? Father Gil?” “I don’t know his name…The one who serves the church around the corner…” “Father Gil. Is he a relative of yours? Do you know him?” “No…not at all…” “Father Gil…Father Gil is…He likes to spend time with the youth…If you catch my drift…Hahaha…Never mind, never mind. Hold on, though, you said you were my student?” “In fifth and sixth grade.” “That must have been in…” “Seventy-one, seventy-two.” “Right…What’s your name?” “Oséias…Oséias Moretto Nunes.” “Oséias?…” “Moretto Nunes.” The teacher says: “Take off your hat.” The teacher says: “Take off your glasses.” Then he confesses: “I’m sorry…Maybe in other circumstances…Who knows if…” “Don’t worry about it. Nobody remembers me…” I put on my glasses and hat, and he says, “Won’t you come in a minute? For a cup of coffee…The bus won’t be here for a while. They’re few and far between at this time of night.” “Thanks, but I won’t sleep if I drink any coffee right now. Insomnia, you know…I’ll take a glass of water though…” “Sure thing. Follow me.” We cross a tiny front yard covered in a thin layer of crumbling concrete, where nutsedges push through the cracks and a rusty oil drum lies on its side over the gutter. Two small glass windows with metal frames hang wide open. “Come in, come in.” The teacher ushers me through a door of untreated wood, the bottom veneer already half-rotten. He shoos away a fat black cat who’s napping, stretched out on the patchwork chenille blanket draped over the sofa, and tells me to sit down. “Wait here and I’ll fetch you some water.” The stuffy living room with thick concrete flooring lets off a terrible smell—a mix of dampness, cigarette smoke, and cat. The walls, once blue, are bare. On a makeshift shelf, in terrible shape, are four art and design books lying on their sides, and four more books standing upright, their spines held together with Scotch tape—Papillon, The Godfather, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, The Other Side of Midnight—a picture of Our Lady—or is it Yemanjá?—a glass ashtray with a scattering of ash in it, a matchbox, and an open packet of Derby cigarettes. The teacher returns, in his right hand a small murky glass with water of a suspicious color, which he hands to me. Disgusted, I bring the glass to my lips and take the smallest sip possible. I sit in the wonky armchair. His face—moist and wrinkled, flaky skin and missing teeth—is half-lit by a dim lightbulb that hangs on a wire from the bare ceiling. I regret accepting the invitation. He ventures, circumspect, “I was just thinking. Your surname…Moretto, is that right? It just dawned on me…Wasn’t Moretto the girl, the young woman, who committed suicide in Beira-Rio? About forty years ago…” My hands tremble as I knock back the rest of the water. My stomach turns. “Lígia…Lígia Moretto…My sister…” “Oh, I’m sorry…I’m really so, so sorry…” He places his hand on my leg with frank concern. Outside, crickets chirp. The teacher drums the armrest of the sofa with his left fingers, while with his right he pets the cat, now curled in his lap. I remember him in his classroom, teaching art. I say: “I remember you in your classroom, teaching us to draw.” He smiles, sadly, “I wasn’t such a wreck back then, was I?” He sighs, “I’m nothing but a poor old queen now…” His eyes probe the darkness, past the window and the yard. “I was handsome once. Do you remember? If only I had liked women…They were constantly throwing themselves at me…Even the married ones…” He waves his right hand as though erasing a chalkboard and says, his eyes roving, “Here, no one even knows I was a teacher…That I was important…I owned a house in Barridê…I had people of influence eating out of my hand…Do you have any idea what I’ve got to do these days to get someone to pay attention to me? I bring boys home, pay them to let me…touch them…I degrade myself…And you know what they do? They rob me, beat me, hurt me…I’ve got nothing left. You can see so for yourself…They’ve taken everything…the TV, the stereo, my cell phone…I use this thing now. Look.” He pulls a small, old device out of the pocket of his pajamas. The bus is at the stop. I get up as if to leave but the teacher places his right hand on my arm and says, “Don’t worry, there’ll be another one soon.” He rises, the cat springs to the floor and steals deep into the house. He takes the ashtray from the shelf and sets it on the left armrest of the chair. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it, puts back the packet and the matchbox, and sits down again. “It’s not easy growing old,” he says, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air. “Especially when you’re poor and queer…” A car barrels past, music blaring. “I’m so happy you’re here…No one ever comes into this house anymore, not unless they’re paid to. They avoid me…My former students…It’s like I’ve got AIDS…Christ! Generation after generation. Kids who are now lawyers, teachers, doctors, dentists. They all walk right past me like they don’t know me. And some of them…Pff, never mind. Say, you don’t live in Cataguases, do you?” He drags on the cigarette. I settle into the sofa. “No. I live…lived…live in São Paulo.” “Ah, São Paulo…What a city, am I right? Afraid I’ve never been. Though I’ve wanted to my whole life. What about MASP, have you been to the Museum of Art? The city that never sleeps. Are you visiting someone?” “Me? I…Yeah…Just…My sisters…” “So they live here?” “They do.” “I should have gone to São Paulo. The city of light rain…I’m not from here. I don’t know whether I ever mentioned this, but I’m actually from Rio. Rio de Janeiro, born and raised. Actually, Santa Cruz, a suburb. It’s still Rio though. I’m Carioca through and through…I wanted to be an artist, I even gave it a shot. I moved to the South Zone, but…When I realized I had no future there, I accepted an offer from my Aunt Noca, my father’s sister. She was married to a man who owned a massive warehouse, the one that used to be in Vila Domingos, Casa Vouga. Do you remember it? I thought, I’ll head over there and stay a little while. Soon enough a position opened up at Colégio Cataguases. I made friends with a bunch of oddballs who used to organize film festivals, music festivals, poetry festivals…Those were the years…It was totally wild…We had weed…Sexual freedom…It was the seventies, you know…” He takes a drag on his cigarette, then blows smoke up at the ceiling. “It wasn’t the way things are now. This city, the whole damned country. Everything is so vulgar, the people, the men, the women, the music, their clothes. Everything. It’s all vulgar and mediocre. I can say this because I’m a frustrated artist who used to paint small pieces to hang in the windows of Rua do Comércio. Christ, how embarrassing!” He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I could’ve had a better life, you know, but then…Love…L’amour, as they call it in French…Hold on, I’m so sorry, I haven’t let you get a word in edgewise. Say something, man, for Pete’s sake. Or else I’ll just keep nattering on and on, and never stop! I never have anyone over, understand? Never.” Stomach in a twist, murky water. The black cat pads back, glares at me, hops into the teacher’s lap, and curls up. “Do you remember the…incident?” I say. “What incident?” he asks. “My sister…Lígia’s…death? “Of course…Awful business…A devastating story…Your sister, huh?…Such a sad, devastating story…What year did…that…Did it happen? Was it seventy…” “Seventy-five. 4:30 p.m. on September 23, 1975. A Tuesday.” “Goodness! It’s been forty years…” “That’s right…forty years! You close your eyes and when you open them…forty years have passed…” “And…you…Did you ever find out…uh…Why she did something so…so…drastic?” I get up and walk to the window, caravans of stars glow in the deserted sky. The song and clapping of the evangelical service…The scent of ripe mangos…I’m sweating from head to toe. I hear a match striking. The teacher walks past me, crosses the yard, stops at the low wall. He looks from one end of the sidewalk to the other. Drags on his cigarette. Walks slowly back. Outside, I turn to face the house but remain standing. The teacher sits in the armchair and lets out a puff of smoke. He says, “Dear boy, listen carefully to this old man who’s been through all kinds of things in life. Don’t let the past consume you. The past isn’t real. We’ve made it up. What exists is the present. This
moment, here and now. Hic et nunc…Nothing else…There is no past, no future. Just present. Carpe diem!” I watch as a trail of tiny ants vanishes near the teacher’s feet, his toenails cracked. “I died with Lígia…” I say. “And this is what I’ve become. A body without a soul. That longs for…and fears…the end…” He drags on his cigarette, says, “I understand, I understand.” His right hand brushes away the ash fallen on his pajama top. “Look at me,” he adds, blowing smoke up at the ceiling. “Do you think it makes me happy to live in this…hovel? Do you think it’s nice owing money to the bank, to loan sharks? Do you think I like bringing little hoodlums home to assault and humiliate me? I don’t! And yet I can honestly tell you right now: I am happy. You know why? ’Cause there’s no point crying over spilled milk…What’s done is done…I had a house in Barridê—gone. I had a car—gone. I had money—gone. All because I believed in…In love…” I turn back to the window and listen for the rumble of the bus. My stomach turns, nauseated. I take a deep breath. The teacher goes on and on. His words hover in the living room and hit my ears like waves washing ashore, some loud, others soft, while still others die before reaching the sand. “(…) Thirty years younger than me…I fell in love (…) Talented, you had to…(…) Practically in my house (…) I signed him up for classes at Yázigi…(…) motorcycle? I got him a motorcycle. He wanted clothes? I got him clothes (…) stupid to invest in his career. (…) in Parque Lage, in Rio (…) second mortgage on my house, would you believe? Just so I could pay six months’ rent on an apartment on Rua São Clemente, in Botafogo (…) car and clothes so he wouldn’t feel embarrassed, the luxury! (…) canvases, paints, paint brushes, all imported (…) at first he used to come back to me in tears, claiming he missed me, but then (…) an American art dealer boyfriend and (…) the son of a housekeeper who lived in Dico Leite, a housekeeper! (…) now in New York, they say he’s famous (…) His mom still lives in the area, in penury (…) he never looked me up, which—” The sound of the bus shoots through the night. “I’m going to catch that one, Mr. Mendonça!” I say. I hurry through the yard and stand next to the sign for the bus stop. He follows me. “Oh, you’re really going? What a shame…I’m sorry, I talked too much, didn’t I?” The bus pulls up. “Come visit again, when you’ve got more time.” I step in, the doors close. I shove my hand in my pant pocket, take out some money, give it to the fare collector, walk through the turnstile and down the aisle, then sit at a window. Aside from me, there is also a religious couple—the man in a suit and tie, the woman in a long skirt, both with Bibles in hand—and a teenager with enormous headphones jammed over her ears. Taquara Minimart. Bar Vinícius. Todinho Filling Station. Povo Pet Store. The bus is empty and bucks speedily down the uneven paving stones of Reta da Saudade, the fiberglass seat hard and uncomfortable, hurting my back. A cool breeze gusts through the window. A slow fog settles, drawing a tulle curtain across the landscape. The driver is chatting with the fare collector, raising his voice over the clatter. “They held up the guy who does the Leonardo–São Vicente route.” “Were they armed?” “Yep. A couple of young thugs. The bus was coming into São Vicente when one kid flashed a gun at the fare collector and the other stuck a knife to the driver’s throat. There were only four, five passengers on board. They took the money and ran.” “Folks like that should get death row.” “Yeah…Sounds like they were minors though.” “Minors? Sure. God forgive me but as far as I’m concerned: you kill someone, you get the noose. Remember that guy…” The bus plunges into darkness and stops in Santa Clara, in front of the Church of the Foursquare Gospel, “Hallelujah, brothers!” beams the pastor. “Hallelujah!” echo his congregants. Three passengers climb on. A man holding a package, maybe a night watchman for some company on the way to his shift with a late-night snack, takes a timid seat next to me. A young man forces open the jammed window and his girlfriend, outside, whispers something to him. Another man, muscled arms covered in tattoos, growls into his cell phone, “…said I won’t go…. Look, Jô, I’ve got obligations toward Maico, he’s my son too. I don’t even need the law to make me do it. But I ain’t got none toward you, not one…You screwed around on me, and you’ve got the nerve to come to me with this crap?…Huh?! No fucking way, you hear me, no fucking way!…Sure, go wherever you like, but…No, not a chance…No, not even the—” I need something to eat. I feel light-headed, uneasy, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m hungry or if my stomach’s upset, if it’s the dirty water or the filthy glass…Black dye sweating off Mr. Mendonça’s hairline…A huge cockroach scurrying across the doorway…Beira-Rio! The streets are deserted. Everyone’s at home watching the nine o’clock telenovela. The bus stops in front of another evangelical church, Life and Peace Christian Community—small door, white plastic chairs, half a dozen congregants milling around, saying goodbye. A drunkard climbs on, sits down, immediately nods off. Then, our house…Our old house…Across from it, Assembly of God. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. Holy rollers…Holy rollers is what we called anyone who lived like they were still in the country—hayseeds, clodhoppers, hillbillies…Bunch of holy rollers, we would curse…Holy rollers…There’s our house! They were like cats and dogs, Dad and João Lúcio. Fighting over any old thing. Mom always took João Lúcio’s side. Dad picked on Rosana on account of Dona Magnólia, but they never argued. Even as a conceited, self-assured kid, she’d ignored everyone at home, without exception. But Dad and João Lúcio were like exposed wires. If Dad cheered for Botafogo, all of us kids would root for them too; except for João Lúcio, who’d support Vasco. If Dad criticized the government, João Lúcio would sing its praises. If Dad said stick, João Lúcio would say stone. But João Lúcio was the one with the temper. His outrage was so intense his lips would quiver the moment he heard Dad’s voice. One Christmas, the Morettos had gathered in the country outside Rodeiro, the men had just slaughtered a barrow, and at some point Dad got into a row with Uncle Ênio, the youngest sibling, a blowhard who enjoyed pulling stupid pranks. The argument became heated, and Dad, livid, had grabbed Mom by the hand while she was busy cleaning intestines for sausage casings, and yelled, We’re leaving, Stella. Now! Mom shoved Dad away and he flew into a rage, tried to drag her by the arm. Then, Uncle Ênio, Paulino, and Ítalo closed in on Dad, who started screaming, Grab the kids, Stella, we’re leaving. Now! Mom turned away from him and carried on minding the intestines. Dad, immobilized by Uncle Paulino, barked, Stella, are you deaf? We’re leaving, Stella. Now! Mom calmly faced him and said, Nivaldo, sweetie, you’re all worked up. Go take a walk. We’ll talk once you’ve cooled down. And Dad said, I’m not spending another minute in this pigsty. And Uncle Ítalo said, A pigsty, Nivaldo! What pigsty? Uncle Paulino let go of Dad, who lost his balance and crashed on the ground. He got up in silence, grabbed his hat, and headed toward the road, screaming, Uppity fucking Italians! You’re the worst race on the planet. You’ll pay for this! He never stepped foot on the farm again, and never spoke another word to any of the Morettos. The cousins had followed the scene from afar—necks craned and ears straining—having been herded away by Aunt Biquinha as soon as things started to get ugly. João Lúcio was nine, ten years old at the time, and knee-high. He soured on Dad from that day on. The hatred he felt for him grew and grew until…when that…thing…happened…the…the accident…he blamed Dad, started a screaming match, caused a scene…and decided to take Uncle Ítalo up on his offer. He moved to Rodeiro three months later, right after finishing his military service. At night, the city seems to shrivel…Next stop, Rui Barbosa Square. A few passengers had gotten off the bus without my realizing—the religious couple and the drunk—while others had gotten on. The man I think is a night watchman stands and pulls at the nylon cord, making the bell ring. I stand too. The bus stops, and we get off. I need to eat something, my body’s shaking, my hands and feet are sweating cold. I walk down the pedestrian way of Rua do Comércio, through the fog. Everything is closed. A teenager in garish makeup, jean shorts, with a huge tattoo on her thigh, a red top hiding
small breasts, and another tattoo on her exposed midriff, steps toward me, “How’s it going, stud?” she says as she grabs me by the neck and tries to kiss me on the lips. “C’mon, pauzudo, bring that big dick over here.” Her eyes are red. I gently break free. Up ahead, another woman in practically the same outfit asks, “Want some crack?” I quicken my pace. Light spills from a door onto the pavement, the neon sign broken. I head inside. A man mops the floor with a damp rag; it smells of Pinho Sol. “Good evening,” I say, queasy. He eyes me warily. I ask, “Anything left to eat?” He rests the squeegee against the wall, wipes his hands on his apron, hauls over his tired legs. “This is what I’ve got.” He gestures at the mostly empty trays—two coxinhas, three croquettes, and one ham-and-cheese cigarrete—and stands behind the counter. “I’ll take those two coxinhas to go.” He slides open the display and slips two pastries into a white paper bag with a tong, grabs a handful of napkins and sets them on the stainless-steel counter. “Anything to drink?” “Have you got any Coke?” I ask, pulling my wallet out of my back pocket. He takes a can from the fridge and shoves it in a plastic bag, along with the small paper bag. He tells me the price and I pull out a bill. He opens the cash register and hands me back my change. “The neon sign…” I say as I put away my wallet. “Vandals.” He follows me out. “It happened during Carnival. Owner said he won’t fix it…That he’s going to leave it the way it is…to set an example.” He douses the rag in the bucket of water, wrings it, and curls it around the squeegee. “The city shows up to collect taxes, but when we ask them to enforce security, they’re nowhere to be seen…” “Goodnight,” I say, crossing the street. I enter a dark tunnel of branches and fig tree leaves, which block out the light from the streetlamps. The sharp smell of urine fouls up the stilled air. My stomach turns. I walk quickly, scared someone will accost me. My head spins. My legs vanish. Back in the day, this stretch had smelled of horse piss and horse shit from the wagons parked by the station, waiting for the train, freight cars loaded with merchandise. The funk of a vagrant lying on a square of cardboard makes me woozy. I pick up speed, then come to a sudden stop. Unable to hold back, I spray a knot of tree roots with a thick stream of vomit. I hear voices. A drag queen clips up to me. “You all right, mister?” “I’m okay, thanks,” I say, still nauseated, spying a pair of red high heels. “What’s going on, Dô?” asks another drag queen. “Just some man being sick.” Their steps recede in the darkness. I take a deep breath. I’m not far from the hotel. I need to shower. I forgot to buy shampoo and conditioner. I forgot to buy toothpaste. I’ll look Isinha up tomorrow. Roll out early. Try to ambush Marcim. I ring the bell, which peals through the empty lobby. The glow of the television in the dining hall spills out a side window covered in a faux-lace white plastic curtain. The sound of shoes shuffling along the parquet, hands lifting the latch, key turning in the lock. The face of a young man, Cleber, appears backlit through a crack in the door. “Good evening,” says a voice, groggy from having recently been asleep. “I’m a guest here,” I say. “Nunes. Number nine.”