by Luiz Ruffato
* * *
—
Bleary-eyed, he opens one half of the double doors, glances at either end of the sidewalk, closes it, drops the latch. He palms the key from the counter and hands it to me, and despondently reels off, “Breakfast starts at six.” I thank him and plod up the wood steps, cross the half darkness of the hallway, struggle toward my room and open the door. I flip on the light, lock the door, tear off my hat and toss it at the chair. I left the window open! I take out the greasy paper bag, napkins, and the can of Coke, and place them on the nightstand. I edge my shoes off with my feet and push them under the bed. I take off my shirt, hang it off the back of the chair. Take off my pants, leave them on the floor. I sit on the bed and take off my socks. I take off my glasses, set them on the nightstand. I lie down. I need to pee, brush my teeth, shower. I haven’t got the strength. Mosquitoes whir my legs itch my arms itch my belly shit left the window open the house is there just like it used to be except for the bars the soggy coxinhas need to shower my body’s sticky my mouth bitter so the pastor so sleepy the coke is going to get warm take some laundry to isinha’s tomorrow get up in a second to pee where has gale
i need to close the window the window’s open the window
* * *
—
i need to piss to get up haven’t showered brush tee—
* * *
—
what?” I wake up. The light stings my eyes. I grab my glasses from the nightstand. Get out of bed. I pick my pants up off the floor, get dressed. Riffle through my backpack for the toothbrush. I take the towel from the windowsill, drape it over my shoulder. Outside, dawn lies unmoving in the fog. I wonder what time it is. I open, then close the door. The empty hallway snores, sunken in gloom. I grope along the walls to the bathroom. Flip on the light. Lock the door. Drape the towel over the curtain rod in the shower. I brush my teeth. Gray beard hairs creep across my face. I take off my glasses, set them in a corner of the wet sink. Red, sunken eyes. Sparse, unkempt hair. I look like an old man. I pull down my pants and underwear, sit on the toilet. Be quick. Leave the bathroom clean for the next person. The next person might be you. The next person…is me…I am the next person. I’ve got to wake up early, ambush Marcim at city hall…I wonder what time it is. I relieve my bladder and guts. Get up. Lower the toilet lid. Flush. The water, meager, trickles down without force. I pull back the plastic shower curtain, turn both taps. Several of the holes are blocked, and cold water spits this way and that in thin slivers. I get under the water, my skin covered in goose bumps. I need to buy shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste…On the ceiling, cobwebs, and dark splotches of mildew. Through the rectangular window, I glimpse silent pastures. The next person could be you…Malu…Danton, Robespierre, and Marat were not the Three Musketeers. The Three Musketeers were four: Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan…I turn the taps in the opposite direction. Wrap my body in the rough towel, which scrapes my skin. I grab the squeegee and push the water into the drain. That person could be you…That person…I rest the squeegee against the wall. Pull on my underwear and pants. Wipe my glasses with a square of toilet paper. I grab my toothbrush. Unbolt the door, turn off the lights. I cut across the dark jungle, which whistles, psssts, hisses, purrs, shushes, sighs, and moans. I push open the door to my room, lock it, and stretch the towel out on the windowsill. I tuck my toothbrush into my backpack. I need to find out what the time is. Otherwise, how else will I wake up early enough to catch Marcim? Aha, the clock in the lobby! I unlock the door, shut it gently behind me, head down the dark hallway. Slowly tread the steps of the wood staircase. The lights are off, and I can’t make out the clock hands…I wonder where that young man…Cleber…sleeps. I shuffle across the parquet, through the curtain of plastic strips, and penetrate the dining hall. Nothing, only the quiet of tables set for breakfast. I circle back to the lobby. Slowly tread the steps of the wood staircase. Head down the dark hallway. Push open the door, lock it. Take off my pants, toss them over my hat on the chair. I switch off the light. Lie down. I should’ve brought a book with me…How long has it been since I read a book what was the last one again so long ago now
* * *
—
huuuh?! I get up, heart bucking. I make my way to the window. Fog cloaks the street past the foliage. I get back in bed. Lie down. I wonder where i put isinha’s address ah my back pocket
* * *
—
i stir awake to the trilling of thousands of sparrows. Morning light fills the room. I jolt up in bed, take my glasses from the nightstand. The untouched coxinhas sag in the damp paper bag. The Coke is warm. The city rises. Cars honk and motorcycles honk. Beneath the window someone washes the sidewalk, armed with a bucket and broom. I grab my pants from the chair, pull them on. Get into a shirt. Put on my cap. Sit on the edge of the bed and slip on some socks, shove my feet into my shoes. I grab my backpack, rummage through it for the Cebion tube. I uncap it, pull out a roll of cash, unfurl the money, count it, fold some into my wallet, roll up what’s left, stuff it back in the tube, cap it, slide the tube back into the compartment, and zip the backpack up again. I open the door to the hall and spy three people in line for the bathroom. I walk up to them, ask, “Excuse me, do you know what time it is?” “Ten after seven,” answers the big guy, glancing at his watch. Ten after seven! “Thanks,” I say and pad back to my room. I sling on my backpack, lock the door, hurry down the wood staircase. Pereira, cross-eyed and thin as a rake, says “Good morning.” “Good morning,” I answer, dropping the keys on the counter and striding to the exit. “No breakfast?” he asks and I say no, already on the sidewalk. Little by little, the fog lifts. The street vendors make a racket as they pitch their stalls. A woman with a large box hanging from her neck with six thermoses in it offers up “Hoooooooot coffee!” Buses roll by, packed with drowsy faces anxious for the weekend. Most of the shop doors are still closed. Street sweepers pile trash against the curb. A truck unloads fruit and vegetables at the supermarket. The botecos’ first patrons eat breakfast with eyes fixed on TV screens. I enter the pedestrian way of Rua do Comércio, stride past a young couple—shorts, T-shirt, sneakers, fanny pack, cell-phone armband, water bottle—he wears a baseball cap and she wears her hair in a ponytail, both are red, panting, covered in sweat. I reach Rui Barbosa Square. At the kiosk, two old men discuss the news in a dither. The digital clock reads 7:23. 24°C. Cine Edgard stands empty. João Lúcio used to come here all the time. He was nuts about spaghetti westerns. Never missed a single one. Blood for a Silver Dollar. My Name Is Nobody. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A Fistful of Dollars. Once Upon a Time in the West. He only emerged after lunch on Sunday to exchange comics and pocketbooks. Western everything. Comanche. Zorro. Nevada. Coyote. Tex. Marcial Lafuente Estefanía. Silver Kane. Colt 45. He was fascinated by that world—the horses, duels, deserts, carriages, good guys, bandits, saloons, the sense of honor, the fearlessness and solitude. He grew vegetables in a corner of the backyard and on Saturdays wandered the streets of Beira-Rio, basket in arm, calling at house after house with lettuce, collards, vine spinach, taioba, endive, and dandelion, which the neighbors used to buy with delight. With the money he made, he’d get tickets for the six o’clock screening and for the Sunday matinee. Thrifty, he haggled comics and pocketbooks, and always turned a profit. I skirt city hall and stop at the entrance to the parking lot. The security guard eyes me with suspicion. What now? A Volkswagen Gol with a city hall logo pulls up at the sidewalk. A man, short, thin, clean-shaven, pushes open the heavy gate, which sluggishly gives way. That’s when I spy him, Marcim, in the passenger seat; black suit, blue tie, kempt beard, heavier and more dapper, but Marcim no less. Before the security guard can see me, I walk beside the car and wave at Marcim, who absently waves back. The driver parks and Marcim gets out. I approach him. “Good morning,” I say. He reaches out his hand, confused, “Good morning,” he replies and starts toward the side door that leads to the lobby. The security guard takes a hesitant step toward us
. “Marcim, it’s me, Peninha. Remember?” He stops, frowns, exclaims, “Peninha?! Wow, you…” He starts walking again. The security guard retreats. I enter the lobby behind Marcim. “We went to Colégio Cataguases together…” “I know…You’ve changed quite a bit, haven’t you!” Then, with a friendly smile, he says, “Good morning, everybody.” “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” Michele and the security guard chime in unison from the break room, as a smooth-faced youth, stiff in his black suit and red tie, hair parted to the side, marches toward us. “Good morning, Mayor,” he says, looking me up and down with disdain. “Romim has gone to fill up the car. We’ll be ready to leave any minute now.” “Thank you, Jônatha,” says Marcim. Michele and the security guard slowly return to their posts. “I guess we should have a quick coffee while we wait,” Marcim offers, making a show of walking to the break room. “Good morning, Dona Ivete!” “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” she answers. “Looks like somebody woke up on the right side of the bed today…” She glances at me with complicity. “I left a note, I’m not sure if it ever reached you,” I remark to Marcim. “Oh, of course, a note. Yeah, yeah, of course I got it…What’s good today, Dona Ivete?” He turns to face me, “So where do you live?” “São Paulo.” “Michele’s cornbread,” Dona Ivete answers, maliciously. “Michele? Oh, the young woman who works the phones…Hmm…Let’s give Michele’s cornbread a try then,” he booms, so the receptionist can hear him. Dona Ivete places two mugs brimming with coffee on the small table. “Do you remember Mr. Mendonça?” “Mendonça?” “He was our art teacher.” “Oh yeah, the gay one…Is that right?” Dona Ivete places another ceramic plate with two squares of cornbread on the table. “Sugar?” she asks me. “Sure,” I answer. “None for me, thanks,” says Marcim as he shoves a wedge of cornbread in his mouth. “I bumped into him yesterday,” I explain. Marcim chews and then sips at his coffee. “This cornbread’s to die for, Michele,” he gushes. The receptionist smiles with feigned modesty. Marcim turns to face me. “Sorry, you were saying…” “That I ran into him yesterday…Mr. Mendonça.” “Oh right, Mr. Mendonça…Uh-huh…Pretty thing, isn’t she?” The man named Jônatha creeps toward us, half-arrogant, half-servile, and hands Marcim a cell phone. “For you, Mr. Mayor.” Marcim takes the phone and steps away. Dona Ivete asks, “Are you off to Belo Horizonte again?” “You lot down here seem to know the mayor’s schedule better than I do…” “Don’t worry, hon, the rabble only pick at what they need to survive.” She howls with laughter. I drink the last sip of coffee. Marcim comes back and returns the cell phone. He glances over at Dona Ivete. “Saying mean things about me behind my back, are you?” She howls. “Always! If I don’t tell the truth, who will?” Marcim laughs. “Is there anything I can help you with? Just say the word.” “No, no. Nothing. I just wanted to say hi, reminisce about the old days,” I say. “Ah, the old days…” he muses. “Hey, Dona Ivete, tell me something. Any chance Michele is single?” “Now, Mr. Mayor. Do I look like a pimp to you? Does this place here look like a brothel?” She howls again. “That Dona Ivete…” Jônatha creeps up to us and says, “Romim’s back.” Marcim continues, “Peninha, I’m sorry I couldn’t spend more time with you. I’ve got a meeting to get to in Belo Horizonte. Lunch with Congressman Carvalho Sá, I need to talk to him about increasing our budget.” “Carvalho Sá?! Is he related to Mr. Carvalho Sá?” “His grandson. Good kid. Young, smart, he studied…” Marcim leans over to his advisor. “Jônatha, what did the congressman study again?” “He has a degree in economics from the Federal University of Juiz de Fora, and he got his MBA in Rio de Janeiro.” “That’s it, an MBA! Nothing to sneeze at, am I right? He was elected last year with almost twenty-five thousand votes from the Zona da Mata, all the way up the coast! It was the first time he ran…Quite the find, that kid. Before you know it he’ll be working in Brasília.” Jônatha taps his watch with his index finger. “All right, Peninha, I’ve got to go. It was great seeing you. If you ever need anything, just say the word! Michele, be good to my friend here, will you?” “Leave it to me, Mr. Mayor,” she fawns. I walk them to the official state car, a black C-Class Mercedes-Benz. Marcim says, before sliding into the back seat next to Jônatha, “It was really great to see you, Peninha. You’re looking well. We should do this again sometime! Look, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, don’t be shy, just let me know…” The driver starts the engine. The car rolls through the parking lot gate and a man—short, thin, clean-shaven—sluggishly shuts it behind them. I spot a bowl of kibble and another of water next to the guard booth. “Have you got a dog?” Slumped in the seat of an old van reading the Jornal Cataguases is the driver of the Gol, who answers, “Oh yeah, that’s Pelé. A scoundrel who knocks around the neighborhood.” “Black, shiny coat?” I ask. “That’s him. Pelé is what we call him.” “Is he yours?” “Pelé belongs to everybody,” the driver answers. He folds the paper and lays it on a round table next to a red thermos and two glasses dirty with coffee. “He ain’t nobody’s,” says the clean-shaven man. “We feed him here, someone else feeds him there. Nobody knows where he ends up at night. But he’s gotta belong to someone. He always looks nice, like he’s being taken care of…” The driver lights a cigarette. “Every Thursday he up and disappears. It’s crazy! Dona Ivete says he takes the day off to see his sidepiece in Muriaé…” They both howl with laughter. After saying goodbye, I walk back into the lobby and head straight for the break room. “Thank you so much, Dona Ivete.” “No problem, honey. I’m still good for something, aren’t I?…More coffee?” “No. But thank you. Is there a bathroom around here I could use?” She slips out of her cubicle and points, “Right there, you see, just around the staircase.” “Thanks,” I say. So that good-for-nothing Galego is actually Pelé…I enter the bathroom, unzip my pants, piss in the urinal. I zip my fly, open the tap, take off my glasses and hang them off my shirt. I wash my face. Wash my mouth. Wipe my hands on a paper towel. Wipe my glasses with a paper towel. I leave, stop at Michele’s desk. “Thank you, Michele.” She turns to face me, puzzled. “The note…He got the note, just like you said…” I explain. “Oh, yeah, the note…Don’t mention it.” I cut across the lobby and say goodbye to the security guard. As I walk down the steps, I gaze out at Santa Rita Square—nannies and new mothers strolling through the park with enthralled babies—and cross the street. Michele really is attractive. I wonder if Galego…I mean, Pelé…belongs to anybody, or if he just wanders from house to house—independent, sovereign, and free. I stuff my hand in my back pocket, fish out a piece of paper, unfold it—Rua José Custódio Araújo, 470, Ana Carrara—fold it, and slip it back in place. I walk down Rua do Pomba, making sure to steer clear of Tamires’s shop. It’s not her fault, poor thing. Maybe I should visit her…Businesses are already open. So, Mr. Carvalho Sá…His grandson, a congressman…MBA…I would’ve liked to visit Belo Horizonte. People say it’s beautiful…In Rio de Janeiro, I went to the beach, took the tram, visited Christ the Redeemer…Three times. Marília loved it. Nicolau was a kid—little plastic bucket and shovel, splashing around in the water…I didn’t mind it. Rio…A man tore Marília’s gold chain off her neck…We didn’t even see it happen…The chaos…So many people packed together…Rosana used to go all the time. She’d spend New Year with Dona Magnólia in Copacabana and come home toasted from the sun…Oh, Rio! she’d swoon, gloating. You simply must go, Isinha! And Isinha, who had three kids to bring up, would say, I’ve seen it in telenovelas. But maybe one day, God willing. I’m not sure she ever did. She won’t now. João Lúcio visited once and hated it. I don’t know whether he ever went back. He found it filthy, foul-smelling, expensive. Mom never visited. She only ever traveled to Rodeiro, to see family. She ventured farther once on a pilgrimage to Aparecida do Norte, when we were still small. Somewhere there’s a sepia portrait of Mom and Dad standing by a grotto…Instead of taking us to the countryside to stay with family, they had Grandma Luigia look after us in Cataguases, I’m not sure why. Quick-tempered, she spent the whole time swearing at us. Stupido! Mal
edio! Buèlo! The digital clock reads 28°C. 9:18. There’s the bus! Chácara Paraíso–Ana Carrara. Five people get on. I plod up the steps, fish some change out of my pocket, count it, and hand it to the fare collector. I head through the turnstile, take off my backpack, and sit down. The woman behind me taps my shoulder. “Mister, I don’t mean to bother, but you shouldn’t walk around wearing your backpack on your back like that. The streets are crawling with thieves. They lift things and you don’t even realize. I experienced it firsthand. They slashed my purse, and when I got home, I thought, Goodness, where’s my wallet?” I thank her. The woman beside her agrees. “That’s right. You can’t be too careful these days.” The man in the seat in front of me says, “Drugs…Drugs will be the end of this country…” “My nephew,” says the first woman. “He was wearing his backpack on his back, just like you are, when he got home from school one night and thought, Well, that’s weird, my pack feels really light. He looked inside. Huh! Where’d all his stuff go? They’d lifted every single thing…To this day he—” People arrange themselves, settle down…Congressman…Mayor…Ricardo…Rosana…João Lúcio…I wonder where Nicolau is right now. Dr. Alper…Oséias, I have your test results…I’m afraid…The prognosis isn’t good. Is there anyone in your family you’d like us to talk to? We offer support services for—I never saw the point of circuses. Dowdily dressed clowns, clothes that reeked of sweat, measly circus rings carpeted in sawdust, sad, pink dogs in tutus, monkeys forced to behave like humans, startled tigers, tents riddled with holes…The globe of death, the din, the stench of gasoline. The doctor said, You’ve got six months, maybe more, maybe less. Try to live life to the fullest. Do something you’ve always dreamed of doing. Is there anything you’ve always dreamed of doing? That day, I was a trapeze artist mid–triple somersault with no safety net. A dead-end street, one mistake leading to another, fifty-three years down the drain. Is that any way to live? The young man excuses himself and tugs at the nylon cord; the bell rings. He gets off. I take his window seat. The Rio Pomba riverbed…Louro Ice Cream Parlor…Malu…Malu had said to come by Saturday morning to borrow the book I needed for my project on the French Revolution. I hopped on the saddle of my green Caloi bike, pedaled through the city, and rolled to a stop in front of the house of Mr. Guaraciaba dos Reis, in Granjaria, feeling intimidated. Mr. Guaraciaba dos Reis—stern, venerable, uncompromising—was the Colégio Cataguses principal. A white-painted metal fence separated the well-tended garden from the Portuguese pavement. Two pairs of V-shaped columns on the veranda supported the second floor, its walls light blue. I plucked up some courage, dismounted, and rang the doorbell, rousing the dogs. A slight woman soon appeared in a spotless gray uniform and headscarf. I introduced myself. I’m a student of Malu’s. She said to come by to collect a book for a school project. The woman slowly turned back and walked through a door next to the garage. The sun punished my skin. There was the sound of classical music, the orchestra enfolding the radiant morning. I prayed Malu wasn’t home. I could do something else with my day, cycle across the Sabiá or Matadouro bridges…I enjoyed those rides. The solitude…The quiet…The woman returned holding a bunch of keys. Oséias, is it? she checked. Wow, I thought to myself, Miss Malu knows my name! I asked where I could leave my bicycle, and she pointed at the garage. You can leave it there, nobody’s going anywhere right now. We walked through a side door into a long hallway with high windows to what I imagined must be the kitchen and living room. We entered a large yard, on one side a low, ivy-covered wall that hemmed the orchard and on the other five or six steps that led up to a deck. Wait here, said the woman, disappearing again. A medium-sized pool, perfectly blue water reflecting the perfectly blue sky, two wood lounge chairs, and a pergola with a sink, two armchairs, a wooden coffee table, and an old hutch. I stood frozen in place, unsure of what to do. Then there was the sudden sound of barking and two massive dogs with shaggy reddish fur started jumping and playing around me. And in the middle of all that racket I saw Miss Malu step toward me, colorful sarong fastened over her red bikini, oversized straw sun hat with a red ribbon, mirrored sunglasses, a jug in one hand and a straw bag hanging off her shoulder. Good morning, Oséias, she said, warmly—white teeth, short black hair, golden skin—as she half-heartedly shooed the dogs. Don’t worry, she said, they just want to please you. I stood frozen in place, blushing, unsure of what to do. Lemonade? she asked. Dona Elisa made it just now. It’s ice-cold. I followed her, legs shaking, heart pounding. She placed the dewy jug on the table, grabbed two glasses from the hutch, and filled them with juice. Irish setters, she explained, brushing her fingers through their long fur. They’re a couple, Carlos and Rosa. After Marx and Rosa Luxemburg, she said with delight. Even though Daddy thinks I named them after Uncle Carlos, his brother, and Rosa, an old nanny I used to adore. I was so mortified, I couldn’t take my eyes off the ground. She pulled out from her straw bag Grandes acontecimentos da História—A revolução francesa, placed it on one of the armchairs, and continued, So, Oséias, do you like studying? I must have nodded yes. How about history? Do you enjoy it? she asked, after drinking the last sip of lemonade. I couldn’t get a single word out. I thought I might faint. With enormous effort, I managed to mumble, Yes, I do, and then stammered, I like your classes, ma’am. That’s great! she said, satisfied, No need to call me ma’am, though. I’m not an old hag, am I? She smiled and stepped toward the lounge chair, bottle of Coppertone in hand. I emptied my glass and followed her, legs shaking, heart pounding. What are you going to do once you’ve finished high school? She asked, unwinding her sarong and lying back on the chair. I must have said, Get a job, because she grabbed the bottle of Coppertone and asked, Don’t you want to keep studying? Her delicate hands smeared sunscreen on her legs. She said, You’re clever and hard-working, you should continue studying. You can be whatever you want in life…doctor…engineer…lawyer…dentist…Maybe even a teacher, which is a great profession, don’t you think? Yes, I could be whatever I wanted. An uncharted world unfolded before me, my fate was in my hands…I remember nothing else from that morning, now buried in time. Just Malu in her red bikini and oversized straw sun hat lolling in the lounge chair, the sky mirrored in her sunglasses, her delicate hands slathered in Coppertone, the bright pellucidity of the pool, classical music sounding through the house, the sun smarting my skin, the dogs chasing after each other, and her silken voice wending through my ears, You can be whatever you want in life…Whatever you want…Whatever you want…“Hey mister, it’s the last stop. Everybody’s got to get off,” says the fare collector as he grabs the broom to sweep the aisle. I sling my backpack onto my back and get off. I ask the driver smoking at the door if he knows the way to Rua José Custódio Araújo. He gestures vaguely, “Round that way.” I thank him and head down the narrow sidewalk that edges the more modest houses—front yards strewn with sheets of corrugated iron and plastic, clotheslines pinned with colorful garments, massive satellite dishes. I step around holes and bumps in the pavement, dogs splayed in the dust, half-naked children sucking on pacifiers, and teenagers gathered at the curb. I stop at a boteco. “Good morning,” I say, and then ask if they know Isabela. “Wellington’s old lady?” a man queries, his belly firmly stuck to the bar. “Straight on for as long as you can. Second to last, on your left. The house with the almond tree.” I thank him and trade the sidewalk for the road, a thin layer of crumbling asphalt where all I have to dodge are bicycles. My hat is drenched in sweat. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. Wellington’s old lady…A young woman mops the floor of a small room with two towers of plastic chairs—on the outside wall, handwritten in red over yellow are the words Truth in Christ Pentecostal Church—as the soapy water forms puddles in the gutter choked with trash. If she were alive, Lígia would be…What?…Fifty-four years old now…And seven months…A parked van booms: “Ladies! Gather round so I can tell you about a new homemade detergent. Not only is it the real deal. It smells like roses and it’s a steal!” A young man pulls out a cardboard box of plastic PET bott
les filled with green, pink, blue, orange, white, and purple liquid, and shows them to his customers. Oh look, there’s the almond tree. A red Fiesta is parked at the entrance. A low wall and a small wood-slat gate front a narrow, unfinished cinderblock house with another metal gate to the side. Two boys around three or four years old, one blond, the other dark-haired, race toy cars in the front yard—small mound of sand, roof tile shards, and broken bricks leftover from an old build—under the watchful eyes of a small mutt that barks cloddishly when he sees me. I clap. The dog advances and retreats in wild excitement as the children eye me with curiosity. A bowed, weary shadow, glasses hanging from a cord around her neck, in an apron the color of jerky, appears backlit at the living room door. “Well! As I live and breathe,” says Isinha as she opens the small front gate and pulls me into a firm hug. “Here I am,” I say. “Come in, come in,” she says, ushering me into the house, where she introduces me—“These are Diego’s boys”—and scolds the dog—“Shut up, Hulk!” We cross the tiny living room—torn-up yellow pleather armchair and two-seater sofa, thirty-two-inch plasma TV, black-and-white photograph of Guanabara Bay and Barcelona pennant tacked to the yellow wall—and cross the tiny kitchen—gas range, fridge, sink, rusted white-steel cupboard, light-blue Formica table for three—and head out to the backyard, where a heap of unbranded jeans sit on a worm-eaten wood table in the shade of a cow’s-foot tree. Under the lean-to is a brand-new motorcycle, a plywood cupboard, a concrete tank, and a washing machine. A cockerel, leg tied by a rag to the wood stake holding up the clothesline, forages unperturbed. Beside an annex with a corrugated iron roof, birds peck at ripe guavas splattered on the ground. Isinha takes a seat. “Fetch a chair inside,” she says as she grabs the scissors, puts on her glasses, and gets back to work. In the living room, I take off my backpack and hat and put them on the armchair. “Zana, who rarely calls, rang yesterday to say you were in Cataguases. Said you’d spent a couple of nights at her house then disappeared,” says Isinha. I heft a chair over from the kitchen and settle down next to her. “She thought you might’ve come here…Told me to let her know if I heard anything.” She nimbly finishes each piece, the ground beneath her strewn with scraps of thread. “I’d call if I had any minutes on my cell phone…” “I don’t even have a cell phone…” I say. Shocked, she asks, “You don’t?” I change the subject. “What inspired you to name a tiny, scrawny dog Hulk?” “It was Diego’s idea,” she explains. “ ’Cause he’s always green with hunger.” We laugh. “Coffee? There’s some in that thermos over there.” I get up. “Where can I find a mug?” “In the cupboard.” I open the door of the steel cupboard and take out a large amber Colorex mug, then close it. I press the button on the red thermos, which lets out a stream of brown, almost see-through liquid. I sit back down and have a sip of coffee. Sweet and watery, just like Mom used to make it…“As soon as Daniel wakes up,” Isinha begins. “He’s still asleep ’cause he gets home late from school, see, and heads straight to his computer. He only crawls out of bed around lunchtime. Anyway, soon as Daniel wakes up, I’ll see if I can borrow his phone to call Zana.” I bristle. “The truth is I didn’t disappear. She and her no-good husband turned me out.” She peers over her glasses. “Is that right?” “Come on, Isinha, True-Blue Ricardo’s a blowhard and you know it.” Tentatively, she counters, “That’s not the whole story, though, is it, Zézo…” I get up and almost yell, “Taking their side now, are you?” Isinha doesn’t stop finishing her pieces and yet her voice quivers as she continues, “I’m not taking anybody’s side, Zézo…But you’ve got to be fair. It wasn’t me or you or Jôjo who looked after Dad when he was dying…It was Ricardo and Zana. I was busy with my own problems—and mind you, I’ve got plenty—and you were busy with yours…And Jôjo, well, after Mom died, he cut ties with the family…” I drink the last of the coffee and place the mug in the kitchen sink. “Remember, Dad wasn’t even talking to Zana at the time. Still, she was the one who went over to his house to make sure it was getting cleaned…’Cause they hired somebody to come by twice a week, you know. And Jiló, who works for Ricardo—you remember him, don’t you?—dropped food off every day around lunchtime. They covered the rent, electricity, water, paid for his medication…At the very end, they even got Dad a private room in the hospital, and that can’t have been cheap.” I sigh. Sunlight ribbons through the long leaves of the cow’s-foot tree. The sounds of the two boys’ shrieking ripples through the hot, still air. Skittish, the birds take flight. The cockerel, neck craned, scrutinizes the day. Wearing a simple, blue-patterned dress under a jerky-colored apron and flip-flops that reveal ragged feet, Isinha works the scissors tirelessly. “Is the pay decent?” I ask, sitting back down. “Pfft,” she answers. “Couple of cents apiece. I break my back for chicken feed. The upside is that people come over to the house on weekends to get facials and mani-pedis…” With her gray hair held in a headscarf, wrinkled face, heavy circles under her eyes, dry skin, and arched shoulders, Isinha looks a good deal older than Rosana, born four years before her. “There are advantages,” she continues. “Because I work as a finisher, I get pants at cost. I pop on a label—I’ve got a mini overlock in the room—and Wellington sells them to associates of his in the center.” “How do you get ahold of the labels?” “From a guy in Muriaé called Jadson.” “And does the company not mind?” I ask. “Mind what? The fabrics and patterns they use come from a firm in São Paulo. They cut, piece together, sew, slap on a label, and mail them right back. We’re not involved with the same brands. There’s no competition…” Isinha rises to shake off her apron, shedding a tangle of threads. “Where are you staying, anyway?” she asks as she sits back down. “Hotel dos Viajantes, the one near the station,” I answer. “That old joint?” I nod. “What have you come to Cataguases for?” she continues. “No reason.” I spy a singing thrush perched on a branch of the guava tree. “Seen much of Marília or Nicolau lately?” “More or less. I mean, no, not really…I…” “That’s not right, Zézo. The boy’s your son…Soon you’ll get old. And you’ll get sick…Who’s going to take care of you then?” The two boys run in, the dark-haired one in front, crying—“Júnio hit me, Gramma, he hit me, Gramma!”—and the blond one at his heels, making light of the situation—“He didn’t wanna give me the truck, Gramma…”—followed by Hulk, the dog. “Stop it, both of you! It isn’t nice to fight! Go on now, go play. Grandma’s got work to do.” They threaten to keep whining and Isinha says, “Pipe down or I’ll call Uncle Dâni!” The two boys immediately fall silent and scurry back to the front yard, Hulk trailing behind them. Isinha is proud and resigned as she remarks, “Diego gets the girls pregnant and I end up taking care of the babies…” “They look the same age…” “That’s ’cause they are! Born twenty-two days apart. Except one is Ingrid’s boy and the other one is Vivian’s. My knucklehead son knocked up two girls at the same time. Can you believe it? And you know what the worst part is? Both of the boys have got the same name!” “What do you mean?” “You heard me. He registered both boys under the same name. Diego Nunes Scarano Junior!” “But that kind of thing can cause problems later on,” I contend. “You think I don’t know? Even Wellington, who’s no Einstein, had a row with him over it. But Diego thinks it’s funny…He’s my son and I love him, but the boy’s got no sense.” “Do the kids ever see their moms?” “Tss! Diego takes them to visit sometimes, though they’re not always home. But boy do they go at it on the phone! Their grandmas come by every now and then. Andréia—that’s Vivian’s mom—cries her eyes out every time, poor thing. I feel for her…You don’t know the half of it, though. Diego’s got another kid, a little girl, with a third woman…That one, Jessica, she’s got her head screwed on right. Raising the girl all on her own. She has an office job at Irmãos Prata, makes good money. Don’t know how he managed to trick her into it. Pretty girl, smart…Diego can’t afford to pay child support, though, so she won’t let him near the kid. I think they were a one-off. I haven’t even met Tábata myself.” “Goodness!” I say. “N
ow you see what a peach my life is,” she concludes, resigned. Isinha gets up and shakes her apron off again. She drops her glasses, which bounce on the cord around her neck. “Right, time to clean the house!” She heads to the annex and pushes open the tin door. “Dâni! Wake up, sweetie. Daniel!” “Ma, gimme a break. Let me lie in!” says a voice groggy with sleep. “No, hon, I need you to wake up and go to the butcher for some meat. Your uncle’s here.” “What uncle, Ma?” “Zézo. Uncle Oséias…from São Paulo…Did you leave the computer on again, Dâni!” “Jesus, Ma. Cool down. I’m getting up!” he grumbles. Isinha cuts across the yard. “C’mon, Zézo! We can keep chatting while I tidy.” She heads to the lean-to and opens the plywood cupboard, grabbing the broom and the dustcloth. I follow. She peers through the living room window at the boys, filthy and mucking around in the sand as Hulk sleeps in the shade of the wall. “Isinha,” I say. “I’ve got two shirts, two pairs of underwear, and a couple of socks to wash…” “Toss them in the tank outside. I’ll wash them soon as I’m done tidying the house. In this heat, they’ll be ready to iron after lunch.” I grab my pack and go to the backyard. I pull out my shirts, underwear, and socks, and toss them in the concrete tank. Daniel steps out of the annex—creased face, jean shorts, blue tank top, colorful sneakers, and tattoos on his deltoids and calves. He grumbles something, his voice pasty. “How’s it going, Daniel?” I ask. Tall and lanky, light hair fine and spiked up, face riddled with pimples, Daniel disappears into the bathroom. Isinha sweeps the red, burnished-concrete floor, dustcloth hanging over her shoulder. The rooms are tiny, with chita curtains instead of doors. “This is where Diego and the two Júnios sleep.” She shows me a space with three beds—one single, two bunks—and a closet. “Every night is mayhem.” She stretches out the yellow chenille blanket. “Both Júnios want to sleep together in the top bunk…But they can’t, can they, ’cause it’s dangerous. Except my idiot son eggs them on. Then I have to intervene. They used to take turns. One in the lower bunk, the other in the single bed, Diego up top. Kids, the lot of them…” Daniel flushes. “Come say hi to your uncle, honey!” yells Isinha. “I already did, Ma!” Daniel snaps back. She glances at me, as though to confirm. “He’s got school at night, poor thing. He’s awfully tired when he comes home.” She smooths out the sheets on the bunk bed. “What’s he studying?” I ask. “He’s…uh…Accounting, I think…Something like that…” She grabs the broom and sweeps the dust down the hall and through the kitchen door, startling the cockerel. “And Deliane, how’s she doing?” I ask. “Oh, Deliane…Well, you know, Deliane’s found God, hasn’t she…Universal Church of the Kingdom of God…She doesn’t visit anymore. Ardiles, her husband, won’t let her. Says our house is a den of heathens.” “A den of heathens?” “That’s what he calls it…” Isinha grabs a dustpan, sweeps up the rubbish, and dumps it into a banged-up garbage can. Daniel, coiffed and perfumed, says, “Ma, the money.” He straddles the motorcycle. “You’re riding there, Dâni? The butcher’s just around the corner…” she says, still rushing to open the metal side gate. He revs the engine, accelerates. I cut across the kitchen and watch the scene from the living room window. Isinha moves the boys out of the way—“Uncle Dâni, where you going?” “Uncle Dâni, take me, take me!”—crosses the front yard, flings open the wood-slat gate, and ventures, discreetly, “A kilo and a half of topside. Tell Corumba I’ll settle up with him later.” She shuts the small wood gate, scolds the boys, locks the metal barrier, and shuffles in her flip-flops to the lean-to. I cut back across the living room and kitchen. Reaching over the concrete tank, she turns on the faucet. I sit in a chair by the table strewn with jeans. She soaps and scrubs the clothes. “Damn it, I forgot to call Zana…I’ll ring her later. What were we talking about? Oh, Deliane…So, she doesn’t visit anymore. But I go there to see the grandsons…Isaque and Mateus…One’s eight, the other’s ten. They’re darlings…I’ve got a photo of them somewhere. I’ll show it to you later. They’re doing well, thank God. They’ve got a little house in Guanabara. Ardiles works in the air-conditioning business. He’s got two employees. Deliane does the numbers. We never talk when I visit. All she does is try and convert me. Would you believe it?” Isinha rinses the clothes. “You’ve seen all I’ve got going on. To think I’d find the time to go to church to clap and sing and yell Praised Be, Hallelujah! Then on weekends, Sunday service, home visits, hospital visits…” Isinha picks up a plastic orange basket filled with pegs and hangs each piece on the clothesline. “I’ve got too much on my plate! Folks coming and going all day long. Looking for Diego, ’cause you know he’s in the car business, right? Boy’s always got two vehicles on the go, one for him to use, the other to leave outside on display…Then there’s those who come fetch pants from Wellington…And the two Júnios…And Dâni…I take care of them all! Where am I meant to find the time to listen to a priest jabber on about what’s right and what’s wrong? I won’t say never, ’cause you can’t ever know what tomorrow will bring, but…See, the problem is…In this God-bothering country, if you’re with them they’ll move mountains for you. But if you’re a heathen, as Ardiles likes to call us, they’ll let you starve to death. They don’t give a damn.” Isinha changes the water in the cockerel’s tin. “Wellington brought us this little guy to cook up. But then the Júnios got attached…They even gave him a name…Zé. Nobody’s got the courage to kill the poor thing. So the bird just hangs out here, like he’s a pet. The Júnios have just about forgotten he exists. Joke about eating the cockerel, though, and they turn on the waterworks.” At the sound of the shrill motorcycle horn—“It’s Daniel!”—Isinha darts away, unlocks the metal gate, cuts through the front yard, grumbles, chides, cuts back through the front yard, locks the metal gate, and walks in with a plastic bag. “The cell phone!” She smacks her forehead and places the bag on the kitchen table. “He’ll be back soon for lunch. I’ll ask him then. He’s gone to see some friends,” she explains. From the window, I watch as she opens the steel cupboard and pulls out a saucepan, a casserole, a stockpot, and a skillet, then sets them on the stove top. Sweat trickles down my temple, forehead, chest, and underarms. “I’m going to use the bathroom.” “Go ahead,” says Isinha, peeling garlic and tossing it in a small wooden pestle. I push open the door—it smells awful—and close the latch. A plastic, flower-patterned curtain divides the room. I raise the toilet cover, unzip my pants, pee. A gecko clings to the wall. The louver window is jammed, one of its glass panes broken. A car steers down the road. I gather snippets of conversation from the Júnios. I flush. Take off my glasses and wipe them with toilet paper, then slide them into my shirt pocket. I wash my face and dry it on the damp towel. I avoid the mirror spattered with toothpaste. Put on my glasses, unlatch the door, open it. The scent of rice takes over the noonday. Isinha is tenderizing the meat with a wooden mallet. I drag a chair to the kitchen and sit down. “I took a cab the other day. You wouldn’t believe who the driver was. Sizim’s kid!” Isinha says nothing. The black beans gurgle in the stockpot. Isinha sprinkles salt and pepper on the steak. One of the Júnios, the blond kid, sprints in. “Gramma! Gramma! It’s Grampa!” There is the sudden booming of Wellington’s voice, Júnio’s chortling, and Hulk’s joyful, chaotic barking. Júnio clings to Isinha’s legs and asks for water. Wellington enters the kitchen with a grandson at his hip and the dog at his heels. “Peninha! I’m always saying: they’ll show up so long as they’ve got breath in them.” He sets the boy on the floor and pulls me into a firm hug, eyes glassy and breath sour with booze. The dark-haired boy tugs at Isinha’s apron. “Gramma, gramma, me too!” Isinha pours water from a clay bottle into a plastic green mug. “It’s been forever! Look, Zinha, it’s your brother! She was beginning to worry,” Wellington says, edging near the stove. “Opa! Meat for lunch! Zinha didn’t think you’d come…Rosana said you’d disappeared…What did I say? Well, here he is!” He mechanically stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out two candies to give to his grandsons. “Wellington! I’ve told you a thousand times, no candy before
lunch! Hell, you never listen!” Wellington steps into the backyard and taunts: “Is today the day we finally cook Zé?” The two Júnios start to cry. Isinha yells, “For Chrissake! What’d you do that for? Nobody’s eating Zé. Y’all can stop now. Grampa’s just teasing. Now get out of here! Go on, out with you!” He palms an Itaipava from the fridge—“Where’s the bottle opener, Zinha?”—places it on the table, and grabs two glasses from the steel cupboard. “In the drawer,” Isinha says, chopping onions. Wellington sloshes beer into a glass. He gets ready to pour another. I stop him. “None for me, thanks.” “No?” he cries, as though I were confessing a sin. “Have you made a vow or something?” he queries, cautious and without irony. “I got out of the habit,” I lie. “Years of traveling during the week without being able to drink…The constant driving and chatting with clients…” Wellington has emptied his glass; he fills it up again. “That’s a downright shame. You see this?” He brandishes an unlabeled bottle that holds a golden liquid. “This here is top-quality cachaça, made in Rio Novo. Have a whiff…” He just about shoves the bottle up my nose. “Smells great,” I say. “Want a taste?” he asks, pouring a shot in the other glass. “No thanks,” I reply. He downs the cachaça. “Now that’s some good stuff, sô!” He grimaces and slaps his thigh. The smell of sautéed steak permeates the house. Wellington—face bloated, hair sparse and gray, potbellied and skinny-legged, top three buttons of his shirt undone to reveal white chest hair, ill-fitting pants and frayed shoes—asks, proud and playful, “You see the grandsons? Dieguito and Juninho. They both have the same name…” Isinha cuts in. “I’ve already told him about it, Wellington.” He laughs and knocks back his second glass of beer. The motorcycle horn screeches and the two Júnios barrel in, screaming, “Gramma, gramma! It’s Uncle Dâni! It’s Uncle Dâni!” “Open the gate will you, Wellington?” she asks. Wellington rounds the house, dog and grandsons weaving in and out of his legs. Isinha sets three amber Colorex plates, a glass baking dish with rice, a white ceramic bowl with beans, a steel baking dish with steak and onion, and an enamel dish with grits on the table, along with three sets of forks, knives, and some serving spoons. Daniel parks his motorcycle and heads into the annex, the boys tailing him like two smitten cats. Isinha belts, “Dâni, get over here. Food’s ready!” Hulk posts himself at the kitchen door. Wellington sits down, I pull up a chair, Isinha sets a liter-bottle of Coke and two glasses on the table. “Gramma, gramma! Me, me!” says the dark-haired boy, pointing at the soda. “Me too,” parrots the blond one. “No sirree! Y’all need to shower first,” Isinha says as she herds the boys into the bathroom. Wellington heaps food onto his plate. I serve myself some rice, beans, grits, and a bit of steak and onion. Daniel takes a seat and heaps food onto his plate too. “Beer, Dâni?” asks Wellington. “C’mon, Pa, you know I don’t like beer,” he says, peevish. Isinha’s cooking tastes just like Mom’s. “Won’t you look at that, Daniel. We get to eat meat today ’cause your uncle’s in town,” he teases. Daniel chews in silence, as though in a hurry to finish. Wellington knocks back another glass and shakes the bottle, which is now empty. Daniel downs half a glass of Coke with each forkful of food. Wellington gets up to grab another Itaipava from the fridge, tops up his glass, and slugs another shot of cachaça. Isinha steps out of the bathroom with one of the Júnios bundled in a towel; the boy shimmies his legs as he walks, leaving a wet trail on the red floor. I take a sip of Coke. “I saw Marcim Fonseca this morning,” I say. “The mayor?!” Wellington’s eyes glimmer. “Yeah…We went to high school together at Colégio Cataguases.” “Hey, Zinha! Did you hear that? Your brother’s pals with the mayor!” Wellington remarks. “I wouldn’t call us pals…” I clarify, but he doesn’t hear me. Isinha steps out of the bathroom with the other Júnio bundled in a towel; he also shimmies his legs as he walks, adding to the wet trail on the red floor. “What do folks say about him?” I ask. From the bedroom, where Isinha is busy helping her grandsons get dressed, she says, “He’s a good mayor.” “Good? The man’s a crook,” Wellington counters. The boy with dark hair, now fresh-smelling and clean, leaps into his grandpa’s lap. “He does a lot for the poor,” Isinha insists. “Does he now! What does he do, exactly?” Wellington stuffs a hunk of steak in his mouth. “He’s revamped school meals, upped the value of workers’ ration cards…” “We’re workers though, aren’t we? And we don’t live off school meals, do we?” Wellington snatches a piece of steak from the floor and lobs it at Hulk. “The poor have good things to say about him…It’s rich folks who don’t…” Isinha insists as she releases the blond-haired boy, now also fresh-smelling and clean. He immediately wedges himself beside his half brother on his grandpa’s lap. “Sure.” Wellington has another sip of cachaça. “Those folks are so hard up that any old handout will make them sing.” “I like him,” Isinha says, trying to put an end to the conversation while spooning food onto an enamel plate for the boys. “You like him ’cause you don’t have a mind of your own,” Wellington continues, exasperated. “Are you all going to start again?” Daniel bursts out. Wellington turns to face me. “So, Peninha, seeing as you’re pals with the mayor and all. Do you think you could get Daniel a job there?” “For fucks’ sake, Pa!” Daniel shoves his empty plate to the middle of the table and gets up. “What? What’s the problem? You’re at school, aren’t you?” Wellington nudges the boys off his lap and gets up too. “Wellington, cut it out!” Isinha says, squatting to stick spoonful after spoonful of food in the two Júnios’ mouths as they pace restlessly back and forth. Daniel slams the door to the annex. “Jesus. You all can be real pissy sometimes! What’s the problem with your brother helping Daniel get a job? He’s his nephew, they share blood…” Wellington gathers up the rest of the plates. “But that’s not how things work…” Isinha says. Wellington slides a mix of leftovers into a bowl for Hulk, who waits anxiously at the kitchen door. “It’s not? Then how do they work, Miss Know-it-all?” “You have to take a public service exam…” “An exam?…Exams are for suckers! The smart ones get in through the window, Zinha. The window! If your brother wanted to, he could talk to the mayor tomorrow and Daniel would have a job.” Isinha gets up and presses her hands into her lower back, which feels tender. She wipes her grandsons’ faces. “Meantime, he’s just bumming around…Did you see what time he wakes up?” Wellington asks me. “At his age, I had responsibilities. I paid my way.” Isinha serves herself some food and eats on her feet. Wellington shakes the empty Itaipava bottle for the third time. “These days…” he mutters as he walks out. “Wellington, where are you going?” But he doesn’t answer. The two Júnios burst into tears. “They’re tired…” She leaves her unfinished plate by the sink. “C’mon, time to brush your teeth.” Isinha shepherds her grandsons into the bathroom. She patiently squeezes toothpaste onto their toothbrushes and hands one to each of them while inspecting their ears. Hulk observes them, his eyes pleading. “Isinha, do you remember Sino?” I ask. “Sino?” “Yeah, the dog we had as kids. Small, black fellow…” “Sort of,” she says, tuning out. She dries the Júnios’ faces and walks them to the bedroom. I watch her place pacifiers in the mouths of the boys, who lie with cloth diapers in their arms. I hear her turn on the fan and close the jammed window. Hulk joins them, sheltering from the heat. Isinha softly shuts the door and tiptoes out. “Coffee?” she asks. I nod. “Won’t you finish eating?” Isinha picks up her plate. “I’m used to it…” She scrapes the rest of the rice, beans, and grits into a reappropriated paint can, which she’d pulled out from under the sink and behind a pink curtain. “I collect swill,” she explains. “I’m raising half a pig…It’s cheaper…This way, we always have suckling pig for Christmas dinner.” She turns on the faucet and fills the milk canister with water, then turns it off. She places the canister on the burner. Takes a glass container from the steel cupboard and dumps five spoonsful of sugar into the canister, then puts the container away. She sets up the metal dripper. Grabs a plastic container from the steel cupboard and dumps three spoonsful of coffee in the cloth fil
ter, then puts the container away. She takes out two large amber Colorex mugs and places them on the table. She covers the pots and saucepans and arranges them in the fridge. The leaves of the cow’s-foot and guava trees are still. Sweat leaches out of every pore. Someone in the neighborhood is listening to funk carioca, “As novinha tão sensacional / As novinha tão sensacional / Descendo gostoso, prendendo legal.” Isinha used to love Roberto Carlos. She and Mom knew every one of his songs. They would cry when listening to the Rádio Cataguases program “Roberto Carlos em minha vida,” and never missed his New Year’s TV special. “Isinha, do you still listen to Roberto Carlos?” “Roberto Carlos?” she asks, abstracted. “You used to be crazy about him…You and Mom.” She watches the water bubble in the milk can and says nothing. “You knew all his songs…” She pours hot water into the cloth coffee filter. “Oh, Zézo, I don’t have time for that nonsense anymore…” “What about telenovelas?” “What about them?” “Do you watch any?” She fills two mugs with a brown, almost see-through liquid—“Nah”—and empties the rest of the coffee into the red thermos. I have a sip. It’s sweet and watery. “Your coffee tastes just like Mom’s,” I say. She sticks her hand in the pocket of her apron and pulls out a crumpled pack of Eights. She taps out a cigarette, strikes a match, lights the cigarette, and blows smoke without inhaling. “Uai, since when do you smoke?” I ask. “Clears the head.” She adds, “Nobody knows…It’s a secret.” She laughs. “Have you really quit?” she asks. “Yeah,” I answer, adding, “What about João Lúcio, Isinha?” “What about him?” “Any news?” “Nothing. He used to visit before Mom died…When her health took a turn for the worse and she moved in with us, he’d come by every week…” Leaning against the sink drinking coffee, Isinha lets her resentment shine through. “All Sunday he’d be at her side. He paid for the essentials, made sure she was comfortable…He hurt so much when Mom…went…He spared no expense for the funeral…The coffin was top grade, and we had flowers coming out of our ears…It was a classy affair…He even rented a bus for folks coming from Rodeiro…” Isinha turns on the faucet and wets the tip of the cigarette, then turns it off. She tosses the filter into the banged-up garbage can. “Next day he wakes up and decides we’re not family anymore. You know he’s just getting richer and richer, don’t you?” Isinha turns on the faucet and squeezes dish soap onto the sponge, then starts doing dishes. “Do you think he’s happy?” “Uai, Zézo. You know any rich folk who aren’t? You’ve got to be dumb to be rich and sad. Goodness! If I was rich, I’d be the happiest person in the world.” She sighs. “Anyway, I hear that snooty, fuddy-duddy wife of his is depressed…” “Depressed?” “You see…Word is Jôjo cheated on her…Serves her right, the cow!…” “Really?!” “You didn’t know? He’s got a whole other family…” “You’re joking!” “Cross my heart…It was about three, four years ago…Wellington was in the gemstone business at the time and some guy from Guidoval owed him money. One day he decides to collect. Diego picks him up in the car and they drive there together. That’s when they find out that this guy is the brother-in-law of Jôjo’s other woman. Would you believe? He’s got her set up in a house. Supports her and the two girls. The guy said they look just like Diego…At first I didn’t buy it, but Zana corroborated the story.” João Lúcio of all people…So proper, Catholic…“I know Wellington’s no angel,” Isinha continues. “He is or was mixed up in all kinds of stuff…But he’d never do something like that. And they say she isn’t even pretty. Worse yet, that she’s poor like me…” Isinha dries the dishes and stacks them in the steel cupboard. “Of course, she’ll be taken care of. Or at least her girls will. ’Cause the law’s got their backs, hasn’t it?” “So you’re saying he has two children outside marriage?” “Two girls! No doubt they’ll want a share of Maria Luísa and Maria Fernanda’s inheritance…His legitimate daughters…” “This could get ugly,” I venture. Isinha dries her hands on her apron and palms the broom. “Now go sit outside,” she says. I get up and heft the chair into the backyard. From the annex comes the sound of a fan, either rotating or stationary. Daniel walks out, groggy-eyed. He says, “Ma, I’m heading over to Dími’s.” Isinha drops the broom and runs to open the metal gate. “Oh, honey, I’ve got to call your Tia Zana…I’m out of minutes…” “Not now, Ma, when I get back.” They round the house. I hear Isinha’s voice in the front yard—”…see about buying a pair of pants, Dâni?”—as she throws open the wood-slat gate. “C’mon, Ma. You know we don’t wear knockoffs. Please…” Daniel retorts and accelerates. Daniel has left the fan on. The annex, a rectangular room with no windows and a corrugated iron roof, is a furnace. Inside is a bed, a desk with a computer, countless wires plugged into an extension cord. Two posters, of the band Sepultura and of a Ninja Z-14 motorcycle, are tacked up with Scotch tape. “I was just shutting off the fan…Daniel forgot to…” I explain. “Don’t,” says a panicked Isinha. “Otherwise Daniel won’t step foot inside…’Cause of the heat…Then he’ll go and pick a fight with us about it.” Hulk emerges, tongue lolling, and sprawls beneath the table covered in jeans. In the lean-to, Isinha fills a bucket with water from the tank, then hefts it to the kitchen along with a rag and the squeegee. She splashes detergent on the red burnished concrete and begins to mop vigorously. Around the neighborhood, sertanejo music and evangelical songs mix with funk carioca in a thundering duel. The air is stuffy. Zé squats in a corner with his beak open. “You’re retired, right?” Isinha asks, panting. “Yeah.” “Zana told me.” “It’s next to nothing, though. Hardly enough to pay for…Hardly enough to survive on.” “But you used to make good money…” “It was a different time…The pay wasn’t great, salary-wise. But I earned on commission…I have nothing left. I gave Marília the apartment, for Nicolau…I walked out of that marriage empty-handed…” “See, that’s why I don’t leave. We don’t own a thing, but if you put together the little I earn with what Wellington brings in…If I left him—and mind you, he deserves it—I’d feel awful about it. ’Cause how’s he going to manage? The man doesn’t have a pot to piss in…You know, he doesn’t get on with his family. They’re all still back in Leopoldina…And he hates it there. He’d end up on the street. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t…” She wrings the rag out over the tank, and places the squeegee and the broom in the cupboard. She washes her hands and dries them on her apron, sighs and tidies her hair. “All right, let’s iron your clothes!” She fetches a blanket from the house. She folds it in half and drapes it over the table, shoving aside a mound of jeans. She grabs the iron from the lean-to and plugs it in. She fills a milk-white spray bottle with tap water and turns off the faucet. She collects the clothes from the clothesline. “Is the backpack yours?” she asks. “Yeah,” I say. “All right. I’ll stick the folded shirts in there.” Isinha grabs the socks and turns them right side out. She spritzes and irons them, then puts them away. She grabs the underwear. “Are you renting?” I ask, sitting beside her in a chair. “Yeah. We had enough for a down payment, but then Diego decided to start his car business…So we lent it to him. We never saw another penny of it. I mean, the money’s there, but it’s tied up in the cars, isn’t it? At some point, he’ll get bored and move on…” “Is the neighborhood decent?” “As decent as any other. Some good neighbors, others that aren’t so great…The problem is drugs. The kids haven’t got anything to do so they spend all day gadding around…They get mixed up in trouble. There’s a lot of theft. You can’t leave anything outside. The other day, somebody lifted the cardboard box where we keep the boys’ toys. Would you believe it? An empty box! All right, here’s your clothes. Nice and clean, and ironed!” “Thanks, Isinha.” She turns off the iron and leaves it to cool on the floor of the lean-to. She puts the spray bottle back in the cupboard. Unfolds the blanket and carries it to the house along with my backpack. She sits back down, grabs the scissors, and starts finishing the pants. “Do you ever think about Lígia, Isinha?” I ask. “Lígia?” Isinha’s eyes wander, as though rooting around the past. Her hands mechanically sn
ip threads. “She’d be fifty-four years old and seven months today,” I say. “She was born August 4…1960…” Her hands pause. “Goodness…Honest, it’s been a while since I’ve thought about her. All those years of my life…They feel like a dream…” Her body dips into work. “I think about her all the time…There isn’t a day I don’t remember…” “I pray for her…Now and then…” Isinha offers, by way of apology. The boy with dark hair turns up at the kitchen door, rubbing his eyes. Isinha is startled. “Oh hi, sweetie. Did you wake up?” She leaves the scissors on the table, as if the scissors somehow stood for the unpleasant subject. She holds her grandson in her arms. “You hungry?” she asks. The boy with blond hair emerges, dragging behind him the cloth diaper. “Gramma’s gonna make you some porridge. Yum…How does that sound? More coffee, Zézo?” “No, thanks, Isinha.” An oblivious rooster crows in the distance, the sound deadened by the chorus of a funk song. “Chacoalha, chacoalha / Chacoalha, chacoalha / Joga a buceta na pica / Doidona de bala.” Hulk scampers away. Wellington huffs into the kitchen. “Zinha, have we got five pants ready to go? Diego’s on his way. I’ll have him give me a ride to Djalma’s. He’s just called…” Isinha points to the room. “Dresser drawer. They need wrapping, though.” She stirs the pot with a wood spoon. “Cornmeal porridge. They love it. Want some?” she asks. “No, thanks…I’m full.” “You used to love porridge…” She’s right…I did love porridge…And I loved Mom’s coconut cheese flan…And taioba…I never had any of it again. “Do you remember Mom’s coconut cheese flan?” A car honks. “Diego!” The Júnios rush to the front yard, all of a sudden wide awake. Wellington returns with the plastic-wrapped jeans. “These are the last ones, Zinha.” “They’re collecting this lot on Monday. I can put another order in then…How many do we need?” “About twenty.” “Have we got labels?” “Jadson’s delivering them tomorrow.” Diego walks into the kitchen with the two boys and Hulk tangled in his legs. He doesn’t recognize me. “Diego, say hi to your uncle!” says Isinha. “Uai, Uncle…” “Peninha, your mom’s brother,” Wellington explains, knocking back a shot of cachaça. Diego hugs me, pats me on the back. “Wow, Uncle Peninha. It’s great to see you…” He adds, “Ma, could you grab the paperwork for the Fiesta? I think I’ve found a buyer.” “Have you had anything to eat, hon?” asks Isinha, and Diego sticks a spoon in the bowl of porridge cooling on the table. “Yeah.” “Where?” she pries, jealous. “At Nicole’s.” “Nicole? Who’s Nicole?” Isinha seems concerned. “Bagged yourself another, huh?” Wellington pokes, with sarcasm. “Your son’s sure got a sugary pecker…Christ Almighty!” He laughs and Isinha heads to the bedroom, embarrassed. “How’s it going?” Diego asks as he lights a cigarette. “All right,” I say. “Just passing through?” “Just passing through.” Wellington butts in, “Peninha’s going to get Daniel a job…He’s pals with the mayor…” “You’re friends with the mayor, Uncle Peninha?” I say nothing, and instead just smile. Isinha comes back with a plastic sleeve and hands it to Diego, who slips it into his pocket. He licks the porridge spoon and drops it in the sink. “Is Uncle Peninha really getting Daniel a job, Ma?” Diego blows smoke through his nose to impress his boys. “It’s all talk, Diego.” “He does need one,” Diego says. “That’s what I said,” Wellington adds as he horses around with the Júnios. “Pa, let’s hit the road, yeah?” “Diego, could I bother you for a ride?” I ask. “But Zézo, it’s still early,” Isinha objects. “I really should get going. I’ve been enough of a nuisance already…” “Not nearly,” she says, tearful. Wellington grabs the pants. I hug Isinha, then pat the two Júnios on the head. “When will you visit again?” she asks. “I’m not sure,” I say as I grab my backpack and put on my hat. We climb into the red Fiesta, Wellington in the front seat and me in the back with the jeans. Tears streak Isinha’s wrinkled face. “Women…Always fucking crying,” Wellington grumbles. The Júnios start smacking each other, Isinha intervenes, Diego accelerates. “Bye!” I hear her yell. A barking Hulk chases the car for a few meters, then gives up. Diego connects his cell phone to the stereo. “Eu te dei / O ouro do sol / A prata da lua / Te dei as estrelas / Pra desenhar o teu céu.” The husky voices of a sertanejo duo celebrate the love they’ve finally found in each other. The Fiesta speeds down the pitted asphalt road as the air-conditioning chills my clothes. “Where to, Uncle Peninha?” “Anywhere near the center. No need to go out of your way for me.” “No problem. Just name a place.” “Hotel dos Viajantes, near the station.” “All right, that’s where I’ll drop you,” he says, solicitous. “Diego, I’ve got to take these pants to Vila Minalda,” Wellington gripes. “It’s all right, Pa. I’ll drop Uncle Peninha first then take you to Vila Minalda.” “But he’s already waiting,” Wellington insists. “We’ve got plenty of time, Pa.” Diego glances at the rearview mirror. He asks, “Why didn’t you want to stay with us?” Wellington jumps in. “We haven’t got anywhere to put him, Diego!” “We’d have figured something out…Wouldn’t we, Uncle Peninha?” “Diego thinks everything’s easy,” Wellington remarks. The car’s digital clock reads 16:58. “So who’s this Nicole chick? It’s Nicole, right?” Wellington asks. “A friend,” Diego answers. “For Chrissake, Diego, you’re like a fucking rabbit…All these women…And a kid with each of them…But who’s stuck bringing them up, huh?” Wellington pats his chest. Diego laughs. “You, Pa? Like you’ve ever lifted a finger for the boys…” “You ungrateful shit! If it’s not me, then who—” “C’mon. You know Ma’s the one who looks after the boys. She’s got a right to complain. You, on the other hand…Sure, you think of the boys every now and then. Buy them candies, give them hugs…But the person who takes care of them, like really takes care of them—who feeds and washes and nurses them when they’re sick, puts them to bed and educates them—that’s Mom.” “Is that right! And who brings home the bacon?” Wellington cries, in a fluster. “Who? Come on, Pa!” Diego laughs. “Mom does! If we had to rely on you…” Wellington becomes vexed. His face clouds over. He mutters, “I guess that’s the way things are…All right…” His eyes settle on a strip of old houses on Avenida Astolfo Dutra. The red Fiesta comes to a sudden stop. “Would you look at this, Uncle Peninha? You’d think we were in São Paulo. There are so many cars, the road never clears up…” I gaze out at the stalled traffic. “Diego, I think I’ll walk from here. It’ll be faster. That way you and your dad can go deliver the pants.” “I don’t mind. But if you’d rather…” I say goodbye, sling on my backpack, and climb out. My body shudders from the brutal change in temperature. My glasses fog up. I wipe the lenses with the edge of my shirt. I walk along the sidewalk, skirting tables outside bars. It’s Friday, and everyone seems anxious to cast off their dirty work clothes. Rows of cars honk frantically. Clouds of sparrows swoop back into the trees to wait out the long night. Mom used to believe in omens…Sino’s disappearance on the evening before Lígia…The day when all of that…happened…The kitchen wall clock smashed on the floor…Four thirty, it read…There wasn’t a breath of wind…A pharmacy! I go in. Grab a plastic basket. I scan the display racks and pick out toothpaste, dental floss, shampoo, conditioner, soap, deodorant…I make my way to the cash register, place everything on the glass counter, stuff my hand in my back pocket, pull out my worn leather wallet, take out my last bill, and give it to the woman. She puts everything in a plastic bag and hands me my change. I thank her and walk out. I need to find a barber…Sweat fuses my shirt to my skin. Dad was never the same after Lígia…after her…death. If before he’d have a glass of wine with his meal, a large bottle of Maravilha de São Roque always chilling in the fridge—on Sundays he even went overboard, turning in as soon as lunch was done, stuffed with spaghetti and wine—after, he made it a habit to stop at every boteco on his way back from work, and came home drunk day in and day out, violent and nervy. João Lúcio had already moved to Rodeiro, so we—Mom, Rosana, Isinha, and me—were left to deal with his bouts of aggression. And if before he had never smoked in the house—the pompous ashtray that lived in the hutch was re
served for guests—going so far as to scrub his hands with Pasta Joia and gargle mint tea to stamp out the stench of cigarettes, after, a rank smell marked his passage through the rooms. And if before he’d tended to his looks with almost womanly fussiness—hair and mustache daubed with Glostora, face meticulously shaven, shirt ironed, pants pressed, shoes buffed, in Lancaster cologne—after, he was so slovenly as to be almost unrecognizable. When he was on the verge of losing his job for negligence—he, the man once named “employee of the month” by Industrial—the factory doctor diagnosed him with pulmonary emphysema, cinching his disability pension. By then I’d already moved to São Paulo and Isinha was shackled to Wellington. Mom, exhausted and probably under João Lúcio’s influence, kicked out Dad, who, retired, retreated to a shack in Paraíso, a ruin of his former self. Salão Dois Irmãos—Édson and Edinho. The arrow points to the back of the arcade, the paint on the sign peeling. I walk in. One of the brothers immediately folds up an issue of O Globo and leaves it on the sofa. He gets up and says, “Good evening!” His name, Edinho, is stitched in black on the pocket of his light-blue smock. “Good evening!” echoes the other brother—whose name, Édson, is stitched in black on the pocket of his light-blue smock—as he coolly cuts the hair of a man who sits listlessly beneath a large yellowish-white sheet. “What’ll it be?” asks Edinho. “A shave,” I say. I remove my backpack and hat, leave them on the sofa beside a small plastic bag. He points at an old chair facing a Botafogo pennant, champion of Brazil, 1995. I sit. Aside from the chair, everything in the parlor is old; the tiles, the high ceiling, the counter, the mirrors, the scissors, the trimmer, the combs, the brushes, the stained walls, the cobwebs on the ceiling, the talcum powder, the lotion, even the two men, short, squarish, almost identical, their hair dyed jet black and parted to the side. Edinho removes my glasses, drapes a cloth over my chest, dumps powder into a small, ceramic white bowl, turns on the faucet, adds water, and stirs up some foam with a shaving brush. “Besides, David Luiz wasn’t even born here,” he says, taking up an earlier conversation. He patiently sharpens a razor on a leather strop. “But his father’s from here!” argues Édson, standing opposite the Flamengo pennant, 1981 champion. “If that’s the case,” Edinho argues, “then it’s got to be Friaça, hands down!” “Friaça?! The one who played for the national team in 1950?” asks the man, practically engulfed by the sheet. “The very one! Friaça was from Porciúncula, but he had relatives in Cataguases,” Edinho explains, now sharpening the blade on a whetstone. “Our mom’s cousin was married to a Friaça. Seu Argemiro,” Édson adds. Edinho assiduously rubs an alcohol-soaked tissue on my beard and mustache. I shut my eyes. “If we’re only counting players born in Cataguases, then it’s easily Rosene!” he says. “Rosene?” echoes Édson, indignant. “Rosene doesn’t hold a candle to Dinheiro. Remember him? He used to play for Manufatora.” “Rosene played out of state, in Rio de Janeiro,” Edinho argues. “Dinheiro didn’t want to. Some scouts even came up from São Paulo to try and convince him,” Édson explains. The man dwarfed in his seat offers, his voice faltering, “Far as I’m concerned, nobody beats Wilmar, who played for Atlético, for Inter de Limeira, for Bangu, who even played on the juniors national team, and who…” On the day Mom told us Dad had moved out, João Lúcio drove over from Rodeiro and said, He can go to hell for all I care, then repeated the same thing to each of us. He refused to help, even though he knew Dad was sick, even though he knew his pension barely covered the cost of medication, even though he knew he lived in a leaky, rat-infested hovel. Obstinate, he didn’t attend the wake or the funeral mass or the burial or