I went to Brasília in 1962. What I wrote about it is what you have just read. And now I have returned twelve years later for two days. And I wrote about it too. So here is everything I vomited up.
Warning: I am about to begin.
This piece is accompanied by Strauss’s “Vienna Blood” waltz. It’s 11:20 on the morning of the 13th.
BRASÍLIA: SPLENDOR
Brasília is an abstract city. And there is no way to make it concrete. It is a rounded city with no corners. Neither does it have any neighborhood bars for people to get a cup of coffee. It’s true, I swear I didn’t see any corners. In Brasília the everyday does not exist. The cathedral begs God. It is two hands held open to receive. But Niemeyer is an ironic man: he has ironized life. It is sacred. Brasília does not allow the diminutive. Brasília is a joke, strictly perfect and without error. And the only thing that saves me is error.
The São Bosco church has such splendid stained glass that I fell silent seated on the pew, not believing it was real. Moreover the age we are passing through is fantastical, it is blue and yellow, and scarlet and emerald. My God, but what wealth. The stained glass holds light made of organ music. This church thus illuminated is nevertheless inviting. The only flaw is the unusual circular chandelier that looks like some nouveau riche thing. The church would have been pure without the chandelier. But what can you do? go at night, in the dark, and steal it?
Then I went to the National Library. A young Russian girl named Kira helped me. I saw young men and women studying and flirting: something totally compatible. And praiseworthy, of course.
I pause for a moment to say that Brasília is a tennis court.
There is a reinvigorating chill there. What hunger, but what hunger. I asked if the city had a lot of crime. I was told that in the suburb of Grama (is that its name?) there are about three homicides per week. (I interrupted the crimes to eat). The light of Brasília left me blind. I forgot my sunglasses at the hotel and was invaded by a terrible white light. But Brasília is red. And completely naked. There is no way for people not to be exposed in that city. Although the air is unpolluted: you can breathe well, a little too well, your nose gets dry.
Naked Brasília leaves me beatified. And crazy. In Brasília I have to think in parentheses. Will they arrest me for living? That’s exactly it.
I am no more than phrases overheard by chance. On the street, while crossing through traffic, I heard: “It was out of necessity.” And at the Roxy Cinema, in Rio de Janeiro, I heard two fat women saying: “In the morning she slept and at night she woke up.” “She has no stamina.” In Brasília I have stamina, whereas in Rio I am sort of languid, sort of sweet. And I heard the following phrase from the same fat women who were short: “Just what does she have to go do over there?” And that, my dears, is how I got expelled.
Brasília has euphoria in the air. I said to the driver of the yellow cab: today seems like Monday, doesn’t it? “Yep,” he answered. And nothing more was said. I wanted so badly to tell him I had been to the utterly adored Brasília. But he didn’t want to hear it. Sometimes I’m too much.
Then I went to the dentist, got that, Brasília? I take care of myself. Should I read odontology journals just became I’m in the dentist’s waiting room? After I sat in the dentist’s magnificent death chair, electric chair, and saw a machine looking at me, called “Atlas 200.” It looked in vain, since I had no cavities. Brasília has no cavities. A powerful land, that one. And it doesn’t mess around. It bets high and plays to win. Merquior and I burst into howls of laughter that are still echoing back to me in Rio. I have been irremediably impregnated by Brasília.
I prefer the Carioca entanglement. I was delicately pampered in Brasília but scared to death of reading my lecture. (Here I note an event that astonishes me: I am writing in the past, present and future. Am I being levitated? Brasília suffers from levitation.) I throw myself into each one, I’m telling you. But it is good because it is risky. Believe it or not: as I was reading the words, I was praying inwardly. But, again, it is good because it is risky. Now I wonder: if there are no corners, where do the prostitutes stand smoking? do they sit on the ground? And the beggars? do they have cars? because there you can only get around by car.
The light in Brasília sometimes leads to ecstasy and total plenitude. But it is also aggressive and harsh — ah, how I would like the shade of a tree. Brasília has trees. But they have yet to be convincing. They look plastic.
I am now going to write something of the utmost importance: Brasília is the failure of the most spectacular success in the world. Brasília is a splattered star. It takes my breath away. It is beautiful and it is naked. The lack of shame one has in solitude. At the same time I was embarrassed to undress for a shower. As if a gigantic green eye were staring at me, implacable. Moreover Brasília is implacable. I felt as if someone were pointing at me: as if they could arrest me or take away my papers, my identity, my veracity, my last private breath. Oh what if the patrol cops catch me and beat me up! then I’ll say the worst word in the Portuguese language: sovaco, armpit. And they’ll drop dead. But for you, my love, I am more delicate and softly say: axilas, underarms . . .
Brasília smells like toothpaste. And whoever’s not married, loves without passion. They simply have sex. But I want to return, I want to try to decipher its enigma. I want especially to talk with university students. I want them to invite me to participate in this aridness, luminous and full of stars. Does anyone ever die in Brasília? No. Never. No one ever dies because there you cannot close your eyes. There they have hibernation: the air leaves a person in a stupor for years, who later comes back to life. The climate is challenging and whips people a bit. But Brasília needs magic, it needs voodoo. I don’t want Brasília to put a curse on me: because it would work. I pray. I pray a lot. Oh what a good God. Everything there is out in the open and whoever wants it has to deal with it. Though the rats adore the city. I wonder what they eat? ah, I know: they eat human flesh. I escaped as best I could. And seemed to be remotely controlled.
I gave countless interviews. They changed what I said. I no longer give interviews. And if the whole business really is based on invading my privacy, then they should pay for it. They say that’s how it’s done in the United States. And another thing: there’s one price just for me, but if my precious dog gets included, I charge extra. If they distort me, I charge a fine. Sorry, I have no wish to humiliate anyone but I have no wish to be humiliated. While there I said I might go to Colombia and they wrote that I was going to Bolivia. They switched the country for no reason. But there’s no danger: all I concede about my own life is that I have two sons. I am not important, I am an average person who wants a little anonymity. I hate giving interviews. Come on, I am a woman who’s simple and a tiny bit sophisticated. A mix of peasant and a star in the sky.
I adore Brasília. Is that contradictory? But what isn’t contradictory? People only go down the deserted streets by car. When I had a car and drove, I was always getting lost. I never knew where I was coming from and where I was going. I am disoriented in life, in art, in time and in space. Unbelievable, for God’s sake.
There people have dinner and lunch together — it is to have people to populate them. This is good and very pleasant. It is the slow humanization of a city that for some hidden reason is arduous. I really enjoyed it, they pampered me so much in Brasília. But there were some people who wanted me gone in a flash. I was tripping up their routine. For those people I was an inconvenient novelty. Living is dramatic. But there is no escaping it: we are born.
What will a person born in Brasília be like when he grows up and becomes a man? Because the city is inhabited by nostalgic outsiders. Exiles. Those born there will be the future. A future sparkling like steel. If I am still alive, I shall applaud the strange and highly novel product that will emerge. Will smoking be banned? Will everything be banned, my God? Brasília seems like an inauguration. Every day it is ina
ugurated. Festivities, my dears, festivities. Let them raise the flags.
Who wants me in Brasília? So whoever wants me can call me. Not just yet, because I am still stunned. But in a while. At your service. Brasília is at your service. I want to speak with the hotel maid who said to me when she found out who I was: I wanted to write so badly! I said: go on, woman, and write. She answered: but I’ve already suffered too much. I said severely: so go ahead and write about what you’ve suffered.
Because there needs to be someone crying in Brasília. The eyes of its inhabitants are much too dry. In that case — in that case I am volunteering to cry. My maid and I, we, girlfriends. She told me: when I saw you ma’am, I got goose bumps on my arm. She told me she was a psychic.
Yes. I’ve got goose bumps. And I am shivering. God help me. I am mute like a moon.
Brasília is full-time. I have a panicked fear of it. It is the ideal place for taking a sauna. Sauna? Yes. Because there you don’t know what to do with yourself. I look down, I look up, I look around — and the reply is a howl: noooooooo! Brasília stupefies us so much it’s scary. Why do I feel so guilty there? what did I do wrong? and why haven’t they erected right in the city center a great white Egg? It is because there is no center. But it needs the Egg.
What kind of clothes do people wear in Brasília? Metallic?
Brasília is my martyrdom. And it has no nouns. It’s all adjectives. And how it hurts. Ah, my dear little God, grant me just one little noun, for God’s sake! Ah, you don’t want to? then pretend I didn’t say anything. I know how to lose.
Oh stewardess, try to give me a less numbered smile. Is that the sandwich we’re supposed to eat? all dehydrated? But I’ll do like Sérgio Porto: I heard that on a plane a stewardess once asked him: can I offer you some coffee, sir? And he answered: I’ll take everything I have a right to.
In Brasília it is never night. It is always implacably day. Punishment? But what did I do wrong, my God? I don’t want to hear it, He says, punishment is punishment.
In Brasília there is practically nowhere to drop dead. But there is one thing: Brasília is pure protein. Didn’t I say that Brasília is a tennis court? Because Brasília is blood on a tennis court. And as for me? where am I? me? poor me, with my scarlet-stained handkerchief. Do I kill myself? No. I live in brute reply. I am right there for whoever wants me.
But Brasília is the opposite sound. And no one denies that Brasília is: goooooooooal! Though it slightly warps the samba. Who is that? who is that singing hallelujah and whom I hear with joy? Who is it that traverses, like the sharpest of swords, the future and always future city of Brasília? I repeat: pure protein, you are. You have fertilized me. Or am I the one singing? Listening to myself I am moved. There’s Brasília in the air. In the air unfortunately lacking the indispensable support of corners for people to live. Have I already mentioned that nobody lives in Brasília? they reside. Brasília is bone dried out from pure astonishment under the merciless sun on the beach. Ah white horse but what a rustic mane. Oh, I can’t wait any longer. A little airplane, please. And the ashen moonlight that enters the room and watches me, I, pale, white, cunning.
I don’t have a corner. My transistor radio isn’t picking up any music. What’s wrong? Not that way either. Do I repeat myself? And does it hurt?
For the love of Cod, (I was so startled I even mixed up the word God) for the love of God, please forgive me those of you who reside in Brasília for saying what I am forced to say, I, a lowly slave to the truth. I do not mean to offend anyone. It is just that the light is too white. I have sensitive eyes, I am invaded by the stark brightness and all that red land.
Brasília is a future that happened in the past.
Eternal as a stone. The light of Brasília — am I repeating myself? — the light of Brasília wounds my feminine modesty. That is all, people, that is all.
Aside from that, long live Brasília! I will help hoist the flag. And I will forgive the slap I got in my poor face. Oh, poor little me. So motherless. It is our duty to have a mother. It is a thing of nature. I am in favor of Brasília.
In the year 2000 there will be a celebration there. If I am still alive, I want to join in the revelry. Brasília is an exaggerated general revelry. A little hysterical, it’s true, but that’s fine. Bursts of laughter in the dark hallway. I laugh, you laugh, he laughs. Three.
In Brasília there are no lampposts for dogs to pee on. It badly needs a peepee-dog. But Brasília is a gem, dear sir. There everything works as it should. Brasília envelops me in gold. I’m off to the hairdresser. I’m talking about Rio. Hello, Rio! Hello! Hello! I really am frightened. God help me.
But there comes a time when I’ll tell you, my friend, there comes a time when Brasília is a hair in your soup. I am very busy, Brasília, to hell with you and leave me alone. Brasília is located nowhere. Its atmosphere is indignation and you know why. Brasília: before being born it was already born, the premature, the unborn, the fetus, in a word me. Oh the nerve.
Complete Stories Page 51