We walked through the night on Mare Street in that windy, cold neighborhood of Hackney, passing through its population of Africans, Caribbeans, Vietnamese, Turks; he wanted to show me Victoria Park, which he didn’t know. Meanwhile, he pointed to several Asian restaurants with cybercafés, in case I needed them, since there was no landline in the house with which to connect to the internet; later, when I got back home, alone, I also saw that there was no mirror—over the following three, four days, I went after one; I found it at a beauty supply store—one of those oval mirrors with a handle to hold on to.
We were walking in darkness along a path of beautiful, elegant houses in front of Victoria Park. Suddenly, the houses’ façades changed. They had iron bars on their balconies; they were hard, unfriendly. He told me that the architectural change was the result of the reconstruction after the bombings. Ah, I’m in the city of Churchill and his cigar, I murmured, I should not forget; I should do a memory exercise, who knows, something like recapping the historical facts from World War II onward in my mind. This might help me avoid embarrassing myself in front of people when caught in an unwise conversation.
Not that I was a complete idiot and couldn’t remember anything—otherwise I wouldn’t be in one of the world’s capitals, having been called by an Englishman who belonged to an institution where there was a respectable library devoted to the Portuguese world, with that massive compendium on Portuguese expansionism; and when we were leaving, later, we passed a vast cafeteria where students laughed loudly and seemed to be having a really good time, as if that ancient building still contained the energy of the masses and retained it inside a mysterious womb, which now also seemed to want the strange presence of a Brazilian who wrote books that were mostly well received by critics but not by the public.
We approached one of the grand gates of Victoria Park, and I could imagine myself running along one of its promenades on a foggy morning and stumbling over a homeless man asking me for coins to maybe restore his pride for a few minutes. I held on to the gate’s iron bars to make myself firm, abandoning any imminence of thought, of sensation, focusing only on an indistinct vision of the park at night, even though it was not six o’clock yet. He said: It’s closed.
That’s when I thought: that I wouldn’t want to be in any other place but here. Or, at least, there was no better choice. What would I be doing in Brazil? Staring at the February sun, blinding myself in peace? I needed to be here, though I lacked any hint of passion for it. I imagined the park’s daytime splendor, even in winter with the branches dry and all that, yes, everything could be beautiful in this hemisphere of shadows if one knew how to look. I should have imagined this world back when I used to dream of a life outside the tropical realm to calm my melancholic adolescence; now, although I felt I was in the right place, and lucky to be here under the (for me still hypothetical) shelter of an institution and a blond Englishman I should trust, I was unable to summon the necessary enthusiasm to live in this frozen world of the North.
Some branches were so thin that they fluttered in the wind. I held on to the iron bars of the gates to Victoria Park with redoubled relief. I would not leave this place until it was proved to me a better one existed. I was sure I wouldn’t be given a second chance. This sureness was tested by a chilling cold. I was freezing. Deep down I couldn’t see how this opportunity could improve my life—which I still hadn’t learned to imagine, much less ask for.
I glanced at the Englishman and loosened my grip on the iron bars of the park gates. I knew that, for good or bad, uncertain or not, he calmed me down. A sincerity, which I didn’t want to admit existed, seemed to emanate from his core. But to blindly believe in someone from a foreign country would not be a good idea, at least not until things were clear: a solid document, an invitation letter with a stamp from the organization—if they used stamps here to prove the authenticity of institutions or whatever it was he was representing.
He smiled vaguely. Perhaps because he was showing me a better side of Hackney. Over there, there were no abandoned warehouses or smells of grease coming from the Vietnamese restaurants. And I had no more longing. No desire for anything new to arise along with the new morning. What I had was enough. And that little, almost nothing, could make me indifferent to everything else.
Or did I have a lot? Did I have it all? If it were up to me, I could just go back, back to the house, which I now wanted to call my own, although I still was not sure he would pay—through his institution—my rent each month. If it were up to me, I could go back to sleep, try the bed I’d been given, its blanket and pillows. If it were up to me, I would solve all my dilemmas with some good sleep. And I would not wake up until the late winter brightness broke through the curtainless bedroom window through which I could see bars and debris and a small tree with bare branches far from budding. If it were up to me, I could die for the next few hours; not want to know the legitimacy of the Englishman’s intentions: He who had called me from a distant country and seemed to want to extract some unsullied realness from me—as if I were ready, coming from the authenticity of a southern land, as if I could provide the British with a type of unparalleled loyalty unheard of among other peoples. Me, huh? I muttered and looked at my shoes, already muddy from the London damp.
When I got home, the temperature inside was perfect. He had provided: I had seen him adjusting the thermostat before he took me to Victoria Park. I wandered around the apartment, starting with the bathroom, where I looked for the mirror. There wasn’t one. Vietnamese people were opposed to the act of looking at themselves, was it possibly that? My search had a purpose: I wanted to see myself after the voyage; see if I was still the same, if this person who had appropriated a house in the suburbs of London had been rejuvenated by the move; see if his skin was oily or dry or marked with wrinkles that would stop him from wanting to give up on his journey—for example, if he said no, he would be returning to Brazil on the first plane, or that they should expect no other decision from him except for him to wander around Europe until his legs no longer allowed, until he reached a point when everything flowed into infinity.
I lay in bed with my clothes and shoes still on. It was very comfortable. What would it be like to dream in that curtainless room that offered me a leafless tree, iron bars, and the debris that was once perhaps the immediate result of the Industrial Revolution? Would I dream of squalid nature or gears crushing me? From the pitched roof of the Vietnamese restaurant below my window someone could come, break my window, and enter the apartment. I didn’t believe anyone in the neighborhood would do me any harm. Who would see in me anything other than the so-called peaceful citizen, with nothing worth stealing?
Everything was peaceful. I didn’t have to believe or stop believing. If I could sleep that night—and after the weariness of the trip, everything indicated that I would—if I could have that type of sleep that makes us brand new, I would venture into London the next day, even at my age. And in the afternoon, I would wait for the Englishman to call me on my cheap cellphone to advise me of my next steps. Where had I been all day? Looking for a mirror, because I need evidence that I’m still the same, that another has not taken my place. If this position doesn’t work out for me, if everything I have lived up until now is nothing more than a mistake, I assume the Brazilian Embassy will be able to take stock of my dilemma and give me a return ticket to Brazil. The right, effective, translucent man will be the one to appear in that mirror I haven’t yet looked into. I rode home on the red double-decker bus, on the upper deck of course, holding the wrapped mirror I’d purchased. I pondered the difficulty I would have at home, looking at myself without disdain. Oval, with yellow edges, a handle to hold. A proper mirror from a beauty salon. Yes, I bought it at a store that specialized in beauty products. Full of Thai people, who seemed to find it amusing that I was there; me, this placid man as I said I am, stripped of his vanity and ignorant of his own features. They laughed, and I couldn’t help but find it amusing too, as I chose the color and shape of the
mirror. When I paid, I remembered how the Englishman had handed me the first installment of my stipend the night before. The money was inside a tightly sealed envelope and I didn’t bother to count it. I trusted him, I trusted him so much that I preferred at times to silence my thoughts in favor of this confidence. Yes, I chose to deflect my doubt and evaluate him with obliquity. When the Thai woman gave me my change in coins of various sizes and shapes, and with numbers I could not quantify at first glance, I realized that I would have to get used to this country quickly, that managing things would soon be part of what they expected of me—what all these other people who were backing up the Englishman expected.
I found a nail on the wall above the bathtub where I could hang up the mirror. I would have to stand in the tub to see who this man was. Without taking off my coat or cap, I looked. I was an old man. Before, there had been no doubt that I’d reached a certain age. But now I didn’t recognize myself, too much time had passed. What could they want with a man who could do so little? Or did they expect me to have the decanted wisdom of an old man? And what kind of wisdom could I possibly offer at a seminar, for example, or even at a small conference about whatever it was I still had left in me… my delirium? I rubbed my face with my hands as if to clean away the accumulation of time. Oh, I think I was experiencing extreme fatigue, my sight was hurting me—seeing the nakedness of my own face.
It was still day; I left home. I caught the 55 bus on Mare Street toward Oxford Street, where I had been that morning. I walked through the crowd, crossed Soho searching for a pharmacy, went to Piccadilly Circus. There I found a store. I needed to shake my fear of going in and asking for some kind of product that would soften my wrinkles, the deep marks between the land of my nostrils and the tips of my lips. I was living in another country now, at last, and couldn’t care less if they mocked me. Next time, I would go to a different store. I could not forget their blasé reaction to my appearance. I felt something very determined within me: I did not miss what I’d left in Brazil or anything in any zone of any country. For the time being, or perhaps forever, I would have to accept what they gave me here in London as the possible solution to continue my existence, the old man that I was, but not so old as to be unable to walk with some dexterity, nevertheless feeling very forgetful, with nothing to give beyond what I had already given: kindness, a diplomatic smile, my only contributions in this foreign land. Yes, I was depending on them, and some inner voice was telling me not to stray from that dependence. I would leave my bank account in Brazil completely empty. In fact, I had to go into that pharmacy in Piccadilly Circus and buy something that would transform me. Not into a young man, I wouldn’t say that, but a man with an exemplary appearance. Or something like that.
I bought a face powder that came in a round compact. The saleswoman helped me find one to match my skin tone. She seemed convinced of her choice. I tried not to look in the mirror over the counter. I preferred to trust her competence as a cosmetics saleswoman. When I was about to pay, I noticed that this transaction involved many coins, a huge number of them. I realized that I still didn’t understand them. I was illiterate when it came to the currency. So, I took some paper money out of my pocket and showed it to the woman at the cash register, let her take the necessary amount herself. And I left, putting the compact in my pocket.
It was starting to get dark. I went walking toward what signs indicated to be Trafalgar Square. I caught a glimpse of the National Gallery building and thought I would go inside. To my grateful surprise the admission was free. Instead of looking at the paintings—though I knew I passed close by a Raphael—I went looking for a bathroom. I peed. The vast empty bathroom. In front of the mirror I realized that what I expected to see was not there. I took the compact out of my pocket, took it out of its box, opened it, and slowly rubbed the powder over my cheeks and forehead. If anyone saw me, they would certainly think of some artistic performance. I was a self-effacing person, I would do anything if this so-called world would continue sheltering me with some comfort, even if only a little, nearly none. Brazil was a fresco in the vault of my mind, but it didn’t hurt me at all, I almost didn’t have the sight to see it clearly anymore. To tell the truth, my mind had been deteriorating for a long time, it could barely sustain any memories. That’s why I was applying makeup in the bathroom of the National Gallery, without anyone coming in or out, as if I were in my dressing room preparing myself for the party. I would be a distinguished man, with the soft skin of a gentleman. Everyone would hear me in the crowded auditorium. What was left for me to say after saying so much for so many years? What have I really said? I know I was applying my makeup perfectly.
I left the bathroom stiffer than ever. No one else would ever recognize me again; I had transformed myself into someone who even I was seriously beginning to find strange. I immediately noticed a huge Murillo painting of Christ healing the paralyzed—he lay among a few men stretched out on the ground, suffering. Was there any way out but to heal the paralyzed? I wondered, feeling the weariness of having walked around London too much that day. I needed to attach myself blindly to the Englishman who had called me to London; I needed to reinvent him within me, allowing me to lose myself; I needed to allow the other to be born inside me, inside this very person whom I used to call “I,” but who seemed so dissolved lately, ready and willing to receive the crude essence of the Englishman. I needed to continue my transformation so as to know how to proceed. I would learn how to shape this substance, I knew I would: to become the other and then another and then another.
I had come to London to become many—I needed to understand that once and for all. To be only one person was not enough for me now—like the single being I had been in Brazil… I was ready, yes, and so I had to go back to my apartment, earn my routine, deserve it.
I walked through the dark streets with slow steps, until I found the bus stop of the only city bus I knew of that could get me anywhere: my house on Mare Street in Hackney. It was a long walk to Oxford Street, where the 55 came and went, but I didn’t need to know of any other means of transportation, other routes. When I’d gotten down to Oxford I could walk to countless places in the city, no matter how far they were; I was a bull on feet and human legs—just knowing that after anything, I could find my way back to Oxford Street, take the 55, and forty-five to fifty minutes later, depending on traffic, I would be under the blankets, listening to some classical music from one of the two FM stations I had found for that kind of music.
That evening, once inside the house, I went straight to the mirror. I didn’t look as old anymore. If I dyed my hair a light brown… What I felt, looking at myself in the mirror, was not what one usually feels for oneself: there was no special attachment to this figure, perhaps just some distant sympathy like one feels for a relative they haven’t seen in a long time, but with whom intimacy was exchanged during childhood. Someone with whom we can coexist for a few minutes without solemnity or misfortune, but whom we can also quickly leave behind in search of another identity, the one that insists on escaping us. I was a dandy, I now understood very well, and no city in the world would suit me as well as the one I happened to be in at that moment. That was my fate from that point forward, and I needed to do whatever was necessary to continue pursuing it until the end…which would be near, I thought, returning the mirror to the nail above the bathtub. A dandy in Hackney, I thought and coughed.
In the apartment, I ate a bunch of grapes, a banana, fruit that had been waiting for me in the refrigerator. Then I swept the rooms though they had not a speck of dust. Then I took my tranquilizer to sleep since nothing new happened. What new events could possibly happen to me? The Englishman, always the Englishman, calling, showing up suddenly, knocking on the door, requesting my services. Or saying that the contract was terminated, because I didn’t know how to take advantage of the opportunity I was given. I would ask him to take me for a lecture, just one, so I could show him and the whole audience how up-to-date I was on Brazilian trends—which was a lie,
of course, I no longer remembered where I had come from. At that point, Brazil was just an insinuation, a pure abstraction to me. What I really knew was my way from Oxford Street to Mare Street, discovered paths from Oxford Circus, how to get to Piccadilly, to Trafalgar Square, to go on, to want more, more from the same place, in this city I had been summoned to. Yes, I wanted more; I clung to that invitation, which I would not decline easily, if he wished to know. Did he want me to talk about Brazil to an audience of six hundred people? Ah, a lake was coming for me, and I was getting in it slowly, very slowly, because the water was cold and I didn’t have enough flesh yet to bear it. My skin, shivering leather. I looked around and saw no one. A hill over there. A horse grazing. More? To resist the sting of the ice on my skin and then drown myself in the lake. It should be easy for such a slim body. But I gradually understood that it wasn’t. I got out of the lake; I reached the bank feeling almost autistic as had become usual, but I got out, I didn’t drown. I was what? Six, seven years old. So, today, I found myself waiting for the Englishman. It was necessary for me to get involved. To break the shackles of that waiting and get involved: if I felt the onset of amnesia, I would need to recollect that and other images from my entrails, whether lived through or not, and from them I could extract—as one squeezes an orange, bit by bit, with force, with the difficulty exposed, worth points—I would extract from these images…what exactly? Laughter, because I didn’t know of anything else; oh, yes, it was Brazil that I needed to talk about, this Brazil that I had just become unacquainted with and which I now share with you, ladies and gentlemen. The audience was drowning in laughter, I made their afternoon, if not their next day and beyond. My eyes watered, not out of emotion: the makeup was getting in my eyes and irritated them to the point that they seemed to cry along with all the outpouring around me.
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