“Obrigado, but I’m good. Just going to go for a run.”
“Another run?”
He looks me up and down, like he’s appraising my body. He’s a doctor, so I can’t help but wonder what he’s looking for.
The coffee smells good, but I need to exercise before this day starts. First up is Mass with Layla’s entire family, followed by some giant barbecue at her aunt’s house, with cousins, If the Barros clan is anything like Layla’s dad, I’m going to need at least ten miles just to relax.
I ran up and down the promenade last night before coming back to the house. But I’d forgotten to have Layla call down to the doorman for me, and he made me sit on the front steps until Dr. Barros showed up sometime past eight. I followed his shiny black Benz into the garage. He wasn’t too happy that I was loitering outside “like a common street urchin,” as he put it. Well, he didn’t give me much of a choice, did he? And who the fuck talks like that except Disney villains?
I grab my ankle to stretch out my quad, lingering in the doorway. “Yeah, I tend to be pretty disciplined about it. If I don’t do something most days, I get a little cranky. What do you guys say? Everyone is supposed to get an hour a day?”
I don’t mention that if I don’t exercise, my version of “cranky” isn’t the nicest thing in the world. Running. Boxing. Lifting. These are things I realized a long time ago that I needed to keep the darkness in my life from swallowing me up.
“Some people need to be very…physical,” is all Dr. Barros says.
I choose not to respond, even though it’s clear what he’s trying to say: that I’m the kind of person who uses my body because I don’t have a mind.
“We leave for the church at nine thirty, is that right?” I ask him.
“Nine,” he says, and with another loud shake of his paper, turns back to his coffee. “We will not wait, either.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Barros. I’m never late.”
And before he can correct his title, I jog out.
I make my way up and down the promenade in front of the beach, the same run I did yesterday, but the relatively short distance isn’t enough for what I need. To start, there are too many people. Even at this time of the morning, it’s packed with other joggers, roller-bladers, cyclists, and people just walking around the busy neighborhood. But really, it’s the equivalent of running around the Upper East Side, and considering I’m going to get enough of that side of Brazil over the next few days, I wouldn’t mind taking a break when I can.
The cities here are really different than New York, or even LA. The rich people are packed down on the beaches in thin strips of high-rise buildings that block out the hills behind them, covered with poorer neighborhoods. But you can’t get away from the poor here. In New York, you actually have to get out of the wealthy neighborhoods to see the city’s poverty, or even just peel back a layer or two to realize it’s right there with you, like my family’s apartment. But despite their proximity, the poor go out of their way to stay nice and hidden.
Here, poverty looms all around, staring down at you from the hills that surround the low-lying beaches. People like Layla’s dad might live in high-rise buildings, but they can’t block out the favelas.
So as soon as I finish jogging down the promenade and back up, I turn off the main drag and start exploring the interior of Vila Velha.
I jog up side streets, vaguely noticing the way the buildings slowly morph from the glossy apartments into smaller, plainer structures that house businesses and shops, and eventually to places that basically look like stacked, multicolored cinder blocks, terraced up the hills that stick up from the land like fingertips. They look familiar, like the pictures of the slum in San Juan where K.C.’s family (and my mom) originally lived. Eventually there are fewer cars on the street and more bikes, sometimes a flimsy motorcycle or two. I actually pass a donkey around one corner. It’s still busy up here. People are passing back and forth between their houses; others look to be on their way to work. But although I get a few curious looks, most of them are friendly, nodding their “alôs” or “bom dias” as I pass.
It takes a while before I realize why I feel more comfortable up here than down on the beach. This isn’t a good part of town. Most of the people I pass wear clothes that are dirty and stained, several of the compartments have dirty floors and graffiti on the outside, and more than one kid glances at me from windows with hardened eyes. The farther I go, the fewer kids have shoes.
But unlike down on the beach, the people in this part of town don’t give me a second glance. The reason is clear: I look a hell of a lot more like them than I do any of the rich, light-skinned brasileiros jogging up and down the promenade. Most of the people in this neighborhood are mixed like me, with skin colors that range from light brown to black. It’s a neighborhood that’s about as diverse as my own back home. A neighborhood where I don’t look or feel out of place, even though I’ve never been here before.
Layla told me about this. That Brazil, maybe even more than the U.S., has its own racialized caste system. Up in the north, it’s more common to see black people, especially in states like Bahia, which, according to Layla, has a stronger African community, though it’s definitely not reflected in their politicians or leadership. Just like back home, most of the people in power here call themselves white, even if by American standards, they aren’t. Still, Layla and her family look like they just walked off the boat from Portugal or Italy, and so do most of the people living down there by the beach.
One thing’s for sure, though: soccer really is a national sport here. Whether it’s on the beach or on top of this hill, I’ve counted at last six different soccer games this morning, all played with balls in worse condition the farther up the hill I go. The last one looks like it’s missing most of its air and got into a dogfight a while back, but the kids seem to be having a good time with it.
Yet another ball comes flying at me as I round a corner close to the top of the hill. I just manage to stop it with my foot before it goes rolling down the street behind me, and I look up to find four little kids, all barefoot, watching me, their hands on their hips.
“Chute!”
The littlest one of the four jumps up and down on the rough pavement, waving his hands at me. Skinny, with a few teeth missing and a mop of light-brown hair that sticks out in a few different directions, he looks like he can’t be much older than five, though his large brown eyes look much older.
I kick the ball back, and he passes it to his friends, but he’s obviously lost interest in their game. He shuffles down the street to me, not seeming to care much about the fact that his little feet are kicking loose rocks on the dirt road or that he’s just ditched his friends to come talk to a strange man.
He spits a quick stream of Portuguese at me, but I have no idea what the fuck he’s saying. Sometimes when Layla’s dad speaks, I can recognize a few of the words, but this kid speaks something much less formal. Something that belongs to the streets.
“What’s that, little man?” I ask in English, and then, thinking better of it, in Spanish. Something tells me these kids aren’t exactly in school all day long learning the English alphabet.
His eyes pop open. “Americano?”
Ah. That I understood.
“Yeah, man,” I say as I sit down next to him on one of the blocks of concrete that’s been set up around their little makeshift field. “De Nueva York.”
His eyes get even bigger at the words. Everyone knows where New York is, even clear on the other side of the planet. John Lennon wasn’t wrong when he called it the center of the universe.
I hold up my fist for him to bump, and he stares at it for a second, before mimicking the action. When he knocks his knuckles against mine, I spread my fingers and imitate the sound of a bomb blowing up. The kid’s face lights up with a grin.
“So, what’s your name, papi?” I ask him, venturing into Spanish. “Tu nombre?” When the word doesn’t seem familiar to him, I tap my chest. “Nico.
” Then I point to him. “Tú?”
“Ahhhh.” The kid nods in clear understanding. He slams his palms down on his chest with more force than I would think a little squirt like him would be capable of. “Bruno.”
I grin. “That’s a big name for a little man, Bruno. You better grow up to be strong, you got that?”
Bruno just nods, even though he has no idea what I said. Instead, he’s absorbed with my arm, which is bare in the tank top I’m wearing.
“Isso.” Bruno floats a little finger over the swirls of my tattoo. He rattles off another long round of Portuguese, and when it’s clear I don’t understand what he means, he just says, “Tatuagem? Ouch?”
It’s not really that hard to communicate in different languages if you can keep everything to one-word sentences.
I nod. “Yeah, man, they hurt. But they were worth it. They remind me who I am. To be strong. Fuerte. For-te?” I’m guessing at the potential translation again, and the second version seems to work. I flex my arm for good measure, and Bruno’s eye pop open again.
“Forte,” Bruno repeats with a nod, though he pronounces it like “foh-chee” instead of the way I did: “for-tay.”
“Forte,” I echo him, and we fall silent as he examines the tattoo some more.
“Bruno!”
A woman’s voice calls from across the field, and Bruno’s head spins around.
I might have grown up in a building with doors that locked, but I know what it’s like to have my mother call for me like that, with fear threaded through her voice, looking out the window to where her kid is running around a neighborhood full of junkies and gang members. Ma had about as much choice as this kid’s mother does. There was no way you could keep four kids confined to five hundred square feet, as much as she would have liked to. She had to work, and she had no way to watch out for us other than to teach the difference between right and wrong and hope we’d stay out of trouble. It’s funny. I didn’t think about it much then, just stayed away from needles we’d sometimes find on the sidewalks, or walk down the middle of the street whenever we saw dealers or junkies crowding the sidewalks. But now that I’m older, the idea of raising my own kid in a place like that scares the shit out of me. Just one more reason my mother is a fuck lot stronger than I ever imagined.
Bruno stands up and waves to his mom, and I wave at her too, trying to be friendly, let her know I’m not a bad guy. Let her know that right now, at least, she doesn’t have to worry. Her expression softens, but she doesn’t stop watching. Then Bruno turns back to me with another long round of Portuguese that I can’t understand.
“Eu vai,” he says simply, which is close enough to the Spanish for “go” that I get it.
He points his little thumb toward his mother, who is watching us impatiently with her hands on her hips. The action causes his t-shirt sleeve to fall down his arm, revealing just how skinny he really is.
“Ah, here. Hold on, man.”
I stand up and fish a few reais out of my shorts pockets. It’s all I brought with me—maybe the equivalent of ten U.S. dollars, in case I got lost somewhere and needed a cab or a bus back to Praia da Costa.
But it’s obviously a lot more than this kid has seen in a while, or ever, if his wide-eyed gaze is to be trusted. He turns, obviously to gloat to his friends, but I pull him back toward me.
“Hey,” I say.
Bruno blinks up at me.
“That’s for your mom,” I tell him. “Para tu mamá, entiendes?”
It’s close enough to Portuguese that he gets what I’m saying and nods immediately.
“Go, give it to her now,” I tell him, nodding again toward the woman who is looking at us curiously. “Ahora.”
Bruno nods again, but before he leaves, he opens his little mouth. “Thank you,” he says in clear English. “Tchau, Nico!”
He scurries over to his mother, who takes the awkward collection of coins and small bills before looking to me with surprise. Her features aren’t any less hardened, and are maybe a little bit ashamed, but she nods before she puts the money in her pocket. It’s another combination of expressions I also know very well. The same look my mom had every time we stopped at the food bank, or when Alba or one of her friends would slip a few extra dollars into her pocket. Gratitude. Surprise. Relief. Shame.
Before he follows his mom back into their house, though, Bruno looks at me one last time. He sticks his little chest out, and gazes at me with emotions that are so different from his mother’s. Pride. Curiosity. Intelligence. Determination. Features that this neighborhood will probably do its best to erase, but if he’s lucky, won’t be snuffed out completely.
I wave at him, and he disappears, but his expression stays with me. He’s so damn tiny, but such a strong reminder that people are so much more than where they come from. That no one is born being nothing.
It’s easy to forget sometimes. But, I realize, maybe more important to remember than anything else.
I stand there for a few more minutes, looking out over the two cities spread out below. I examine the arched bridges that connect the two sides of the bay, the green hills in the distance that are mirrored by the ones closer to the city, the ones covered by houses just like these, kids just like these. It’s just one city, but it seems so vast from up here. A king’s view from the poorest seat. And this country is filled with them.
For the first time in my life, the world seems much, much bigger than New York. But I’m also seeing how many of the differences I’ve always taken for granted maybe don’t matter that much at all.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Layla
Nico was quiet through most of the Mass. He arrived from his run about thirty minutes before we were supposed to leave, much to my dad’s obvious irritation, and with a quick kiss on my cheek (also to Dad’s irritation, which I think Nico intended), jumped in the shower and changed into a nice pair of gray pants and a white button-down before stealing some bread and guava jelly at the table. I should be annoyed that he’s going out of his way to bug my dad, but weirdly, I’m not. No one gives my father shit.
He sat next to me in the car, looking up at the hills as we drove out of Vila Velha to Guarapari, a suburb where my aunt keeps a vacation house by the beach. He was lost in thought as we filed into the small chapel where my family goes to church, and he only gave distant smiles when we wave hello to my aunt, uncle, and their kids: David, their oldest son, Luciano, the new graduate, and Carolina, their daughter, who is only a few years older than me. David, an engineer, is even older than Nico and has a kid of his own and another on the way. Nico remained quiet through the rest of the proceedings, watching the priest lead the small congregation through service that was just about exactly the same, speaking only when prompted by the familiar rhythm of the rites and liturgies, except saying the words in Spanish instead of the unfamiliar Portuguese.
We linger a little after the ceremony, telling everyone we want to explore the small chapel, even though really we just want a minute to ourselves before facing the inevitable barrage of curious faces at my aunt’s.
“Ma would like this,” Nico finally remarks as we look over one of the stained-glass windows, a portrait of St. Christopher. “Do you think they have postcards or anything? I want to send her one.”
It’s hard not to kiss him for wanting to send his mom a memento. But this is a tiny church, and doesn’t have the same array of pamphlets and cards you find at the bigger cathedrals.
“Ah, well,” Nico says with a shrug when I say so. “I can take a picture and light a candle for her instead.”
My heels echo on the stone floors as we walk toward a small apse where there is an array of prayer candles. Another thing that doesn’t change, no matter where you are in the world.
Nico lights a few of the candles and murmurs a prayer under his breath, then crosses himself. If I’m counting right, it looks like he lit four in all: one for each family member back home. He kisses his fingers before dropping a few reais in the donation b
ox.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asks me as we continue to walk around the church. “You didn’t seem to eat much at breakfast this morning when I got back.”
I shrug. The truth is, I haven’t really been feeling that great since we landed. I’m guessing I picked up something on one of the planes on the way down. Those things are disease incubators.
“I’m all right,” I say as we continue to walk down the aisle on the other side. “I just wasn’t that hungry. You’ve been pretty quiet, though.”
Nico shrugs. “I like this place.” He looks around, taking in the tall stone walls and the rows of pews.
“Yeah?” I look around, enjoying the simplicity of the space. “I was worried you were bored since you couldn’t understand much.”
Sun shines in the arched windows on one side, casting blocked rays of light onto Nico and a few other places. He smiles, and the room is suddenly even brighter.
“I understood enough,” he says as he swings our hands slightly between us. “I’ve sat through enough of those to know what’s happening. The Eucharist is the Eucharist no matter where you go, verdad?”
I smile at his casual use of Spanish. It’s another word that’s only different from its Portuguese cousin by a single letter. “Verdade. So it is.”
I gaze around the chapel. It’s stark and relatively bare, so unlike my father’s ornate apartment or the bigger cathedrals you might find in Rio or São Paulo. But I know from my last visit to my grandparents’ house that my dad’s family hasn’t always been rich. My grandparents still live in the same house on a farm in Colatina, a small town about two hours north of Vitória. Vovô made his fortune growing tobacco and coffee, enough to send his children to a private Catholic school that allowed both of them to qualify for Brazil’s notoriously difficult public universities. Now most of the farm has been sold, and the old house, the fazenda, and a few acres of land around it, are all that’s left. It’s a long way from the glossy surfaces and rich textures of my father’s home. Much, much closer to this church.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 94