“Those fire balloons are fantastic! O falling fire and piercing cry/and panic—”
“Cal, stop,” she cried. “Please don’t quote me.”
This feeling! A wild heap of fury was building inside her; it wanted to smash everything to bits. If she allowed him to, this man would absorb her, yet she remained staring into his eyes, unwilling to break away.
“There’s something I have to confess to you, Elizabeth.”
“You and your confessions!”
“Elizabeth, dearest of Elizabeths.”
“Cal,” she forced herself to say, “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me, but I’m going to go inside the house now.”
His face fell. He turned his back.
“Won’t you come with me?”
That he would not respond pained her. She could not help a feeling of failure; she had failed to live up to his expectations of her. She was not the poet he thought. In a sense, it was against all her desire, yet Elizabeth left Cal and made her way through the dark to the house, where a light illuminated every window. Reaching the door, she turned to see him still looking away across the black water, his hands in his pockets. The temptation to return was nearly irresistible. She had not asked what it was he wanted to show her. He still had not told her what he could see that she was unable to see on her own.
ON THE SHIP, they brought twenty-six pieces of luggage, including, thanks to the glory of electricity, a new hi-fi—or eee-fee, as Lota called it—to play the records Elizabeth had not heard in five years, and two portraits in big gold frames that Aunt Grace had sent down from Nova Scotia, of her mother and Uncle Neddy as children. Even with its cast of characters constantly testing one’s patience, shipboard life was as much to Elizabeth’s liking as ever, though the boredom and monotony of the voyage nearly drove Lota mad. When she finished the last detective novel from the pile she’d stocked up on, Lota threw the book over the railing and into the sea with a howl of frustration.
In Rio, Cal’s manuscript was waiting when they arrived.
For New Year’s, they went to Rosinha’s house in Cabo Frio, where they gorged themselves nearly beyond the limits of human endurance on platters of freshly caught shrimp and fish. Each morning Elizabeth took a long walk on the beach, collecting shells, and thought fondly of Luiz Cusi and his mirrors. All afternoon she swung in a hammock, the sounds of the surf lulling her, an unopened book in her hand, and thought of Manuel Bandeira and his preferred method of composing a poem. In the evenings she turned to Cal’s manuscript. She hadn’t been imagining it at all. Once they’d left Maine, he’d had another breakdown. Thankfully, he’d soon recovered his balance of mind. She read and reread his poems and formulated her response, not only to the work but also to his rather spectacular letter in which he apologized for his behavior in Maine and also confessed a long-unspoken desire, once upon a time, to have married her. The confession was not a complete surprise, but still shocking to see on the page. Also lovely, in its way.
And the poems! How did he do it? In spite of her appeals, he’d forged ahead and mined all varieties of personal experience—his own as well as his family’s—to create something astonishing. That he could take such intimate information and derive so much larger meaning, elevate the material undeniably into the realm of art, was far beyond anything she could imagine herself capable of. His assurance never ceased to amaze her, even if, at times, her sympathies remained with those who’d become the unwitting subjects of the work.
Lota declared the poems masterful. It wasn’t the poetry she had a problem with, she said, nibbling the nape of Elizabeth’s neck.
Cal had written about the skunk after all. It was Elizabeth’s favorite poem of the bunch, yet still she had to smile. He was so insistent on himself, on forcing the symbolism upon you, rather than letting the material breathe and live on its own. He’d dedicated the poem to her; the transformation in his work had been inspired, he claimed, by her armadillo fleeing from the fire of a Saint John’s Day balloon. How beautiful the fire balloons were, he wrote, and how quickly they turned dangerous.
At night, Elizabeth put the poems aside and switched off the light. She left a candle burning at the bedside.
Since they’d returned to Brazil, their lovemaking had taken on a renewed urgency. Lota’s hands reached for her and slowly began to stroke Elizabeth’s skin, as acutely sensitive from the sun and the sea as if it were freshly made. Lota drew widening ellipses upon her back; her touch made Elizabeth feel lighter, weightless. The lightness turned to warmth, the warmth to fire. A gust of desire abruptly swept her up, took them both in a fierce ascent. She took hold of Lota in both fists, her cries smothered by Lota’s kisses, until at last, descending, they returned softly to the earth.
No Coffee Can Wake You
[JUNE 1961 - JANUARY 1968]
No coffee can wake you no coffee can wake you no coffee
No revolution can catch your attention
You are bored with us all. It is true we are boring.
No coffee can wwake you no coffee can wakeyou no coffee can wake you
No coffee
18
THE DAY BEGAN with an argument, once again about the goddamn roads. The two men were waiting outside the Shack when Lota arrived, Enaldo Crava Peixoto, the new director of SURSAN, and his chief engineer. Enaldo wore a white linen suit and was cooling himself with a black fan. The engineer, whose name was Gilberto, paced back and forth and mopped the sweat from his dark, angry face.
Thank you for being so prompt, Lota said before he could open his mouth.
In fact, said the engineer, we have been waiting here boiling in this heat for nearly one hour.
Dear Gilberto, may I offer you some water? She pressed Enaldo’s hand and kissed his talcumed cheek. Good morning, Enaldo.
Hello, Lota.
Please come inside and have a seat. She unlocked the Shack and opened windows to air out her workplace, already an oven even at this early hour.
Gilberto stood petulantly in the doorway with his arms crossed.
Please, Gilberto, do not remain angry with me. I work every night until one in the morning, you cannot expect me to arrive precisely at 7:00 am every day. I also might remind you that I carry out my duties as director of the aterro’s development without compensation of any kind, out of dedication to the governor and to the betterment of this marvelous city.
My commitment is no less—
Let’s get to the reason I asked you here. For months, we have discussed this issue of the roads, and it was my understanding we had agreed that only two roads were to be constructed through the aterro. Yet Tuesday in O Globo, Gilberto was quoted as saying we knew very little about how the aterro’s space would be used, except that there would be four roads! Please help me understand.
Enaldo, leaning against a bookcase, said nothing. Gilberto at last took a seat and said, The plan for the aterro’s development was approved three years before your appointment. It clearly specifies four roads.
That plan, as far as I’m concerned, has as much significance to our work as a speck of shit left by a fly. Enaldo, perhaps in the few weeks since you’ve taken over the directorship of SURSAN and its myriad urbanization projects you have not had the opportunity to look at this plan? The agency you’ve inherited is full of myopic engineers and architects who are only looking for a way through a traffic problem. They do not see the larger picture and they want to turn Rio into cloverleafs and concrete highways. Isn’t that how you hope to be described by history, Gilberto, as the men who turned Rio’s waterfront into a stretch of concrete, from downtown all the way to Rio Sul?
The engineer glared but said nothing.
Still fanning himself, Enaldo offered his opinion. We must also consider the practicalities of modern urban life, Dona Lota. The city is growing rapidly, and the citizens of Rio do not want to sit in traffic all day. They require growth and progress.
So you plan to fill the city with underpasses smelling of urine? That rai
ses another question for me. Why is it that men feel compelled to relieve themselves in public? Just this morning, I passed three men showing off their unpeeled bananas to the world. I suppose you are right. We are a nation of primitives and would do well to enter a modern century.
Both men laughed. Lota could always make them laugh with a little vulgarity. It was the sign she used to begin to outmaneuver them. Yet precisely then the conversation took a turn for the worse.
But is progress really the uncivilized notion that human beings are less important than machines? she asked lightly.
If a snake could smile, it would have looked like Gilberto as he spoke. I understand that in your advisory capacity you feel bound to express colorful opinions.
Advisory! Lota cried.
However—
I am not an advisor. I’m the director.
Instead of matching her emotion, Gilberto’s voice grew softer, velvety, seductive. Why was it that when men smelled blood, they acted as if they wanted to make love to it? I’ve seen many political appointments come and go in my time at SURSAN, he said. I’m not sure why they are so interchangeable, I suppose it is a matter of expediency for the governor. I do not have a clear understanding of your own professional training, Dona Lota, though I understand you have tried your hand at painting. I am trained as an engineer. In my opinion, the problems presented by the aterro require an engineering solution.
Are you insinuating that I lack qualifications, you unimaginative little dwarf? As far as I’m concerned, you are merely a handyman.Your job is to turn the screwdriver.
Enaldo fanned himself more rapidly. Fury overcame Gilberto and made him impotent. He could not speak.
Is it because I am merely an expedient appointment by the governor, Lota went on, that I have assembled a team of the most talented and visionary men in Rio? Affonso Reidy and Sergio Bernardes are two of Brazil’s foremost architects. Roberto Burle Marx is a master of landscape design, he is known throughout the world. I am here for the duration of this project, and you may as well get used to taking your orders from a woman. Your previous supervisor could not do so, and I ask you, where is he today?
The engineer stood, clenching his fists as if to restrain himself from striking them against an object. I bid you good day, Dona Lota, he said in a strangled voice, and departed.
It is very hot this morning, Enaldo said after a moment. It has affected all our tempers.
It is always hot here. I have grown used to it.
Ah, Lota. Tell me what you would propose.
I will not allow four roads.
Can you not compromise a little? You are making the men feel humiliated. They will keep opposing you.
Lota laughed. Humiliation builds character. Ask any woman.
Well, then. Enaldo kissed her cheek. Until later.
The members of her team had begun to arrive. Lota loved the morning best, the Shack turning into an industrious hive as everyone took up their work. She had hand-picked all her staff. Most, like her, worked until nearly midnight, for little or no money, because they believed passionately in the project.
Out the tiny window of her office, she could see a sweep of broken rock and rubble meeting the bay. For her, it was a simple leap of the imagination to envision trees, a beach, children white, brown, and black together in the playgrounds—a park not only beautiful but also serving and bringing joy to all the people of Rio. Every encounter with the small minds whose province it was to develop this park offered her another glimpse of how revolutionary such a vision might be. Every imaginative suggestion, every idea that did not have as its aim the sacrifice of humanity and beauty to practicality, was attacked; or worse, first the idea itself was attacked, and then the attack became personal. That was one reason Lota always scheduled her most difficult meeting of the day first. She often arrived late to keep them off balance and so maintain the upper hand. She was certain to emerge victorious and for the rest of the day feel invigorated and alive. Just as she did now.
Lota wasted no time putting in a call to Carlos. Or, rather, to the first in a series of assistants who formed the barricade between her and the governor. To how many underlings did she have to explain herself before she was allowed access to Carlos directly? His secretary had her own secretary, and the undersecretary had an assistant, and the under-undersecretary had a receptionist who was actually the sharpest of the bunch. Behind that line of defense, Carlos was working at his massive desk in Guanabara Palace. One had to enjoy the irony, and the occasional justice, history could deliver—to think of Carlos overseeing the state’s business in what had once been the private home of the dictator Getulio Vargas. At last, someone passionate and honest to make things right.
Waiting on the line, Lota thought back to the day Carlos had sent for her immediately after his inauguration. She had been driven through the streets in a black sedan with the flag of Brazil fluttering at its hood. What would her father have thought of his unmarried, ugly daughter if he could have seen her at that moment, or later, when she and the newly elected governor had gone up in the palace helicopter and flown over the aterro, and Carlos had told her that now was the time, that she was the one who could create a park as memorable as Sugarloaf and Corcovado, and would she do it for him?
Back at the palace, they had celebrated and talked until four in the morning. Rio does not have enough water, Carlos told her, not enough schools, not enough sewage capacity, not enough roads, not even enough telephones! And certainly not enough money to meet one-tenth of the need. Sordid political practices and swindling have denied this poor city the proper infrastructure. It defies belief that it is still functioning. And everyone works to further his own interests instead of for the general good. Can you believe that last year our schools were so overcrowded we had to refuse admittance to over one hundred thousand children?
As always, Lota said, you are in a canoe, attacking a cruiser. Carlos cried,Yes! Yes! Absolutely! and laughed heartily. And you are right beside me.
Sometimes she thought she might have married him.
Finally she was informed that Carlos would speak with her. Yesterday you wouldn’t even take my calls! Lota cried before he could say hello. Today your secretary made me wait ten minutes. How many times are you going to piss me off before I really get pissed off?
And good morning to you, Carlos said, chuckling. He loved the game of their friendship as much as she. You must realize, dear Lota, that there are aspects of governing Rio state beyond the directorship of Flamengo Park. That is your job, not mine. Have you not read the newspapers? I thought perhaps you had called to congratulate me on my negotiation of the prison riot on Frei Caneca street. Or to offer advice on how I might answer the current proposal by my enemies in the legislature. Less than one year in office, and they are already trying to have me impeached.
No, I have not read the papers. I don’t have time. Listen, Carlos, the engineers at SURSAN do everything to obstruct me. Enaldo was just here with his chief engineer, Gilberto Paixão, who was so obstreperous I was forced to suggest I might have him fired, just as I did Landim.
First, Landim resigned, I didn’t fire him. And second, Enaldo has just had a heart attack, so please don’t give him another one. He is a good administrator, and I need him to continue as secretary of works, in addition to directing SURSAN.
Every day we revisit the same issues. Three or four incompetent imbeciles are wasting all my time. I’m sending you the list of those I’d like you to replace as soon as possible.
Lota, I want you to work with SURSAN, not remake it. We’re not going to fire everyone who doesn’t agree with you. That is the strategy of despots like Vargas. Use your skills to draw people to your way of thinking. Now I must go. Today, I am proud to say, we are inaugurating two new primary schools. Then I will tour the Rebouças tunnel construction and the new water mains in the Rosinha favela.
All right, Carlos, you stick with that rubbish of sewage, water, and whatever. You think you will be remembered for th
at? When they find that toilets work, they are not going to remember you. Water and schooling are things every government has the duty to provide, especially yours. The one thing they will remember is that you made Flamengo Park.
Carlos laughed again, extremely pleased. And I have no doubt you will create something that will make people remember me kindly. You and I both detest mediocrity, Lota.
Yes, but if you continue being so difficult to reach, I’m going to have to start communicating with you by letter, and I promise you won’t like the letters I write. Goodbye for now, dear friend.
IN THE AFTERNOON, Ethel Medeiros arrived to discuss the designs for the children’s recreation spaces. Thank God there was a woman on the project to provide at least one moment’s peace before Lota had to prepare herself for another battle. Today, Ethel was accompanied by the head of the mothers’ association of Catete and Gloria. When they showed her the plans of the pond for model boats, the train and playgrounds, the puppet theatre, Lota wished she had a photograph of the mother’s ecstatic face to show Enaldo. One look would banish any doubt.
SURSAN would have you run across four lanes of traffic of insane Rio drivers just to take your children to the playground, Lota said. But I promise I will not make you risk your lives.
Who is Sir San? the mother asked.
A wonderful aroma filled the Shack. Lota looked up to see Elizabeth! Among the hustle and bustle, she clutched a shopping bag before her with both hands, looking completely lost.
Cookie, what are you doing here?
You said you’d be home for lunch, but when you didn’t come I decided to bring it to you.
I’m sorry, Cookie, I forgot the time! I am just meeting with a mother from Gloria who is very excited about our plans.
Elizabeth’s face had that tight look, and she did not answer. Lota begged Ethel to continue the meeting and took Cookie by the arm. In her office, she swept the papers from the desk. Let’s have a picnic right here.
The More I Owe You Page 20