The More I Owe You

by Michael Sledge

  Was it the misuse of language that lent the entire enterprise an aspect of farce? The hyperbole of the accusations and counteraccusations made Elizabeth want to laugh—the words were all so extreme and ill considered, you couldn’t believe any of it. It was too facile. The mere sound of Carlos’s voice was an irritant; his nasal whine compelled her to speak over him.

  “It is impossible to know the difference between people who really want to change this country for the better,” she said, “and the opportunists who want to destroy everything that’s not of their own creation. I have to tell you both the most amusing story.” Last year, she went on, Carlos had fled to Samambaia and sought refuge not in his own house but in Lota’s, when Goulart, tired of Carlos’s daily attacks, had sent his thugs to kidnap and most likely kill him. Poor Mary had seen the car racing up the hill in the middle of the night with the headlights off and roused Manuelzinho from sleep; wearing nothing more than boxer shorts, he’d tiptoed into the house holding a stick, with Mary creeping in behind him. A bodyguard with a machine gun had come round a corner, and all three had nearly gone into cardiac arrest.

  “Carlos is like Tobias the cat,” Elizabeth said. “He’s been bitten by a snake, fallen off a cliff, come home full of cactus spines, and still he seems to have a million lives left. In Brazil, comedy and terror are never far apart. I’m still not sure if that’s what dooms this country or what will save it.”

  Luiz and Flavio smiled politely but turned their attention back to the radio. Elizabeth knew perfectly well that Carlos was not the source of her restlessness—it was imagining Lota on the stage beside him, imagining Lota’s sense of triumph as she stood before a crowd of two hundred thousand people. No, not triumph, more like a certainty that at last she was fulfilling her destiny. But why did she require that? It was a sickness. Over a decade ago, Lota had enticed Elizabeth with the most tantalizing dream—this mountainside, this house, this peace. And then she’d pulled the dream away.

  In the evening when Elizabeth went up to her study, her mind resisted work. From the drawer of her desk, she removed a small bundle. The pistol Lota had recently pressed into her hands was small, delicate, almost feminine. A true lady’s firearm, lacking only a pearl handle to complete the aesthetic. She could slip it out of her sequined handbag with a velvet-gloved hand whenever she found herself in a jam.

  Steps came up the path, hesitating near the door, then Luiz appeared. “I am sorry to interrupt . . .” His eyes fell upon the gun.

  “Please come in. I promise I won’t shoot.”

  Elizabeth shut the gun back inside the drawer as Luiz entered the studio, his gaze absorbing the sum of her material possessions: a wall of books, an antique bird cage, photographs of Marianne and Cal, the mirror Luiz himself had sent only days after she’d drunkenly insulted him during his visit with Lina Bo Bardi. The gift had surprised her not simply for its generosity, but even more for the striking nature of the object. When he’d described making mirrors out of seashells, she’d imagined mere kitsch, but the mirror frame was fantastically gorgeous. Thousands of tiny maroon shells were arranged in spirals and waves, the work obsessive, exact. What had touched her most deeply was the note that came with the gift. Elizabeth, from the beginning I felt as though you are like a sister.

  “Is the rally over?” she asked.

  “It will go on all night. I think even they are surprised how many people came.” Luiz sat on the edge of the daybed, his back very straight. His eyes gleamed as they continued to roam over the room. “This is a wonderful space to work.”

  “Lota built it for me. Though it wasn’t in her original plan. I wasn’t in her original plan. I think that was when I knew I would stay in Brazil, long before I really admitted it. In my whole life, no one had ever done me such a kindness.”

  “Lota changed after you came. She became more soft. It was shocking to see, in someone so strong.”

  “Now I’m afraid she’s become hard again.”

  “We all have. We are forced to.”

  “She gave me the gun. She says Samambaia may not be safe for me any longer. I can’t even imagine what she means.”

  “In times of unrest, many find themselves persecuted, especially those who question beyond black and white. There could be that danger now. We must know when to go underground and hide so no one can find us.”

  “Like grubs,” Elizabeth said.

  “It might be necessary.”

  “I’ve had an invitation to teach in the U.S. next year. I want Lota to come with me. She hasn’t said no, but she hasn’t said yes, either. It all depends on the park, of course. But it’s getting so desperate here, I feel we have to leave.”

  He noted the pages spread before her. “No matter what she decides, you must think of the work.”

  “It’s hardly that! Strangely, I’ve been working more steadily than ever. I have a book of poems coming out next year, which I think may be the best work I’ve produced. Yet I can’t help wondering what good is any of it! I’m just sitting here in my little room in the clouds, making marks on a page. Sometimes I look at the favela near our apartment in Rio, and I have the oddest thought that not a single person living there will ever read one of my poems. I know that sounds self-absorbed, but what I mean is, they don’t truly benefit anyone.”

  “I make chairs,” Luiz said simply. “The world is full of chairs, so why make more? I can’t say why. I’m not an intellectual. Maybe when I think of a new way to use the material or a new form, it is still a good thing to do.”

  “All of us need to sit down, Luiz. At least you help us take a load off.”

  “We also need poetry. Maybe even more than we need chairs.”

  THE ARMY MADE its move.

  A week after the rally in São Paulo, a thousand sailors rebelled in Rio with the support of Goulart, demanding better working conditions. The mutiny proved too much of an affront to many in the military who had previously opposed action against the president. In the hours following the naval rebellion, high-ranking officers in all branches of the armed forces began to shift their loyalties and seek new alliances. Half had lost confidence in Goulart and wanted to remove him, while others remained faithful and vowed to prevent a coup. On the last day of March, General Mourão, who had long been vocal about his hatred of the president, mobilized a battalion in Minas Gerais to advance upon Rio. It was impulsive, endorsed by none of his allies, yet it forced them all to choose sides. Civil war became a near certainty.

  In Copacabana, the day was at odds with the grim occasion. It was hot and glaringly bright, with blasts of wind that shook the trees and rattled the windows. Flavio had come back to the city from Samambaia with Elizabeth; listening to the radio, he shouted out to her across the apartment every update on the situation. She was grateful for the company, as Lota had not been home since their return. In an ecstasy after General Mourão’s announcement, Carlos began making preparations for Guanabara Palace to be defended by sandbags and volunteer gunmen against the soldiers Goulart was sure to send. Defying the counsel of his friends in the military, he barricaded himself inside the palace with his family and close associates. Lota, of course, had been first in line. When Elizabeth finally got through to the palace phone after hearing of General Mourão’s plan, Lota told her she could speak for only a moment; they had just gathered in the screening room to watch an inspirational movie.

  Elizabeth could not at first respond.

  “About John F. Kennedy’s wartime heroism,” Lota added.

  “Are you insane? Come home!”

  “Do not worry, my dove,” Lota said, “the palace is protected. Armed police surround us. I even have a pistol of my own. And they’ve closed all the streets with garbage trucks.”

  “You’re surrounded by garbage?” Elizabeth said acidly.

  “It is true they will not be much help if Admiral Aragão makes good on his threat to attack Carlos with tanks.”

  “This is not a joke, Lota. They’re saying there could be war. And tha
t palace is the primary target.”

  “I am hardly joking.” Lota’s voice had gone hard. “Now is the time to fight. We will only leave this palace dead.”

  Elizabeth hung up and turned to Flavio. “Your aunt’s completely lost her senses.”

  Throughout the day of March 31, Flavio sat on the floor beside the radio, turning the dial in search of the latest news bulletins. “The unions have called a general strike in Rio,” he called to Elizabeth, who was distracting herself with a new recipe in the kitchen.

  An hour later: “There is no longer transportation in or out of the city. A grocery store in Ipanema is being ransacked because it sold out of bread.”

  Later: “A crowd has broken the windows at the Banco do Brasil in Gloria, demanding to withdraw their money.”

  “Please turn it off. I don’t want to hear any more,” Elizabeth told him. “I’m going to get you out of this country if it’s the last thing I do.” As a child, Flavio, so vulnerable and lost, had endeared himself to her. Sometimes Marietta had dropped him off, not saying when she’d return, and the boy had stayed with them for weeks. He’d sit with Elizabeth in her study, quietly reading while she worked. He was very bright and sensitive, but now he was being wasted in Brazilian university, where the classes had stopped meeting and the only allowable conversation was about the coming communist revolution. Elizabeth wanted to get him a scholarship to Harvard so he wouldn’t be ruined, and Cal was pulling what strings he could. Flavio was looking especially handsome with his new haircut; it wasn’t quite as avant-garde as before, though he was so self-conscious she couldn’t utter a peep about it.

  Every half hour Elizabeth dialed the palace line, but the calls would not go through. When their own phone rang, it was not Lota but Manuel Bandeira warning them not to go outside, the streets were turning dangerous. Luiz also called from São Paulo to ask if they were safe and if they had stocked up on water and other rations. As the afternoon waned, they put on some jazz records, Flavio’s latest passion, and he read to her from a music magazine.

  The next call was from Flavio’s mother in Petropolis; she said that Mary was trying to reach Elizabeth on the short-wave radio. Elizabeth opened the cabinet where they kept the radio they used to communicate with Mary in the mountains. She turned it on and attempted to call, but there was no response.

  Flavio was listening again to the news. Troops of the First Army were now heading out of Rio to confront General Mourão’s regiment marching from Belo Horizonte. They were expected to clash sometime during the night.

  So there would be war.

  Elizabeth went out to the veranda. On the beach, the usual throngs soaked up the glare, played soccer, and splashed about in the waves as though it were any other normal day in paradise. Flavio called to her from inside the apartment. Mary was on the short-wave radio. Elizabeth rushed in and took up the microphone. Mary had been putting Martinha down for her nap, she said, when Elizabeth had tried to reach her earlier. The phone lines had all been cut at the palace, and that was why they’d heard nothing from Lota all day. But Mary had other friends there who’d been able to smuggle out messages. Carlos still refused to evacuate, against the army’s advice that they didn’t need any more martyrs.

  As darkness fell, it began to rain. Elizabeth prepared dinner. Fish, which you were still able to get. She and Flavio lit candles all over the apartment. As they ate, they ran out of words. At least the boy had a voracious appetite, so the meal was not a total waste. Outside, the streets of Copacabana were empty; even those in the workers’ encampment had decided to pack up and scram. After dinner, Flavio returned to the radio and Elizabeth tried to read, but her attention failed her and she made little progress. A bit before midnight, General Kruel in São Paulo announced that the Second Army under his command would side against Goulart and the communists. Flavio turned the dial from station to station, back and forth, but there were no further details, simply the same announcement over and over on different stations. It wasn’t for another hour or more that another proclamation was released: The First Army, marching to defeat Mourão in Minas Gerais, had instead been ordered to join his forces.

  Flavio and Elizabeth looked at one another. They leapt up and grabbed the other’s arms, dancing in a circle while the rain beat at the windows.

  There would be no war.

  After 2:00 am, it was Carlos’s voice they heard on Radio Roquete Pinto, live. She wasn’t surprised; it was a voice that could defy any opposition, including severed electrical lines. One of the telephone lines had not been cut, Carlos reported, and that was why he was able to deliver this update from inside the besieged Guanabara Palace. So far, it had been a terrifying night. The palace was encircled by enemies. On the orders of the president, two Marine battalions were preparing to attack. At any moment, they might be overwhelmed by the superior force of the Marines’ tanks. Yet many valiant defenders lay on the palace floor with weapons in hand.

  Bleary from lack of sleep, Elizabeth said, “Do you think we can believe even a word of what he says?”

  “Maybe half, but which half?”

  “You know what today is, don’t you? It’s April Fools’.”

  Flavio grinned. “Here we call it the Day of the Lie.”

  Shortly before daybreak, Carlos raised a second alarm.Though every minute brought new defectors from Goulart’s camp, the president was growing desperate. An attack on Guanabara Palace was imminent, and Carlos appealed to all citizens of Rio to close ranks around him, to take to the streets and help combat those who would take away their freedom.

  “What do you think?” Elizabeth said. “Shall we go?”

  Flavio leapt to his feet. “We shall!”

  “Let’s straighten your eyeglasses first.”

  Even in the pouring rain, thousands of people were heeding Carlos’s call, filling the streets. Elizabeth had to grip Flavio’s hand not to lose him as they were carried by a human tide through the Copacabana tunnel. Everyone was sopping wet from the rain, their clothes clinging to their perfect bodies, and they were all jubilant, shouting and calling to one another, just like Carnaval, when people were soaked to the skin with sweat and joy and cachaça. After two hours they neared the palace, pushing past the blockades of cars and trucks and a few vendors grabbing the chance to sell fruit juice and fish croquettes to the converging hordes. At the end of the avenue, Elizabeth could see a knot of figures in front of the palace, surrounded by police. That one was Carlos, certainly, and there, beside him, that had to be Lota! Elizabeth frantically waved her arms and shouted, but they were at such a great distance that she was merely one more shouting, waving lunatic in the crowd.

  Carlos’s voice suddenly reverberated in the air, like God’s. She could see him speaking into a microphone set up on the palace steps. She took Flavio’s hand and pushed forward, all the way to a formation of policemen in riot gear who prevented her from advancing further. Carlos was making a joke about the garbage trucks, and then he stepped away from the podium. Lota was nowhere in sight.

  For a long time, she and Flavio waited. The rain came and went. Elizabeth was so exhausted and chilled she had to sit down, right there on the curb. She rested her chin on her knees and smiled weakly at Flavio.

  “That reminds me of when we were children,” he said. “Your sitting like that, like a little girl. Do you know what we used to call you? Cara eterna.You had the face of a young girl, always smiling and shy and kind.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said when he saw that she’d begun crying. “I did not mean to make you sad.”

  Carlos reappeared, and Flavio helped her to her feet. The governor was brandishing a gun over his head, shouting that Guanabara Palace was being attacked at that moment by a band of desperadoes. The crowd cried out and ducked to avoid the exchange of gunfire. Carlos challenged his invisible foes to settle their dispute in man-to-man combat. Elizabeth wondered why his leather jacket looked so familiar.

  There was no gunfire. After a while, they realized there were n
o desperadoes either. Elizabeth’s thighs ached, and she stopped crouching down.

  She was terribly hungry. By now it must have been long past lunchtime, and they’d eaten nothing since dinner the previous night. Flavio went in search of the vendors they’d seen earlier. As he left her, Elizabeth reached for his arm, momentarily uncertain if she should voice her thought.

  “What a nice haircut,” she said adoringly. Flavio ran his hand through his bangs and disappeared into the mass.

  She won’t be able to save him. She won’t be successful in finding him the scholarship to America. In two years, Flavio will score well on his test for the Brazilian foreign service and begin a career as a diplomat, though for a government growing increasingly repressive under military rule. So repressive, in fact, that Flavio will start to fear for his own safety. However, he will always remain fiercely loyal to Elizabeth. In the fight over Lota’s estate, Flavio will side with Elizabeth against his own mother, testifying in court that Elizabeth had not exploited Lota’s derangement in order to alter the terms of her will, as his mother charged. Elizabeth will not be the only one stunned by the news, three years after Lota’s death, of Flavio’s suicide. Even if it were true he’d died by his own hand, nothing will convince her that Flavio was not a victim of Brazil’s insanity, just as Lota was.

  From the crowd behind her, a murmur rose, moving swiftly and volubly up the avenue. The asphalt trembled. She heard shouts. Tanks! Run! A rumbling and clanking, then the human sea parted before three tanks advancing toward the palace. Down the slope behind the tanks was a perfect vista of Lota’s park, of the bay and the mountains beyond Niteroi. People began to push and shove in panic. As they were about to be attacked, Elizabeth thought with dry humor how it all looked like an elaborate float at Carnaval, one with a military theme.