The More I Owe You

by Michael Sledge

  She was so far from Lota. It wasn’t fair or right. And Flavio had disappeared. She was alone. Elizabeth thought she should run, as everyone else was, try to flee out of the tanks’ range, but she stood still and watched them move toward her, more curious than frightened.

  The tanks halted. A soldier emerged from the first and waved the Brazilian flag. The crowd grew hushed, confused. Then utter pandemonium engulfed them all as it became apparent the army had deserted the president to side with Lacerda.

  In the revelry, Elizabeth was pushed up against the palace barricade. A policeman in riot gear took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers, then threw his helmet into the air and caught it. Elizabeth, too, yelled and waved—she had never screamed so hard or for so long in her life—until at last Lota emerged and came rushing down the steps, hitting the surprised military guards with her fists and pulling Elizabeth through.

  She kissed Elizabeth’s face over and over, right there in front of the world.

  They ascended the steps and stood near Carlos at the dais. The leather jacket, Elizabeth saw now, was the same one he’d modeled for them after he’d returned from his last trip to Italy.

  There would be no war. There would be no war. There would be no war.

  “There is no need to cry,” Lota said. “We are victorious.”

  Carlos was trying to address the crowd, which stretched so far Elizabeth could not see its end, but the noise of a million people in celebration drowned out his words. Beside the palace was a children’s park. Two soldiers, hardly more than children themselves, had laid their guns upon the grass and were swinging on the swing set. They swooped back, then forward, competing with one another in earnest to attain the greatest height. They swung out their legs, reaching so high their backs went horizontal to the ground. At the top of the arc, their momentum failed. They went into free-fall, were caught short by the yank of the chains.

  23

  EVERYONE HAD left her.

  Everything involving the park had become so toxic, each day Lota felt more poisoned.

  Sergio had left her. He’d grown much too big for his britches, as Elizabeth said, and he’d been fired after that fiasco with the student restaurant. Affonso had left her. Her one true friend in the working group, the only man not so full of himself that he was blind to everything but how he appeared to others. His death had been a great loss and, to be honest, very inconvenient. Carlos, too, had left her. He was never in Rio anymore, he was running around the country, already fighting with the military government so he could become president, Elizabeth was right, he only created division, he had not even attended the official opening of Flamengo Park in April. After all her work, Lota had not expected that slap in the face. And all those idiots at SURSAN! She wished they would leave her, but no, they preferred to attach themselves to her ankles forever and suck her dry, like leeches.

  Even Elizabeth had left her. She had said she was going to Ouro Preto for two weeks, and already it had been two months. She was probably spending all her time with the bottles, not writing. Lota could not take care of her the way she used to, but Elizabeth was an adult, she had to learn to take care of herself.

  But this, this open letter in the newspaper, was the worst affront of all. So public, so calculated to harm her reputation. And from someone she had counted among her closest associates for over thirty years. When she opened O Globo that morning and saw the name of Roberto Burle Marx on the front-page editorial, she began to read with pleasure—until she realized that the article was a venomous personal attack upon her! Why in God’s name did he feel compelled to broadcast his discontent to all the citizens of Rio? As she read his charges, her disbelief turned to cold fury. Lota de Macedo Soares ruled despotically, imposing her decisions without the slightest regard for discussion or consensus. Lota de Macedo Soares did not digest ideas deeply. Lota de Macedo Soares was vastly unqualified for the position of park director, even more so for the directorship of the proposed Flamengo Park Foundation, though it was undeniable she had an eye for choosing fine objects for the home. She was contemptuous of others’ ideas; she was untrained, unskilled, and incompetent. She did not understand lighting or any other concept of design, and her own plans for the park’s public spaces and playgrounds were unimaginative and vulgar.

  The editorial continued to the bottom of the page.

  Roberto’s betrayal stung like acid thrown in her eyes, but once her rage subsided, Lota decided to calculate, not merely react. The bullfighter did not attack the charging bull; she stood her ground, danced lightly to the side as she thrust her sword. With Carlos’s enemy recently elected to succeed him as governor, the park was terribly vulnerable. For political reasons, the new administration would use any excuse to remove the park from her control. They didn’t care if it was destroyed; every measure was taken simply out of spite for someone else or to further their own fame, but mostly out of spite, to prevent others from appearing as if they’d accomplished anything important. That was why she had worked so hard to get the park designated as an independent foundation, free of government meddling, with herself as director. Not to stoke her own ego, but so the park would not be ruined.

  Besides, didn’t Roberto know that shopkeepers recognized her and shouted from their doorways, “Bravo for the Flamengo Park, Dona Lota”? Didn’t he know that people leaned from their automobile windows to blow her kisses?

  Lota pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it across her desk. She would answer his accusations one by one, in her own letter to the editor, reasonably and damningly. She would detail all that Roberto had conveniently excluded from his diatribe. For one, the playground design he attributed to her vulgar sensibility had in fact been designed by his esteemed colleague Affonso Reidy. How dare he slight the dead architect? And he had no say over the lighting! He had not studied modern concepts of lighting for six months with the world’s greatest lighting designer, as she had; he knew nothing whatsoever about the subject. His expertise was limited to flowers and trees. That was why she had hired him. The real reason Roberto was so vindictive, she knew, was that he had attempted to extort millions of cruzeiros from the city treasury by providing the grass for the park’s open spaces at highly inflated prices. Lota had thwarted him by finding a different supplier. She had thought it a game of strategy, that Roberto might even admire her ability to outwit him, but obviously he was furious. More likely, his manhood had been bruised and so now he had to let it be known he was no underling to a woman. He wanted people to think it was he who should have been making the decisions all along.

  Lota finished her letter in under an hour and had it delivered by messenger to the offices of O Globo. Afterwards, she was euphoric. This must have been how Achilles felt when he faced down Hector on the battlefield, this elation, this fulfillment of one’s own power.

  But the apartment was so quiet. Where was her Cookie?

  SHE’D LEFT IN August, after a fight.

  It was a very difficult day, Lota had said when she arrived home that evening. She’d come straight home after a terrible, contentious meeting with the sewage engineer, and though it wasn’t too late, she saw that the glass beside Elizabeth’s chair, where she sat reading a book, was already empty.

  Yes, Elizabeth said in that awful screeching voice she got from the alcohol, every day is difficult for you.

  That’s because everyone tries to make me fail. It is their sport.

  It’s a beautiful park, Lota. People love it. And it’s almost finished.

  There is still time to destroy it.

  It’s never enough for you, is it? All you see is disaster, everywhere you look.

  Why was Elizabeth attacking her? Couldn’t she see that if you gave up fighting, you stood to lose everything you had gained? But perhaps, Lota thought later, she might have resisted turning nasty herself. You have no reason to complain, she said. You wanted to go to Italy, I took you to Italy.

  Yes, Italy was nice. We had fun on those bikes in Florence. That
was the only fun we’ve had in the last five years.

  Lota picked up the empty glass and smashed it on the floor. And what do you do all day—nothing! Drink drink drink. You don’t write. You have no ambition. You play at being a poet. You are not serious about truly being one.

  Lota, stop, Elizabeth said wearily. This has nothing to do with my poetry.

  You haven’t learned Portuguese in ten years! You could speak it if you wanted, but you’re lazy. You Americans expect everything to be handed to you on a platter. My friends warned me—Americans, their hearts are very cold—and still I am always surprised.

  Elizabeth left the room. Later, Lota found her packing an overnight bag.

  So you are leaving me now?

  I think I’ll get out of your hair for a while. Lilli has invited me to Ouro Preto.

  Lota was overcome with remorse. Please don’t leave me, Elizabeth.

  I’m not leaving you. Elizabeth smiled and shook her head. If only you could see your face. But, to be honest, Lota, you are making yourself sick, and I am trying very hard to stay well. Everything with you is the end of the world. I can’t live like that and I don’t want to be around it. It’s just a park. You’re killing yourself over a park.

  It’s just a park? What if I were to say, It’s just a poem?

  That would make sense to me. I have no illusions that poetry is going to change the world. Most poems are trifles, baubles. Mine certainly are.

  You’re right, Lota finally said, maybe you should go.

  TWO WEEKS AFTER Roberto’s letter, another notice appeared in the paper, this one a hundred times more troubling. The military government had passed Institutional Act No. 2, banning all political parties and declaring that there would be no direct election of the president. There was hardly even a public outcry. Carlos would not take her calls. Lota read in an interview his intention to retire from public service as soon as the new governor took office. So she was dumbfounded to learn in the following days that one of his last acts as governor was to create, by decree, the Flamengo Park Foundation, naming Lota de Macedo Soares as director. In this way he circumvented those in the new administration who opposed him.

  Lota immediately called Lilli’s house in Ouro Preto. The housekeeper told her that Lilli and Elizabeth had gone across the street to look at a property. Lota requested that she retrieve her mistress at once, it was urgent.

  Yes, ma’am.

  There is so much to tell you, Cookie, she said as soon as Elizabeth came on the line. Roberto’s letter in O Globo, the victory of Carlos’s opponent Negrão for the governorship, Carlos’s last defiant act of creating the Fundaçao Parque Flamengo after Institutional Act No. 2 destroyed his chances of ever becoming president. It all came out in a rush.

  When are you coming home, Cookie? I miss you. I need you so much.

  Soon. After a silence, Elizabeth said, I’m buying a house, Lota.

  In Ouro Preto?

  Remember the one right across the road from Lilli’s? The beautiful house practically falling apart?

  No, I don’t remember.

  A wealthy mine owner wanted it, and Lilli couldn’t bear the thought of him as a neighbor. Of course, it’s completely uninhabitable. There’s scarcely an even floor in the whole house, but the walls are three feet thick, and they’re made of mud and sticks tied together with hide, if you can believe it! They say that method hasn’t been used since 1730 at the latest. There’s even a legend that gold was buried under the house, and the owner has dug holes all through the foundation looking for it. The garden is huge, with all kinds of fruit trees and a stream running through it. But it needs a new roof, new paint, and a septic system, because there are no real bathrooms.

  Have you already given them money?

  The owner is Senhor Olimpio. He’s a little gnome of eighty, with ten children. He keeps climbing the avocado trees, and they think any day now he will fall out of one. He lives in one room in complete squalor, with ducks and hens and cats sitting on his bed with him.

  Lota had not heard such excitement in Elizabeth’s voice in a very long time. I think you are crazy, she said, but I can’t say I’m not intrigued.

  Lota, you’ll love it. You always said you wanted an old house to go with your modern one.

  Tell me one thing. Do you mean to move there?

  Lilli says she’ll take charge of the restoration while I’m in Seattle. There was a long pause. But no, Lota, I wouldn’t live here without you.

  LOTA LEFT THE next morning before dawn, nine hours straight on roads that had grown only more perilous over the last decade. She didn’t stop to eat, and when she arrived in Ouro Preto she was trembling from lack of food and the vibrations coursing directly from the potholes and through the steering wheel. Lilli raised an eyebrow on finding Lota at her doorstep and nodded toward the second floor to indicate that Elizabeth was in her room. Lota ran up the stairs. There was Cookie coming out onto the landing. They stood looking at one another, then Lota went up the last stairs to Elizabeth and took her hand and they entered the bedroom, closing the door behind them.

  They embraced shyly. They sat side by side on the bed without speaking, as if they hardly knew each other.

  You came all this way, Elizabeth finally said. I’m touched.

  I couldn’t be without you any longer.

  You work eighteen hours every day. I’m surprised you notice if I’m there or not.

  You are right, Cookie. Carlos is a dreadful politician. It is probably a good thing that he cannot now become president.

  Elizabeth said nothing. Lota went on. Brazilian politics are absurd. The new governor would be glad to be free of me if I were in Seattle for six months.

  Don’t joke, Lota. Don’t say that unless you really mean it.

  Lota picked up the book that lay on the bedside table. What is this you’re reading? What a pretty book.

  The cover was blue, with a drawing of a sixteenth-century map of the New World. Questions of Travel, by Elizabeth Bishop. There was a quote by Lowell on the back. Say what you would of him, he did love her, that was plain. Instead of a photograph on the inside jacket, there was a portrait of Elizabeth in pencil. Very sophisticated, Lota said.

  I just received it.

  It’s beautiful. She flipped through the pages. Had Elizabeth really written so many poems? All this time, had she been quietly building her own monument to history?

  Then she read the dedication.

  For Lota de Macedo Soares

  ... To give you as much as I have and as much as I can, The more I pay you, the more I owe you.

  Camões, Elizabeth said.

  Lota tried to speak. She couldn’t make any sound. She felt unbearably, painfully moved. She tried to speak again, and a sob burst from her. She wept, holding the book away so that her tears would not damage it.

  Cookie, she said at last. How do you put up with me?

  I love you.

  Do you? Are you sure you still do?

  I’ve been very lonely for a long time, but Lota, I love you. I am in it until the end, whatever that might mean, to the end of you or me.

  She could not meet Elizabeth’s eyes, but stared at the beautiful book in her hands. I do not feel strong anymore, Cookie. I do not think I have ever felt so absolutely depleted. All the time, I see in people’s eyes that I am failing, that I am a failure. And there’s nothing to help me, there’s nothing left inside of me.

  Oh, my love, Elizabeth said. How you torture yourself. She pulled Lota’s head to her lap and stroked her hair. After a long time, she asked, Would you like to meet Senhor Olimpio?

  Yes.

  And his ducks and chickens?

  Yes, Elizabeth. Show me your discovery.

  24

  ELIZABETH WOKE AROUND eight thirty. Lota lay snoring lightly at her side. In the dark bedroom, the sound of waves was thunderous, as if there’d been a storm out at sea in the night. She felt a vague anxiety that it was already too late, she had overslept and should have starte
d the day earlier. She gathered her books and went upstairs. The upper floor of Rosinha’s house was open on three sides, with a panoramic view of Cabo Frio and the coast. The morning sea was rough and iron gray, the sky overcast, though as Elizabeth read she kept thinking she saw breaks in the clouds. She was looking through poetry collections, trying to create a lesson plan for the class in Seattle, but it all felt rather a joke. After two hours, she returned to the bedroom and tried to rouse Lota, who moaned and drew a pillow over her head. Elizabeth left her again and began to prepare breakfast. Lota emerged, groggy and with her eyes half-closed as if she were drugged. She ate in silence from the plate Elizabeth served. Her expression was not promising. Elizabeth attempted to engage her every few moments, under the delusion that it might lift her spirits. Don’t you think the vegetation is beautiful this time of year, with all those flowering cacti? Hmm. Do you think they’ll ruin Cabo Frio just like they’ve ruined everything else? Yes. What’s on your mind? Nothing. Then, finally, I guess I’m depressed. Do you think it’s beautiful here, at least? Yes, Lota said. I do.

  Lota finished her breakfast. She began examining the details of the house’s construction: the masonry, the woodwork, the patterns of white and black stones in the floor, the vines used to lash the beams together. “I want to take photographs of all this,” she said. “The vernacular architecture is so real and direct, straight from the earth. Look, it’s just rocks and sticks and palm leaves. It’s not trying to trick you.”

  She seemed to be perking up, but only moments later Elizabeth turned to find her lying supine on the couch and staring at the ceiling with that forlorn look she knew only too well. “What is it now?” she asked.

  “I am sad I will never have a house this beautiful.”

  “You do have a house this beautiful. Even more beautiful.”

  “It means nothing. It’s false.”

  Elizabeth thought, If I don’t walk away now, I will throttle her.