The End

by Fernanda Torres

  The Agris was a run-down little building with a veranda at the end of Farme de Amoedo, almost in the favela of Cantagalo. The conversation didn’t last long. Jairo knocked back his whiskey, pulled a bank note out of his wallet, and placed it on the table as a tip. They left with their arms around each other, she anxious, he focused, both full of lust. The hotel was three blocks away. They went to room 304, at the back. The sheet smelling of disinfectant, the little bar of soap in the tiny bathroom, none of it was what Irene had fantasized, but it was a first step, a stance, a beginning. He came; she didn’t, despite her efforts, but she wasn’t frustrated. On the contrary, she stared, enchanted, at Jairo’s face as he came, above her, because of her, in her, and she left, floating. Jairo walked on the traffic side of the sidewalk to protect her from the cars and called a cab. Before opening the door, he gave her a long kiss, then asked the driver to take it easy. He knew how to be a man.

  Irene received applause at the next group analysis.

  The separate bedrooms alleviated any potential awkwardness. When she got back from seeing Jairo, Irene didn’t have to go to bed with Álvaro. In the morning, all she had to do was listen for the sounds of the shower and doors closing in order not to cross paths with him. They rarely saw each other. Her husband, preoccupied with family problems, was relieved by her unexpectedly good humor. If it was good for her, it was good for him.

  They had been sleeping in separate beds for two years. It had happened by chance, after a fight—yet another—occasioned by Sílvio’s digs at Álvaro during a Sunday lunch at Ciro’s apartment. Sílvio had been drinking and decided to crucify Álvaro. Dripping with venom, he said that Irene had chosen the worst of them. He listed off Álvaro’s bad habits: his snoring, his lack of ambition.

  “Álvaro can’t even beat us in spoof,” he exclaimed, and roared with laughter.

  Ciro told him to shut up, which only made the snake’s tongue wag harder. He listed off the women who had rejected Álvaro. There had been Bete, Cláudia, Mina, Sandra, Paula, Maureen… Even dingbat Dora had said no.

  “I was surprised you said yes, Irene. You deserve better.”

  It would have all been forgotten if it hadn’t reflected Irene’s secret frustrations so precisely. She put on her nightgown and climbed into bed, furious. Álvaro came out of the bathroom, pulled on his pajamas, and snuggled under the blanket as if that afternoon had never happened. Irene exploded. She wanted to know why he had taken all that humiliation without a fight, did he have any idea what she was going through? How ashamed he made her feel. All the things that were missing. Álvaro apologized for existing and said he’d do whatever she wanted, the way she wanted it, whenever she wanted it. His answer made her even more irate. She took out a sheet from the cupboard, a pillow, made up the bed in the guest bedroom, and ordered him to sleep there that night. Álvaro obeyed and never returned to the master bedroom. The only reason they didn’t break up was because Irene was more afraid of solitude than of dissatisfaction in love. She liked hearing the sound of the key in the lock when Álvaro came home at night, his presence as father, the household expenses split down the middle. And she had no illusions about her chances of finding something better. Unlike Ruth, Irene never knew what it meant to have men falling all over themselves for her. It had always been like that for Ruth—in elementary school, in high school, and especially in college. They had studied language and literature together. Ruth had married the best of the five, and she, the worst, even though she was an attractive woman. She never understood it.

  Álvaro was Ciro’s friend. Ruth sang his praise, talked him up to Irene. Irene was tired of being alone and hadn’t been serious about anyone for over a year. Her last boyfriend had moved to Spain. She had considered going with him, but she’d have had to give up the classes she was beginning to teach, her life in Brazil. They had promised to give it a go long-distance. Their correspondence had lasted a few months and then suddenly dwindled. He married a woman from Andalusia the following summer and she never heard from him again. Álvaro was all wrong, but had a twisted, self-deprecating sense of humor, which charmed Irene. Why not? She had never loved him, staying with him as if she were waiting for the next streetcar to come past and rescue her from her little detour—but it never came. Time, chance, and their friends in common kept them together. Álvaro chose the ring, Ciro helped, and one sunny Sunday, with Ruth and Ciro as witnesses, Álvaro asked Irene for her hand in marriage. The wine was good, the autumn afternoon, what did the groom matter? I’ll say yes, she thought, I can leave him later. Let’s see what happens. The years went by and she kept waiting for someone to wrench her away from Álvaro. Jairo. Jairo would set her free.

  How silly she was, she thought, as she watched her daughter’s plane take off over Guanabara Bay. It would have been good to be on it.

  Sílvio couldn’t hide his glee at the news.

  “A little bird told me your wife is planning to run off with a guy from the club. Wake up, my friend, ’cause these women are hot to trot,” he said, finishing off in English with, “They’re willing and able!”

  The little bird was none other than Paulo from group therapy. One of the Casanova’s favorite pastimes was giving the crowd at the beach the dirt on his fellow group members. Vera liked to discuss the sessions with him in their frequent rendezvous, often in her office. She loved his frankness, his self-confidence, his self-respect. He was an alcoholic, it was true, but besides that he was perfect. She was in love, she had lost her composure. They bitched about the group, laughed at everyone’s desperation, and were as happy as could be.

  All it took was one drink at the Coqueirão beach kiosk for Paulo to spill the beans from the last few therapy sessions. The scandalmonger’s overtime with his therapist had enriched his vocabulary of certainties. Ever since the affair with Jairo had taken off, Irene’s private life had become his favorite soap opera. Paulo could smell his equal from afar.

  “Jairo? He’s a total sleaze,” he said, reveling in the opportunity to watch from the front row as Irene fell into the womanizer’s web. “The stupid woman’s going to give it up next week, I’m telling you. In one month, this Jairo guy’s going to stop taking her calls; in two, she’ll be begging that limp-dicked namby-pamby of a husband to have her back.”

  After this prophecy, he tossed back the rest of his beer and headed for the volleyball court.

  Ribeiro knew Paulo by name. They had a friend in common, also a lifeguard. Ribeiro preferred the crowd that played beach volleyball in front of Rua Miguel Lemos, in Copacabana, but this day he had accepted an invitation to play doubles at the Coqueirão, in Ipanema. He and his partner shared the court with Paulo. Before the game, they had the drink that got his tongue wagging. Irene’s name was the first thing that caught Ribeiro’s attention. The husband who couldn’t get it up, the hysterical daughter, and the dying dog erased all doubt. It was Álvaro’s wife, his Álvaro. Ribeiro hated being party to the imbroglio. He’d have to do something, but what? He needed to share it with someone. Ciro had been Álvaro’s best man. He wanted a more impartial opinion and decided to consult Sílvio.

  Sílvio was in ecstasy. He wanted to infiltrate the group, start therapy, get to know that Vera woman, an analyst so open to experiences. Ribeiro was in a dilemma about whether to tell his friend or not. He remembered the time he’d bad-mouthed his cousin’s ex-girlfriend, never imagining they’d get back together the following weekend. They ended up married with three kids, and Ribeiro was left out in the cold. Sílvio played counselor, arguing that he wouldn’t be able to look Álvaro in the eye without telling him the truth, and practically begged Ribeiro to let him play Cassandra and break the news. Ribeiro granted him the mission, happily freeing himself of the burden.

  * * *

  Álvaro didn’t like the beach. He went because everyone else did, but he stayed on a folding chair under the beach canopy, reading the newspaper and drinking mate tea. He rarely went in the water, but when he did he brought back a bucket of water to clean
the sand off his feet when he was leaving. One bright morning, there he was, reading the sports section, when Sílvio came over and took a seat in the shade. With a troubled expression, he told him about Irene’s infidelity then rattled off his “willing and able” to show off his broken English. Álvaro hated Sílvio for taking pleasure in something as pathetic as washing his dirty laundry amidst the commotion of Lifeguard Post Nine. Now he understood why Irene had been so cheerful lately, the reason for her light spirits; she was leaving. But Paulo from group therapy had been spot on: in one month she would return, confused, asking him to take her back; a year later she would hit perimenopause and fall into a deep depression. She would emerge from it just fine, two years after that, but she would never be with another man. It was the beginning of the end of Irene’s sex life. Things wouldn’t have been terribly different if she had stayed married.

  With a serious face, Álvaro packed up his tent, beach mat, and chair, put the newspaper in his bag, retrieved his flip-flops, hat, and bucket of water, and turned to face the beach promenade. Before crossing the scalding sand, he gave Sílvio a solemn look and wished he was dead. But that wouldn’t happen for another twenty-five years.

  ‌Sílvio

  * June 13, 1933

  † February 20, 2009

  “Gimme four 8-balls. And the poppers, too. How much is that? Do you take checks? Nope. One hundred… sixty… two hundred and five… two hundred and seventeen… I’ve lost count. How much? Only three 8-balls for this much? What about the poppers? Well at least throw in the poppers, for fuck’s sake… It’s Carnival!”

  I’m getting the hell out of this dive, man. I hate dens, I always think they’re gonna kill me. Here. No one’s coming. What the fuck have they cut this coke with? Ground glass. Fuck it. Where the hell am I? Rua Evaristo da Veiga. Evaristo da Veiga… Evaristo da Veiga… Where’s Evaristo da Veiga? What kind of sadist gives his son a name like that? The world is lost. Where’s the aqueduct? Where’s the fucking sea?

  La la la la… Check out the hair on Zezé… Could he be?… Could he be?… A fairy! I love that song. Where’re the poppers? Weee-aaaw-weee-aaaw… What the fuck! I fell over but I’m still standing… I’m really off my face. I need to get a taxi and get back to Suzana… Is she there with… with… or not?… No, Suzana… Su… zzzz…

  I’d been married to Norma for three years. She hadn’t been a virgin for three years. Norma wouldn’t give up her asshole, only went down on me out of obligation, and had lost that fear of spreading her legs that used to drive me wild in the beginning. I was trapped, I knew it, but still hadn’t decided what to do. I was in the garden at Ciro’s place, thinking about the puppy-dog eyes that Norma had made at me while holding Neto’s baby in her arms, when the crackpot appeared. She smiled like a little kid, lit a joint, and turned her face to the sun.

  “Suzana.”

  “Sílvio.”

  “Sílvio starts with ‘S’ too,” she said.

  “That’s true,” I replied.

  She passed me the joint and I took it.

  “Are you a good friend of Ribeiro’s?” she asked.

  “Very,” I said. And we went quiet, looking straight ahead.

  “What do you do?”

  “I work at Banco do Brasil.”

  “Wow.”

  “Dad wanted me to stay at Itamaraty, but I couldn’t handle all the gayness.”

  “Gayness?”

  “The diplomatic service is full of fags.”

  “I like fags,” she said.

  “Me too,” I said, and we laughed together. “What about you?” I said, handing back the joint.

  “What about me?”

  “What do you do?”

  She blew out smoke and replied, “I’m Ribeiro’s girlfriend.”

  I’ve always looked down on Ribeiro. Ciro always came first, then Neto, Álvaro, and—way down at the bottom of the list—Ribeiro. Ciro was heroic, Neto was conservative, Álvaro was tragic, and Ribeiro was just plain stupid. A thick-skulled virgin layer. “What’s so good about virgins?” I’d ask him. He said it was a matter of preference, but the truth is that no woman with more than one neuron would have been able to withstand Ribeiro’s company. Why is this girl with him? I wondered.

  Speak of the devil… Ribeiro came to ask her to put out the joint because Célia didn’t like it. I laughed; it was too ridiculous, the way his jaw dropped when he saw the two of us together. Suzana cracked up laughing too, handed me the roach, and left on his arm. Ribeiro stared over his shoulder as he walked away, an angry ape. Oooh, I’m so scared!

  Eleven thirty at night and I was already in bed when the phone rang. Norma answered and said it was the bank. I thought it was weird. It was Suzana. She said Ribeiro was making her life hell because of me and that she had nowhere to go. I invented a wire transfer from Japan, a telex that was going to arrive at the office, and arranged, right there under Norma’s nose, for Suzana to meet me at the branch on Rua Primeiro de Março. Norma bought it and off I went. I sped through the tunnel toward Avenida Presidente Vargas.

  Suzana was standing on the corner in front of Candelária Church in a miniskirt so short you could see the color of her panties. Green. I stopped next to her, she opened the door in a huff, flopped into the passenger seat, and gave me a French kiss that made me see stars. It took me by surprise. I looked her straight in the face, unable to think about anything else but giving it to her good, and headed for my bachelor pad in Glória. We groped each other in the car, in the elevator, and had sex at the door, eight hours after meeting in Ciro’s garden.

  We went at it until she fell asleep, exhausted. By then it was pretty late. I put on my suit, shook her hard, and told her she had to go back to Ribeiro because I didn’t want any trouble. We started seeing each other regularly, Ribeiro got more and more jealous, Suzana became more and more Suzana, and I, more and more bored with married life.

  That was when Norma got pregnant for the second time.

  I blacked out. I’m face-down on the sidewalk. It stinks of piss. I think it’s me. No, it’s the gutter. No, it’s me and the gutter. I’m completely numb. Get up, Sílvio, move along. I’ve got to get a taxi. Son-of-a-bitch anxiety. It’s going to be a rough comedown. I’ve got some benzos at the pad. I’ve got to get back. Where’s a taxi? In the sky the morning star appears… Morning star means the party’s over. It’s getting light… the sky… indigo. I hate dawn. Fucking son-of-a-bitch anxiety. Where’s the ground glass? One more line, just to get home. Here come some little hoodlums, fuck it.

  There are taxis in Cinelândia, there are taxis in Cinelândia, there are taxis in Cinelândia. In Cinelândia. Which way is Cinelândia? You have no mercy on me… La la la… Your eyes make me dizzy… I’m always dizzy. I’m always dizzy, I go into a trance when I’m high, I’ve always been like this. I started smoking when I was twelve, drinking at thirteen, and was popping pills by fifteen. I lost my virginity to a hooker, a cousin took me, my dick wasn’t even fully developed. I love sex. I had the Carlos Zéfiro collection of erotic comics and went to the red light district with my cousin Valdir on a regular basis. Me and Valdir gave each other a lot of hand jobs. The poor bastard died young, of tuberculosis, he was only eighteen.

  I was a good student and Dad got it in his head that I should try for Itamaraty. In the prep course, I met some rich kids who really knew how to have fun. The wealthy are way more perverted than the poor. They’ve got no morals. Those kids had none. I was accepted into the group because of an anesthetist, introduced to me by Valdir, who supplied the prescription drugs. They brought the whiskey and each of us had to bring two girls to the parties.

  One of them, Miranda, was underage. It was Fausto who brought her, saying she was his cousin. No one questioned how old the girl was or wasn’t—if she was there with Fausto, she was no angel. It was the first time I’d seen two guys give it to a girl at the same time. Fausto and Bernstein. It blew my mind. I was so turned on I still had a boner at the police station. Miranda’s parents
had the police follow Fausto and we all wound up in the lock-up at the police station.

  I was kicked out of Itamaraty. Dad was desperate and got me a test at the Banco do Brasil with a director he knew. They found a way to cover up the incident, I passed the test, and was set for the next fifty years of my life. All I had to do was show up, and the rest—pension, Christmas bonuses, other bonuses and holidays—would come on a silver platter with years of service. Far from the diplomatic aristocracy, life was much more boring. The female tellers wanted to get married, the female managers, start families, and the men only came when their team scored a goal. Best not shit where you eat, I thought.

  Some folks are getting out of a taxi over there on the corner by the municipal theater. One more line. Crappy coke. Last hit before I get home. Weee-aaaw… weee-aaaw… Fuck! Fuck! Fu…