The End

by Fernanda Torres

  We met in my dentist’s elevator. She worked in an accountant’s office in the same building on Rua Figueiredo de Magalhães. I’d just had my teeth cleaned and my mouth was sparkling, which must have helped. She was short and bug-eyed, with dyed red hair, but overall she was okay. We went to La Mole. She had the escalope with Piedmontese rice and I had the breaded shrimp. We had wine, ice cream, coffee, and devoured the petits fours. During dinner, Solange confessed that she was saving up for a boob job. Is there something wrong with her breasts? I wondered. I don’t mind if they’re small; I actually like them like that, as long as they’re not saggy. We took a taxi to Catete and got out in front of her building. Solange was wide open. I was already on the third step, with my foot in the foyer, when a thought struck me. What if I can’t get it up? Cold sweat began streaming down my neck that very second. Solange hadn’t noticed yet, so I pretended everything was fine, wished her good night with cinematic flair, asked her out on a second date, kissed her hand, and took off. I didn’t want her to think I was insecure. Nothing scares off the opposite sex more than that.

  Sampaio sold energy drinks, imported vitamins, I liked him. Once when I came down with a bad flu, he gave me an antibiotics injection that put me on my feet again in just one day. He became my GP. Sampaio was very discreet. If he mentioned Viagra, it was by its biblical name: sildenafil. Tadalafil, for Cialis, and vardenafil, for Levitra, had yet to be invented. I didn’t sleep a wink the night before my first time with Solange, imagining myself trying to have sex but not being able to. I dreamed her pussy was a bronze statue. At daybreak I went out to buy sedatives. I’d survived the end of my relationship with Suzana on Lexotan prescribed by Sampaio. I was grateful to him. I arrived early, he was late. When he saw me at the counter with bags under my eyes, he asked if someone else had died. I begged him for tranquilizers. He eyed me suspiciously.

  “Tranquilizers for what? Do you want to relax?”

  “More or less,” I said, head down.

  “Sorry to pry, Ribeiro, but what’s the problem?”

  “My sister’s seeing someone…”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “She told me to get back in the game…”

  “I see…”

  “I’m going out for dinner, tonight, and I think there might be dessert.”

  “Say no more,” he said, and dragged me off to the back of the pharmacy to the cubicle where they gave injections. Sampaio closed the curtain and took the blood pressure monitor down from the wall.

  “Do you have a history of high blood pressure?”

  “No,” I said.

  I forgot to mention my mother’s heart attack, nor did he ask. He just pumped the air, staring at the monitor with a serious face.

  “One hundred twenty over seventy, no danger,” he said, and disappeared into the stock room.

  He returned quickly holding a packet.

  “Ribeiro, the only reason I don’t compare this wonder to the Lord Jesus Christ is because it’s a capital sin. But it is, Ribeiro, this here is the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  I took the packet. Viagra, said the label.

  “I suggest you take it about three hours ahead of time so you don’t have any surprises and are already fired up by the time you get there.”

  “Have you tried it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “When it first came, and I haven’t stopped since.”

  The same thing happened to me.

  I gave it to Solange like a jackhammer. It wasn’t enough. Viagra separated sex and love. As a lover, I was jealous, stupid and needy. Sildenafil suppressed my romantic expectations and I fell into temptation. Sílvio would have been proud of me. I fucked like a gymnast, spent money I didn’t have on the twenty-year-olds in the dives on Avenida Prado Júnior, and grew fond of the disposable robes at the Centauro, where I almost went bankrupt after two hookers locked themselves in one of the little rooms with me. They started half-heartedly, not making much of an effort, but when it was almost time to turn the red light back on, which signaled the end of the session, the harlots started rubbing each other like octopuses. It gave me a huge boner and I asked for another session. And another and another. When it was time to pay they explained that with the two of them, everything was double. I left without a dime and had to borrow money from Celeste. I said it was for a root canal.

  I put a pill in my mouth and swallow. Alda, here I come. It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent woman. It’ll be good for a change.

  “How much is this? And how much is on my tab? Then let’s settle up; I don’t like to be in debt.”

  I ran into Álvaro yesterday on Rua Francisco Sá. I was leaving Sampaio’s pharmacy and came face-to-face with him. We hadn’t seen each other for several years, since Neto’s funeral, I guess. Boy is he in bad shape, and his head’s a mess. He called me Ciro about three times and stumbled another ten. I tried to give him a hand but he got offended. I was too embarrassed to ask if it was ischemia.

  Copacabana has changed a lot—it’s these buses churning out black smoke. I’ll have a beer, thanks. I love a dive. I like to watch the drunks.

  Álvaro insists that Sílvio died in Lapa, but he’s wrong. It was in Cinelândia, in front of the Bola Preta Carnival bloc headquarters. I went to the funeral, Álvaro! The disagreement was threatening to turn into a fight so I cut him off.

  “Forget it,” I said. “What difference does it make? Sílvio lied; he said he was going to Porto Alegre but he wound up in Niterói and never called again. Remember how he used to snort? Bad breath, smoking, talking nonstop? He’s gone, and good riddance.”

  Álvaro thought that was funny. We said we’d get together one of these days. Who knows? I miss the gang. Álvaro, Neto, Sílvio, and Ciro.

  I was crazy about Ciro. Ciro was the best of us. We had his leftovers. Women could sense Ciro’s presence even with their backs turned. By his smell. When he walked into a room, they’d all turn around like robots. The married ones, the single ones, fiancées, debutants. And Ciro was a fun winner, full of stories. He knew his politics, he was intelligent, a compulsive reader, romantic, and he was even good on the guitar. No one could hold a candle to him. We joked that he was the shark and we were the pilot fish. Truth be told, we fought as hard for his attention as the ladies did.

  He spent his holidays in Búzios, in a fisherman’s cottage. The most coveted beauty of Ipanema drove her VW for four hours through the night just to meet him in paradise. When she got there, Ciro said he was going to fetch supper and dove into the sea holding a knife. He came back with a live lobster. After the meal, they jumped into bed and the lucky woman spread the crustacean hunter myth around Rio. To ensure that his number was always a success, Ciro started leaving a crate of the creatures tied up on the ocean floor. Whenever a candidate showed up—and one always would, because there was a queue—he’d emerge from the waves holding the lobster.

  We loved Ciro.

  I was there, beside him, the day he met Ruth. We arrived at Juliano’s party together, ready for yet another unforgettable night. Sílvio brought the arsenal and Álvaro and Neto met us at the door as planned. The women all turned to look as Ciro walked in and we tried to figure out what would be left for the picking, but one of them didn’t turn around. Ruth. She didn’t even notice we were there. She laughed out loud, in a circle of guests gathered around someone playing the guitar, and went on singing that song… Today, I want the most beautiful of roses… “A Noite do Meu Bem” by Dolores Duran. She had the voice of a nightclub singer—low, sensual—and she sure was something to look at. The whole room stopped to listen. I was crazy about Ruth; it was love at first sight. When I glanced sideways, I realized the same thing had happened to Ciro. I’d never seen him like that. Ciro took the lead, walked over to the group, asked for the guitar, and began to play a beautiful song by Vinicius de Moraes that Odete Lara used to sing… Without you, my love… I am no one… Ruth took the female voice, Ciro, the male voice, and they finished together, to a standing ovation, forev
er in love.

  My world fell apart.

  How could I compete? They disappeared together and someone started playing “Lígia.” “Lígia,” the soundtrack of my heartache. I listened to “Lígia” many times, thinking about her, thinking about Ciro. It was hard to go out with them, see them so happy together. Ruth wasn’t a girl anymore, but so what? If she’d chosen me, I’d have had children with her, a family. I’d have given up cradle-snatching once and for all. I’d have been hers alone. But she chose Ciro, of course she chose Ciro. Heck, I’d have chosen Ciro. But I would have looked after her. I’d never have done what he did, the abominable thing he did to her.

  That’s why I threw myself into Suzana. That’s why I can’t forgive Sílvio, because I loved Ruth my whole life but never overstepped the mark. I watched Ciro make her happy, really happy, and then kill her, lock her away, spit on her. Serves you right, Ciro. That cancer served you right.

  This is a strong one. I’m sweating. Think about Alda. Damn traffic. Lycra clothes, my God, the world’s gone crazy. Women dress like whores even to go to the corner store. Check out the ass on that one! Vacuum-sealed in those leggings. I learned what leggings were at the gym.

  I’m a bit dizzy when I get to my building. I stop in the foyer to catch my breath. The doorman notices and asks if he can help. “I’m fine,” I say, feeling Álvaro’s irritation. Then I think I was rude for no reason. I ask if there’s any post, but before he checks he says I’m red. “It’s the muggy weather,” I say. But it isn’t muggy, it’s cool, in fact. “What, they’re going to turn off the water in the building? Now? No, wait for me to have a shower. Tell them I’m going up, stall them for me!” I drag myself to the elevator. The building hasn’t incinerated its trash for thirty years, but the smell’s still here. First floor… second… this elevator’s going to fall. Fifth… sixth, my floor. The neighbor in 610 is cooking beans. She cooks beans every day. The corridor reeks. I can’t stand beans. I feel so queasy. Where’s the key? This stench is going to kill me.

  My sanctuary. Quick, to the shower. Whoa… black ceiling, what’s up, lion? Put your head down, breathe deeply. It’s getting better. Migraine coming on. I’ll take my swimming trunks off in the shower so I don’t get sand everywhere. Boy, does it take a long time for this piece of junk to heat up. I’m going to get an electric one. Electric showers have come a long way. It’s getting warmer… C’mon, for chrissake, they’re going to turn off the water soon. It’s warm. Thank God. I’m actually sweating in the water. I think I’m going to throw up. Now it’s boiling, goddamn, pain-in-the-ass shower.

  When I reach for the cold faucet, I feel the tingling creep up from my right hand, through my arm and into my chest. My chest. It tightens, as if a giant is crushing me with his fingers. A stabbing pain in my plexus. My lungs are paralyzed, my jaw locks, and I’m short of breath. I try to stay calm and think about calling the doorman, the police. What’s Celeste’s phone number? 97… 9756… 753… 75… I try to remember. I get out of the shower holding onto the curtain, the plastic can’t take my weight, and I kiss the canvas. I feel better than I did standing up. Lie down, put your legs up. The floor’s cold as hell. Another stabbing pain, I don’t believe it. Relax, lion. God, I can’t see a thing. Cough, I heard on TV that you have to cough if you think you’re having a heart attack. I’m having a heart attack. I can’t cough if I’m asphyxiating like this.

  I need to find Carlos. He’ll come with his son… what’s his name? It doesn’t matter. Carlos will drag me to a taxi, take me to an ER… Where’s my cell? I left it in the living room. I’m screwed. I’m not getting up from here. My heart’s going to leap out of my mouth. Here it comes, here it comes… here it comes… there… it goes.

  It’s okay, Ribeiro. You’re not going to have a stroke, Alzheimer’s, or Parkinson’s. You won’t be pushed around in a wheelchair by an ugly nurse, you won’t drool like Álvaro or come out of a hospital full of holes like Ciro. You’re a lucky guy. That’s the last of the water. This is it. Is this it? Yep, this is it. I shouldn’t have taken that pill on an empty stomach. Forget the empty stomach, it was going to happen anyway. I was taking four or five a week. Viagra gave me ten extra years of service life. It’s fair. More than fair. I’d trade the next ten for the last seven. Long live the troupe at the Centauro, the trannies at The Pussery, Erotika, and internet sex. I lived it up. Now it’s over.

  I didn’t live at all. None of it was worth Ruth.

  I went to see her at her sister’s place, some ten years after she got divorced. She’d become distant and bitter. When she saw me, she cursed us all: Sílvio, Neto, Álvaro, and me. She didn’t mention Ciro. She couldn’t, she didn’t have it in her. I’d gone there hoping to tell her how I felt, to propose something or other, whatever she wanted, but I didn’t have the courage. She asked how the mob was. Like that, the “mob”… . I said I hadn’t seen them for a while. That was shortly after the beating I got because of Lucíola, when I tried to change my ways and find myself a real woman. Ruth asked me to leave. She said we were all dead to her and went into the bedroom without saying goodbye. Her sister saw me to the door and made me promise not to come back. Ciro had left nothing of the old Ruth. Selfish bastard. He always was.

  I stopped making plans. The future ended there.

  From then on, I accepted that I’d have to screw older gals who were further and further removed from what I wanted. Like Alda, who I made out to be a Miss Universe but who is really the bottom of the pit. Sorry, Alda, I won’t be seeing you later.

  Alda waited for Ribeiro at the door of her work for over an hour. She went home humiliated, rejected by an old man. The next day, the news traveled through the building: the instructor hadn’t shown up for the six o’clock lesson or volleyball at ten. Carlos called his apartment and rang the doorbell, and the doorman managed to break down the door. They found Ribeiro lying in the flooded bathroom. The building’s water had come back on, and the shower had overflowed. Ribeiro’s stiff body, beginning to decompose, wasn’t a pleasant sight. Carlos called a hearse, tried to dry the floor with a bath towel, and phoned Celeste to tell her what had happened. Alda smiled unintentionally. She didn’t wish for anyone’s demise, but her relief at not having been rejected by a man in his seventies was greater than any sense of loss. And she thought it romantic that she had been the old-timer from Copacabana’s last chance at love. It had a certain charm. She went to the cemetery to pay her respects.

  Burials were a thing of the past. With the inauguration of the crematorium at São Francisco Xavier Cemetery, families had begun to prefer ashes to bones. Celeste took charge of the preparations. Her men helped her a lot, but she insisted on seeing to the details herself, ordering the wreaths, choosing her brother’s coffin and suit. Carlos covered his uncle with the Botafogo Football Club flag and placed the volleyball from his last game in his hands. He gave the speech. He was sincere and affectionate. His mother didn’t want to speak, but she held on to her son, nodding with approval at the end of his sentences. She was the one who gave the order for the oven to be switched on. A mournful melody played as the coffin passed over the conveyor belt of metal rollers and disappeared into a low, dark tunnel, like suitcases in an airport x-ray machine. The final product wasn’t released until the following day. At the front desk, Celeste showed them her piece of paper with a number on it, was given the box, and drove with it to Leme Rock. My brother loved the beach, she said, revealing the contents of the urn among the fishermen, rods, and hooks. Carlos and his son each took a handful of their uncle, Celeste did the same, and the three of them threw Ribeiro into the wind, repeating the gesture until there was nothing left. He hovered around the family, before being sucked up with the vultures in a rising current. A few particles brushed the faces of those witnessing the ceremony. No one complained. The fishermen were respectful of the family’s rite, although they were still nauseated by the cloud of organic dust.

  Celeste had her feet planted firmly on the ground; she saw as much greatness in
death as she did in life. Girls develop quickly and, without her mother, Celeste had had to grow up fast. Woman of the house, wife to her father, mother to her brother. It saddened her deeply to say goodbye to Ribeiro, but not so much that she didn’t feel proud of her grown son, her healthy grandson, the good men she had in her life. She had lived alone for a long time, but her grandson had taken the place of her son, and her new love the place of the old one, such that she had never experienced the emptiness of her losses. She didn’t have the temperament for that. She had always lived surrounded by people; she didn’t believe in loneliness. Ribeiro hadn’t been well—he’d lost the innocence he’d maintained for so long. She’d preferred to see him dispersed in the atmosphere rather than roaming Copacabana, spending money on whores, taking stimulants, at risk of being beaten up, mugged, or arrested. It’s good that he’s stopped now, she thought, as she buttoned up her black dress.

  It was the first time Álvaro had been to a cremation. He thought it was deplorable and undignified to shove a dead man into an ash factory, mixed with the remains of other dead people. No one cleans that thing. Ribeiro’s sister’s calm shocked Álvaro, his last friend left alive. Celeste should have hidden her acceptance better. She was crying, it was true, but smiling, smiling enough that you could see her teeth; it wasn’t right. Her son and grandson were more discreet, her ex and current partner, too. “Women are all attention seekers,” he told himself, in his incorrigible misogyny. Álvaro had hoped to see someone agonizing over his friend’s death, but everyone seemed resigned, including him. It bothered him that he was the last man standing, with a one-hundred-percent chance of being next. In addition, he was bored. Was it the fault of the ceremony or the heat? Why did the weather always get muggy when someone died? Feeling short of breath, he sat at the back of the small audience. He listened to Carlos, and thought it was a beautiful speech, but was shocked at how naturally those in attendance were acting. There was nothing natural about death. The anger, the helplessness, and the mourning of times past were missing. The heartbreak was missing.