by João Almino
I asked Aristotle: what are you all doing here, doesn’t the construction company have its own security? I thought that you all mainly patrolled the Free City, and he said: We’re the ones who watch over the companies’ building materials. And how many of you all are there?, I asked him. Just a year ago there were only fifty of us, but now there are three hundred of us, well-chosen, fearless guys, suffice it to say that, aside from a few chiefs and commissioners from police departments in Minas Gerais and Goiás, the rest of the team is made up of tough guys from the Northeast, like you and me, aside from the commander, who’s a retired colonel from the Rio police. I wouldn’t be fit for that kind of job, I explained. True, when you really think about it, you wouldn’t pass the test, he quickly replied to me, we don’t have rickety little guys like you there, nope; for the exam I had to lift a seventy-kilo sack, he told me this right there in our first conversation, Dona Matilde. I knew about the reputation of those guys in the SPB, they’d beat the workers with nightsticks, and women and children as well. In the Amaury Village they accused my brother of theft, and dragged him in chains to the police station, and he got off easy, ‘cause I heard that a year ago they even poked out a worker’s eyeballs, and they didn’t get punished for it or anything. This guy complains about everything, Mr. Moacyr, the cold showers, the fleas, the rats, the bedbugs . . . All the pests bother me to, especially those bedbugs that suck your blood during the night, but what is there to do? They’re everywhere. So why waste time complaining about it, instead of just focusing on your job and doing good work? He’s supposed to be in charge of controlling the entrance of liquor into the village, which always causes fights among the workers. But no, he just lets it pass through, because he wants to be able to drink his booze, too. Even the main guard of the camp, who inspects the workers, looking for big knives and booze, is bribed with a bottle of the stuff, so that he’ll let in all the bottles that are for the engineers, administrators, and even this guy, my roommate.
Although I received many comments on the blog about this dreadful police force, the SPB, I’d rather leave them alone and focus here on my own recollection of that conversation, which I listened to the way someone watches a movie they’re not really interested in, waiting for Valdivino to leave so I could have my accordion lesson with Aunt Francisca. But can’t you just change rooms and tell that guy to buzz off, Valdivino?, asked Aunt Matilde, I’m wondering whether I should just leave there for good, once and for all, ‘cause I’ve heard that they’re about to start work on the cathedral, No, no, don’t be in such a hurry, don’t lose a good job over some nonsense, Dad advised.
When Valdivino left, Typhoon followed after him, and that day I had a really hard time bringing him back, because Aunt Francisca wouldn’t let me leave the house on account of the chicken pox, and Typhoon only obeyed me after a lot of whistling and promises of cookies, the delicious cookies that Aunt Francisca had made for me.
Sixth Night: The Field of Hope
On the sixth night, surrounded by four dirty white walls, Dad acknowledged that his success as an official note-taker had been insignificant and temporary, as I myself had confirmed through my reading of the “Onward” notebooks. In one of them he had transcribed the assertion of the Italian president, Giovanni Gronchi, from September 8 of that year, 1958, that the construction of Brasília was “an endeavor worthy of the Roman era,” and he’d recorded that, following the example of Foster Dulles, Gronchi had also planted a tree in Brasília, this time an Italian cypress, but it was nothing more than facts taken from the newspapers. Even though he’d insistently sought out JK’s press committee, he still wasn’t receiving invitations to accompany visitors. Aldous Huxley had been an exception, thanks to Miguel Andrade. So Dad dedicated himself even more to selling plots and commodatums and, with the profits gained, he invested heavily in his partnership with Paulão.
I went up with Dad into one of the Ministry buildings that was under construction and looked down at the construction sites that stretched out into the vastness of dirt and building plots of the Esplanade. In the distance we could see low hills and cloud formations. The lines of trees descended the valley and ascended those hills, until their colors faded into a soft blue. The outlines of walls, pilasters, staircases, doors, and windows stood out against the horizons, where, above the blue, brushstrokes of yellow and pink could be seen. The tiny forms of fifty thousand workers, like ants, endlessly mimed the chaotic dance of hammer strikes between cement slabs and steel rebar that striated the sky. Beyond those horizons where I glimpsed such beauty, Dad saw mountains of money, and he was right, for the city was being erected at a frantic pace due to the circulation of government money and the investment that social welfare institutions made in buying up whole city blocks so they could quickly build their respective apartment buildings. It’s utter nonsense, it’s absurd, protested Aunt Matilde. Dad silently agreed, but the absurd yielded profits, and without profit the greatness of the endeavor was lost.
There was something magical about the transformation of emptiness into something concrete. If there was a lack of money, then they printed more money. Out of that invented money, that nothingness, buildings sprouted from the ground, like plants that didn’t even need water to put forth shoots. Money circulated from hand to hand, and the faster it went around, the more likely it was to raise up from the earth cement and steel forms, which, like mushrooms, came into being overnight. And the money circulated to the turbulent rhythm of the city. The Free City was being built from nothing—from the selling of titles for structures that would later be destroyed. Brasília was being built from nothing—from money that was issued without a gold reserve. For Aunt Matilde, this was proof that it was all the same whether you made the economy grow out of something or out of nothing, out of something useful or something useless. The unnecessary could become an engine of wealth. Don’t say that building Brasília is unnecessary, argued Roberto, So, what is necessary?, there are very few necessary things in this world, so tell me exactly what is necessary! Brasília, he replied, No, if you had said food, I would have understood, but even so there are Indians who find food without growing a thing, and here in Brazil, in this climate, if you really think about it, not even clothing is necessary, almost everything in the world is unnecessary, Well I don’t understand where you’re going with this, said Roberto.
It’s my way of agreeing with you, my love, for it’s better to build Brasília than an atomic bomb, dreams are more valuable than fear, rivers of money are wasted on atomic bombs, and do you think it’s necessary to build an atomic bomb? A necessity that only comes out of fear? And why is wasting money out of fear any different from wasting money because of a desire, a dream? What I’m trying to say is just that, that we can construct reality, and wealth, that we can put money into circulation from nothingness, from emptiness, from the fictitious, from the useless and the unnecessary, and Brasília is all of those things, or rather, it is nothing at all.
And it’s better than an atomic bomb, said Dad, ironically, completing her line of reasoning. He thought it was an odd theory, but he was pleased that he could extract from it what interested him most: the construction of Brasília was making him wealthy. He already knew the details of his partner’s quite unlawful transactions, but Paulão was the one getting his hands dirty, Dad merely handed over the money, and sometimes asked for Roberto, who was already Aunt Matilde’s boyfriend at this point, to intercede on their behalf. Paulão had a special talent for obtaining three or four receipts for the delivery of a single truckload of construction sand, gravel, or cement. He’d weigh the truck on the scales, get the receipt for having loaded up the truck, leave, but not unload it, and enter the scales again, multiplying this operation again and again, like a magician at a circus. After a few months, he had racked up invoices for six or even eight thousand cubic meters of construction sand, although he’d only delivered two thousand cubic meters. At 760 cruzeiros per cubic meter, the net monthly profit could surpass a million cruzeiros, wit
h Dad receiving half of that. Another of his clever operations was to put the names of migrant workers from other worksites on their payroll, pay them a salary, then get most of that money back from them. When payment was made per kilometer driven, Paulão would put the semi-truck up on wooden beams and let the wheels spin all night long. It wasn’t right, and Dad knew that, but there were so many people around him getting rich . . . With the money he earned selling commodatums, the construction of houses on the land he owned, the resale of lands that had increased in value, and the highly profitable business partnership with Paulão, he saw his reputation grow, not only in the Free City, but also in Brasília, which was starting to take shape.
One night we heard screams and woke up with a start: Fire! The city’s catching fire! I quickly got dressed and went out into the street. The fire was at a store that Dad had opened with Paulão, an enormous warehouse that sold everything. The atmosphere out on the street was festive, inspired by fear. People were moving about, forming groups, and conversing excitedly. The blaze threatened to spread to the wooden houses, and Dad and Paulão were among those who took action to put out the fire. Flames filled the sky. The walls of the store had disappeared. You could see the remains of some furniture, various kinds of wardrobes, tables, and beds catching fire. In what was left of a window, the flames were growing larger, thick ones flared up, smoke billowed out, and the smell of burnt cloth spread all around, from all the mattresses, bedspreads, and towels, the glass in the windows shattered, resulting in delicate little sounds. Many people came up to Dad to express sorrow about what had happened, and he replied, with great dignity, that the important thing was to save the other buildings, These things happen, it was just a spontaneous combustion. I heard, They’re saying it was done on purpose, for the insurance—and I never was able to figure out if Dad really had told Paulão to set the building ablaze. I know that Dad didn’t sleep that night, and that it wasn’t out of worry—he was counting the money he’d earned and running the numbers on new investments.
However, his glory could not be complete unless he explored his other calling, which was like a virtue to ease his conscience, to compensate for his vice and give his life a spiritual dimension that he wouldn’t find in any god or religion. In December of 1958 he made the decision to return to the jungle and join Bernardo Sayão’s team, which had continued its work without rest and refused to be intimidated by the hundreds of kilometers of wide forest trails and service lanes left to clear out, now that they were nearing the end of the Belém-Brasília, which was expected to be completed on January 31, 1959. You’re going back out to that jaguar trail?, asked Aunt Matilde, using the term employed by the enemies of the highway, who were also the enemies of Brasília.
On the eve of Dad’s departure, on Sunday afternoon, payday for the workers, Valdivino came looking for Dad with a worried look on his face: Can you take me with you out into the jungle, Mr. Moacyr? What’s the meaning of this, Valdivino? Mr. Moacyr, you’re like a priest to me, a priest I can confess to, but one that gives me solutions here on earth, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, alone, Sir, Go ahead, Valdivino, I’m going to get married, Mr. Moacyr. Typhoon lowered his head between his stretched out forelegs and looked askance at Valdivino. Well then you’ve got to stay here, is it that young woman you like so much? They heard a noise from the kitchen. It was Aunt Matilde. Mr. Moacyr, I don’t want anyone to hear, said Valdivino in a lowered voice. Dad suggested that they go out.
In contrast to the rhythm of the construction sites, time was passing slowly on that payday, when the population seemed to multiply by at least four, the avenues filling up with workers from the construction firm camps and nearby towns. Valdivino looked from side to side as he talked, lowering his voice whenever a passer-by drew near, I wanted to tell you about this situation to see what you think about it and what advice you have for me, Mr. Moacyr, one night this guy from the SPB, Aristotle, with whom I share a room, came up to me and asked: Do you know such-and-such girl, who’s like this and like that? And then he said right away: She sent a message for you, she’s going to be over by the warehouse after eleven o’clock tonight. But I barely even know this girl, I said. She always stares at you when you pass in the street, a pretty woman who’s always enticing you but you never bite, you’re not going to tell me you’re a fag, he said, provoking me.
Men in long-sleeved white shirts swapped stories in front of shops, bars, restaurants, and nightclubs—small buildings, just one story. Some street vendors could be seen at the sides of the streets, and in the middle of the avenue there were lines of semi-trucks of every make and year, buses, jeeps and more jeeps, wagons, and horses. I believe that we’re supposed to resist, continued Valdivino, there’s only one woman for me in this life, I’ve never been with another, but I agreed that the young woman was cute, the daughter of a laborer from Paraíba, her name is Carminha, and it’s true that she sometimes smiled at me, so I got to thinking about her smile and left for the warehouse.
Dad and Valdivino passed in front of the movie theater made of corrugated iron owned by Countess Tarnowska, which was advertising Rio, 40 Degrees by Nelson Pereira dos Santos, starring Glauce Rocha and Jece Valadão, and then went past the big red wooden building, on the front of which, in white, capital letters, it read “Presbyterian Church.”
When I got to the warehouse, Mr. Moacyr, Carminha was already there, I went over to her and she didn’t move away, then I got even closer and she put her hands in front of her in the shape of a “v,” as if she were protecting herself, so I put her hands on my waist, and she let me do it, so I got a little closer, I pulled Carminha against me, embraced Carminha, kissed Carminha’s mouth, and my hands were groping all over.
They kept walking down the avenues, watching people come and go from the little markets, grocery stores, barber shops, and pharmacies, watching the cobblers and shoe-shines who at that hour were still working on boot after boot. I’m telling you this, Mr. Moacyr, because then something happened that I’m still trying to understand, Carminha suddenly pushed me away and we stood there, screwing each other with just our eyes, surprised and dizzy, so dizzy in fact that she didn’t even straighten her clothes, she was leaning against the wall with her skirt pulled up, exposing one of her thighs, one of her breasts showing through her low-necked, unbuttoned blouse. I had the urge to embrace her even more forcefully, and then she yelled: Oh my God! And she turned around to straighten her clothes, ashamed. When she turned back to look at me, her breast and thigh were covered up, but her face looked even more frightened than before: What now, Valdivino?, she said, saying my name like that, and then she started to cry with such emotion that her crying really touched me, and I felt regret for touching such a pure little angel, I’d been the first person to fondle her breasts and kiss her mouth, I thought, and I was in agony: It’s not anybody’s fault, I said, if there’s anything to blame it’s our human nature, I like you. I like you, too, she replied, already wiping away her tears, come here and give me a kiss, she said, calling me over to her. I’m telling you all these details, Mr. Moacyr, because you know what goes on in peoples’ heads. If you were in that situation, would you or would you not think that she was a virtuous woman? Seems like I would, Valdivino, why do you ask? asked Dad, while he observed the cracked wood of some of the buildings, palm trees planted in pots, and meat hanging in the front window of a butcher shop, where the violet light from a lightbulb buzzed intermittently. Well then, when I gave her that kiss, it was a kiss that never ended, and things started happening before I even had time to think them through, next thing I knew I had ripped all the buttons off of Carminha’s blouse, and we were lying down in the weeds. Not here, she said, and then she pulled me by the arm over by a shrub in a darkened spot behind a semi-truck in the parking lot behind the soccer field—Valdivino motioned and pointed to the sides of the street as if he were looking out at the location of that secret encounter. There wasn’t even enough time for me to realize how much pleasure I was fee
ling, because everything happened all of a sudden, Carminha, completely naked, covered her breasts, closed her thighs together, and wriggled from one side to another, but that didn’t extinguish the flames, I kissed every little bit of her body, I could feel the goose bumps on her skin with my lips, I was in a trance, Mr. Moacyr, I didn’t know what to do, but all of a sudden she did everything, and did it all so well that she hardly seemed like that young woman who had shed tears of shame. Someone saw us and went to tell the guard, and the guard told the head of the camp, a surly guy who goes around in a pickup truck. You shameless bastard, did you fuck that girl or not? I kept silent. Did you fuck her or not? Still nothing out of me. You fucked her and now you’ve got to marry her, you shameless thing. Do you think you can fuck this girl and then just abandon her? Her dad’s furious. You’ve gotta get married now. So, are you gonna marry her or not? I still kept quiet. There’s no use in trying to escape. We know everybody around here. If you run off, we’ll catch you. So, are you gonna marry her or not? I didn’t think I had any way out, so I said: I’ll marry her. This was the day before yesterday, Mr. Moacyr.
Dad lowered his head, giving the impression that he was examining each speck of dirt below. He seemed as worried as Valdivino, or even more. The two of them walked for a few minutes in silence, listening to the sound of music coming from one of the shops.
I don’t like her enough to marry her, Mr. Moacyr, that’s the plain truth, and I don’t know if I actually even screwed Carminha, it’s possible that she’s still a virgin, because we did everything, but at the last moment . . . I’m sad, Mr. Moacyr, this is what I wanted to talk to you about, I’m really sad, I’ve even started to think about things that I shouldn’t, because to go on living like this . . . I know that you’re a brain doctor, if it were you, would you marry her or give up everything and escape to somewhere far away, hiding out in the forest? They were passing in front of a small shop where they could see black umbrellas and colorful parasols hanging on the walls, as well as baby clothes, crocheted booties, and white, embroidered baptismal gowns. Dad noticed that Valdivino was staring intently at those tiny clothes. I don’t know, Valdivino, only you can decide what to do. And could I go with you, Sir? You’re going on a trip, aren’t you? Francisca told me.