by João Almino
Give me that worthless article, said Dad, after reading the article without my permission, as he used to do in the old days with my journal, and, taking it from my hands, he started to rip it to shreds, which he threw in the trashcan beneath the desk. I ran over to him and managed to save one of the pages.
For the love of God, stop it right now, yelled Aunt Francisca.
I was beside myself, or rather, I had just entered my true self for the first time, Damn you and the whore that gave birth to you, you go around pretending you’re a saint, but I know damn well what you did—I said to Dad—and you should be on my side, Aunt Francisca, since you were the first to defend Valdivino, but now you’re just playing blind, deaf, and dumb.
Get out of this house, roared Dad, You bastard!, I replied, You’re being unfair to your Dad, give me the rest of that paper, said Aunt Francisca to me, I don’t want your opinion, you slut!, and I kept on raging, You’re not even my dad, my real dad died a long time ago, you bastard!, you murderer!, feeling good for having had the courage to speak my mind. And I repeated it: You murderer!
Behave yourself, said Aunt Francisca, addressing me.
You miserable bitch!, I replied, and stood staring at the shredded papers in the wastebasket and the pieces that had fallen on the floor under the desk.
I think he’s been talking to that scoundrel, that liar Paulão on the sly, said Aunt Francisca.
Dad was swelling with anger, it was flashing in his face, and I soon felt the sting of a powerful slap to my face, which I repaid with a punch to his face, then he pushed me hard and I fell to the floor, hitting my head against the corner of the wall. Aunt Francisca even started to come to my aid, but I left the house in a flash and never again went back.
Though I’d never felt very close to her, Aunt Matilde was the one who was there for me. Recently broken up with Roberto, she was working as a civil servant and lived in a functional apartment in the North Wing. Already in full adolescence, I desired her, recalling the night that she’d undressed in the living room where I slept. Unlike the child I’d been, the adolescent didn’t fear sin and didn’t think it an obstacle that she was my aunt, since she wasn’t really my aunt at all. Do you remember that night, Aunt Matilde, I never forgot it, I wanted to go back in time, it’s the only thing in my life that I regret not doing, you’re not my aunt by blood, I don’t see anything too wrong with it, it’ll be a revolutionary act on our part, what are you afraid of, Aunt Matilde? Following a blunder that I’d rather not discuss, she imposed her limits and took care of me, and I truly became her friend and began to feel a true affinity for her, not like I had for Dad, or even Aunt Francisca. She sympathized with my ideas, discussed my articles with me, dreamed of socialism, and was critical of the military, like me. As I soon came to find out, she led a secret life at night, devoting herself to spraying graffiti on walls—for the revolution needed to infiltrate every corner—and she was even arrested when the police stormed her apartment and found her notebook full of addresses. Her imprisonment, along with mine, may have been the cause of my short-lived bout of insanity.
But all this happened much later on, and as these topics, as well as my falling out with Dad, still cause me pain, I’d rather return to those less bitter memories from the beginning of 1960 and to the papers that Dad buried. I read in one of the newspapers from that era, found among all those papers, that, from its inception to the beginning of 1960, Brasília had cost more than fifty billion cruzeiros, not counting the cost of the light and power, water, sewer, and telephone service. Twenty billion cruzeiros worth of building plots had been sold, and there were still billions of cruzeiros-worth more to be sold—which demonstrated the extraordinary possibility of riches for those who, like Dad, increasingly dedicated themselves to the buying and selling of land.
Like the countdown to a fireworks launch, Dad’s box of papers proclaimed the coming inauguration of Brasília through newspaper clippings, all of them dated and numbered. On the day of its publication, January 16, 1960, Dad had shown me a newspaper report stating that the National Integration Caravan, with its four columns—coming from the north, south, east, and west, that is, from Belém, Porto Alegre, Rio, and Cuiabá—each of which was made up of fifty domestically produced vehicles, had begun its journey to the future capital, and on February 2—together with Valdivino, Aunt Francisca, and Aunt Matilde—he took me, beneath a cloudy sky, to the Three Powers Plaza, where nearly the entire population of Brasília watched the arrival of those four columns, which were going to be received by JK, Dona Sarah, and all the ministers.
Valdivino’s enthusiasm was so great that we formed a little team with him, cheering on the column that received the most applause, the one from the north. It didn’t matter that he was from Bahia, that Dad and Aunt Matilde were from Minas Gerais, and Aunt Francisca and I were from Goiás, we all wanted to be represented by the city of Belém, in the state of Pará. It was our way of paying homage to Bernardo Sayão.
Léa Sayão, the daughter of Bernardo, Dad informed us, took part in the caravan that was coming down the Belém-Brasília, riding in a Volkswagon bus driven by Joana Lowell Bowen, an American that I know from my time back in Goiás, the owner of a farm in the Das Almas River region, between Ceres and Goianésia, close to where we used to live. When they got to Açailândia, the two of them and a few others prayed at the foot of the cross that I helped set up on the spot where Sayão died.
At Aunt Francisca’s insistence, we moved closer to the image of Our Lady of Nazareth, the patroness of Belém, displayed on the altar next to the patroness of Brasília, Our Lady of Aparecida.
Valdivino’s eyes filled with tears when JK signed the act that officially named the Belém-Brasília highway after Bernardo Sayão. He embraced Dad, overflowing with joy. Valdivino’s tears were contagious, especially for Aunt Francisca, and affected us all.
At home the next day, Dad transcribed, in one of his “Onward” notebooks, the message, written on a scroll, that the poet Guilherme de Almeida had sent from São Paulo and underlined the first few words with a red pencil, as if he wished to transfer to the page the emotions of someone realizing that they are witnessing a unique, extraordinary moment: “Upon the immense map of Brazil, an enormous cross is now being drawn.”
Another news item I found in the box, and which I remember Dad showing me, was dated March 27, 1960: a hundred naval riflemen and twenty volunteer marines had begun Operation Dawn, a journey on foot from Rio to Brasília which was to last until April 21. Aunt Matilde had commented at the time: Poor guys! I got to come here on an airplane, and even I regret it . . .
I also found some handwritten notes dated April 11. At the second Newcap auction, Dad had bought ten building plots, each of them measuring ten meters by forty. At the time he had to pay three million cruzeiros for all of them, whereas just a year before he had done the same, but had only spent two hundred and fifty thousand, which was one more indication for me that he had already accumulated enormous sums of money through land deals and construction.
Another article, which was nearly illegible, from a torn and yellowed newspaper, contained the news that, at 12:45 P.M. on April 20, 1960—thus, a day before the inauguration of Brasília—the plane carrying JK and his entourage had landed, that he was later transported to the Palace of the Dawn by helicopter, and that, on the same day—this part was underlined in ink—the one hundred naval riflemen and twenty marines of Operation Dawn had arrived on foot.
I did not, however, find anything about the possible murder of Valdivino, not even a little note or mere mention. I had suspected for some time that Dad was hiding something from me, I’d talked to people who had lived in the Garden of Salvation at the time of the incident, and, although the few people who remembered what took place were convinced of the Prophetess Íris Quelemém’s version of events, one of them told me that it all started when Valdivino had a jealous outburst and attacked Dad.
On that seventh and final night, for which I had prepared by reading a
nd rereading those papers, I confronted Dad with the version of events that had been the source of my big blowout with him and the reason I left home that day in 1966, when he was preparing to marry Aunt Francisca. Let’s set aside the conjecture that was brought up years ago on my psychoanalyst’s couch, that I harbored an unhealthy jealousy in regards to my aunt. In my adolescent mind, at that time, I was thinking of protecting her more than anything else, I couldn’t stand to see her marry Dad, I assumed that they were getting married because Dad had had his way with her some drunken night, I couldn’t accept that she, who was so very Catholic, would marry an atheist, and when I found out that Dad had probably killed Valdivino, I related the story to her, but she merely repeated what she had told me years ealier, that Valdivino had died as a result of sex within his family, Don’t call your dad a criminal.
They say that Valdivino assaulted you, Dad, because he found out about your affair with Lucrécia, they think that you’re the one who killed him, in self-defense, and that you later tried, unsuccessfully, to save him, to resuscitate him, Those are just stories, inventions, said Dad, who then narrated, between four dingy white walls, what had given rise to those speculations.
One day in December, Valdivino convinced him to go out to the commune with him. He was visibly anxious about the arrival of 1960: The world is going to end, Mr. Moacyr, that’s one of Lúcia’s secrets—he said, referring to one of the little shepherd children to whom Our Lady appeared in Fátima, Portugal—the pope never wanted to reveal this secret, ’cause he didn’t want to scare everyone.
Once they picked up the highway that led to the commune, the conversation turned to the first time that they had met, out near the Descoberto, Do you want to come hunt armadillos out here with me, Sir? In addition to the giant armadillo, we also run across açu armadillos, six-banded armadillos, and three-banded armadillos, said Valdivino.
Armadillo hunts should take place in the winter, Valdivino, when, because of the cold, they stay underground, but come out at sunrise to hunt for worms and insects, So this winter let’s go on another hunt, just like the first one, you promise? I promise, Dad said sincerely, for he still looked back fondly on the trip he’d made with Valdivino and me out near the Descoberto—but if we want to find capybara, marsh deer, red lily-trotters, garganey ducks, side-necked turtles, red-footed tortoises, and spectacled caimans, we’ll need to go out to the shores of Feia Lake.
Tibouchina flowers dyed the landscape, here and there, in violet, speckled with yellow from the mimosas. Some flowers looked like snow, and on them alighted Anna’s eighty-eight butterflies. Valdivino asked Dad to stop the jeep and got down to pick some of the white flowers, which he formed into a little bouquet, Isn’t this pretty, Mr. Moacyr?
When they resumed the trip, he talked about the birds that they saw out at the commune, pointing out all the ones that they could spot on the sides of the road. At this advanced point in the story, in which we are heading to meet Valdivino’s mysterious girlfriend, I should say that I’m no longer interested in the blog, since no one ever provides me any useful facts or ideas, except for the author of the last comment, who suggested some names of birds that Valdivino might have shown to Dad on the side of the road, birds that are easily found in the region: masked yellowthroats, red-shouldered tanagers, rufous-collared sparrows, paramo seedeaters, white-necked thrushes, saffron finches, European goldfinches, crested oropendolas, white-tipped doves, red turtledoves, quails, and pheasants. I don’t, however, have a way to fit the names of the friends of JK and Oscar Niemeyer—which another blog-reader sent me—into this part of the story.
Let’s leave the birds at the side of the road and finish the trip, for Dad and Valdivino were already approaching the commune. Money isn’t everything, Mr. Moacyr, I used to work myself to death and got paid well for it, and here I don’t work and don’t get paid a thing, but God’s the one who pays me. Ah, Mr. Moacyr, it’s such a great feeling to be able to walk through the fields at the commune when the weather is nice. Can you feel that little breeze, Sir? I used to have my doubts, but not anymore: life is worth living, Mr. Moacyr, even when you’re trying to escape the world, like me.
When they arrived, Valdivino decided to explain further the work that his friend was doing out there. When Aunt Neiva founded the White Arrow Spiritist Union back in November, his girlfriend had wanted to pay it a visit, because she was starting to experience, more and more frequently, paranormal and extrasensory phenomena, which neither science nor religion could explain. Aunt Neiva told her that she saw dead people and the spirits of pretos velhos—or old black men—Indians, and friends from outer space, and one of these people, Father White Arrow, who for millennia has sought to protect humanity during moments of transition, had charged her with a mission and helped her create a new doctrine, then she began to practice high magic and, in 1959, had even started to transport herself, on a daily basis, to Tibet so she could meet with her master, Humarram, from whom she received teachings and initiatory instructions.
I know who Neiva is, said Dad, interrupting him, I remember the bamboo shack, covered in canvas, where she lived when she first came to the Free City in 1957 to work as a Newcap-registered truck driver. I’d already heard of her back in Ceres, and Bernardo Sayão asked me, as a doctor and psychiatrist, to give her a check-up, because she had started to have visions. During the appointment, while I was explaining to her that her visions could be the result of being overworked, she launched into a conversation with someone that only she could see, behind the partition, and the dialogue was centered on my grandfather, who was already dead. I admit that it scared me and I didn’t want to see her again.
Well, after that visit with Aunt Neiva, continued Valdivino, my friend started embracing some of the practices of Spiritism. Like Aunt Neiva, she began to feel the presence of enigmatic beings, who were invisible to other people, and who, to this day, guide her on her path. Also as a result of Aunt Neiva’s influence, she opened the commune to the most diverse assortment of religious legacies and traditions, including those of ancient peoples, especially Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Mayans, Aztecs, Incas, Yorubans, and Gypsies, although everything can be freely studied there: it’s not necessary to obey written documents, believe in revelations, or impose rituals based on faith or fear. Everyone must feel and experience for themselves the power of their spiritual communication to truly undergo a new experience. She has also communicated with the spirit of Coronel Fawcett and says that she’s going to find the City of Z.
Dad felt a strange sensation: although he’d spent so much time with Valdivino, he didn’t really know him. That skinny, soft-spoken young man beside him was like that quiet, polite neighbor you see every day and then one day discover that he’s a murderer. He tried to dismiss those bad thoughts, We call this place here the Garden of Salvation, said Valdivino; and one other thing, Mr. Moacyr, I forgot to tell you that I’m known as Abel in the commune.
As they went through the first of three iron gateways, they were offered a drink. It had the same smell as the nectar of joy—the balm made from a mixture of herbs and angel trumpets, boiled in oil—which Dad had inhaled on that distant night in the Brasília Hotel. It tasted just like the one that Lucrécia had made him lick on that distant night. But it was stronger, much stronger. You’re only supposed to drink a little, advised Valdivino.
After that, he took Dad to a nearby hill, called Battle Hill, where his friend, surrounded by about fifty people, was preaching a sermon:
This isn’t the first time that the Earth is going to be affected by an enormous comet, but the other ones were just a warning, it’s been sixty-five million years since a meteorite destroyed the Earth’s inhabitants, the dinosaurs, and thirteen thousand years ago a comet exploded in the heavens and rained meteorites on the Americas, to the north of here, rained balls of fire on the plant life all around, and buried microscopic diamonds in the ground, and the sun disappeared behind layers of ash and dust, that’s why the human race lived through an ice age
for a thousand years and many animals disappeared. The humans of that era, the Clovis culture, are no longer here to tell their story, but there are spirits from that culture that walk the earth and bring us truths from that era; we are now facing the same danger, but not those who live in the Central Plateau, where the human race established itself over ten thousand years ago and created a civilization around the city of Z, and I have received a message from the spirits of Z: the new creation emerging from the laws of the universe is that which is about to come forth in Brasília, it is that which shall come about in the new Age of Aquarius and the new millennium . . .
Dad didn’t know how to react or what to say. He was in a state of shock. Was Valdivino’s friend really Lucrécia, or was that just an effect of the substance he’d imbibed?
Look at how the Prophetess Íris lights up, there’s some sort of light all around her body, a light that just naturally shines, said one man.