One evening, over a year after our doomed bed-venture, when I thought the two of us were alone, I found Zé standing with Melissa at the window. I’d been in my room, and somehow hadn’t even noticed the throbbing walls as he landed. I walked in just as he was enfolding her in an extended bear hug. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, his daughter protectively clasped to him, then opened his eyes and affected to have only just seen me enter.
‘Ludo—how are you, my boy?’ He detached himself from Melissa, and strode across the room to shake my hand.
By the time I had come over from the kitchen island with a tray of drinks and canapés, Melissa and her father were deep in conversation, and made no effort to include me. This wasn’t unusual, so I retreated and got to work on a risotto. It was obvious that tense remarks had been exchanged, and as their conversation got more heated they made less of an effort to disguise the topic under discussion.
‘You have to get in the corporate game, like I did, before you can have any clout in the political one,’ Zé was saying. His voice dropped to a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’m not asking you to betray your beliefs. I’m asking you to cherish them—to safeguard them until you can act on them.’
‘You mean bury them,’ said Melissa, in a flat voice. ‘You mean forget them.’
‘I have done something wonderful for you,’ said Zé. ‘Don’t you see?’
‘I don’t want what you have done for me. However kind it is.’
‘Do you know how valuable a place at this school is? It’s one of the best business schools in the United States. And that means in the world. Do you know what it would do for you to go there?’
‘I don’t want it, Pai.’
‘But it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.’
‘So give it to him instead,’ she said, pointing over at me.
Zé turned round so that now they were both looking straight in my direction. It was as if the characters in a telenovela had suddenly turned in my direction and started referring to me. My wide-eyed stare showed that I’d been eavesdropping on every word they said. I dropped my head back down towards the risotto pot and began stirring intently.
‘I mean, I’m sure he would appreciate your offer,’ Melissa went on, trying to smile.
Zé turned back to Melissa without a word to me. She might as well have been gesticulating at a piece of furniture.
‘Why does it take Ludo to understand how lucky you are?’ he said. ‘Why will he appreciate my offer when you will not?’
‘Maybe because Ludo is better suited to this life you want me to lead.’
‘No, Meli, that’s the wrong answer. The reason why Ludo would jump at the chance to take up this offer is because Ludo hasn’t always had the luck you’ve had. He wasn’t born in a golden cradle like you. He knows that it’s every man for himself in this world, and that not to take the opportunities you’re given is insane. These people you want to help—these people Ernesto is devoting his life to—you think they would have your attitude if you gave them the opportunities you’ve had?’
‘Even if that were true, does that mean they shouldn’t be helped?’
Zé’s voice dropped. ‘Don’t just stay here with Ernesto. You’re so young.’
‘This is about Ernesto more than me, isn’t it? Let me tell you: Ernesto is worth it. He’s doing something worthwhile. The sort of thing you talk about but never actually do.’
‘He’s naïve. I want to change things for the better too. But you have to be somewhere to do that.’
‘It doesn’t work like that any more. You know that.’
Zé stood up, and whirled to face the window. ‘Bullshit, Melissa. That’s bullshit. Take it from me. Take it from Ludo. You think he’d be attending university now if we hadn’t taken him in? You think he’d be doing so well? Of course he wouldn’t. He’d be living in the gutter and holding up gas stations. Ask him yourself.’
‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Melissa to me. This doesn’t have to involve you.’
I said nothing, and kept stirring. Building a risotto is an exercise in patience. The butter, the fat, the stock—eventually all are absorbed by those initially recalcitrant little grains, which look as if they will never soften, but ultimately, after the right amount of persuasion, become fondant and loaded with flavour. I had been thinking of Melissa as I stirred, reasoning that if I took things slowly but insistently, I could soften her in the same way.
But the discussion was not over, and Zé was in pursuit. ‘Why won’t you do this, Melissa?’
‘Because I want to stay here with Ernesto. Give this opportunity to Ludo. He is your son, you know.’
‘Very well. Since you are so stubborn. Ludo, stop cooking. Come here.’
‘The risotto will burn.’
‘So turn down the heat.’
I did as he suggested, crossed the room and sat down.
‘Ludo, I would like to offer you the chance to study business in the United States. I have spent a lot of money to secure this place. It should be easy enough to change the arrangement so that they are expecting a son instead of a daughter.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.
‘There’s no need to say anything. Just be grateful. Something of which your sister seems incapable.’
‘What about my university course here?’
‘You can finish it later.’
For one thing, I didn’t want to study business; I was enjoying my degree at the university, and I was doing well at it. For another, the idea of leaving Melissa was unthinkable. But turning down this chance would be a far more complicated undertaking for me than it had been for her. As with every opportunity the family provided, refusal was not an option. It felt like yet another wall of the prison that had been rising up to contain me since I was born.
Zé was preparing to leave. He got to his feet, took a phone from his inside breast pocket, and called his pilot. ‘Leaving in five minutes. Start the engines please.’
If I said nothing now, Zé would take my silence as assent. It would be a done deal. Melissa had suggested I take the place, but she couldn’t have meant it. I was back at the stove now, resuming work on the risotto, but I was preparing to say something, anything, to lodge my objection.
The helicopter started to whine into life above us. Zé drained his glass, and made for the door.
‘I’m glad you have some sense, Ludo,’ he said. ‘If she is too spoilt to take advantage of this opportunity, then I shall make it available to you, who appreciates it. She can stay here with her loser.’
She never sees her loser, I thought. And the loser can’t be trusted. She needs me to stay here and look after her, to make sure she’s OK.
‘For your information, I’m marrying my loser,’ she blurted out.
‘What are you talking about?’ Zé said, freezing at the door. ‘You can’t get married. You’re too young.’
‘I’m old enough to be pregnant.’
I stared, my hand stilled, as the rice in the bottom of the pan began to blacken and burn.
BEIRUT SANDWICH
So the problem is . . . what? You can’t stop thinking about her? You’re addicted?’ asks Flávia.
We’re at the lanchonete, drinking milkshakes and eating steak and melted cheese ‘Beirut’ sandwiches. Flávia slipped her cutlery from its plastic bag as soon as the food arrived and is now cutting up her sandwich into neat morsels, which are disappearing into her one by one at top speed. I haven’t started mine. A lot has happened this morning, and I am unashamedly offloading it on to her. She looks bored.
‘Perhaps I am addicted. I don’t know. I left the country for a year once, and being away from her definitely helped.’
She swallows carefully and wipes her mouth before speaking. ‘There’s one solution for you to start with: try not seeing her. She is your sister. And she’s married.’
‘She’s not my real sister, remember?’
Flávia shrugs. ‘Whatever you say.’
The
phone ringing in my office this morning was so unexpected that I momentarily felt a surge of adrenaline, imagining that I was about to catch my nuisance caller in the act—then I remembered that his cover had been blown for some time. The one voice I did not expect to hear was Melissa’s.
She got straight to the point. ‘Ernesto knows.’
‘What?’
‘OK—he doesn’t know, but he suspects.’
‘I could have told you that. I had lunch with him yesterday.’
This stalled her. ‘How come?’
‘He’s a client of mine. You should take more of an interest in his work. He changed jobs without even telling you. He works for your father now.’
‘Yes, he told me that too.’ She sighed into the phone. ‘This is all too much for me.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t know that it’s me who comes to stay. He’s not even sure that anyone does. You just have to reassure him.’
‘We can do better than that. I called to tell you that you’re never coming round here again.’
‘Don’t be hasty.’
‘This is the opposite of hasty. You should have stopped a long time ago. When I’m alone, at least. I think we both know it’s a little weird.’
‘You called me last night, remember?’
‘It doesn’t matter who called who. It’s messed up, Ludo. Ernesto mentioned a couple of other things—stuff about messages on the bathroom mirror, and someone reading his diary—so unless you want to talk about those as well, I suggest that we leave the conversation there and agree that we won’t see one another like that any more.’
‘Wait.’
‘And if you ever come over here uninvited again I’ll tell Ernesto exactly who creeps into my bed while he’s gone. Understand?’
My second attempt to say ‘Wait’ met with a dull telephonic full stop.
I charged out of my office, intending to find her and remonstrate with her in person, but ran into Oscar in the corridor. He gave me a punch on the arm that was meant to seem playful, but felt like he was trying to cause me pain.
‘I bet that gave you a shock, didn’t it?’ he said. ‘Finding out the MaxiBudget client is actually your own brother-in-law?’
‘It did. But I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised—Zé likes to keep things in the family.’
‘It should be fun, anyway, all of us working together. How was your lunch?’
‘Very instructive.’
‘Excellent. Now, to business. Just because the client is family doesn’t mean that I don’t want an incredible piece of work from you on this. You don’t want Dennis showing you up, do you?’
‘What?’
‘He may only be here temporarily, and he may be half-foreign, but he’s good. He’s already come up with some insightful stuff. It would be embarrassing for you if we went with one of his ideas over yours, wouldn’t it?’
‘Very.’
‘So get working. That reminds me. Have you got another of your focus groups with the cleaner lined up?’
‘I can organise one.’
‘I told Dennis you’d run his concepts past a real slum-dwelling lady. Just stop by his office and pick up some copies of his work next time you’re seeing her, will you? See what she makes of them.’
‘No problem.’
‘See you at the meeting.’ He was already halfway across the office floor, his retreating form framed by an enormous red, womb-like oval on the wall, so that he resembled a cartoon character walking off into the sunset at the end of the feature.
I went to find Dennis, who took me aside and told me he was worried he might have caught something from the prostitute.
I was in no mood to console him. ‘You didn’t take precautions? Even with that bulging bag of prophylactics? Perhaps you should get yourself tested. Go see the company doctor.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, looking only momentarily confused by how well I knew the contents of his wash bag. ‘Let me know what you think.’
I left his concepts in my office. Deflated, trying to overlook the fact that no matter how bad they were, I had come up with nothing, I headed upstairs to the bathroom that used to be Flávia’s kitchen for a think. Which is where she found me.
On finding out that her shift was ending, I dragged her out immediately with the promise of sandwiches and milkshakes. She protested that she had shopping to do first, so I herded her at top speed around the small local supermarket until she had collected the groceries she wanted. This morning’s events were weighing on my mind so much that it was only when I saw Flávia counting out her coins at the checkout that I thought I should probably have offered to buy her shopping. Now we are back at the lanchonete I can make up for that.
She has finished her sandwich and is distractedly rubbing a red-string bracelet up and down her wrist. It catches and tangles but she smoothes it back. She is trying but failing to look interested. I guess she thinks that her listening to my moaning is the price I’m asking for the parade of shakes and snacks I am bankrolling on her behalf.
‘Anyway,’ I go on. ‘Not seeing Melissa is out of the question. She’s my sister. We spend family weekends together.’
Flávia sighs. She hasn’t got time for my soap operas, but her compassion functions all the same, and makes her want to help me in spite of the fact that mostly she despises me.
‘So what are you going to do?’ she says.
‘I don’t know. Judging by this morning’s conversation things might be out of my hands.’
The end of her straw gurgles and hisses as it seeks around in the base of the glass, craving more sugary, milky fuel.
‘What you think I should do?’ I ask.
She laughs. ‘Dear Lord! How do I know what you should do? Aren’t you rich enough to afford a real shrink?’
‘I care what you think.’
‘Why do you care what I think? I’m just the woman who cleans the toilets.’
‘You’re the only real person in my life.’
‘Why? Is this a fairy tale? Are you so poisoned by the people in your life that you can only have a real conversation with a poor old toilet scraper like me?’
‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying that somehow I have lost sight of myself.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know how to express it. My opportunities have blinded me.’
She curses, and spits, and stands up, assembling herself in sections. She might not make it—bits totter and teeter—but she pulls herself together.
‘I think you should stop buying me milkshakes. Right now, I want to punch you in the mouth, and I don’t think that’s going to change any time soon.’
‘What’s wrong with asking you—’
‘You’re a brat! I’m sick of your whining. Some of us have real things to worry about. Like sons recovering from gunshot wounds.’
‘How is he?’
‘Go to hell.’
The valediction is emphatic, but her departure is not. It takes her a full minute of muttering to collect up her shopping and shuffle to the door. After she’s finally gone, I sit toying with the greaseproof paper my sandwich came in. Then I throw a wad of damp money down on to the bar, and rush after her.
I am fourteen. Yesterday I ate my first club sandwich. Today it’s Rebecca’s turn to have me for the day, to keep me occupied before school starts. We’re welcomed at the door of a small, clean building not far from an immense out-of-town favela, which Rebecca has explained to me is one of the orphanages she oversees. As the lady at the door shows us in we are swamped by a tide of children, a tsunami of uncomplicated love. Rebecca steps to one side, but I am caught. They climb my legs, and clamber on my shoulders, and hang from my neck. Rebecca addresses each child by name, and introduces me. As one boy goes politely to shake my hand she sees me flinch at the sight of the outbreak of pink warts that stands out from the dark skin of his hand.
‘Shake it, now,’ she mutters, deadly serious. ‘This could have been you.’
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ Flávia is motoring along the pavement at what is probably approaching her top speed.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ I say, orbiting her like a satellite.
‘Leave me. Get out of my life. Why do I waste my time listening to this playboy?’
I drop away and follow her from a distance. Her staccato, angry stomp eventually settles into a graceful lope that must be her long distance pace, her cruising speed. She’s still exclaiming loudly, taking her outrage and indignation round the block, scolding herself for the time she has squandered on me and my problems.
We double back past the office, and she carries on walking, towards the favela. I follow. I don’t notice the frontier—there isn’t one—but I can tell when we’re on the other side. All the buildings we pass are both ‘unofficial’ and precarious, or else reclaimed, and on their second or third use. Kids kick a bald football around a rubbish-fretted clay pitch. Radios blast loud funk and hip-hop from holes in the honeycomb. One boy in a yellow T-shirt flies a small, multicoloured kite that zips and veers over the players. I know that kites are used as warning signals, to let traficantes know when the police are coming, and I wonder whether this boy is merely playing, or earning a wage. At one end of the pitch, three men in coloured vests stand around a rusty car chassis holding tools and arguing, looking like they’re trying to reassemble the vehicle from scratch. Only a street or two from the office, this is a different world, where the sterility of progress is held off by something that is all the more vital for being so precarious.
The main body of the community is fringed by fragile wooden homes, the defences these afford broken up by narrow alleys. Ancient political posters and advertisements peel on every flat surface—I notice what could be Zé’s faded, peeling eye, bleaching to monochrome, one step from oblivion. Faces look out from behind the hoardings: those who have set up home under the shelter of advertising. I recognise the remains of one poster as an idea of mine from a year ago, a brand of sports shoe whose slogan is “Deserve the Best.” A skeletal horse is tethered to one end. The squat behind of a rusty Volkswagen Fusca protrudes from the other.
Heliopolis Page 17