I walk away, and keep walking for twenty minutes, past shabby condominiums and a dusty park until I reach a freeway, where after several attempts I manage to persuade a taxi to stop, and brave the furious horns of the slowing cars behind him, and take me home. The flyover seems to rise so high that I might get vertigo.
When I enter my apartment I realise straight away that something is wrong, but it takes me a minute to work out what it is: the silence. The place is quieter than it has ever been. The gas-powered fridge I inherited from my mother, whose whining and groaning has provided the backdrop to life in this place ever since I moved in, has finally died. The amount of relief I feel that the noise has finally stopped surprises me.
It means the freezer is also out. And that means that the time has come to eat the last of my mother’s leftovers. Of the tubs I brought back from the farm after she died, one remains. It is unlabelled, but whatever it contains is bound to be delicious. I have never been able to bring myself to open it. I suppose I have been waiting for a push like this.
I take out the tub and leave it in hot water to thaw. Leaving the lights off, I take a candle and a bottle of beer outside to sit under my canopy of plants. I inhale deeply. The air is full of feather-light particles that could be water or dust or pollution.
I run my hands over my skull, feeling its knobs and protuberances. My blood is heavy. My limbs feel as if they were lined with lead. Reaching up to the birdcage, I flick open the door and try once more to entice my fat little parakeet to fly away. The stupid thing won’t move. He flits away from my reach to cringe on the other side of his cage.
I will consume my mother’s last meal out here. I will dine with her one last time, before I ask Zé for the truth tomorrow. Then we’ll see where we are.
My phone rings. I do not answer.
When the message comes through I hit the speakerphone, and let Melissa’s voice ring out over the darkened balcony. She’s having to shout, almost to scream, to be heard over the jarring, thumping background music.
‘Ludo, I don’t know whether you’re still here, but we’re leaving. This thing is getting out of hand. We have the helicopter waiting on the roof and my father told me to find you . . . My God! Did you hear that? I think someone just fired a gun. If you are here, get to the roof if you want to come with us. Papai says it’s going to be like the Saigon airlift.’
I stop the message before it comes to an end.
There will be a last encounter with a treasured friend. A last swallow of your favourite food. A last kiss from the love of your life. Most of the time you won’t know when it’s the last time. But tonight I do—so I can make sure it’s done right. It will be a singular sensation, tasting my mother’s love for the final time just when I am questioning it the most. On one hand, I have found out that she lied to me for all of my life. On the other, I know that she was only part of a grander plan, of which she was never the principal architect.
I go to the kitchen area and open the carton. The smell of congealed fat rises from inside. Something offally and unpleasant. What was I expecting? This thing has been frozen for years. It’s inedible. I will have to find something else to eat.
I drink my beer, which has warmed up in the dead fridge. A newscaster’s voice drowns in the janitor’s radio downstairs—I can just make out something about violence at the opening of a new charity initiative.
Everything will be different tomorrow. From tomorrow I cease to be a passenger. I’m going to talk to Oscar, and hand in my resignation. And if he confirms that I’m his son then I’m going to resign from that position too.
I sit, watching yet more weekend helicopters vectoring smoothly overhead: their casual straight lines; the simplicity of their existence. I imagine a stinger missile shooting up out of the favela, bringing one down. I picture the machine, mortally wounded, spinning out of the sky with crippled rotors.
There’s plenty to think about. But for now, there are simple pleasures to enjoy. My beer. These plants. A grilled bird, sticky in my fingers. The hot, sweet air, full of fumes and hope. The beauty of this vast city at night, and all the possibility it contains.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author gratefully acknowledges the invaluable advice and encouragement of Clare Alexander, Nick Armstrong, Jean-Paul Burge, Louise East, Sam Gilpin, James Gurbutt, Oliver Harris, Henry Hitchings, Carolyn Lindsay, Margaret Stead, Ellie Steel and Jonathan Wise.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Scudamore was born in 1976, and grew up in Japan, Brazil and the UK. His first novel, The Amnesia Clinic, won the 2007 Somerset Maugham Award and was shortlisted for the Costa First Novel Award and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. Heliopolis was nominated for the Man Booker Prize.
Table of Contents
ORANGE JUICE
A HANDFUL OF BEANS
WARM ROLLS
JACARANDA HONEY
PEANUTS
FEIJOADA
CRAB LINGUINE
HOMEMADE STEW
CLUB SANDWICH
SPRAY PANCAKES AND SPRING CHICKENS
AVOCADO MILKSHAKE
CAFÉZINHO
SEA URCHIN
CALF’S LIVER
BEIRUT SANDWICH
WATERMELON PIPS
POOR MAN’S PUDDING
CAKE
MANGO
PARTY FOOD
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Heliopolis Page 26