Thirty Something (Nothing's How We Dreamed It Would Be)

by Filipa Fonseca Silva

  But when I have all that, I begin to feel suffocated. The excess of intimacy, the demands, the guilt. Why is everything fantastic at the start, but after a few months it’s nothing but do this, do that, now we go here, now we go there? We go. I hate that first person plural. It’s as if we’ve suddenly killed the two people who fell in love and replaced them with a single being full of obligations and devoid of freedom. I know that’s what they mean by commitment, that’s what really living with someone is. Giving in. Sharing. Striking compromises. Unfortunately, I don't think I’ve ever loved anyone enough to the point I was ready to abdicate my own ego. Naked selfishness? Too many bachelor vices? I don't know. I just feel the house getting smaller and smaller until nearly everything she does begins to irritate me. Especially the scented candles, the hair in the plughole of the bathtub, the bottles of nail polish left on the windowsill.

  Sincerely, I’d rather be alone than live with someone just because. Most of the couples I know are together just for the sake of it. I don't see love or passion or anything remotely approaching them. Some stay together because they’ve become good friends, others because the sex is great, or because they have children, or because they’ve met the parents, or because it’s time to settle down, or because they’re already living together or – above all – because they’re too old to meet anyone better... Or maybe they don’t even think of what keeps them together or drives them apart. They just go on and on and get married and cry and have lovers and come to hate one another and one day, even if it’s right at the end of their lives, they realize the time they’ve wasted. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe they close their eyes for the last time and die happy, ignorant of what they’ve missed, ignorant of everything but the life they led. Oblivious. Inscrutable. Like Joana and André. Or even like António and Cátia, or Kati or whatever she’s called.

  “More wine?” asks André, filling my glass without waiting for an answer.

  “No need to ask…”

  I can hear the conversation circling the table but although they’ve fortunately stopped talking about the baby, I don’t feel like participating. These are my friends, but I have nothing to say to them. Our lives are so distant now we end up talking about the past most of the time. At this exact moment, I don't think my existence could be any more pathetic.

  Joana has noticed how I’m feeling. She shoots me one of her disapproving looks, as if to say, “Don't ruin our evening with those sulks of yours.” To placate the beast, I tell her cordially, “Joana, your duck magret is simply divine. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,’ she replies curtly. ‘But don’t drink too much, otherwise you won't be able to appreciate what’s coming next.”

  She always manages to ruin the moment. Even when someone praises her, she gives off that aura of the authoritarian mother taking her children to task. I should have said something. Speaking like that to André and him not minding is one thing, but speaking like that to his friends is another. Never mind. I’ll see her fall off her moral high horse yet.

  Maria

  The dinner is good fun, with lots of gossip to catch up on and stories from our university days to remember. It’s ages since I’ve laughed so much. I’m glad I came. Maybe it’s just the wine and the champagne. And the two gin and tonics I had before dinner. But seriously, I’m delighted to have met Lu and even Eduardo. I haven’t had much chance to speak to him yet because Pedro’s sitting between us, but he’s obviously an intelligent and considerate guy. I throw a glance at Nuno every now and then and I see him looking at Eduardo with genuine love. It’s strange seeing him look that way at another person. Not good, not bad, just strange.

  But to get back to Lu, she’s great. Short hair, blond, almost white – quite mannish, but her full lips and her smiling eyes lessen the effect. Her outfit is sensational. She’s wearing a petroleum-blue one-piece jumper suit with gold sandals with ankle straps. You can tell she used to be a model, because even without a lot of makeup she looks like she’s stepped out of the pages of a magazine. Looks apart, she’s one of those people who exudes good vibes and isn't afraid to say what’s she’s thinking. And she’s got some hilarious stories about the fashion world and the strange types that move in it. I sense some tension between her and Joana, who is obviously the exact prototype of the woman Lu would – and could – never be. I get the impression that if she was a little more at ease with us, and if we weren’t in Joana’s house, she’d already be bitching about her. The feeling is probably mutual. Joana detests women like Lu; women who don't want to get married, who drink beer from the bottle and speak the same language as men. If they were children, Joana would be the little girl in pink who plays with her dolls without getting her dress dirty; Lu would be the tomboy with grazed knees, following the boys on her bicycle. I don't think they’ve exchanged a single word beyond the socially necessary.

  And André seems quite smitten by her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so interested in the professional life of a person who doesn't work in his field. He’s asked her more questions in the last hour than he’s asked me since we’ve known each other. I doubt he even remembers what it is I do, despite the fact I told him a moment ago. I think it’s because there’s a certain loopyness about Lu that he’d like to see in Joana. He’s too conservative to have a wife like Lu, but I get the feeling that she elicits in him that sense of admiration that we feel for our favourite actors or singers. The stuff dreams are made of.

  She reminds me of Matilde. Matilde was like Lu, that’s why he didn’t have the guts to stay with her. I don't know if it would have lasted, but I’m sure it would have made him happier. Joana’s all right really, it’s just she’s always-on André’s back. She always has to have things her way. But there you have it: men are cowards in these things and André chose security, the woman who cooks, who looks after him. In short, the maternal figure. Once when I asked him why he’d opted for Joana, he told me he wasn't cut out for living with a woman who played in a band, who every now and then took off on a month’s tour who knows where, who followed her darker instincts and lived every day as if it was her last. I understood what he was trying to say, but I knew it was his head talking, not his heart. Anyway. We make our choices and we learn to live with them. Which must be very difficult for him, as Matilde’s band has been pretty successful over the years and regularly plays in fashionable venues. That’s more than Joana can handle. In fact, now I think about it, André has never been to see Matilde’s band with us. Just by coincidence, there’s always some family commitment, a weekend away or a last-minute headache. And to tell the truth, he’s never insisted on going. Probably because he knew it would hurt too much. One thing’s admitting to ourselves that we wasted a unique opportunity; another’s being confronted with it.

  I notice Pedro’s quite taken with Lu. He must be surprised that there are women with brains. The kind of girls he used to hang out with were repellent, brainless, silly little girls. The kind that flirt with every man in the room, not to seduce them but to provoke the other women. A way of saying, “I’m very cute and a lot younger than you lot.” A waste of time. Clearly Lu doesn't need to flirt with anyone, as everyone’s looking at her already.

  “I adore your girlfriend,” I whisper in Pedro’s ear.

  He blushes and answers:

  “Me too.”

  How lovely. I’m very happy for him. I think he needed someone to help him straighten things out a bit, someone with an adult life, whose biggest worry isn't the colour of her bikini.

  Filipe’s very quiet, though. Especially since he was in the kitchen with André. I don't think they’ve been arguing, but Filipe only has eyes for the tablecloth and is hardly taking part in the conversation. Maybe he’s apprehensive about the news of the baby, one more friend who’s becoming a father, one less drinking companion. I have to admit I was shocked too. Not because it was unexpected – ever since I’ve known Joana she’s been dying to be a mother – but because I actually felt a touch of envy. After all, if my
marriage-that-never-was had taken place, I would have been sharing similar news by now.

  I decide to text Filipe. Hey, don't be like that. When you want company on a night out you can count on me ;-)

  He answers: Is that an invitation? Finally I manage to get a smile out of him. What a pity we’re such close friends. I don't know if it’s the alcohol, but suddenly the idea of going to bed with Filipe appeals to me. I know it would be a crazy thing to do. How could I look him in the face afterwards? And even if I could, how could I ever introduce him to a boyfriend one day? “This is Filipe, a very good friend of mine, we’ve been to bed together a few times but don't feel insecure about his constant presence in our lives.”

  On the other hand, I think I’m needing a fuck buddy. Sex is sex; the only complications it involves are the ones we want to give it. I’ve had casual sex before and I’ve never felt bad about it. Sometimes I’d hear my mum’s voice in my head, reproaching me and trying to make me feel bad. I’d shut her up right away. Sex is good. It’s healthy. And with Filipe there wouldn't be any of that morning-after angst, the not knowing what to say or do. Shall we have breakfast together? Shall I call him again? Shall I act as if it was nothing, the next time we meet? It would be sex with absolutely no strings attached. Just a phone call, “Wanna come over?”, and if he didn't want to he could tell me sincerely, because we’re true friends, and everything would be OK. And one day, when one of us found someone, we’d stop fooling around and carry on as before. Simple, isn’t it?

  Get a grip on yourself, Maria.

  Filipe

  I didn't realize how much I’d missed Maria until now. She’s really sweet and good. I don’t know many good people these days. Good in the platonic sense. With pure hearts, untouched by human pettiness. That’s Maria. A bit ingenuous sometimes, always with something nice to say, doesn't badmouth anyone or start arguments. Not that she’s an airhead – far from it. She’s a cheerful and strong-willed person who doesn't waste time on things that lead nowhere.

  Airheads get on my nerves. The types that never mind one way or the other and let them go with the flow. No personality, no ideas of their own. “Shall we go to the cinema?” “Could do”; “Japanese or Indian?” “It doesn't matter”; “I don’t like that guy at all, do you?” “I don't know... he seems nice enough.” Arggghhh! Sílvia was like that.

  I met her in a bookshop. It was like a scene out of a film. We were standing on opposite sides of the same bookshelf, and I was stunned by her beauty, her blond, silky hair, her golden skin, the way she bit her lip as she made up her mind which of the two books she was holding she would buy. I must have been standing there looking at her with my mouth agape, looking stupid as usual, when she noticed me. My heart raced as I waited for the “What are you looking at?”, instead, she smiled. It was such a sweet, innocent smile I had to say something.

  “The one in your right hand is better.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yep. I mean, I liked it better.”

  “I’ll take it then. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We met again at the checkout. She smiled again.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sílvia. And yours?”

  “Filipe. Want to go and get a coffee? I can give you some tips on science fiction books.”

  “OK.”

  Two hours after the coffee we were in bed. She just said OK again, as natural as if she’d been asked out for an ice cream. If she was dazzling with her clothes on, she was out of this world without them. I couldn’t keep my hands off her. I was so blinded by her beauty and her Lolita-like good looks that it took me a while to realize how empty-headed she was. She’d laugh at the slightest thing, but didn't get sarcasm or irony. She believed everything people told her, including absurd things like “This year Easter Sunday falls on a Monday”. Unfortunately for my reputation, it took me three months to come to my senses, three long months. I remember the day perfectly. We were walking downtown when we ran into a friend of hers who’d just arrived from holidays in Brazil. He was very tanned, something that stood out all the more for it being winter here and everyone had that greenish tinge you find in people who haven't seen a ray of sunshine in months. She turns around and says “Well, check that suntan! Did you get good weather?” and he answers, joking, “No, it was raining all the time.” Oh, she says, genuinely concerned. “Really? Well at least you managed to get a tan all the same.” She spent the rest of the way home saying how remarkable it was that the climate in Brazil tanned people even when it was raining, and that must be why the Brazilians are darker than us.

  In fact she was so slow-witted she didn’t even understand when I broke up with her. When she got home that day, there I was on the sofa with Mónica, kissing. That time wasn't one of my typical, disastrous oversights. I deliberately arranged it for her to find us all fired up like that. Never getting home in time for dinner, ignoring her new hairdo, answering the phone during sex, belching at the table, trying to get off with her girlfriends, and endless other lapses of conduct I was forced into committing in an attempt to make her break up with me, weren’t working. When she found us there she even said sorry for disturbing us. It took a minute for the penny to drop and for her to ask the question, “What’s going on here?” As Mónica was putting her clothes on, I explained that our relationship wasn’t working, that I’d met someone else – Mónica as a matter of fact – and the problem was me, not her, and all that nonsense we say to lessen the suffering we know we’re causing.

  “So you want to put an end to all this?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes, Sílvia, I think it’s better if we break up, before someone gets hurt even more,” I answered calmly, although at the time I wanted to shake her and shout; “Duhhhhh!”

  “All right,” was all she said.

  She still calls me on my birthday and sends Christmas cards, as if I was an old friend and had never done to her what I had. I don’t understand. I’ve known quite a few women who’ve blighted my life for a lot less.

  But back to the dinner, I hear Maria telling Pedro what she was doing in some remote German town for six months. I don’t understand why Pedro has raised the subject in front of Nuno and Eduardo. I know he doesn't mean it, but he has a knack of asking the most inconvenient questions at the worst moments. Doesn't he understand that maybe she doesn't want to talk about it in front of the two people who caused it? That it was a period of mourning, catharsis, finding her feet again? All the same, Maria doesn't seem too bothered and is proudly telling how she gave Portuguese classes in an immigrant community.

  “And what did you think of the Germans?” asks Pedro, implying by the way he cocks an eyebrow that he’s talking of sexual performance.

  “As in everything, very competent but not very passionate. I prefer Portuguese men,” answers Maria with a flirtatious smile.

  Suddenly the whole table is interested in the conversation. Maria really is coming out of her shell tonight.

  “But seriously,” she continues “I had a lot more contact with the Portuguese immigrants than with the actual Germans. And I can tell you I learned a lot more about my country in six months in Germany than I’ve learned my whole life here. Not about politics or economics or football, which is all that seems to interest the media and the Portuguese that live here, but the everyday stories of those people, which are the stories of our people. When we’re far away from home, what helps us kill the homesickness most isn't the latest news; it’s memories, music, traditions. It’s thrilling to be far away from home and suddenly to hear a grandmother singing the same lullaby to her grandson that our own grandmothers sang to us. And it’s moving to see the men drink ginginha in a café that looks just like our taverns inside, with the azulejo tile with a proverb on it above the coffee machine, the framed Benfica jersey, the porcelain Zé Povinho beside the liqueur bottles. Only outside the roofs are black and slanted and the pavement’s covered in snow. Everything we find kitsch and provincial is pr
oudly on display. Pride in being Portuguese isn’t afraid to show itself outside our own borders.”

  “Whereas here, it’s as if people have to hide it,” I say. “It’s as if we have to belittle ourselves in relation to the rest of Europe.”

  “I don’t agree at all,” António chimes in from the other end of the table. “If you ask me, the Portuguese have more and more reason to be proud. We have brilliant minds, thriving companies, first-class athletes.”

  “Yes, but how often do we open our mouths to praise anything? We only attach value to those brilliant minds and companies and athletes when they become international, when some foreign newspaper talks about them,” I argue. “I think we’ll only really be proud of our country when we stop trying to be like others and start appreciating what’s original about us, our taverns, our Zé-Povinhos and our Galos de Barcelos.”

  “I’ve had an idea,” shouts André, well on from the drink. “I propose a petition to make every Portuguese household have a Galo de Barcelos!”

  Everyone laughs.

  “Oh André, how awful,” says Joana, amused.

  “Why awful? As a matter of fact I have one right in the hallway and I’ll tell you here and now that people love it,” Maria says.

  “Male people, or female people?” asks Pedro, pulling her leg.

  “Now that would be telling!”

  “Pay no attention, Maria. You know everything has to be designer if Joana’s to like it. I bet if there was a Galo de Barcelos designed by Philippe Starck she’d buy it,” answers André, who is obviously walking on very thin ice.