by Will Forest
I brightened up. “Well, knowing you, I had to ask.”
He looked me straight in the eyes. “It is not a topless beach. It is a nude beach.”
I sighed. “I’m not going.”
“Pedrinho always requests this beach. Do you know why?”
I couldn’t think of anything reasonable to say, so I just stared blankly.
“It is very telling,” he continued. “At the nude beach, we all feel free, but Pedrinho, because of his condition... well, even more so. You must come and see.”
I was skeptical, but intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like he’s a different boy when he’s there—open, loving, engaged with the world. You may have guessed he is on the autism spectrum. There is something about his condition, his behavior… for whatever reason, he responds extremely well to being naked at the beach. Look, I love this beach too, but it’s a good hour-and-a-half drive to get there. And yet as much as I grumble about the drive, just to see Pedrinho open up, it is well worth it.”
Evoking the waves and ocean breezes put my thoughts in motion, and I began to guess what Zé might mean about his nephew’s response. “Can I keep my clothes on?”
“Not if you want to be with me and Pedrinho. But if we get there, and you’re uncomfortable, there’s a swimsuit-mandatory beach just on the other side of a rock barrier.”
“I mean, you’ve led to me be a lot more relaxed about being naked, but around other people? I don’t think I’m ready yet. Do people have cameras?”
“No filming, no photos.”
“Why should I trust you at all? Give me one good reason.”
“I’ll give you three. First, I love you. Second, you know I love you.”
He was right, and I was beginning to believe him, in spite of the circumstances. But I persisted. “And...”
“That should be enough right there. But number three is, there’s a big entrance sign that says that no one can film or photograph at Abricó without special permission, and there are beach association people there who enforce that.”
“I still don’t feel comfortable exposing myself in such a public place.”
“But there is yet another reason to go specifically to Abricó, the nude beach—a very pressing one, and it surprises me as much as it might you.”
I could appreciate Zé’s construction of suspense as good storytelling craft, but sometimes it drove me crazy. I waited a few moments like I could have cared less, until finally in desperation I blurted out, “Are you going to tell me?”
“You know, ever since your little tequila incident, I feel like I can’t tell if you’re listening to me. It drives me crazy.”
We stared at each other a few moments, basking in the uninvited glory of our idiosyncrasies.
Finally he said, “When I called Nelson from Xalapa…”
“Who is Nelson from Xalapa?”
“I mean, when we were still in Xalapa, and we found the last chapter of the narrative confirming that Sun Prince went south, I called the guy my brother hired to research the title for the land in Amazonas state. His name is Nelson, I know him fairly well… but I guess not as well as I thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a nudist.”
I closed my eyes. “Can you understand why that does not surprise me at all?”
“No, no—I mean, he never was before. But at some point in the past I must have mentioned Abricó to him, because he associated it with me and Pedrinho. He requested that we meet there. He says he loves it and goes every weekend now. Plus, it’s somewhat isolated, not exactly easy to reach. We don’t want my brother or his goons to know what’s going on.”
“Okay, you said ‘goons.’ Now I’m really nervous. And on top of that you want me to get naked.”
Zé sighed. “I’m not representing it accurately for you. It’s a beautiful place, with very friendly people. I could not have been more pleased when Nelson suggested we meet there. And yes, I was thinking of you. I know you can do it!”
“Wishful thinking.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“The whole truth?”
“Yes. Meeting Nelson is the main reason we’re going there, of all places. And we’re going now, right away, so he can give us his translation of what he found out.”
I pouted. “Why didn’t he just send it as an email attachment?”
“I specifically asked him not to do that. I asked him not to send it anywhere, because I don’t want any risk of the information being widely distributed, at least until I can see it. And I was relieved to learn that he gave my brother a printed copy only, no file. Who knows what a cyberthief could do with the information.”
“What time is he going to get there?”
“As soon as he can... It’s OK, Marisol…”
Zé looked like he was about to tell me to relax, or chill, or calm down. So I cut him off.
“Let’s just go. I’ll try my best.”
***
So we went. The views along the Avenida Atlântica were breathtaking, and Copacabana and Ipanema were indeed very, very crowded with people who were strikingly fit and good-looking, no matter what age. But it took forever to get to our rendezvous beach, and I realized just how large the city is. Zé told me we wouldn’t have to drive as far on the way back, since his family’s house was closer to Abricó than the airport was.
When we finally arrived, we had lunch at a little beach-side restaurant near the line between the clothed and nude beaches. Zé pointed to the tall rocks forming the border, explaining the layout to me. Pedrinho was so eager to get out on the beach he kept pulling off his shorts and running from the table. Zé would patiently retrieve him each time. I understood the need to finish my crab salad quickly.
When we walked down to the rock barrier, Zé held Pedrinho’s left hand and I held his right, to keep him from ripping his shorts off. He squirmed so much I thought he might dislocate his elbow, or mine, so I let go. We were approaching a large sign with a smiling cartoon alligator dangling his swimsuit in his claw. As soon as we made it close enough to read the sign’s very thorough rules for the nude beach, Zé let go of Pedrinho’s hand and the boy was naked in three seconds, running through the rocks to the nude side.
I had to admit, I’d never seen him so happy.
Zé tugged idly at his waistband. “I need to go with Pedrinho. You can see the rules: nudity is required beyond this sign. So it’s up to you. If you stay on this side, we’ll come find you in a couple hours.”
And with that he picked up Pedrinho’s shorts, strode through the rock passage, removed his swimsuit, and set out after his nephew. I watched for a while, craning my neck to see if I could locate them among a crowd of probably forty or fifty nude folk. I was able to see all these naked people, while remaining on the clothed side of the beach, only if I stood at a certain point between the rocks, but then I realized I must have looked like a voyeur. I cursed the grinning gator and trudged away to find a spot among the textiles.
After some half hour of restless not-quite relaxation, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to see the change in Pedrinho. I had to know if Nelson was there, and what he had found out. I kept thinking it would cost me my dignity, but then suddenly I understood that notion to be surprisingly old-fashioned. Zé had been open about nudity from the beginning—no fear, no shame, only joy.
As I was rehearsing this logic, and even mentally practicing the walk through the rocks, I would see a surfer, or a child making a sand castle there on the clothed-people beach where I was, or young people taking turns wobbling along a slackline. I assigned myself the task of imagining them freed from their sand-filled garments, nude, even as they continued their activities. This helped a bit. Eventually I somehow willed myself to move, to get up, to pick up my things, to make my legs and feet propel me back to the nude beach entrance.
And this time, I kept right on walking through the rocks.
To obey the alligator’s sign, I had
to remove my coverings immediately. I summoned all my reserve, and… off they came. Then, I looked down the beach at the nude people—it was crowded, but not as much as Copacabana or Ipanema—and I discovered that nudity is a powerful kind of uniformity. Especially from far away, it was more difficult to sort people into categories than if people had been wearing swimsuits, even categories that we think are as basic as “men” and “women.” So I moved east along the beach, passing a small welcome tent with fresh fruit, and then there were people playing footvolley, and lots of folks soaking up the rays or venturing into the low surf, until I found Zé and his nephew. Right away Pedrinho noticed me, and this time he looked me in the eyes.
“Oi, Marisol” he said, and he smiled. It was beautiful. Then he simply went back to building his sand castle. Naked me, lady parts on view under the sun—so what? He was completely nonchalant, and so was everyone else. I felt almost anonymous, even though I had been recognized, and even though I felt more exposed than I had ever felt in my entire life.
Zé held out his hands as if to say, what did I tell you. Then he gave me a hug and kissed each cheek. “Obrigado, Marisol, obrigado por vir. You did it, you see?”
I was happy. The breeze all over my body felt like a welcome caress. I put my things with Zé’s and joined him to stroll along the beach. We didn’t go far from where the sand castle was slowly taking shape. Pedrinho would sculpt a wall or a tower, and then take a break to just run along the waves and laugh, full of a joy so absolutely unfettered it was highly contagious.
About fifty meters down the beach, Zé stopped short and nodded toward someone a little further ahead. “Olha só. Enfim chegou o Nelson,” he told me. “Nem reconheci ele sem roupas. Let me introduce you.”
Nelson was dark-skinned—I guessed Afro-Brazilian—fit, thirty-something, and tall. We shook hands and exchanged a few greetings. I felt odd meeting a nude man while nude, but the sensation disappeared quickly. It takes a second for the brain to process that the person you’re meeting is as nude as you are, after all.
“Your English is impeccable,” I said.
“Thanks. I grew up here, but also in Chicago. So I trained in languages and mostly I do contract work for Zé’s family’s company, translating and interpreting in English and Portuguese.”
Zé sported a big smile and clapped a hand on Nelson’s shoulder. “Cara, I had no idea you come to Abricó. How come I’ve never seen you here?”
“It’s an interesting story, Zé—in fact, it has to do with the document you asked me about. Pedro sent me to Portugal for that, did you know?”
“He doesn’t tell me anything. Are you surprised?”
“Well, listen: he wanted me to research that property way out in Amazonas state, and when I started the document trail, it led me to some records stored at an archive in Lisbon. So he paid my travel all the way there. And then, I was doing the research, and I turned it over to Pedro... but what I read changed my life.”
I was intrigued. “And so somehow this has to do with the nude beach?”
“Isso. I got back from Lisbon two months ago, and I’ve been coming here every weekend since.”
Zé looked amused, but also bewildered. “I don’t understand what that has to do with the research for my brother, for the company.”
Nelson looked at us, then at Pedrinho playing in the sand. “I want you to understand, Zé. You, of all people—I need you to understand. I’m not proud of everything that happened over there... but I want you to read the same story I did.”
Then he looked at me. “And you should read it, too. I just finished translating it to English. It needs to be widely published in as many languages as possible. Oh… except the part about how I got it. Here, come with me a moment and I’ll explain.”
Zé needed to stay near Pedrinho to have him in sight, and I felt comfortable enough to walk alone with Nelson over to a spot on the beach where he had left his things. While we walked I told him I’d also been something of a translator lately.
“This will be right up your alley, then,” he said, “especially if you’re not afraid of being naked.”
His words made me reflect that it was true—I was not afraid. On the contrary, the nude beach felt very safe.
We stopped at a rocky area in the shade of the cliff that rises just behind the beach. Nelson found his backpack and pulled out a folder.
“This is what I printed out of the translation before I ran out of paper,” he said, indicating the folder. “We’ll have to meet again so I can give you the rest.”
I started to open the folder, but Nelson said, “Não - no, please. Wait until later, when you’ve left the beach. You’ll understand. In the meantime, let’s enjoy the sun before it sets.”
We walked to my bag so I could put away the folder.
“Between you and me,” Nelson said, “Zé’s family is kind of enche-saco, you know what I mean?”
“Is that like pesado in Spanish? Like... stuck-up, overly serious, killjoy?”
“Exato. But Zé, he’s something else. Actually cares about people. I don’t blame him for living far away from the rest of them.”
I decided not to tell Nelson the details of how I met Zé and why I was in Rio—at least not until I could read his mysterious translation.
We joined Zé and Pedrinho for races along the edge of the waves, and then Nelson introduced us to some of the beach regulars, including a certain Sr. Ribeiro, the beach’s main advocate for protecting its perpetually challenged status as a legal place for nude recreation. When the sun was setting and it was indeed time to go, Zé texted Jota to come pick us up. I joined Pedrinho in waiting until the last possible moment—just before stepping between the boulders at the beach entrance—to put my clothes back on.
Chapter 16: Out of the Archives
Q-U-E-L-U-Z, read the iron-wrought letters over the entrance gate to Zé’s family’s home. It was much bigger than his house in Dallas, and certainly fancy, but less ornate. After an elaborate grilled churrasco dinner that Dora organized, Zé and I had the occasion to begin looking over Nelson’s translation. It started with a preface in Nelson’s own hand.
I found much more than what I set out to learn.
I found something as simple as a breath, as humble as a leaf, but more valuable than all the world’s treasures.
I found how to live.
Iberia held the secret, deep in her fetid dungeons, but it was not hers to hold. Unlike most of what she stole from the New World, the secret lay condemned but forgotten, ignored, even purposefully hidden. Misunderstood—willfully or lazily—it had been cast aside in the quest for mineral and vegetable wealth. Only by happenstance did I find it. Now, I am immeasurably rich, though not by the standards of the rancid conquistadors. You, dear reader, may share my wealth. You have only to read this account, and then to act.
A reasonably skilled translator for English and Portuguese, I was hired by a private interest to research the documentation pertaining to a large parcel of land in western Brazil. Initial investigations in Rio made it clear that I would require travel to Lisbon, to the National Archives at the Torre do Tombo. As soon as I arrived in the Portuguese capital, I began scouring ecclesiastical records of the Jesuits’ attempts, in the sixteenth century, to document land use by the indigenous populations in the New World. In the process of translating a paragraph particularly thorny but essential
for understanding the land title, I consulted José de Anchieta’s 1595 Portuguese-Tupi dictionary. There I found
reference to an appendix containing an alternative translation of the Tupi word for ‘home,’ and it was in fact my employer’s difficulty regarding the semantics of this same word that had led to my investigation.
The haste with which I desired to procure the document in question alarmed the archivist, who insisted on being present with me while I consulted it. But when we found the appendix, the entry for the word ‘home’ merely referred to yet another document, “Testemunho de India, São Paulo, 1555
” with the portentous notation “destinado ao sacro fogo da Inquisição pela encomenda da sua Excma. Santidade o Papa Clemente XIII.”
I supposed that the document had been incinerated by papal decree, but I decided, nonetheless, to ask the archivist for help. He verified the year of the appendix, mumbled something about the expulsion of the Jesuits from Latin America, and then just sat looking at me for what must have been a full minute.
Finally he sighed and told me to follow him downstairs. Our downward progression through four floors was met by the updraft of an odor that intensified from a musty whiff to an oddly pungent permeation of ineffective cleaning agents and ancient decay. The archivist said nothing about this, nor about anything else, in fact, until we arrived in the basement. Then, as we traversed hallways and doorways, he explained that not all the documents condemned to the flames actually ended up thrown into bonfires. He unlocked a door and led me into a vault full of unmarked file cabinets. Drawing my attention to the flashing but fogged-over security camera in the ceiling corner of the dank, windowless room, he gave me a pair of gloves, took away my phone to put with my other things, and told me on his way out the door that I had until closing—three hours away—to look for the document myself. Starting the next day, the National Archives would be closed for a week.
I didn’t know where to start.
I began opening file drawers to get a sense of how much material there was in the room. There were twenty-eight drawers, and they were all full. I panicked.
The archivist hadn’t said anything directly about not making a mess, but I knew I couldn’t just start pitching files. I opened a nearby drawer and pulled out a file at random: typewritten notes on a treatise about Sebastianism. Another random file from the same drawer: copies of student newspapers at the University of Coimbra from the 1930s. A third file: proceedings of the Portuguese Society of Civil Engineers, 1954.
I flung open drawers to look for folders that appeared to be more yellowed, more aged. It took me half an hour to find a cabinet that seemed to have older files, only to look through every single one and find nothing.