by Unknown
São Paulo, 4 December 2009
Dear Evo Morales,
Were you offended because I said you had chubby cheeks? I’m sorry. It’s because I always thought good friends should be sincere, isn’t that right? If I offended you, Evo, I apologize. I never denied that God gave me chubby cheeks as well. But you, Evo, you’re the chubbiest-cheeked person in the world. If you’re thinking of having an operation on them, my friend, listen: they don’t let us out into the street in winter, and now that it’s winter, the garden is the same as the street, Evo the Great. Will you be offended if I call you that? The Great Evo, Mister Chubby Cheeks. Evo Morales, the chubbiest cheeks in the world. Evo Morales. Evo Morales. Evo Morales. The Great Chubby Cheeks. Chubby Cheeks. Mister Chubby Cheeks. Yes, Evo, perhaps you should have an operation. But I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, still less on a friend like you. It won’t be so bad, though, if you come. My mother says they are going to fix the date soon. And as I was saying, Mister Chubby Cheeks, you’ll be in good company here. You’re not going to feel lonely. Of course, I know there are lots of people with chubby cheeks in the world. I myself am one of them. Have I ever denied it? But not like yours, Evo. But as I’ve learned here, people with chubby cheeks are never aware of it. Alone, alone, no one ever complains of being lonely. As you know, I’ve never felt lonely, have I, Evo the Great? Evo, I was never a lonely person, but here there’s no chance of a chubby-cheeks feeling lonely. Still less you, the King of Chubby Cheeks, the Great Mister Chubby, the chubbiest-cheeked person ever to enter an airport, ever to have a cup of coffee, the Great Evo. I can guarantee that nobody feels lonely in here, Evo, especially with those chubby cheeks of yours. Don’t take offence, Evo: you’ve got the chubbiest cheeks in the whole wide world.
GRANTA
* * *
EVERY TUESDAY
Carola Saavedra
TRANSLATED BY ALISON ENTREKIN
* * *
CAROLA SAAVEDRA
1973
Carola Saavedra was born in Chile and moved to Brazil as a child. She has lived in Spain, France and Germany, and currently lives in Rio de Janeiro. She is the author of the story collection Do lado de fora (2005), and the novels Toda terça (2007), Flores azuis (2008) and Paisagem com dromedário (2010), which won the Rachel de Queiroz Award for Best Young Author. ‘Every Tuesday’ is an extract from Toda terça.
‘I lied to you the other day, you know.’
‘Lied?’ said Otávio in that surprised voice that always sounded false coming from him.
‘Yep, when I was telling you about the cinema, remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘I said there was nothing else to tell, but it was a lie.’
I was silent for a moment as if making a short pause to muster up courage.
‘So tell me, Laura, what is it?’ said Otávio, in an understanding tone.
Otávio didn’t care if I lied; he was convinced that all lies were just another version of the truth. He had explained to me that the mere fact of my having chosen one lie over another was already enough to make it a confession, a revelation. For example, if I lied that I’d eaten a cheese sandwich, I had made a choice, seeing as how I could have lied in countless other ways, saying that it was a tomato or tuna sandwich. Which meant that no matter how many subterfuges I found to hide behind (the cheese, for example, or even the sandwich itself ), I would always be revealing myself. Bottom line: there was no way out.
Nevertheless, every now and then I tried.
‘There actually was someone sitting near me, two seats along, on my left. When he arrived, the film had already started and I couldn’t see his face. But he appeared to be young, dark-haired, I think he was wearing jeans. I couldn’t see his face, but I saw his hands, well, I saw his right hand. I looked out of the corner of my eye. His hands were beautiful, strong and delicate at the same time, with thin fingers, like a pianist’s. I didn’t even pay attention to the film properly, there was something about that man, about his presence. I sat there watching the film without really seeing it, thinking about what he must be like, his tastes, his life, whether or not he studied, worked, that sort of thing.’
‘And what conclusions did you come to?’
‘Not many. First, I thought he must be sensitive.’
‘Sensitive?’
‘I think because of the film we were watching. It was poetic, romantic, about a writer in Montevideo who falls in love with a prostitute. She rejects him at first, but then she ends up falling in love with him too.’
Otávio was looking at me with special interest. In a few seconds he would start scribbling in his notebook. I’d give anything to know what he wrote in that notebook, anything at all. But in this he was unbudging; his notes were a professional secret, all of my dreams and fears and failings summed up in a report kept under lock and key in his drawer, confidential, or, the old trick, left carelessly on the table, as if they had no importance: dreamed she was crossing the Atacama, undefined companion, tendency to lose focus.
‘If you think about it, a man who goes to see a film like that, alone, in the middle of the afternoon, has to be sensitive, don’t you think?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But obviously it wasn’t just that, otherwise it could have been anyone at all next to me and I would have fallen in love with him anyway. No, he had something different, special, something that came from his presence . . . Oh, I don’t know, Otávio. I can’t explain it.’
‘You said “fall in love”, Laura. Are you telling me you’re in love with this man?’
‘Did I say “fall in love”?’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Well, what matters is that I wasn’t able to see the film properly. I spent the whole time imagining what he was like, anxious for the lights to come on. It’s funny, for some reason I knew he was good-looking, even though I hadn’t seen his face. I was sure of it. Strange, huh? After all, he could have had a limp, been missing his teeth, had burns all over his face. But these possibilities didn’t even occur to me. All I could think about was what I was going to do when the lights came on: go after him, follow him into the foyer. But then I decided that fate would take care of it for me.’
‘Fate?’
‘Yes. I thought: if he left straight away, without even glancing at me, I’d forget about him, I’d assume that that was how it was meant to be, but if he stayed there, headed for the bookshop or went to get something to drink at the coffee shop, then it’d be a sign.’
Otávio was doing his best to appear neutral, but he was clearly finding it all very suspicious.
‘A sign? And what would this sign indicate?’
‘It would indicate that there was something between us, a story that was about to begin, and that he knew it too, and even if he didn’t it wouldn’t matter because you can’t escape these things. Don’t you believe in destiny? I do. I believe in fortune-tellers, astrology, almost everything. It’s silly to believe, I know, but it’s also silly not to. I believe there are signs that life gives us, signs we should take seriously, that are trying to tell us something.’
‘It’s possible . . .’
It’s possible was one of Otávio’s favourite expressions. Whenever he didn’t want to commit to anything, agree or disagree, he’d trot out his ‘it’s possible’. It irritated me, but I preferred to ignore it.
‘So anyway, I decided that and then sat there waiting for the film to finish, and when it did, he got up before I did and headed out. I stayed put, giving him time to make up his mind, because I didn’t want to rush out after him. I didn’t want to force fate, you know? I wanted things to happen naturally. I sat there, waiting calmly, then I went to the ladies’ room, tidied my hair, touched up my lipstick. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I didn’t look too bad. I actually looked quite nice, because I normally don’t think I’m pretty . . .’
I glanced down at the colourful rug, my legs, my feet, my high-heeled sandals, my recently painted toenails. I continu
ed:
‘I actually think I’m a bit ugly, my face, I don’t know, it’s too round, it’s always bothered me. It doesn’t matter if I lose weight, my face always stays round. I’ve actually thought about getting some lipo done, you know? The other day I read that in the past, before there was any lipo, women would have one or two molars pulled from each side to make their faces thinner, more delicate. I read that Marlene Dietrich did it, though I’ve never thought she was all that amazing. Her face is a bit weird, asymmetrical, but anyway, who am I to criticize Marlene Dietrich’s face, me of all people, who’s never been pretty, or at least I’ve never thought I was . . .’
At that moment I paused, waiting for Otávio to disagree, to tell me that I was beautiful, that thinking I was ugly was just a symptom of my insecurity, my lack of self-esteem. Except he didn’t say anything; he just sat there in his armchair, silent and elegant as always. Otávio is a good-looking man; it’s a shame he is so convinced of it. He remained quiet and I couldn’t help myself, I ended up asking:
‘Otávio, do you think I’m ugly?’
Otávio smiled, a smile that could just as easily have been admiration or mockery.
‘No, Laura, of course not. You’re a very attractive woman.’
Attractive. Big deal. ‘Attractive’ was a word that, coming from Otávio, had no meaning at all. He no doubt said it to every woman who sat on that sofa. Louise, you’re a very attractive woman, Rita, you’re a very attractive woman, Dolores, you’re a very attractive woman, always with that same smile plastered across his face.
‘Yes, but attractive isn’t necessarily pretty, a person can be attractive and horrendous at the same time.’
‘You’re attractive and very pretty, Laura. You know that.’
Yes, I knew it, how could I even question it? It was evident that I knew. I had only asked to provoke him, that’s what he thought, just to hear him say: No, Laura, you’re gorgeous, Laura, you’re irresistible, Laura, you’re the most beautiful woman ever to have set foot in this office. Perhaps he thought I was in love with him. It was likely; who wouldn’t fall in love with a man like Otávio? I let down my hair, which had been up in a ponytail.
‘Of course I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t need to ask.’
‘We often ask questions in the hope of getting a specific answer.’
I ignored the comment and kept talking.
‘Anyway, what matters is that I looked at myself in the ladies’ room mirror and thought I looked pretty; at that moment, let’s be clear. Then I went to the bookshop. He was there, in the foreign fiction section. He was tall with slightly wavy hair, brown, it wasn’t long, but it wasn’t really short either. I estimated that he must be about my age. I didn’t want to get too close, I didn’t want to be so obvious. I went to the art section, chose a book about Portinari and stood there leafing through it. I was really waiting for a chance, for him to look at me, to notice me. He had taken a book off the shelf and was reading it, engrossed, as if he was at home. Half an hour, and he kept on reading. He didn’t even seem to have noticed I was there; in fact, he didn’t seem to notice anything or anyone. I gave up. I told myself, I’m going to wait five more minutes and if he doesn’t see me, I’ll leave. The five minutes passed and I ended up buying the Portinari book, just to gain time. I talked to the shop assistant in a loud voice, oh, what a stroke of luck to have found this book, I’ve been looking for it for some time, Portinari. The sales assistant answered something or other that I can’t remember, while the man from the cinema just stood there, unmoving, as if I didn’t exist. I ended up paying for the book and leaving. At that moment I hated him, but at the same time I could have fallen in love with him . . .’
Otávio looked interested.
‘And why do you think you could have fallen in love with him?’
‘I’m not really sure, but I was certain I could have fallen in love with him, in fact, I could have done the craziest things for him. Isn’t it strange how you can fall in love with a stranger like that?’
‘A stranger may well function as a projection screen.’
‘Projection screen? Otávio, we’re talking about love, not cinema,’ I said jokingly. Otávio didn’t seem to find it terribly funny; he’d never had much of a sense of humour.
‘Laura, if I have understood correctly, you don’t know anything about this man. You haven’t even spoken with him, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So he can be whoever you want him to be, you can project all kinds of desires and expectations onto him.’
Otávio was speaking didactically, as if I was a simpleton who had never heard of projection or repression or whatever. Sometimes the anger I felt towards him became uncontrollable.
‘Oh, honestly, if that were the case, I could fall in love with any stranger who crossed my path. I could project all of my desires onto the popcorn seller on the street corner, the guy in the supermarket, even a telemarketer’s voice.’
Otávio still didn’t find it funny. I could see that he was about to lose his patience, his pinched lips almost disappearing into his mouth, his body looking as if he wanted to get up and leave. Controlling one’s emotions required effort, even for someone like Otávio. In his case, however, the effort always paid off: after a few seconds his body would be still and his face paralysed in a charitable expression. After all, people like him had to be understanding; they could never allow themselves to be carried away by emotions, incompatibilities, personal divergences. His solution was to ignore what I had said.
‘Laura, what do you hope to find in this man?’
Oh, I had hoped for so many things: that he would pull a bunch of flowers out of his sleeve, that he would recite a poem in French to me, that he would kiss my hand when he greeted me and help me put on my coat when I left the house, that he would lay down a red carpet for me to walk on without dirtying my shoes, things like that.
‘I don’t know what I was hoping for, probably nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
Otávio was still using that didactic tone of voice of his, but I decided to make peace with him in spite of it and do as he wished, which unfortunately was very different to what I wished.
‘Well, maybe I was hoping the desire would be mutual. Isn’t that what everyone hopes for?’
‘Often.’
‘Except that desire is rarely mutual, is it? Take my case for example: Júlio’s wife wants Júlio, who in turn wants me, I want the guy in the cinema, and the guy in the cinema probably wants his neighbour or the woman at the news-stand. Who knows? It’s not fair, is it? Not to mention the possibility that I might be completely wrong. Maybe Júlio’s wife couldn’t care less about him and wants her personal trainer. As for Júlio, well, maybe the person he really wants is the secretary on the fifth floor. Who knows?’
‘Does that bother you?’
Otávio’s eyes gleamed. I thought I detected a glimmer of malice.
‘Does what bother me?’
‘That Júlio might want the secretary.’
‘No, not in the slightest.’
It was clear that Otávio didn’t believe me.
‘The last time you were here you told me you were seeing each other less often.’
‘That’s true, in the beginning, in the first few years, he used to come almost every day, that is, whenever he could, sometimes on the weekend, when his wife would drive up to Itaipava and he’d find an excuse to stay here in Rio, blaming it on work. He doesn’t do that any more, he only shows up every now and then. Not that his generosity has changed at all. He still pays my university fees, rent, electricity, water, gas, condo fees, an allowance for my personal expenses. An undeniably generous allowance, I must say. He keeps paying without asking any questions or making any demands, without my having to explain what I do with it. And, to top it all off, he worries about me, you know, he worries so much that he asked me to come here and talk to you. It was Júlio who asked me to come. You know I wouldn’t have come on my own initiative. H
e’s a wonderful man, don’t you think? Who wouldn’t like to have someone like him: caring, concerned, capable of doing anything to see me happy? I’m a lucky woman, don’t you think?’
‘You told me your sexual frequency had also changed.’
‘Yes, our sexual frequency.’ I made a face. Otávio remained serious.
‘Tell me a little more about that.’
‘About what, how often we have sex?’
‘Yes.’
I became serious again.
‘Oh, there’s not much to say, I’ve already told you, we hardly have sex at all. In the beginning, that is, during the first few years we used to have sex all the time, it was normal, then with time it became less and less, until more recently it’s become minimal, twice a month at the most. Do you think that’s normal?’
‘It depends on the couple, Laura. For some it’s more than enough, for others it isn’t much.’
‘I don’t know, for a lover it’s a bit on the light side, don’t you think? Because if he’s like this with his lover, imagine what he must be like with his wife.’
Otávio laughed. I thought it was funny too. That rarely happened, for us to laugh together, Otávio and I. I liked it. It made me feel, even if it was a false impression, as if we were just two good friends sitting around chatting, having a good time.
‘And does that bother you?’