Projection
Page 17
While we wait to board, my mother hands me a flimsy piece of notepad paper. Your schedule in Brasilia, she says flatly. I’m relieved my handwriting is distinct from hers. Her ones look like skinny triangles, and her Ps curve into loops at the stems.
SUNDAY:
10:40 a.m.: leave to church
11 a.m.: Mass at D. Bosco church
1:30pm 1 p.m.: Hotel Blue Tree (restaurant)
17 hr 5 p.m.: Coffee with cookies at the Hotel bar
7:30 p.m.: Dinner at Patio Brasil Shopping
MONDAY:
noon: check-in at the Hotel Blue Tree
1 p.m.: Lunch at Restaurant Bargaço
7:30 p.m.: Hotel (or Cinemark Hall)
TUESDAY:
noon: check-out Hotel Blue Tree
1 p.m.: Lunch at Pier 21
7:30 p.m.: Dinner at Academia de Tenis
WEDNESDAY:
6:15 a.m.: leave to airport
7 a.m.: check-in at the airport
8:06 a.m.: VASP flight to Guarulhos
Then several postcards: names of the people I will be meeting with indicators of family or social ties as they relate, not to me, of course, but to my mother:
CARD ONE (amusement park photo):
Victoria: my sister/irmã
William: meu cunhado (my brother-in-law)
Elizabeth: minha sobrinha (my niece)
Walter: meu webmaster
Guilherme: sobrinho (nephew)
Fernando: irmão (brother)
Rosana: cunhada (sister-in-law)
Fernanda: sobrinha (niece)
Succoro: empregada e guerida amiga (employee and friend)
FAMILIA CAMPOS minha familia some members
It is a big family, there are many more! Uncles, aunts, cousins, great grandparents . . .
CARD TWO (psychedelic Motorola cellphone ad):
Maria des Gracas: tia gracinha (great aunt)
Ana Margarete: her daughter
Julia: husband
Heloisa: my lawyer
Bete: Maria Elisabete
Raquel: her daughter
CARD THREE (Motorola ad):
Áurer César: Professor
Ione: his wife
Cláudia Verô: Nica his daughter
Ricardo: her husband
Nicola: their son
Artemis
Adrianna: Guilherme’s sweetheart
Elaine e ELCI
Flavio and Camilla his sweetheart
(At Blue Tree Brunch)
We are flying VASP, another Brazilian airline, and my mother counsels me not to be alarmed by the runway, which is on a plateau a couple of storeys higher than street level—it looks like we’re taking off from the roof of a building. From my window seat, I can clearly make out cars and bustling people and a hot dog stand. That stand was completely smashed by an airplane wing once landing on this very runway, my mother laughs. That’s how close we are to the city. Luckily, he saw the plane and ran down the street! No need to be nervous, Priscila, I’ve survived three plane crashes in my life. Preparing for takeoff, the Brazilians unanimously genuflect. Oh shit, I think, sinking further underneath my seatbelt. To die beside my mother would be the worst irony of all, I pray. Am I praying? Yes, I am. Please don’t tell anyone.
You know the quality of a pilot only second by takeoff, first by how he lands, my mother informs me. A criticism from a family of pilots. From a woman who has survived three plane crashes. I am always last to leave the plane.
It’s a short flight, barely enough time to study the postcards and wolf down a snack. As we approach Brasilia at night, my mother reminds me to observe how the city lights form the outline of an airplane. Here are the wings. Here is the body of the plane. Here is the nose. The tail. The advantage of a modern, planned city: vision and order. My mother admires order. Safety. Stability. Predictability. As we land, the pilot boasts that Brasilia is home to the largest flagpole in the world. Why not? I come from a country that boasts the world’s largest mallard duck, badminton racket, chuckwagon, and snowman. The world’s largest flagpole is nothing to sneeze at.
Three women and two men await us at the arrivals ramp. Two of the women, standing side by side in front of the others, are petite, in tasteful pantsuits and light overcoats.
I am your grandmother, the light-skinned white-haired woman in her late-seventies with sparkling blue eyes tells me, grabbing my hand with her bony fingers.
I am your Aunt Victoria, the freckled woman with auburn hair, thin lips, and soft voice, chimes in.
I am your Uncle Wilhelm, and this is your cousin Elizabeth and her boyfriend Walter (both Ws pronounced like Vs), a round-faced, clean-cut, short man directs, pointing at a tall, shaking, dark-skinned girl and her nearly inert equally dark boyfriend. True to my mother’s descriptions, the women are all skinny, and Walter and I, the two outsiders, the only ones in black.
I turn to my mother, who looks anxious but puffed up. I managed to do it, her face and posture convey. Look here: my prodigal daughter. Feast your eyes.
No one has ever come to meet me at the airport, she whispers behind me as I finish shaking hands with my new relatives. This is not normal. You should feel special.
I know this is not normal, the way Billy Crystal knows Owen’s home life is not normal in the fabulous scene when he is introduced to the trollish mother as Owen’s Cousin Patty. You don’t have a Cousin Patty, she snorts. You lied to me, Owen exclaims, and whacks Larry on the head with a heavy frying pan. Who are you? I think, scanning all these faces for signs of friendliness or lack of sanity. Is my mother a product of you people? Or is she an original?
Because it’s late, we eat at the airport on hard plastic chairs at metal tables. Everyone is smiling. Smiling and staring at me and then into their teacups. Nobody really knows what to say, except: How was your flight? Did you like São Paulo? Did you see any movies?
For this first hour, I try to match faces to my mother’s stories, like a memory card game: Victoria has the best marriage because she and Wilhelm have never had a single fight. My father died of cancer at eighty because my mother fought with him. His own mother died when he was five. Then his father married the other sister. Then she died. Then his father married the next sister. Then she died. This went on until he had married all five sisters, and all five died. (What was sister number five thinking? It’s a Gabriel García Márquez novel! Only those without ties to South America would believe in an artistic genre called “magic realism.” In South America, this is realism.) So, my grandfather hated the colour black, and all black clothing. Victoria’s life revolves completely around her husband. The night of her marriage was the first night she’d ever slept away from our mother and father. She returned home several times, crying that she loved Wilhelm with all her heart but couldn’t sleep. Mother was angry and sent her back. My brother Fernando has decided not to stay in Brasilia for Easter this year. He does what he pleases. Except he drives Mother around whenever she likes. He’ll drive, but he won’t speak. He doesn’t speak to anyone. If you meet him, which I don’t think you will, he won’t speak to you. You should be offended. We all are.
I am thinking my grandmother and aunt look so elegant, refined, controlled, so diametrically opposed in body type and temperament to my mother, when my grandmother leans across the silver table and says: I never imagined meeting you with a table between us. I imagined I would be able to embrace you, hold you close. She looks heartbroken, her blue eyes pleading with me to rewind the tape and film again. Did you cut your hair?
So my grandmother imagined this day. The admission makes me more comfortable. No, it’s just hot, so I’ve tied up the sides, I explain, highlighting my two Princess Leia buns. If this family advocates slimness, it also seems to expect its young women to have long hair. Check. Check.
The last time I saw you, you were showing me how quickly, how beautifully, how eloquently you could write. My grandmother, unlike my mother, speaks precisely, calmly, intent on communication. She squeezes my
hands. She has very long fingers, pianist fingers. Do you want me to write something for my mother? you asked. And then you did. You were writing even then. When she smiles, her white face and hair light up; she looks like a Swarovski crystal.
I rise to refill my cup, but two other people my mother knows stand in my way. I don’t catch their names because I am already overwhelmed with information and greetings. The woman has red hair and a wide mouth and immediately swarms into my personal space, while her pigeon-like husband nods and keeps nodding like a bobblehead doll.
Your mother looked everywhere for you. Everywhere. We were all involved, signing petitions, writing letters—everyone hoping she would one day find you and bring you home. What a day! What a day! Look at you, so beautiful! She hired private detectives. The FBI was involved. No one could find you. Now here you are. Here you are!
Is insanity contagious? How is it this woman, who knows my mother, talks in absurd fantasies just like my mother. Instinctively, I recoil. Pour hot water from the carafe. Stir my tea and sit while my mother chats with the couple in Portuguese, the red-haired woman hugging her, the man three steps back, nodding, nodding, agreeing to god knows what.
After they leave, I’m informed that because tomorrow is the “big day,” it would be best if we called it a night.
I don’t want to go, my grandmother pouts, pulling my arm so I will bend to her level. I have just found you. It breaks my heart to leave you. But I will see you tomorrow, and so will have pleasant dreams.
I look forward to seeing you too, I reply, genuinely wishing I were spending the night with her or skinny Aunt Victoria, who has done little other than smile and ask me repeatedly in spotty English to visit her house, all while her husband snaps photos of us. Before I can think of a way to make this happen, the extended family has vanished and I am alone at the Brasilia airport with my mother.
What those people said, I start, makes no sense. You didn’t need to hire private detectives. We were only away from the house for a year. We lived in the same house. FBI? That’s American, not Canadian, I chuckle. What were they talking about?
Even though she wipes her mouth with a napkin, a pastry flake remains on her lower lip. She eyes me coldly. They shouldn’t have told you those things. They are worse than illiterates. They just wanted you to know I was looking for you. They pretend to know more about me and you than they should.
We were in the same place you left us. I’m not sure why I’m pushing this point except that I want to identify where my mother believes the truth lies.
You don’t want to hear my side. That’s been obvious since you landed, my mother responds, rising and pushing our luggage cart. And you’re not going to get anything else out of me. You only want to use what you learn against me. I can see that. You are not a trusting person.
The barometer of my psychological wellness, my stomach, cramps again. I don’t know how to respond to my mother’s insults, her resentments. When I told her that growing up many of my friends’ families invited me to spend holidays, special occasions, and small vacations with them, she was annoyed. But those people are not your family. You were entertainment for them, she scoffed. They were there for me during tough times, I insisted. Some even let me live with them when I left home, before I could find a suitable room to rent. But she waved me off, never once asking where I’ve lived. And she wonders why I don’t trust her.
I’m just trying to understand.
No, you’re not, she snaps as I follow her to the taxi stand. You don’t understand, but you will. You will understand that I expect nothing from you. Nothing! And then you will be sorry.
Close-up
Are you . . . are you threatening me? Should I even get in this cab?
No. My mother’s face a traffic barrier.
That’s a threatening face.
Extreme Close-up
Puffy red lips: Brazilians don’t threat. We just do.
For the first time, I understand that maybe I am someone she’d like to kill. Living is acceptable as long as I don’t contradict her, disagree with her, or force her to confront her memories or fantasies. People would have comforted her, praised her, built shrines to her even, if her children had died tragically in an accident, if they had died for want of a mother’s love. I think she would have welcomed my death as a relief because I’ve been dead to her anyway and death ends the other side of the conversation. My existence a hologram, a mirage, as ethereal as light and air, she’s been wrapping around her heart like a fine protective sheen, taking to bed at night for support like a water bottle or a night light. Alive, I too am a monster. A monster she needs to slay to retain her peace. I don’t live in a fantasy world—that’s all I’ve been trying to say.
I did not go to Canada to bother you. You forget, you are in MY place and you will do as I say. This is MY family, Priscila, remember that. Not yours. You made your choice for twenty years. You love your Canadian culture.
I note that my mother has pushed me outside the family circle. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. I am not permitted to think of anyone I meet, including her, as family. Therefore, what are my options: tour guides, research subjects, zoo creatures? I made these choices at eight?
Eight, nine, ten. You’re still making this choice. You don’t want to live in Brazil. You think Canada is wonderful. You people who go and destroy other people are wonderful. You and the Americans. And you come here to destroy me too. And I have cancer. If cancer will not kill me, you will not kill me.
Maybe she’d be somebody you’d like to kill. If my mother convinces herself that my unwillingness to smother her with kisses is a choice between Canada versus Brazil rather than a reflection on her, then it’s political, not personal. Never mind that Canadians are not exactly known for going about and destroying other people—it’s significant that she sees me as part of this Canadian offensive. Like my father, she uses sickness to avoid unpleasant conversations. Instead, she throws our luggage into a taxi trunk, squeezes into the front passenger side while I crawl into the back and weigh the pros and cons of throwing myself out of the moving vehicle as she speechifies nonstop in Portuguese to the driver until we arrive at her building. Her home. Where she doesn’t live most of the time.
My mother’s home: clutter, clutter, and more clutter, overlooking quadrant S Bloco J (S indicating the south end of the city, J her particular building complex). Photographs and movie posters, like for Persuasion (Persuasão in Portuguese), line her walls, and stacks of paper (newspaper, books, loose-leaf sheets) cover every shelf and corner of the two-bedroom condominium—at least I think it’s two-bedroom; I can’t tell because all the rooms are snowplowed with paper, with only a single bed in the room at the back. Also, Catholic trinkets: miniature crosses, Virgin Mary icons, saint cards, mixed among framed photographs of family members, including the grandmother and aunt I have just met, and a few photos I sent her which she has inserted into frames at least one size too large. The Campos clan celebrates a lot of family occasions together, but this could all be an illusion of film. I count six, not three, TVs.
Worse than a frying pan to the skull, two hangings assail me: one a photograph, one a painting.
The photograph: me in a floppy red hat and red blouse, right before my first book launch. Unpacking my first book, I flash a large, proud smile to the camera. I sent my mother this photograph, as well as a couple of others, before I arrived, so she would know what I look like and feel more at ease. I should be flattered she was pleased, but it unnerves me to discover she had the photo blown up to poster-size—a nearly life-size version of me nailed prominently among portraits of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. The only thing more disconcerting is the massive painting to the right.
The painting: the long-haired woman almost looks like me—large brown eyes, dark eyebrows, curly dark hair, high cheekbones, long nose. However, a glance at the two smaller figures beside this prominent one dissuades this notion. The big-haired woman, who, I might add, is painted from the chest up naked,
her nipples hidden by wispy clouds against a bright blue sky, is my mother, what my mother must have looked like when she was my age. Which is why the painting is painfully anachronistic. Beside this woman, who possesses the tight fresh skin and undaunted, blissful expression of a naive twenty-something, are two childish figures, one on each side, like criminals beside Jesus, I immediately think, even though there is nothing explicitly religious or gothic about the picture. The children gaze peacefully ahead, blissful in the clouds with their mother-goddess. A miniature yellow sun peeks out to the right. I know who these two children are, but I can’t bear to confront their vacant faces, especially as they don’t look right somehow. What is it? I stare. I keep staring. I move closer to the atrocity.
My mother mistakes my gawking as admiration and beams: I had the painting commissioned from my friend, a brilliant artist. You like it, no? Isn’t it beautiful? It’s my favourite painting. I was so clever to commission this, no?
Clever isn’t the word. In a state of numbness, I nod so I can get closer to the children, figure out what’s wrong.
It was painted ten years ago. I brought the artist pictures of you and your brother, from when you were small, but asked her to age you to be older, so that we could be together in the painting! But still as mother and children. You see! She wanted to paint a portrait of me, and I said I refuse unless I am painted with my children. Clever, isn’t it? May I have permission to tell her you like the painting?
Clever isn’t the word. Again, I nod. It’s not the poor artist’s fault. What else could she possibly do, instructed to age children six or seven years above the original photographs? My face is drawn exactly the same as my mother’s, in the same shade of brown (this is wrong because my mother’s skin is white, not brown). My brother’s slightly darker with a wider, redder mouth. We look like midgets, a freakish concoction of infant and mature features. The portrait a circus. A family circus. Without a father.