The Painting of Porcupine City: A Novel
Page 25
When they made it out of the city center the traffic mellowed and Mateo was able to ease his grip on the bike and relish again the taste of the air in his mouth.
At last he patted the driver’s shoulder and made a motion with his hand and the driver slowed and pulled to the edge of the street, put his bare foot down to steady the bike.
“Obrigado,” Mateo said, and when the driver told him the fare he put into the boy’s hand some crumpled reais from the stash he had kept in his dresser drawer 5,000 miles away. He took off his helmet and handed it back to the driver, who stashed it and sped off. Rrrmm away into the summer morning the way they had come.
Mateo stretched, shook out his helmet-hair, jostled his backpack and let out some slack on the shoulder straps. His butt was numb, his fingers stiff from clutching. The moto-taxi ride somehow felt longer than the plane ride. Whenever he came back he had to realize all over again just how big SP was. You could drop Boston into São Paulo six times and SP would still have room for overnight guests. That’s land area. In people, you’d have to multiply the population of Boston eighteen times before you got close to the number of Paulistanos in SP.
But this area, his neighborhood, on a winding cobblestone street called Rua Giacomo in the neighborhood of Vila Madalena, reminded Mateo a little of Boston’s North End—not because it looked much like the North End but because that was the closest point of reference Boston had to offer. The way Marlborough Street in Boston reminded him of Paris, and how something about the edge of the Charles River, down by the Science Museum, made him think of Toronto.
But Boston and São Paulo were his two cities—the two he’d branded himself with—and his comfort in each fed off his comfort in the other. They both felt like home. He liked the North End’s curvy, narrow streets, its stone pavement and its old men who sit in lawn chairs on the sidewalks, passing time in loud voices—because it reminded him of Vila Madalena. And here, the colors and the cooking smells and the voices reminded him of all the dark mornings he’d gone into Bova’s, the twenty-four-hour bakery near Prince Street, 5,000 miles away, for warm bread and cookies on the nights when his work took him near there.
He liked these cities because he liked the way they felt when he painted on them.
The tall walls that divided Rua Giacomo from the houses that abutted it looked different now—they’d been painted over again and again in the two years since he’d last been home. Layer upon layer in stories of paint. He wondered if perhaps the street had not always been so narrow. If you sunk a knife into the wall, just how deep would it go? How many layers of paint would it pierce?
He hiked his backpack up on his shoulders and walked up the street. His neighborhood was shaped like an S, a snaking canal of street weaving between residences that stood on the other side of the high walls. It was the perfect place for painting because it was out of the way and the walls made a ready canvas—and because no one in the neighborhood ever seemed to mind. Well, they minded if they caught you in the act—old people especially would throw little rocks until you ran away—but the paintings that appeared overnight were greeted like any other part of a new day, as ever-present and changing as trees.
A spot where one of his own tags had been now sported a huge tropical bird rendered in neon blue. It was signed TUCANO. He wanted to add something next to it, to take the spot back. His palm began to itch. His hand craved a can. No spraypaint allowed in his carry-on; he was twenty hours away from his supplies. All he had was a marker.
He put his backpack down and was digging to find the marker when he noticed a guy, blond and wearing shiny aviator sunglasses, coming down the street, his white button-down shirt open and flapping against his chest—and Mateo’s attraction recalibrated to love of a different kind when he realized it was his cousin. Vinicius was on the other side of the street, and when he was about to pass Mateo, Mateo said, just loud enough to be heard, “Pssst. Primo.” And stood up smiling.
Vinicius stopped short, stepping out of one of his flip-flops. He pushed his big sunglasses up over his wavy hair and squinted at Mateo. “É você?” He had a spray of dark freckles across his tanned nose. “Primo Mateo?”
“Yup,” Mateo said with a grin. “It’s me.”
«Just wanted to make sure,» Vinicius said in Portuguese, «before I maul a stranger!»
He bounded across the street, nearly getting clipped by a scooter buzzing by. “Haha!” A clap on Mateo’s shoulder tugged him roughly into a hug and a hard, quick, scratchy kiss landed on his cheek. “Oh!” Mateo smiled against his cousin’s hair and then returned the fast, hard kiss.
Vinicius held him at arm’s length and gawked. “O que você está fazendo em SP?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? I told you I was coming, didn’t I!”
Vinicius frowned and shook his head and smiled. “Em Português, primo. The English of me is fuck. You know.”
With his shaggy blond hair and mischievous grin Vinicius looked like he should be carrying a surfboard under one arm and a stolen purse under the other. His features were sharper than Mateo’s, and his hair was unique in their family—Mateo had always given him crap about it, saying blond hair like that was proof he was adopted—but there was clear relation in their eyes. Vinicius had corneas of the same striking green as Mateo.
«You messaged me last night...,» Vinicius said.
«And told you I was coming.»
«Well I didn’t fucking believe you, primo! I thought you were fucking with me. Or drunk!»
«Heh.»
«When did you decide to come? You could’ve given us some warning! Shit!»
«About a half hour before I messaged you.»
Vinicius looked at the sky and shook his head. «Homeboy’s in fucking SP. Your mom’s gonna flip!»
Mateo blushed. Vinicius grabbed him again and tried to pick him up.
«OK, OK.»
«Ha!»
«Somebody painted over me over there,» Mateo said, catching his balance and swiveling away from Vinicius, but with Vini’s arm still clamped over his shoulder. He lifted his chin at the wall. «Who’s the toucan?»
«That would be Edilson. You remember him? From up the street.»
«Edilson Soares? Little Edilson?»
«He’s good, huh?»
«Not bad. I guess. For a toy.»
«Haha, don’t pout like that! You go away, this is what happens. You gotta stay here if you want to protect your turf.»
«Maybe I’ll take the spot back.»
«You can try. Not sure I would. Little Edilson’s not so little these days.» He floated his hand flat a few inches above Mateo’s head.
«I’ve been gone a long time, V.»
«Not so long.» He squeezed Mateo’s shoulder. «Not so long between cousins.»
«My mom leave for
work yet?»
«Yeah. Uncle Renaldo might still be there, though. He was just leaving.»
«Auntie and Uncle?»
«My dad’s in Belo Horizonte doing set-up shit for Carnival. Mom went. This is what happens when you give no notice! Olivia’s here though. Somewhere.»
«Why Belo? Ours not good enough?»
Vini shrugged. «Hey, are you home for Carnival?»
«I wish. Well... jeez, when is it this year?»
Vini’s jaw fell slack. «You mean you don’t know?»
«I lose track of this shit up there, V.»
Vinicius told him the date and Mateo frowned. «Don’t think I can stay that long, no.»
«Well how long you home for?»
«Week or so.»
«OK. So at least we have some time. I can’t wait to show you my stuff. I’ve been getting into stencils. I tell you that? Hey, can you get in the house?» He fished in his pocket, pulled out his keys, and wiggled one off the ring. «Here you go,» he said ceremoniously, pressing it into Mateo’s palm and closing Mateo’s fingers around it. «Some things never change,» he added about Mateo’s blue fingers. He turned Mateo’s
hand over so he could read his watch face. «Who wears a watch anymore?»
«Had to turn my phone off so it won’t roam.»
«This SP time yet?»
«Yup.»
«Then shit, I’m late. I gotta get to work. Tiago’s gonna have my ass. Not the way he wants it, of course.»
«You guys still carpooling?»
«Yup. He’s still got the armored car so that’s how we roll. I pay him in blowjobs. Just kidding. That’s your job.»
«Sure.»
«He asks every once in a while what you’re up to, you know—wants to ask more often. You must be a hell of a lay, primo, because that boy’s still hung up on you.»
Mateo shook his head.
«Wish I could take the fucking day off and kick it with you!»
«Me too!»
«Can I tell Ti you’re home, or is it a secret?»
«Secret for now. Unless you can’t control yourself, I guess.»
«He’s gonna be happy.» Vini wiggled his eyebrows.
«We’ll see.»
Vinicius grabbed him again and hugged hard. «So fucking good to see you!»
«I know. Go to work.»
«Booo!»
Mateo walked slowly up the
street. It took some figuring to find his family’s door—the outer door was part of the wall that ran along the street, and like everything else around it, it was covered in graffiti. And that graffiti too had changed since the last time he’d been here. Like ever-changing landmarks. He had to look up beyond the wall to the houses and rooftops—those colors stayed the same. That was how he found his door. Filling it and a few feet on either side of it was a pink and blue sunset, across which flew a dragon-bodied creature with the head of a toucan. It was gorgeous. Must be little Edilson again. Mateo sighed.
He pushed through into a tiny yard. The stiff grass was brown in places and there were plastic lawn chairs set up around a grill, and some flower pots. He walked across the patio to the bright blue front door and used the key Vini had given him.
“Olá!” he called into the warmth. “Bom dia!”
No reply. The house was quiet.
He left the door open so the air could circulate. He dropped his backpack on the couch and took off his shoes and socks, feeling the cool tile floor beneath his feet. This was one of the feelings of home. The whole house was floored with this same beige tile, even the bedrooms; there were little brightly-colored rugs here and there, but no carpeting. It made the house seem more airy than the houses up north, especially Marjorie’s big old house with its thick carpets and hardwood floors.
He squiggled his toes on the slippery tile and left shaded evaporating footprints.
“Mateo está em casa! Onde está minha família?”
In the corner by the television a birdcage hung from the ceiling. Two little birds, yellow and gray, hopped around inside tweeting.
You’re new, he thought, wondering what else was new around here. “Oi, passarinhos,” he said to them. Hi, little birds. He poked his finger through the pale blue bars of the cage. “Onde está minha família?”
The birds went on cheeping, but it was clear from the silence in the rest of the house that he was here alone. That was a relief. He was exhausted, had not slept for countless hours, not since briefly during his layover in Panama and fitfully on the plane, and the short interaction with his cousin had drained all his remaining energy.
He yawned. His bare feet carried him across the tile into the kitchen and his fingers reached for a bowl of fruit and a piece of chocolate cake. His hands brought the food to his lips and his mouth made him chew. He looked out the windows at the neighbor house, at a basket of wet laundry waiting to go on the line.
Then his feet carried him into the bathroom and his hands undid his fly and he peed. Then he was carried down the hall into his bedroom, and upon seeing it filled with Vini’s things his tired brain reminded his feet that this room was no longer his. He turned in the doorway and his feet carried him back to the living room. His toes tipped him forward and his heels let go of the smooth floor and he flopped onto the couch, where he sprawled out, rubbing his cheek against the cushion until it found a comfortable place.
And he slept like the dead.
There was a gasp and
a crash and a glugluglug of liquid and then Sabina was upon him with kisses.
“What are you doing here? Meu Deus! What a surprise! The door was open! I thought you were a thief! What are you doing just laying there—help me clean up this milk!”
“Mamãe,” he said, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.
She stopped amid the spilt groceries and all was quiet except for the birds cheeping, and she clasped her hands against her belly and smiled all the way from her hair to her chin. “My baby,” she said.
I’m told the people in
Brazil are more about lunch than dinner, but that night, in celebration of the return of their American boy, they did it American style and had a feast. The prodigal son was given the head of the table. Sabina plunked in the middle of the table a big bowl of spaghetti with a dozen tiny meatballs rolling around on top.
«Vinicius, go get your sister,» said Renaldo, who was standing behind Mateo’s chair squeezing his son’s shoulders. Vini leaned out the back door and yelled up to his sister’s window.
Renaldo released his son’s shoulders, rolling his eyes at Vinicius. He hooked his cane on the back of the chair beside Mateo and sat down. His shiny bald head reflected the overhead light, and a graying mustache hugged his upper lip.
“You look good, son,” he told Mateo. He knew his English wasn’t what it had been sixteen years ago but he made an effort to speak it all the same. “Big. Strong!”
“Dad.”
“So. Your flight was good?”
“Felt longer than usual, but yeah. They had good movies.”
“Good.” Renaldo crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. There were limits to what they could talk about, areas he could not venture into. Mateo’s home life, particularly. “How is your work going? Your job.”
“It’s fine.”
“The computers.”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
“Do you like it?”
Mateo laughed. “No. But I’m not really concerned about liking it. It’s a necessary but minor part of my life.”
“Like pooping?” Renaldo said with a smirk.
Mateo blushed.
“And you are still doing a lot of—?” Renaldo made the motion of a spraycan.
Vinicius saw the gesture and said, «Ah, his favorite topic.»
Mateo replied, “Yeah. A lot. And I’m getting pretty big. People recognize my work. They write about me on the Internet. Sometimes even in the newspaper. They don’t know it’s me.”
Renaldo frowned and looked at his son’s hands clasped on the table. “You have to be very careful.”
Mateo could sense his father’s old alien fears—the need to be unseen, perfectly law-abiding in all ways but the one. “I’m a citizen, Dad. If they catch me they can’t deport me.”
“Hmm. Maybe. But there are other things.” Sabina handed Renaldo a big wooden spoon and he stuck it into the spaghetti. “You still have to be careful. It is not like here there. I know here sometimes you can get away by saying, OK, sir, I did it, but at least I am not one of those horrible, scribble-writer pichadores! My work has beauty!”
“Heh.”
“Right?”
“They’ll never catch me.”
Renaldo laughed and began stirring the pasta. “The moment you really believe they won’t, filhinho, they will.”
After the spaghetti they
finished what was left of the chocolate cake. And after that, when everyone else retired full-bellied to the living room, Mateo joined the younger of his two cousins at the sink.
«I’ll wash if you dry,» he told Olivia, and she took the striped towel he was holding.
«Deal.»
«We should’ve us
ed paper plates,» he said. The tap offered only cold water and he swirled his hands in the sink to help grow the suds.
«What, afraid you’ll get dish-pan hands?»
«No.»
«Heh. Well it won’t hurt you to get a little soapy, maybe some of that paint will finally come off.»
«Then how would you recognize me?»
He gave her a wet plate and she rubbed the towel across the front and back and placed it in the drying rack.
«I told my friend Gabi you’re home and she wants me to ask you if you know any American movie stars.»
«Movie stars?»
«Or if there’s anybody in a band or something.»
«Like a rock star?»
«Mmhm.» She pressed her lips together and nodded nonchalantly, her dark hair—more the color of Mateo’s than Vini’s—coming untucked from behind her ears.
«Is this Gabi your t-shirt business partner?»
«She thinks we need an American contact. She says if we can get Americans wearing them first they’ll take off here.»
«Ah.»
«So do you?»
«Sorry. I’m the most famous person I know up there, but no one knows it! Is that one of yours?» He pointed at her shirt.
«Yup.» She threw the towel across her shoulder and used both hands to stretch out the t-shirt, showing the detail. The design was a stenciled sea turtle swimming in water highlighted with sewn-on silver and blue beads.
«Cool. Do you have other ones besides the turtle?»
«We can.»
«I’ll buy a couple off you. My friend Phoebe would like one.»
«Cool.» Olivia took a plate and resumed drying. «Wait. Phoebe the retarded one?»
«She’s a Downsie.»
«Ah,» she said, placing the dry plate in the rack. «I see how it is.» She smirked. «You see my shirt and your first thought is, Oh, that would be a smash-hit with the retards.»
«Heh. I thought no such thing!»
She laughed. «Did too! Take that!» And because no one in the Amaral-Bittencourt clan had ever passed up a soap fight, the kitchen was soon dripping with suds.