Perfect Days

by Raphael Montes

  VIKING

  an imprint of Penguin Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited

  Penguin Canada, 320 Front Street West, Suite 1400, Toronto, Ontario M5V 3B6, Canada Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published in Viking hardcover by Penguin Canada Books Inc., 2016

  Simultaneously published in the United States by Penguin Press, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  Copyright © Raphael Montes, 2016

  Translation copyright © Alison Entrekin, 2016

  Originally published in Portuguese as Dias Perfeitos by Companhia Das Letras, São Paulo.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Designed by Amanda Dewey

  Cover design by Keith Hayes

  Cover photograph: Electrons 08 / Plainpicture

  Author photography © Bel Pedrosa

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Montes, Raphael, 1990-

  [Dias perfeitos. English]

  Perfect days / Raphael Montes.

  Translation of: Dias perfeitos.

  ISBN 978-0-670-06936-1 (bound)

  I. Title. II. Title: Dias perfeitos. English

  PQ9698.423.O57D5213 2016 869.3’5 C2015-907882-2

  Print ISBN 978-0-670-06936-1

  eBook ISBN 978-0-14-319648-8

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  Version_1

  For my mother

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Note From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.

  FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

  1

  Gertrude was the only person Teo liked. The other students weren’t quite as at ease around her. The minute they walked into the lab, the girls all held their noses. The guys tried to be cool, but their eyes revealed their discomfort. Teo didn’t want anyone to notice how good he felt there. He’d walk over to the metal table with his head down.

  There she’d be, serenely waiting for him. Gertrude.

  In the pale light, the corpse took on a very peculiar brownish hue, like leather. On a small side tray were instruments for more in-depth investigations: scissors with curved tips, anatomical forceps, rat-tooth forceps and scalpels.

  “The great saphenous vein can be seen near the inside of the knee. It then courses medially to lie on the anterior surface of the thigh,” said Teo. He pulled back Gertrude’s epithelium to expose her dried-out muscles.

  The teacher looked down at his clipboard, frowning from his fortress of notes. Teo wasn’t intimidated: the anatomy lab was his domain. The stretchers here and there, the dissected bodies, the limbs and organs in jars all gave him a sense of freedom that he couldn’t find anywhere else. He liked the smell of formaldehyde, the instruments in his gloved hands, Gertrude there on the table.

  In her company, his imagination knew no bounds. The world melted away, until he and Gertrude were all that was left. He’d chosen the name the first time they met, when her flesh was still in place. They had grown closer over the course of the semester. In each class, Teo discovered new things about Gertrude: she loved to surprise him. He would hold his head close to hers—the most interesting part of her—and wonder. Who did that body belong to? Was her name really Gertrude? Or was it something simpler?

  It was Gertrude. Looking at her withered skin, narrow nose, and dry, straw-colored lips, he couldn’t conceive of any other name for her. Although decomposition had stripped away her human appearance, Teo saw something in those misshapen eyeballs: the eyes of the ravishing woman she must have been. He conversed with those eyes when no one else was looking.

  She had probably died in her sixties or seventies. The few hairs on her head and pubis confirmed his theory. In a detailed examination, Teo had discovered a fracture in her skull.

  He respected Gertrude. Only an intellectual could have forgone the adulation of a funeral to contribute to the future, to the training of young doctors. Better to serve as a light for science than be devoured in darkness, she must have thought. She had probably had a bookcase packed with quality literature. And a collection of vinyl LPs from her youth. Those legs had danced a lot. Night after night.

  Many of the corpses in the foul-smelling vats had belonged to the homeless, beggars whose purpose in life was to die. They had no money, no education, but they had bones, muscles, organs. And that made them useful.

  Gertrude was different. It was hard to imagine that those feet had roamed the streets or that those hands had begged their way through a mediocre life. Teo didn’t believe she had been murdered either, killed with a blow to the head while being mugged or bludgeoned to death by a betrayed husband. Gertrude had died of extraordinary causes, something not in the natural order of things. No one would have had the courage to kill her. Unless he was an idiot . . .

  The world was full of idiots. All he had to do was look around: there was an idiot in a lab coat, an idiot with a clipboard, an idiot with a high-pitched voice who was now talking about Gertrude as if she knew her as well as he did.

  “The articular capsule has been opened and the stratum fibrosum pulled back to reveal the distal and proximal extremities of the femur and tibia.”

  The girl made Teo want to laugh. And if Gertrude could have heard that nonsense, she’d have hooted wit
h laughter too. Together they’d have drunk expensive wine, chatted about all manner of things, watched films and discussed the cinematography and the set and costume design afterward like film critics. Gertrude would have taught him how to live.

  The other students’ disrespect for her got on his nerves. On one occasion, in the teacher’s absence, the same girl who was now spouting fancy medical terms in a shrill voice had taken some red nail polish out of her bag and, giggling, painted the corpse’s fingernails. The other students had flocked around, finding it all very funny.

  Teo wasn’t the vindictive sort, but he wanted to avenge Gertrude. He could have made sure the girl received some kind of institutional punishment, but it would have been bureaucratic and ineffectual. He could have arranged for her to take a bath in formaldehyde—just to see the look of desperation in her eyes as she felt her skin drying out. But what he really wanted to do was kill her. And then paint her pale little nails red.

  Of course he wasn’t going to do anything of the sort. He wasn’t a murderer. He wasn’t a monster. As a child, he had spent many a sleepless night staring at his shaking hands, trying to decipher his own thoughts. He felt like a monster. He didn’t like anyone, have feelings for anyone, or miss anyone: he just lived. People would come along, and he’d be forced to tolerate their presence in his life. Worse: he was supposed to like them, to demonstrate affection. He learned that if his playacting seemed real, it was all a lot easier.

  The bell rang, and the students were dismissed. It was the last class of the year. Teo left without saying good-bye to anyone. The gray building was behind him now, and as he looked over his shoulder, he realized he’d never see Gertrude again. His friend would be buried along with the other corpses, tossed into a common grave. They’d never share another special moment.

  He was alone again.

  2

  Teo woke up in a bad mood and went to the kitchen to make his mother coffee. The counter was high, and Patricia couldn’t reach the shelves. She had to stretch, and her legs would flop about on her wheelchair. It was degrading.

  While he waited for the water to boil, he swept the living room of the flat and washed the dishes. He changed Samson’s newspaper and filled his bowl with food. As always, he set the coffee on his mother’s bedside table and woke her up with a kiss on the forehead, because that was what loving sons did.

  At nine o’clock, Patricia came out of her room. She was wearing a simple dress and cloth sandals. Teo had never seen his mother getting dressed, but he imagined it was an exhausting process. He had once offered to help her with a new pair of jeans, but she had refused emphatically, saying, “It’s all I have left.” Half an hour later she had a dress on, and the jeans were in the trash.

  “Marli and I are going to the fair. I’m taking Samson,” she said as she put on an earring.

  Teo nodded, his eyes glued to the TV, where Tom was chasing Jerry.

  “Do I look nice?”

  He realized she was wearing makeup. “Have you found yourself a secret admirer at the fair? Eh, Patricia? Confess!”

  “No admirers for the time being. But you never know—I might be crippled, but I’m not dead!”

  Teo hated the word crippled. In an attempt to make light of her condition, Patricia used it frequently. It was sad, he understood. Ever since the accident, they’d avoided the subject. The wheelchair had become a part of everyday life, and at the end of the day, he thought they didn’t really need to talk about it.

  Patricia came back from the kitchen with Samson on his leash. The golden retriever was wagging his furry tail. He had joined the family nine years earlier, when they still lived in the penthouse overlooking Copacabana Beach. Now it was an inconvenience to have the dog in a two-bedroom flat. Teo would have preferred to hand him over to a shelter. Samson had beautiful fur and a pedigree; he’d find a new home quickly. Teo had never said this to his mother, as he knew the dog was like a child to her. Although perfectly reasonable, any suggestion that she get rid of him would have been dismissed out of hand.

  The bell rang. Patricia went to answer the door.

  “Marli, darling!”

  It was the neighbor, Patricia’s best friend and lover of all things esoteric. A confirmed spinster, moderately stupid, she stood in as a nurse for Patricia, helping her to shower and to walk Samson. They played cards together on Wednesdays. Teo didn’t know who was more dependent on whom in that relationship. It amused him when he saw Marli reading his mother’s fortune in the cards—her predictions typically bore no relationship to reality.

  He had once allowed Marli to read his fortune too. “You are going to be very wealthy and happy,” she had said. “And you are going to marry a very beautiful young woman.”

  He hadn’t believed her. He couldn’t see himself being happy. He felt fated to limbo, to monotonous routine, devoid of happy and sad moments. His life was just a void filled with timid emotions. He was fine like that.

  “We’ll be back in an hour,” said Patricia. “The barbecue’s later this afternoon. Don’t forget.”

  “What barbecue?”

  “Érica’s daughter’s. Her birthday.”

  “I don’t want to go. I hardly know the girl.”

  “There’ll be people your age there.”

  “I’m a vegetarian, Mother.”

  “My friends always ask about you. And I’m sure there’ll be garlic bread.”

  Teo sometimes felt like a trophy that his mother showed off to others. It was her way of making up for her own deficiencies—physical and intellectual.

  “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. You’re going with me.” Patricia slammed the door.

  The only sound left in the flat was the music from the cartoon.

  • • •

  There was no garlic bread. Blood and fat dripped from the meat on the grill onto the charcoal underneath. Young people were dancing to the deafening sound of funk music. Patricia was enjoying herself with a group of friends. Teo barely knew those people and regretted not having stayed at home with Tom and Jerry.

  Among the bottles of vodka in the cooler, he found one of water. He wouldn’t stay long. He’d get a taxi home, and Patricia would get a lift later with a friend. His discomfort aside, he had to admit that the place was beautiful. Set into a rocky hillside, the mansion was divided into large living areas connected by stone stairways winding through the natural vegetation that climbed the slope. Farther down the stairs was a kind of bungalow where the party was taking place, with a swimming pool, barbecue, and wooden tables bolted to the ground. Winding paths led to a colorful, well-tended garden, separated from the forest by a white fence.

  “Are you trying to escape the music or the people?” asked a female voice behind him. It was hoarse, a little tipsy.

  Teo turned to look at her. It was a young woman, possibly younger than him, and very short—four foot nine at the most. Her brown eyes surveyed the flowers calmly.

  “The music,” he said.

  A long silence put a distance between them.

  She was well dressed in a blouse patterned with bright diamond shapes and a black skirt, but she wasn’t exactly beautiful. Exotic, perhaps. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun, with a few strands sticking to her sweaty forehead.

  “Were you dancing?” Teo asked.

  “I was. But I got tired.”

  She smiled, and he noticed that her top front teeth were slightly misaligned. He found it charming.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Teo. Teodoro, actually. And you are?”

  “Clarice.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t talk to me about Clarice Lispector, because I’ve never read anything by her! That woman haunts me.”

  He was amused by the girl’s spontaneity but remained serious. He wasn’t comfortable around wome
n who were so sure of themselves: he saw them as superior, almost unattainable.

  Clarice walked over to him and set the plate of sausages and pieces of meat she was carrying on the guardrail. She took a sip from her glass. He glimpsed part of a colorful tattoo through the sleeve of her blouse but couldn’t make out what it was.

  “Aren’t you eating anything?”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Don’t you drink either? That’s water, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t drink much. I don’t handle alcohol well.”

  “Well . . .” she said, lips touching the edge of her glass, “at least you drink. They say people who don’t drink are dangerous. . . . It’s a sign you aren’t dangerous.”

  Teo thought he should laugh, so he did.

  Clarice took another piece of meat from the plate.

  “What about you? What are you drinking?” he asked.

  “It’s gummy. Some crap made with vodka and powdered lemon juice. It tastes like bleach.”

  “How do you know what bleach tastes like?”

  “I don’t need to taste things to know what they taste like.” She said it with conviction, as if her words made absolute sense.

  Teo felt a little uncomfortable. At the same time, he felt compelled to continue the conversation. He glanced down at her white legs and ballerina feet in purple strappy sandals. Her toenails were all painted different colors.

  “Why are your toenails like that?”

  “My fingernails are too.” She held them out for him to see. Her fingers were long and slender, the most fragile hands he had ever seen. Her nails, cut short, were painted in an array of random colors.

  “I see. Why?”

  She answered without thinking, “To be different,” and raised her right index finger to her mouth.

  Teo noticed that Clarice chewed her cuticles. He assumed this explained the misalignment of her front teeth, which projected slightly outward. Although he hadn’t studied dentistry, he’d researched the subject a lot in order to get to know Gertrude.

  “And why be different?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “The world’s pretty dull. My parents are living proof of it. Take my dad, for example. Engineer, always out of town. São Paulo, Houston, London. My mother’s a lawyer. Bureaucracy runs in the blood. That’s why it’s nice to be different. Not have a set routine. Get drunk and not care. Do stupid things and not remember afterward. Paint each nail a different color. Live life before it’s too late, right?”