Nowhere People

by Paulo Scott

  Paulo tries to describe to her what the experience is going to be like. The images being projected, the moment when the mouse will command all the things and the sounds of the universe. Maína is barely listening. The film has caught her attention, the soundtrack, the colours, the introductions, the stories. He got lucky with the programming: only The Wizard of Oz might have topped it (he is sure that ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, in Judy Garland’s devastating interpretation, would change that girl’s life); he’s lucky she didn’t get scared. The film ends. The two of them wait till the light from the projector and the music are switched off. They look at one another. He takes in the girl, all kitted out like a punk-goth with her seed necklace over the fabric of the AC/DC t-shirt and the smell of Phebo Rose soap, sat in the dirty red leather seat of the Baltimore with her canvas bag full of damp pages from newspapers and magazines, fresh from the experience of an invisibility hitherto unknown to her, allowing herself to look, and looking. Perhaps there’s some kind of answer there. Paulo knows there is, but he can’t do it, it’s hard to make out.

  He explains that they’re going to a party. There will be some odd people there, the kind of people she probably hasn’t been around before. Maína nods her head, showing that she’s happy, that everything’s fine. She says she needs to go to the bathroom, he shows her where it is and waits under the awning in front of the building. And he catches sight of Titi Mafalda with her friends, the three Marias, in tow. ‘Hey, senhor Dickhead!’ she shouts from a distance in her unmistakable Ceará accent. ‘Still hanging out in that art-house cinema, then? Standing there with those panty-wetting legs of yours and all these girls going to waste … You men are all complete asses, you really are.’ Not long ago at all, Paulo had gone out with Maria Rita, the prettiest of the four. Although they’d only hung out a few times, which had been fun to begin with, things hadn’t ended well; on the first and only occasion they arranged to go to Fin de Siècle to dance and meet their friends, breaking with the movie-then-dinner-then-her-flat formula, it had been a disaster. It only took half an hour for them to end up standing outside the nightclub, Maria Rita – who without her doctor’s permission had stopped taking her antidepressants – completely overcome with hysterics, gnawing at the palm of her right hand till she bled, him trying to stop her, her going back to the self-harming the moment he released her. They carried on this little performance till Paulo let go of her, telling her to go to hell, and went back into the bar. He learned days later that she had spread the word to everyone that he’d given her gonorrhoea, which everyone realised, knowing her as they did, was another one of her lies. ‘Hey, it’s the Northeastern girls,’ says Paulo, needling them already, as the four of them come to a stop in front of him. ‘You all right, Rita?’ She nods, lets out a restrained smile. ‘Come with us to have a few at the Magazine Bar. I’m heading there to see if I run into Passo Fundo; the Gaucho bastard owes me two thousand and it’s been an age … ’ Titi says brashly, with an attitude in marked contrast to the lethargy of the other three. ‘Can’t do it, Titi, I’m going to a party,’ Paulo explains. ‘Whose?’ she wants to know (she always wants to know). ‘Adrienne’s … ’ he replies a little awkwardly, remembering that the two of them never really got on. ‘So come here and give me my three kisses.’ Just like she asks everyone else, she always asks him for her three kisses (three times, it’s the southern excess, she enjoys this). When Titi approaches to kiss him, Maína appears and stands beside Paulo. Titi is quick to react. ‘Who’s this child, Paulo?’ she asks, looking Maína up and down. ‘She’s come to visit Porto Alegre,’ he says naturally. ‘And you’re her guide?’ asks Maria Rita, pointedly. ‘It’s only for today … Maína, these are my friends.’ Maína just smiles. Titi knows Paulo well enough to be sure that the best thing to do right then is to take her Marias and go. ‘We’re off, Handsome,’ and she gives him three kisses. ‘Watch how you go, ok? This girl can’t even be twelve yet … You trying to break the record of the local rock stars? Trying to be like Brando the rapist? Take it easy, Paulão.’ Maria Rita doesn’t wait, she walks off without saying goodbye. Maria Eduarda and Maria Clara just nod and follow Titi as soon as she heads back off towards the Magazine. ‘Give Passo Fundo a hug from me,’ Paulo says before the girls are too far off. The two of them step onto the pavement and set off in the opposite direction to Titi. They walk a few metres, and Maína stops when she sees the popcorn seller (who by now has stored away his little cart) sitting on the front step of an office building, drinking straight out of the mouth of a cachaça bottle, past the point of recognising her. She places the bag of magazines into Paulo’s hand and approaches the old man, puts her hand on his head. Paulo leaves her to it, leaves their moment to pass.

  He walks into the apartment telling everyone that there is to be no messing around with Maína: no alcohol, no coke, no weed for her. He doesn’t leave her alone for a minute. As soon as the group who were on the balcony vacate the place, he invites her to sit there and look out over the city. ‘Pretty,’ says Maína, ‘light, lot of light’. Paulo doesn’t hold back. ‘Chaos, Maína.’ He doesn’t even know if she knows what chaos is. ‘It’s a pretty place, but not always a good one.’ Luana appears with a tray of savoury pastries, Maína takes two. ‘You sure she isn’t up for smoking just a little one?’ and gives him a wink. Luana, always Luana. Paulo gives her a get-out-of-here look. Luana turns around. Adrienne has spread posters of Fernando Collor de Mello, the National Reconstruction Party’s candidate for president of the Republic, all over the living room and she refuses to explain this décor; Adrienne and her eccentricities. The soundtracks of her little parties are limited to Brian Eno, Roxy Music, Talking Heads, The Doors, Velvet Underground, King Crimson and Kraftwerk. So long as he respects the magnificent seven, as she’s dubbed them, a guest is free to put on any music he chooses. Paulo likes hanging out with this crowd, it’s good being a part of the group without actually being one of the group; it’s less hard work, less stressful. Paulo doesn’t find it easy being involved with groups or people for too long. Everyone there is teeming with ideas and plans; no doubt at all that at least half of them, ten or fifteen years from now, are going to be calling the shots in Rio Grande do Sul and the rest of the country. In the meantime they’re no more than a gang of stoners who think they’re the shit. Paulo is waiting for the mini-gig by the band Vulgo Valentin that has been promised for midnight on the dot but that ends up only happening at half past one. (Adrienne loves to torment her neighbours, always with the same strategy: the mini-gigs get going and only finish when the police turn up asking them to put an end to the performance.) As soon as the boys finish playing – this time it is the woman who manages the building who has switched off the apartment’s power mains and is now giving Adrienne the biggest lecture at the door to the apartment – Paulo calls Maína and they leave. The chosen route is: down Independência, onto Riachuelo, past the town hall and then the old Gasômetro factory, back along Duque de Caxias, then taking Borges at Demétrio Ribeiro, on as far as the beginning of Veríssimo Rosa, turn left, turn right, arrive home.

  He’ll give Maína his room to sleep in, he shows her how to lock the door from the inside (he feels a bit stupid explaining, the girl has trusted him so far, there shouldn’t be any further reason to be afraid, but all the same it seems the right thing to do). He goes up to the study, sits in his father’s leather armchair, turns on the television. They’re showing The Thing, the John Carpenter version, which was called Enigma do outro mundo – Enigma from Another World – in Brazil. He watches the first half, tells himself he’ll stay awake until the bit where Kurt Russell tests his team-members’ blood with a piece of hot wire to see which of them is infected. He can’t fight off his tiredness. He falls asleep before getting to it. In one of his dreams, he gets up at nine-thirty, opens the bedroom window, walks downstairs, goes straight into the pantry, where he finds Maína sitting at the table, keeping herself entertained leafing through the magazines she was given. He says hello, she res
ponds with the same word. He prepares an omelette with mozzarella, he toasts four pieces of bread in the toaster and pours two glasses of chocolate milk. He says that when they’ve finished he’ll take her back. In the last dream, he is surprised to discover that the previous day he had stopped very close to where her family is. Maína opens the door, he says bye. She gets out of the car in silence but, when she closes the door (through the open window), she says Thank very much. Thank you very much, he corrects her, but she says again Thank very much, and he notices the lightness of her hair in the sun, and she turns her back on him before her mother discovers that her daughter has just been driven home by someone who hasn’t even realised he has gone much too far.

  ‌

  a porcelain sky

  Originally unpaid, the internship at the law firm had ended up in an informal agreement to share in the profits, and today the payment Paulo receives is higher than a salary at other similar firms. He’s been getting along fine for almost two years now (what he needed to feel comfortable as an intern there was that the partners not object to his being a student leader). ‘I like genuine people, people with ideas’ – that’s what the senior partner, a civil lawyer pushing seventy, said when he interviewed him. When he was accepted he was given two ‘recommendations’: never to disclose the firm’s name in his speeches and statements, and never to take part in any kind of activity that could be labelled subversive. In their day-to-day interactions it’s common for Paulo to hear the nine lawyers who work there remarking that democracy isn’t as solid as people say, commenting on the possibility that the days of military rule could come back, that he should take care – advice that might have made sense in eighty-three or earlier, but not nowadays. At first, Paulo would reply affectionately, call them paranoid, always on his guard so as not to reveal his daily involvement in leftist activism. What would they have said about the time he was in Mariu’s, the old-school bar where students drink after classes and student union meetings, when a classmate of his, the son of a high-ranking officer in the military police, revealed to him something his father had mentioned? That his father had handled Paulo’s file at a meeting of the so-called PM2, the Military Division’s intelligence services that used photographs and daily reports to track and document the political activities of students, unionists, peasant groups, religious groups and anyone else whom the state considered leftist. His mother, strict as she is, would have a coronary, Paulo sometimes thinks, if she knew about anything like this; it wouldn’t be all that different with some of the lawyers at the firm.

  At this moment, he and the two lawyers to whom he directly reports are in the meeting room, the jewel in the firm’s crown, not just for its decorative details (walls clad in English fabrics and all manner of framed items – even manuscripts by renowned jurists), but for the view onto the Praça da Matriz: you can see the tops of the jacaranda trees, the Court of Justice, the São Pedro Theatre, a bit of the Legislative Assembly, the top of the monument to Júlio de Castilhos. They have reached an impasse. Paulo who, as they have already mentioned, is only an intern, doesn’t want to agree to halving the percentage he receives from income generated around collection, payments and the termination of rental agreements that he calculates for the Chimendes Machado estate agency. Eleven months earlier, when the younger lawyer, the younger of the two sitting there at the table, had the idea of passing the estate agency account to Paulo in order to free up some of his own time and devote himself to prospecting for new clients, he made it almost impossible to refuse. Paulo didn’t like the imposition, the last thing he wanted at that point was to work exclusively for people who make their money exploiting those who don’t have a place of their own to live, and, on top of that, to have to put up with the unstable moods of Rafaela, the agency’s owner and one of the most difficult people to deal with he had ever met. Certain sacrifices can’t be justified in the name of experience. He knew that the new task was no more than a test. He treated it as a matter of honour. He decided to tackle the situation head on. He would get to keep a fifth of what the firm invoiced on the transactions; it wouldn’t be a fortune, but it would give him a nice little extra income. This recent idea to change their fee distribution came about when the partners realised that the sums being awarded to the estate agency under favourable judgments (following a change in the legal guidelines) had increased significantly, and it didn’t seem reasonable to them that an intern should be pocketing so much money. ‘It’s not my fault if the procedural criteria changed from one moment to the next, and Chimendes Machado expanded their portfolio of commercial and industrial properties and the value of the cases went up; it isn’t fair, you have to stick to what you promised,’ says Paulo, who has run out of patience with this conversation. He looks at his watch: one-fifteen. ‘I have to go to the Canoas Central Forum to deliver a foreclosure notice … As I told you earlier, I won’t be coming back into the office today.’ The lawyers say that they’ll have a think and respond in the coming days. The younger lawyer tells him to call from the Forum to ask whether they need him back in the office for any tasks that might come up. Paulo agrees, but only to be polite. There’s no way he’s coming back. He’s all set to see Maína, for what will be the third time. On their second meeting, they sat in a clearing on the bank of the Guaíba at the end of one of those many faintly sketched lanes that branch off the Estrada do Conde (a subsidiary road with pot-holed tarmac that connects the district of Eldorado do Sul to Guaíba), funnelling out until barely any cars come past; a tiny beach, just a dozen metres long, surrounded by rushes and elephant grass; a lovely, peaceful place, but dangerous in its isolation. This time they’ll go out to a plot of land on the Ilha da Pintada, a small, leafy, grassy place on the banks of the Jacuí river, surrounded by a wire mesh, with no constructions save for a little lean-to with a barbecue, a sink and a bathroom, the property of a former Varig pilot who is friends with his father. He just needs to stop at a little shop three hundred metres further up, say he’s a friend of the owner, collect the key that opens the padlock and that’s it.

  Maína is wearing the blue skirt he gave her last time. They sit on the sawn-off tree trunks that serve as stools. Paulo has the exercise book that Angélica gave him. He has written a series of common words and phrases, and scratched out some illustrations and little maps, leaving half of the pages unfilled. He asks Maína not to move, he’s trying to draw her. She doesn’t do as she’s told. She takes off the skirt and shirt, takes the little All-Star skulls off her feet, and steps into the river. He doesn’t say anything, just watches her with all the modesty he can manage. She goes in until the water is just above her knees, turns towards him and lies face-down, dips her head under, and re-emerges saying that he should come in, too. (Her spontaneity is shocking.) A thirty-foot wooden launch appears in the distance, towing a fit-looking man of about forty on a single ski; the sound of the racing motor disrupts the silence. Paulo focuses, he simplifies his lines, completes the picture. It hasn’t come out well. He considers tearing out the page, ripping it up, and yet he won’t do it. Maína comes out of the water, lies on the grass. Paulo gets up, puts the exercise book down beside her, spots the same launch going past at a leisurely pace, without the man in tow. The minutes pass. Maína has dressed and her head is now resting on his right thigh. She thinks it’s funny when he surprises her with the battery-powered radio cassette player that he has brought to lend her. He explains how it works and she’s killing herself laughing. Now they are sitting on the blanket that he brought to lay on the ground. She knows he’s watching her as she leafs through the exercise book. Soon he is going to teach her some new words and they will discuss subjects she’ll only partly understand. Maína will take the pencil he used and write ‘Paulo’ over the drawing of her face, and will hand the exercise book back to him and ask him to write down the story she’s just told him, but using the words he would use if he were writing for his university friends (she will get the word ‘university’ right, both the meaning and the pronunciation
), writing on alternate lines so that she can then copy it, letter by letter. In the story she told him there was a colourless girl who very much liked being kissed. One day the colourless girl was by the side of the road when a squad of bikers passed her and one of them threw an apple at her back. She almost fell over, she was hurt. They stopped a few metres on, took off their helmets, laughed at her. The day, which had been lovely and sunny, clouded over. Hurt, the apple looked sad, sadder even than the girl, that’s how he wrote it down. And she will watch the leaves on the trees and she won’t know when his leg has gone to sleep and the time has come for them to go.

  Many days passed (as in any relationship, theirs created its own idiosyncrasies). There had already been a fifth meeting and a sixth, this is now the seventh, when he picks her up on the road and, in the gap between her opening the door and sitting in the passenger seat, he says, ‘Saturday’s fucking awesome, isn’t it, Maína?’ and they look at one another without a couple’s complicity but a couple just the same, without his immediately noticing the lipstick on her mouth, the cosmetic pink. Unlike the other times, Maína doesn’t have the bag full of papers and magazines to show him what she has read, only the exercise book and the four-colour pen that he brought the last time they met, along with the packs of batteries for the radio cassette player and a pink leotard that he saw in the window of Petipá, the gym-wear shop at the top of Protásio Alves, and bought for her. The exercise book now has Maína’s handwriting in green, a colour that makes the letters on the paper look as if they haven’t been written, as if they could simply be wafted away. Paulo has brought bags of savoury snacks, cans of Budweiser, mineral water, cans of Coke; Maína’s crazy about soft drinks. They have a picnic. She has prepared two stories for him to write down. He says he’s all ears. She laughs at the all ears and, without hesitating over the inaccuracies, she starts to tell the tale she has imagined. The first story tells of all the fooling around that happened between Indian men and women in the days when the land had no owner. The other is about an old Indian woman who spent her days on the road gathering up loose pages from newspapers and magazines that had been carried over on the wind, until one day, the day she was bitten by a lizard who wore a blazer (that was the word Paulo chose), she built a bonfire with all the paper she’d collected, and when the flames had grown till they reached the height of a man, a man who could embrace her, she put them on and, hankering after an impossible kinship, disappeared. Maína gathers all her things up from the ground, waits for Paulo to finish writing. Almost twenty minutes later, he hands her the exercise book, she moves closer and contrives a kiss on the mouth, then takes her clothes off. She gets into the Beetle, straight onto the back seat, asks him to get in too. Paulo walks slowly towards the car, sits next to her. Maína tries to kiss him, he evades her. There are consequences, more than he could have foreseen. She says a few words in Guarani; he puts his arms around her. Then he takes off his t-shirt and gives it to her to put on. Silence and the impossibility of a conclusion, although the insistence and the doubts will no longer appear on the pages of the exercise book she has dropped on the grass.