Nowhere People

by Paulo Scott

  They are in NATO, the bar that Passo Fundo has made his favourite. Paulo wants to go home. In the state he’s in, however, it would be a real mistake. His parents are travelling early this morning to Montevideo with friends, that’s less than two hours from now. When that happens (they usually go to Montevideo by car) his mother doesn’t do her packing till shortly before they go, which means that right now she will be awake with almost every light in the house on, chasing after all the accessories and items of clothing that she cannot possibly leave behind under any circumstances. A conversation between the two of them would be a disaster. Paulo is afraid of what he might say, of acting out the scene that reveals the truth of the universe to someone you love, or of being assailed by an attack of paranoia that will make him want to wish he were dead as soon as it all passes. (Paulo does not like losing control.) No, better to stay here and wait for the dawn. Passo Fundo gets up every fifteen minutes to go to the bathroom to snort some of the coke he got earlier from the Colonel. He and Paulo are at Igor and Luciano’s table, two guys who share the same girlfriend, Márcia Boo. She kisses one, then she kisses the other. Cristiane and Magali are there, too, they don’t stop talking. Paulo knows he can have either one of them, but whenever he tries to look closely at them in that dark bluish haze he sees Maína’s face. The cognac he brought in his rucksack is nearly finished, he fills his glass under the table so the manager of the bar doesn’t see him, the waiters aren’t paying any attention at all: each time he does this, the two girls sitting beside him laugh like hyenas. He contemplated inviting the two of them for a threesome, he even started imagining he was fucking them under the table and then while the two of them were sucking his cock he would be going down on Márcia Boo while she kissed Igor and Luciano, Luciano who’s also known as Posh-boy Luciano. This daydream lasted just a few minutes. It passed. He heard someone at the table more than once mention the name David Cooper and the title of the book The Grammar of Living, and (as if he were in a tunnel of psychosis in which the possibilities of reaction are delayed) he gets up, theatrically, saying: ‘Language was invented in order to destroy communication, which in turn has been used to destroy communion. The final strategy ought to be to use what destroys us to destroy the very thing that is destroying us, in such a way as to allow for areas of hope and the conclusive death of cretins.’ He looks around at everyone sitting at the table. ‘Many thanks for your attention,’ he shouts, as if he were being strangled, and sits. At the other tables there are musicians from the blues band who were on earlier in the evening, a company whose play is on the bill at midnight from Thursdays to Saturdays at the Arena Theatre, two people from the group who will be coordinating Luiz Inácio da Silva’s presidential campaign. A few couples in clinches. There is, in short, that kind of harmony in the air (the sharing of a fleeting victory). And at that moment Paulo is a man of steel, he’s proud of his bearing, of his courage and his health, he has no doubt that if he had money in his pocket for a taxi he’d go off to find Maína. He’d spend several days there trying to work out the secret of getting used to having so little. And at that moment, Paulo discovers what he is going to do with the money from the office. Tomorrow afternoon he’s going to seek out one of those companies that specialise in pre-fab homes, he will get costings, then he will tell Maína. Paulo is at NATO, he has his arms stretched out across the top of the table, his hands with fingers laced together, his eyes lost in an unseemly gladness, and everyone around him knows that he is not his usual self.

  ‌

  on the way

  Maína had said it wasn’t his problem when Paulo returned to the subject of building the wooden room, five by four, so the girls could all sleep more comfortably, saying that he would use the money from the office to do this. ‘It’s the government’s problem, not yours,’ was her short answer, which she followed by putting her hand over his mouth to stop him going on. She looks at the time on her watch (when Paulo gave it to her, she said it didn’t feel right getting so many presents from him), she looks towards the north, spots the Beetle approaching. By her count, this is the eleventh time they meet. As soon as he has steered the car over, she runs to his window, she makes a point of showing him the calendar she has drawn up on the last page of the exercise book. He opens the door, she gets in. He drives to the usual place. When they stop by the grocery shop to collect the key, he is told that the owner has replaced it for a different one, that he has changed the padlock for a bigger one, determining that from that moment on – and this was the day before yesterday – no one was allowed to get onto the property without written authorisation. Paulo asks Maína whether she wants to go to Porto Alegre. She says yes. Yes, of course.

  They are in Paulo’s house, in the little room next to the garage at the back of the property, the place his mother used to paint her pictures, do her clothing designs, sew, all this before the slipped disc at the end of last year that made her stop indefinitely (she’s talked ever since about boxing up those things and getting the place done up). As soon as they came inside, Maína ran over to the pile of magazines on top of the table, one of those tables that designers use, or architects. She’d never seen magazines like them, they had huge pages inside, pages that unfold, till they end up as big as a road sign. On each page there are a lot of scribbled lines, drawings made up of different coloured dots that almost muddle your vision. Paulo hands her a pair of scissors saying she can cut out anything she likes, do whatever she likes, and that’s what she does. She also uses some large sheets of paper and pieces of cardboard that are hanging on the wall. He goes over to one of the bookcases, takes out a plywood box, puts it down on the table, asks Maína to look, opens it. Inside are a dozen little glass jars with classroom gouache, oil paint, different-sized brushes. He shows her how to use the paints, he finds a large roll of sticky tape, says that he’ll try and find his sister’s old camera, the kind that develops the photos instantly (Maína doesn’t really understand what he means by developing the photos instantly). Paulo is some time coming back. When he does return, he enters the room to find Maína finishing the first outfit, the one she’s going to wear. ‘Preparing some costumes, Maína?’ he asks. ‘Spirit dress,’ she replies, seriously. ‘And are they for us?’ She approaches him from behind, uses her hands to measure the breadth of his shoulders. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘for us to know.’ He is intrigued. ‘To know?’ ‘Yes, to know,’ and she measures the distance from his face to his waist. He shows her the Polaroid, says there’s still one photographic sheet left to use. They mustn’t get the picture wrong. She doesn’t answer. He sets up the camera, sits in the only armchair in the room, watches. Maína gets his outfit ready even more quickly than she’s done her own, she opens up the black and brown gouaches, takes one of the finer paintbrushes and passes it to him, inviting him to paint with her. They paint around the edges of the holes that will be the eyes, the one that will be the mouth, they cover the chest and forehead with inscriptions. The paint dries quickly. In those minutes Paulo explains how the polarisation of the photographic sheet works; Maína doesn’t take her eyes off her creations for a second. She gets hold of his costume, tells him to take off his t-shirt, puts it straight on to his body; his head is covered, his upper back and trunk down to just below his waist, she takes the purple paint and paints a few more details, she adds the sleeves, asks him not to move. She crouches down, takes his trainers and socks off his feet, then brings her hands to his belt buckle, removes his trousers and underpants. He doesn’t react. She takes off her trainers, her t-shirt, her skirt and knickers, puts her one on, she only asks for help attaching the second sleeve. ‘Now what?’ he asks. ‘You can move,’ she replies. Moving with some difficulty so as not to tear the paper, he walks over to the armchair where he had left the Polaroid. He positions it on one of the bookshelves, setting the timer to go off in ten seconds. He presses the button. He walks as fast as he can over to her. They get themselves into position. ‘Ready.’ The flash goes off after winking three times less brightly, it ma
kes Maína laugh under her decoration. ‘Shall we go outside?’ she suggests. ‘Are we going to catch fire like in the story you told me that time, is that it?’ She doesn’t answer. They leave the room and walk perhaps five metres, which is the mid-point between the two buildings. She embraces him as hard as she can, and his jacket tears over his shoulders. He doesn’t move. She bites his chest, tearing off a bit of paper. He takes her whole body in his arms and, without even noticing the paper outfit coming apart, carries her to his room, lies her on the bed, turns off the light, turns on the one in the corridor, strips her naked and strips himself, too. Maína is barely participating, she rolls about in the bed, she slips, forcing him to change the way he’s kissing her, the places he’s kissing her. With more than half of his body off the bed, he holds on to her hips, his face rough and unshaven slides down her belly, he breathes out, mouth, lips, the slowness of the zig-zagging motion moistens her.

  He is staring at the bloodstain on the white sheet. He awoke agitated, like she’d never seen him before, said that he was going out for a run and would be back in an hour at the most. She did not reply, she just stayed there, still, on the single bed. Alone in the house. She needs some thought, she needs some reaction, because the satisfaction she’s feeling is huge and reckless and solid (she feels ready, fortunate, she took in the night before, the mingled smells between the two of them, the new texture clinging to her skin). The minutes pass quickly. Paulo comes back (it’s very possible that he exercised for less time than he had promised). Maína is in the same position. He lies down in front of her, he says they need to tidy up the house, his parents will be arriving in the evening. Maína gets up, takes him by the hand, they walk to the bathroom. She steps into the shower cubicle, he turns on the taps, regulates the water temperature, takes off his clothes. The warmth is pleasant, it replaces their perspiration. She takes his index finger with one of her hands and his forearm with the other, repositions him (positions herself), and puts Paulo’s finger inside, tries not to think about the day when last night’s luck will run out on them.

  Eleven-thirty in the morning. Silently Maína is tidying herself up (and even when he hands her the Polaroid photo of the two of them wearing the clothes she had created, suggesting that she tape it to one of the pages of her exercise book, she still feels awkward). The house is in order. He says he’ll take her to the encampment. They drive away, up the road towards Bento Gonçalves and then out of the city. At the end of the Castelo Branco expressway, not long before the exit to the slope that leads onto the bridge, he pulls the Beetle over, asks if she wants to stay with him for one more day. Looking straight ahead, Maína accepts with a nod. Paulo keeps on going towards the state’s northern seaboard. He makes a few amusing comments but, though she looks at him alertly, she does not smile. Almost at the end of the journey they come to the stretch near the Barros lagoon, its expanse made up of water that comes down from the mountains, he pulls into a lay-by, gets out of the car, stands there taking in the north-eastern wind that is blowing hard on his face. She gets out of the Beetle and, finding the smell of the sea curious (not knowing it), she lightly touches Paulo’s waist and then puts her arms around him. ‘Ok, Maína?’ he asks, not turning round. ‘It should have passed, but is stronger now,’ she says, drily. The lagoon is filled with ghosts, that’s what his parents would tell him when the four of them used to drive past in the brown Volkswagen Brasilia towards their old summer house on Capão da Canoa Beach, his parents always in a hurry, always right on time – close up the house in town, get into the car, don’t stop till you’re outside the beach house. This haste to do things (and reach places) is supreme in Paulo. This is the first time in his life he’s had the patience to stop the car and look out at all that water, standing there wrapped in the arms of this girl who had also spooked him one day. ‘For me, too,’ he replies, and invites her to sit on the low concrete wall. She runs over to the car, gets a little jacket that used to belong to her older sister, in one of the pockets is the Polaroid picture, then comes back and settles herself beside him. Legs swinging in the air, Paulo’s moving less than hers. Maína puts her hand in the jacket pocket, takes out the photo and only then looks at the result, noticing something he already knew: though the composition was good, the picture was out of focus.

  In Tramandaí, counting on finding one of his friends who might offer them shelter for a night; at the first attempt Paulo finds Leonardo, who moved to the coast to prepare for the exam to be a public prosecutor. Sitting on the porch of his parents’ bungalow, engrossed in a book on criminal procedure, Leonardo is startled when the car comes up his drive. ‘Hi, Leo,’ Paulo greets him. ‘Paulo Guevara and his surprises,’ says Leonardo. ‘I figured you’d have committed body and soul to the Lula campaign by now,’ he teases. ‘Some things have changed in the last few months.’ Leonardo looks at Maína suspiciously. ‘Evening, miss,’ he said. ‘Good evening,’ comes Maína’s intimidated reply. He gets straight to the point, ‘I need somewhere to stay tonight, Leo. Any chance of staying here in the guest room?’ ‘Of course, make yourself at home. You know the way, take your things and sort yourselves out up there … If you need an extra bed, there’s a fold-up there in the … ’ And Paulo interrupts him. ‘No, no need.’ Leonardo picks up his book again. ‘Right. I’ve got to finish up a few pages here now. We’ll catch up on news at dinner time … We can go to a really cool pizza place that opened recently.’ Paulo takes Maína’s things, leaves the car just where it is. They go in by the back door. In the bedroom there’s no sheet on the mattress. Paulo looks in the cupboards and doesn’t find anything. Maína looks under the bed; Paulo, laughing, says they’re not likely to be there. He’ll leave it, they can ask later, he doesn’t want to bother Leonardo any more, he knows how much he’s been devoting himself to passing these exams since the start of the year. They go down to the kitchen, Paulo pours out two glasses of milk, takes the packet of Tip Top biscuits from the basket on the table. Straight afterwards he washes up what they’ve dirtied (one of the reasons he’s welcomed by Leonardo is that he has never taken advantage of his position as a guest). They go out for a walk along the beach. Though it’s nearly five in the afternoon, the sun is still strong, with that punishing north-easterly wind. There are two boys flying kites on the walkway which was damaged by some recent rough seas; there’s a big plastic bag, opaque but quite see-through, with seven others inside it and a piece of paper on the outside announcing that the kites are for sale. One is blue and the other is red, they are the same size and design but it’s the red that has completely caught Maína’s attention, she no longer has eyes for anything else around her. Having expected her to be thrilled by the sight of the sea, Paulo notices this and is annoyed; up till now her only question has been about the fishing platform: she wanted to know what that thing was that was going into the sea. He explained, she said nothing. They walk over to the boys. Maína asks if Paulo can buy the red one that’s flying (it’s the first time Maína has asked him to buy anything; Paulo thinks, something has changed). Paulo fulfils her wishes. Maína reels in the kite and stows it under her arm. They stay till after it gets dark. On the way back, Paulo asks her if she liked the sea. ‘The sound of the waves and also the waves,’ she says, and they turn right onto Leonardo’s street.

  Sharing a bottle of beer with Paulo on the porch, Leonardo takes advantage of Maína’s being in the bathroom to ask if Paulo knows what he’s doing. ‘Wake up, Paulo, the girl isn’t only a kid, she’s also an Indian … I don’t have to explain to you how much that makes this whole thing a huge bloody chainsaw massacre,’ and he looks at his friend, whom he has known since he was ten years old and Paulo eight, feeling as though, in spite of the mutual admiration that still exists, there’s no longer the affinity that survived up to their university days. Paulo, who just said again and again that there was no need to worry, seems to be looking out into nothingness. ‘All right, Paulo?’ Leonardo asks, crossing a line he’s sure his friend won’t like him crossing. ‘Huh? Wh
atever it is, get it off your chest … ’ and he puts his hand on Paulo’s shoulder. ‘Something happened yesterday … ’ Paulo says, but he doesn’t go on. Leonardo won’t press him. His old classmate is a grown-up, more mature than most of his age can manage. Even a poor bastard down on his knees begging to be put in jail, even he deserves the benefit of the doubt, he must know what he’s doing, there has to be some reason. He picks up the bottle from the tiled floor, refills his glass and then his guest’s. ‘And the degree, Paulo, how’s that going?’ he says, trying to resume the thread of the conversation. Paulo takes a gulp of the drink, grimaces slightly. ‘I think I’m going to drop out,’ he looks at him, seriously. ‘I haven’t decided yet, but if it happens it’ll be now, at the end of this term.’ Leonardo can’t help himself. ‘You never took that course seriously.’ Talking about the course is allowed, it’s an area that can be freely scrutinised. ‘Law’s a big lie, Leo, we both know that. You did your entire course reading a Federal Constitution that was shoved down our throats by the military,’ he says, and pours out what was left of the beer in his glass. ‘This Serramalte of yours is warm.’ Leonardo is not discouraged (Leonardo is never discouraged). ‘It is. I put it in the fridge when you two went out.’ And he teases: ‘I’ll let you buy me a colder one at the pizza place.’ Paulo goes back to looking into nothingness. ‘Another reason to devote ourselves to trying to make things better,’ argues Leonardo. ‘But turning into a well-meaning little prosecutor just to legitimise the power … the power of … ’ and he realises that he has fallen into his friend’s trap. ‘Just let it go.’ Leonardo laughs. ‘You know what I find most fascinating, Paulo? It’s that the good people, the most credulous and well-intentioned people, they’re exactly the ones who give up,’ and he gets up to carry the glasses and the bottle off to the kitchen. ‘It must be the particularly acute sensibility you people have, that poetic soul of yours.’ Paulo takes hold of his arm. ‘Tell me, Leo,’ looking upset, ‘what kind of prosecutor do you want to be?’ And Maína appears on the veranda, on the side Leonardo was headed. The conversation between the two friends ends there: Leonardo understands Paulo’s innate difficulty in taking things less seriously and not getting deeply involved in all of it. He always reacts. It’s what makes Leonardo admire him so much, and sympathise, too; he can see his friend’s premature frustration, he doesn’t like seeing him suffer. ‘Let’s go in my Uno. I need to get the battery going, but this means the drinks are definitely on you.’ Paulo agrees with a smile, a little ashamed. Maína approaches. Leonardo walks over to the kitchen, he’s worried about this all-or-nothing situation but, just the same, (believing he can better understand it) glad to see his old friend again.