ANSWER: Wash your little girl’s head with coconut soap and wrap it in curling paper. It’s the same as the hairdresser. In any case, your daughter wasn’t born to be a doll-baby. Nor anyone else’s daughter, for that matter. Take the overtime pay and buy something more useful. Food, for example.
DEAR DR. NATHANAEL LESSA. I am short, plump, and shy. Whenever I go to the outdoor market, the store, the vegetable market, they trick me. They cheat me on the weight, the change, the beans have bugs in them, the cornmeal is stale, that kind of thing. It used to bother me a lot, but now I’m resigned to it. God is watching them and at the day of judgment they will pay. RESIGNED DOMESTIC. PENHA.
ANSWER: God doesn’t have his eye on anybody. You have to look out for yourself. I suggest you scream, holler, raise a scandal. Don’t you have a relative who works for the police? A crook will do also. Get moving, chubby.
DEAR DR. NATHANAEL LESSA. I am twenty-five, a typist, and a virgin. I met this boy who says he really loves me. He works in the Ministry of Transportation and says he wants to marry me, but first he wants to try it out. What do you think? FRENZIED VIRGIN. PARADA DE LUCAS.
ANSWER: Look, Frenzied Virgin, ask the guy what he plans to do if he doesn’t like the experience. If he says he’ll dump you, give him what he wants, because he’s a sincere man. You’re not some Kool-Aid or stew to be sampled. But there aren’t many sincere men around, so it’s worth a try. Keep the faith and full speed ahead.
I went to lunch.
When I got back Peçanha called me in. He had my copy in his hand.
“There’s something or other here I don’t like,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“Ah, good God, the idea people have of Class C,” Peçanha exclaimed, shaking his head pensively while he looked at the ceiling and puckered his lips. “It’s Class A women who like being treated with curses and kicks. Remember that English lord who said his success with women came from treating ladies like whores and whores like ladies.”
“All right. So how should I handle our readers?”
“Don’t come to me with dialectics. I don’t want you to treat them like whores. Forget the English lord. Put some happiness, some hope, tranquility, and reassurance in the letters, that’s what I want.”
DEAR DR. NATHANAEL LESSA. My husband died and left me a very small pension, but what worries me is being alone and fifty years old. Poor, ugly, old, and living a long way out, I’m afraid of what’s in store for me. LONELY IN SANTA CRUZ.
ANSWER: Engrave this in your heart, Lonely in Santa Cruz: neither money, nor beauty, nor youth, nor a good address brings happiness. How many rich and beautiful people kill themselves or lose themselves in the horrors of vice? Happiness is inside us, in our hearts. If we are just and good, we will find happiness. Be good, be just, love your neighbor as yourself, smile at the clerk when you go to pick up your pension.
The next day Peçanha called me in and asked if I could also write the illustrated love story. “We turn out our own stories, not some translated Italian fumetti. Pick a name.”
I chose Clarice Simone, two more homages, though I didn’t tell Peçanha that.
The photographer of the love stories came to talk to me.
“My name is Monica Tutsi,” he said, “but you can call me Agnaldo. You got the pap ready?”
Pap was the love story. I explained that I had just gotten the assignment from Peçanha and would need at least two days to write it.
“Days, ha ha,” he guffawed, making the sound of a large, hoarse domesticated dog barking for its master.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Norma Virginia used to write the story in fifteen minutes. He had a formula.”
“I have a formula too. Take a walk and come back in fifteen minutes; your story’ll be ready.”
What did that idiot of a photographer think I was? Just because I’d been a police reporter didn’t mean I was stupid. If Norma Virginia, or whatever his name was, wrote a story in fifteen minutes, so could I. After all, I read all the Greek tragedies, the Ibsens, the O’Neills, the Becketts, the Chekhovs, the Shakespeares, the Four Hundred Best Television Plays. All I had to do was appropriate an idea here, another one there, and that’s it.
A rich young lad is stolen by gypsies and given up for dead. The boy grows up thinking he’s a real gypsy. One day he meets a very rich young girl, and they fall in love. She lives in a fine mansion and has many automobiles. The gypsy boy lives in a wagon. The two families don’t want them to marry. Conflicts arise. The millionaires order the police to arrest the gypsies. One of the gypsies is killed by the police. A rich cousin of the girl is assassinated by the gypsies. But the love of the two young people is greater than all these vicissitudes. They decide to run away, to break with their families. On their flight they encounter a pious and wise monk who seals their union in an ancient, picturesque and romantic convent amidst a flowering wood. The two young people retire to the nuptial chamber. They are beautiful, slim, blond with blue eyes. They remove their clothes. “Oh,” says the girl, “what is that gold chain with a diamond-studded medallion you wear on your neck?” She has one just like it! They are brother and sister! “You are my brother who disappeared!” the girl cries. The two embrace. (Attention Monica Tutsi: how about an ambiguous ending? Making a non-fraternal ecstasy appear on their faces, huh? I can also change the ending and make it more Sophoclean: they discover they’re brother and sister after the consummated fact; the desperate girl leaps from the convent window and creams herself down below.)
“I liked your story,” Monica Tutsi said.
“A pinch of Romeo and Juliet, a teaspoon of Oedipus Rex,” I said modestly.
“But I can’t photograph it, man. I have to do everything in two hours. Where do I find the mansion? The cars? The picturesque convent? The flowered wood?”
“That’s your problem.”
“Where do I find,” Monica Tutsi continued as if he hadn’t heard me, “the two slim, blond young people with blue eyes? All our models tend toward the mulatto. Where do I get the wagon? Try again, man. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And what does Sophoclean mean?”
Roberto and Betty are engaged to be married. Roberto, who is very hard working, has saved his money to buy an apartment and furnish it, with a color television set, stereo, refrigerator, washing machine, floor polisher, dishwasher, toaster, electric iron, and hair dryer. Betty works too. Both are chaste. The date is set. A friend of Roberto’s, Tiago, asks him, “Are you going to get married still a virgin? You need to be initiated into the mysteries of sex.” Tiago then takes Roberto to the house of the Superwhore Betatron. (Attention Monica Tutsi: the name is a pinch of science fiction.) When Roberto arrives he finds out that the Superwhore is Betty, his dear fiancée. Oh heavens! What a horrible surprise! Someone, perhaps a doorman, will say, “To grow up is to suffer.” End of story.
“One word is worth a thousand photographs,” Monica Tutsi said. “I always get the short end of things. I’ll be back soon.”
DR. NATHANAEL. I like to cook. I also like to embroider and crochet. And most of all I like to wear a long evening gown and put on crimson lipstick, with lots of rouge and eye shadow. Ah, what a sensation! What a pity that I must stay locked in my room. No one knows that I like to do these things. Am I wrong? PEDRO REDGRAVE. TIJUCA.
ANSWER: Why should it be wrong? Are you doing anyone harm? I had another reader who, like you, enjoyed dressing as a woman. He carried on a normal, useful, and socially productive life, to the point that he was chosen a model worker. Put on your long gowns, paint your lips scarlet, put some color in your life.
“All the letters should be from women,” Peçanha reminded.
“But this one is real,” I said.
“I don’t believe it.”
I handed the letter to Peçanha. He looked at it with the expression of a cop examining a badly counterfeited bill.
“You think it’s a joke?” Peçanha asked.
“It might be,”
I said. “And it might not be.”
Peçanha put on his reflective look. Then: “Add some phrase of encouragement to your letter, like for example, ‘write again’.”
I sat down at the typewriter: Write again, Pedro, I know that’s not your real name, but it doesn’t matter; write again, count on me. Nathanael Lessa.
“Shit,” said Monica Tutsi, “I went to do your great piece of drama and they told me it was stolen from some Italian film.”
“Wretches, band of idiots—just because I was a police reporter they’re calling me a plagiarist.”
“Take it easy, Virginia.”
“Virginia? My name is Clarice Simone,” I said. “What idiocy is this of thinking only Italian fiancées are whores? Look here, I once knew an engaged woman, a really serious one, who was even a sister of charity, and they found out she was a whore too.”
“It’s okay, man, I’m going to shoot the story. Can Betatron be mulatto? What’s a Betatron?”
“She has to be a redhead, with freckles. Betatron is an apparatus for the production of electrons, possessing great energy potential and high velocity, impelled by the action of a rapidly changing magnetic field,” I said.
“Shit! That’s really a name for a whore,” said Monica Tutsi admiringly, on his way out.
UNDERSTANDING NATHANAEL LESSA. I have worn my long gowns gloriously. And my mouth has been as red as tiger’s blood and the break of dawn. I am thinking of putting on a satin gown and going to the Municipal Theater. What do you think? And now I’m going to tell you a great and marvelous confidence, but you must keep my confession the greatest secret. Do you swear? Ah, I don’t know if I should say it or not. All my life I’ve suffered the greatest disillusionment from believing in others. I am basically a person who never lost his innocence. Betrayal, coarseness, shamelessness, and baseness leave me quite shocked. Oh, how I would like to live isolated in a utopian world of love and kindness. My sensitive Nathanael, let me think. Give me time. In the next letter I shall tell more, perhaps everything. PEDRO REDGRAVE.
ANSWER: Pedro. I await your letter, with your secrets, which I promise to store in the inviolable reaches of my recondite consciousness. Continue this way, confronting aloofly the envy and insidious perfidy of the poor in spirit. Adorn your body, which thirsts for sensuality, by exercising the challenges of your courageous mind.
Peçanha asked: “Are these letters real too?”
“Pedro Redgrave’s are.”
“Strange, very strange,” Peçanha said, tapping his nails on his teeth. “What do you make of it?”
“I don’t make anything of it,” I said.
He seemed preoccupied about something. He asked about the illustrated love story but took no interest in the answers.
“What about the blind girl’s letter?” I asked.
Peçanha got the blind girl’s letter and my reply and read aloud: “Dear Nathanael. I cannot read what you write. My beloved granny reads it to me. But do not think I am illiterate. I am blind. My dear granny is writing this letter for me, but the words are my own. I want to send a word of comfort to your readers so that they, who suffer so much from small misfortunes, may look at themselves in the mirror. I am blind but I am happy. I am at peace, with God and my fellow man. Happiness to all. Long live Brazil and its people. Blind but Happy. Unicorn Road. Nova Iguaçu. P.S. I forgot to say that I am also paralyzed.” Peçanha lit a cigar. “Moving, but Unicorn Road doesn’t ring true. You’d better make it Windmill Road or something like that. Now let’s see your answer. ‘Blind but Happy, congratulations on your moral strength, your unwavering faith in happiness, in goodness, in the people, and in Brazil. The souls of those who despair in their adversity should take nourishment from your edifying example, a flambeau of light in the darkness of torment.’”
Peçanha gave me the papers. “You have a future in literature. This is a great school we have here. Learn, learn, dedicate yourself, don’t lose heart, work hard.”
I sat at the typewriter:
Tesio, a bank employee, resident of Boca do Mato, in Lins de Vasconcelos, married to Frederica in his second marriage, has a son, Hipolito, from his first marriage. Frederica falls in love with Hipolito. Tesio discovers their sinful love. Frederica hangs herself from the mango tree in the back yard. Hipolito asks his father for forgiveness, leaves home and wanders desperately through the streets of the cruel city until he is run over and killed on the Avenida Brasil.
“What’s the seasoning here?” Monica Tutsi asked.
“Euripides, sin, and death. Let me tell you something: I know the human soul and don’t need any ancient Greek to inspire me. For a man of my intelligence and sensitivity it’s enough to look around me. Look closely at my eyes. Have you ever seen anyone more alert, more wide awake?”
Monica Tutsi looked closely at my eyes and said, “I think you’re crazy.”
I continued: “I cite the classics only to demonstrate my knowledge. Since I was a police reporter, if I don’t do that the cretins don’t respect me. I’ve read thousands of books. How many books do you think Peçanha has read?”
“None. Can Frederica be black?”
“Good idea. But Tesio and Hipolito have to be white.”
NATHANAEL. I love, a forbidden love, an interdicted love, a secret love, a hidden love. I love another man. And he also loves me. But we cannot walk in the street holding hands, like others, exchange kisses in the gardens and movie theaters, like others, lie in each other’s arms on the sandy beaches, like others, dance in night clubs, like others. We cannot get married, like others, and together face old age, disease, and death, like others. I do not have the strength to resist and struggle. It’s better to die. Good-bye. This is my last letter. Have a mass said for me. PEDRO REDGRAVE.
ANSWER: What are you saying, Pedro? Are you going to give up now that you’ve found your love? Oscar Wilde suffered like the devil, he was ridiculed, tried, sentenced, but he stood up to it. If you can’t get married, shack up. Make a will in each other’s favor. Defend yourselves. Use the law and the system to your benefit. Be selfish, like the others, be sly, implacable, intolerant, and hypocritical. Exploit. Plunder. It’s self-defense. But, please, don’t carry out any deranged gesture.
I sent the letter and reply to Peçanha. Letters were published only with his approval.
Monica Tutsi came by with a girl.
“This is Monica,” Monica Tutsi said.
“Quite a coincidence,” I said.
“What’s a coincidence?” asked the girl Monica.
“The two of you having the same name,” I said.
“His name is Monica?” Monica asked, pointing to the photographer.
“Monica Tutsi. Are you Tutsi too?”
“No. Monica Amelia.”
Monica Amelia stood chewing a fingernail and looking at Monica Tutsi.
“You told me your name was Agnaldo,” she said.
“On the outside I’m Agnaldo. Here inside I’m Monica Tutsi.”
“My name is Clarice Simone,” I said.
Monica Amelia observed us attentively, without understanding a thing. She saw two circumspect people, too tired for jokes, uninterested in their own names.
“When I get married my son, or daughter, is going to be named Hei Yoo,” I said.
“Is that a Chinese name? “ Monica asked.
“Or else Wheet Wheeo,” I whistled.
“You’re becoming a nihilist,” Monica Tutsi said, withdrawing with the other Monica.
NATHANAEL. Do you know what it is for two people to like one another? That was the two of us, Maria and I. Do you know what it is for two people to be perfectly attuned? That was us, Maria and I. My favorite dish is rice, beans, kale, manioc meal, and fried sausage. Guess what Maria’s was? Rice, beans, kale, manioc meal, and fried sausage. My favorite precious stone is the ruby. Maria’s, you guessed it, was also the ruby. Lucky number 7, color Blue, day Monday, film Westerns, book The Little Prince, drink Beer on Tap, mattress Anatom, soccer team Vasco da Ga
ma, music Samba, pastime Love, everything the same between her and me, wonderful. What we would do in bed, man—I don’t mean to brag, but if it were in the circus and we charged admission, we’d be rich. In bed no couple was ever so taken by such resplendent madness, was capable of such a dexterous, imaginative, original, pertinacious, splendiferous, and fulfilling performance as ours. And we would repeat it several times a day. But it was not just that which linked us. If you were missing a leg I would continue to love you, she would say. If you were a hunchback I would not stop loving you, I would reply. If you were a deaf-mute I would continue to love you, she would say. If you were cross-eyed I would not stop loving you, I would respond. If you had a paunch and were ugly I would go on loving you, she would say. If you were all scarred with smallpox I would not stop loving you, I would respond. If you were old and impotent I would continue to love you, she would say. And we were exchanging these vows when a desire to be truthful struck me, as deep as a knife-thrust, and I asked her, what if I had no teeth, would you love me? And she replied, if you had no teeth I would still love you. Then I took out my dentures and threw them on the bed with a grave, religious, and metaphysical gesture. We both lay there looking at the dentures on top of the sheet, until Maria got up, put on a dress, and said, I’m going out for cigarettes. To this day she hasn’t come back. Nathanael, explain to me what happened. Does love end suddenly? Do a few teeth, miserable pieces of ivory, mean that much? ODONTOS SILVA.
As I was about to reply, Jacqueline came by and said that Peçanha was calling me.
In Peçanha’s office was a man wearing glasses and a goatee.
“This is Dr. Pontecorvo, who’s a—just what are you?” asked Peçanha.
“A motivational researcher,” Pontecorvo said. “As I was saying, first we do a survey of the characteristics of the universe we’re researching, for example: who is the reader of Woman? Let’s suppose it’s the Class C female. In our previous research we’ve surveyed everything about the Class C female—where she buys her food, how many pairs of panties she owns, what time she makes love, what time she watches television, which television programs she watches, in short, a complete profile.”
Winning the Game and Other Stories Page 6