Sister Dulce had therefore recognized Julia. You don’t go exchanging kisses on the cheek when you meet a nun, of course not, nor do you grab her hand, so the two of them maintained a certain distance, right by the door of the butcher’s. How are you? Nice day, and so on, and then they moved on to what a coincidence: bumping into each other after so many years on that Santa Catarina beach. “My mother is ill,” said the nun. Julia tried to calculate in her head how old Sister Dulce was, so as to have a vague idea of how old her mother must be, not all that old, she imagined, although it was always difficult to guess the age of someone who has taken a vow of chastity and only wears one outfit. “My mother is dying. She lives there,” and she pointed to a three-story building like all the others. Julia swallowed drily. Why did Sister Dulce have to say that and in such a way? Apart from anything else, to be dying was a thousand times worse than having died. And Sister Dulce, Julia got the impression, didn’t seem to be exactly resigned to it. Then Julia decided to say, less because she wanted to and more because nothing else came to her: “I saw you on the beach yesterday, looking at the sea.” The nun smiled. She watched some people passing by, then turned back to Julia. “Yes, I went out to think for a bit. I was thinking.” So she had been thinking! That whole time, standing on the beach, she had been thinking, not talking to God, having an incredible enlightening vision or anything like it.
“Is that the end of your story?” I asked.
“That’s the end of my story, yes.”
I looked at her. The chain with the Virgin Mary or saint-whatnot was still there, hanging round her neck.
“Kinda sad.”
“You don’t need to tell me, I know.”
The second floor was much fuller now. People were almost tripping over our legs.
“But then, on the other hand, it’s not like she’s a friend of yours. I mean, it’s sad, yeah, but it’ll pass. Did she say anything like ‘pray for my mother’ or anything?”
“No.”
I made myself comfortable on the sofa.
“Let me tell you. You might even see this as an unfortunate coincidence. I got a tattoo.”
Julia raised her eyebrows as if that was the last thing she expected of me, which made no sense. I was talking about tattoos, not crepe dresses. I took off my jacket. I was wearing a sleeveless blouse underneath. The greenish sea wrapped around my right arm, with its pointy, synchronized little undulations. At the top, a large wave was forming.
“Oh my God, Cora, it’s beautiful. It’s perfect!”
She touched my arm with her fingertips.
“Fantastic grading. When did you do it?”
“About four months ago.”
Julia smiled.
“Why the sea?”
“I don’t know. I saw this illustration and thought it was nice. It’s no more complex than that.”
She thought about it for a bit.
“It’s so great that you don’t have some super explanation for your tattoo.”
“What’s the point in having an explanation? Time passes and the story you created in your head seems ridiculous.”
“Are we still talking about tattoos?’
“Of course. Aren’t we?”
I picked up my jacket and was about to put it on, but Julia blocked the maneuver with her hand saying: “leave it off.” She kissed me. It was very quick and could have meant anything. Then, already on her feet, she said we should go to the dance floor. Was there a dance floor? Yes, there was. We crossed the entire second floor until we reached the narrow staircase. It was a really tight squeeze, no bigger than a garage, and dark, and sweltering. I was a bit giddy, trying to synchronize my legs to the bubblegum song. A few guys were watching us and I kept averting my eyes, I span around, I averted my eyes, span a bit more, averted my eyes again. Now and then I came face-to-face with Julia. She seemed to be really enjoying herself, she bopped her head and her bangs shook, her hips understood the music perfectly, two or three times she raised her arms, I mean she was really enjoying herself like crazy, but at the same time it was as though she wasn’t there, not entirely, so I decided not to be there either. Home. At that time, my concept of home had been diluted, my old house was now, out of convention, referred to as my mother’s house, that was the house I was thinking about, and everything began in the dark. In the early hours on our street, there were howls from dogs and sometimes we heard crickets. Anything more than that sent us into a start of alert. I went downstairs foot in front of foot, entered the kitchen, felt my way along the counter until I reached the refrigerator. When I found the bottle of water, the whole ensemble of fluorescent lights came on.
“Hi,” said my mom. She was standing at the door in a nightdress.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I woke up when you got in. You plural. Is there a girl in your room, Cora?”
“She’s not feeling too well.”
“You shouldn’t drink so much. And drive.”
“I’m fine, mom.”
She took an apple from the fruit bowl by the stalk, looked at it, apparently for no reason, then put it back in the bowl.
“Who’s the girl?”
“She’s a classmate from college. She’s from the interior. She lives here in a residence, like with nuns.” I laughed, but she didn’t.
“Switch off the light when you go to bed, yeah?”
I stayed there a while longer, also for no reason, then I returned to my bedroom. The TV was still on mute, it was a western, full of flies and stubbly chins, but Julia had only seen the first fifteen minutes. She said that she loved cowboys. Now she was stretched out on my bed and it didn’t look like there was much room left for me. I took off my clothes, put on an old t-shirt and tried to get comfortable as best I could. The film was still a long way from finishing. I kept watching. A duel. A romance. A desert. That girl sleeping at my side. We all loved cowboys.
CAROL BENSIMON was born in the southern Brazilian city of Porto Alegre in 1982. She is the author of a story collection and three novels. In 2012 she was selected by Granta as one of the Best Young Brazilian Novelists. This is her first book to appear in English.
BETH FOWLER has been a freelance translator since 2009, working from Portuguese and Spanish to English, and has a degree in Hispanic Studies from the University of Glasgow. Her published translations include Open Door and Paradises by Iosi Havilio, and Ten Women by Marcela Serrano. She lives near Glasgow, Scotland, with her husband and two children.
Transit Books is a nonprofit publisher of international and American literature, based in Oakland, California. Founded in 2015, Transit Books is committed to the discovery and promotion of enduring works that carry readers across borders and communities. Visit us online to learn more about our forthcoming titles, events, and opportunities to support our mission.
TRANSITBOOKS.ORG
We All Loved Cowboys Page 17