The Valeditztorian

by Alli Curran

  By the time we’re done schmoozing at the restaurant, more than two full hours have passed, and we’re overdue at the lab. After Luciano manages to drive us home without incident, I get back to work with a vengeance. For the rest of the afternoon I immerse myself in the stack of data sheets filling box number one. At some point Peter hands me a Marisa Monte CD, which I peruse while attacking the data. The music is fantastic, boosting my energy level to a near-manic state. As Marisa weaves her melodies through my mind, I punch in hundreds of data points, losing track of time. Eventually, Grace appears and tries to drag me out of the lab.

  “But I’m on a roll,” I protest. “Can’t I stay a bit longer?”

  Grace grabs my arm, physically pulling me away from the computer.

  “Don’t be such a workaholic,” she grunts with effort. “It’s not very Brazilian.”

  “But I’m not Brazilian,” I counter, leaning in the opposite direction. “I’m a New Yorker.”

  “When in Rome, then….” she says, pointing to the lab behind me.

  Sure enough, when I take off my headphones and turn around, I realize that everyone else is gone. Possibly long gone. Behind the windows the sky is pitch black, and I’m shocked to see that the clock reads 10:30 p.m. After our big lunchtime meal, I failed to get hungry and forgot all about coming home for dinner.

  When Grace hooks her arm through mine, directing me toward the exit, I don’t put up a fight. After switching on a flashlight, she guides me down the dirt path leading back to our building. Making our way through near darkness, I’m thankful for her company. Though I generally feel safe in our neighborhood, I’m pretty certain I wouldn’t want to traverse this isolated road alone.

  Across the street from our building, Grace and I simultaneously freeze. We’ve both heard the same sound—running footsteps, moving quickly in our direction. Unlike my apartment in New York, there’s no doorman here. Moreover, we’re the only people on the road. As my heart begins pounding against my ribs, three boys materialize out of the night. Despite my usual facial blindness, I have no trouble recognizing these children; they’re the same little boys that we encountered yesterday with the sugar cane man. Quick as a flash, the smallest one grabs Grace’s flashlight. Just as the trio surges back toward the street, the biggest boy trips over the curb, falling onto his face. Momentarily I consider grabbing the kid, but Grace reads my mind and reaches for my arm.

  “Don’t do it, Emma,” she warns, and I listen.

  Seconds later he’s up, and they all take off toward the favela, shrieking with laughter on their way up the hill. For a few seconds, Grace and I just stand there, shocked.

  “They could’ve just asked for the flashlight,” says Grace, staring into the darkness. “I would’ve given it to them.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say, as my heart rate slows to normal.

  Though I should be royally pissed off, I’m surprised to find that I’m not angry at all. Instead, I just wonder whether the boys’ parents know where they are, or give a damn that it’s way past bedtime. Though I’m not their mother, it bothers me immensely that these kids are out on the street alone, with no one watching over them.

  When my head finally hits my pillow, I’m emotionally spent and rapidly fall asleep. Soon I’m driving Luciano’s car along a cliff overlooking the ocean. Then I remember that I can’t drive a stick shift. Repeatedly I slam on the brakes, but instead of slowing down, the car accelerates. When I try changing gears, the stick breaks off in my hand. In the back seat, three little boys are screaming at me to do something, but I’m paralyzed with fear. A moment later I’m standing on the dusty road, watching helplessly as the car spins forward. Still trapped inside, the children are banging on the windows with their little faces pressed against the glass, looking at me. Only these aren’t Brazilian street urchins—they’re my children. As the car and its contents plunge off the cliff toward the dark water below, I silently scream, as though I’m the one who’s about to drown.

  Then I awaken with a terrible, pounding headache. Staggering into the bathroom, I peel off my damp nightgown and toss it to the floor. After groping through some bottles in the cabinet, I manage to locate a few Motrin and a couple tablets of Benadryl. Thankfully, the drugs darken my nightmares for the rest of this dreadful evening.

  Chapter Four

  The Pelourinho

  Over the next few weeks, I revel in Brazilian music, immersing myself in hundreds of songs by a wide range of artists, including local drumming bands, such as Timbalada, and internationally recognized musicians, like Daniela Mercury and Gilberto Gil. The pounding rhythms and haunting melodies serve as the backdrop to my frenzied data entry, fueling the passage of what would otherwise be dry work.

  To prevent additional nocturnal encounters with anyone from the favela, I download the lab’s databases onto my laptop. Soon I’m chugging caffeine-loaded Guarana, ignoring heart palpitations, and playing my keyboard like an instrument into the early morning, all from the safety of my living room. No one seems to notice or care when I start rolling into the lab way past lunchtime. Within a week I’ve mastered medical Portuguese, and subsequently I’m able to achieve a very quick rhythm of data entry. The experience is a bit like figuring out how to please a new lover. In a nutshell, I’ve learned how to get the job done efficiently, by repeatedly pressing the right buttons.

  Admittedly, learning to please Thomas was a bit more complicated. Like all of my previous lovers (save one), Thomas neglected to vocalize any useful instructions during sex.

  “Do you like the way that I’m touching you?” I inquired one evening, in the early stages of our relationship.

  “Mm,” he mumbled.

  “Which do you like better—‘A’: both hands on the shaft, like this; or ‘B’: one hand on the shaft, and one on the balls, like this?”

  “Ooh,” he groaned.

  “When you say ‘Ooh,’ are you referring to choice ‘A’ or choice ‘B?’”

  “Emma,” said Thomas, with a hint of exasperation in his voice, “did anyone ever mention that you talk too much?”

  “Just you, and you don’t talk enough. Now, tell me which one you prefer, before I force you to demonstrate your preferences by masturbating in front of me.”

  “Actually, that sounds like a fun idea.”

  “Thomas,” I threatened.

  “Okay, then. Choice ‘B’ was better.”

  “See? That wasn’t too hard.”

  Diving into the leptospirosis project, it occurs to me that computers are much easier to deal with than men. With one simple touch, they’re completely turned on and responsive. When you ask them a question, they give you a direct answer, and they never break your heart. On the other hand, computers don’t kiss very well, which is unfortunate. Some love-starved, geeky inventor ought to do something about that.

  Once I hit my stride with my mechanical companion, the data entry progresses much more rapidly than I’d anticipated. Nearing the end of my third week in Brazil, I corner Luciano in his office.

  “I’ve got a problem,” I say, leaning against the door frame.

  Luciano cocks his head to the side.

  “Can I help?” he asks, in a lascivious tone.

  “I hope so. Would you mind coming into the lab for a minute?”

  “Sure thing.”

  When the two of us enter my work station, Luciano’s skin color quickly fades from light brown to near-syncopal white. I suppress a smile.

  “Emma,” he says, “where are the data sheets?”

  Safe and sound in a nearby cabinet, where I’ve hidden Box One and Box Two. Seeing his livid expression, I’m glad I didn’t ask permission to bring the sheets home to my apartment.

  “No worries,” I tease. “Didn’t you tell me that Salvadorans are the most mellow people in Brazil?”

  “Alright, crazy Gringa,” says Luciano, “tell me where they are, right now, before I lose it. I’ve only been collecting those sheets for the last five years.”


  Luciano’s overreaction reminds me a bit of my father and the time I moved his 1968 BSA motorcycle out of our garage, back when I was in high school.

  “Emma, where the hell is my bike?” he yelled that afternoon.

  Generally an even-tempered man, my father’s angry, irrational outburst took me by surprise.

  “Well?” he demanded, turning red when I didn’t answer.

  A relic from his hippie days, my dad loved his motorcycle, I think because it represented a time of complete freedom in his life. When I was a teenager, he was still going out for joyrides on weekends, and occasionally he’d take me along. Holding onto his waist for dear life, I tried desperately not to fall off or burn my calves on the exhaust pipes. One day that clunker broke down miles from our house, and the two of us had to roll it all the way home. For my dad’s fortieth birthday, my mom and I decided it was time for a tune up, mainly because we envisioned the bike falling to pieces, killing one of us.

  “I don’t know where it is,” I answered, playing dumb to avoid ruining his birthday surprise. “Where’d you put it?”

  “You and your mother were in on this. I know it! The two of you have been wanting to get rid of my bike for so long, and now you’ve finally done it…on my birthday, no less. What are you smiling at?”

  Continuing to berate his daughter, who was obviously a no-good member of the secret anti-motorcycle society, my father ranted like a paranoid lunatic for a good long time. Taking the full brunt of his scorn, I just stood there, waiting for him to finish. Sheesh.

  In light of the motorcycle incident, prolonging Luciano’s discomfort seems like a bad idea.

  “They’re right here,” I say, pointing to my computer.

  With a flourish, I type one additional command—merge—and the final database appears, a collation of the original two, complete with all the data I entered.

  “You finished it?” says Luciano.

  His voice is incredulous.

  “Already?”

  I nod affirmatively.

  “Everything?”

  I shrug.

  “Yeah, but it really wasn’t a big deal.”

  Time consuming, yes, but overall a simplistic process—rote data entry with some minor computer programming. Definitely not brain surgery.

  “Whoo-hoo,” Luciano whoops, giving me a spontaneous hug that nearly lifts me off the ground. “I might finish this project sometime this decade! Fantastic job, Gringa. Let’s celebrate.”

  Before I realize what he’s doing, Luciano detaches my headphones from the computer, causing loud samba music to issue from the speakers, disrupting the entire lab. Peter and Soelia seem happy enough to throw down their work. A moment later they’re partnered together, whirling between counter tops, a blur of hands and elbows that somehow avoids crashing into all of the errant beakers and Petri dishes that are lying around.

  After shouting something in Portuguese which I assume means, “Would you knock it off?!” or maybe it’s, “You people are nuts!” Julia stalks out the door in a huff.

  “Good riddance,” Luciano mutters, in a barely audible voice.

  Grasping my hands, Luciano tries to spin me around. For a moment I resist, but of course, resistance is futile. Reluctantly attempting to follow his lead, I’m an instant disaster. Unable to keep pace with the Samba beat, which is quick, tricky, and athletically challenging for my klutzy calves, I accidentally slam my foot into Luciano’s shin. Then again, maybe this was no accident. Perhaps my subconscious devised a clever way of warning Luciano to keep his distance.

  “Ouch,” he shouts, grabbing his leg. “For goodness sakes Emma, we’re dancing here, not doing karate. Just relax and try not to hurt me, okay?”

  “Okay. But if I were you, I’d stand further back.”

  “Good point,” says Luciano.

  When he tries to lead from a distance, the result is comical, and we both start laughing. Overtaken by silliness, forgetting my fears, I hijack the dance and begin back leading, albeit ungracefully, throwing in swing steps I learned from a couple of classes in New York, as well as some classic moves from Saturday Night Fever. When Luciano starts grooving like Jennifer Beals from Flash Dance (“…she’s a maniac, maniac on the floor….”), I laugh so hard that I nearly have an asthma attack.

  As the song ends, Luciano leads me into a backwards dip, throwing me off balance. In seconds, I’m flat on the ground.

  “I meant to do that,” I say.

  “Sure you did,” says Luciano between guffaws.

  “Okay, you’re right. I didn’t mean to fall on my ass. I’m just not very coordinated.”

  “No,” he says, “but you are a quick typist.”

  I can’t argue with that.

  Since it’s Friday and everyone feels like continuing our fiesta pequena, we agree to close up early and visit the Pelourinho. Hurrying to the mouse lab, I abduct Grace early. The two of us then jog home, giggling and filling our lungs with that fabulous Bahian air. The weather is perfect, slightly humid, in the mid-seventies, with the sun still high in the sky. For the occasion we dress in our sexiest American clothes, which isn’t saying much. I throw on a hot pink tank top over a pair of cutoff jean shorts, while Grace changes into clean white shorts, a silver sequined tank top, and a nice pair of white sandals. Pulling up my shorts, I’m surprised to find that the waist is baggy, which is probably due to my limited food supply for the past month. Avoiding heels as usual, I shove my feet into an old pair of sneakers.

  We’ve barely finished getting dressed when someone knocks at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” says Grace. “Hey, tudo bem,” she calls from the living room.

  “Who is it?” I ask from the bedroom.

  “It’s Paula,” says Grace, “and you’ve gotta see what she’s wearing.”

  Catching site of Paula in our doorway, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. The woman is all legs in a pair of five-inch, shiny black stilettos and miniscule black leather shorts. A diamond piercing sparkles against her bare, muscular midriff, reminding me of that line from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet:

  “…It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night

  Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear….”

  Except my version would read, “Like a rhinestone on a Brazilian’s belly button.” Topping the outfit, a tight, yellow cotton half-shirt hugs her shapely breasts. If ever an outfit declared “Queen Bee” status, this is it. Beyond looking incredible, it’s amazing that the woman can walk.

  Grace gushes in Portuguese, roughly, “Paula, you look fabulous!”

  “I know,” says Paula confidently.

  At least I think that’s what she said.

  Following a cramped drive with Grace, Peter, Soelia, Paula, and me packed into his car, Luciano finds a parking spot a few blocks away from our destination. Strolling together toward the Pelourinho, we pass a churchyard square, and the scene there takes me by surprise. Gathered around a central fountain are a number of individuals suffering from elephantiasis, a disease I’ve only read about in medical textbooks. Each person has at least one massively enlarged leg, thickened to the size of a small tree trunk. Witnessing the disease on the street, en groupe, is nothing less than shocking.

  Milling about the square are also two disabled young men, probably teenagers, afflicted by a different disease that I can’t name. Sitting on skateboards, their abnormally short, deformed legs are tucked under their torsos like frogs’ legs. I watch in amazement as the men use their thickly muscled, powerful arms to propel the skateboards around the square by pushing off the ground. Skateboards, not wheelchairs. Wow.

  “Hey, Emma,” Grace yells, from somewhere up ahead, “are you coming?”

  With my attention focused on the square, I’d inadvertently stopped walking. Hopefully I wasn’t gaping too rudely. While running to catch up with my companions, I silently thank God for each of my extremities.

  As we enter the Pelourinho, the late afternoon sun is descending, brightly illuminating rows o
f historic buildings. Like beads on the string of a candy necklace, the stately facades form a pattern of alternating pastel colors.

  “This place always reminds me of Easter eggs,” Grace remarks.

  “That’s a coincidence,” I say, as we walk along the cobblestoned streets.

  “What is?” she asks.

  “I was just imagining girls lined up in their Easter dresses.”

  “Would you ladies like to take a break from the Easter parade and check out the São Francisco church?” asks Luciano.

  “Where is it?” I ask.

  “Straight ahead,” says Luciano, pointing out the massive church dominating the square in which we’re standing.

  “What do you think?” I ask Grace.

  “I’ve been there already, but I’d love to go back again. The inside is a real treat.”

  Crossing over São Francisco’s threshold, I can almost hear my Great Grandma Sophia—who lived to be 104-years-old and was particularly narrow minded when it came to religious tolerance—yelling in my ear, “Emma, how can you walk inside a church? If you get married in one of those places, I’m not coming to the wedding!”

  Luckily Sophia’s posthumous scolding quickly dissipates as my eyes feast upon the Igreja’s magnificent interior, nearly all of which is covered in finely detailed, brilliant gold leafing.

  “Wow,” I say to Grace. “You were right about this place. It’s stunning.”

  Sorry, Great Grandma.

  After spending some time studying the intricately sculptured walls and columns that fill the gilded church, we exit and continue roaming the side streets. Thousands of tchotchkes and some beautiful African art pieces are for sale in numerous, closet-sized tourist traps, but I’m too poor to buy anything valuable.

  “How about a bathing suit?” asks Grace inside a clothing store. “This one would look nice on you,” she says, holding up a beaded brown bikini.

  “It’s a bit small, don’t you think?”