Sergio Y.

by Alexandre Vidal Porto

  One of the good memories I have was when I helped her move into her dormitory. She would live in a room about twenty-five square meters in size, with a small kitchen and bathroom.

  We bought a bed, a desk and some other furniture from a store the university recommended. The two of us assembled the furniture ourselves. For those few days, we spent hours together, talking as friends. I returned to São Paulo proud. I liked knowing she was a student at one of the best universities in the world. I thought she would be able to build a good life for herself and do interesting things. It gave me a feeling of well-being knowing I had fulfilled my paternal duties alone.

  Sergio Y. died on February 2. Four months and six days later, on June 8, Mariana’s graduation ceremony would take place.

  Prior to Sergio’s death, I was looking forward to my trip to New York. After learning of his death, though, the trip became a sacrifice, something I would have to do for love, not pleasure. But I could not miss the graduation.

  I had a special relationship with New York. Like my daughter, I went to school there. It was where I discovered what I wanted to do with my life. It was there that I decided to become a psychiatrist.

  Soon after graduating, on the advice of a teacher at the Universidade de São Paulo, I applied for a residency at Mount Sinai in New York. At the time, it was very rare for them to accept foreigners. To the surprise of some (but not all), they accepted me.

  I arrived on August 4, 1973, on a PanAm flight. It was the first time I had traveled outside of Brazil. Soon after my arrival, with the help of the hospital staff, I found a little one-bedroom on 102nd Street, near the East River. The rental was on the fourth floor of a dilapidated building, with no elevator—one of those with the fire escape outside the window—where several other medical residents lived.

  I took my job seriously. I had always studied hard, but during my residency I studied like never before. Most of my days were spent locked in the hospital, breathing air-conditioned air, exposed to sterile light, absorbing all the information I could, with a medical book always at my side in case a free moment should arise.

  On Sundays, I would take a break from diagnosing disease and discussing community psychotherapy techniques, and I would go on long walks around the city. I could have gone with one of my fellow residents, but I preferred going alone, to avoid having to make concessions. I wanted to conquer the city in my own way. I did not want to share it with anyone else.

  I have wonderful memories of those times and those walks. I would spend all day walking, consulting maps in search of places I wanted to visit, or just wandering aimlessly, feeling the city move around me.

  After I returned to São Paulo, whenever I got the chance, I would go back to New York. On those trips back, I would do my best to recreate the same sense of possibility and confidence in the future that had filled me when I was a resident there, when I thought I could do and be anything in life. After all, I thought at the time, how many Brazilian doctors, fresh out of college, get accepted as residents at one of the best hospitals in the world?

  I would walk the city streets looking up, arching my head back, unable to see the tops of buildings, believing that my possibilities, and the New York buildings, reached out to infinity. It was this sense of renewal that over the years I sought to replicate in my random walks through Manhattan.

  Here, now, sitting in my office, I close my eyes and imagine the sun’s rays piercing through the buildings at 9 A.M. to form pools of light on the sidewalk on Third Avenue. I can smell the detergent and fabric softener wafting onto passersby from the 98th Street Laundromat.

  After I learned of Sergio’s death, my relationship with New York changed. The idea of being in the same city where he had died began to disturb me. It would mean thinking much more of him and his death than I would have liked. What is more, as a doctor I would feel the obligation to visit Dr. Cecilia Coutts, to gain more information about the Sergio-Sandra case, a case I had so obviously misdiagnosed.

  New York, the city for which I had harbored only positive feelings and gratitude, had now also become the scene of the death of Sergio Y. To visit it would mean facing my own guilt.

  Since the trip could not be avoided, I tried convincing myself that the sacrifice I was making was voluntary and insignificant when compared to the consequences my ignorance could have caused. Besides, there was also Mariana, whom I could not disappoint. With this in mind, I decided to ignore my fears. I bought my ticket and booked a hotel on 57th Street. I would be in town for four nights. I would arrive on Monday and leave Friday.

  I would visit the places Sergio had been: the school where he had studied, the street where he had lived, the store where he bought cooking utensils. At any moment I could be stepping into the footprints he had left on his journey through New York.

  It would be a way to find him once again. We would be like two actors filmed against the same backdrop at different times. We would find each other in space, but be lost to each other in time. Sergio Y. and I would recognize each other in the landscape of New York.

  NEW YORK

  In college I had convinced myself that Eduardo was one of the most sensible people in the world. I still hold this view today. Was this because of the opinions and advice I have received over the years? I could not say exactly.

  In our conversations about my performance in the Sergio Y. case, he was always emphatic that I should look up Sergio’s doctor in New York, Dr. Cecilia Coutts. I still had the e-mail address Tereza gave me when I called her on that rainy afternoon when I had been stood up by one of my patients.

  It was Eduardo’s arguments, more than anything else, that made clear to me my professional obligation to contact Dr. Coutts. I delayed it for as long as I could. Three days before my departure, however, I wrote her an e-mail introducing myself and asking if, during my brief stay in New York, she would be available for a quick chat about a former patient of ours.

  By seeking her out, I was taking a step toward fulfilling my duty as a professional. Deep down, however, I hoped the short notice would prevent any possible meeting between the two of us from ever taking place.

  Nonetheless, the next morning, in response to my query, I found the following message from Cecilia Coutts in my inbox:

  Dear Dr. Armando,

  I would be glad to meet you for coffee. Can you come to my office this coming Thursday, at 10 A.M.?

  Best regards, C. Coutts, MD, PhD

  73 Barrow Street, NY, NY 10014

  The friendly tone intrigued me. What kind of woman was she? A doctor who specialized in transgender patients with the surname of an English banker. We agreed to meet on the afternoon of June 9th, on the eve of my return to Brazil.

  I did not know it at the time, but the trip would offer me many lessons in humility: the realization that I was not as smart as I thought; the confirmation that I knew very little about Sergio Y. and that I had horribly underestimated him; the realization that the city was still there, but that the building where I lived on 102nd Street had been demolished and no longer existed. The realization that my daughter was an adult and no longer needed me. All of it, even when positive, was humiliating.

  I would go to New York for my daughter’s sake and I would take the opportunity to learn more about a case that I had not known how to treat. Naively, I thought that knowing more about Sergio Y. would help me reduce the risk of bringing about a similar tragic fate to my other patients. By expanding my medical knowledge I could become a better human being. I thought that was the way out: the doctor in me had to save the person in me.

  I confess my conversations with Eduardo had not fully redeemed me. I still carried feelings of guilt that were hard to shake. But I knew that in order to overcome this problem, I would have to transform my feelings regarding Sergio’s death into simple curiosity regarding the disappearance of someone I once knew. Self-preservation demanded I accept Sergio’s fate
indifferently, as though there had never been anything between us.

  In the days leading up to the trip, I was anxious. As the plane prepared for takeoff, I was filled with a mix of excitement and anxiety. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to relax. I saw Sergio, on his back, in a brick yard covered in snow; I saw blood coming out of his head and staining platinum-blond hair I had never seen; I could see red lipstick smudged on Sergio’s dead face. I could see the cooking school where he had studied with French chefs with mustaches and aprons covered in sheep’s blood.

  I took an anxiolytic to relieve the stress. I removed my shoes, reclined my seat and put in earplugs. I began reading a magazine. I slept right through breakfast. I woke up, dazed, to the announcement that we were landing and to the noise of flight attendants scurrying up and down the aisle.

  As the plane slowly taxied, I looked out the window, still groggy, trying to identify the logos of exotic airlines I never even knew existed.

  Strangely, the line at immigration was short. I waited behind two other passengers. The agent just asked me how many days I intended to stay in the United States. That was it. She took my picture and my fingerprints, and with a heavy thwack she stamped and stapled my passport.

  By 8 A.M. I was in a taxi on the way to the hotel.

  For someone sensitive to smells, especially someone obsessed with cleanliness like me, a cab ride can be an uncomfortable experience. I always brace myself for unpleasant odors. Food, sweat, gases—the possibilities are endless.

  My taxi, however, was clean and pleasant-smelling. I sat in silence in the backseat, looking out the window, fantasizing about the lives of the drivers and passengers in the other cars. Some sipped from thermos bottles—tea, coffee, whiskey?—while they drove. Some moved their lips, as if singing or talking into cell phones. Everyone looked ahead.

  From his license, I could see the cab driver’s name was Dieudonné Pascal. At about the Midtown Tunnel, I tried to make conversation. I asked where he was from. He said Haiti. He did not react when I said Brazil. We drove in silence to the hotel on 57th Street between Fifth and Sixth avenues.

  Luckily, I did not have to wait for a room. Mine was ready and I was able go straight up. There was a message from Mariana on my cell phone. I called her and arranged to have lunch at a Chinese restaurant on 93rd Street, halfway between her dorm and where I was staying.

  We agreed to meet at noon. In my room, I ordered coffee and bathed sitting in the bathtub while holding the shower head in my hand. I shaved, got dressed and went out for a walk in Manhattan. It was sunny, but not too hot. I entertained myself with the scenery and ended up walking all the way from the hotel to the restaurant.

  It had been one year since I had last seen my daughter. She told me of her new job, of the apartment she was thinking of renting, her plans to go to India for the wedding of her American boyfriend’s friend. It was as if we had never been apart.

  I listened to her reasoning. We arrived at similar conclusions. I realized that my daughter was doing with her life the same things I would if it were my life. Our first conversation did me good.

  This would be a short trip. I had to organize my time well. The graduation ceremony would be on Wednesday, in two days’ time. On Thursday, I would meet with Cecilia Coutts. On Friday afternoon, I would return to Brazil. I would have to be fast. I could not wait for things to happen. So, right after lunch, I made the first move in solving the mystery that was bothering me: I went to see where Sergio’s body had been found.

  Objectively speaking, seeing the house in the West Village where Sergio Y. had lived and died should have made no difference whatsoever. Subjectively, however, the place where he had lived was an important element in contextualizing his existence in New York. I had imagined the type of neighborhood it would be, and even before going there, I could almost see the house at 12 Grove Street.

  I thought of taking a cab but felt it would be more practical to go by subway. I got off at Union Square, and to enjoy the sunny day and remember my youth, I walked the rest of the way. On my walk, I counted down the street numbers and observed the people around me, block by block, until I arrived at my destination in the West Village.

  Sergio lived the last four years of his life in this exposed brick brownstone. I wondered whether it had been his choice to inhabit the solemn building in front of which I now stood.

  I passed my hand over the building’s short brown wall. I looked up at the stoop. I noticed the detail of the stained glass window on the door panel. I did not get the chance to see the garden in the back, but I understood where it was located. I imagined Sergio on a snowy day, walking down those steps carefully to avoid slipping.

  He died two days after a blizzard blanketed the city and cut off power for hours. This image of winter and sensation of cold came to me on a summer’s day with students walking about the streets in T-shirts and flip-flops.

  At night, I felt strange. I did not know if it was fatigue or the beginning of the flu. My body ached, my feet hurt, my legs hurt, and I felt very tired. Nonetheless I didn’t cancel my dinner plans with my daughter and her two college friends who she wanted to introduce me to.

  I had a pleasant conversation over dinner with Victoria, an Argentinian from General Roca, and Tatiana, an Italian from Milan. I had fun. I forgot my physical discomfort. I returned to the hotel and fell asleep immediately. I did not even dream.

  The next morning, I woke up very early. I stayed in my room reading newspapers online until about 9:30 A.M. I showered and went out to buy a dark blue blazer, which I would wear at the graduation ceremony. I also wanted to buy Mariana a ring.

  Next, I wanted to go to a used bookstore near Gramercy Park to look for a book. On the way, I would pass by 23rd Street and visit the cooking school Sergio Y. had attended.

  I went to the main office at the Institute of Culinary Education. The information I wanted, however, was protected by privacy laws, and I was not able to find out which courses Sergio or Sandra had taken. The only information they could give me freely was whether either of the two had ever been a student (yes, both had been students) and had graduated from the school (yes, Sergio Y. received two diplomas, in 2007 and 2008; Sandra Yacoubian received one in 2009).

  A blonde girl with a serpentine tattoo around her wrist handed me a course brochure. It recommended students start with a basic cooking course and then complement that with electives.

  Sergio had to have completed three mandatory courses in that catalog. One would almost certainly have been a culinary fundamentals course to learn general cooking techniques and food handling. I had no way of knowing what the others were. If I had only known the cuisine at the restaurant he had come close to opening, I would have been able to deduce. But it was impossible to conjecture blindly.

  The distance I had walked and the disappointment at not being able to find out everything I had wanted about Sergio Y. for the first time on this trip made me feel somewhat defeated.

  I came to the realization that not only was he dead, but that his stay in this city had left almost no traces. His presence was fading. The city was forgetting him. In New York, Sergio Y. barely existed anymore.

  Mariana scheduled a dinner with her friends that evening. I thought I would offer to accompany her, but the group was big and I would be the only parent. I decided instead to order a sandwich and a bottle of wine in my room and go to bed early. However, after drinking two-thirds of the bottle, my mood improved and I was full of energy. I went for a walk.

  I walked north along Fifth Avenue, with Central Park to my left. With the fresh park air blowing on my face, I had a surge of confidence. At that moment, I felt I could still live a well-adjusted life. I would resolve my conflicted feelings toward Sergio Y., I would return to Brazil and continue to be a good analyst and a good person. I would avoid anything that would cause harm to others. Mariana would be happy forever. They would discover the
cure for cancer. No one would ever die.

  At around 72nd Street, part of the wine had already been processed by my body, and my euphoria began to give way to fatigue. I walked another three blocks before deciding to go back.

  In my hotel room, I again had the desire to breathe a bit of fresh air. But the window had a safety lock, and I could only crack it open about five centimeters; it was not enough to let the air in, just to fill the whole room with the city’s muffled noises.

  Before going to bed, I lay my head on the sheets and allowed myself to get lost in my rumination (“A rich doctor’s daughter is more likely than the majority of the population to graduate from a good American university, right? If I were black, and my great-grandfather had been a slave, in what kind of bed would I be sleeping now? What kind of work would I be doing? Would my daughter be studying at Columbia? But why think about it? Things are what they are. One’s wealth or lack thereof is a matter of chance. So many people start off well in life and do not end up well. I think my daughter has taken control of her own life. I don’t even need to support her anymore. She’s not given to extravagance. Her boyfriend is in Chicago with his father, who has terminal cancer. I met him last year in São Paulo. The boyfriend has also managed to land a job. Soon, she’ll be married, and my mission as a single father will have been fulfilled . . . ”).

  I woke up at 6 A.M. Partly because I was still on Brazil time but mainly because of my anxiety over Mariana’s graduation and my approaching meeting with Dr. Coutts.

  I wore a blazer, a dress shirt, a necktie and new shoes. Before leaving, I looked in the mirror and thought I looked elegant. Once again, it was sunny but not too hot. By eleven, I had arrived on campus. I sat on one of the green metal folding chairs that had been set up on the lawn in front of the stage waiting for a call from Mariana so that we could make arrangements to find each other in the crowd.