Sergio Y.

by Alexandre Vidal Porto

  Laurie Clay is serving a twenty-two year sentence. She was convicted of second-degree murder. She had on an orange jumpsuit when we met. I could see a four-leaf clover tattooed on the inside of her right wrist, and she wore her blond hair in a short ponytail.

  To get permission to talk to her, I had to make a request in writing to the prison administration. Her consent was required too.

  Almost two years earlier, Laurie had been accepted to study fashion at the New School. Laurie met Sandra the day she, Laurie, was visiting the apartment her parents had bought for her. She was accompanied by the interior decorator who would help her furnish it. She was intrigued by that tall girl, with black hair and a red handbag, who was leaving just as they arrived.

  The next time they met was at a café on the corner of Grove and Bleecker, which, curiously, I now realize, was named Angélique. They drank tea and walked back home together. They soon became friends.

  Laurie, an only child like Sandra, had been an eccentric teenager by Louisville, Kentucky, standards, which is where her family was from. She went through several phases, all of which she devoted herself to fervently. There was a vegetarian phase, when she stopped consuming foods of animal origin and wearing leather. There was a Goth phase, in which she only wore black clothes and makeup, and there was a mystical phase, when she attended a variety of churches and sects.

  I think the truth is that Laurie enjoyed being onstage. From what she told me, every new phase meant a new wardrobe and a new lifestyle. Because these phases were relatively short, she was constantly reinventing herself, as if creating her own cast of characters, as if filling an album with pictures of roles she could play. She never could have imagined, though, that in this album there would also be photographs of a prisoner.

  In New York, she was living out her omnipotent phase. She was young, ambitious, headstrong and rich. For her, studying fashion meant, above all, expanding her collection of aesthetic experiences. She would go out every night. The experience she was chasing was the one she had not yet had.

  “For someone like me, who’d just arrived from Kentucky, Sandra was the epitome of the true New Yorker. She was six-two. Super elegant in her manners and the way she dressed. She never wore prints, just solids. She had style, charisma, great taste. It was the whole androgynous thing. I’d never met a Brazilian before. She seemed exotic to me. Sandra was very chic. In a way, she was who I wanted to be. The day she died, we were celebrating the fact that the New York Times had confirmed they’d be doing a story about her restaurant. I was proud to be friends with her, to be seen with her. I thought having a transgender friend was the coolest thing.

  “I never meant to kill her. I never even thought of killing anyone. I interrupted her life and mine in a moment of madness. Because of one irresponsible act, I forever changed our destinies.

  “At the time, everyone in my class was experimenting with ‘magic mushrooms.’ A friend of mine, who grew mushrooms at home, gave me a paper bag with twelve small red mushrooms with white spots on them. They looked like little strawberries. ‘The active ingredient is psilocybin,’ he said.

  “I was curious. The day I got the mushrooms it was cold. On the way home, I ate the two smallest ones. I ran into Sandra in front of the house. We arrived at the same time. We went upstairs together. She was beaming. She invited me in for a glass of champagne to celebrate the New York Times article. I wasn’t going to drink champagne. I’m really not into champagne. But, since the mushrooms hadn’t really taken effect, I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a problem if I just took one sip to toast with my friend.

  “We were facing each other. She sat by the window in a high-back chair. I remember her profile against the darkness outside the window. I didn’t offer her mushrooms because I knew pot was the only drug she liked. She smoked it sometimes at home to relax.

  “Sandra was all excited about the article. She kept flailing her arms about. I sat there, right in front of her, just listening. I think that’s the last sober memory I have of that day.

  “After that, all I remember was my hallucination. I started hearing voices in my head. I was certain I heard the voice of God. He ordered me to push Sandra through the window with all my might.

  “The voice grew stronger. He repeated the order. Suddenly, Sandra sounded aggressive, threatening. She was an evil being. I became convinced God had entrusted me with the task of ridding the world of that rotten fruit, and I wanted all the glory that came with that.

  “I wanted to push her. It was simply a matter of having a desire to do something and then satisfying that desire. Like buying a pair of shoes or a bracelet and seeing no reason not to.

  “I pushed Sandra with all my might. I remember her losing her balance, tumbling, with her arms open, falling back in her chair. If I close my eyes now, I can still hear the curtain tearing.

  “I can still hear the dry, muffled thud of the body hitting the courtyard below.

  “The next morning, I woke up alone, in my apartment. I woke up to police sirens. They’d found her body. No one came for me that morning. I took the two o’clock flight to Louisville.

  “At home, I told my parents what had happened. They went crazy. We talked to lawyers, but there wasn’t much they could do. I surrendered to the police on Monday.

  “I’m going to spend a long time here. My life is here now. Life goes on. It doesn’t stop just because I’m behind bars. But it’s very limited.

  “I read a lot, I’m learning to meditate. I exercise, I write. I have my parents’ support, but I think I’ll never have children of my own. Prison doesn’t kill you, but it steals important things from you.

  “I killed someone.

  “I don’t like knowing I have this power. Knowing this makes me aware of the immense responsibility I have. It hurts to know that I stupidly killed a happy person, who would have gone on to do good. I stole her happiness. I subtracted happiness from the world. I have to make up for that.

  “My dad didn’t like me being friends with Sandra because she was trans. When he visited me, he couldn’t even bring himself to say hi to her. He said transsexuals were ‘the devil’s work.’

  “That must have stayed in my subconscious. We really don’t understand how our minds work, do we? You’re a psychiatrist, do you think it was my dad who planted the seed that made me murder my friend Sandra? I don’t know. It makes no difference now. I’m here now.”

  A MESSAGE DISGUISED AS AN INVITATION

  Dr. Armando? Salomão told me you wanted to know whether Sergio was happy. I appreciate your interest. I really do.

  “I had a very hard time accepting that my life could go on without my son. But it will. Roberto, my other son, who also passed away, had already taught me this lesson. I think I’d forgotten. Now I remember.

  “I’m ready to talk. Would you like to get together? Can I invite you for a cup of tea?”

  IF I HAD SEEN YOU,

  I WOULD HAVE BEEN PROUD

  We met in the tea room at the Maria Luisa and Oscar Americano Foundation. I parked far away and walked through the gardens. It was 4 p.m. and it was sunny.

  Tereza was there waiting for me when I arrived. We greeted one another with a kiss on the cheek. I think that from the outset there was a mutual feeling of relief that we were finally meeting. Tereza ordered black tea and so did I.

  The only witnesses to what Tereza had to say that afternoon, at that table, were two teapots, two cups, two tablespoons, two slices of lemon and me.

  “The first thing I need to tell you is that I’m only here because Sergio was happy. Otherwise I don’t think I would have made it. Knowing he was happy when he died really consoles me. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise.

  “I know you’re a doctor and you’ve seen many complicated cases, but my two sons, let’s face it, had especially difficult lives. In my darkest moments, I confess I wished for their deaths, I didn’t
care how it happened.

  “One was born without a skull and the other one with the wrong sex. That’s what I produced. That’s my contribution to the world. A shallow person might not understand, but I learned to be proud of my children. I’d generate the same fetuses all over again.

  “Roberto was an angel. He was in this world for eight days and left nothing, absolutely nothing, negative behind. A pure soul, without a blemish. I wanted to be with him from the moment he was born. I knew he would die ‘in a matter of days.’ That’s what the doctor said.

  “It’s hard not to love a son madly when you know he’s going to die ‘in a matter of days.’ My only concern was for my sick son. My agony didn’t last long. Roberto left us and never looked back. He left more emotions behind than memories. I did the best I could. I was given an anencephalic baby, but I gave an angel back.

  “Sergio’s death was worse because it caught me by surprise. It took me a while to comprehend it. I couldn’t accept that, after struggling so hard to be happy, precisely when he was beginning to thrive, he should die in such a stupid, senseless way.

  “After his death, I stopped calling him Sandra. So did Salomão. For us, Sandra was Sergio. The child I gave birth to was named Sergio. While he was alive, however, we referred to him as Sandra, because he asked us to and Dr. Coutts recommended we did.

  “When I heard of his transsexuality, my first thought was that I’d failed. I was a woman who gave birth to imperfect things, incomplete things. My womb was not fruitful. It was malformed, subhuman, I thought.

  “I didn’t want any of this. I wish it had all been a dream. But we don’t get to do what we want, do we? What could I have done? There are a lot of things we do for love. I carried Sergio—Sandra, whatever—inside my body. I never gave up on my son because I couldn’t stop loving him.

  “It was worth it. After he moved to New York, everything changed for the better. There was the sex change operation, which wasn’t easy, but Sandra became an admirable person. I know he’s my son, and I’m biased when I say this, but what she achieved as a person, and was achieving professionally, was very special. I think that, in some shape or form, this was a result of all the love his father and I gave him.

  “I’ll never forget one spring day when we walked across Central Park, to the West Side. We walked side by side, breathing in the spring air. It was shortly after her operation. Out of nowhere, she said, ‘Mom, I never thought I’d be this happy.’

  “Dr. Armando, it helps to remember that we did a good job with Sergio. Let’s not suffer over him. He wouldn’t have liked that. He succeeded in being Sandra. It’s what he wanted. He was happy. He didn’t dwell over his misery. It was great seeing him so excited about his restaurant, seeing her look so beautiful. Like a model. It was worth it.

  “Some lives are short. Others start off badly and get better. Sergio’s life was a combination of the two. We supported Sergio as best we could. We gave it our all. There was the physical distance. But that was good for his treatment, Dr. Coutts said.

  “You never saw him then, but, believe me, if you’d seen her you would have been proud.”

  A DOG SPOKE IN MY EAR

  I write from memory. I write events as I remember them. What I tell you is only my interpretation. I make this clear because not everything in my analysis is rational. At this point in my life, I am learning that often it is better to feel the answers than to hear them.

  A week after my conversation with Tereza, for two nights in a row, I had a dream with three golden retriever puppies. The dream was as follows: I walked down the street with the dogs, and they kept getting tangled between my legs, and I would try to avoid tripping. And I sat on the floor of the beach house with the dogs playing around me.

  They had red collars on with metal dog tags shaped like bones, with their names engraved on them. The first one was Sergio. The second one, Sandra; and the third, Armando.

  It was an unusual dream. It seemed harmless, but it stayed with me. I even mentioned it yesterday to Mariana, before she told me she was pregnant. We agreed I would go to Chicago in April. By then we will know if it is a boy or a girl.

  A curious thing happened earlier today. Someone on the same floor as my office left the door to their apartment open. I think I made some noise as I was getting off the elevator, and a dog came out from behind the door.

  It was a golden retriever, very old, his face already white. He walked toward me sweetly, slowly wagging his tail. He was not a puppy, but his collar was red. Right then and there, I thought of the previous week’s dream.

  I let him smell me. I stroked him lightly. He sat next to me and I could not help but think superstitious thoughts. It occurred to me that that dog, who appeared out of nowhere, was the same one from my dream, and that he was bringing me a sign. It seemed pathetic to believe this, but I am being honest about what I felt.

  From the same door the dog had come out of, his owner, a woman of about forty, whom I had never seen before, came out. She walked toward me quickly, gently shaking her head and clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “I’m very sorry,” she said, approaching to take the dog by the red collar. “She escaped.”

  I smelled her perfume, and, for an instant, the image of a braless Cecilia Coutts came to mind.

  “No worries,” I said.

  While she held the leash with one hand, I took courage and said: “I know this may sound ridiculous, but I had a dream about a dog just like this last week. Can you tell me something about him?”

  She looked up a little surprised but flashed a smile that was part ironic and part benevolent.

  “He’s a she. A female. Nine years old. She’s excellent company. A real buddy. The best dog I’ve ever had. Everyone should have one just like her at home,” she said.

  Apparently, she had interrupted whatever she was doing to retrieve the dog. Her body language was that of someone who was in a hurry and wanted to end our conversation as soon as possible to get back to whatever she was doing. Not wanting to inconvenience her any further, I asked one last question:

  “What’s her name?”

  “Her name is Faithfull. For Marianne Faithfull. But we shortened it to Faith. It’s easier to pronounce. And if you live in São Paulo you really do need a little faith, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, São Paulo without faith is hard,” I replied, trying to sound pleasant.

  I petted Faith one last time as we said good-bye.

  Back in my office, with my neighbor’s scent and the three puppies still on my mind, I thought about what had happened. I’m not a religious or mystical person, but I realize that in daily life, faith does exist. Now, as I write this, I trust, without giving it much thought, that I will wake up tomorrow morning and have a full day ahead of me. In April, I will visit my pregnant daughter. In September, I will become a grandfather. Life goes on. I firmly believe this.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alexandre Vidal Porto was born in São Paulo. A career diplomat, a Harvard-trained lawyer, and a human rights activist, he writes a regular column for Folha de S. Paulo. His fiction has appeared in some of the most respected literary publications in Brazil and abroad. Sergio Y. was the winner of the Paraná Literary Prize for best novel.