When I get home I check the date, 21 December 1931, when Anne wrote the letter to my father, unaware, it seems, of what was to come. In little over a year her husband-to-be would be out on the street, forbidden to give concerts or teach, and would seek asylum in France with nothing more than the shirt on his back. And at the age of three my brother would be bundled onto a night train, or a minibus, or the back of a truck bumping along tortuous highways, unable to comprehend why, precisely now that he was learning the declensions and word order of his demanding native language, he would have to go back to baby babble in somebody else’s. But in no time he’d be singing ‘Frère Jacques’ without an accent, he’d be given a dog and a bicycle, he’d make friends, he’d be loved by some and cursed by others, who would call him thief, skinflint, heretic and stinky. Taunted for being stateless, he would love his city more than any Parisian; with the yellow star on his chest he would explore one by one its boulevards, avenues, streets, squares, bridges, passages, impasses, he would learn the name and the history behind the name of every public place on the map. And just when he was about to start investigating the metro lines, he would find himself in strife again, unable to understand what he had done wrong to deserve being shipped off on an overcrowded freighter to who knows what shithole of a country. And after arriving in São Paulo and finding the city small, rainy, ugly and lacking in history, after having his bike stolen and adopting a stray dog, after learning at high school how to say fuck off, after finding himself a goyishe girlfriend, playing street football, becoming a Corinthians fan and beating a pandeiro in a samba circle, he would have to pack his bags again, perhaps to go and serve in the army in Tel Aviv, or to tag along with his father on low-rent tours like a wandering Jew. Or not. Perhaps none of this happened, because it is possible that Heinz Borgart had to leave wife and child behind in his frantic escape. He would send for them, of course, just as soon as he got his life in order, but once in Paris, a young musician, you never know. Should this be the case, I prefer to believe that on the eve of their wedding Anne recognized the mistake she was about to make by marrying Heinz Borgart, especially the risk to which she would be exposing her son. And to safeguard Sergio Ernst’s name, she’d have broken off the relationship without compunction, accusing him of failing to tell her that his mother was Jewish, of not making it clear that by becoming half Borgart, her son would, as a matter of course, become a quarter Gorenstein. She would never, however, let Father know about the break-up, so as not to spare him from the image of her, night after night, in the arms of a glorious artist. Yes, she would be hard up for money, but she wouldn’t let Father find out, nor would she ever go begging for child support from a man who wasn’t even there when his son was born. Sooner or later she would find a permanent partner, perhaps a modest man who loved her more than she loved him but who would give Sergio an unblemished surname. He would be, perhaps, a small business owner, an artisan, a clerk, an Aryan who, in good faith, sympathized with National Socialism, and who, together with Anne, would be proud of the boy standing in formation in the Berlin Olympic Stadium, singing ‘Deutschland über Alles’. I no longer have any doubt that there really is a photograph of Sergio in knee breeches and a khaki jacket with a swastika on his armband, but this brother will be lost to me forever.
7
scontroso (It.): surly in nature, easily offended, petulant, truculent
Ever since his days as Captain Marvel, Mother has considered Ariosto surly, and she still refers to him as such: That scontroso friend of yours stopped by earlier but I didn’t want to wake you. Where did he go, Mamma? How should I know, the scontroso got tired of waiting for you and went out with Mimmo. Mother must be mistaken, Ariosto has no reason to go out with my brother. My brother is the opposite of scontroso, although he’s always complaining that life isn’t easy for him these days. In the middle of a family dinner, he has the cheek to announce to Mother that there are no more chaste young ladies over the age of fifteen left in the city. And he has started hanging around outside high-school gates, where he always manages to sweet-talk some unsuspecting teenager with that voice of his, which is more irresistible than ever now that he’s doing voice-overs for radio commercials. Even Mother has put a radio in the kitchen so as not to miss his advertisements for Palmolive Soap, Adams Chiclets: A dainty box of surprises, or Hercules Beer: A black hero at last. Ariosto must be tired of hearing my brother’s voice say: He who does not live to serve Brazil does not deserve to live in Brazil. And Mother is the only one who doesn’t get that the scontroso will never see eye to eye with a radio announcer who records government propaganda. In any case I deliberately stayed in bed late, with my head under the blanket, sensing that my friend was waiting for me. He’s sought me out with a certain regularity lately, but my post-grad studies consume me day and night. I am happy to say that I am well on my way to an academic career, although for now I limit myself to teaching Portuguese in the college prep course, which pays peanuts. Perhaps I’ll even land a position on the university faculty earlier than anticipated, seeing as how some of the lecturers have been fired and others have quit in solidarity, not to mention those who have disappeared or fled the country. Many students have dropped out, too, and a climate of fear has hovered over university circles ever since the events of 1968, when the regime really cracked down. There are no more marches, red flags are punished with prison, and at the bars I visit from time to time politics is not discussed. On Sundays, for example, I have dinner at an Italian cantina on Rua Augusta where my brother ruled the roost for a while. There, one drinks more than one eats well into the night, and it isn’t hard to find female company for the small hours. Such as, for example, a girl who is always playing a wooden recorder at a table at the back, and who years ago I spied climbing the stairs of our house. She’s a bit of a bohemian, but what caught my eye at the time was the way her hips swayed, à la Maria Helena, hips which can no longer be seen under her Indian tunic as she leaves with her male or female lovers at three or four in the morning. And yesterday at around that time, when I saw her sitting at her table, unspoken for, I introduced myself as my brother’s brother while she played ‘Eleanor Rigby’. To try and get a smile out of her, I even recited my brother’s commercial in my best radio voice: Rádio Difusora AM, São Paulo, nine hundred and sixty kilohertz. Her name was Caramel and she couldn’t remember my brother for the life of her, proof that her sexual initiation hadn’t been especially memorable. I proposed a Chilean wine, seeing as how there was only a glass of water on her table, but instead of the wine she said she’d accept a chocolate ice cream. She wasn’t waiting for anyone, nor did she mind staying there alone with her recorder until six o’clock in the morning, when her boarding house opened its doors. But it was cool, she could come with me, as long as it was OK for her to have a joint at my place. I preferred not to smoke pot on a first date because I’m not really in the habit; marijuana doesn’t always help me achieve nirvana. But no sooner had Caramel set foot in my room than she lifted up her garment, showing a fine pair of thighs, albeit skinny and a little hairy, and pulled an already charred joint out of her knickers. It would have been rude of me to refuse, after she’d taken the first drag and, still holding the smoke in, told me in a voice that came out in a squeak like an old lady choking: Go for it. Soon she started to laugh, pointing at the foot of the bookcase, where four cockroaches lay writhing, belly-up, a common sight since Mother had discovered fumigation. The roaches reminded me of things I’d read long ago, and I don’t know why I had to go and tell her that in the Polish gas chambers people had died gasping just like her, in the hope of finding a little oxygen above the insecticide. Not content, after another drag I told her that in their desperation the stronger ones had trampled the elderly, women, children, and Caramel waved her hands at me: What a downer! What a bad trip! Snap out of it! You see, every now and then I had obsessive thoughts about my German brother stuck in horrifying situations, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I just pulled my tattered copy of Anne’s
letter out from under the mattress and asked her to pay attention: Berlin, 21 December 1931 … Caramel saw fit to play ‘Yellow Submarine’ as she listened to me read the letter, her fits of laughter creating tremolos in the melody. She found everything in the letter hilarious: my father immersed in books, mango head, and when I got to Heinz Borgart she put the recorder down and laughed even harder; she thought the pianist’s name was too funny, almost the same as her old piano teacher’s name. What do you mean, almost the same? His first name was different, it was Henri. I was surprised, because Henri is French for Heinz, and with that Caramel puckered up to play ‘Yesterday’. I insisted: Was it Borgart? Was it Borgart? She stopped playing and whined: I don’t remember properly, jeez, it was kinda similar, but it was a long time ago. Now you’re going to have to remember, I said, clasping her head in my hands and shaking it: Was he German? Hey, you’re not right in the head, it’s getting light out, fuck this, I’m outta here. I apologized, offered to take her home by taxi, but at the very least I needed to know if the teacher was German. I dunno, I think he was French, now leave me alone, was all she said as she left. It was a lovely, cool morning, and I ended up walking with Caramel, who played ‘Michelle’ to the door of her boarding house, which was almost directly in front of a Catholic school called Des Oiseaux, just a stone’s throw from my university.
A Portuguese lesson for a bunch of potheads requires no more from me than three hours of sleep and a cold shower. But today, after my all-nighter, I stand empty-handed in front of the class, not knowing where to begin. All I can think of is things we have covered in past lessons, anacoluthia, metaphors; the night unslept is a blackboard I forgot to erase. Through blurry lenses, or thousands of sleepless nights, I even see something of myself in the kid with the patchy beard sitting at the same desk I occupied years ago. And the brunette beside him is a mini version of Maria Helena, among so many other girls who also vaguely remind me of classmates from that time, like halfwits who take the same classes year after year. The only way to be heard over the racket that fills the room is to put on a deep voice and do a roll call, but at the moment all that comes to mind is the name Henri Borgart, Bogart, Baugard, Breaugard. And the pupils turn around to chat among themselves, just as my class did to provoke our Portuguese teacher, who was a bit of a nancy and ended up killing himself with a bullet in the mouth. I’m sure they laugh at my shoes, my second-hand watch, my ratty jeans covered in chalk and other gunk, which I never take off, the pockets of which I now start to pat. I suddenly jam my hand into my left pocket all the way to the bottom, and the piece of card under the box of chewing gum can only be the piano tuner’s business card. It is indeed, and although it is somewhat warped and faded, having survived the odd trip through the laundry, Lázar Rosenblum’s contact information is still legible. I abandon the bedlam of the classroom and race to the phone in the front office, but Lázar’s wife tells me he’s gone out, he’s going to spend the morning looking after the piano down at TV Record. A famous popular music festival is taking place there, and Dona Dalila tells me about her favourite singers; she has even started to croon a romantic ballad when I cut the call short. After a twenty-minute walk I reach the auditorium, where I find a queue at the box office and a small crowd at the side door. It’s the artists’ entrance, protected by security guards, to whom I present Lázar’s business card, after forcing my way through fans and kiss-asses. The card is passed from hand to hand, and a sweaty employee comes to tell me I’m not allowed in, because there’s already a tuner on the stage. Yes, he’s the one who sent for me, I say, full of pomp, passing myself off as the great João Gilberto’s pianist. But João Gilberto doesn’t have a pianist nor is he participating in the festival, according to the snitch behind me, so I slip over to the bar next door and order a coffee, which I drink standing in the doorway, one foot on the pavement. Every time I blink it takes a great effort to hoist my eyelids back up, and I am on my fourth cup when Lázar comes out of the artists’ door. He throws a tantrum when I haul him off by the jacket; he no longer has any idea who I am, and his cup is still rattling on the saucer when I ask him about a certain Henri, a French pianist with the surname Borgat, Beaugars, or similar. He chases down his coffee with a cheap brandy, which he throws back in one go after tipping some out for his saint, and, looking bored, pulls out of his case a bulging appointment diary bound in turtle leather. But before he even opens it he slaps his hand to his forehead: Of course, Henri Beauregard, an exceptional client, he has not one but two pianos, which he has tuned every month without fail, an Érard baby grand and a full-length Gaveau. Having said all this, he still has the audacity to deny me the pianist’s address and goes to put away the diary, claiming his clients’ details are confidential. I twist the old boy’s arm and his open case spews a handful of tools and a tuning fork onto the filthy floor. On the verge of tears and more hunchbacked than ever, he begs me with clasped hands to be careful with his diary, which is already falling apart, and sheds its pages as I hastily leaf through it looking for the letter H. But it is under B that I find Beauregard Henri, Rua Henrique Schaumann, 449, tel. 807246. I use the telephone right there on the counter, which is jammed with people in competition for plates of steak and onion with rice and beans, it being lunchtime. And, even in the middle of all that din, there is no doubt in my mind as to the owner of the woman’s voice that answers:
‘Alu?’
‘Anne?’
‘…’
‘Madame Beauregard?’
‘Oui?’
Anne is reticent, probably trying to place the voice addressing her in such an informal manner, because a stranger wouldn’t use her first name straight up like that. And I think she might have forgiven the familiarity, if from the timbre of my voice she identified the person on the other end as a son of Sergio de Hollander. Perhaps at first she even thought it was Sergio himself calling her, an illusion that is dashed when I correct myself and address her formally in good French diction. But if Madame Beauregard really knew who was speaking, I would also understand if she felt outraged by the harassment via phone in her own home; after all, after twenty-seven years in the country, she’d have contacted Father if she’d wanted to. And I shudder to think that I was about to call her Frau Borgart, in response to which she would have hung up on me, and understandably so. I imagine that the Beauregards, like so many Jewish families, have radically severed ties with their country of origin. And from the sombre piano in the background, I assume that in that household Anne’s romantic history is a taboo as untouchable as the atrocities of the war.
‘Alu?’
8
At the Beauregards’ address I find a house with closed windows, no sign of life. It is a modest building, almost touching its two neighbours, in a row of double-storey triplets, distinguishable from one another only by their colourings. The Beauregards’ is ochre with green wooden shutters; the second-storey window is in the middle and the bottom one is on the left, in symmetry with the door. A piano like the one at the Municipal Theatre, however easy to disassemble, could only be taken inside by hoisting it over the top of the house, provided they dismantled the roof too. In a second phase, it would be carried down the stairs in the arms of natives little accustomed to such work, who would be further confused by the gestures of the husband and wife in a panic, he about the piano and she about the walls. Even so, it’s hard to imagine a room inside that is large enough for one grand piano, let alone two. If I were the intrepid boy that I once was, I’d have jumped the low wall in front of the house and forced open the window to see for myself, and it isn’t hard to imagine myself between walls that appear swollen, an effect created by mirrors, clocks, engravings, lamp holders and other hanging decorations. And perhaps I would be surprised to find two pianos in the sitting room with ample space, as one is sometimes surprised to see the deceased fit in a coffin that is too small. The pianos would be arranged lengthways, and continuing on I would discover how long the house is, which is hard to judge from the street. But firs
t I would climb the stairs two at a time, and the top floor would be like a dark, narrow train carriage, at the end of which I would come to my brother’s bedroom. Or, along the passageway there would be a succession of cubicles, like train compartments, to house a whole series of siblings, because there is no reason to believe that the Beauregards didn’t procreate during their time in Paris, or even in Brazil. I do not doubt that they have produced children enough to erase the existence of the German son, who, unlike his uterine siblings, wouldn’t study at the French lycée, wouldn’t be allowed near the pianos, would take his meals in the kitchen and perhaps didn’t even live there any more. But today, knowing that any slip-up will be fatal, I don’t even dare open a rickety, lockless gate to set foot on the cement patio between the wall and the house, much less trespass down the side of the building to the backyard, where the family would be revealed to me, inside and out, by the clothes spread out along the clothesline. I stand stock-still in front of the house, and only now do I notice a flowerbed at the foot of the wall, where Anne’s geraniums thrive. I am staring in amusement at her zinc watering can lying on its side, when a white cat jumps out of nowhere onto the patio and goes to lie on the doormat. Then I turn and see a couple appear at the corner, she with a handkerchief over her head, he in a chequered jacket. A little closer and I notice that he is wearing grey kid-leather gloves, as only a foreigner would early in the afternoon in a modest neighbourhood of São Paulo. She has a bag over her shoulder and is carrying a straw basket overflowing with lettuce leaves which isn’t unbecoming. He, too, looks the part, with a bottle of beer in each hand and a stick of bread under his left arm. I couldn’t care less that he is bald, for I’ve never given his appearance any thought; there wasn’t even a tiny photograph of him in the German encyclopaedia. What takes me aback is her hair, which I can already make out under the handkerchief, completely white. Anne, the Anne I was expecting, was no more than thirty just the other day, although she is at least the same age as my mother, who, in contrast, ages inconspicuously. And when her blue eyes pierce me, I am convinced I have seen the couple before, one night at the Zillertal, when her few grey hairs made her look like a faded blonde. Today I’ll limit myself to saying bonjour; at the most I’ll offer to carry their shopping. I’ll hold out my hand in greeting, not to beg. Come to think of it, I’ll pay for a few lessons in advance, if the teacher takes on beginners, but, scowling, he quickens his pace to walk half a step in front of his wife, shielding her from my gaze. Arriving at the gate, he ushers her inside and I get the impression he’s muttering strict orders through clenched teeth. She quickly takes the house key out of her bag and opens the door for her husband, who still looks like he’s whispering the most terrible threats, such as, for example, that she’ll turn into a pillar of salt if she looks back. But before closing the door Anne lets the cat in and glances at me furtively once more.
My German Brother Page 5