The show presented artists from all across the Southern Cone. An Argentinian had cut up a map of Buenos Aires so that only the cemeteries were left visible; a Chilean had created a wall of faces out of thousands of passport photos of the desaparecidos. There were international stars present as well. A famous white South African artist had a video installation that took you on a parallel voyage to the moon, an affectionate pastiche of Méliès, full of silvered light, scratchy Victrola piano, and a rocket fueled by unrequited love. Francesca found Octavio and Jonah there, loitering on the lunar surface. She suggested that the two of them join her on a cigarette break. Octavio agreed, and Jonah, sensing that his friend wanted to have her alone, declined.
“You sure?” said Octavio.
“Yeah, I’ll catch up with you later.”
Jonah watched the two of them gliding down the stairs of the Pinacoteca together. He felt happy for his friend, and envious too. Maybe he’d have the same luck too if he stuck around the opening. But with everyone speaking in Portuguese he just felt lost. On the other hand, he had nothing better to do, so he upgraded from white wine to a glass of champagne and made another tour of the show, trying to take an interest in the labels. But his glass was very soon empty. No one had come over to take an interest in him, and there was no sign of Octavio and Francesca. He looked around for somewhere to leave his plastic flute, smiled at an elderly gentleman he didn’t know, and completed his desultory retreat from the gallery.
Ravines of gray and pink high-rises dominated the scuzzy streets around the Pinacoteca, but the older street-level shops, many of which were closing, spackled their bases with a dusky warmth. He walked back toward the Rialto with the discomforting feeling he was being watched, even though he knew it was really the opposite—he was insignificant to everyone he passed. At a corner, by the large roadway that marked the transition out of the historical city center, he passed a McDonald’s. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day. He looked around. What were the odds Octavio or Francesca would see him if he slipped in?
Everything was the same: the smell, the cold lighting, the demographic combination of working-class families and friends at recreation, and underclass drifters or loners camped out at the formica tables. The girl behind the terminal was dark-skinned with a lively, trained smile. He pointed to the image of the chicken tenders above her and she laughed and helped him through his order. He considered a seat by the large plateglass window overlooking the thoroughfare but opted instead for a booth closer to the condiment dispensary. Maybe it was only fair given the whole situation with Barthes. He hadn’t wanted that, of course; if only Teresa had been available it would all have been different. Was this what it all came down to? There was a tap on his shoulder. The girl from the register was holding a soda out for him. He had forgotten to take it off the counter with his order. Embarrassed, he blurted out an awkward obrigado, which made her quiver with laughter. Her lip gloss sparkled as she said something he didn’t understand beyond its sisterly compassion. She sauntered back to her station. He hadn’t finished his meal, but he was so flustered by the interaction that he wrapped the remaining chicken to go and took off.
When he got back to the room, Octavio was there, his maté gourd in hand, bouncing off the walls with frenetic energy.
“Hey, I figured since I didn’t see you guys come back for a while that maybe you had, you know, gone somewhere, so I…”
“What a woman! Jonah—I’m telling you—this is tremendous, she’s devastated me, there is nothing else to say, no other way to put it!”
“Okay, chill…What happened? What did you get up to?”
They had talked about Francesca’s life in Porto Alegre, about her family. Her parents were involved in city politics but had separated when she was still a teenager and only saw each other when necessary. He also learned that she was a mother. Divorced from the father now and raising the child on her own. A little girl named Paolina. They lived with Francesca’s grandmother, who watched the girl when she went out. She wasn’t from the city originally but from the mountains to the north. Her father was from the nearby city of Alvorada. Apparently, they were both invited to a family dinner at her grandmother’s home that Sunday. Octavio had already said yes, that they would go. He described how as they walked back down toward the gallery she stopped and demanded that Octavio tell her if he had intentions. He said that he did. She demanded that he kiss her so that she could decide if he was worth it. She had approved. The next thing he knew they were back in the champagne chatter of the gallery looking for Jonah.
“When we realized you had gone, Francesca was very upset, actually. I told her it was fine, that you wouldn’t mind at all, but she was all bent out of shape about it. She really likes you. But I’m warning you—don’t get any ideas. Don’t even think about it. This is not a game. I won’t tolerate any more acts of treason.”
16
The following Sunday in the waning afternoon, they made their way to see Francesca Meireles at her grandparent’s apartment on the Travessa da Paz, a tiny street just off the city’s largest park, the Parque Farroupilha. Octavio and Jonah were pleased with themselves for managing to arrive on time, bottles of wine in hand.
Francesca’s grandfather answered the door. He was tall and ushered the Americans in with a small grin and a tilt of the head. He had great Ellington pouches under his eyes, and his hands trembled when he held them up. He coughed and laughed a little as he gave the guests warm hugs. His eyes were sea-greenish like his granddaughter’s and what was left of his hair frayed outward at the sides like the head of a well-worn toothbrush.
Then they saw the girl, a little bundle with a Tintin cowlick, curled up against Francesca’s grandmother, Antônia, a small woman with graying hair in a chignon. They were watching television on a brown couch in the living room. Antônia smiled and pointed at them as she nudged the girl in their direction.
“Paolina, diga olá para nossos convidados.”
Octavio was transfixed, and Jonah responded for both of them, putting forward his best Portuguese. Paolina looked at them wonderingly and half waved before returning her attention to Procurando Nemo, the adventures of the pixelated fish who was blubbering on the screen in dubbed Portuguese.
Francesca was in the kitchen preparing a bottle for her daughter. They all embraced and set about working on trimmings for the roast beef and drinks. They were expecting her father, Euclides (her mother couldn’t come because of a political engagement), and her younger brothers, Carlo and Theo, both still in school and, Francesca noted proudly, avid salsa dancers. So eight people in all, plus Paolina, who would nibble from her mother’s plate. Octavio got to entertaining her grandparents in the living room with tales of their travels, with an emphasis on the marvels (and an elision of the perils) of Rio de Janeiro.
Euclides arrived next. He was a bald-headed bull of a man who clearly had downed more than a few drinks before arriving. Her father gave each of the guests a bear hug—in Octavio’s case, one that looked a little too intense to be comfortable. But when Euclides learned that he was Cuban, he was immediately bellowing and roaring with approval, demanding to know why Francesca hadn’t told him so in the first place. Now the drinking began in earnest, and even Francesca’s grandmother had a full glass of wine. Around eight o’clock, as everything was nearing completion, the brothers arrived. Carlo and Theo came in together in mud-streaked soccer jerseys, declaring themselves victorious and tramping about the apartment singing their club’s fight songs. They barely noticed the Americans as they swept up their grandparents in their arms, dancing around the living room, tossing Paolina in the air, and romping all over the furniture. Euclides barked at them to get in the shower. Francesca shouted from the kitchen that they smelled. And without any further prompting, like a passing cyclone, they disappeared to get changed.
When everyone finally sat down to the family meal, Octavio was seated between Francesca and her fath
er, while Jonah was placed in a corner seat next to Antônia. They all took each other’s hands around the table to say grace. Francesca’s grandfather intoned the benediction in a soft near-whisper. Jonah closed his eyes. Antônia’s hand was buttery smooth like a leaf of chard.
The dinner could begin. Euclides carved with pomp as he quizzed Theo and Carlo on the details of their match. When everyone had been served, they all began eating and there was a general silence until from across the table, Francesca’s grandfather addressed the guests in a quaint English:
“So, my boys, what are you doing in Brazil?”
Theo and Carlo chuckled to themselves. Octavio decided to take it on.
“We are traveling. We came to visit a friend, but some of our plans had to change, and we realized it was a chance to see more of this beautiful country, and to delay going back to the United States.”
“Are you with some kind of an exchange program?” her grandfather pursued.
“No, not exactly. My friend Jonah is a great teacher, and I am…a poet…and I am on a mission, an expedition, I have come to understand, to learn, to discover the true materials I need for my poetry.”
Theo and Carlo burst out laughing at this point and would have continued unrestrained if it not for Euclides’s admonishing glare.
“They come all this way to see us, isn’t it wonderful, and what do we have to show them—a country bankrupted by violence and corruption, our whole society a charade for these rotten politicians to plunder at will…a carnival, yes, a carnival of greed, and with the Party as—”
Francesca, who had been spooning rice for her daughter, jumped in with tender exasperation.
“Papa, please!”
At this her grandmother advised Francesca not to raise her voice, and then asked the table at large if maybe a discussion of politics could be left for another more appropriate occasion. Everyone fell into a cumbersome silence. The brothers suddenly declared that they had to go, the weekend had landed, they explained, and they were going out dancing. They cleared their own plates and gave a hasty salute as they bolted for the door. After they had gone, Euclides struck up a conversation with Jonah about politics, but kept his voice down.
Octavio asked Francesca if he could give Paolina a present, a book he had bought on Jonah’s recommendation. He wanted to inscribe it, and Francesca helped him write a note.
When he showed Paolina the book, she pried it open cautiously and mussed a few pages before looking up.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s The Little Prince,” he said. “A book for you.”
The girl looked down again, this time at the cover, which showed a French boy with hair the color of stars, wearing a bowtie and a flared pistachio jumpsuit, standing on a lonely planet. “But he’s not a little prince,” she said decisively. “He’s a big king!” Octavio knew better than to argue with that.
Euclides insisted that if his guests had come this far to see the real Brazil, they must see his mountain cabin before they left. He explained that he would have business in Alvorada for the next few days, but that he could pick them up the following Friday and drive them to the Serra. Francesca urged them to come. They enthusiastically agreed.
Jonah saw less and less of his roommate that week, and spent more and more time wandering alone around the city or drifting through slow-motion cyberspace at the hostel. With nothing in particular to do, he felt a new kind of freedom, and as his Portuguese improved, he was getting better at navigating the small necessities of everyday life. It was pleasant to be untethered to, and unencumbered by, Octavio; he even enjoyed his best-friend role as he got daily news of increasingly romantic and intimate encounters. Best of all, it gave him time to write to Arna, and he spent more than one late night writing up his impressions of the new city, telling her about Octavio’s manic episodes and his maté binging, the strange but oddly beautiful poetry of his journal, and their new adventures in the art world.
He told Arna about the things Octavio was relating to him about Francesca. How they would meet in the little barzhinos in Cidade Baixa with Francesca’s small band of rowdy friends and go out to tightly packed spots where they danced to the slinky languor of forró. How late into the night, they would follow the other couples spilling out of the clubs and drift down toward the love motels in Menino Deus. How returning to the Rialto at dawn, he passed teams of black boys collecting trash by hand and filling carts pulled by donkeys on their morning rounds.
On the appointed Friday, Euclides appeared at the Rialto to pick them up. Octavio and Jonah clambered in the front of an aging Ford truck. Inside it smelled like old tennis balls, and the engine roared and groaned as he handled the staff of the gearshift.
Their first stop was a discount grocery store where Euclides ordered the boys out to get supplies. The truck loaded, they drove out of the city, north and slightly west. When they turned off the highway half an hour later, they passed over a drainage ditch filled with garbage and then onto an unpaved road that led through an extensive network of dilapidated and unfinished housing. The place was teeming with life. Francesca’s father pulled over to talk to a young man who was kicking a soccer ball around with a little boy. An older woman came out of her home, shouted greetings, and went back inside. They continued farther into the settlement. “Where are we?” Octavio finally asked.
“This is Alvorada,” Euclides said. “My hometown, my baby, my district, my jewel…It’s a good place, good people. Some problems like everywhere, but good people, you know. Everyone you meet here, I know them. Everybody is who I work for. They know, I am the one.”
He insisted on taking them to see some of the things that he was responsible for. The first was the site of a five-story housing project unit. The building, a gray affair that sternly blockaded the horizon, was obviously in disrepair. He explained how he had fought off the speculators and owners who had tried to have the building razed so they could sell the land. How he had organized resistance groups that infiltrated and sabotaged the wrecking crews that came to do their bidding. The second site was a vague patch of land with a partly caved-in warehouse. Some gravel, dripping puddles of mortar, and loose bricks had been poured on the ground. The better part of it was covered in sprouting weeds.
“This,” Euclides announced, sweeping his hand over the spilled gravel like a wand, “will soon be Alvorada’s first youth sporting complex…my dream—and I’ve had to fight for it, but you know, we have to do something for the youth. Look around you…who else will do it? The politicians? You know what they are: pickpockets, my friends; thieves! They line their pockets and then put their smiling face on a billboard over the highway…ha! I spit in their eyes. Always watch the generals, I tell you. In this part of the world, it’s always the generals…Nothing that way has changed, nothing.”
When they arrived at his home, Euclides pulled up to the curb and honked the horn with two fierce jabs. Children were coming in and out of the house and chasing one another through the front lawn and down the street.
“I’ll stay in the car,” Euclides said. “You go in and get Francesca and help bring out her things.”
Jonah heard Francesca shout somewhere deep inside the house. From the doorway, he could hear through the living room to the kitchen, where someone was chopping vegetables. Paolina looked up at him from the floor by the television and continued ironing the rug vigorously with her wooden toy plane. It was a red airplane about the length of a pencil, and it had a slender white propeller. Just then Octavio stepped in the doorway. Paolina’s gaze fixed and widened, and the airplane stopped mid-flight.
Francesca came swooping into the room, taking the girl up in her arms, balancing travel bags and packs in her free hand.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, kissing Octavio on the cheek. “Paolina. Say hello, give the boys a kiss.”
The girl was reluctant, but her mother coaxed her. Jonah got a ki
ss first. Octavio got one too, and for the first time, Jonah saw him blush.
The truck climbed steadily and gruffly into the mountains. They were long off the highway now, climbing narrow switchbacks on a path of ochre-red dirt. Octavio sat in the front with Euclides, discussing soccer. The patriarch was recounting the glory days of the Colorados: the forties, a golden era when Internacional crushed Grêmio, their bourgeois Porto Alegre rivals. But, Euclides moaned, those days were past. Now the Gremistas were in a seemingly unstoppable ascendancy, a shift that could not be dissociated from the virulently bourgeois ideology of the present epoch, the grave malaise of the social situation; and one would have to mention the increasingly clear sense that even though the PT had come to power—and perhaps even for that very reason—the tide of class warfare had markedly turned in favor of the bourgeoisie. How could it be! When the Left came to power, they implemented the program of the Right. Madness. Under Lula the speculators in São Paolo had seen their fortunes inflate. The poor, of course, were being pushed down, shoved under the rug to make way for upscale shopping complexes, ostracized from the same cities they had built, cast out to the periphery, to places like Alvorada.
In the back seat, Francesca and Jonah had Paolina tucked in between them. Mostly she asked her mother about Jonah. Was he from Africa? He said no, that he was from America—North America. Paolina told Jonah that he should look out for the lions and zebras. Francesca was embarrassed and told her that she was confusing America and Africa. Paolina looked at Jonah and insisted on her cautionary note anyway.
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