by Ed Siegle
Inside, the manageress was setting out plastic chairs.
‘One more minute and I’d have sacked your bunda,’ she said.
The dawn woke Debbie and she couldn’t sleep, so she sat at the breakfast bar of her new flat and looked out of the window across Marine Parade at the early light on the sea. Somewhere over there Joel was searching for his father. She wondered if he’d made any progress. She wondered if she’d ever look at the sea and think of someone else. Life is never simple, she thought. Isn’t that its joy? You don’t choose who you love, not if you own a properly functioning heart.
Still, they weren’t together any more. They’d given it all they could over the years, that was what they’d said. It would be for the best, in the end. It was a good thing he was in Brazil – and very apt. At least it meant he couldn’t walk through the door. She wished she could remove him from her thoughts, but nearly twenty years together had painted pretty well everything the colour of their relationship. There was little left from a time when life had just been hers.
Over in the corner, under the window, was a box containing some of his possessions, a few stray items she’d found among her own. He’d been meaning to pick it up. She’d been thinking of throwing it out. She knelt beside it and opened the lid. As she observed the artefacts an idea came to her and she laughed to herself: what’s the harm? It won’t solve anything, but it’ll feel good. She selected a couple of dog-eared Brazilian novels, a few postcards and a sarong someone had bought for Joel on Ipanema beach. She considered picking out an old diary but thought better of it. She found a pair of Flamengo socks and a poster showing the bonde route through Santa Teresa. She took a can of lighter fluid from the kitchen and a wooden tray of Joel’s she’d never really liked. ‘These’ll do,’ she said aloud. ‘No need to go overboard.’
She put the lot in a bin bag and strode across the road. She crunched across the pebbles to the edge of the sea, glad her flat was to the east of the pier where fewer people were likely to complain. She tipped the contents of the bag on to the tray, ripped the sarong in two, tore up a book and squirted lighter fluid liberally. She pushed the tray on to the waves and threw a match towards it. It missed, but a second one hit and flames started to wave from the low heap, until fragments floated over the water.
‘Look, Mummy!’ shouted a little girl.
‘Cool!’ said her mother, and lifted her daughter up to watch the pyre bob further from the shore.
Two small boys started to throw pebbles – ploop, plop – rocking the burning tray. A direct hit roused a cheer from passing students who joined in. Burning pages scattered, water shipped on board, until with the clatter of a boulder from on high the vessel capsized. The crowd applauded and Debbie took a bow.
Later she took a shower, spending time over her hair, washing it slowly as she steamed. She brushed it for a long time, dried it with care then did her make-up differently: darker eyes, wetter-looking lips. She curled her lashes and put on a dress she’d been eyeing in a shop for weeks which fitted like a garment easily cast off. She checked all angles in the mirror, knocked back a tequila shot, turned off the stereo, put on her silver shoes and left the house.
She met Emma at a cocktail bar – all smooth edges and chocolate-coloured sofas. They sipped flavoured martinis served in smoked glasses. Debbie knew they mixed a wicked caipirinha but decided it was not on her menu. Before she could stop herself she wondered what Joel was doing at that moment. Brazil was four hours behind. Getting ready to go out on the town, no doubt. In Rio de-bloody-Janeiro, the little sod.
They moved to a pub and drank a couple of pints. The male specimens looked weedy or vain or ragged around the edges, or seemed to have a desperate look in their eye. She shook her head when a smiling pair quizzically eyed the other half of their table. A balding man doused in sandalwood asked her if she wanted a drink.
‘What do you reckon?’ she said.
They knocked back a couple of tequila shots and talked about Emma’s latest near miss with a relationship. The bloke she currently fancied was married. Debbie said she didn’t understand how someone in love with someone – if they really were in love with someone – could sleep with somebody else. Perhaps because he was more in love with himself, she mused. Emma told her not to be naïve. Debbie said she certainly couldn’t imagine doing it with any of these cretins, love or no love, and ‘doing it’ seemed about the most glamorous way to describe it. It would not be the stuff of poetry. Better to have lost in love than never to have loved at all? Debbie wondered if there was a pat proverb to shed light on loving someone who was unquestionably deranged but who still seemed better than any living alternative.
‘Those chairs taken?’ asked a bloke with pointy facial hair.
‘No,’ said Debbie.
‘Mind if we – ?’
‘Yes,’ said Debbie.
She couldn’t quite believe it when they scuttled off. What was wrong with a good old-fashioned pointless argument?
‘You’re not really in the swing of this, are you?’ said Emma.
‘Limbo is all very well as a dance,’ said Debbie.
‘Shall we move on?’
‘I can’t think of anywhere I’d like to go right now. If I see anyone enjoying themselves I might just punch them.’
‘We could call it a night, if you like?’ said Emma.
‘How about Beachy Head?’
‘Or there’s always Casablanca’s?’
‘God, has it really come to that?’ grinned Debbie.
‘You know you love it,’ Emma replied.
At Casablanca’s, they drank pints of lager with Tuaca chasers. Debbie’s limbs felt loose and her stomach warm. They found a dancefloor and lurked at the fringe. What a bunch, thought Debbie. Everyone looked happy, though. The music was hardly cutting-edge, but in this state neither would be her moves. She laughed at the suggestion that they ever had been, eased into the flow of a summer disco tune, spun on her heel, pointed at Emma and they were off. Dance, dance, dance, she thought. She shimmied with strangers and was relieved that no one tried to grope her. The old legs were a bit wobbly, down there far away from her waggling head, but they seemed fairly under control. She managed to turn a couple of staggers into quasi-moves. She guessed most of the words to a ’70s song she’d forgotten she even knew. They boogied until the club shut.
Outside, the crowd shrank as the final punters headed home. Debbie insisted they say goodnight to the sea.
‘Come on, honey,’ said Emma. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
‘Give me a minute,’ slurred Debbie. ‘The night’s not quite over the hill just yet. Only in its thirties. Plenty of life in the girl.’
They meandered across the road and leant on the rail of the promenade. Stars shone. The sea was nearly calm; they could hear a gentle whoosh over the boom boom beat of the serious clubs under the arches below. They walked very carefully down some steps to the beach. Debbie led Emma over the pebbles towards the lap of the sea, where they sat for a while on Emma’s denim jacket, fidgeting for comfort on the stones.
‘A man overboard at night is a man dead,’ said Debbie.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Emma.
‘You wouldn’t catch me dead in the sea, even in the day,’ said Debbie. ‘Bloody fish.’
‘What have you got against fish?’
‘Slimy, never-blinking eyes, lurking.’
‘If they don’t close their eyes,’ asked Emma, ‘how do they sleep?’
‘Maybe they gather under the pier, looking up at the stars and roosting starlings.’
‘Darling starlings,’ said Emma.
‘Rio lies at 219 degrees from here,’ said Debbie. She sat up a bit and pointed. ‘That’s that-a-way, to the layman.’
‘Layman? There’s a joke there somewhere,’ chuckled Emma.
‘He’s in love with another – did I tell you?’
‘Another what?’
‘He’s in love with a woman called Brazil,’ slurred Debbie.
‘He must be nuts.’
‘If you crack another joke like that I might have to swim from this island myself.’
‘Isle remember that,’ said Emma.
‘I don’t suppose he’s sparing me a moment’s thought.’
‘That’s OK, because we’re not thinking about him, either.’
‘I like your thinking,’ said Debbie.
‘I think we should go home.’
‘I think you’re right.’
At ten o’clock in the evening Joel and Liam took a cab to Copacabana. They buzzed at the gate of Eva’s block. She took a few minutes to emerge.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ she said. ‘How do I look?’
‘Fit for any president,’ said Liam and kissed her twice on the cheeks.
‘Are we sure about black?’ asked Eva, twirling. ‘I didn’t feel like white tonight. I’m not so pure – I have hidden treasures, riddles, mystique.’
Soon the taxi was skirting the curve of Botafogo beach. Sugarloaf stood plump and pointy across the water, crowned with half-lit buildings, its cable necklace dangling. The lights of yachts scribbled squiggles on the bay. The taxi sped between the low trees of Flamengo park, where in the shadows at the edges of the road, on the grass beneath low trees, children huddled under blankets, their eyes catching the light like cats. Joel wondered if his father searched for somewhere to sleep at night or whether he had a place to stay.
The taxi slowed as the arches of the viaduct appeared and suddenly the world outside whirled. Young black men and women flowed in all directions, their limbs brushing the car as it drew to a halt. Stepping out, Joel saw the kerb was crowded with vendors, squatting with stoves or baskets of food, others standing with sizzling carts or dispensing drinks in plastic cups. The air was thick with a rhythm of beats from bars overlaid with vendors’ cries, and smelled of smoke from stalls and the perfume of passing girls. Joel wanted to dive into the crowd, trailing his hands to touch all things Brazilian. Liam looked nervous and waited for Eva to swing her legs from the car and Joel saw that sharp eyes flicked to him, as Liam’s eyes sought to look at nothing.
‘Let’s go!’ said Eva, and Liam followed her into the mêlée, as Joel strode behind, his eyes ranging, until they darted through a simple door. They bought handwritten tickets stamped with the image of a mandolin, then brushed through a gap in curtains to a room laid out with chairs in which a man in white was tuning up with a group of musicians. A smiling woman in a linen suit pointed to their plastic seats.
The man in white sat on a low stage only feet from their place in the front row. He dished out smiles and nods to the audience as they settled into their chairs, and he chatted with the other musicians: a bald guy on mandolin, a plump woman on flute, a young guy in a singlet on percussion – cuíca drum and agogô – and there was a grey-haired man with a tambourine and an accordion at his feet. To the tic-tac, tic-tic of a stick on wood they slid into a rhythm, heads moving in time, elastically bound. They played a chorinho tune, whose plucked notes fell from the strings of a mandolin as the sad voice of the guitarist belied his happy eyes. What perfect seats they had, Joel thought, since between songs the singer seemed to address his anecdotes almost entirely to the three of them. He rambled through topics from religion to Flamengo – via a brief discourse on ants – and the audience were warm to his words, though eventually the linen-suited lady ran a finger across her throat. The band swung into the ebb and flow of a forró tune, which Joel recognised as ‘Esperando na Janela’.
‘Debbie was mad about this tune,’ Joel said merrily. ‘I played it to her once and then she was always putting it on.’
‘Can you dance forró, Joelinho?’ Eva said.
‘Very badly,’ said Joel.
‘Come on,’ said Eva. ‘I’ll teach you. Then you can wow her when you get home.’
‘Right now, I don’t think she’d take kindly to me treading on her toes.’
‘Better the right man all over your toes than the wrong man waltzing you off your feet,’ said Eva, catching Liam’s eye.
‘Now you mention it,’ Joel said, ‘I’d been meaning to ask – do you know where I can get a snow globe in Rio? She likes to throw them at my head.’
‘Where I come from that’s an act of love,’ said Eva.
She rose and they pushed a space between the chairs.
‘Like this,’ she said. ‘One two, one two, to the side, that’s right…’
‘How about you, Eva – I hear you’re on the lookout for a president?’
‘There is a serious lack. One would think a bar like this – not too authentic, not too inauthentic – would be heaving with presidents big and small and in between. The problem with presidents – and I tell myself this time and again but I never listen – is they don’t like dancing. A president can’t afford to make a fool of himself, and you can’t dance unless you can be a fool. I know, I know – how can I even think of falling in love with a man who doesn’t dance? I confess – it’s a problem, there’s no way round it. But I think that with a little love dancing feet can be put on the legs of any man.’
Another song started. Joel and Eva danced closer to the stage. Though Joel was pleased he’d managed to grasp the basics, it was a joy to watch locals flex more elaborate routines. The music came to a halt and the band started to rise. The singer grinned and hopped from the stage.
‘May I trouble you?’ he said to Eva in Portuguese.
‘Of course, my friend. You play like an angel!’
‘Thank you, my goddess,’ Nelson replied with a little bow.
‘If I were really a goddess, I’d have a president on my arm and a full glass in my hand. Nothing else would I change tonight, even with divine powers – though I might arrange for these boys to have their hearts a little fuller. So many bad men in the world, and these two good ones going to waste. Joel here even has a goddess back at home, he’s just not been very good at worshipping, so she’s sent him to Purgatory for a while.’
‘If this is Purgatory, I’ll take it,’ said Joel.
‘I guess we aren’t too far from heaven or hell,’ said Nelson. ‘Both are just around the corner in the Marvellous City.’
‘Well in the absence of any angels bearing drinks,’ said Eva, ‘we’ll have to go the the bar ourselves. Besides, we need to soak a little rhythm into those English legs. Come on, Liaminho, it’s your round.’
Eva and Liam headed for the bar. Joel and the singer stood for a moment, then the singer clapped a hand on Joel’s back in a half embrace and asked him in Portuguese, ‘What’s your name, brother? Mine is Nelson.’
‘Joel,’ he replied.
‘Americano?’
‘English,’ said Joel, in Portuguese.
‘You speak pretty well for an English guy.’
‘Maybe not so good for a kid who grew up in Ipanema.’
‘In Ipanema? Que legal!’ said Nelson. ‘A brother Carioca.’
‘I aim to be by the time I leave in a couple of weeks, that’s for sure. Just twenty-five years of catching up to do.’
‘Where better to have twenty-five years of fun in a fortnight?’
‘I’ll drink to that!’ said Joel, and drained his glass.
‘So are you back to visit old friends, the family, your lover, the goddess…?’
‘Eva?’ laughed Joel. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I’m here to track down my father.’
‘It’s always good to look out for your family,’ Nelson said, and patted Joel on the shoulder again.
‘I’ve waited half my life to hear music like this,’ said Joel. ‘Do you play here every night?’
‘I would if she let me,’ said Nelson, nodding towards the manageress. ‘Listen, if you like the music, maybe I could put on a show one night. I wouldn’t ask for much –’
‘Two caipirinhas!’ said Eva, handing a tumbler to Joel, and another to Nelson.
Nelson grinned and they all chinked classes and said, ‘Saude,’ but the manageress was mouthing to him now,
so he stuck a little thumb up to them, thanked them for the drink, and went to speak to her. Joel watched Nelson circulate, though he didn’t stop to talk to any of the others, and Joel wondered if the attentiveness of the singer came as part of their prime pitch in the middle of the floor. It was a shame he’d moved on. Joel liked the sound of a private show – or was it one of those tourist scams you were meant to avoid, even though it sounded like you’d be missing out?
‘So tell me, Joel,’ said Eva, ‘what are you doing about your father?’
‘Well, we’ve been back to Jardim Botânico, asked around, put posters up. I guess we’ll hit the streets again tomorrow, stop by the old flat in case anyone in the block knows him –’
‘Listen, Joelinho, I have a friend at a ministry. I can ask if she can find some record of your father. But you have to promise me you’ll be careful – you can’t go wandering the streets like locals, darling – listen to your aunt Eva and don’t be a hard-head.’
‘I promise – though it’s a bit easier for me than for Liam – at least I look Brazilian.’
‘A bit Brazilian, not a lot Brazilian, querido.’
‘Wait till you see me in a Flamengo shirt.’
‘I can tell you’re a gringo from twenty kilometres!’ Eva said.
‘Now you’re exaggerating,’ laughed Joel.
‘I could tell blindfold!’
They drank and danced, more and more, as the music slowly quickened. The room became crammed, the chairs scattered, as into the early hours the band played on. Joel and Liam danced forró with Eva and friends of hers and strangers. The world became a whirl of staggers and steps, while Nelson sat above on the stage, his eyes seeming to follow their moves. Until finally even Nelson was on his feet and dancing as the band slammed off the night with a quickening version of ‘Aquarela do Brasil’, the chorus of which was chanted by everyone – ‘Brasil! Pra Mim, Pra Mim, Brasil!’ – until long after the band had laid down their instruments and bowed a final time.
When the chanting finally stopped and the public started to slip away, Nelson tried to speak to Eva again, but the manageress collared him to stack up chairs. Joel led Liam and Eva out of the bar and they roamed the streets for a while, squeezing through the crowds, their blood racing too fast to quit just yet. Liam felt bolder now that he was full of cachaça, and Joel felt more Brazilian too, which was an odd thought, he realised, since he was Brazilian, and he couldn’t help but wonder where he’d be that same night if he’d never left the country of his birth. So he studied the locals for a while and imagined he was them, until it seemed this was a drunken line of thought. Perhaps I’d be singing in a bar like Nelson, Joel thought, though why the geography of his upbringing should effect miracles on his vocal cords he couldn’t explain. In the end they all tired, so, pausing to watch one more song from a band playing at a table on a pavement, they headed for a taxi rank and took a cab home.