by Ed Siegle
‘Bit of a shock, don’t you think?’ asked Tony.
‘He’s thirty-four.’
‘Yes, but… your boss and your mother?’
‘He did introduce us,’ said Jackie.
‘Not with this in mind.’
‘I suppose that depends on what you mean by “this”.’
Tony put a hand softly on the back of her head. The kiss started lightly and rolled on, lasting longer than Jackie expected. Three dinners, two walks along the seafront, a movie, two freezing stints on park benches, innumerable pecks on the cheek and finally…
A loitering waiter intervened. They composed themselves and ordered.
‘I expect you were wondering…’ said Tony, looking happy.
‘…if you were ever going to get round to it?’
He laughed. It was absurd, though in the sweet mist of her present mood it didn’t vex her as it might have. She did feel twenty-one and he acted fifteen, yet between them they had a hundred and twenty-one years. Hadn’t they learned anything? They had learned it and forgotten it again, she supposed, and if that weren’t true this wouldn’t feel half as good. Other people, sophisticated people, seemed to become more accomplished as they grew older and Jackie was tempted to marvel at them – though she didn’t. How dull it looked to have it all worked out.
‘So when are we going to tell him?’ asked Tony.
‘When he’s back from Brazil.’
‘You must be having kittens?’
‘About him being there?’
‘About Gilberto. I mean, if he’s alive, doesn’t that – ?’
‘He’s most certainly not,’ said Jackie squeezing his hand. ‘Look, I think it’s something Joel needs to get out of his system – he probably should have gone years ago.’
A waiter brought their starters. Jackie looked out of the window. A solitary seagull sat on a mooring post. Jackie took a gulp of champagne and tried to keep a lid on old feelings. She looked at the lights of the boats. Dead he was, dead. Yet because of that dead bastard Tony was no longer pressing his knee to hers and she was drinking faster than she ought to. She wanted so badly for Tony to take her to bed and yet, no matter how sweet it would feel, in some small way it would always be in spite of Gilberto. He might be dead but he was always lurking.
‘Let’s talk about us,’ Jackie said.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Tony.
‘Tell me how great you are.’
‘I’m bloody marvellous.’
‘Give me some examples,’ said Jackie.
‘They’ve gone clean out of my mind.’
‘Give me some dirty ones, then.’
‘I can see where your son gets his terrific sense of humour,’ said Tony.
‘He despairs at my sense of humour.’
‘Maybe there is some hope for him, in that case.’
‘I don’t care what he thinks,’ Jackie lied.
‘So why don’t we tell him about us?’
‘We will.’
‘When he comes back?’ asked Tony.
‘When there’s more of an “us” to tell him about.’
Tony looked at Jackie and Jackie studied Tony. He had more wrinkles of happiness than of pain, she thought. She liked the fact that she didn’t have a clue what he’d say next. Perhaps it was always like that at the start, but it was thrilling nonetheless.
‘When did we start lying to our children?’ he said with a chuckle.
‘We’ve always lied to them.’
‘Speak for yourself!’
‘Once upon a time,’ said Jackie, ‘they didn’t poke their noses into our business.’
‘Perhaps our business was simpler then.’
‘There’s no harm in a bit of complexity,’ Jackie said.
‘Sounds good,’ said Tony. ‘Though I’m not so sure it’s true.’
The main course came and went. They drank a bottle and a half of red wine, which stained their teeth. They shared a chocolate pudding, finished their coffees and Jackie insisted on paying the bill.
‘Consider it a thank-you, on behalf of my son,’ she said.
‘All right,’ said Tony. ‘But next time’s on me.’
‘You can take me to the bar and buy me a martini, with an olive. Then you can take me back to yours.’
When rehearsing this sort of moment, Jackie had expected Tony to look ruffled. Instead he looked happy, and she felt it was going to be a wonderful night. Tony led her to the bar. Jackie devoured her cocktail olive and tried not to gulp down her martini. Tony called a taxi for Hove. Jackie finished her drink, put on her coat, allowed Tony to take her arm and turned to the door.
Through the door walked Carlo. He wore a polo-neck under a double-breasted jacket and tan loafers with tassels. What folly, Jackie thought on seeing Carlo next to Tony. Life could play its tricks, but the worst by far were those you played on yourself.
‘Jackie?’ Carlo said. ‘Miriam’s poker night?’
‘Last-minute change of plan,’ said Jackie.
‘An old friend, no doubt,’ said Carlo, holding his hand out to Tony.
‘Something like that,’ said Tony shaking his hand firmly.
‘Got plenty of friends, our Jackie,’ said Carlo.
‘So I’m learning,’ said Tony.
‘Full of surprises!’ said Carlo.
‘We’d better be getting away,’ said Jackie.
‘Nothing like an early night,’ said Carlo.
The sky was dark outside and the air cool. Jackie and Tony stood apart, trying to find words before they opened the taxi doors.
Tony smiled and shook his head.
‘Look –’ he started.
‘It’s over between me and Carlo,’ said Jackie. ‘Dead and buried. I swear.’
‘Another man who thinks he’s rather less dead than you make out.’
‘It’s over. I meant everything I said. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
Tony held the door open and Jackie climbed inside. He told the driver to make a stop in Hanover. The taxi drove slowly along the seafront. Jackie felt anxiety inflate. It made her want to scream – to have felt so electrified. One more day, a simple phone call to Carlo, and there would have been no further need for deception. She had been minutes from the chance of a relationship with a man with a little decency about him – and how many of those were there aged sixty-four with the body of a younger man who seemed to want more than someone to do the ironing? She could not help but feel that here was the hand of Gilberto again. Maybe Joel’s trip would serve some purpose other than his own; perhaps if Joel proved Gilberto was dead the bastard would stop haunting her. She knew he was dead, she could feel he was dead, and yet… God! What did she need – to see his corpse?
It has nothing to do with Gilberto, she told herself. Face facts: you’ve made a mess of it, again, full stop. History didn’t exactly argue otherwise.
The taxi stopped outside her house. Jackie stood on the pavement and Tony came round to her side.
‘It’s been fun,’ he said.
He gave her a hug. A bloody hug, she thought. She felt a brush of stubble against her cheek. Their mouths were close but they didn’t move together.
Jackie pulled away and smiled. ‘It can still be fun,’ she said.
Tony climbed into the car. As she stepped towards her door she felt a moment of panic, fearing she’d never again feel as happy as earlier, let alone have the chance to feel happier still. The moment passed. If it really was right with Tony, then everything could be resolved – couldn’t it? She scrabbled for her keys. She watched the car drive away, let herself into the house, took out her cigarettes, sat at the bottom of the stairs and lit up. She undid the tight buckles on her shoes and wiggled her cramped toes. When she’d finished her cigarette, she wept.
Nelson sneaked up behind Fat Paulo, put his hands over his eyes and said, ‘Guess who?’
‘Dead Nelson,’ said Paulo.
‘Very much aliv
e,’ said Nelson.
‘Until Adolfo finds you,’ said Paulo, and went back to polishing the counter.
Nelson sat on his stool. Soon more of the guys turned up and Nelson took their friendly slaps and bought them beers with one of Joel’s notes. Then Zemané arrived, wearing a Panama hat which looked too new and turned out to be a present from his wife. He sat on his stool smoking a cigar, observing Nelson joke around, wearing a look Nelson wished he could read.
While the boys were looking for ants, Nelson bent to the ear of Zemané and said, ‘I know I shouldn’t have come, but –’
‘You might as well,’ said Zemané. ‘The word is out: everybody knows you’re rich.’
‘Hardly rich –’
‘Rich enough to open the eyes of sleeping debts.’
‘It’ll be OK, you’ll see,’ said Nelson, twisting hair between his fingers. ‘I’ll be able to pay him something soon. I’ve made a plan and it’s working, I’m earning every day –’
‘When a debtor without money doesn’t pay, a creditor gets disappointed,’ said Zemané.
‘Sure,’ said Nelson, ‘I understand, but –’
‘When a debtor with money doesn’t pay, he gets angry.’
‘Right, yes, but –’
‘Adolfo is bad enough when he’s happy. Now…’
Nelson wanted to buy Zemané a beer to make things seem all right, but the phone in the bar rang, causing everyone to turn in surprise and watch Paulo hunt behind the Pope. When the phone had been installed, Paulo had called it his hotline to heaven. It hardly ever rang, so the regulars joked that his place had been booked in hell.
‘Hotel José Manoel?’ said Paulo when he found the phone. ‘One minute…’ He passed the phone to Zemané.
‘Good day,’ Zemané said. ‘Senhor José Manoel? Speaking… Yes, I remember Nelson – the finest worker we ever had… And who might you be? … He always spoke most highly of your establishment, I must pay a visit soon… As luck would have it, he just dropped by… I’ll pass you over.’
Nelson took the phone. ‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Whatever is going on,’ said the stern voice of the manageress, ‘it better not be trouble. I have someone to speak to you.’
‘Malandro!’ came the low voice of Eva.
‘My goddess,’ said Nelson, tossing a wink to the crowd, causing a ripple of hand-slaps.
‘When I get my hands on you –’
‘So why don’t we combine for a chat? The stars are shining and –’
‘If I wanted mumbo-jumbo I’d sit on my bunda all day watching soaps. But I don’t, malandro, oh, no, I don’t. I go to work, in an office, in a suit, with people who also like to earn a living. Not like some vagabundo spending another man’s money, pretending to lend him a hand. Well, Joel might stand for it – poor boy, if his mother could see him now – but I won’t, malandro, I won’t.’
‘All is not always as it seems, my goddess,’ said Nelson, making gestures of ‘no problem’ to the crowd, who’d started to laugh at the audible shrieking. ‘Meet me at Carioca station, at five o’clock. I’ll show you something that’ll change your mind.’
‘Take a tram ride with you? Yes, please! Take me into the hills at dusk! Murder me in an alley –’
‘Send my regards to the manageress,’ said Nelson, and hung up.
The phone rang again and, when Nelson signalled he didn’t want it, at a nod from Zemané Paulo pulled out the cord. A murmur of exclamations splintered into half a dozen conversations, as the men round the bar analysed the call. Theories sprouted. Nelson had never been one to share details, and many had suspected there were no details to recount. Yet here was a hysterical woman on the end of the phone who wasn’t his mother, and that could only mean one thing. They looked on Nelson with new eyes. Telling them he was off to prepare dinner for a goddess, he left the bar with whistles ringing in his ears.
Nelson caught a bus to a market, then hauled his catch home. He dug out a tablecloth and tall cream candles, vacuumed rugs, swept floors and arranged the music room. He tuned his guitar and practised a few songs, then set about preparing dinner. It was a while since he’d cooked for somebody else and it made him think he must surely be rising in the world, given that barely a week ago he hadn’t had the means to feed himself. He took ingredients out of bags: eggs, a brown coconut and sugar for beijinhos; milk, butter, eggs, flour and queijo de minas cheese for Zila’s receipe for cheese-bread. Since the sea was the realm of Yemanjá, Nelson assumed his goddess would not object to a bit of cod, with broccoli on the side and sandy farofa de ovo. He chopped and mixed for nearly an hour until, as the squares of sunlight on the surfaces slanted into longer shapes, neat pyramids of ingredients sat waiting in bowls. Nelson threw cloths over them, then quickly showered and shaved with a new razor without bristles in the blades. He took his white outfit off the washing line and, scented with the fat man’s cologne, let himself out of the front door and hurried down to the tram stop, where he jumped on a tramcar just before it left.
The afternoon sun had passed behind the hills, though there were patches of light on the city as the shadows spread. The tram rattled over the viaduct and was soon pulling into Carioca station. Nelson could see Eva waiting on the platform with her arms crossed, dressed in white, refusing to smile as he hopped off. He went to kiss her on both cheeks but she stepped back.
‘Come for a ride,’ he said. ‘Give me a chance.’
‘Are you totally crazy? Don’t answer that, don’t. What am I even doing here when the sun is about to go down and I have a million better things to do? I’ve just come to say: stay away from Joel – do you understand? I would ask you to give the money back – I know you won’t – but at least you can disappear. Go back to your guitar and leave that boy alone.’
‘I don’t care about the money,’ said Nelson. ‘Here, have it back. Give it to Joel and say I’m sorry. Perhaps it’s better if I don’t help. Maybe you’re right.’
Nelson counted out a hundred and fifty reais and held them towards Eva. This is what Zemané would call a calculated risk, he thought. He wondered if she’d take the money. He didn’t think she would and hoped he was right. After paying for the cod, the rest of the food and even a bottle of sparkling Chandon – a drink Nelson knew Zemané drank with his wife – he was left with less than twenty reais.
Eva took the money and put it in her bag. Nelson watched her fingers squeeze the clasp shut.
Eva had to admit she was surprised. Poor men and criminals did not give refunds. She had expected a fight, bad language, maybe even threats. She’d envisaged a long campaign saving Joel from the clutches of a villain. Now she had the money, a worry jabbed her heart. What if Nelson really did know how to help? What if she’d scotched the only chance Joel had?
Perhaps there was a better way. If she did go with Nelson, she could find out what he really intended. Who knew what a desperate man might do in the hills at night – but Nelson didn’t seem the type to jump a woman just like that, and he was going to too much trouble if that was all he had in mind. It was risky, there was no doubt – but she would do it for her boys; there was no other choice.
‘Just one evening, that’s all I ask,’ said Nelson. ‘What do you have to lose?’
‘My time, my patience, my handbag.’
‘Do muggers usually dole out money?’
‘Perhaps it’s a calculated risk,’ said Eva.
‘I must be cleverer than you think.’
‘It never pays to assume anyone is stupid.’
‘Come on,’ said Nelson. ‘You never know – we might have fun.’
The yellow tram was starting to fill.
‘What do you have in mind?’ said Eva. ‘I can’t believe I’m asking. Someone please explain why I’m asking.’
‘A little dinner, a little music. Come and see.’
The driver was calling for final passengers. Nelson watched Eva look at the yellow car, shake her head and walk towards it. He followed close behind and helped h
er climb inside where they settled next to one another on a wooden bench. The tram lurched and soon they were riding over the high Lapa arches. Daylight was really dying now, lights were coming on and Eva had never seen the city from this climbing angle at this time of day. The office blocks looked softer and the cut-off cone of the cathedral looked more like a crown than a bucket in the evening light.
They got off the tram near the house and walked up the street. Nelson let Eva through the gate and ushered her inside before she could wander the flowering yard and catch sight of the view. He showed her into the living room and watched her look around.
‘Don’t even try to pretend this is your house,’ said Eva. ‘Don’t even think about that one, no way.’
‘Didn’t I tell you I was a president?’
‘Of the United States of Malandro?’
‘The house belongs to a friend,’ laughed Nelson.
‘You have rich friends for an unreliable musician.’
‘The rich, the poor, the occasional goddess.’
‘If I’m a goddess, how come I’m so far from heaven?’
‘If you follow me, I’ll try and make things a little more divine.’
Nelson showed Eva to the kitchen, hoping she’d be impressed when like a conjuror he pulled back the cloths on bowls of chopped ingredients. She leaned on the door-frame as he took out a chilled bottle of Chandon. He watched her face for signs of the surprise she must surely feel – that a man like him should be deftly popping the cork from a bottle and filling flutes. He tried to remember the last time he’d waited on someone who wasn’t paying. It felt good to feel her eyes observing, perhaps seeing him as more than just another poor man trying to swim his way out of a swamp.
They chinked glasses, said, ‘Saude,’ then Eva watched him put cubed potatoes, cabbage, repolho and onion into a dish, add spices and oil, olives and chopped hard-boiled eggs, then thick slices of cod. As he worked, he talked about anything that came into his head, hoping he might chance across some magic words which would turn him into a man with whom she’d want to stay.
‘My aunt Zila used to call this dish Bacalhau Leandra – after my mother – and as she prepared it she would have me sit on the kitchen worktop while she told me stories of their childhood in Recife. Zila used to say cod was an honest fish which never tried to play tricks on you, unlike the men who caught it. Though in truth she preferred to cook fish whole rather than in slices, because she liked being able to see the entire beast on her plate. “When you can look your food in the eye you can eat with a clear heart,” she used to say.’