by Ed Siegle
In spite of Gilberto’s revelations, in spite of her near-departure, Jackie and Gilberto tried to pick up where they left off. They would walk by the lake in the evenings or sit on the Ipanema shore and look at the sea. They would try to talk about other things. Gilberto stayed away from bars, turned off the radio, threw away his records. He worked hard. Contrary to the major’s words, Angelica did not come for an appointment, or so Gilberto said.
‘Let’s go away for the weekend,’ he said one day. ‘A second honeymoon.’
So, at the end of March 1971, they went to Búzios and rented a room in a pousada on the beach. They dined one moonlit night on the sand itself, at a table lit by candles feet from the shush of the waves. They drank caipirinhas and ate fresh fish. Jackie’s mouth tasted of limes and the sea.
When they had finished eating, Gilberto ordered another whisky and asked, ‘Why did you suggest I go and sing that night?’
‘What night, darling?’
‘The night at A Gaiola, the night the major watched me.’
‘I wanted to hear you again, honey. You’re so happy when you sing.’
‘Did you tell the major I was going to be there?’
‘No! Are you mad? I’ve never even spoken to the major –’
‘Apart from when you called his flat and told him about Angelica’s visit.’
‘I didn’t, darling. I’ve told you: I tried to call her, but I never spoke to anyone.’
‘He said you used filthy language.’
‘But I didn’t talk to him, I just shouted. I thought it was her. I didn’t mention the visit at all, I just called her a whore and a –’
‘How did he know you were going to leave Brazil?’
‘I have no idea… I wasn’t really going to leave, I couldn’t have gone through with it –’
‘Just bought your tickets and packed your bags. Weren’t going to use them – not in a million years.’
There was a sharpness to his eyes. He drained his whisky, then told her he was going to find a bar. Jackie went back to the room.
Gilberto woke her at two in the morning.
‘Want to know where I’ve been?’
‘Drinking, by the smell of it,’ said Jackie half-sleepily.
‘Been to see a man sing. He had a beautiful voice, like a songbird. They were all applauding, even the soldier in the corner. I watched every note that came from his mouth, especially the ones he held a bit longer than he really should have, because they felt just oh-so-good. Do you know how it feels to be a singer who cannot sing?’
‘I can’t imagine, darling. It must be terrible.’
‘You took my voice away,’ said Gilberto standing over her.
‘No, Gil, that’s not true. All I ever wanted was for you to sing to me.’
‘All you ever wanted was to own me.’
‘I wanted you to sing, honey. To me… to me and not that bitch.’
Gilberto beat Jackie that night for the first time. ‘Not the face,’ he said, ‘not the face,’ as he hauled her up and punched her down. She screamed at first, but the hotel slept. It felt as if the whole world was asleep.
Jackie went back into the house and forgot what she’d gone in for. She dug out a floppy summer hat she’d worn to a wedding not long before. It struck her as the kind of hat Tony might like, she wasn’t sure why. She pottered about for a bit, unable to settle. It had been years since she’d put herself through that memory, and she felt a little shocked: sometimes things are dug up that you thought long buried. She wondered what made a person stay in a relationship when it was mortally wounded. You knew it was going to die one day and its daily decay was causing you pain – and yet you clung to every breath until the end. It was incredible to think that four and a half years had passed between that first assault and her flight from Brazil. She wondered how their story would have ended if they hadn’t locked him up a second time, or if he had lived.
Jackie still found it hard to believe in the existence of cruelty. She preferred to believe that evil was a branch and not the root. She read the papers and saw she was wrong, and yet she couldn’t make the leap to believing it was so. There was hope. One day the world would be a better place. If they could just change this and that… though who ‘they’ were to do the changing she didn’t know – the ones with power were the worst of all. But she had to believe the world would be better when Joel was her age, when his kids were born. Wasn’t it better now than for her mother? It was just too terrible to believe it would never get any better, that there was evil at the core of the world, malice in its eyes, like malice in that look of Gilberto’s, a hunger for destruction.
She wondered how much of the blame was hers. What if she’d never made that call to Angelica’s flat, or if she hadn’t packed her bags? Of course, there was no excuse for beating your wife, but she did wonder what he would have been like had she been more… what? Impassive, she supposed, or compliant. Perhaps they would have lived an ordinary life. Joel would be where he was now, in Rio, and she would be there too. Perhaps she would have had more kids. Maybe she’d have grandchildren. Gilberto was always an angel with Joel – she would always remember the way he would sit on the end of his bed and sing ‘Undiú’. He’d been an angel with her too, for a few years, though a devil for the rest.
Throughout the afternoon, Rosa’s brothers and sisters flew back, to be fed Guaraná and coxinhas by Joel if he was there, or by Nelson if he wasn’t. Joel visited a few bars and shops, was wished luck by two elderly ladies, winked at by a girl with braces on her teeth and prayed for by a priest who let him put up a poster in the entrance to his church. It darkened around six and rain fell hard. Joel walked through the sodden town until he reached the bar again, where the children were making paper aeroplanes of his posters and throwing them at a snoozing Nelson.
Joel woke him and thanked Rosa and the kids. Then Nelson and Joel walked back to the pousada with their shirts pulled over their heads against the rain. As soon as they entered the lobby, Nelson saw a note sitting in Joel’s pigeonhole and, turning him by the elbow, managed to hustle him into the street.
‘Joel,’ said Nelson in a low and serious voice. ‘I’d like to show you something very personal.’
He won’t refuse, thought Nelson. He’s a boy with a good heart and – in spite of the lack of progress – he’s the type that wants to believe I’m honest, even if his heart feels I’m not.
‘Can’t you show me inside?’ said Joel. ‘It’s kind of raining…’
‘Trust me,’ Nelson said, with what he hoped was a winning grin.
Nelson led him down a couple of streets, past a church on the waterfront, to a long jetty with flanks thick with sleeping vessels. The rain came to a halt. Lights swayed slowly on the masts of fishing boats, which gave way to larger schooners as they walked further over the planks to where the end of the pier stood them before a vista of the bay. Alone but for a boatman here or there, they found a couple of crates on which to sit. Nelson stared pensively across the water and thought of how to begin.
‘I came here once with my sister Mariana,’ he lied. ‘Will you wait here? I’d like to show you a picture, to bring her back to life.’
Nelson ran back to the pousada. I’m sorry to use you, Mariana, he thought as he ran, but I couldn’t come up with anything else. I’d like to think that, since I was by the sea, Yemanjá gave me the idea with your blessing. I hope you are helping me willingly but, if you are not, forgive me also for the sneaky crime of turning an apology into an excuse.
Back at the pousada, Nelson asked for his key and the note, which he said his companion had asked him to fetch. In his room, he sat on his bed and unfolded the paper.
It read: ‘I’ve found out about your father. Call me – Eva.’
Nelson called the number.
‘Joel!’ said Eva.
‘Not exactly,’ said Nelson.
‘Vagabundo!’ shrieked Eva. ‘What have you done with him?’
‘Tranquilo! He’s sitting
happily by the sea –’
‘I need to speak to him now!’
‘If the news is urgent, Eva, let me pass it on.’
‘Tell a malaco like you!’
‘Even goddesses should be careful who they call names.’
‘You know very well his father’s not in Paraty!’
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here, sister. But if you have information, my goddess, if you have news, I’d be happy to pass it on –’
‘Never!’
‘Then I guess we’ll keep on looking.’
‘You’ll never find him!’
‘We will.’
‘You won’t.’
‘We will.’
‘He’s dead!’
‘Dead?’
‘Dead. Oh, my God!’ said Eva. ‘Why am I telling you? What shame! A boy’s father is dead and I’m telling a crook!’
‘He can’t be dead, I know a man who saw him last week.’
‘And I know a woman who’s found his death certificate.’
Nelson had to admit a death certificate was hard to argue with – but if he was dead, who was the man who lunched every Thursday at O Paraiso? Perhaps there was some mistake. There had to be a lot of dead Gilbertos in the world, and there were sure to be a few with the name Gilberto Cabral.
‘Have you seen this certificate?’ asked Nelson.
‘My friend can read, you know.’
‘But what if you’re wrong? What if it’s another Gilberto?’
‘The facts all fit, malandro; we’re not so stupid, stupid.’
‘But I know a man who saw him alive!’
‘Impossible!’ said Eva.
‘Do you want to tell him his father’s dead before we’re sure?’ said Nelson.
‘I am sure.’
‘One hundred per cent?’
‘Ninety-nine.’
‘And what about the other one per cent?’
Eva sighed and Nelson let the silence weigh on her.
‘Listen, my goddess. Maybe your paper is right – maybe my man is not Gilberto – but don’t you think Joel would prefer to see for himself?’
‘If you’re lying,’ said Eva, ‘I’ll kill you, I swear.’
‘I’ll be honest,’ said Nelson. ‘I might be mad, but I’ll tell you the truth. But you can’t tell Joel. Promise me you won’t tell him.’
‘I’ll promise once I know what I’m promising.’
‘Gilberto’s in Rio. He’ll be in a restaurant on Thursday and I’m going to take Joel there.’
‘In Rio! So what are you doing in Paraty?’
‘It’s complicated…’
‘Complicated! Our piece of paper is very simple.’
‘I’m in trouble, Eva,’ Nelson said. ‘More trouble than you could even imagine. My situation is really trash and –’
‘That’s your problem. That boy does not deserve –’
‘I know, I know, and you’re right. But I do know where his father is and all I want to do is take him there – but I can’t take him till Thursday and if I’d stayed in Rio I might not be alive. I need two days, Eva – two days, that’s all. If I take him to his father, Joel will give me a reward, I’ll be able to clear the trouble I’m in, and everybody is happy.’
There was silence, and Nelson thought that maybe this time the game was up. It was hard always living close to the cliff-edge, knowing you might just step too far and plummet. At times he felt jealous of those with their lives pasted smoothly on their bread. But it was exciting too, making a mess of things – it meant every day was interesting – and sometimes he would lie awake in the night and smile at just how alive trying to keep his balance made him feel.
‘Two days?’ said Eva.
‘Just two days,’ said Nelson.
‘I’ll sleep on it,’ said Eva. ‘I’m not making promises. Perhaps I’ll wake up and think I was mad to get even halfway through this conversation.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ said Nelson. ‘If I don’t deliver his father on Thursday, you can show him your piece of paper.’
‘If I don’t tell him before then.’
‘There’s no point telling Joel he’s dead while there’s even a hope.’
‘I hate to hope you’re right,’ she said. ‘But I hope you’re right.’
Eva hung up. Nelson wondered what to do. It would be an intolerable night if he couldn’t be sure she’d keep the paper secret. He picked up the phone and called Bar do Paulo. After a long minute Zemané came to the phone. Nelson explained.
‘All it needs is a little lunch and an edible proposition,’ said Zemané.
‘I don’t know, this time. I just don’t know…’
‘I’ll invite her to the Confeitaria Colombo for lunch. The Wednesday buffet is my favourite of the week.’
‘Do you think she’ll listen?’ asked Nelson.
‘I suppose it depends if there’s anything she needs.’
‘She’s not a woman who thinks she needs anything. Except a president, and I don’t suppose you can give her one of those.’
‘I’ve never met anyone who didn’t need a little extra happiness,’ said Zemané.
‘I don’t think making her happy is easy.’
‘If I play it right, perhaps she’ll tell me how.’
Nelson put down the phone, closed his eyes, said a prayer to every god he could name, grabbed the picture of his sister and ran to the pier.
Joel walked around on the pier, looking in all directions across the bay, hoping no one came along and asked why he was there. With Nelson for company he felt Brazilian and hardly thought about where they went; on his own he felt distinctly English. The sea was calm, the wind lighter now the rain had stopped, and as the clouds slid away they revealed a lighter sky with a thin slice of moon. He wondered if his mother and father had ever stood on this pier at night. He wondered where Nelson was. He was taking a long time to fetch a photo.
As he looked back towards the town, he realised he found it hard to believe they would find his dad here. He wondered if he should go back to the pousada. He started wandering towards the start of the pier, then he spotted a figure jogging in his direction and watched as it became distinguishable as Nelson, until finally Nelson stopped in front of Joel, panting. He pulled a photo from his shorts. They sat on the crates and Joel studied the picture. The young Nelson was wearing a brown suit with an orange tie and had enormous hair. Joel recognised him from his smile. A shy girl, wearing a white dress printed with hibiscus flowers, leaned into Nelson’s side.
‘Dig the suit,’ said Joel.
Nelson knew he’d have to say something about what happened to his sister – but telling people what happened to his sister wasn’t his favourite way to pass the time. Now he’d accomplished his mission and held off Eva, he felt he’d sold Mariana’s story cheaply. Using the first idea that came into his head might have been a good way to keep Joel out of the pousada, but Nelson wished he could sometimes wait for the second idea to come along.
‘You don’t have to talk about it,’ said Joel.
‘Thanks,’ said Nelson. But not talking was not something in which he was very skilled, and so he said, ‘We were happy that day, that’s for sure.’
‘You look it. And young! Don’t you wish you could be that age again?’
‘You’ve got keep moving, that’s the key. Don’t ever think you’re old. Keep on moving those legs, that’s what Zila used to say. If you’re going to die, die like an insect, with your legs waggling.’
‘Até a morte, pé forte, my father once said to me.’
Nelson had always liked this expression, but it was funny to hear it from an English guy, though he supposed Joel was really half a Brazilian guy, so maybe it wasn’t so strange. But he had to admit he was starting to wonder if Joel was laying a little too much significance on a single relative – albeit one of the more important ones. Joel had a mother who was alive, not a quasi-aunt who was dead, and, if he didn’t have a sister, at least he hadn’t lost one eit
her. ‘Are you really sure you’ll be better off, my brother?’ Nelson asked.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Joel.
‘What if he isn’t the father you want?’
‘Better than none at all.’
‘What if it doesn’t make any difference?’
‘I think it will.’
‘What if he’s dead?’
‘We’re here because you said –’
‘I know, I know – but what if he was?’ said Nelson.
‘Even that would be better than this.’
‘Than what?’
‘Not knowing,’ said Joel.
‘Are you sure? Is it really better to know he’s dead than to wonder if he might be alive somewhere, hidden and happy?’
‘Look, I know what you mean, but I just need to know. My mum’s being saying he’s dead for twenty-five years – but I just don’t buy it, I don’t know why. Sometimes I wonder if I could believe anything less than a corpse.’
‘You don’t mean that, cara!’
‘Sometimes I wish I could see him dead, touch his cold skin.’
‘Now you’re freaking me out!’ said Nelson.
Joel laughed and Nelson shivered. Then he took the photo back from Joel and looked at it.
‘I had an interview, the day they took that photo of me and Mariana, for a job as a boy in a big American firm. I borrowed a suit from a man down the street and I remember it was big for me. I was only sixteen. They gave me the job and Zila made us have our picture taken to commemorate the occasion. We all went out for a churrasco, to a place in Flamengo we used to like, and that day we ordered everything. It seemed the finest day of my life – and the sad thing is to look back now and think that maybe it was the greatest day, when it should only have been the best day until another came along.’
‘There’s still time,’ said Joel. ‘Don’t go all English on me.’
‘You’re right,’ said Nelson, smiling. ‘You’re learning.’
‘So how was the job?’
‘The week before I was meant to start, my aunt Zila was shot. Shot outside our house in Santo Amaro with a bag of shopping in each hand. The polícia said it was the gang and the gang said it was the polícia. She’d been to the market with Mariana – she’d saved to buy a piece of picanha to fatten me up for office life. Americans like a boy with meat on, she had said. The bullet hit Zila in the neck. She lay in a pool of blood, blinking up at the sky with her mouth opening and closing like a fish, blowing bubbles, so Mariana said.’