by Ed Siegle
‘I was only doing what was best for him,’ said Angelica. ‘I always acted in his best interest, and I happen to think it was best for you –’
‘His best interest!’ Joel interjected, incredulous. ‘Don’t make me laugh! You robbed the man, you sold him down the line! If it hadn’t been for your lies about his prospects, he might not have gone to jail at all.’
‘What a marvellous theory,’ she purred. ‘Tell me, Joel, what do you do – for a living, I mean?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It’s a simple question.’
‘OK – I’m a dentist.’
‘Ótimo!’ she said with a clap. ‘Just like dear old daddy.’
‘Hilarious.’
‘Do you sing too, sing like him?’
‘No.’
‘When you have a gift like that, it’s all about luck and magic. Did I lie that he was about to make it big? Yes. Did he lie to himself that it would happen tomorrow? Every day. Are stars born every year on a diet of similar lies? Absolutely. But a thousand burn out every day. Should I have talked to him of probability? Yuck! What are the chances of a João Gilberto or a Tom Jobim? But they exist. Miracles, nothing less.’
‘So you did it all for his benefit,’ laughed Joel sarcastically. ‘Pure altruism.’
‘Believe me, don’t believe me. I couldn’t care less, darling. I’ll tell you one thing, though: your mother never really believed in him.’
‘That’s not true,’ snapped Joel. ‘That much I know is not true.’
‘OK, maybe I am a little biased – she was my nemesis, you understand.’
‘I’d like to know what right you think you have to attack my mother? You won, didn’t you?’
‘Did I?’ she said, her eyes bright.
‘He’s buried up the road.’
‘That doesn’t sound like much of a victory.’
‘You know very well what I mean,’ said Joel.
‘I paid for the gravestone. Not the way I imagined triumph, but it means something, I guess.’
‘Forgive me if I don’t find it so gratifying,’ spat Joel, rising to his feet again. ‘We’re talking about my mother here, and you helped fuck up her life.’
‘Maybe that’s stretching it a little – I mean, I didn’t marry her, did I? What loyalty did I owe her?’
‘My mother always said you were a snake.’
Angelica looked delighted. ‘Every woman would like to be a serpent – so sleek and sexy, don’t you think?’
‘I’m not interested in your twisted outlook,’ said Joel, his finger raised. ‘I want to get to the bottom of why he changed.’
‘You should count yourself lucky, darling, rather than blaming me,’ Angelica said. ‘Look on the bright side: twenty years you had without that malandro before he died.’
‘He was a good father to me!’ Joel said, jabbing a finger into his chest, anger inflating his voice. He could feel the wires pulling in his veins, like times of old.
‘But he wasn’t good to your mother, was he?’ Angelica asked, eyes wide.
‘He wasn’t a saint, but he wasn’t a devil either.’
‘Perhaps you think the devil is just a character in an old book?’
‘I don’t remember a devil,’ said Joel.
‘You were young. When you’re ten you can’t see what’s really going on,’ Angelica said. ‘But do you think you’d have liked it at fourteen – to know your father beat your mother twice a month? At seventeen, would you have liked to catch Daddy fucking the maid?’
‘I didn’t come thousands of miles to hear –’
‘You wanted the truth, didn’t you?
‘The plain truth, not the bitter, twisted truth,’ said Joel.
‘There is only one truth about that man! I thought it would all be roses – with his wife gone and his ankles clear of a child. But I just took her place, waiting for him at night while he dined out on exaggerated torture stories and screwed every skirt that moved. Why did I stay with him? Ask your mother. Would she still be putting up with the bastard, if they hadn’t put him in jail? No doubt about it. She was the lucky one. She was a million miles away by the time they let him out. Always promising to change; always getting worse –’
‘Enough!’ said Joel.
They observed one another in silence for a moment. Joel sat down.
‘That’s not the full picture, though, is it?’ he said, presently, his voice calmer. ‘I saw a different man. You did too, and so did my mother… there has to be a common thread.’
‘To explain why he wanted you one minute and not the next?’
Joel shook his head. ‘If you have to put it like that.’
Angelica’s eyes shone. ‘Do you think he loved you, Joel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me?’
‘I guess,’ said Joel.
‘Wrong on all counts. He only ever loved one thing, and one thing alone.’
‘Himself?’
‘Not even that,’ said Angelica.
‘Then what?’
‘Singing, music, singing his music. Nothing else ever reached his heart.’
‘But that still doesn’t explain it,’ said Joel, exasperated. ‘I mean, he was a good father.’
‘One of his teachers told him to be a dentist, so he became one. Your mother made him a father, and he embraced that too. He always tried to solve the riddles life set him, but he never hungered for anything except to sing – except perhaps to drink and screw. He did his best as dentist and father – he had to get up each day and do something. But singing was the only thing about which he really gave a damn. Everything else could go hang.’
‘OK, I’ve heard enough,’ said Joel. ‘I’m not listening to any more of this.’
He stood up, ready to leave, then turned and asked, ‘Didn’t it ever bother him, to have turned his back?’
Angelica looked up at him and he had the impression she was deciding which would bring him more pain: the truth or a lie.
‘Well?’ Joel asked again.
‘It did bother him, in the early days, that he’d cut you off,’ Angelica said. ‘But he consoled himself with the fact that your chapter together had a wonderful ending.’
‘A wonderful ending? Jesus!’
‘You fled together, dodged the cops, climbed the mountain, were flown across the city in a helicopter. His parting words were a fitting close to an episode in your life. He hoped that, after the initial upset and anger, you would come to see Brazil as a wonderful chapter with a dashing end. To you he would be dead, but remembered like an action hero. He couldn’t give you the rest of his life, but at least he’d given you a decent tale to tell.’
Joel stood motionless. He wondered if this was really the way his father had seen their bond, or if it was Angelica’s twisted notion of a poor father’s misguided notion of a child’s needs. Her notion of the truth was evidently fluid. He had a feeling she’d make up a different story every day of the week. Only with time could he know if her versions would bring greater comfort than the hundred variations he’d dreamt up over the years. One thing was certain: however you twisted this kaleidoscope of lies and secrets, the image always looked like shit.
Finally Joel asked, ‘How did he die?’
‘I found him dead in our bed, darling, eyes bulging, reeking of cachaça. Drowned in his vomit, they said.’
Joel went to leave. There was no sense listening to any more. A good word wasn’t going to pass her lips. There probably wasn’t a good word to be said.
‘I keep a picture of him by the bed,’ she said, standing up. ‘It’s the only place he was any good. You can have it, if you want. That’s all there is. I burned the rest.’
She left the room and returned with a silver photo frame. The picture was a copy of one Joel had in his shoebox, the one of him and his dad on the beach with coconuts, except the picture had been cut in half, leaving only Gilberto. Joe
l imagined him sitting on Angelica’s bed with a pair of scissors.
‘It’s all right,’ said Joel, walking away. ‘Keep it.’
Angelica followed Joel to the door, and as he reached it she took his arm and said, ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Joel, with a bitter laugh.
‘I’ve always wondered what you’d be like. It’s lovely to see a little piece of him again.’
‘Go to hell,’ Joel said.
Joel and Nelson walked to the end of the block. They sat on a low wall looking across the bay. A couple of fishermen were sorting out their lines. Joel stared over the smooth swell of the water. He told Nelson what had happened, the things Angelica had said. He told it all in the wrong order, but what did the order matter? Whichever way you dropped them, the facts landed the same way up.
Nelson watched Joel, as Joel watched the bay. Joel was bent forward, leaning on folded arms. He pushed his face towards the water, as if he was urging his eyes to run away. Not being able to think of anything to say, Nelson remained silent. What could you say to a person with a heart that had just been scrambled? He laid an arm on Joel’s back, and felt him shuddering beneath his hand.
Joel looked up at him, after a while, and said, ‘One more stop to make.’
‘São João Batista cemetery?’
‘Yes.’
They walked through the streets of Urca, past the Yacht Club and into Botafogo, where they turned away from Sugarloaf and the bay, so that suddenly Christ was high above them on the hill, arms spread and looking almost square down upon them, head a touch inclined as if finally watching. They walked a few blocks until they reached the entrance to the cemetery, where they found a man who knew the layout of the graves. He looked up Gilberto’s name, and Joel and Nelson set off up the hill, turning to the right and picking their way through the stones. They read names and dates as they passed along the rows, until, just when they thought they might be looking in the wrong place, they saw a stone which read:
Gilberto Cabral de Oliveira
Born on the 12th of May 1938
Passed away on the 21st of December 1995
Até a Morte, Pé Forte!
Joel knelt and ran his fingers over the white marble. The air seemed still. Sound had been turned down. He looked at his dad’s name written in stone. It had been a long time since he’d seen it written anywhere. He wondered who had carved the letters and wished he could have watched. He stood up and looked around: one white stone in a forest of graves on the side of a hill with a view of Sugarloaf and the bay. What a beautiful place to be buried. He looked down at the earth in front of the stone. I thought I knew a bit about life, Joel said to himself. I thought I knew about people. But it wasn’t till someone pissed all over your picture of the world that you got close to understanding its nature. The devil did not just live in an ancient book. The devil could be your dad. It oughtn’t to be that way, but it was. Joel wondered if life was better for knowing it. Innocence was all very well, he supposed, until you got kicked. Joel hoped he would see it coming next time. There were far worse people in the world than his dad, though hopefully he wouldn’t meet too many of them. Perhaps he’d be better able to spot them if they did come along. He suspected it wasn’t as simple as that, but he’d certainly keep his eyes peeled.
When Nelson and Joel arrived at Bar do Paulo, Zemané was standing behind the bar. Joel sat on Nelson’s stool, said little and thought a lot. He kept thinking about the letters. Nelson had been right – he must tell him as much – that behind one truth another lay hidden. He wasn’t going to search for any more truths.
Nelson chatted quietly and kept an eye on him. Soon the bar became busy and Joel took Nelson across the road, where they stood under a tree. Joel took out the envelope and gave it to Nelson.
‘Thank you,’ said Nelson.
‘Aren’t you going to count it?’ said Joel, trying a smile.
‘You’re right,’ said Nelson, clasping a hand on his shoulder. ‘I mean, how do I know if I can trust you?’
‘There’s three thousand there.’
‘That’s way too much!’
‘Not by much, not if you count all the days,’ said Joel.
‘Well, I owe you, then, I won’t forget.’
‘You can save me a stool at the bar, for when I come back.’
‘It’s a deal.’
Nelson put a wad for Adolfo in one pocket and the rest in the other. Let this be the end of it, he said to himself, and prayed to the Marvellous City itself for some clear time before the next trouble started. He swore to go back to the house to replace the fat man’s money, to tidy the place and mend the door, and even to pay Edinho the concierge by the lake – who after all was not expecting ever to see the rest of the money – if only his skin could be saved.
Before long a black car drew up. Vasco stepped out and opened the boot. The bar went quiet. Adolfo strolled over and said, ‘Do you have the money?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Nelson.
‘All of it?’ said Adolfo.
‘Every real.’
Nelson counted bills into Adolfo’s hand. Brown notes with Jaguars on them, smooth from the cashpoint. He hoped each note he laid upon another would make a little impression upon Adolfo, but he feared the bills would not be enough – even if they did add up to the correct amount – because honour or pride or respect or one of those concepts serious men always claimed as their right would still be owing. Men who weren’t used to guys like Nelson escaping their clutches.
‘Adolfo,’ Nelson said when he’d counted the last note, ‘I’m sorry I ran from you and sold your furniture – except the big chair, which I confess I only didn’t sell because I couldn’t force it through the door. And let me assure you I’ll never owe you a single centavo again as long as I may live.’
Adolfo put the money in his pocket and looked up into Nelson’s eyes. ‘Considering how long you’re likely to live,’ he said, ‘that’s not much of a promise.’
Vasco looked at Adolfo. Adolfo looked at Zemané and shrugged, then turned and climbed back into the car. Nelson walked slowly to his stool, sat down with his back to Vasco and the street, and ordered a beer, half expecting a hand to grab his shoulder and haul him through the air. Zemané poured a beer and Nelson watched bubbles swirl in the glass. He heard the boot slam, a door open and close and the sound of ignition. The regulars watched the car depart.
‘Why don’t you come and give me a hand?’ said Zemané.
Nelson ducked under the bar and started to pour beers. He took the regulars’ money and tried to tempt them with golden pastries. Zemané sat on his stool and Joel sat on Nelson’s. They bought beers for one another for the remainder of the evening while Nelson served and changed the barrels and switched the radio to a new station. At the end of the night Joel and Zemané were the last remaining patrons.
Joel stood up and stretched. ‘You up to anything tomorrow?’ he asked Nelson.
‘Moving house,’ said Nelson.
‘Need a hand?’
‘Sure,’ said Nelson.
‘Moving anywhere nice?’
‘I haven’t worked that part out yet.’
‘Take Paulo’s room for the time being,’ said Zemané, handing him some keys.
‘Thank you!’ said Nelson, though he had to admit he felt a little uncomfortable sleeping in the bed of a man so freshly killed. He wondered if Fat Paulo had a fat Orixá of his own who might sprinkle curses in his dreams. But he knew that Zila would tell him the dead have plenty of space to sleep without taking beds from the living, and he was sure Yemanjá would be sure to defend him in his hour of need.
Joel found a cluster of taxis bunched across a pavement. As he watched the city night slide by, the world did not look much different, except that he knew that across the city his dad was not asleep. He thought of the grave sitting silent in the dark, its flowers wilting. He wanted to use every word in the dictionary except any words for father. He guessed it might be a while be
fore he could escape the word entirely. But as the taxi sped closer and closer to Tiffany’s, he swore to himself, to Debbie, to Jackie, to Nelson, to Liam, to Eva, to every god and spirit he could name, that he would try bloody hard.
Ten
On Friday morning, Joel waited until Liam had gone to work, then made a coffee and sat by the phone. He called Jackie.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ he asked.
‘Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.’
‘You do want to know.’
‘Tell Debbie,’ said Jackie. ‘She can send me smoke signals, I’m heading for the hills.’
‘Look, it’s all right. I’ve only got good news, really.’
‘Good for who?’
‘Good for you,’ said Joel.
‘You’ve always had odd ideas of what’s good for me.’
‘Just listen for a minute. Are you ready?’
‘No,’ said Jackie.
‘He’s dead.’
There was silence on the line. ‘What do you mean, dead?’
‘No longer living.’
‘You’ve said that before.’
‘I’ve been to his grave.’
Silence again.
‘Oh, Joel, my love. I’m so sorry. I never meant –’
‘It’s all right, Mum, it’s all right. It’s over now. It’s good.’
‘Are you all right? Oh, Joel! Are you all right?’
‘Right as rain,’ said Joel. ‘Look, I have to go and help someone move house. If you see Debbie, tell her I’ll call later. Tell her I’m all right. I am all right.’
Joel walked round the lake to the Botanical Gardens. He found a bench in a row of weeping cypresses where the scented air in the shade was dark. He watched squirrels hop and an elderly woman practising tai-chi. He wandered a forest path, inhaling tropical smells, pausing to watch monkeys play high in the trees. He sat by a pond and watched birds scoop insects from the surface, cream and brown butterflies flit over giant lilies, iridescent dragonflies hover, dart and hover. You could see the red train, tiny from this distance, riding up Corcovado, taking tourists to the feet of Cristo. Joel reached into his pocket and took out his silver compass. He looked at it for a while, feeling its weight in his palm. He flipped open the lid and watched the needle spin back and forth. Doing a quick sum in his head, he fixed a bearing to Brighton. Northeast at 39 degrees.