by Ed Siegle
At two o’clock, he met Nelson at the bar. Nelson gave instructions to one of the regulars then he and Joel took off through the streets, climbing with the sun hot on their necks, until they were following the bonde tracks through Santa Teresa. They hopped on a yellow tram and rattled up the hill. They walked a couple of hundred yards until they stood before a house with a high wall.
‘My former residence,’ said Nelson. ‘Give me a leg-up.’
‘I thought you wanted a break from trouble?’ said Joel, linking his hands into a stirrup.
‘Two steps forward, one step back.’
‘Robbing the rich to give to poor Nelson?’
‘This time Nelson is giving,’ he said, and slipped over the wall. ‘I just hope Adolfo hasn’t cleared the place.’
Nelson opened the gate. Joel wanted to look at the view, but Nelson led him to Ganesh. After a few minutes persuading Joel they weren’t about to be arrested, they climbed on to the balcony and into the house. Nelson was pleased to find Adolfo had left the place alone, so far, so he set about removing traces of himself and restoring the house to a pristine state: plumping cushions, washing up, emptying bins. Joel hoovered and they did their best to fix the broken door to the balcony. They tried on the owner’s enormous trousers and clowned in front of the mirror, then counted real notes into a crisp wad and put them back in the fat suit pocket.
‘It hurts me, Zila,’ said Nelson looking up. ‘Just because it’s right doesn’t mean it feels good.’
Finally, Nelson showed Joel the music room and he stood in wonder before the windows. Nelson played the guitar and sang ‘Undiú’ to Joel, who thought about his father as he gazed at a view which seemed to have been stretched wide across his vision. There was the vast blue of the sky, the sliced peaks of mountains trimming the edges of the city, the glimmering flood of the bay. There were the skyscrapers of Centro, the cone of the cathedral, disappearing miles of smoking suburbs. And below the house, in front of everything, sat a favela: dense and unignorable, alive with objects flashing in the sun. Joel traced a figure weaving through a maze of paths, followed two kids chasing after one another. Nelson sang and Joel watched. When the sun was low, Nelson put the guitar into its case and closed the lid. It would be painful to be without an instrument for a while, but he had some money, and if Zemané would give him a permanent job at the bar then maybe he could invest in a beautiful specimen. Now he had a taste for the best, it was no good buying just any guitar.
Joel and Nelson checked the house a final time, closed the door to the balcony, set the alarm and left. They caught a tram to Carioca station and walked to the bar, where Nelson took over for the night. Liam and Eva came by. Liam lost three times on the ants and Zemané talked to Eva about her new job in the office of his warehouse near the docks. He might have told Nelson he could stay in Paulo’s room, but he’d said nothing about a permanent job. Nelson didn’t want to ask, assuming his last favour had already been used up.
Debbie went round to Jackie’s on Saturday afternoon. Jackie produced a magnum from the fridge, fetched flutes and a bowl of Bombay mix, then turned on the television and played the clip. Debbie wondered if the man looked any different, now they really knew he wasn’t Gilberto. She wondered if Joel would see a counterfeit where once he’d sworn it was the real thing.
Jackie finished her glass and filled it again.
‘So did Joel give you all the ghastly details?’ asked Debbie.
‘Pretty much.’
‘Do you feel any different? Now that you know he’s dead.’
‘I suppose I must,’ Jackie said.
‘Were you ever in any doubt?’
‘No.’
‘Honestly?’ asked Debbie.
‘I knew he was dead, I knew it… and yet… you could never tell with Gilberto. Give him half a chance and he’ll jump right out of that grave.’
‘Did Joel tell you about Angelica?’
Debbie waited for Jackie to speak but she just smoked, her eyes on the screen.
‘Will it really be over?’ asked Debbie. ‘You know, for Joel?’
‘There’s nowt more certain than a gravestone, that’s what Miriam said.’
‘As long as he’s buried in Joel’s head.’
They switched channels and watched the racing. Jackie’s horse was pipped on the line. Then, taking the bottle, glasses, a rug and snacks, they walked to Queen’s Park where they sat on a slope with their faces pointing at the sun and talked about Brazil, Joel, the presents he might bring back. Families picnicked under the trees and kids kicked a ball around at the bottom of the slope. At the end of the afternoon, as they lay on their backs, the bottle empty, Debbie asked, ‘Any news from Tony?’
‘Not a sausage, darling.’
‘What the hell does he think he’s playing at?’
‘I should have known better, I suppose,’ said Jackie.
‘But why won’t he give you a second chance? It was hardly the crime of the century.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We deserve answers!’ Debbie declared.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Would you like me to?
‘He’s getting off far too easily,’ said Jackie.
Debbie stood up too suddenly, which made her head spin. She walked home, drank some juice, took a couple of pills, smoothed her crumpled skirt and called a cab, which dropped her at the gate of a house in Hove. She crunched up the drive. Bloody gravel, she thought. She rang the bell. A shadow moved inside and a shape came to open the door.
‘Debbie?’ said Tony. ‘Is everything all right? Is Joel –’
‘I haven’t come about him,’ she said. ‘I’ve come about you.’
She sat at the kitchen table while Tony made them a coffee on the stove. Tony sat down across from her. ‘So…?’
Debbie hadn’t thought what she was going to say. ‘I want you to give Jackie another chance.’
Tony’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t beat about the bush, then.’
‘There’s not much point dancing around the issue.’
‘No. Well, what can I say… I respect your concern. She’s very lucky to have someone like you to stick up for her, but…’
‘But?’
‘But, I’m not sure it’s really any of your business.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good enough excuse,’ said Debbie.
‘It’s not an excuse at all –’
‘It’s an excuse of sorts – a poor one.’
‘Look, I don’t want an argument –’ said Tony.
‘Then tell me why you won’t give her a chance.’
‘I did give her a chance.’
‘Half a dozen dates and an adios?’ said Debbie.
‘It seems they weren’t the only dates she had.’
‘You’re a bit old to hope for virgins.’
‘Christ!’ Tony said.
‘She was going to end it. It didn’t mean anything.’
‘Well, it meant something to me.’
‘Did somebody break your heart, Tony? Did somebody hurt you?’
‘Amateur psychology to boot!’
‘She’s one in a million,’ said Debbie. ‘You should thank the lucky day she even thought of you.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.
‘This could be the greatest time of her life, you know. He’s dead – Gilberto, I mean – Joel has found out he’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that –’
‘Think what you’re saying, will you? There’s no harm in wishing a bad man dead. Especially a bad man that’s responsible for the pickle you’re in.’
‘Look, I know the history, some of it anyway, but that was years ago –’
‘But he’s really dead. Don’t you see the difference that makes? Not to you, but to her? I know she thought he was dead, “knew” he was dead, but now he’s really dead. You catch my drift?’
‘But I don’t see how that makes a difference to what happened between us.’
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br /> ‘Why must you be so rigid? That man put her through the mill and she’s coped the only way she’s known how. But he’s gone now, and she’s found you. You’ve got the power to put everything right. How many men on earth have that power – to give someone’s story a happy ending? And you’re going to deny her – and yourself – the chance of that because of a bit of pride?’
‘From what I hear, your own affair could do with a happy ending.’
‘That’s not the point. I gave it my best shot for twenty years.’
‘But Gilberto is dead now, right? So that changes everything, doesn’t it – I mean, that’s what you’re saying?’
‘Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.’
‘But you want me to give second chances?’
‘I’ve given Joel a million chances, and I’ll give him plenty more. That way I’ll never have to think, “What if…?” The rest is up to him.’
Debbie crunched back down the drive and stood at the bottom. She rolled a cigarette with shaking fingers. I can’t believe I did that, she thought.
On Sunday, Nelson and Eva came over to Liam’s and they all went to Ipanema beach. They picked a spot near Posto 9, hired low-slung deck chairs and formed a circle on the crest of the sand. They stood and observed the world, drinking beers and eating biscoitos as passing vendors shouted out their wares: ‘Sanduíche natural!’ ‘Abacaxi! Abacaxi!’ They watched serious men and women dive skilfully around volleyball courts by the lifeguard station, then went for a swim, hopping over the hot sand between bathers who wore tight costumes over all manner of flesh: flabby, toned, brown, pink, black. As their skin dried in the sun, they stood and talked. ‘Maybe we should float flowers into the sea,’ said Joel.
‘We could ask Eva to dress up like a big Bahian,’ said Nelson.
‘Don’t joke, Nelson, don’t joke, friend,’ said Eva. ‘If I eat any more of that barbecued cheese I’m going to need a big white dress before I can show my face on this beach.’
‘Be careful what you say by the sea about women in white dresses,’ said Nelson. ‘A real goddess might be listening.’
‘Oh! So you’re saying I’m not a real goddess now, are you?’ teased Eva.
‘There are goddesses and goddesses, obviously.’ Nelson winked.
‘So how come you’re so hung up on Yemanjá?’ asked Liam.
‘Subtle as a brick,’ said Joel.
‘Zila said there were only two things I needed to know about my father,’ replied Nelson. ‘He was a fisherman and he was a son of a bitch. She said Yemanjá was my Orixá, like it or not, because my blood was the blood of the sea. Zila liked her too because, when she was young and slim with long black hair, a man she once loved who was also a fisherman – but not a son of a bitch – called her his goddess, saying she looked like Yemanjá.’
‘And you’re supposed to float flowers out to sea towards her to gain her favour, isn’t that right?’ asked Joel.
‘She likes gifts,’ said Eva. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that. She owns the oceans, Joelinho; she’s a rich lady, a commander of storms, a mother of life on earth.’
At the end of the afternoon they strolled along the seafront road, which was closed as on every Sunday. Rollerbladers wove stretching legs through the walkers and joggers, bikers passed up and down the inner lanes, muscular men did pull-ups on gymnastic frames, women in shorts and bikini tops power-walked with headphones, chewing gum. As they sat chatting at a kiosk with a beer, a darkness touched the air and, looking up, Joel saw mist creeping over the shoulders of the apartment blocks. With a shiver the mist enveloped them all, as scattered whoops rose from the crowd.
The next day, Joel rode buses around the city and watched the world. He sat in cafés, ate salgadinhos and drank beer from iced glasses. His face and hands made Brazilian shapes as newly discovered words flowed through his lips when he chatted with those he met. In the evening he went to the bar, to find that its black and red sign now read ‘Bar do Nelson’. Nelson polished the bar more frequently than it needed and the regulars said he should’ve been a shoeshine boy. ‘I was once,’ he said, ‘and the toe-caps shone like spoons.’
Zemané turned up and sat with Joel at the bar. ‘So when are you going?’ he said.
‘In a couple of days,’ said Joel.
‘Well, whenever you want a stool at the bar…’
‘As long as he lets me win on the ants, I don’t mind standing.’
‘What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?’
‘A bit of sightseeing, probably.’
‘Got a surprise for you and Nelson,’ said Zemané. ‘Take the cable-car halfway up Sugarloaf. Be there at four o’clock.’
The next afternoon, Joel and Nelson rode the cable-car. Assorted tourists jostled for position near the outside of the bubble as views of Rio rose like scenery flats. They could see Copacabana’s curve, Cristo rising on his hill, apartment blocks like a million teeth in the valleys, flesh-pink favelas on the slopes. They arrived at the first station, on the Morro da Urca, where passengers scrambled towards views over the bay. Zemané found them as Joel was snapping photos.
‘Are you ready for the ride of your lives?’ he said.
He showed them to a helipad where a grinning pilot shook their hands and strapped Joel and Nelson into the back of a small helicopter. Up they tilted into the sky, as the ground and a shrinking Zemané fell away from them. Joel gripped his seat while Nelson screamed and cheered as they swooped down over the bay, then above the towers of the city, sighting the white viaduct far below. Over the snaking streets of Santa Teresa, above favelas and favelas, then catching a glimpse of a tiny yellow tramcar not far from where the house must be. They rode over a ridge at the edge of a sea of forest which stretched over folds of mountains as far as the eye could see. Then, rising on a peak above the trees, rushing to meet them now with his arms spread wide, was Cristo Redentor, balancing on his hill, and Joel thought what an amazing idea it was, to build such a beautiful thing so high up – think how hard it must have been – just so a statue could wave its arms across the sky in the hope that out there, in the reaches beyond the visible shit of the world, there might be something that made it all make sense.
High above the arms of Christ, Nelson and Joel hung turning in the air, and the lake and the city and the sea and the forest all spun in the blue of the afternoon. They lurched towards Ipanema beach where they turned right, high above the surf, skirting the flattened peaks of Dois Irmãos, over the edge of the mighty favela Rocinha, until before them, rushing head-on, sitting like a sphinx on the crown of a ridge with its face staring straight towards them, was Pedra da Gávea. Joel felt a tightness in his chest as over the slope they flew and he saw the steep rocks which he and Gilberto had scrambled up all those years before. Soon they were hovering over the summit, and the helicopter sank towards the ground where it rested with a tilt and a bump.
Nelson and Joel climbed out, ducking the blades. They picked their way across the scrubby summit to the edge of the plateau, slowing to inch forward. Nelson grinned at a silent Joel as they peered towards the drop of the cliff. They sat together near the edge and looked at the view up and down the coast. They could see tower blocks far below and the snake of a golf course between the forest and a strip of beach. Beyond the peaks of Dois Irmãos were the lake and the paperclip curl of the Jockey Club, and Joel thought of how this trip had started with the hijack not far from that very spot. And he thought of Sandro, wondering if his body was lying in one of those metal drawers you saw in films, with a tag on his toe and a cloth across his face of lead. They hadn’t been able to bury him, Joel had read, because the DNA test said Elza wasn’t his mother after all, and there was no one else to vouch for him, no certainty who he really was. And Joel thought how the hijack story was fading now, with Sandro lying silent, a hostage still struck dumb, cops refusing to testify, the governor failing to meet the dead girl’s family, and four hundred children still sleeping in the corners of the Marvellous City.
As Joel looked at the view he thought of the day he’d been here years before with his dad, a man whose story had also died. How pure his love for his father had been. He didn’t want to feel dirty when he thought of him; after all, who really knew how his story might have turned out if he hadn’t been put inside? But the truth was: there was no invisible number to make their family add up. His father had closed the eyes of his heart to Joel long ago, no matter how much Joel had wanted to be seen. His dad wasn’t hidden but dead, dead beneath the land and dead beneath Joel’s skin. His genes might be there in bone and tooth, but the rest of Joel was not much like his father, and, while it didn’t make him happy to realise this, neither did it make him sad.
When Joel and Nelson emerged from their thoughts, they wandered the top of the rock together, pointing out this or that feature, marvelling at how high up they were. In places people had written their names on the rock in thick black letters, and the two men pledged to return to write their names the next time Joel was in Brazil. When it was time to go, the helicopter lifted them across the dying afternoon and dropped them in the heart of the city.
That night, they all went to the Bar das Terezas, and Joel had a word with the manageress, and whatever he said to her worked – because she let Nelson borrow a guitar and play a few songs, even though he was not on the bill. In truth she was happy to see him play – especially when he played ‘Dindi’. She let Nelson invite her for a dance and after her bar shut she changed out of her suit and into a skirt and told them all her name was Belinha. They hit other bars where they drank caipirinhas from plastic cups as thick-thighed women shook their legs like earthquakes. Belinha drank cachaça like water and danced with Nelson until her skirt was a blur, and Joel danced too and Nelson watched him and thought: if some goddess had told me in a dream that a stranger would come from afar and change my life, I wouldn’t have believed them. But they didn’t tell me, and I don’t really think they knew, which just goes to show they don’t know everything – or if they did, perhaps they chose to keep quiet about it, reasoning that if I became too excited I just might blow it. But I didn’t – so here I am: not in trouble, with a steady job and only lacking a guitar, which will come to me, I have no doubt, because music could never keep its hands off me for long.