by Ed Siegle
Joel drank spirits from street vendors under the white arches of the viaduct, laughed at Liam’s clowning in an antique bar, slapped hands and backs and kissed cheeks and sucked in the smell of the streets, until finally the night was crowned as an old man watched him dance, grinned, looked into his eyes and said, ‘Tá sambando, meu filho!’ You’re sambaing, my son!
Joel picked his bag up off the conveyer belt at Heathrow, was relieved not to be searched by Customs, and looked for Jackie as he emerged into the the gallery of people waiting to pick up fares and loved ones. His eyes roved through hugging couples and pick-up signs until he was surprised by a cardboard placard which read ‘Burns’ – held by Debbie.
‘Your usual driver is feeling poorly,’ she said.
They drove round the M25 exchanging small talk, both of them wanting to move on to larger subjects, both thinking them too big for a trip in this little car. Debbie listened for clues that his measured words hid broken feelings. There must be fractures, but it was difficult to read his voice. She wondered what Brazil would mean to him now. Joel remembered the drive from the airport the last time he’d arrived. How different the world looked now from that night of grey and concrete. He observed the green of England in late June, a notch or two quieter than the green of Brazil, but no less pleasing.
The flowerbed by the roundabout on the edge of town spelled ‘Welcome’, and soon they were passing Preston Park and driving under the red-brick viaduct. Debbie parked outside Jackie’s house. They knocked but there was no reply, so they let themselves in. On the sofa was a postcard of the Palace Pier on which was a written, ‘Gone to Tony’s for dinner. Don’t wait up.’
‘Tony!’ said Joel.
‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ said Debbie.
‘She’s seeing Tony?’
‘It’s a good thing, believe me.’
‘Tony!’
Debbie laughed.
They walked though the streets of Hanover, pausing at the top of Albion Hill to view the sun descending towards rooftops, past high-rises. They walked past the police station, across St James’s Street, cutting down to the seafront by the Palace Pier. The evening was thick with people on the promenade. They walked west, their eyes straying over the sea towards the same old place, except it wasn’t the same any more. They walked further, past the basketball court and the sagging West Pier, until they reached Hove Lawns, where they sat on a bench overlooking the sea.
‘Talk to me,’ said Debbie.
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’
‘About my dad?’
‘About him, yes.’
‘There’s nothing to think. He’s dead. End of story.’
‘I’m really sorry, baby, I really am.’
‘I don’t know if I’m sorry,’ Joel said.
‘You don’t mean that, really…’
‘Wasting all that energy on a good-for-nothing.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ said Debbie.
‘Wasn’t I?’
They got up and walked in silence for some minutes. The wind had risen and the sea swished pebbles over one another, rolling them into a regular boom. People passed by walking dogs, rollerblading, calling to their kids. Tentacles of rain swept down to the sea not far to the west. They walked past the end of the Lawns. The wind had a chill to it and normally Joel would have put his arm around Debbie. They passed bathing huts and upturned fishing boats, stray cafés and Victorian shelters spaced along the promenade. Raindrops started to fall. Debbie and Joel walked faster and cast a glance at one another. Larger drops fell on their hair, bouncing off their foreheads, darkening patches on their clothes. Harder and harder the rain fell, breaking up the surface of the sea, pelting them now, making their faces cold and wet. ‘Shall we run?’ Joel said. They sprinted, laughing, soaking until they reached a shelter. They sat on a bench painted the green of old steam engines. Huddled close, they watched the rain. It made the skin of the sea look prickly, like the stem of a nettle. Back-spray swooshed thin clouds of mist over the surface.
The rain stopped and the sky turned half a dozen shades of grey. An evening sun made the pavement shine. The arms of grey cranes stood flexed on the western horizon where the storm had gone. They looked at one another, then sat together in silence, their eyes on the sea. Far off, angled sails slid over glittering water.
‘So how do you feel now about Brazil?’ said Debbie.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You waited all that time to go back.’
‘I love it as much as ever,’ Joel said. ‘Brazil isn’t to blame. The world is full of rats.’
‘You know, you were right in a way. We didn’t believe you, but you were right. I mean, he was alive, until not very long ago.’
‘True,’ said Joel and laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘So many years wishing he was alive. Now I wish to God he’d just been dead.’
‘D’you regret not going before?’ asked Debbie. ‘If you’d gone ten years ago you could have seen him.’
‘I’m glad I didn’t see him now,’ said Joel. ‘He died to me in ’75.’
‘Do you really feel that?’
Joel pulled his eyes from the sea and looked at Debbie.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said.
‘Perhaps Angelica exaggerated?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Perhaps prison just broke him,’ said Debbie.
‘Perhaps a lot of things happened I’ll never know about – there could be a million reasons. But it’s hard to argue with twenty years of silence.’
The sun went down over the sea. Joel felt the smooth metal of his compass in his pocket but he didn’t take it out.
‘We could go to Rio for Christmas, if you like,’ said Joel.
‘Is that a proposition?’
‘One last shot. Make or break.’
‘I guess it’s about bloody time,’ said Debbie.
‘It’ll be hot as hell.’
‘The hotter the better.’
‘We can travel around or stay in the city, whatever you like.’
‘The city, the beaches, the forest – I want to see everything.’
‘In the evenings we can prop up Nelson’s bar, then go dancing in Lapa.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘I know a restaurant in Santa Teresa where you can sit with a view of the bay as they play chorinho in the garden. I know a kiosk where they mix the best caipirinhas on Ipanema beach. We can catch the tram, ride the buses, hire bikes and cycle round the lake. And I’ll show you the most beautiful graveyard you’ve ever seen.’
So I came back to my first note,
As I must come back to you,
I will pour into that one note
All the love I feel for you,
Anyone who wants the whole show,
Re mi fa sol la si do,
He will find himself with no show,
better play the note you know.
‘Samba de Uma Nota Só’
(Antonio Carlos Jobim and Newton Mendonça)
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank everyone who has encouraged, critiqued and cajoled me over the last ten years – indeed anyone who has remembered to ask about my writing and managed to listen without evident bemusement.
In particular, I would like to thank the following people for their input and support: Ben Siegle, Carey McKenzie, Tim Lay, Amy Riley, Derek Parkinson, John Quin, Rob Smith, Stephen Silverwood, Louise Del Foco, Rob Pratten, Ken Barlow, Simon Munk, Rachel Thackray, Vittoria D’Alessio, Kathy Davies, Sophie Orme, Lee Sims, Adam Whitehall, Janette Fowler, Rob Paraman, Phil Cain, Alison MacLeod, Susanna Jones, Linda Siegle, Jon Siegle, Charlie Siegle, Lucy Siegle, Becky Siegle, Henry and Jo Harrison, Christina Daniels, Victoria Hobbs, Celia Hayley, Daneeta Jackson, Amanda Schiff and Wayne Milstead.
Particular thanks to my wife Louise for love, support and incisive critique.
A big thank y
ou to Kathryn Heyman for mentoring me brilliantly through the writing of Invisibles, to Kate Lyra for checking the Brazilian content past and present, to Anna Morrison for her beautiful cover design, to Linda McQueen for sharp and sensitive copy-editing, to Dawn Sackett for spot-on proofreading, and to Melina Herrmann for her support checking Brazilian copy.
Finally, extra special thanks to Vicky Blunden, Candida Lacey, Corinne Pearlman, Adrian Weston and everyone at the wonderful Myriad Editions for backing me and Invisibles, and for all their continuing hard work and support.
AFTERWORD:
Sources
Sources
THE books and films identified here all helped to shape elements of Invisibles.
Bus 174 (Ônibus 174), dir. José Padilha and Felipe Lacerda
The hijack described in Invisibles was a real event, which happened in Rio on June 12th 2000. This excellent documentary analyses the incident through interviews with parties involved, from policemen to hostages, and traces the history of the hijacker, Sandro Rosa do Nascimento. It sheds a shaming light upon the plight of street children – often criminalised and occasionally murdered for the sin of being homeless orphans – and the hideous conditions in Rio’s jails. Padilha does not seek to justify the hijack of the bus, but the documentary goes a long way towards explaining why the hijacker was driven to such an action. It’s a great piece of work, and deeply thought-provoking regarding the roots of social violence. The opening sequence provides a stunning snapshot of the medieval inequalities of the modern world.
Tropical Truth, A Story of Music and Revolution in Brazil (Verdade Tropical), by Caetano Veloso
This wonderful book charts the development of Tropicália, an avant garde musical movement in 1960s Brazil, which unfolded against the backdrop of the military dictatorship. An icon in the music field, Veloso writes with a distinctive and engaging voice on that startling era. The book was important to the depiction in Invisibles of ’60s and ’70s Brazil and its music and political worlds, and to the details of Gilberto’s time in prison, for which Veloso’s own account of his incarceration was an important source.
Samba, by Alma Guillermoprieto
This book is an exuberant guide to samba in all its forms – from its history, to its importance in everyday life, to how to dance it (as a man or a woman). But it was of most value to the writing of Invisibles through its description of the lives and locales of ordinary Brazilian people, those living in and out of favelas. It brims with colourful characters and stories, and is highly informative regarding not just samba but facets of life such as the Candomblé religion in which Yemanjá is an important Orixá (spirit-deity), as well as everyday details such as money, clothes and food.
Carandiru, dir. Hector Babenco
A film based on the novel Estação Carandiru by Dr Dráuzio Varella, which dramatises life in a notorious São Paulo prison, location of an infamous revolt and massacre in 1993, when 111 prisoners died, almost all of them gunned down by the police. Partly using novice actors and former inmates, the film was shot in the prison itself shortly before its demolition. More than simply being the story of the massacre, it shows the hierarchies and relationships that characterise this sad and surreal world, one rife with disease and devoid of basic rights. By following the stories of distinctive characters, it brings a human face to the inhuman reality still experienced in many such prisons.
Bossa Nova, The Story of Brazilian Music that Rocked the World, by Ruy Castro
This meticulous book looks at the origins and pioneers of bossa nova leading up to its 1960s explosion in Brazil. For Invisibles, it was particularly helpful in painting the backdrop to Gilberto’s attempts at musical breakthrough in the ’60s, enabling me to refer to specific artists and venues and to develop a feeling for the style, dynamics and preoccupations of the music scene at the time.
For more information on the locations, music and characters from Invisibles, please see www.edsiegle.com.
About the Author
Ed Siegle grew up in Somerset and lives in Brighton with his wife and children. He spent several years in Spain and Latin America, living and working in Granada, São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. His short story ‘Nine Lives, One Life’ won the 2004 V.S. Pritchett Memorial Prize.
Copyright
First published in 2011
This ebook edition published in 2011 by
Myriad Editions
59 Lansdowne Place
Brighton BN3 1FL
www.MyriadEditions.com
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Ed Siegle 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
‘One Note Samba’ (‘Samba De Uma Nota’)
Words by Newton Mendonça
Music by Antonio Carlos Jobim
© Copyright 1961, 1962 & 1964 Duchess Music Corporation, USA.
Universal/MCA Music Limited.
All rights in Germany administered by Universal/MCA Music Publ.
GmbH. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.
Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–0–9567926–1–7
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