To Greet the Sun

by Claus von Bohlen

  The over-developed beaches of the north did not appeal to me. However, the following day we visited the fishing village of Sambaqui. It was a place I immediately liked. The empty beach is sheltered from the Atlantic waves since it is on the side of the island that faces the mainland. The sea is very shallow a long way out. Fishermen wading out to tend their mussel beds appear, at a certain distance, to be walking on water. The houses, of which there are few, are set back from the cobbled road and mostly hidden behind palm trees and lush vegetation. A bus bound for Florianópolis passes once every half an hour, otherwise there is little traffic. The overriding impression is one of great tranquility.

  Anna-Maria agreed that Sambaqui was an idyllic spot and so I arranged to meet the real estate agent the following morning at the hotel; she was to drive us back to Sambaqui and show us a number of properties for sale in the village. This was, I think, a relief to both Pietro and me. Though he had not complained, I do not think he enjoyed driving the Mercedes as much as the combi. In fact, in the built up areas of the island I had the distinct impression that he shrunk away from the wheel as if he didn’t want to be seen. I also noticed that he gazed longingly at the waves whenever we drove along the Atlantic coastal road.

  *

  The real estate agent was called Kika. She was a friend of Anna-Maria’s daughter, Lua, who still lives in Blumenau. As she drove us back to Sambaqui the following morning, I told her that I had emigrated to Blumenau as soon as I received my papers after the war, and that before the war my father had been closely befriended with Peter Hering of the Hering textile dynasty. I inquired after the Herings - they had been a very prominent family in Blumenau. However, Kika had never heard of the Herings, and thus I left it to her and to Anna-Maria to make small talk about babies and such things.

  Kika showed us a number of attractive properties in Sambaqui. There was one in particular that both Anna-Maria and I liked; overlooking the end of the longer of Sambaqui’s two beaches, it was a long building painted a Maria-Theresian yellow with dark green slatted shutters, and surrounded by a lawn of extraordinarily fine and soft grass. The previous owner had been a Brazilian tennis star whose finest performances had been on the grass courts at Wimbledon. In celebration of this he had imported grass seed from England and devoted considerable time and energy to tending a lawn which, if not quite equal to a grass tennis court, was nevertheless very impressive. It was a lighter, more luminous green than Brazilian grass and I immediately found it a source of great visual pleasure.

  The asking price for the property was not unreasonable, at least not compared to the inflated price of property in São Paulo. And so, a week after we had returned from Santa Catarina, and after a meeting with my bank manager, I made an offer on the house. The offer was accepted and I subsequently put my house in São Paulo on the market; then Anna-Maria and I started to plan the move to Sambaqui.

  I found the actual process of moving to be quite straining. The house in São Paulo contained a lifetime’s worth of clutter. There were many things I knew I would never use again – old tennis racquets, musical instruments and so on. But I did not have the heart to throw them away. Then there were other objects to which I am very attached, such as my collection of antique snuff boxes. I have assembled the collection over the years, scouring everywhere from the flea markets of Mexico City to the antiques fairs of Buenos Aires. It was hard for me to watch the clumsy hands of the removal men attempt to pack my collection with the care it deserves; in the end I was forced to do it myself. Then, when everything had finally been packed, the boxes were loaded onto a lorry to be driven to Sambaqui while Anna-Maria and I made the journey by aeroplane.

  Chapter 2

  I’VE GOT a lot going on right now. There’s a lot my mother doesn’t know, and it’s better that way, but I guess that’s why she promised Vovó that I’d be free to drive her and Senhor Eisinger around when they came to visit the island. Actually, they weren’t just visiting. Senhor Eisinger was thinking of moving here and they came to look at houses. My mother told me to go and pick them both up from the airport. At first I resented the fact that she’d made that promise – like I said, I’ve got a lot going on. However, when I thought about it a bit more, I realised there was a chance that I’d get a sizeable tip from Senhor Eisinger. He’s pretty rich, I think. Admittedly, nightclub promoters don’t usually rely on tips for odd jobs, but I really need the money.

  When I was very young, I used to go to São Paulo every summer to spend a few weeks with Vovó and Senhor Eisinger. Vovó would take me to Sottozero, the ice cream parlour, and buy me things which I’d never have got back home. That was the first place I ever had doce de leite ice cream – the one with swirls of caramel running through it. It was delicious; I used to dream about it for the rest of the year.

  I remember the house they lived in. It was large and very quiet – too quiet, really. You could hear your own breathing. And it had a peculiar smell of old wood and moss. But the garden was big and lush and shady. And there was a pool. I remember the old negro with the wrinkled face who tended it. He used to spend hours fishing the leaves out of the water one by one.

  I rarely saw Senhor Eisinger. I spent most of the time in Vovó’s apartment, which was attached to the main house. But even when I followed her into the main house, I rarely saw him. Of course, this was before he had retired; Vovó told me that he worked very hard. He was a big fish in the Feldmann Brewery business.

  I used to play with my toy cars on the terrace, overlooking the garden. The paving stones were irregular and they cut my bare knees, but I liked the way that the sunlight and shade were clearly distinguished on the bright stone. I had one army of cars for the sun and another for the shade and they fought some historic battles.

  Vovó tried to make sure that I wasn’t playing on the terrace when Senhor Eisinger came out to take his afternoon tea. However, there were occasions when she forgot to chase me away, or sometimes Senhor Eisinger returned early. He would sit and watch me play and if Vovó tried to send me indoors, he would say, ‘No, no, Anna-Maria, leave him. There is no need.’ He always seemed very serious; certainly he would never have considered taking part in my car wars. But I never felt uncomfortable in his presence. Quite the opposite: I felt he liked me being there.

  *

  On the morning I was supposed to meet Vovó and Senhor Eisinger at the airport, I woke up in Sara’s apartment. That hadn’t been my plan, not at all. Marina – my girlfriend – was due to return from her parents’ house in Curitiba later that afternoon. I figured I just had time to rush back to my own apartment, the one we share, before driving to the airport. That way I could cover my tracks.

  I raced back home, then I showered and changed. I messed up the sheets and made sure to leave the damp towel on the bed. I knew that would annoy Marina – it is one of her pet peeves - but it would make her think that I had spent the night at home. I didn’t know how long Vovó and Senhor Eisinger would want me to drive them around for, so I put all my music equipment in the back of the combi in case I didn’t have time to go home before Divino. I’d just launched my own night at Divino and it wasn’t going very well so for now I was cutting costs by dj-ing there myself. Anyway, with the surfing and promoting my night and trying to finish my degree, not to mention the sleeping around, I was beginning to think that I had taken on too much.

  I drove to the airport just in time to welcome Vovó and Senhor Eisinger as they emerged from the arrivals gate. I’d seen Vovó over Christmas and she looked as healthy and robust as ever. She is always happy to see me and that’s a good feeling, though she invariably manages to make me feel like a little boy. She embraced me as soon as she had marched around the barrier separating us. For the first time I can remember, she did not comment on how much I had grown or how closely I resembled my grandfather. Maybe this was in deference to Senhor Eisinger; he was waiting patiently behind her and was rather dwarfed by her bulk. Vovó reintroduced us; after all, Senhor Eisinger last saw me ten years a
go. However, he looked identical to the way I remembered him – his fine grey hair was neatly combed back and he wore an elegant black suit. He just seemed a lot smaller, though he shook my hand very firmly while staring me straight in the eye.

  ‘Senhor Eisinger, it is a pleasure to see you again,’ I said.

  ‘And it is a pleasure to see you. But please, Pietro, let us not stand on formality. Call me Otto.’

  In view of what I was to learn about Seu Otto, this was a strange thing to say. I have never met a man who stands more on formality. Nevertheless, I took control of the luggage trolley, which appeared to be causing Seu Otto some trouble, then I led the way out to the car park. On the way I had the impression that Seu Otto was sizing me up. However, once I had loaded the luggage into the back of the combi and started the engine, Seu Otto leant back and appeared to fall asleep. Vovó began to interview me about the family. I realised that she was also trying, rather sneakily, to pry into my own affairs. Had she asked me directly I don’t think I would have minded, but I resented the underhand nature of her questions. I found myself wishing that Seu Otto would open his eyes so that his formality would once again silence my grandmother.

  ‘So Pietro, how is university?’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m due to graduate next year.’ There’s a mountain of work I’ll have to do before then and I don’t know how I am going to pay for my tuition, I thought to myself.

  ‘Yes…’ Vovó paused a moment. ‘There must be lots of nice girls at your university.’

  ‘Yes, Vovó, there are,’ I replied. I knew she wanted to hear more, but I didn’t want to tell her about my current situation. It’s strange how people pay lip service to the idea that young men should be allowed to fool around, though when it comes down to the details, no one ever actually approves. ‘You’re young, you’re free… enjoy it,’ they say, but when you tell them about the girls you’re seeing, they say something like, ‘I could never do that’, or, ‘I’m amazed that you can live like that.’ It’s confusing.

  I didn’t think Vovó would approve of my current lifestyle. She is pretty old-fashioned. But she’s also insightful. She said, ‘You know, Pietro, if there’s something you want to talk about, you can always talk to me.’ I looked into the rear view mirror and saw that she was studying me. I was surprised to feel a sudden surge of emotion, almost a desire to cry. I am not sure whether it was caused by Vovó herself, or whether there were things I wanted to get off my chest; in any case, it took me unawares. It was as if I had caught a brief glimpse of a wave of sadness which I usually pretend is not there. I wasn’t about to spill my guts to her then and there, but just for a moment the thought of having someone to talk to was very appealing. But then I realised how ridiculous it would be to tell my grandmother about Sara and Marina and the club and the surfing sponsorship and my worries about the future. She wouldn’t understand any of it. So I just said, ‘Obrigado, Vovó,’ and then the front of the Hotel Imperial came into view and I was grateful for it.

  Seu Otto opened his eyes and got out of the combi almost immediately. I was impressed by the energy of the old man’s movements. I opened the door for Anna-Maria, then I helped the porter unload the luggage. When I entered the hotel, Anna-Maria was sitting in an armchair fanning herself and Seu Otto was leafing through the documents in his leather briefcase which was perched on the reception. I approached him to ask at what time he wanted to be picked up.

  Seu Otto suggested meeting at the hotel at half past seven, a time at which I would usually either be surfing or just have gone to bed. The receptionist then reappeared and informed Seu Otto that they could arrange for him to hire a Mercedes for three days. This surprised me; I’d imagined that I would be driving Seu Otto and Anna-Maria in my old combi. I reminded Seu Otto of this, but to my annoyance he abruptly dismissed the idea.

  There were a number of reasons why I preferred to drive the combi. For a start, given the fact that I currently owe the owners of Divino a sizeable sum of money, it is certainly not in my interests for them to see me driving around in a shiny new Mercedes. Secondly, although my mother had offered my services as a favour, I nevertheless also hoped to receive some financial reward for three days of driving, and the reward would be greater if the car were my own. And, finally, in the event that the combi broke down, which was quite likely, then Seu Otto would feel obliged to pay for the repairs, or at least to contribute to them, and I could get my hands on some more cash that way. It all sounds very scheming, but I was really in a bit of a fix.

  I tried to change Seu Otto’s mind but it was pointless. In fact, I saw a brief glimpse of the cast iron inflexibility about which Vovó has often complained to my mother. Seu Otto was very abrupt, almost as if he was doing me a favour by letting me drive him. But then I remembered that for many years he had had an important job in São Paulo; I suppose old habits die hard. And, quite apart from that, maybe it should be the privilege of old age not to have to compromise; it doesn’t seem like there are many other advantages.

  *

  I said goodbye to Seu Otto and Vovó and drove the half hour back to my apartment in Lagoa. There is a steep hill between Florianópolis, on the west of the island, and Lagoa da Conceição, which faces east. The combi battled its way up the hill and even the shrill scooters of local rapazes – the derestricted ones with the high-pitched exhausts – overtook me on the slope. I was beginning to feel more positive about Seu Otto’s Mercedes when the combi crested the brow of the hill. The view that greeted me is probably the finest on the island. For a few moments I felt grateful for my vehicle’s slowness which allowed me to take it all in.

  In front of me was the saltwater lagoon called Lagoa da Conceiçao - its shallow margins were a bright emerald green. Just beyond that I could see the dunes and the beaches facing the Atlantic – Barra da Lagoa to the north, then Praia Mole and Joaquina. These were the beaches where I had learnt to surf, where I had made my childhood friends and first smoked pot and first got laid (in the car park, that is). For a moment I remembered what it felt like to be carefree, the way I was back then. The annoying thing is, at the time I never realised how lucky I was. I suppose I didn’t have anything to compare it to. But then, perhaps it is only from the perspective of the present that those days seem carefree. When I think about it a little more, I remember worrying about scraping together enough money to buy a board, and how late I could stay out, and whether I’d be able to impress the girls. Maybe the worry is always there, it’s just what you worry about that changes.

  The combi rolled slowly down the hill. The road was in shadow now; the sun was setting behind the hill. Other, longer shadows stretched east across the island in front of me. Here and there streetlights in the small town of Lagoa were already being switched on. One by one, my worries returned.

  My biggest problem right now is money. Two months ago I signed a contract to run Tuesday nights at a popular nightclub called Divino. However, right after I signed the contract, the owners opened another nightclub in Lagoa itself. Now the old crowd goes there on Tuesdays and I’m losing money.

  I also get sponsored to surf by Kauai, the surf shop in Joaquina. However, I’ve surfed so little this year that I don’t think they’ll renew the deal. I was planning to use the money to pay next semester’s tuition for my media studies degree. But the way things are going, I may not even be allowed to register for next semester. I’ve got a pile of work to get through if I want to pass the courses I’m already taking.

  The assignment I’m most worried about is a full-length investigative interview. I don’t think anyone reads 3000 word interviews anymore, but we still have to learn how to write one. The problem is, I have no idea who to interview. I guess I could go to a surf contest and interview one of the competitors – I know most of them anyway. Kauai would love that, me interviewing other surfers when I should be getting myself interviewed… No, that’s not such a great idea.

  *

  I parked the combi and opened the door to the apartment. I had
been so lost in my thoughts that I had totally forgotten that Marina would be back from visiting her parents in Curitiba. The faint scent of coconut tanning oil in the apartment gave her away – it is a smell which seems to accompany her everywhere. The apartment was warm and humid; I guessed that Marina was in the shower.

  I bent down to pick up the fliers which had been dropped through the post box. I heard a noise and, looking up, I saw Marina’s long tanned legs. She was wearing high heels, black underwear and a light blue t-shirt. She was a sexy girl but, even for her, this was unusual.

  ‘Oi, bem vinda,’ I said, rising to kiss her hello. ‘You look like a lingerie model.’

  ‘I had to iron my skirt,’ she replied, and I noticed that she was holding the short white skirt in her other hand.

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ I said, leaning in to kiss her again. I noticed once again how much softer Marina’s lips were than Sara’s. I placed my hand on her angular hipbone and allowed the cusp of it to nestle in the centre of my palm. Marina put her arm behind my head and, taking a handful of my hair, she pulled my mouth towards hers again. My thumb drifted towards the elastic of her underwear.

  Marina pulled away. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I have to go to work, I’m going to be late.’

  ‘So if you’re late already…’ I whispered in her ear. She didn’t respond. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ Again she didn’t respond. Up close the smell of her skin and the coconut oil was intoxicating. ‘I get so lonely without you,’ I breathed. Third time lucky. She grabbed my belt buckle and tugged at it. I manoeuvred us around until my back was against the wall, then I let her take over.

  *

  Marina got back around four in the morning. She works at the Jungle Bar in Barra da Lagoa. It’s a touristy place but they make great caipirinhas. Four a.m. is about normal, though this time she was pretty drunk when she got back. Knowing that I would have to get up at half past six to meet Senhor Eisinger, I had gone to bed early. However, I’m not used to it, so I just lay in bed with the TV on. I hadn’t even been able to concentrate on that. I spent most of the night lying awake and thinking – about Marina, and Sara, and the night at Divino, and the money I owed. Finally I did fall asleep, but not for long. Marina woke me up when she got back. She can be very demanding when she’s drunk. When I left the apartment a couple of hours later I was exhausted.