“I heard it this morning. On the radio, so it must be official.”
In the profound silence that followed Moéma felt terribly impotent. She felt like being sick.
“Right,” said Pablo, “then we’ll have to get up our strength for the fight. Can I have this thing, Thaïs?” Without waiting for a reply, he took a little clip-frame with a picture of Saint Sebastian bristling with arrows off the wall.
“What are you doing?” Thaïs asked, uneasy. Without being religious herself, she didn’t like people playing with religious objects. Such color prints could be found in all the shops selling religious bric-a-brac, but she was fond of this Saint Sebastian because of his sad smile and beautiful androgynous face. Less innocent was the way the drops of crimson blood dripping down from his wounds secretly excited her to the extent that she always saw this image at a particular moment of pleasure during lovemaking.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” said Pablo, carefully opening a film-roll box and pouring the contents onto the clip-frame, “it’s on the house.”
“Wow!” Thaïs exclaimed, seeing the large lumps of cocaine rolling a cross the glass. “It’s Christmas, Mãe de Deus!”
“Goodness!” Moéma said, just as fascinated by this sudden abundance. “Where did you find that amazing stuff?”
“I’ve just got it. When it’s like that, in little crystals, it means it’s not been cut. It’s the purest of the pure, ladies.”
Closely watched by the two girls, Pablo started by crumbling up the lumps with a razor blade. Once the cocaine had been reduced to powder, he divided it up into four equal parts, which he then deftly drew out into a number of parallel lines.
“Leave me out,” Virgilio said suddenly, standing up. “Sorry but I have to go.”
“See you this evening, at the Casa de Cultura Alemã?”
“Yes—if you’re still in a fit state to go anywhere by then.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“Good. See you, then. But be careful, that stuff’s shit.”
He hadn’t even left before Pablo had shifted his share of the powder to the other three lines. “Your little journalist doesn’t know what he’s missing. Is he afraid or what?”
“Leave it, Pablo,” Moéma said icily, “he’s OK.”
“Fine, fine, I didn’t say anything. Off you go, you lead the way.”
He handed her the clip-frame and the 100-cruzeiro note he had just rolled up into a tube. Leaning over the picture of Saint Sebastian, Moéma put the improvised straw up one of her nostrils, blocking the other with her forefinger. She snorted half the line steadily and confidently, then repeated the process. After having sniffed it all back, she tapped the glass to pick up the last crystals on the tip of her finger and rub them vigorously on her gums.
“Que bom!” she said, closing her eyes. The heat came in stronger and stronger waves; an odd taste, slightly bitter, was making her mouth numb.
“Well then?” Pablo asked, while Thaïs hurried to go through the same ritual.
“You’re right, it’s good stuff, very good stuff.”
“If you want some, tell me now. It’s going to disappear very quickly.”
“How much?”
“For you, the price is the same as the last time: ten thousand a gram.”
Cooled down by a burst of guilty conscience, Moéma almost refused the offer, but the idea exasperated her. The feeling it gave her of being under surveillance, judged in advance by the paternal tribunal. When was she going to make up her mind to accept the choices she’d made? With the money she’d exchanged she’d enough cash to renew her supply of coke—she’d almost none left since the other night—and to pay the first expenses for setting up the bar. She calculated that two grams would be sufficient to see her through to the end of the month. And she suddenly felt so good, so much mistress of herself and her destiny …
“Share mine with me, I already snorted a bit too much for today,” Pablo said with a smile.
Thaïs quickly took her share, as if to stop him changing his mind.
“Three grams, can you do that?” Moéma said, as if it was nothing.
“Can do,” Pablo replied with a knowing wink. “Four o’clock at your place, OK?”
“OK.”
“I’ll get it done right away. Just as long as it takes to go around to the safe and then back to my place to weigh it.”
“To the safe?” Moéma asked, surprised.
“You don’t think I keep my stock in my parents’ house, do you? With a safe deposit box at the bank I’m not running any risks. Even if I get nicked with some stuff on me, they can’t accuse me of dealing. You’ve got to look after number one, sweetheart, it’s the only way of surviving.”
Moéma waited until he’d gone before snorting the coke Thaïs had left. Shifted around by the various operations on the glass, most of the powder had accumulated in the middle of Saint Sebastian. She spent a long time over that part, revealing little by little the flesh of his thighs, the bulge of his groin, as if removing the linen concealing his nakedness thread by thread.
AFTER THE TRANSACTION with Pablo the two girls had “tested” the new coke and gone to bed. They only got up toward seven, to have a shower and go out to eat—extravagantly, Moéma invited Thaïs to the Trapiche, the best restaurant in town. Exhilarated at the idea of shocking the strait-laced clientele of the establishment, they spent more than an hour making up and choosing their dresses. Thaïs painted her fingers with mauve varnish, tending to black, and put on bright red lipstick and her favorite dress: a loose-fitting smock in almost transparent pink muslin, pulled in at the waist and dotted with little stars of metallic blue plastic. Moéma just put on a man’s suit with a tie and a white shirt, but she slicked back her hair in a very tight bun, before drawing on a thin mustache à la Errol Flynn with a stick of greasepaint.
One last pinch of coke, “to pep them up,” and they were braving the Beira-mar and the crowds of young people who frequented the sea front once night had fallen. Thronging the terraces of the bars or drinks stands, which stretched out for miles along the shore, clustering around parked cars with their doors open and music going full blast, they moved about, danced on the spot, laughed, shouted abuse at each other sometimes, clutching a glass or a bottle, a constantly milling, gaily colored mass. Street peddlers were selling all kinds of craft items, necklaces, “handmade” jewelry, leather and lace from the Nordeste, as well as half-open sharks’ jaws, shells bristling with spines, crab fritters, acarajé, in a heady smell of fried coconut oil. Thaïs and Moéma plunged unhesitatingly into this dark, heaving mass. Despite their familiarity with carnival dressing-up, or perhaps because of it, people turned around as they passed with amused expressions, wolf whistles or even off-the-cuff compliments. Feigning total indifference, the two of them strolled along slowly, determined to behave naturally and forcing themselves to stop from time to time on the pretext of examining a stall or to kiss each other tenderly on the neck.
When they entered the restaurant like two schooners with the wind behind them, the maître d’hôtel, who came to greet them, had a brief moment of hesitation. Holding his gaze with composure, Moéma asked for a table for two and inquired with a polished turn of phrase about the freshness of their spiny lobsters. Doubtless influenced by her confident tone, the maître d’ led them to one of the last free tables deep in the rich, air-conditioned half-light that is the hallmark of a great establishment. Thaïs was intimidated by it. Struck dumb by a formality she was encountering for the first time, terrorized by the unrelenting attentiveness of the waiters, she was only her old self again after her second aperitif. The effect of the alcohol combining with that of the cocaine, she quickly forgot her provincial unease and, following Moéma’s example, concentrated on the restaurant’s customers. The two girls thought up lots of scabrous stories behind their conventional appearance, mocking one person’s face or mimicking another’s mannered gestures with an inventiveness that sent them into uncontrollabl
e giggling fits. The waiters for the most part colluded in their high spirits, giving them big smiles, taking care not to be seen by the maître d’hôtel; his black looks showed how much he was annoyed with himself for having let these overexcited customers in.
Exasperated by remarks of which he was the target, one diner with heavy jowls and a pot belly cut short his meal; trailing his wife and children behind him, he left in high dudgeon. Highly amused, Thaïs and Moéma saw him take the maître d’hôtel to one side and rail against their behavior, with much wagging of his finger and spluttering. The maître d’ threw up his arms, clasped his hands and made one low bow after another, but his profuse apologies could not stop the customer from venting his rich man’s anger on him before stalking off.
They were then served spiny lobster tails au gratin in half a pineapple brimming with a creamy sauce flavored with ginger and cardamom. And since Thaîs was worried about having to use her fish knife and fork, Moéma led the way by starting to eat with her fingers. Under the now disapproving glances of the waiters, who were very unhappy with this insult to the speciality of the restaurant, they persisted in the affront, smearing their glasses and serviettes with their greasy fingers and mixing long draughts of beer—Moéma had ordered some just to see the look on the sommelier’s face—with the excellent chablis he had recommended.
They had reached the dessert when Thaïs, completely tipsy, decided she had to write a poem on the tablecloth. After a long rummage around in her handbag, she took out a large fountain pen, which she showed off to her friend. The first word she wrote on the cloth remaining invisible, she swore at the recalcitrant implement, unscrewed it and squeezed the cartridge so hard that a jet of ink spurted out onto her dress, over her thighs. She shot to her feet and saw that the damage was done: a huge black stain was spreading through the fine muslin, beyond repair. They both burst out laughing at the same time, then ordered a bottle of champagne in an effort, they claimed, to ward off ill fortune.
“And a pair of scissors, please,” Thaïs said to the waiter as he was going off. He made her repeat her request, assuring her, with a weary look, that he would do his best.
When he came back he had the scissors she’d asked for. As he was undoing the wire around the champagne cork, Thaïs suddenly climbed up onto her chair. “Off you go,” she said, handing Moéma the scissors.
Moéma got up and, walking around her friend, cut off the dress above the ink stain, making it into a mini skirt. Out of the corner of their eyes, or openly looking at them, the other customers observed the operation in a profound silence broken by the clatter of forks and whispers. Mesmerized by the agreeable view of Thaïs’ panties that his position gave him, the waiter had watched the scene without moving, his hand rigidly clasping the neck of the bottle he was preparing to open. It was the sudden explosion of the cork that broke the spell.
Delighted with the exploit and having decided that the shortened dress was much more becoming than previously, Thaïs and Moéma sat down again and drank the champagne right down to the last drop.
When the moment came to present them with the little box containing the bill, the maître d’hôtel did so with the satisfied expression of a man finally giving his worst enemy a bomb that was bound to have a devastating effect: the bill reflected their extravagance and he was hoping, with all his flunkey’s soul, that it would be beyond the means of these dykes. After a quick glance, Moéma counted out the sum on her lap, so that Thaïs couldn’t see how much it was, then put it in the box without batting an eyelid.
“I presume you’re going to give us a cigar,” she said with a haughty smile, casually dropping a large tip on the table.
The maître d’hôtel swallowed his ill humor and gave the order. Puffing their Havanas aggressively, they got up from their table, walked across the restaurant like a royal couple, responding to the forced thanks and farewells of the staff with a slight nod, and left the restaurant.
The bar project would have to be put off a little longer, then, Moéma thought as she counted what was left. But the evening with Thaïs was well worth the sacrifice. They had passed through the darkness of the Trapiche like two nameless comets heading for outer space, leaving a scattering of little blue metal stars behind them in evidence of their passing.
“What would you say to spending a few days at Canoa?” she suddenly asked Thaïs. “I’ve still got enough money to pay for you as well.”
“Great! You’re fantastic, really,” said Thaïs enthusiastically. “I’ve been dying to go back there for ages.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“No problem, count me in. Oh, what a great idea.”
Once more caught up in the lively crowd along the shore and laughing at their inability to walk straight, they somehow managed to reach the Avenida Tibúrcio Cavalcante. It was only while searching for her keys that Moéma remembered the meeting at the German Cultural Institute. It was eleven o’clock.
“Shit, shit and double shit. I completely forgot about that.”
“Me too,” said Thaïs, bursting out laughing.
“I have to go. I promised Virgilio.”
“Forget it. Anyway, it’s too late and I can’t take one more step, the state I’m in.”
“You wait for me here, then. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh, no, I don’t want to be left all alone,” Thaïs simpered.
“Rest assured, I won’t be long. I promised, Thaïs, I have to go.”
Thaïs embraced her and gave her a long kiss on the lips; balancing on one leg, she rubbed herself up against Moéma’s thigh. “Look, she’s already crying because you’re going away,” she said, guiding Moéma’s hand toward her groin.
“Don’t worry, my love, I’ll console her when I get back. There, take the keys, I’ll be back in no time at all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure as sure can be. I don’t want you snorting all my coke.”
FAVELA DE PIRAMBÚ: Life is a hammock rocked by fate …
Blue and red against the setting sun, Zé’s truck suddenly appeared on the swelling dunes of the horizon. Driven at full speed and distorted by the heat haze, it looked like a knight in armor in his final charge against the dragon. Its dazzling chrome shot off more flames than the sun itself and, like the shield of St. George, gave rise to indescribable hope.
It came to a halt right in the middle of the shanty town, not far from Nelson’s shack, after one last whinny and a couple of shudders that sent up a cloud of sand and dust.
Zé Pinto got down from the cab nimbly, but Nelson realized there was bad news coming when he started to walk toward him with tentative steps. His shoulders more hunched than usual, his smile with a hint of sadness, he couldn’t say exactly what it was, but he was so accustomed to reading the anguish in other people’s expressions that something told him the day would not finish without some new blemish. Despite his truck driver’s tan, Zé looked gray; dark rings under eyes glassy with fatigue said more than his speedometer about the number of miles he’d driven in the last three days.
“Hi, son,” he said with feigned cheerfulness. “How’s tricks?”
“Tudo bom, the Lord be praised,” Nelson replied, holding out his hand.
Zé slapped the boy’s palm, then their thumbs engaged, the other fingers wrapping themselves around their wrists. After a double rotation, allowing each in turn to clasp a clenched fist, the strange ritual gesture finished with the four hands intertwined, a Gordian knot that sealed their friendship.
They went into the hut. Bending his head so as not to hit the corrugated iron ceiling, Zé strung up a second hammock beside Nelson’s then started to empty the plastic bag he’d brought. “Just a few bits and pieces … I don’t know what to do with them myself.”
He put a tin of olive oil on the floor, three loaves of rapadura, the raw cane sugar the aleijadinho was fond of, an enormous mango and some eggs. Zé had bought all this for him but Nelson merely muttered his thanks in order to keep up the pretense. The
y both appreciated this basic restraint, a kind of lightning conductor for any effusiveness.
“Where’ve you been?” Nelson asked, filling the glasses with cachaça.
Zé shook his head in disapproval. God knows how much they made him pay for that bottle, he thought. “You shouldn’t have,” he said. “You know it’s bad for you.”
“Where’ve you been,” Nelson repeated, his eyes fixed on Zé’s.
“Juazeiro. I was delivering twenty tons of cement to a firm. I stopped in Canindé on the way back. The people are starving out there, they told me there were forty cases of plague.”
“Plague?!”
“The black death. The doctors in the hospital wanted to close the town, but the mayor doesn’t want the news to get out because of the elections. It’s always the same old story! The poor don’t grow, they swell … I read that on a Mercedes tractor-trailer, a pau de arara that was coming from the plantations.”
All over Brazil the long-distance truck drivers thought up a “maxim” and had it painted on a decorated piece of wood they fixed to the front and back of their vehicle. Some showed a humorous or poetic touch, others were happy to add their bit to the prevailing misogyny, but the majority had one sole theme: inexhaustible variations on the curse that is life. It was from the gaily colored aphorisms speeding along the roads that Zé had derived his whole philosophy. At fifty—he looked much older, as did the majority of the lower classes in the Nordeste—he had hundreds of different adages stored in his memory. Whenever he passed trucks as he drove around, he made sure to learn their anonymous maxims parading their modicum of irony, mysticism or suffering below the windscreen. After having meditated on them for hours, sometimes for days, he made the most caustic ones his own and peppered his conversation with them. Nelson looked on him as a fount of wisdom, especially as his own truck bore a sentence that utterly perplexed him: A vida éuma rede que o destino balança, life is a hammock rocked by fate.
“By the way, I almost forgot,” said Zé, rummaging around in his pocket. “Look, I’ve got these for you as well. I found them in Petrolina.”
Where Tigers Are at Home Page 10