Atlantic Hotel

by João Gilberto Noll

  Someone was coughing up a lung on the other side of the wall. Suddenly, they hawked loudly and flushed the toilet. I took a piss and then a bath. This brothel even left a toothbrush wrapped in sealed plastic. The soap, shampoo, all serviceable.

  I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Nélson was lying on my bed—shoes on. One of his legs was bent, the sole of the shoe right on the mattress.

  “So how’s it going,” he asked, “Isn’t that Japanese girl great?”

  “She has a great mane,” I replied, not sure what I meant by it.

  “A great mane,” Nélson repeated, and stuffed his hand down his pants.

  “Get yourself ready to go, we’ll be in Pomar before lunch,” he said, getting up.

  And he left the room with his hand down his pants.

  I got dressed. One of my socks had a hole in it, exposing my big toe. I hastily yanked on the part with the hole to cover my big toenail, which needed trimming.

  On this leg of our journey Nélson was flooring it. I was sitting in the back now. There wasn’t much other traffic on the highway; only rarely did Nélson have to pass a truck.

  Léo didn’t say much. Nélson told me his mother died in childbirth.

  “I was the child, the only one she had. I heard she died because of the doctor’s carelessness. If that doctor’s alive, I’ll kill him, just a matter of figuring out who it was. I still haven’t found the right guy.”

  “And your father?” I asked.

  “They say my father was the son of Arabs—Lebanese, something like that—I guess he sold carpets. He knocked up my mom and then took off.”

  After that Nélson got quiet. And then after going around a curve he came to a stop in front of a gate. On the gate was written: OASIS FARMS.

  Léo got out of the car and opened the gate. The car passed through, stopped. Léo closed the gate, got in the car. The car started down a dirt path.

  Many wild horses roamed an expanse. They were playing, running, lying down flicking themselves with their tails on a light slope in the field. We’d already been going for about five minutes along the dirt road. I was just looking, silent.

  Then I saw a huge structure made of dark wood ahead. It looked like a barn. The car parked in front.

  Nélson put the car keys on the dash. He said they were going in to take care of a quick piece of business with a friend, and if I wanted I could go down that path over there to the left, there was a pretty river down there. We’d meet up on the shore of the river in five, ten minutes max.

  Three police dogs chained to an iron stake at the entrance to the wood structure were barking like crazy.

  “Rambo, shut your mouth,” Nélson yelled.

  The biggest dog shut up. The other two quieted down little by little.

  “Rambo’s the boss, he commands the other two,” Nélson explained, turning to face me.

  Nélson and Léo went into the wooden structure. I decided to go down the path to the river.

  The path was wet, full of stones and exposed roots. On certain stretches I needed to steady myself on tree trunks so I wouldn’t slip.

  The river at the bottom of the path was actually worth the trouble. It was clear, just a few strokes to the other side. I leaned down, dipped my hand in the water—the river was so clear that I could see the blue of the sky reflected in the water. A school of little fish passed by so quickly I barely had a chance to look at them.

  I started to walk along the shore. The sand was thick and rocky. I stopped a few times to throw a stone in the river and felt myself sweating under my clothes. It was getting hot.

  I hadn’t walked ten minutes when I saw blood on the sand. I stopped. I saw that the blood continued to the right, leaving a trail into a thicket.

  I followed the blood for a while. On the far side of the thicket I stopped. I heard voices.

  I bent down and impulsively grabbed a weighty stone. I stood there waiting to use it. It was heavy, but an instinct I didn’t fully comprehend at the time told me to keep holding the stone in my hands for a while.

  Suddenly, as if to prepare myself, I heaved my arms up, but got impatient waiting for I didn’t know what, so in a fit of hysteria I threw the stone onto the trail of blood.

  The voices, which had silenced, returned. This time closer. It didn’t take me long to discern they were the voices of Nélson and Léo. Nélson was speaking softly now, but was clearly arguing with Léo.

  I’d started to walk back the way I’d come, darting my eyes all around with each step, when I saw the two of them on the other side of a boulder, which reached almost to the water on a particularly muddy stretch of shore.

  I ducked back and hid behind the rock. Through a fissure in the rock I could see what was happening.

  Nélson put the barrel of a revolver against Léo’s forehead. Léo was shirtless, on his knees in the mud.

  Léo was crying. Nélson was sputtering, “If you don’t kill him right now I’ll finish you! The guy’s a soap opera actor; if he wanted to, he could rat on us to the police just to get famous again! How was I supposed to know this would happen? And he saw, there’s no doubt about it, he saw!”

  I saw what? I thought. Was it the blood I saw? Was that what Nélson wanted to hide by killing me?

  How to escape?

  The veins in Nélson’s neck were popping out more than usual due to the effort he was making to keep his voice down.

  “The guy’s wandering around here somewhere, go find him and kill him, go on—if you don’t, I’ll kill you and then tell all of Palomar it was me who popped your girlfriend’s cherry, you little bitch! My dear little sister, yes her, I was the first guy to fuck her when she was twelve years old!”

  Nélson pulled Léo’s head by the hair, and forced him to kiss his crotch, “Kiss it, kiss the guy who paved the way for you, little bitch, kiss it!”

  I started to creep away from behind the rock, back up the riverbank. When I got to the top I’d run as fast as possible, since the dogs would definitely bark like mad. I’d have to be as fast as possible because the barking would put me in the sights of Nélson’s gun within seconds. As fast as possible I’d run and get the key from where I was certain Nélson had left it on the dashboard—I’d make a getaway in the car. I’d escape.

  I dragged myself up the riverbank, taking hold of exposed roots to hoist myself up. The ground had the wetness of dense overgrowth that never sees any sunlight, leaves sticking to my clothes as I climbed, everything muddy, moving carefully so I wouldn’t make any noise—when I got to the top of the bank there’d be no other cover, I’d have to run for it, make noise, get quickly to the car, which was close to the guard dogs who would bark as though possessed, pulling their chains maybe to the point of breaking.

  And when I got to the top of the hill I ran fast to the car, opened the door, and rolled up the windows with the furious dogs just a few yards away. Deafened, I grabbed the key and started the car, and here came the shots from behind. Nélson, hot on my heels, the car already moving, I see Nélson in the rearview setting the dogs loose, drive the car at a foolish speed, jolting ahead without direction, can’t find the dirt path, hit a stone, crash against another, the dogs appear, throwing themselves against the windows. I hear shots, Nélson’s chasing behind them, definitely trying to shoot out the tires, I don’t see Léo in the rearview, a huge rock in front of me, one of the dogs unleashing its fury between me and the rock, and I hit the gas and smash the dog against the rock, bashing the car two, three times against the rock, splattering blood on the windshield. Turn now to the left, a shot shatters the back window, finally hit the dirt road, floor it, going, going, dust, dust from all sides, I almost lose visibility, the car skidding off the dirt road, going, going anywhere, the crack of the shots more and more distant, the barking of the dogs sinking away, ten minutes later an absolute silence. I stopped the car.

  A few yards in front of me, a barbed-wire fence. On the other side, not too far, an old bus rumbled down a road. I thought I mi
ght be safe for the time being. I was breathing with difficulty. Had an attack of hiccups. I opened the car door and walked ahead, looking behind, all around, no danger in sight.

  I took my time getting between two of the wires on the fence. I ripped my pants on a low, nude branch. After stumbling over something, I fell. The sun was very strong. I had a hard time getting up. I took off my coat and threw it on the ground. Aside from making me sweat, it weighed too much. I threw it away without the least desire to turn back and look at it one last time.

  It was a dirt road, not the same one that brought us to the farm. It reinforced the sensation I was being rescued from Nélson’s clutches.

  I saw a horse-drawn wagon approaching. The guy driving it was by himself. I waved and he stopped. I said I’d gotten lost. For two days I’d wandered, from dawn until dusk, without finding anybody. I didn’t know how this could have happened to me.

  “I need your help, I need you to give me a lift,” I said.

  “Sure, climb on up,” he said.

  He was a young man. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by my sudden appearance in a state of emergency. Just told me to climb onto the wagon. Seated beside him on the wagon seat, I asked where he was heading.

  “To Viçoso, at the foot of that hill over there,” he responded.

  I saw a low hill a few miles ahead. Houses, people, whatever he was calling Viçoso still remained to be seen.

  “The hill, and what’s after that?” The question came out too quickly.

  “After that hill is where Rio Grande do Sul begins,” he replied.

  I looked at the horse’s haunches as it marched, looked at the young man gone blond and wizened by the sun, looked back at the cargo he was carrying, squash. The wagon was shaking; I asked, “You taking those squash to Viçoso?”

  “To sell in Viçoso. I live there.”

  “So you live almost at the border of Rio Grande,” I remarked.

  “At one time I lived in the north of Rio Grande.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “I transported sand, wood, bricks, construction stuff.”

  I thought it would be nice if this journey lasted a while, that we wouldn’t get to Viçoso until the end of the day, so that by the time we arrived there’d only be time to eat something, find a place to stay, and go to sleep.

  In fact, we did arrive in the evening. The road was full of curves, skirting hills. Viçoso was a village with pretty much just one real street. The side streets didn’t extend for more than four or five houses. Beyond those houses the soil eroded, cleaving into a furrowed ravine.

  I went to the end of one of the side streets. To the right the orange sun was falling behind the hill. Before me was a tree whose branches were plucked by winter. The winter had turned the surrounding fields gray.

  I was alone, staring at a countryside that looked like a plateau, when I heard the voice of the guy from the wagon just behind me.

  “Sir, I arranged a place for you to sleep,” he said.

  I turned around and said, “Where?”

  “In the parsonage,” he replied.

  “You spoke with the priest?” I asked.

  “No, the priest only comes once a month—I spoke with Antônio, the guy who lives in the house and takes care of the church. He said you could go there.”

  I said thanks, and asked, “And where can I find something to eat?”

  “I’ll take you to Big Paul’s bar. He’s a friend of mine.”

  We sat down in the bar. Big Paul was a redhead with very curly hair. On the table was a linen tablecloth, stained with egg on one edge. Men were drinking, some were seated at the tables, others were standing and leaning against the bar. The boy who’d brought me in the wagon rubbed his hands. Big Paul brought us some beer. Two men were discussing how awfully hot it was for July. I took off my old blazer, which I almost never did. I could smell my sweat, wondered how I’d wash my clothes. I didn’t have anything to change into, and I was really starting to stink. Since the guy I came with didn’t talk much, I was able, even while in his company, to mull over such details without feeling hemmed or pressured.

  “I get the impression this is a really nice place,” I remarked.

  “I never made an enemy in Viçoso,” he said.

  “A nice place to stay,” I ventured.

  “Where are you from, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m from Rio de Janeiro.”

  “From Rio?” he repeated.

  “That’s where I’m from.”

  “And where are you going after Viçoso?”

  “I’ll cross the border into Rio Grande, I’m heading that way,” I replied, raising my arm as though about to point in that direction.

  “Ah!…” the guy exclaimed.

  Big Paul appeared with two steaks, rice, beans, lettuce. Outside it was already nighttime. Some men were gathered at the door to the bar. The extraordinary July heat remained the topic of conversation.

  When we finished eating I felt tired; asked my guide to take me to the parsonage.

  A woman opened the door to us. She was the housemaid. Antônio was seated, facing the door, but got up. I told him I was traveling, and that it was just a night’s stay.

  “Yes,” Antônio said, “we have one empty bed, one vacant room.”

  He opened the door to the room, and the first thing I saw was a bed covered with a white sheet, which draped down the sides.

  A floorboard creaked as I entered. On the wall over the headboard was a crucifix. Antônio closed the door.

  I took a few steps, so drunk with sleep that just before reaching the bed my legs gave out and I fell to my knees on the floor.

  With my arms I found the bed.

  My head was hanging. A drop of sweat was ready to fall from the tip of my nose.

  When I woke in the morning I was still there, with my knees on the floor—my arms, chest, and head on the bed.

  Once again I couldn’t immediately recognize the place where I’d awakened. I didn’t move my body, only turned my pupils upward and saw the crucifix against the white wall. I lifted my head and chest, smoothed the sheet.

  This gesture of smoothing the sheet transmitted a sensation of relaxation that had, for a while, been inaccessible.

  It made me get up, go to the window, and lift the sash. The day was radiant, the temperature just like summer. I took off my shirt.

  The window looked out onto a spacious patio. At the back, a white wall. Chickens were scratching beneath a lime tree. I leaned over the windowsill. The cleaning lady was stretching a white sheet across the clothesline.

  I had an urge to call out to her but restrained myself—I didn’t know her name.

  In the distance I heard the hideous squeal of a pig that knew it was about to be slaughtered.

  I rubbed my eyes: the light was intense. I looked at my watch.

  It was necessary to face the day in some other way. But I didn’t know how.

  I opened the bedroom door. Antônio was coming out of the bathroom. The flush of the toilet was still audible. We exchanged a good morning. I said I needed to take a bath. Antônio said he’d give me a towel.

  “There’s always a clean bath towel here for anyone who stays over,” he said.

  “That’s great,” I said.

  Who is Antônio? I wondered while I followed him to a room where he got me the towel.

  “You can have coffee after,” he said, passing me a white towel.

  “There are so many white things here,” I said, taking the towel.

  Antônio smiled. And he asked if I needed my clothes washed. If I didn’t have anything else to wear, he’d lend me the frock of a priest who’d died three years prior. It was Father Anselmo, who was eighty-seven when he died—his whole life assigned to Viçoso. The frock was totally worn through, all frayed at the edges, but it was just to wear while my clothes dried.

  Antônio told me that aside from what he was wearing all he had were the shirt and pants Marisa had just put in the wash.
So he couldn’t lend me any clothes of his own.

  “Since it’s so sunny out, the clothes will be dry by early afternoon,” he told me.

  “Great,” I said.

  And I added, without much internal conviction, as always seemed to be the case when I referred to the course of my journey, “In early afternoon I’ll be on my way.”

  I was drinking coffee with milk and eating a thick slice of buttered bread, in Father Anselmo’s old frock. Antônio was sitting in the same chair I’d found him in when I arrived at the house. Only he had now turned the chair in my direction.

  He told me he’d lived in Rome for four years. There he’d known hunger, absolute misery. He’d wandered the streets in rags. Eaten whatever he was given. Sometimes he sat on the doorstep of a fancy restaurant until a cop gave him the boot or a waiter brought him something to eat—the remains of the customers’ meals, usually, heaped into a cardboard carton.

  “I’d go into a corner and eat it with my hands.

  “At the end of every summer I’d find a shelter run by one of the religious orders. And so one year I started making love to a nun. I had noticed she was devoted to me in a very special way. One time she smuggled me two chicken wings.

  “Late one afternoon, as we passed each other in the shelter’s hallway, she told me to follow her to the pantry so she could sneak me a jar of fig jam.

  “We went into the pantry, and I closed the door behind us. She made like she was about to scream. I pushed her up against a shelf. Some cans fell. I lifted her habit. I pulled, ripped whatever she was wearing underneath. Since she was squeezing her legs shut, her thighs trembling, I took her by the shoulders and forced her onto the floor. I got on top of her, and it was easier that way. She wasn’t resisting anymore. She just mumbled with a little moan when I penetrated her: ‘My God!’”

  The story was making me nervous. After all, I was wearing a soutane while he was telling me all this. I began to suspect I’d landed in some trouble: here I was dressed as a priest while Antônio had me picture him raping a nun.

  As soon as my clothes were dry I’d leave. Maybe I’d be able to hitch a ride somewhere. Antônio was telling me how, after that, he was never left in peace.