Thirty Something (Nothing's How We Dreamed It Would Be)

by Filipa Fonseca Silva

  “Funny ha ha…” says Joana, narrowing her eyes.

  “And what are you up to these days, Maria?” asks Lu.

  “Nuno, we have to talk about this business plan I thought of a while back,” I hear António say.

  “Eduardo, do you really think a French bulldog will get on with children? It’s a bulldog all the same” says Kati.

  “When are you coming back to my surf classes, lazy-ass?” Pedro asks André, giving him a pat on his bulging belly.

  And that’s that. The only interesting topic that’s come up so far dies amid toasts and idle prattle. Maria looks at me and shrugs. I’m not sure whether she shares my frustration at not being able to have a proper conversation for more than ten minutes at a time and feeling a stranger amongst people we’ve known for years, or whether it’s just to make me feel better. Am I the only one who thinks this dinner’s a drag?

  Joana

  And now for the pièce de résistance, petit gateaux with vanilla ice cream and a coulis of wild berries. The pastry was prepared in advance but I have to put them in the oven at the right time to make sure they’re creamy inside. When I go into the kitchen to get things ready, the women come after me, carrying plates and dishes. Eduardo comes too as I’d promised to show him how to remove the petit gateaux from their moulds without them falling apart, but there are too many people in the kitchen now for my liking. I need space and tranquillity. Maria, who knows what I’m like, sees I’m not comfortable and takes Lu back with her to the dining room. After putting the plates in the dishwasher, Kati returns to the table as well.

  I’ll take this moment alone with Eduardo to find out how his thing with Nuno began. I certainly don't want to ask Maria this type of question, and Nuno isn't one to talk too much about himself. And with me of all people, he’d simply tell me to mind my own business. I don't think I run that risk with Eduardo. He’s too well mannered to say something like that. But first I’ll teach him my technique for removing the cakes from their moulds. A certain complicity arises when you cook with someone. Sharing a recipe or a trick or a tip is like sharing a secret. At least it is between people who like to cook, as we do. I know it will make him lower his guard and give me the answers I want without considering me nosy.

  “So how did you meet Nuno?” I ask promptly while I still have the courage.

  “At a meeting at work. He came to present a design at my office and there was this chemistry between us right away.”

  “Really? What sort of chemistry? He was living with Maria at the time, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he only told me that a lot later,” he answers. “At the time I just wanted him to come and have lunch with me, which didn’t take long to happen. I thought he was single and it never occurred to me he might be living with a woman. I found it strange that he never invited me to his house, but I thought it was out of reserve, because he wanted to preserve his privacy.”

  “The cheek of it!’ I exclaim, indignantly. ‘So he was two-timing the pair of you for ages!”

  “Yes, more or less. When he finally told me, I broke up with him. It was too big a lie to be building a relationship on. I told him he had to decide what he wanted out of life and accept the consequences of his decisions. I didn’t answer a single one of his calls for almost two months, until he realized the lie his life was becoming and plucked up courage to break up with Maria and acknowledge he was gay. You know the rest already.”

  “Yes… I can imagine how difficult it must be for someone to come out of the closet.”

  “No, you can’t. Society is totally programmed to the norm of meet someone, get married, have kids, live happily ever after. No parents are willing to bring up a child free of gender prejudice,” he continues. “Right from day one the girls wear pink and play with dolls, the boys wear blue and play with cars. And when a boy likes dolls, like I did, he’s told off and taken into the street to play football and he begins to feel that he’s no good, and starts repressing his desires. He becomes isolated as a child, and lonely as an adolescent. There’s a lot of pain and anguish, I’m telling you. You need an awful lot of courage to undo the expectations others have for us, especially our parents. You can read the dreams they had for their children in their eyes. That’s why so many homosexuals hide away or escape or fight what they are, like Nuno did for thirty years. It’s very hard being an adolescent, being in love with a boy in your class and having to go out with girls just to put on a front, to avoid the mockery, or worse, the beatings up. And it’s not just the boys who taunt, it’s the girls too, the teachers, the janitors. It’s people in the street, even the ones who think they’re modern, but can’t help a reproachful glance when they see two men kissing.”

  “I can imagine,” I put in. “And as a mother-to-be I worry about not understanding my child one day, not being able to help him in situations like that, or any other situation.”

  “It’s not on purpose. It’s just the way we’re programmed. Maybe our generation will prepare its children better to like themselves as they are and to grow up to be healthy and happy adults, whether they’re gay, straight, transsexual or bisexual. And to understand that there are single-parent families, adoptive families, families with two fathers and three mothers, whatever. That two men holding hands or two women embracing isn't an abomination.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, feeling myself go pale.

  This conversation is rather too close to the bone for my liking. I don't want to bring up my child to think that having two fathers is normal. It isn’t. It’s no crime either, or illness, or anything like that, but it really isn't normal. I respect personal freedoms, and I’m going to bring up my children to respect them too, but there are things I insist on and one of those things is the traditional family structure. I’m sorry, but that’s the way Mummy and Daddy brought me up. Obviously I’m not going to tell Eduardo that, poor thing. So I change back to the petit gateaux.

  “There, you see how they come out right away?”

  “Wow! Joana, I’m very impressed,” he answers, also relieved that I’ve changed the subject.

  “So, now you can help me put them on the plates,” I say, winking at him.

  He’s sweet. Am I being unfair and prejudiced? I’d like to find all this perfectly normal, and, rationally, when someone puts things the way Eduardo puts them; I don't think there’s anything important in people’s sexual preferences. It’s much more important to be honest, principled, community-minded. But deep down I can't help feeling disgust when I think of two men or two women in bed together, and even worse, a child having to deal with that. The school parties, the parent-teacher meetings, the birthday parties... Not to mention adolescence, which is an age of anxiety and insecurity.

  At university I had a lesbian classmate who used to come on to me. She was always smiling at me, touching me, looking at me, and once at a party, after a couple of drinks, she followed me to the bathroom and kissed me. I was appalled. All I could do was shove her away and run out of there. I felt sick and had to drink a shot of tequila to disinfect my mouth. And I didn't even like drinking. I never spoke to her again. In fact, whenever she turned up, I would leave. The worst part was when I told my girl friends at university; they all laughed, saying there was absolutely no problem. One of them even said she went to bed with girls now and again, but didn't consider herself a lesbian. She actually wanted to get married and have children, but liked going with women just for a change. Another one said she was thinking of having a threesome with her boyfriend and another girl. And these were girls from good backgrounds, with formidable surnames and private educations. It left me in a state of shock.

  That’s why I feel a certain reluctance to believe homosexuality’s something people are born with. In my experience, it’s more of a choice, a whim. But at the same time, after speaking to Eduardo, I don't think someone would deliberately choose such a difficult life. Forming an opinion isn’t easy...

  Sometimes I wonder whether any of my female friends or acquai
ntances has ever had homosexual experiences, or whether it’s just a silly adolescent thing with girls who want to try everything. Here, at this dinner, how many of the women have tried something like that? Kati? Maybe. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d got involved in a threesome back in her secretary days just to hook a director, but I doubt she still messes around like that. Maria? It’s difficult to believe, but... the false ones are the worst. Lu definitely. Everyone knows about the promiscuity that goes on in the fashion world. And that’s a frightening statistic I’ve just arrived at from this small sample.

  My God, what kind of world am I going to be raising my children in?

  Maria

  After all this fine food and booze, I need a cigarette. Only I can’t remember where I left my packet... in the kitchen, maybe? I don’t feel like looking for them so I’ll scrounge one instead.

  “I’m dying for a cigarette, will someone give me one?” I ask the table.

  “I will,’ answers Filipe. ‘Joana, where can we smoke?”

  “Only out on the porch or in the kitchen, if you don’t mind.”

  ‘Not at all, let’s go, girl,” says Filipe, winking at me.

  “What I’d like to smoke right now is a joint,” says André, making everyone laugh, except Joana.

  “André, for God’s sake!” she exclaims, annoyed.

  “Darling, today’s a special day, isn’t it? What’s wrong with smoking a joint on a special day?”

  “All right then, it’s your funeral.”

  “Anyone holding?” he asks, looking at Pedro, who’s the only user of soft drugs in the company.

  “I didn’t bring any,” answers Pedro, clearly disappointed. “I thought you couldn’t smoke in this house, I didn’t want to spoil the party.”

  “Oh Pedro, for God’s sake, you all know I don’t like these things and I’d rather André didn’t smoke, but the rest of you can smoke if you want. We have an enormous garden,” says Joana.

  “Right, Filipe, shall we go?” I ask, trying to get away from this petty quarrel.

  “Lead the way.”

  The porch smells of jasmine and is bathed in moonlight. Filipe takes a cigarette from his pocket, lights it and passes it to me. I have to cling to the doorframe to stop myself from kissing him. I must be looking at him like an idiot, because he quickly turns to me with a knowing look.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “Silly! I haven’t heard that expression for about twenty years.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  “What?”

  “What you were thinking when you were staring at me like that.”

  “Nothing in particular,” I answer, glad the darkness is hiding my face, which must be red as a tomato.

  “Like...?”

  “I was thinking how I find you more and more...”

  At this point I’m saved (or not) by Nuno and Eduardo, who have joined us for a smoke. Shit. What’s got into me? I was going to tell him I’m attracted to him, here and now, straight up, and who cares if he turns me down. What if I’d kissed him there and then? In front of everyone? I know I haven’t had sex for quite a while and the last time left a lot to be desired, but I have to control my impulses.

  “So you two are in the suicide club too?” asks Filipe, lighting Nuno’s cigarette for him.

  “Yes, or while there’s no weed at least,” answers Nuno.

  “Weed?” I ask. I’m not one for excess and where drugs are concerned I’ve never gone beyond joints, but I never say no to a good bit of weed. “Does Pedro have any, then?”

  “No, but Lu called a friend who has, and she’s coming round,” says Nuno.

  “Won’t Joana mind?” asks Filipe, mock-worried.

  “Didn't you hear her? As long as we smoke in the garden,” answers Eduardo, innocently.

  “It isn’t that,” says Filipe. “I mean, will she let someone she doesn’t know join the party without having been formally invited. And then how will she serve the coffees? The seating arrangements will be completely spoiled.”

  “Filipe, easy does it. Eduardo, don't pay any attention. Filipe’s a little quarrelsome tonight,” I say, trying to smooth things over.

  “You’d think I was lying or something...”

  One of these days Filipe will lose his temper and tell Joana exactly what he thinks of her. He better not. It would be a disaster, an utter disaster. André would probably take his wife’s side and never speak to him again. Not because he wanted to, but because he knows that’s the role expected of a husband. It’s a pity we can't choose the husbands and wives of our friends. So many friendships end because of that. Friends grow more distant, some change, others act one way in front of their wives and another way behind their backs. I once told Filipe to forget it, not to buy into the conflict. When people are in love, or think they’re in love, they only see what suits them. And I’m the proof of that.

  As a matter of fact I’m watching Nuno and it seems impossible that I lived with him for so long without suspecting anything. Now it all makes sense. The songs he used to listen to, his concern with the decoration of the house, the drawers sorted by colours, the neck scarves, the paintings; even the sex, which wasn't great, but which I pretended not to attach much importance to. I think even my first boyfriend, when we lost our virginity together, was more passionate. The excuses we tell ourselves to patch over our tarnished ideals... Very few people recognize the faults, the blemishes, the defects in their lives. Nobody wants to stop and think about it. Better to pretend everything’s all right. Otherwise we feel obliged to act, to change, and that requires effort, a lot of effort.

  After the cigarettes we go back inside and what was an elegantly set dinner table a minute ago is now a very busy bar. The flutes have been replaced by snifters and the centrepiece by all these bottles of whisky, spirits, muscatel, gin and vodka. Poor Joana. She would love us to get up calmly and move into the living room for long, formal conversations with some smooth jazz playing in the background. Sadly, what she’s got is a gang of borderline nutcases who don't give a shit about protocol and prefer to sit on the floor and drink and listen to Arcade Fire.

  I really feel like laughing all of a sudden. André will be putting his feet up on the table any minute now, Lu’s just overturned a glass of red wine on the linen tablecloth, and António is taking a very suspect-looking little silver box from his jacket pocket.

  “Joana, seeing as we’re about to start consuming illicit substances, you don't mind if I partake of my own, do you?” he asks, opening a box full of the white powder he’s so fond of.

  Joana, taken by surprise, nods in assent and flies off scandalized, with the excuse that she has to go and make the coffee. António – now accompanied by Kati who’s as excited as a child about to open a present – prepares his lines of coke as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Of course, António couldn’t just smoke a joint like the rest of us, he has to be more elitist and take a more expensive drug. When did he turn into this show-off? He was a sweet kid at university, reserved, good-natured, self-effacing. And then, from one day to the next, he changed. It was parties in the T-Club, rugby friends, holidays in Quinta do Lago. One thing’s making the most of our experience at university to make contacts that might prove useful in the future, another’s turning the experience into a lobotomy. I’ve no time for that pseudo-snob kind of people, always worried about appearances, the brands they wear, the places they go, as if those things defined them. Maybe they do. But it annoys me to see him pulling this stunt on friends he’s known for over ten years and who can remember when the only Mercedes he’d ever been in was a taxi. Anyway. As I rarely see him, especially since he got married, I’ll learn to live with this new character on the few occasions we’re together.

  “This is getting interesting,” Filipe whispers in my ear.

  I can't stop laughing. It’s a hilarious situation, really. It’s
like we’ve come into the wrong film after the interval. But apart from Joana, no one seems bothered in the slightest.

  Now the argument’s between António and Pedro, who are so remote from one another in their attitudes towards life that it’s difficult to imagine they were once close friends.

  “And who laid that down as law? That you have to have a job, get married, have kids, move to a bigger house, pursue a career? I don't want any of that! None of it!” shouts Pedro.

  “So what are you planning to do with your life?” asks António in a patronizing tone.

  “I want to live! I want to not have to worry myself about everyday futilities, about what I am or aren’t supposed to do at my age. I want to see the world, I want to be in touch with people, I want to travel, do what I want!”

  “You’re talking like an adolescent. I’d like to have a life like that too, but there’s a thing called responsibility. We live in a society; we have obligations. Imagine everyone thought the same way as you. It would be the end of the world!”

  “But very few people think like I do, believe me. That risk doesn't exist. Most people like rules, order, routine, appearances. They like knowing what tomorrow’s going to be like.”

  “Honestly, Pedro, the time will come when you’ll have to grow up!”

  “Is that what you call growing up? Giving up on your dreams? Living for work, a fancy foreign holiday once a year, a flash car and a trip to the cinema every Sunday night? Wow, what fun!”

  “So, you want to keep up the surfer lifestyle and live off what little income your classes and the shop give you? Is that it?”

  “For the moment, it is.”

  “What about you, Lu, what do you think about all this?” asks António.

  “I think it’s brilliant,” she answers, laughing. “I can't imagine myself living with a man in a suit and tie that always gets home at the same time and drags me out to boring dinner engagements.”