I thought of the two of us in that dark alley, weeks before—how I’d tried to bring her to me and how she’d pushed away. “Then why do you give them the time of day?”
Graça stared back at the Palace. “When I’m not singing, I feel like people look right through me. I don’t matter. The littlest breath will blow me away,” she said, her voice very small. “You don’t see the way those boys look at me, at first, when they’re wooing me. When someone looks at you like that, Dor, it’s like you’ve got a spotlight on you. You feel real.”
“You are real. To me.”
Graça smiled. She placed a hand on the underside of my chin, then pressed her bloodied mouth to the tip of my nose.
“Then don’t ever ditch me again,” she breathed, her lips brushing mine.
* * *
—
That evening, Graça and I went to Tony’s early in the hopes of finding Miss Lúcia and asking her to hide Graça’s bruises under a layer of makeup. When we arrived, Tony had his radio on. Graça and I stood shoulder to shoulder with him, the bartender, and Miss Lúcia, and listened as Gegê addressed the nation. His words tumbled out of the radio’s speaker, his voice earnest and dull, like a teacher struggling to give a lesson. Congress and the Senate were shut down. There was a new constitution, giving all power to the president. Brazil was not a ragtag collection of states but a unified republic. There would be no pretense of elections, not that year or any other; Gegê would continue to serve the nation—his nation—indefinitely. The military was (momentarily) on his side; historians later called it a dictatorship born of bureaucrats. But that night, Gegê called it the Estado Novo.
After the address, Tony’s filled up with regulars like any other night. (It was, we later discovered, a sign of things to come: the Estado Novo would be a relatively mild-mannered tyranny, and Gegê was less tyrant and more magician, making freedoms disappear without our even noticing.) Graça and I played the Nymphettes for our loyal audience and planned to go to Auntie Ciata’s after the show. It seemed like nothing had changed, except for Graça’s face. Even under a thick layer of makeup, you saw the shadows of bruises. When Vinicius asked what happened, we said she tripped and fell. Under Little Tony’s weak stage lights, as Graça and I sang our tragic love songs to each other, I stared at the red slash that ran across her left eye and my chest burned.
Near the end of our show, Graça faced the audience and, for an instant, lost the rhythm of our song. It was an imperceptible error to most, but one that made me stare out into the crowd where Graça was looking. I saw him from the stage. He lingered at the bar and held a little bundle of flowers in his rower’s mitts. His suit was expensive. His hair slicked back. On his cheek were several raised red lines, as if a large cat had clawed him.
My hands shook. The words to our tango became jumbled and then forgotten. Graça kept singing but took my hands in hers and squeezed, trying to bring me back to our act. I pulled away. Keeping my eyes on the knuckle dragger, I walked to the edge of the stage and jumped down, into the crowd. The drunks were so startled they didn’t whoop or complain or attempt to grab me. Graça stopped singing and Vinicius stopped playing. I made my way toward the rower.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the wilted bouquet in his hand.
“Flowers,” he said stupidly.
“What’re those?” I asked, pointing to the scratches on his face. He glanced back at the stage, at Graça.
I grabbed the rower’s hand in mine. His fingers were as thick and rigid as the handles of Nena’s wooden spoons. I thought of how those fingers had moved against Graça, of all the secret places they’d tried to enter. I bent the rower’s fingers backward.
There was a crack and then a yell—a howl, really—that sounded quite far away to me, as if it had happened onstage. I fell back, pushed. The floor under me was sticky. Onstage, Graça screamed. The bartender jumped the bar and was suddenly standing between the rower and me. I felt other, gentler hands on my shoulders, lifting me up.
“You okay?” Vinicius asked me.
“She broke my fucking finger!” the rower spat, squeezing his hand to his chest as Tony’s massive bartender threw him out of the club.
Graça knelt beside me. I recognized her perfume—a rose scent she’d bought at the apothecary. There were fierce yells from the crowd. The drunks stomped their feet. Little Tony appeared.
“You can’t leave in the middle of your set!” he yelled. “Get back up there before there’s a fucking riot.”
“No,” Graça said, wrapping her arm around mine. “We’re not going back on. Dor’s hurt.”
“He didn’t hurt me,” I said, pushing myself to standing.
“Get back up there,” Little Tony said, “or get the hell out.”
Graça pulled out her pigtails and threw the ribbons on the floor. Little Tony yelled but was drowned out by the crowd. A fight had erupted near the stage. A wave of men moved toward us. Vinicius grabbed his guitar and pushed the three of us outside, where we ran all the way to Ciata’s.
* * *
—
It was still early by Lapa standards: Ciata’s was empty. We wandered into the backyard and caught our breath.
“You want to tell me what happened back there?” Vinicius asked.
Graça and I stared at each other. Sweat had smeared her makeup, revealing her bruises. The Nymphette costume’s vines curled up her legs, looking strangely sinister, as if they could bind her to that dirt floor forever. She gave me the smallest shake of her head.
“I guess Dor doesn’t like bouquets from admirers,” she said.
Vinicius smiled at me. “Is that how you treat your fans?”
“Don’t you know?” Graça replied. “A good punch is Dor’s idea of romance.”
“I’ll remember that next time a fella asks about her,” Vinicius said.
Graça giggled. “You’ve actually had fellas ask about her? I sure hope you warned the weak ones away.”
Vinicius laughed as if Graça had just shared the best joke he’d ever heard. I moved to stuff my hands into my trouser pockets when I realized I had no pockets—I was still in my Eve suit. I ripped out my ridiculous pigtails and walked toward Ciata’s gate.
“You two have fun making jokes about me,” I said. “You could start a comedy routine.”
“Hey, Dor! Come on,” Vinicius said, catching up with me. “Let’s have a drink.”
I snorted. “I’d rather jump off Christ the Redeemer.”
“I’ll jump with you,” he said. “But it’s a long way down. Let’s get a few drinks in us first. I don’t want to feel it when I spill my brains.”
“There’s nothing to spill,” I said.
“True,” Vinicius replied, then lowered his voice. “Who was that cat you hurt? He bother you?”
I shook my head. “He’s just a rower for Flamengo.”
A smile spread across Vinicius’s face. “I guess he won’t be rowing in the championships this weekend. Can you hold an oar with a broken finger?”
I smiled back. “I’ve always hated the fucking Flamengo Club.”
“Well, that’s one way to show your passion for the sport,” he said, his face crumpling.
Vinicius laughed. I laughed harder. It was hard to stop; every time we looked at each other giggles poured out. Before long we were doubled over, cackling like two drunks. Tears ran down our faces. I rested my forehead on Vinicius’s shoulder. I leaned my face into his neck. It smelled of aftershave and smoke. Why did my heart feel as if it was caught in my throat, beating hard against the tendons of my neck?
“Wait’ll we tell the boys what happened,” Vinicius said. “They’ll love you forever.”
There was a scraping noise. Graça pulled a rusted trash barrel into the center of the yard. Then she grabbed a book of matches from a nearby table, lit them all, and flicked the entire book i
nto the barrel.
Vinicius moved away from me. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Fed by greasy newspapers and oily rags, the fire grew fast. The insides of the barrel glowed orange. Flames found their way over the barrel’s metal lip.
Graça eyed me, her mouth twisted in what looked like a smirk. She held a hand under her armpit, caught the catsuit’s zipper between her fingers, and pulled. The suit loosened. She moved one arm out, then another, as if shedding a dirty skin. The Eve suit pooled at her feet.
Elastic didn’t exist back then. We wore camisoles—sheer little tops with straps as thin as angel hair—and little shorts held in place by a drawstring. Graça’s camisole was pale blue with scalloped edges, its fabric worn so thin you could see her curved outline underneath, made plain by the firelight. The tips of her breasts were two hard, round points under the gauze of her shirt. Her belly button was a tiny smudge, like a single drop of water had landed there. Her hips swelled and in the dip between them, where her legs met, there was deep shadow.
Vinicius let a sigh escape him. “What . . . what are you doing?”
Graça hopped out of the Eve suit, scooped it up with one hand, and threw it into the fire.
“I’m done with small potatoes,” she said, staring into the barrel.
Vinicius looked back at the gate, then again at Graça. His forehead shone. “The boys will see you.”
“So what?” Graça asked, smiling now. “Girls around here wear less than this to the beach.”
The fine hairs of her arms and legs glowed in the firelight, making her look like she was covered in thousands of golden threads. On her thigh were five dark spots—bruises in the shape of ovals. An ache rose in me. I held my stomach, worried I’d been hit, afraid the rower had gotten a punch in without my realizing it.
“You can’t be like this,” Vinicius said, his voice thick.
“So give me your jacket,” Graça replied.
He didn’t move immediately. They were quiet for a beat, staring at each other until I wondered if there’d been a bit of conversation I’d missed, an exchange I didn’t hear. Then Vinicius took off his suit jacket, walked toward Graça, and dropped it, quickly, onto her shoulders.
Graça smiled. “Dor, are you going to join the fun?” she asked, nodding at my Eve suit.
I shook my head.
She wrapped Vinicius’s jacket tighter around her. “If you change your mind, ask one of the other boys for his coat. This one’s all mine.”
* * *
—
The next evening, Madame L. sent for me. When Graça tried to go, too, Lucifer’s messenger boy shook his head. “Just the tall one. Madame L.’s orders.”
It was early—only seven p.m.—but music came from the record player and a few girls sat on the room’s velvet sofas and chatted with the night’s first customers. I made my way past them, to Lucifer’s office. He sat cross-legged in his favorite chair, the velvet along its arms worn and ripping. He ordered me to sit down in the chair beside his.
“Tony got rid of you,” he said. “Every cabaret owner from here to the Senate knows the story. The two of you fighting in front of the audience over a boy from Flamengo.”
“We weren’t fighting over him,” I said. “He beat up Graça.”
Lucifer clucked like a disappointed mother. “So you break his hand in front of everyone? And in costume? Oh, Miss Dores. Revenge and sex are two things you never do in front of a crowd.”
“So I should’ve let him waltz in there like nothing happened?”
Lucifer’s smile disappeared. “You should have come to me. But it’s too late for that. Now I have to deal with Little Tony.”
I forced myself to meet Lucifer’s eyes. “You’ll get our act back?”
“Tony was right to fire you, but he was wrong to do it without my permission. And you two? No club in Lapa will hire your friend now, unless I twist a few arms for her.”
“And for me?” I asked.
Madame Lucifer sighed. He uncrossed his legs and bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Graça’s got the better voice,” he said. “And she sure knows how to work a crowd. Don’t look so sad, puppy dog. You’ve got more useful talents.”
“Like what?” I asked, gritting my teeth. Of course Graça was better; I was tired of Lucifer and Anaïs pointing out the obvious to me, as if I didn’t have the courage to see it for myself. But I’d always believed that “better” or “worse” didn’t do our duo justice; Graça and I were different, and in our differences we each made up for what the other lacked. My voice—growling, deep, strange—gave hers weight and mystery. Her voice—lush, enveloping, bold—took away my edge. Now I’d lost my role as the Nymphette and my rightful place beside Graça.
“Why do you think I let you do my deliveries?” Madame L. asked. “Graçinha just went along for the ride. You, Miss Dores, never came up short. You never lost a loaf. You never let people charm you into giving them extra. You didn’t let anybody bully you, either. You can count, Miss Dores, you can make a buck. What’s the use of talent if you can’t make a living off it?”
I shrugged.
Madame L. stared at me, his eyes steely. “So your childhood dreams didn’t pan out? Whose do? I thought I’d be onstage once, a long time ago, but that wasn’t in the cards. If I’d pushed too hard with that dream, I’d have been nothing but a dead black boy in a gutter. All those malandros outside that tip their hats to me today, Miss Dores, you think if I didn’t have the reputation I’ve made for myself, they wouldn’t slit my throat with a broken bottle? Even here, in naughty little Lapa, people only put up with me because I make them. They can call me a bicha behind my back all they want, but I’m still a man, Miss Dores. And I don’t let anybody forget that. Use your talents, don’t chase after ones you’ll never have.”
“So you’ll get Graça a new act, but not me?”
Madame L. sat back. “No. You’ll get Graça a new act.”
“But you said no one will hire us . . . her . . . now. I can’t twist arms like you can.”
“I have businesses to run. You girls made me good money at Tony’s, and you, Miss Dores, lost that. If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t give you the chance to earn it back. You have three weeks, no interest; after that I want my cut again. Get me the same amount you girls got me at Tony’s, and we’ll be straight.”
The tips of my fingers felt cold. I gripped the arms of my chair.
“And if I can’t?” I asked.
“I always get paid, one way or another,” Madame L. said, and smiled. “Don’t worry, Miss Dores. I have great faith in you.”
Downstairs, the music grew louder. Girls laughed. Madame L. lifted himself from his chair and buttoned his suit coat. “I’ll see you out,” he said. “Before the night really starts.”
* * *
—
People who attribute success to luck have never truly been successful. Luck may place an opportunity in your lap, but only a constant, obsessive attention transforms that opportunity into some kind of meaningful success.
I suppose it was lucky that, a few weeks before my talk with Madame L., good old Gegê used his weekly radio address to announce sweeping changes to the country’s “cultural policies.” Foreign-language newspapers would be banned. Only Portuguese was allowed to be spoken in schools and public buildings. “I don’t believe in foreign influences over our melodies,” Gegê said. “We are a new people, and new people triumph over the older ones. Brazil has its own music, a new music.”
No Argentine tangos or American jazz or European operas could be played on national radio, or in Rio’s best casinos, or anywhere the government thought foreign tourists might frequent. Visitors and Brazilians alike would be exposed to Brazil’s “new music,” whether they liked it or not. That music was samba. Though Getúlio didn’t call it samba at first.
Radio announcers and Brazil’s new cultural minister called it “folk,” and its players “folklorists,” as if their songs were ancient and respectable.
Graça and I hadn’t yet figured out how to repackage ourselves the way Gegê had suddenly repackaged samba. Lucifer was right—no cabarets or show houses would hire us. Most had heard about the brawl at Tony’s. Others simply didn’t like Graça’s attitude; she refused to stand in line with dozens of other pretty hopefuls for auditions. Plenty of doors were shut in our faces, mine in particular. Anaïs paid us for odd jobs around her shop, so we were able to make the week’s rent, but eating was a challenge. I got so desperate I returned to Tony’s place, in secret, to beg for our jobs back. That’s when I discovered that Little Tony was in Saint Mary’s Hospital with half his face burned off. Days after Graça and I were fired, Madame L.’s errand boy—the same kid who’d found Graça and me at Mayrink—had entered the bar, thrown lye in Tony’s face, and run away.
Miss Lúcia broke the news to me. Afterward, I stumbled from the empty bar and threw up in the alley.
I wiped off my shoes with some newspaper, bought a Coca-Cola, and sipped it as I wove through Lapa’s alleys to meet Vinicius. He’d found a job playing guitar at another cabaret, but we still had our afternoon writing sessions. Aside from our roda at Ciata’s, my afternoons with Vinicius were the only things I looked forward to. I liked the gentle way Vinicius held my arm, steering me into a café. Or how he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my chair down before I sat. Or how intently he listened each time I gave my thoughts about a song.
That day, after I’d visited Tony’s, I didn’t have any thoughts worth sharing. Vinicius played some new tunes on his guitar and tried to coax me into coming up with lyrics, but no words came. The songs refused to speak to me.
“What’s wrong?” he finally asked. “Got someplace better to be?”
Behind Vinicius, at the café’s counter, the owner turned the radio’s volume dial. A silly samba with a fast pace and irreverent lyrics filled the café’s patio.
The Air You Breathe Page 19
