I skimmed a few lines from my notebook and cleared my throat. “I was at the beach the other night and I was thinking about the waves,” I said. “About how they move. And I thought we could write about a couple in the sand, and how they’re moving.”
“Like those waves,” Graça said.
Vinicius brightened. “Yeah. Dor thought we could use the same rhythm—growing, crashing, repeating—as the couple gets more and more—”
“Tangled up!” Graça interrupted. “So they aren’t a couple anymore, they’re . . .”
“A wave,” Vinicius breathed, staring at her.
They looked at each other a beat too long, as if they’d shared some great secret.
I slapped my notebook shut. “The censors will never let it through.”
“Fuck the censors,” Graça said. “I like it. That’s what matters.”
“This isn’t a dress in a window,” I snapped. “Your liking it doesn’t do a song any damn good. We’re trying to understand it—to see what it could be.”
Graça’s face was pale. Her eyes were as wide and glassy as they’d been on that afternoon, years before in the Great House corridor, when I’d hit her across the cheek. And I felt the same triumph, and the same fear.
“I guess I forgot my place around here,” Graça finally said. “You and Vinicius are the talents, I’m just the birdbrain that sings. That’s the way it’s always been, hasn’t it, Dor?” she said, and nodded at my notebook. “Even Mamãe knew you had the smarts and I didn’t.”
“It’s not about smarts,” Vinicius said, his voice soft. “You’re meant to be center stage. But when we write, the song’s got to be the center of attention. We’ve got to disappear completely. We do what’s best for the music, not for us. Dor and me, we’re good at disappearing. Let us do the dirty work, and later, in the roda, you polish it with the boys when you sing.”
Graça stood. Her mouth was a thin line. “I’m skipping the roda tonight.”
“You can’t skip,” I said.
“Why not? You two don’t need me,” she said. “Besides, I’m taking Papai to get fitted for a new suit over in Ipanema, at the Duartes’.”
“In the middle of the night?” Vinicius asked.
“They’re staying open special, just for Sofia Salvador.”
“Those tailors make Gegê’s suits,” I said. “Where are you getting the money to pay them?”
Graça smiled. “Papai can’t dress like a pauper! It makes me look like an awful daughter.”
“You’re nobody’s daughter around here,” I said. “That’s why we ran away.”
“We ran away to sing onstage,” Graça replied. “So I’ll stick to the limelight, where I belong. And you two geniuses can keep this writing business to yourselves, it’s as fun as having a hangnail.”
She stood, tugged her beret over her hair, and left.
* * *
—
Weeks passed and one fancy suit became two, then three, then five, each handmade with Portuguese linen and silk linings, all with a tiny metal nameplate on the inside collar. The plate had a number on it, which the tailors used to record the sizes and preferences of their customers, among them senators, casino owners, and President Gegê himself. Madame L. informed me that Graça had stopped by his office looking for a loan, and he’d given it. A day later, Senhor Pimentel appeared at Urca wearing a tuxedo with mother-of-pearl buttons, which allowed him to escape his backstage confinement and hobnob with guests between shows. I took the opportunity to talk to Graça, in private, in her dressing room.
“I know you borrowed money.”
“Congratulations,” she said, dabbing sweat from her face. “You’re a real detective.”
“You can’t spend what we don’t have.”
She turned to face me, her bracelets rattling. “I work my ass off every night, and all I do is line other people’s pockets. I should get some perks, too.”
“The only one getting perks is your father.”
“Important people are in the casino. Papai needs to make a good impression.”
“For what?”
Graça shrugged. “For me.”
Some days later, as we packed up to leave Urca for the night, Senhor Pimentel strode backstage in his new tux and announced, as if he were a master of ceremonies, that he’d gotten Sofia Salvador an important invitation.
“The Lion’s son wants you to play a private show, at his home! You’re the guest of honor!”
Graça covered her mouth with her hands. Vinicius glanced at me.
“Guest?” Kitchen asked. “You mean we’re not invited?”
“Of course!” Senhor Pimentel replied, forcing a smile. “They’re expecting all of you.”
Leôncio de Melo Barroso, known throughout Brazil as “The Lion,” owned nearly every newspaper and magazine outlet in the country. He was close friends with President Gegê and anyone else who bolstered his business, while his enemies were the subjects of scandalous articles—true or not—in his newspapers. He was scrupulous about keeping himself out of the public eye, but his influence was so far-reaching that, after his shocking divorce, the government passed a bill that allowed him sole custody of his children. “If the law is against me, then we’ll have to change the law,” the Lion bragged. His home was the largest mansion in Santa Teresa, and so heavily guarded that few were allowed inside its gates. The Blue Moon boys and I didn’t object to the private show out of sheer curiosity; who wouldn’t want to catch a glimpse of the Lion in person? Still, I wasn’t enthusiastic about the show because Senhor Pimentel had arranged it and I hadn’t.
* * *
—
The Lion sent a private car to fetch us in Lapa. Senhor Pimentel wedged himself into the seat between Graça and me. The diamond sugar cube glimmered in his tie.
The car wound through the hills of Santa Teresa until we reached a stone fence taller than most houses. As the iron gate creaked open and shut behind us, Graça held her father’s hand in her gloved one. Instead of wearing one of the colorful gowns she always wore to perform, Senhor Pimentel had convinced Graça to wear a black dress and a single strand of pearls, as if she was attending a funeral and not putting on a show.
I looked out the window and watched as we drove up a winding path lit by gas lanterns. Then there was a massive hill, blacker than the night sky. Atop it, as if floating, sat a building that resembled a museum or a theater, massive and columned, its walls covered in handpainted Portuguese tiles that gleamed in the lamplight. A stone path led up the hill and to the front door, but the car lumbered past it and around the hill, to the back of the house.
A line of garages, each with a car inside, sat open. Uniformed men and women scurried between lit doorways. Nearby we heard the insistent, deep-throated barks of dogs. The car stopped. The driver left his seat and opened our door, which faced the service entrance.
Graça tugged her hand from her father’s. “I thought I was the guest of honor, not some maid.”
The Blue Moon boys eyed one another, then quickly left the car.
“You’re a samba singer, not a countess,” Senhor Pimentel snapped. “This is what you wanted.”
Graça looked at me, a mix of panic and anger on her face. I reached over Senhor Pimentel and grabbed her gloved hand.
“You want to walk through the front door?” I asked. “I’m right behind you. We’ll go there now, together.”
Senhor Pimentel took hold of her wrist, his hand below mine. “You’re the entertainment. Going in through the front, having the butler announce you, will spoil the effect. Don’t embarrass me.”
Graça bowed her head as if praying. Then she slid free from both of our grips and left the car. Senhor Pimentel and I quickly followed, each of us grasping for the door, as if whoever got to Graça first would influence her decision. But her mind was already made up. Outs
ide, Graça gave me a sad smile and made her way to the kitchen door.
* * *
—
The service entrance was on the lowest floor, carved into the hill that held up the house. The kitchen itself was larger and more modern than any I’d seen, tiled from floor to ceiling like a hospital. But its steamy air, smelling of garlic and onion, returned me to Nena’s kitchen in Riacho Doce. I could not meet the eyes of those cooks and kitchen girls who watched, starstruck, as we shuffled, single file, through their domain. Graça kept her eyes forward and held her chin up as if she was wading neck-deep in water. Only the Blue Moon boys nodded and smiled at the kitchen girls.
We followed the head housekeeper through a maze of narrow halls and up dimly lit staircases until we reached a door. On the other side was a room as wide as a soccer field. Above us, a gilded ceiling glittered with electric lights. In front of us were rows of golden chairs with embroidered seat cushions, all of them empty.
“The Senhores and Senhoras are having after-dinner drinks in the parlor,” the housekeeper announced, as if we were her staff. “When they are finished they will retire here, to listen to you. Be ready for them.”
Vinicius and the boys removed their instruments from their cases. Graça closed her eyes and performed voice exercises. I went to the back of the room and sat in one of the golden chairs. Senhor Pimentel took the seat beside me, his leg pressing against mine.
“It must feel remarkable: a person like you sitting in a room like this,” he said.
“I’ve seen better rooms.”
Senhor Pimentel laughed. “In that casino? This is a private house, Jega! The money up north was a drop in the ocean compared with what’s here in Rio. Graçinha was right to leave. She’s always had good instincts, it’s just a matter of guiding her.”
“Like you guided her these past few years?” I asked.
The Senhor’s mouth twitched. He forced it into a smile. “Graçinha’s forgiven me. She understands I couldn’t bankrupt the mill on a search that would’ve been futile.”
“And you lost the mill anyway.”
“Fate lost Riacho Doce,” he said. “The price of sugar lost it. And it grieves me terribly. It was like losing her mother all over again. My family goes back to the first Portuguese, Jega. They planted Pernambuco’s first cane. Graça has a noble lineage. Better than most of these silly guests she’ll sing for. Better than the Lion himself. She’s not some workhorse. My girl’s a Pegasus! She’s got wings! But now she’s tied to the plow like a common mule.”
“She works the best stage in Rio.”
“The Copacabana Palace is the best stage in Rio, and she’s not booked there because they have standards. How long will this samba fad last?” he asked. “Until Graça’s looks go? Until her voice coarsens? Then where will she be—trapped in a rooming house with you, cutting little records and playing shabby clubs all of her life? You’ve got this closefistedness about you, Jega, this idea that everything is scarce in the world and you’ve got to take what you can get. That’s natural for your lot, but not for my Graçinha. She needs someone with a bigger vision. She needs someone who thinks beyond making the next mil-réis. Graçinha has a splendid voice. She should sing the right kind of music with proper musicians, not with that band of malandros. She needs to be in rooms like this one, or onstage at a grand theater playing for the classes, not the masses. She needs an international tour, a contract with a reputable record company, her name on a line of fur coats! You’ve gotten her this far and—believe me—your pluck is impressive. But you’re not going to get her any farther, Jega. You dress like a newspaper boy. You drink. You argue. You run around with girls. It’s unnatural. If my Graçinha wants a reputable career, if she wants to fly to the moon, she can’t be associated with such things.”
Fly to the moon. Those words belonged to Graça, not to him. “Has she talked to you about this?” I asked. “Does she know you’re telling me to jump ship?”
“Graçinha? She can’t decide what color shoes to wear on a walk down the hallway. But my girl’s always had ambition. She’ll make the right choice between us. You’ll see soon enough.”
“I didn’t know there was a choice.”
“There isn’t,” Senhor Pimentel said, and leaned his shoulder against mine, his mouth close to my ear as if he was about to share a shocking bit of gossip. “I’m her father. I’m her guardian. It’s my duty to shield my innocent girl from opportunists, from bands of sambistas, from gangsters and Big Foots. It would be an ugly business if I went to the police and the courts. We both know who’d win.”
The room’s front door opened. Graça and the boys stood at attention. There was laughter. Women wearing massive jewels and gauzy gowns floated into the room, some on the arms of men, some alone. Tuxedoed men, young and old, held snifters of brandy and joked as they made their way to the front chairs.
“The show’s going to start,” Senhor Pimentel said, and nodded to the door. “You know the way out, Jega.”
It took all of my effort not to hit him. I closed my eyes and imagined what Graça would say if I beat up her dear, sweet father right there, in the Lion’s ballroom, in front of our host and his guests. A fight was probably what Senhor Pimentel wanted, so he could win Graça’s sympathies and get me kicked out of the Lion’s house. But Senhor Pimentel was not the first to underestimate me, and he wouldn’t be the last.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I said, dizzy with rage.
Senhor Pimentel smiled, then rushed to greet the guests one by one, as if he was the host of the party. Then he introduced his beautiful daughter, Sofia Salvador, ignoring the Blue Moon Band.
* * *
—
How many hundreds of shows had Graça and the boys performed with me watching in the wings? For large crowds and small; in dives and mansions, casinos and cabarets; for drunks and nobility, they all blur together now into one prolonged performance that I play in my memory again and again, a record on repeat.
She’d start off sweet, her voice a little naughty, the songs pure fun, as if she’d found you in the middle of a crowded party and decided to flirt. Then, very slowly, she moved into another set of songs, romantic ones. Her voice was a whisper, then the softest little moan. She was confiding in you, she was asking you to take her home for the night. And just when you thought you had her figured out, she’d signal to the Blue Moon boys and shift the tempo and sigh and shake her head and cradle the microphone and begin a series of slower songs, sadder ones. Little by little, she’d bend the song’s notes, stretching her voice until you felt nervous for her—it was too high, or too low, and surely she would not be able to sustain it. Her body shook with the effort. She closed her eyes, she clenched her hands, sometimes she even knelt before you. And you, and everyone around you, would hold your breath, afraid she would crack and shatter in front of you. But then she would stand, her voice so full and lush it surrounded you like a warm bath, and you knew she would not break.
When Sofia Salvador finished a show, applause wasn’t an obligation but a release. Without even realizing it, you’d held your breath and tensed your body while she sang, as if you were afraid that even the smallest movement would startle her away. But as soon as she bowed and thanked you, every emotion she’d dredged up inside you was suddenly clamoring to be let loose. How could you not clap, howl, whistle, and call for one more? One more! Please, just one more? And, of course, Sofia Salvador always relented. She did that night, in the Lion’s mansion.
She sang until my feet ached and my dress pinched. Until the room’s many lights made my eyes blur. And when Sofia finally finished, her chest glistening with sweat, her hair matted and her eye makeup a runny mess, that noble crowd clapped and wiped their wet eyes and swarmed toward her as if they all hoped to hug her at once. For what felt like hours those ladies and gentlemen congratulated Graça and the band, and even Senhor Pimentel, who, beaming and red-cheeked,
accepted their handshakes and praise as if he was a new father just out of the delivery ward. I could have walked into that tight circle of guests and musicians. I could have forced my way inside and made them acknowledge and congratulate me as the writer of her songs, as the oil that greased the gears of Sofia Salvador and Blue Moon Band. But what is recognition when it’s not freely given? A concession. An allowance, doled out in measured doses by those who have the power to give it. Senhor Pimentel was right: there was a closefistedness about me. Only the fists were not mine; all my life I’d pried open fingers to get my due. That night, I was tired. For once, I wanted things to come easily or not at all.
* * *
—
Guests blocked the hidden door that led to the maze of servants’ passageways. I slipped out the room’s real door and into a wide hall. My heels click-clacked against marble floors. I had the panicked idea that a maid or butler would hear me and think I was an intruder traipsing through the house. I moved faster, my steps louder. Finally I found the massive front door, made from wood so thick I had to use two hands to pull it open. Outside, gas lanterns hissed and sputtered. I grabbed the hem of my gown and wobbled down the stone path.
I looked up at the Lion’s mansion; each window blazed as if there were a party in every room. Graça was behind one of those windows, laughing, accepting compliments, charming each guest into dizzy adoration. Those guests were the high-and-mighty of Rio society, not Lapa’s Little Tonys or Madame Lucifers or Urca Casino’s Joaquim Rolla. They controlled an entire country, not a piddly neighborhood. Maybe my vision was too small, my grasp too tight. Maybe I was a hindrance. Maybe I was never a salvation but a stone in Graça’s pocket, weighing her down and dragging her under.
I’d get the Lion’s driver to take me back to Lapa, and if he refused I’d walk there myself. I imagined stumbling down Santa Teresa’s winding hills, past its gated manors, under the arched aqueducts, and arriving at our boardinghouse by sunrise, if I arrived at all. I contemplated visiting Anaïs but quickly changed my mind. With her I was always the student, intent on pleasing my teacher. That night, I did not want to please anyone. I thought of the line of fancy cars near the Lion’s service entrance and the many bored chauffeurs who would appreciate my company. I thought of my fancy gown hiked up to my waist, my legs wrapped so tightly around one of those drivers that he’d gasp for breath as he pushed on top of me, and I’d jeer at him. I’d tell him he was a disgrace. I’d slap him and order him to push harder, to pummel me into that leather seat until I was ground into nothing. Until I disappeared completely.
The Air You Breathe Page 26
