I need you on my side.
Against who?
Everybody. The whole world.
The world will eat us up.
I slumped onto the steps and covered my face in my hands.
When I finally stood, I couldn’t remember which direction led to the garages with the guests’ gleaming cars and their chauffeurs. I bumbled around the Lion’s grounds, my heels sinking into a gravel path that grew darker and more narrow. There was a smell so sharp it made my nose wrinkle; I felt as if I’d stumbled into a dead-end Lapa alley where drunks relieved themselves. I heard a snarl.
My neck tingled. An animal growled, deep and steady, like a motor revving to life. I stepped back. The gravel crackled under my feet. Then barks exploded so loudly and violently I could feel the force of them pushing me backward. I heard myself gasp. My arms covered my face and I braced for impact. The barking continued, louder and wilder, but I felt no sharp teeth, no wet muzzles.
I lowered my arms. In the hill’s shadows were the bars of a kennel. Three mastiffs as massive as donkeys snarled and yapped, squeezing their faces between the iron bars. Their teeth shone. I took another step back and their barking stopped. They sniffed the air. Their tails wagged so forcefully that their bodies shimmied. One of the dogs whined, opening its mouth so wide a child’s head could fit inside it. Behind me, gravel crunched.
“They get riled by trespassers,” a man said. He wore a tuxedo and carried a metal pail. His white hair looked blue in the night.
“I’m not a trespasser,” I whispered.
“Dressed like that you are. This is the servants’ area.”
His tux was impeccably tailored, his white tie a perfect bow. On the hand that held the metal pail was a ring with a stone as big as a gum ball.
“Then you’re trespassing, too,” I said.
His eyes were stern. They assessed everything around him like a thief or a prisoner might, making sure there was always a quick escape. With his free hand, he removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it in my direction. I suppose he thought the dogs had upset me. I thanked him and wiped my eyes and nose.
“You’re from Pernambuco,” he said, pointing to his ear. “You kept your accent. I’m from up that way, too, but I learned how to speak like the Cariocas. They don’t respect you otherwise.”
The pail swung in his hand. The dogs whined.
“You’re with the band?” he asked. “A wife? Girlfriend?”
“God forbid,” I replied.
His eyes glimmered now. “Her music’s good. Maybe even great. But don’t tell her I said so.”
“I didn’t see you upstairs, at the concert,” I said.
“I was in back like you. I don’t hobnob,” he said, then stepped past me and near the kennel’s bars. The dogs jumped and scampered. He lowered a hand into the pail and removed a fistful of glistening scraps. Then he held his hand out, palm up, and put it between the bars. The animals pressed their muzzles gently to his palm, as if licking a wound. The man dipped his hand into the pail again and again, all the while tutting and shushing and whispering to the beasts.
“There, querida. Yes . . . oh, too fast! Don’t guzzle, my love . . . yes, there.”
Watching, I felt embarrassed, as if I was prying.
“Everyone’s loyal when you feed them filet mignon!” the man announced, holding the pail toward me. “You want to try? They won’t bite.”
I shook my head. He went back to feeding.
“What do you do for that Salvador girl?” he asked. “Other than linger in dark corners?”
“I write her songs.”
He flung the empty pail to the ground with a clatter. His palms and the white cuffs of his tuxedo shirt were covered in dark smears. He put his hands between the bars again and let the dogs lick them clean.
“So you put the meat in her act,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“The songs. What good’s a singer if she’s got nothing to sing? You give her substance. My son’s the samba lover. He goes to Urca every week to see your girl play. He’s starstruck. Me? I’ve never been musically inclined. I’m more of a movie man, myself.”
“You watch pictures?” I asked.
“The snobs around here say movies are gauche. They wouldn’t be caught dead at the cinema. But me? I’m as gauche as they come! I go to Cinelândia once a week—they let me sneak in the back of the Odeon for free and sit in the projection booth. Know why?”
“No.”
“Those pictures wouldn’t be imported without me. Or the newsreels. We make those, you know. Splice a few photos together, add narration, and boom! You’ve got a story, even if it’s not news at all.” He removed his hands from the kennel. “You guessed who I am yet?”
“You’re not the night watchman.”
He held out a hand to me, the fingers still wet from the dogs’ licking. His black eyes glimmered, amused to see if I’d shake or not. I stepped forward and clasped his hand in mine. He gripped me roughly, squeezing until the bones of my fingers hurt, scanning my face as if hoping to catch a glimpse of pain or shock. I squeezed his hand right back.
“Come upstairs with me,” he said. “You don’t belong down here. The guards will let the dogs loose soon, and these old girls can’t tell the difference between a lady and a thief.”
“Is there a difference?” I asked.
He allowed himself a smile. It lasted so long that I found myself inching backward, worried he might’ve taken our little talk as an invitation to a kiss, or worse. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, as if he didn’t want the dogs to hear us.
“You ever meet any gringos?” he whispered.
I shook my head.
“I’ve got a few in high places that might like your gal’s act. Maybe I’ll send them your way, over to that casino you all play in, and let them take a gander at her?”
“We’d appreciate that,” I said. “She’s not meant to play casinos forever.”
“You stay in the same place too long, you’ll either starve or get eaten,” he said.
Then the man held out his arm, as if escorting me out of a dark corner and onto a dance floor.
* * *
—
The Lion and I were kindred spirits. I was not, as some have claimed, his informant, though his newspapers did get exclusives with Sofia Salvador. At the time, every entertainer and politician was in the same boat: if you didn’t work with the Lion’s newspapers, they smeared you. And I was not his friend; he did not have those. But the Lion and I shared a common trait: we’d elbowed our way into places where others believed we didn’t belong.
He’d been born to a drunk, traveled to Rio alone at ten years old on the back of a donkey, and made a living as a newspaper boy before becoming a magnate. This kind of social climb might’ve been common elsewhere, but in Brazil in the 1900s, it was as rare as a comet that burns across the heavens every hundred years. If you’re trapped in the muck, below even society’s lowest rungs, you are kept there by the weight of others, clambering on top of you, using you as their stepping-stone. Moving upward isn’t simply a matter of gumption—to climb the ladder, you must be willing to clear the path. You must be willing to push and hit, and yes, even smother anyone who blocks your rise. For those who called the Lion and, on a much smaller scale, me ruthless and grasping, I ask you: What would you have us do? Stay silent in the muck and endure, as others did before us, until we were pressed so far down we were buried alive?
That first night by the kennels, the Lion took a shining to me, yes, but he also knew that it wouldn’t hurt to forge a partnership with an up-and-coming samba star; someone he could slap on the pages of his papers when news was slow; someone he could dangle in front of his gringo associates at the new Office of the Coordinator of Inter-American Affairs. The Lion’s motives weren’t obvious to me on our first
meeting, but a few weeks later, he made good on his promise to send OCIAA officials eager to implement the Good Neighbor Policy to our Urca shows. Those officials got word to Chuck Lindsay, a North American talent agent who’d visited Rio, and who invited us to a late dinner aboard the passenger liner Normandie.
That night, as we bounced over the bay’s waves in a water taxi headed for the enormous cruise ship, I smiled widely at Senhor Pimentel and tried to contain my excitement. I’d gotten us a meeting with a talent scout from Hollywood! No samba band had ever been considered for the movies. Who had the small vision now?
The Blue Moon boys laughed and joked during the choppy ride. Senhor Pimentel scowled. Graça sat beside Vinicius with her eyes shut tight.
“This gringo expects us to eat dinner after this ride?” she said, holding her stomach.
Senhor Pimentel placed an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “What civilized person eats at this hour?” he asked. “It’s a crime to keep you up after doing three shows in one night. You should be resting, not going to sign autographs for some tourist.”
“He’s not a tourist,” I said.
“No, worse—he’s a movie man,” Senhor Pimentel replied, shouting over the taxi’s motor. “What will he ask her to do? Play for the drunks at the Odeon?”
“What’s wrong with the movies?” Vinicius asked.
Graça opened her eyes.
Senhor Pimentel smiled. “It’s a different caliber of audience. I’d think you’d want to move up from Urca, not down to the lowest denominator.”
“Shit, I’m lower than low,” Tiny shouted. “I love those pictures. Can you imagine being on-screen, twenty feet tall, playing for the world?”
Banana laughed. “All the dames in Brazil will get to see your giant cavaquinho, brother!”
“Most have seen it already,” Tiny said, and winked.
Senhor Pimentel shook his head, disgusted.
There’s a difference between wealth and opulence. The first time I understood this distinction was on the Normandie. Chuck Lindsay’s private dining room had marble-topped tables, mahogany columns, and walls covered in mirrors. The mirrors amplified everything about the room—its size, its lights, its occupants. So it seemed as if there were a dozen chandeliers instead of only two, and fifty diners instead of only eleven: Chuck Lindsay, his translator, myself, Graça, Vinicius, the Blue Moon boys, and Senhor Pimentel.
Mr. Charles Lindsay was gray-haired and affable, like a father in the movies, only better dressed. He wore a tuxedo, like the Blue Moon boys.
“I’m not sure which of you kids are waiters, and which are part of the band!” he said, smiling.
Hearing the clipped, nasal tones of English returned me very suddenly to Senhora Pimentel’s bedside, where I heard her soft voice speak that language to Graça and me in the hopes that our young brains would soak it up. And mine had: I recognized a few of Lindsay’s words, but not all. His translator—a college boy from Rio—hesitated before relaying Chuck’s unfortunate joke to us in Portuguese.
The Blue Moon boys and I forced laughs. But Graça stood stone-faced beside her father. Her red gown had a long slit in the front that revealed a wide, tan thigh, its muscles so pronounced I was surprised her stockings had not ripped. Chuck Lindsay attempted to draw her out with conversation but Graça sighed and crossed her arms, the way she used to when she was bored with Bruxa’s lessons.
“Mr. Chuck says you have a marvelous stage presence, Miss Sofia,” the boy translated. “He says he likes the way you move your hands when you sing. He says it is quite charming.”
Graça gave the tiniest of nods, then looked out toward the boat’s deck as if contemplating escape.
“Thank you,” I said. “She’s entertained people from all over the world. Diplomats and presidents, too. There’s no crowd she can’t please.”
“Well, I don’t think she wants to please every crowd,” Senhor Pimentel piped in. “She’s an artist, not a good-time girl.”
Graça blushed. The college boy hesitated again, longer this time, before translating. Chuck Lindsay raised his eyebrows, then proceeded as if he’d heard nothing at all. Our conversation continued, only it did not feel like a dialogue but an exhausting game of telephone mixed with charades. By the time our meals appeared we’d all tired of talking. Graça picked at her food. Chuck Lindsay stared at her in the same way Nena used to judge girls before hiring them, calculating how strong their arms were, how soft their hands were, and how well they would do in her kitchen. Twice I caught Mr. Chuck’s appraising stare aimed at me. Before anyone had finished their dinner, Graça pushed away her plate, removed a cigarette and lighter from her clutch, and began to smoke. Mr. Chuck coughed and smiled at her, as if humoring a child.
I had to steer very carefully. Graça, when in one of her moods, was like a wild creature, free from the rules of logic or politeness. If I chastised her behavior, or if I told her to stop smoking, she would only behave worse and smoke more. If I tugged her outside, she would kick and scream, without any thought to preserving her dignity or mine. She had to believe something was her idea, her desire, before she would ever do it. One simply had to guess what it was Graça truly wanted, and do it first. She could not abide being in second place.
I removed my napkin from my lap and stood. “Excuse me,” I said to the translator. “I’m feeling woozy. I’m going to the deck for some fresh air. Please keep eating.”
Chuck Lindsay’s vast, private deck wrapped around the top of the ship. Below, passengers chattered in languages I could not understand. Beyond the harbor, Rio sparkled. The city’s beaches were well lit but its hills blended into the night sky. Christ the Redeemer, small and glowing upon his perch on Corcovado, was a floating blur of light.
I heard heels click against the deck. I closed my eyes, savoring my victory: Graça pressed beside me in the darkness.
“Give me a cigarette,” she ordered.
“It’ll change your voice,” I replied.
Graça plucked my cigarette from my hand and took a long, slow puff. “Maybe that’s what I need—a change.”
“You’re acting like you need a spanking.”
Graça laughed. “And wouldn’t you love to give it to me?”
I snatched my cigarette back. “That gringo could put you in pictures. You could be the next Marlene Dietrich. And instead of turning on the charm with him, you’re acting like a spoiled brat. You’re ruining this for yourself and for the boys.”
“Maybe I’m tired of being charming. Maybe I don’t want to be in pictures.”
“Since when? Since your papai says they’re low-class? What do you want to be now—some fancy opera singer?”
Graça looked out at the bay. Waves moved toward shore, their crests iced in moonlight.
“Sometimes I think you should’ve sung on ‘My Mutt,’” she whispered. “You should’ve been Sofia Salvador, not me. You’ve got the will for it.”
“But not the talent,” I said.
“We can’t have it all,” Graça replied. “Every time that Chuck speaks English, I hear Mamãe. It’s like she’s a ghost in the room. Papai said she would roll over in her grave if she saw me in a two-bit movie, playing some cantina tart. She wanted a daughter who was elegant, not some piddly samba singer.”
My hands gripped the ship’s railing. I shook my head. “Senhora Pimentel loved music. She gave us those records. She took us to that fado show. She put us on this path. She wouldn’t be mad that we followed it. She’d be proud.”
Graça wrapped an arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder.
“When we were kids, I had this fantasy,” she whispered. “Not about showbiz. Not even about singing. I wanted to be magic, Dor. I wanted to step in front of a crowd and be everything to them, even if it was just for a few minutes. Now I think: a few minutes is too short. What if I’m singing to the wrong crowd
? The kind of crowd that’ll ball me up and throw me away on some greasy movie house floor? What if this samba business is a fad, and when people look back they’ll laugh at me for singing these songs, instead of singing something respectable? Or what if no one remembers me at all?”
I held her tightly against me. The last time we were on a ship in Guanabara Bay, I was pathetic, skinny Jega. That night at the Lion’s house, Senhor Pimentel had conjured Jega again: I wasn’t good enough to be a singer; I wasn’t beautiful—not in the conventional sense; I wasn’t a woman—not in the way people expected me to be; I wasn’t a help to Graça or to anyone. Those beliefs always existed inside me—they still do—but I’d managed to contain them, to make them small and meek when confronted with my new self. But upon his return, Senhor Pimentel had given them strength. That night on the ship, I realized he’d done the same with Graça. He’d exalted her when he first returned, and then, little by little, he’d picked at her old wounds, brought up her old doubts, made her question the self she’d remade. Who are we, if not the people we imagine ourselves to be? Who was Graça without her audacity? Who was I without Graça?
“You remember that fado dame we saw in Recife?” I asked her.
Graça nodded, her hair brushing my chin. “She’s probably stuck in some dive now, singing for peanuts.”
“It doesn’t matter where’s she’s at!” I yelled. “To me, she’s always on that stage. She’s always magic. And that’s how I’ll remember her.”
The Air You Breathe Page 27
