The Air You Breathe

by Frances De Pontes Peebles

  “Will you look at that?” Graça breathed, staring at the city. “It looks like magic.”

  Vinicius snorted. “It’s all fake. You of all people should know that.”

  “What do you mean?” Graça asked.

  “This place squeezes everything good out of people,” Vinicius said. “All that’s left is the rind.”

  “So I’m the rind?” Graça asked. “You sound like that lying Mayrink filho da puta.”

  “Maybe he’s not lying,” Vinicius said. “Maybe people hate us back home. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Why on earth would they hate us?” Graça demanded.

  “You, with your pow-tay-toos and your mens mens mens,” Vinicius said. “You think that’s funny? You think it’s dignified?”

  “I’m a singer, not a goddamn English expert,” Graça yelled. “I’d like to see you get up in front of hundreds of people every day and speak to them in a language you don’t even know. You wouldn’t have the fucking guts.”

  The DeSoto lumbered and growled up those twisting roads. Kitchen shot me a look. I turned in my seat to face Graça and Vinicius. “There’re plenty of people worth fighting outside the band,” I said. “Let’s not kill each other.”

  Graça’s hair was a scruffy mess. Her earrings gone. Her bottom lip trembled. “He wants me to scowl in front of people. He wants me to be serious like you, Dor. If I did that, we’d be on a ship back to Brazil after just one picture.”

  “Maybe that would’ve been better,” Vinicius said. “Now we can’t show our faces back home.”

  Graça shook her head. Her gold-sequined top looked dull and heavy in the darkness; she slumped under its weight.

  “It’s easy for you to complain, isn’t it?” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “To sit back and judge me for being undignified, or for having too much energy or not enough, or being too samba, or not samba enough. But not everyone thinks like you do. I don’t disappoint everybody. There’re people that really love me, you know. I read the fan letters. I meet the soldiers at the canteen. And I help them. I make people happy. Maybe my way of making music, of entertaining, is different than yours. But you don’t own music. You don’t get to say what’s real and what’s not. And tomorrow I’m driving to the Brazilian embassy and asking the consul for every goddamn newspaper he’s saved since we got here. I’m going to read those critics’ reviews. Every last one.”

  * * *

  —

  Each Sunday the studios were closed, but our Bedford Drive house was always as full as a movie set. Visiting regiments of Brazilian air force pilots played volleyball in our pool. The musicians we met at the Showboat or the Brown Bottle popped in for a swim and then a jam session by the pool. Under the shade of the cabana, heartthrob Ramon Romero and his live-in boyfriend, Clifton, often played cards with Kitchen. A few Plain Janes who worked as secretaries at Disney Studios lounged beside the pool, laughing at Tiny’s jokes and putting on a show of ignoring the few, stunning Dumb Doras—those lovely Fox movie extras—who sunned themselves on the lawn but never dared swim in our pool. In those Doras’ minds, it was risky enough just attending our house parties. In L.A. people stuck with their own kind, but at Bedford Drive everyone was invited: black, white, red, brown, rich, poor, man, woman, or in between. We had only one requirement of our guests: you jammed with all of us, or with none of us at all.

  Sofia Salvador made only two hundred dollars a week, while the boys earned fifty. It was chump change considering her box-office earnings, but no one ever said Hollywood was fair. If it hadn’t been for Sofia Salvador’s deals with Pond’s and Lux soap—deals that I’d strong-armed Chuck Lindsay into pursuing, visiting his office every day with beauty magazines in my hands and asking why Sofia Salvador couldn’t advertise such things—we would’ve been flat broke.

  We paid a fortune in rent for our Bedford Drive house, even though it wasn’t palatial by Hollywood standards and it was off the beaten path. Few homeowners rented to a “mixed group” like ours, and the odd one that was willing to take this risk made sure we paid dearly for the privilege of living together. Our tight finances didn’t stop Graça and the boys from ordering sixty pounds of steaks each week, delivered right to our back door, for our Sunday parties. The liquor store brought ten weekly cases of their best gin, whiskey, and tonic water. The green grocer delivered crates of limes, oranges, and strawberries. The local pharmacist delivered bottles of Blue Angels and bennies like they were candy, prescribed by the studio doctor. Graça filled glass punch bowls with packs of cigarettes, which were always empty by the end of the day. She even had me order little plastic cigarette holders that said, in gold writing along their sides: Stolen from the House of Sofia Salvador.

  The Sunday after the disastrous Grauman’s ceremony, Brazilian consul general Raul Bopp and his wife sat under our striped umbrellas and drank gin and tonics. In return for the invitation, he’d brought a stack of Brazilian newspapers from the embassy. Some were the Lion’s publications, heavily edited by President Gegê’s censors. Others were underground papers out of São Paulo that complained of crippling wartime inflation and Gegê’s enforced nationalism.

  I sat on a lawn chair beside the pool and read those papers, swooning over the familiar verbs, the many-syllabled adjectives, and the speed and ease with which I understood them all. Portuguese was a cool drink on a hot day. I read every headline, every weather report, every obituary, every ad for cold cream and vitamin pills. The papers’ more interesting tidbits I read aloud to the boys and Graça, who’d dragged their lawn chairs around mine.

  “‘Casinos Nationalized,’” I called out. “‘All employees must prove they are native Brazilian.’”

  “How will they do that?” Vinicius asked. “Does Old Gegê have a blood test for brasilidade?”

  The boys laughed. I read on. Getúlio had enforced an eight-hour workday. Getúlio had agreed to real elections, but only after the war. The United States and Brazil were allies, but that didn’t make them friends. Getúlio’s years of nationalism had finally taken root—Brazil was for Brazilians, not communists or cronies of Uncle Sam.

  “What a fucking bore!” Graça said, plopping into Vinicius’s lap. Her hand crept inside his unbuttoned shirt. She wore a sequin-covered tunic that glittered in the sun. It was hard to look at her without squinting. “Flip to the arts section!” she insisted.

  I obeyed. There, on the section’s front page, was the name Sofia Salvador. The article was a review of My Crazy Secretary, which had been dubbed into Portuguese and finally released in Brazil months after its U.S. debut. I skimmed the first few sentences.

  What has Hollywood done to our lovely folk songstress? Her look has mutated into a sequined nightmare. Her songs are far from being sambas.

  “What’s the matter, Dor?” Graça asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied, and folded the newspaper shut.

  “Then why do you look like someone just kicked the bucket?” Graça asked.

  I put down the paper. “Let’s have a drink, enjoy our guests. Maybe we can go shopping later?”

  Graça’s eyes narrowed. “Since when do you want me spending dough? Read that paper.”

  “No,” I said.

  Before I could shove the newspaper under my arm and lift myself out of my chair, Graça leapt from Vinicius’s lap and snatched the paper from my hands. She opened to the arts section. Her eyes moved back and forth. Her chest rose and fell as if she’d just run a race. The newspaper shook in her hands.

  “What’s it say?” Vinicius asked.

  Graça shoved the paper back into my hands. “Read it to them,” she growled. When I shook my head she pinched my chin, as if I was a disobedient child. “Read it out loud,” she said. “They deserve to know.”

  I started at the beginning. It was only when I got to the middle of the article that my tongue, so dry it felt as if it might stick to the roof of
my mouth and stay there, began to fumble words.

  “Louder,” Tiny ordered. I glanced at him. His arms were crossed over his bare chest, his face drained of all humor.

  Her band—once providing a feral authenticity that captivated audiences—now looks like a bunch of sad, old birds in their rainbow tuxedos. Are they even playing their instruments? Or have they, too, sold their souls to the American film machine? The theater where this reporter watched My Crazy Secretary was as quiet as a church, even during the so-called humorous parts of the film. Clearly, true Brazilians were not in on the gringos’ jokes, but was Miss Salvador?

  Kitchen lit a cigarette. Little Noel took off his apron and left his grilled steaks leaking blood on their plates.

  “Feral?” Banana asked. “What are we, dogs?”

  “We were,” Little Noel said. “Now we’re sad birds. I don’t know which is worse.”

  “Birds can fly,” Graça said, staring at the pool. “Birds can sing.”

  “Depends on the bird,” Kitchen said. “Some can’t do either. Some are only meant to get their asses cooked.”

  Despite my objections, we picked up the other newspapers and read on.

  She gets worse with each film, a critic for the Jornal do Brasil newspaper wrote about Mexican Tango.

  The bigger the earrings, another critic commented, the lower the taste level.

  If only Sofia Salvador’s abilities as an actress could expand as quickly as her waist has, said a scathing review of G.I. Love Ya.

  Looks like our queen of samba has turned into what none of her loyal fans ever expected, said one paper. A gringa.

  Vinicius grabbed the newspaper from my hands and ripped it in half. “If I ever see these asshole critics on the street, I’ll smash their faces in.”

  “You won’t see them,” Kitchen said. “Because we can’t go home. We’re punching bags in two countries now.”

  “I’ve turned into a gringa?” Graça said. “Those clueless motherfuckers. They wouldn’t know a gringa if she was sitting in their goddamn laps. Do I look pale to you? Do I ever miss a beat when I dance?”

  There was only one way I knew to make Graça and the boys forget those reviews, if only for a moment: a good fight.

  “Well, your ass sure isn’t shrinking,” I said. “That’s the first sign of being a gringa, so you’re safe.”

  The boys were quiet. Vinicius gave me a startled look. Graça’s eyes narrowed. She put her hands on her hips. I steeled myself.

  “A flat ass is a horrible affliction,” Graça said, and smiled. “You know that firsthand, Dor.”

  Vinicius ventured a laugh. The other boys quickly caught on.

  “Hey! Check me for two left feet,” Little Noel said, wiggling his toes.

  Tiny snapped his fingers. “Hold on, I’ve got to make sure I’m not losing my rhythm.”

  I grabbed my notebook from under my chair.

  “What’re you writing?” Graça asked. “A letter to the editor?”

  “Lyrics,” I replied.

  The boys fetched their instruments. We made a circle out of lawn chairs, ignored our guests, forgot our food, and, for the first time in many months, started a roda all together. Vinicius moved his chair close to mine. Graça found a seat of her own beside him. He read through the phrases I’d scribbled in my notebook: Turned into a gringa. No more rhythm. We’re all infected with the affliction.

  “I think we need to have a wonky, almost drunk sound starting the song. Like a comedy,” Vinicius said.

  I shook my head. “It needs a bite. This is our revenge.”

  Vinicius nodded. “How about we have the cuíca come in hard, so sweet it’s almost ominous, and then Kitchen really scrapes the reco-reco.”

  “Like a snake,” I said. “A rattler ready to strike.”

  “That’s it!” Vinicius replied.

  Graça slapped the metal arms of her chair. “Are we going to play music in this goddamn roda, or are you two going to yackity-yak all day?”

  Vinicius turned to her. “What’s the rush? We’re all just getting started.”

  “No. You and Dor are getting started,” Graça replied. “The rest of us are waiting on your highnesses to let us in.”

  Little Noel stared intently at his tamborim drum. The rest of the boys glanced at me. None cracked a smile.

  “No one needs an engraved invitation to join,” Vinicius said, his voice weak. “We’re all in this roda together.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Graça said.

  “Why’re you picking a fight?” Vinicius asked. “We’re doing this song to defend you.”

  Graça tilted back her head and laughed. “How fucking kind of you two! Too bad I’m not brilliant enough to add a lyric, or even get a word in.”

  “If you want to sing, then sing for God’s sakes,” Vinicius said. “No one’s stopping you.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t want to interrupt you two, would we, boys?” Graça replied, her voice ice. “I’ve turned into a gringa, and this roda’s turned into a duo.”

  “So let’s start over,” I said, and handed my notebook to Graça. “You pick the words.”

  She dropped my old lyric book to the ground. “I can write my own words; I don’t need yours. I won’t pussyfoot around—let’s start strong: They say I’ve turned into a gringa.”

  Kitchen scraped his reco-reco. Tiny strummed his cavaquinho. One by one the other boys joined in, until together, hesitantly, we found a beat.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, we began filming Fruity Cutie Girl, the most expensive musical made by Fox studios, and what would turn out to be Sofia Salvador’s last hit.

  “The looniest, liveliest, most innovative musical ever!” That’s how Fox billed it. But Fruity Cutie Girl had the same plot as all other wartime musicals called “backstagers”: the characters were in show business and the story revolved around them putting on a performance for the troops. Once again, Sofia Salvador wasn’t billed as the star. In every musical there was always a blonde gal who took the lead. The blonde falls in love, she sings the romantic songs, she fights for her man. Girls sitting in the audience wanted to be the blonde, but everyone preferred to watch Sofia Salvador. She wiggled into every scene, with her boy’s haircut and bared belly and massive earrings, her legs and arms always in motion.

  Movie sets are painfully boring places; even the biggest stars are forced to do an unreasonable amount of waiting in cramped trailers. For the Blue Moon boys and me, that waiting was doubled—the band was only employed to film song-and-dance numbers, and I wasn’t employed at all. During those tedious hours, Vinicius accompanied Graça wherever she went, keeping watch over her. The Brothers and Noel played cards. Tiny romanced Dumb Doras. Kitchen rooted out the few other musicians at Fox. And I holed up in Graça’s trailer and answered her fan mail by autographing glossy photographs of the Brazilian Bombshell, addressing them to soldiers, farmers, accountants, and teenagers alike. In the beginning of the war several bags of fan mail arrived each day for Sofia Salvador, but by the end, there was one bag at most, and it was always half full.

  A week into shooting Fruity Cutie Girl there was a knock on the trailer door. Vinicius let himself inside. He wore a purple tuxedo and held his guitar by its neck.

  “Graça’s not here,” I said.

  “I know,” he replied, his voice low.

  “If you’re fighting again, don’t hide here,” I said. “You know how she gets when she feels left out. Better to get one of the boys to give you cover.”

  “I’m not a kid hiding from his mama,” Vinicius said. “I have this tune in my head. I can’t get it out.”

  I stared at the many Sofia Salvadors in a pile of photos before me, their grins devilish, their lips full, their eyes wide. “So tell the boys,” I replied. “And Graça. We’ll get a roda going tonight.�
�

  Vinicius slumped in the chair beside mine. “Come on, Dor. Tonight we’ll be so tired we won’t even want to look at our instruments. Or we’ll be so hopped-up on bennies we won’t be able to sit still long enough to play two notes. I don’t want to wait until Sunday to play. By then, this tune’ll run away from me. You know, a wise gal once told me that music won’t wait for us. She said we can’t ignore it.”

  They’d trimmed his sideburns at Fox and slicked back his hair. I had the urge to muss it with both hands, to make it like it used to be. Instead, I put down my pen and asked: “What you got?”

  We worked in secret every day afterward on that film shoot. The songs we composed weren’t for Sofia Salvador and Blue Moon, but for ourselves. In those tin-can Fox trailers, we couldn’t risk making too much noise, so Vinicius strummed his guitar very gently and I kept my voice almost at a whisper. Many great discoveries begin as mistakes, and ours was no different—Vinicius and I unwittingly created a genre thought to be impossible: quiet samba.

  Music historians still argue whether it was Sofia Salvador and Blue Moon, or our duo—Sal e Pimenta, as Vinicius and I named ourselves—who were the creators of this radical quiet samba style that would inspire, a decade later, another of samba’s offshoots: the soft-spoken bossa nova. I’m not sure why this argument even exists. Follow the music, and you’ll find the answer.

  On our days off from shooting Fruity Cutie Girl, Vinicius and I lied to Graça and the boys. He said he was going on long drives to clear his head. I said I was visiting Chuck Lindsay on business. When these excuses got old, Vinicius and I began sneaking out in the middle of the night, while Graça and the boys slept. We went to a rented studio near Disney and recorded our newfangled tracks.

  The shellac used to make records was scarce because of the war, so vinyl was introduced as an alternative. Vinyl was more durable than shellac, and could be mailed internationally without shattering into a hundred pieces. So we secretly mailed our unbreakable masters to Madame L., in Brazil, and he released them to Rio’s radio DJs, never mentioning our association with Blue Moon or Sofia Salvador, because that would have doomed us from the start. No, we were something new, something different. The depth and precision of Vinicius’s guitar playing—the only instrument we used apart from the occasional reco-reco—made our melodies feel naked and vulnerable. They were not covered under layers of percussion. And my voice, with its gravelly sound and limited range, was perfectly suited to this hushed and slow samba we’d accidentally created. We were Sal e Pimenta, the perfect pair of opposites and each other’s only complement.