Stubborn Archivist

by Yara Rodrigues Fowler

  Richard raised his eyebrows. Well—Isadora, I think you will find this young man’s thesis very interesting indeed.

  Oh yes?

  Yes.

  Guilherme pushed up his glasses.

  You see what the research is showing is that the dictatorship was funding a lot of foreign graduate study in that era, in order to, you know . . .

  What?

  To get rid of people.

  There was a pause.

  I don’t know, perhaps you left too late, but could be.

  You looked at your mother but she was laughing. She shook her head. She put her arm around her English husband.

  The hot sea breeze blew across their faces.

  That night the three of you lie in the three single beds in the room at the back of the house that you share. It reminds you of being a child again. You can hear Dona Elisabete’s television next door and the sound of a man speaking. In the years that you’ve been coming here, this has been your room at the back of the yard by Dona Elisabete. And it had been the same in Vovó’s little yellow house, where you had slept in the little concrete outhouse.

  Eternal guests—passed around from cousin to aunty to old friend to new friend—you always ended up in these rooms. They were always hot, sometimes without windows, narrow and unpainted.

  That night the room was not tidy. Full of suitcase overspill and clothes and bottles of mosquito repellent and sun cream and shampoo and drying bikini bottoms and presents that haven’t been wrapped and a roll of wrapping paper and no sellotape and your mum’s canga still covered in sand and your closed neat case and then your dad’s goggles and his too colourful shorts.

  Your dad brushes his teeth. Your mum brushes her teeth. Have you seen my reading glasses? They are on the shelf. Have you seen my reading glasses. They are by the sink. They prepare for bed.

  Richard likes to hear the sound of the sea, but Isadora says don’t be ridiculous we must close the shutters because of the mosquitoes, besides Marcos has bought us a fan.

  You feel like a child again.

  Boa noite darling

  Boa noite

  When Isadora and Richard and baby arrived from London for the first time, Vovô and Vovó had driven the three of you straight from the airport to the beach to the yellow house. We have just done up the yellow house, Vovô Felipe had said. There are white tiles now and it is freshly yellow painted and there is air conditioning, and of course I promised you a pool.

  Mum and Dad and Vovó and Vovô and Ana Paula and baby and suitcases you didn’t all fit in one car and Vovó Cecília had always claimed you for her car at the airport, and Vovô Felipe would say, then you must come with me on the way back or I will be heartbroken young lady, and so you would strike a deal.

  Some years you had got stuck in the holiday traffic on the motorway. You had spent hours between green and orange and blue wooden trucks and rainforest mountains and waterfalls and sometimes you had driven right through clouds as well as past the interminable tunnels. When the traffic was good you used to hold your breath when you went through tunnels. It was from the trucks that you had learnt that there was a place called SALVADOR—BA, and a place called GOIANIA—GO, and RECIFE—PE.

  And five years ago when you pulled into the village of Camburí at the end of the drive at the end of the journey from England, Richard had said it was a pity to lose the soft red colour of the road when they paved it over.

  But Ana Paula, turning the steering wheel, had corrected him—This is much easier to drive on, Richard, the old road was full of potholes, remember?

  That evening you played cards after dinner on the veranda.

  Behind you past the wall, lowleaf plants crawled into the white yellow sand of the beach. Behind you, you could hear the sound of the sea, which moved in low waves, blue and white, blue and white.

  This is the place where you read Harry Potters six and seven and Tracy Beaker and Mansfield Park and Beloved and The Color Purple and had forced yourself through Oliver Twist and had tried to read Camões and gave up.

  Going Out

  In the early nighttime, outside was hot dark blue sky and the sound of the sea.

  Ana Paula had told you that Gabi and Guilherme were going to take you out to a shit bar in the next village and that you should go it would be fun. But all the clothes you have are either too black or beige or too smart casual. There’s a mirror in the concrete grey bathroom. You’re not in the city. You stand in your pants. You will never fit in until you bring yourself to wear denim like Brazilians wear denim. You know this.

  You’re wearing a denim jumpsuit and a blue shirt and—no no

  You’re wearing black jeans and a black silk shirt and red lipstick—no no too hot

  You’re wearing a woolly crop top and black jeans—yes but too hot

  Earlier that day when you were lying in the sun with a book on your face you had heard a child calling your name.

  She was naked, dancing moving her bum from side to side and shaking the sea water out of her hair.

  Asking to be looked at, she said your name.

  And you laughed and sat up and shook your hair also.

  Then Marcos’ apologetic sister came to collect her daughter—Isabela, Isa-be-LA, you must not dance like this—and winking—it’s what the gringos expect of us—and winking—so don’t do it in front of your cousin from England.

  Wink.

  You’re wearing the jumpsuit and a lacy bra—no way

  You’re wearing a top Ana Paula gave you for Christmas last year.

  You lean close to the mirror and run the kohl pencil against the edge of your eyelids, and it smudges soft in the light sweat heat.

  You’re wearing denim hot pants you made from an old pair of flared jeans you bought when you were fourteen (why did you cut them so short? How short is too short?)

  Knock knock

  Let’s go?

  Gabi is wearing a loose blue dress and silver hoop earrings. She has a beer in her hand.

  You put that dangly flower earring into your right ear.

  Okay.

  Okay! Vamos—

  She hands you a beer.

  She calls across the garden—Guilherme!

  The three of you get in the car, you in the back. Guilherme, who doesn’t have a licence, sits in the passenger seat. He puts on a track that you don’t know. You drive with the windows down along the road cut from the side of the forest coast.

  With one hand on the steering wheel, Gabi says—What kind of music do you like?

  Um

  (You hate this question)

  Guilherme interrupts, turning around—Do you like Brazilian music?

  I like Caetano Veloso.

  Ei!—Guilherme claps—I like Caetano. He is very good.

  He shuffles around the glove compartment for a CD. The little car bow bends along the road and through the night.

  The bar in the next village has a shiny wooden structure, beams across the ceiling and the floor and white plastic chairs and a TV playing a novela. In the corner, some old crinkly guys drink beer. Outside it is so blue black dark, and your body has forgotten what it feels like to be cold.

  You sit on white plastic chairs by a white plastic table. Without asking, Gabi brings over two large bottles of beer in coolers and pours it out.

  You clink glasses.

  Guilherme touches his glasses. I have a question. Is it true that in England you drink warm beer?

  You pause to compose a diplomatic answer.

  English people would not say that their beer is warm—you put your hand on the beer in front of you—but it is true that in Brazil, beer is served colder.

  He nods. He sighs.

  Brazilian beer is not very good.

  No?

  No—he waves a hand and crosses his legs—it’s so light, there are no small beer producers so the big companies they just produce this—he waves again—this crap.

  I like Brazilian beer.

  Guilherme smiles at you. Good.


  Gabi asks—Have you heard the story of what happened when Nigella Lawson came to Brazil?

  They were so honoured to have her that on this chat show they decided to present her with a traditional Brazilian food.

  Do you know what it was?

  Guilherme interrupts—Mortadella. And to their mortification, she said—

  She said that actually Italy was quite close to England, and she frequently visits Italy and she frequently eats mortadella.

  You look at Gabi, and then you look at Guilherme.

  Guilherme shakes his head, his eyes closed. Only in Brazil.

  And Gabi shakes her head too.

  You talk like this for a while. Did you watch Doctor Who? And where were you when Amy died? And Princessa Diana? What was your view on this royal family business? As you drink, you start to feel the Portuguese words stretch soft in your mouth like melted cheese. Your accent stops catching between your teeth. You start to laugh. As the nighttime passes the bar slowly fills and you finish two bottles of beer and Guilherme buys two more—no I insist—and two more—no I insist!—and the hum hum hum of the night gets loud and Gabi and Guilherme start a game of pool and someone is smoking a spliff and people get more chairs and start dancing.

  Gabi nudges Guilherme—she nods towards a tall woman with short hair standing by the bar. The tall woman is looking at Guilherme.

  Guilherme looks at her. He coughs.

  Gabi laughs.

  He looks up at you, then he looks at Gabi and then he hands you the cue and goes to dance with the tall woman by the bar.

  Gabi shrugs, she smiles at you. You remember Guilherme sitting next to Richard speaking earnestly in English, and laugh.

  You take a drink of your cold beer.

  You play pool with Gabi.

  You don’t know how to play pool.

  When you go to the toilet a man stops you—

  Oi

  Oi

  I heard you talking about London

  Yes

  Do you know London?

  Yes

  Yes! Abbey Road!

  Yes! You laugh—Yes Abbey Road!

  I have visited London. To see my aunt, she lives in Croydon, do you know it?

  Croydon? Yes!

  Yes!

  There’s a train that goes there from near my house.

  But—the man leans forward, looking at you, his fringe over his face—but I have to say that I am more excited about going to Liverpool.

  Oh really?

  Yes. Oh yes. Next time I go I would like to go to Liverpool.

  You know—you say, hearing your accent fill into the room like water falling off clingfilm—you know, I would also like to go to Liverpool.

  And then the golden snitch—When did you move to London?

  It is a hot and blue black night.

  From across the room Gabi calls your name.

  You open your mouth to reply, and when you speak you hear your mother’s voice.

  There is one generalisation that is allowed

  Brazil’s beaches are the most beautiful beaches in the world.

  And it is true.

  This beach has—

  hot white sand

  blue sea

  hip shoulder height waves, the right height for jumping over or diving under

  big irregular volcanic rocks for rock climbing on each side

  occasional turtles

  islands in the distance

  and, if you swim far away enough from the shore, huge green sweaty mountains.

  (These are the things that should not be on beaches: piers, pebbles, towels, wet suits.)

  The beach is called camburí, cambury, cam-bu-ry (or as Richard would say, cahhhm-boo-ree)

  And if you drive alongside the sea you find the other words that litter the coast like bones

  camburí

  boiçucanga

  ubatuba

  caraguatatuba

  guarujá

  ibirapuera

  ipanema

  pipoca

  maracujá

  jabuticaba

  cajú

  abacaxí

  oi

  aba—caxí

  a

  ba

  ca

  XÍ

  A B A C A X Í

  Camburí beach

  5.30 am 23rd December 2015

  This is where, at five in the morning, Gabi asks you—Is it true that you English people have to be drunk to dance?

  You stand up, finishing your beer. You stand, in the loose sand only slightly tipsy. On one side of you is the path to the house and on the other side is the wet flat sand and the tongue of the sea.

  You say—But there is only one way to know that.

  She looks at you, you move your body, slowly. Caetano sings tinny music into the night. He says, you don’t know me at all. You move your body.

  She stands up.

  She stands in front of you. She moves her body, slowly. She dances, and you laugh and your laughter fills the night. Behind you the waves crush onto the sand.

  You move your body.

  And then she puts her right hand on your waist and holds your right hand in her left and her eyes ask you the question.

  She knows that you don’t know the dance (but you do know it a bit) and inside the closeness of her right arm she moves you off the sand in a two step two step, two step two step.

  You do not verbalise the movements of your body. You concentrate on letting your body follow her body. Behind you the waves crush onto the sand.

  Your body moves

  (her body moves)

  Your body moves—

  Acknowledgments

  I have been very lucky. I wrote this book in all kinds of places, but primarily the public libraries: thank you to the British Library and the Whitechapel Idea Store. I wrote also in cafes, bookshops, on the Northern Line in London, by the sea on the São Paulo coast, on airplanes and sitting on airport trolleys. Throughout my life, I have been able to move freely between the two countries where my family are. For this I am grateful.

  Thank you to everyone at HMH who worked on the book—Maria Mann, Hannah Harlow, Chloe Foster, Katja Jylkka, and Beth Fuller—thank you especially for your diligence and patience copyediting, proofreading, and typesetting this unconventional (and, I suppose, stubborn) text. Christopher Moisan, thank you for the sublime cover illustration. And thank you most of all to Pilar Garcia-Brown—for your incision, your insight, and just getting it straight away; I have been so lucky to work with you.

  Thank you to my agent Imogen Pelham for believing in Stubborn Archivist from when I first sent it to you in spring 2016. Thank you for loving its Londonness and its silences, for nurturing and protecting them and finding it a home in the UK and US.

  Thank you to everyone who read early drafts (especially Roland Walters). Thank you to the friends whose sure, loud, and unconditional belief in me made me believe, wildly, that I could write a novel: Vi Tran, Ben Cross, Shana Allen-Holder, Babatunde Williams, Naomi Credé, Janet Eastham (you have been here for the longest time), Vinay Anicatt (thank you, so infinitely), Loukia Koumi, Maeve Scullion, Charlie Goodman, Nathalie Wright (special thanks for sitting with me and talking through the text with such intellectual rigour and patience), and Atri Banerjee.

  I owe more than words can say to my mum and dad, Laura Rodrigues and Chris Fowler, for giving me this hybrid name and life, and for bringing me up surrounded by love and books and politics. (Crucially also—for providing financial security and a place to live in London.) And to my brother, George Rodrigues-Fowler, for always being on my side.

  Thank you to my extended big family: Cleide and Hannah da Silva, both sets of grandparents, the Rodrigues clan, os Akamine Vasconcellos (especially Lala for being exactly the age of the baby while I was redrafting), and the Fowlers (including Evans, Atwells, and Knaptons), Darcy, Thália e Ricardo and family, Maria and family, Leslie and family, Oona and Chiara, JA, Claudia and family, Agostino,
and Cleo (special thanks for talking me through South London abortion clinics in the early 1990s). Thank you, Ankhi Mukherjee, Norah Harding, and the women of Latin American Women’s Aid.

  Thank you always, and with my whole heart, to Irene Papavassiliou.

  About the Author

  Author photograph © Atri Banerjee

  Yara Rodrigues Fowler grew up in a Brazilian-British household in South London, where she is still based. Her writing has appeared in Vogue, Skin Deep, Litro, and other publications. She was named one of the Observer’s “hottest-tipped” debut novelists of 2019.

  Yara is a trustee of Latin American Women’s Aid, an organization that runs the only two refuges in Europe for and by Latin American women.

  Stubborn Archivist is her first book. Yara was granted the Society of Authors’ John C. Lawrence Award toward research for her second.

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