Flesh and Bone and Water

by Luiza Sauma

  “Esther. Turn it off.”

  She stared straight ahead, into the mirror, and turned off the brush. “Fuck my life.”

  “Esther.”

  She turned the light off and left me in the dark.

  A few weeks later, the second letter arrived at work. By then, I was living alone on Albion Road, but only on a short-term lease. I was sure that I would return home soon. When I saw the postmark—Marajó, Pará—my body went numb. A patient came in, so I put the envelope aside, but I was barely able to hear what she was saying. A fungal infection of some sort. I examined her foot and printed out a prescription. After she left, I read the letter.

  André,

  It’s your birthday this month, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the exact date. Happy birthday.

  I’m sitting on my front porch. It’s Sunday. Children walk by, on their way to the beach. Some of them ride old bicycles with no brakes, so that when they want to stop, they have to drag their feet on the wet ground. It has just stopped raining, but the heat is unbearable—that’s how it always is. The air is so heavy, I can almost touch it.

  Sometimes I like to imagine what the gringos thought when they first arrived here, hundreds of years ago. When they first saw a red macaw flying overhead, or a naked Indian walking out of the jungle. When they first ate a sweet, ripe mamão. They must have laughed. Too much beauty, too much life. It threatens to take over. Sometimes I wish it would, that the jungle would grow over our cities, through the walls of our houses, round our necks. That it could go back to the way things were.

  Sorry, I’m being silly. I’ve had a long time to think.

  I don’t know how much you know about me. Your father said that you knew about my husband, Jorge, and my children, Iracema and Francisco—Chico. He said you knew I was living here. I’ve waited years for a letter. I thought, André is a good man—one day he will write to me. I waited and waited and waited. I became angry. When I couldn’t sleep at night, I would write furious letters in my head, but I never wrote them on paper. But then, things changed. I felt compelled to write. So here I am.

  You might know about Chico, but you don’t know him. He was such a good child. Not like the others—the ones who spent all day and night at the bottom of the morro, guns slung over their shoulders. Many of them dead before their twentieth birthdays. He was never going to end up like that. He was top of his class. He always did his homework. The other kids made fun of him for being the teacher’s favorite. One day, when he was seven, he came home crying—another boy had grabbed his pencil out of his hand and snapped it in two. I told him that the kid was just envious. He would probably disappear from school in a couple of years, barely able to read and write, while Chico could do whatever he wanted, with that big brain of his. He looked so sweet and sad. It brings tears to my eyes, just thinking about it.

  The bullying got worse. One day, Chico came home without his trainers—they had taken them, even though they were cheap, just to upset him. We had to leave Rio. He deserved a better life. He was better than those boys.

  Francisco was like the other boys in one sense—he grew up without a father. The ones who did have fathers would’ve been better off without them. Like Leandro, his best friend when we moved up north. His dad spent most of his time by the river, sucking on a bottle of cachaça. Then he’d come home and kick the shit out of everyone. Chico was lucky. I’d have been better off without a father too.

  I will write again.

  Luana

  My hands shook as I read it. She was writing to me from Marajó, but why? Why was she there? It was odd to think that the island still existed, as though it should have melted into the river when we left in January 1986. Her son’s name, Chico, made me think of Mamãe’s song, how it echoed through Salvaterra a year after her death. I was glad to hear that she had children, that she had made a life for herself, but I had known nothing about it. My father had never told me anything. I didn’t know they had stayed in touch. My old anger rose up again, but it was pointless—he was dead. Perhaps he was afraid I would go looking for her.

  Was I a good man?

  I read the letter several times that evening, drank a bottle of wine, and went to bed. I read it again before closing my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep because the words were reverberating round my head. I could almost hear them out loud. I listened to Chico Buarque’s “Tatuagem” on my phone and fell asleep when the room was half-lit, woke an hour later, and went to work.

  My mind was cloudy that day. Sometimes I would think of Luana’s face and her calm, soft voice. At other times I couldn’t remember the exact dimensions of her face. Chico’s song was still in my head, but now it was just annoying.

  In the afternoon I emailed Thiago, asking, “Do you know Luana’s surname?”

  He replied sarcastically, “I’m very well, thanks for asking. No, I don’t know it. Even if I did, perhaps I wouldn’t tell you. Why are you asking? Will you come visit soon?”

  SEVEN

  On Christmas Eve morning in Marajó, the local radio station was playing American pop songs about reindeer and snow, which didn’t go with the forty-degree heat. Papai was at the beach on his own—an old habit of his. In Rio he sometimes swam early in the morning, before work. I skipped breakfast and sat on the porch, smoking a cigarette. I wasn’t a real smoker yet. Sometimes I would take one from a friend or, when Mamãe was alive, from the pack in her jewelry box. That morning I had bought some from a shop. Luana was already making preparations for a Portuguese Christmas dinner, as requested by Papai. Hearing her humming along to the radio and smelling the buttery salt of her cooking was enough to keep me out of the kitchen.

  Thiago popped his head round the door and I flicked the cigarette into a bush. But it was too late.

  “Are you smoking?”

  “No.”

  He walked out onto the porch. He was wearing a blue sunga—a pair of tight swimming shorts; his chest bare, tanned and ribbed. “I’m going to tell Papai.”

  “What do you want, babaca?”

  “You’re a babaca! Can we go to the beach?”

  “Let’s go when he comes back.”

  “I want to go now.”

  “Look, there he is.”

  Papai was walking up the road, looking hazy in the sun. He was dressed more casually than I’d ever before seen him, in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. He was even wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses instead of his tortoiseshells. Thiago ran towards Papai, making him break into a dazzling gold-toothed laugh. He hoisted my brother into the air with some difficulty. Again, I felt a strange sort of guilt that we were having a good time without Mamãe. It was our first Christmas since the accident.

  “I saw Papai Noel last night,” said Papai. “He told me he’s bringing a special present for you.”

  “Papai Noel is coming here?”

  “Didn’t you know? He lives in Marajó.”

  Thiago looked thrilled, hugging his arms around Papai’s neck like a much younger child.

  “Hello, André,” said Papai. “Had breakfast?”

  “Yes. Thi and I are going to the beach.”

  “Why don’t you take Luana?”

  “Luana?”

  He made up some excuse: “Yes, to look after Thiago.”

  “I don’t need looking after,” said Thiago.

  “What if a bandido comes and tries to kidnap you while André is swimming? Luana can stop them.”

  Thiago looked unsure. “OK, but I think I could stop them by myself.”

  We walked to the beach in single file—me followed by Thiago and then Luana—each carrying an umbrella to shield ourselves from the sun. Papai had found them in a cupboard. I gave Luana a blue one with lace edges, and I used the one that looked as if it had been in a tornado. Thiago and I were wearing sungas, flip-flops, and nothing else (a style I’ve thankfully renounced, since then), and Luana was in a lilac dress printed with white flowers. It was an old dress of Rita’s. Once in a while, I would look back at her an
d Thiago. Each time, Luana flashed a smile and Thiago stuck out his tongue, and I would wish that I were walking behind her, so that I could see how the thin cotton clung to her newly rounded thighs.

  Many of the villagers had dragged tables and chairs onto their front yards and were spending the day outside—smoking cigarettes, eating snacks, drinking beer, and humming along with the radio. Several called out “Bom dia!” and “Feliz Natal!” as we walked past, smiling that peculiar, fascinated smile that everyone directs at outsiders, all over the world. (Apart from London, where outsiders are too plentiful to be fascinating.) We caught sight of the river as we passed a shabby blue bungalow. An elderly black couple had arranged themselves on chairs in front.

  “Feliz Natal!” called the man.

  A black-and-tan dog sat between the couple, panting. It was of no discernible breed—probably a former stray. Saliva dripped hotly from its tongue. The woman rested her hand on its head.

  “Feliz Natal,” I said. “I wish you all the best.”

  “Thank you,” said the woman. “What a nice, polite young man.”

  “And what a beautiful girl!” said the man. “Are you cousins?”

  Thiago and Luana giggled.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “She’s our empregada!” said Thiago.

  “Thi, be quiet.”

  He hadn’t done anything wrong, but I wanted to shut him up. We shouldn’t be flashing our wealth in front of these unfortunate people—that’s what Mamãe would say.

  “Feliz Natal to you too, querida,” said the woman, looking at Luana and then at me. “Give her some time off, won’t you? She deserves it.”

  We walked on and Thiago said, “People around here are nice.”

  I was about to disagree—I thought they were rude and intrusive—but Luana said, “Yes, they are.”

  The sand was too hot for us to go barefoot, but Thiago did anyway. He danced from foot to foot until he reached the shallows of the water, saying, “Ai, ai, ai.” Then he said, “Ahhh,” with satisfaction, making us laugh. The beach was busier than usual because it was a holiday. People were sunbathing, talking, laughing, and kicking footballs around. Little kids were playing by the water, digging holes in the wet sand. Thiago and I were the only white people there.

  “Are you going in?” I said to Luana. Could she even swim?

  “No, I’ll just watch you two.”

  She took a blue sarong out of her cloth bag and laid it on the sand. I wondered when she would take off her dress. I could see orange bikini straps peeking out underneath. I left my flip-flops and glasses next to her sarong and did the same hot-sand dance Thiago had done until I reached the water. Luana giggled, so I clowned around even more—splashing Thiago with water and trying to do handstands. Then I walked into the river with my brother. He was a good swimmer for his age, but I swam out slowly so that I wouldn’t lose him. He was ten meters behind, moving splashily through the water. Beyond him was the sandy shore. I squeezed my myopic eyes till they were almost shut and could vaguely make out Luana: she was standing up, lifting the dress over her head.

  “What are you looking at?” Thiago stopped swimming and looked at the beach. “Look, there’s Luana. Lua! Lua!” He waved frantically, struggling to stay afloat.

  “Stop it, Thi, you’ll drown.”

  Luana was standing on the beach, in her orange bikini, waving back. Her hair was down—I hadn’t seen her hair down in years. It trailed past her shoulders in dark ringlets. She sat down on the sarong, and Thiago caught up with me. We swam farther out. The water was calm.

  Back on the shore, Thiago rushed over to Luana and hugged her. I put my glasses back on. They steamed up against my damp face.

  “You’re all wet, Thi,” she said.

  He pulled away and she laughed, shaking the water off her hands. In her bikini, you wouldn’t know she was an empregada. She could have passed for one of my school friends: well-spoken, slim, and pretty. Though none of my friends were black. Maybe an eighth or a sixteenth, but not visibly.

  “How’s the water?” she said.

  “Perfect,” I said. Like you. Perfect. “Are you going in?” That Chico Buarque song came back to me. My mother’s song.

  “Maybe.”

  I sat next to her on the sand, just as I would with the girls from school. “Do you like the beach?” I said stupidly. “You wouldn’t imagine it, would you, a beach by a river?”

  “It looks like a brown ocean.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “It’s nicer when it’s blue.”

  “But the river feels so much better. There’s no salt—no need to wash it out of your hair.”

  “I don’t mind the salt,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “I like how it feels.”

  These days, I know what she meant. How it dries into a thin white crisp on your hair and skin. You lick your lips several hours later and taste the ocean. The taste of home.

  “Do you ever go to the beach in Rio, on your day off?”

  “No. Not anymore. But I like to look at it from the living room window. It’s such a great view.” She said it like a guest, not like someone who lived there.

  “I’m so used to the view, I think I hardly notice it.”

  “It’s important to notice things.”

  Thiago was digging a hole by the water’s edge, talking to himself. Sometimes he seemed as if he were four years old, not seven.

  “I’m going to swim,” said Luana.

  “I’ll go too.”

  “What about Thi?”

  “We’ll keep an eye on him.” She looked unsure. “Come on, he’s not a little kid anymore.”

  We walked into the river. She was grinning, enjoying the lukewarm water. She could swim. Of course she could swim. We swam out and treaded water, watching Thiago on the shore. I could see her shoulders, golden and slim, just under the surface of the river. I wanted to touch them.

  “Was it weird, leaving school?”

  “What?”

  “You know.” I knew that I shouldn’t have asked, but I couldn’t take it back. “How you left school to be an empregada?”

  I couldn’t see her face because both of us were still watching Thiago. I was scared to look at her, to feel her contempt. “Sorry, that was a stupid question.”

  “Is it weird being rich?”

  “We’re not rich. Some of my friends have boats, horses, designer clothes—we don’t have any of that.”

  She turned towards me, with hard green eyes, and smirked.

  “Did you want to go to university?”

  “No, I want to be an empregada until I’m old and gray—it’s the job of my dreams. I shouldn’t be talking about this with you.”

  She was so close to me. Just ten inches away. All I had to do was float my hands towards her, under the water, and I would feel her hips. I felt a tingle in my penis as I imagined it. But she was looking away, at my brother. The silence stretched like a piece of chewing gum. Luana turned and swam back, without saying a word. Out of the water, she sat next to Thiago and helped him to dig his hole.

  That evening we had Christmas Eve dinner. Luana ate in the kitchen, by herself, and we ate in the dining room, smilingly served by her. Portuguese-style salt cod with potatoes and vegetables. It tasted good, but I would rather have had turkey and ham, the usual. At least Papai let me have a beer. When he left the room for a minute, I gave Thiago a sip.

  He screwed up his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “That’s horrible… . Give me some more.”

  I wondered what Rita was doing in Rio. I liked to think that she was sleeping in my parents’ double bed and watching TV all day, but most likely she was cleaning the flat, going to church, changing Fifi’s litter tray, and missing her daughter.

  “Proper Portuguese food,” said Papai as Luana cleared the plates. “Well done.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, doutor.”

  “We’re going to church at midnight. Would you like t
o join us?”

  “We’re going to church?” said Thiago.

  “Are you going to start complaining?”

  Thiago creased his face as if he were in pain.

  “Yes, I’d like that,” said Luana.

  After dinner, it was time for presents. Papai called Luana from the kitchen and gave her a small, square package. “Feliz Natal.”

  She opened it with a curious look on her face. We always gave small presents to Rita and Luana—bars of soap, hand cream, flip-flops—but this time, Luana gasped as she unwrapped a pale yellow box, with fancy gold lettering. She opened it and lifted out a bottle of perfume. Her hands trembled because of all the attention.

  “Thanks so much. This is far too generous.”

  “I saw it and thought of you.”

  She took off the lid—two glass birds in flight—and spritzed some on her wrist. The scent of flowers and musk filled the room. The smell of women.

  “Let me smell it!” Thiago got off the sofa, walked up to Luana, and sniffed her wrist. “Smells like Mamãe.”

  “No, Mamãe wore a different perfume,” said Papai.

  “I’m sorry I have nothing to give you back.”

  “Your presence is a gift to us,” said Papai, which I thought was over the top.

  We opened a few more presents. Luana sat on a wooden stool and watched as we unwrapped them. Thiago and I gave Papai a box of Cuban cigars, which he seemed pleased with. I wasn’t expecting anything special and I was right not to: he gave me a small anatomical model of the human body.

  “Thanks, Pai. I really needed this.”

  His tipsy eyes were swimming with pride. He gave Thiago a copy of Alice in Wonderland in English. My mother would have given him a new record or a toy gun.

  Thiago hadn’t yet learned how to fake gratitude. He threw the book onto the ground as though it were a grenade. “I hate it!” He burst into hysterical tears. My father sat on the sofa, immobile and confused. Luana went to my brother and hugged him.

  “I miss Mamãe,” he sobbed. “How can we bring her back?”