by Luiza Sauma
“Australia?! Last time I spoke to you, you were in Italy.”
“That was ages ago.” Several months felt like several years. Nowadays, months are like hours. “Is everything OK?”
“The country is a mess.”
“What do you mean?”
“The inflation, it’s out of control. You don’t watch the news?”
“They don’t report on Brazil.” I didn’t watch the news. I barely watched TV.
“The country is falling apart.” Papai became excited. “Our money is worth nothing. Every week, everything goes up in cost.”
“That sounds terrible.” I was barely taking it in. “How’s Thiago?”
“It’s a shame you missed his birthday. You didn’t even call.”
“Didn’t he receive my present? I sent one from India.”
“India?!”
“A wooden elephant.”
“It didn’t arrive.”
Thiago was nine years old. In a few months, I would be twenty.
“Pai, I’ve got something to tell you.” I winced, remembering the last time I had confided in him. I could still feel the shame in my bones. It was part of me; it would never go away.
“What?”
The line crackled. I looked up at the street, to compose myself. A family of blond hippies walked past, hand in hand: mother, father, and toddler son, dressed in ethnic prints, with beads dangling from their hair. The father lifted the child in the air and they all laughed.
“I’m not coming back to Rio. I’m going to live in Londres.”
“Eh?”
“I’m going to medical school there.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You don’t have to worry about sending me money—I have enough.”
“You think this is about money? Meu Deus do céu.”
I remember it so clearly: the slice of ocean at the end of the road, shining between low buildings, and my three American friends, Alex, Jess, and Jason, walking towards me, smiling. I had met them at a hostel. They barely knew each other, but unlike me, they were magnetically drawn to their countrymen. Jess resembled Luana, somewhat, with her black ringlets and pale brown skin, but she was nothing like her—tall and athletic, with an upper-middle-class confidence.
“I don’t know what to say,” said Papai. “You’re an adult—it’s your life.”
I was barely listening. I was looking up, squinting at the sun and waving at my friends.
“Hey, André!” said Jess. (I had become accustomed to people pronouncing it On-dray, instead of Un-dreh.) “Still talking to your dad?”
I held my hand up and mouthed, “One minute.”
The Yanks were holding up plastic bags full of cold canned beer. I felt stupidly happy because in seconds I was going to put the phone down and slip back into my dream.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” said Papai.
“What do you mean?”
“You going to Londres. This country is finished.”
I hope so, I thought. Then I’ll never have to return. “Pai, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
Later that night, after the beer was drunk, I kissed Jess on the beach, sound-tracked by waves and bongos (remember, nothing felt like a cliché). The next day she traveled back to Sydney to fly home, and we promised to stay in touch. The kiss throbbed in my memory for several months as I traveled up the east coast of Australia and down the middle, then through New Zealand. By the time I arrived in New York, I was bursting with anticipation.
We spent five days together at her studio flat on the Upper West Side. The first time we had sex was desperate and quick—high expectations had made us nervous. But the second and fifth and tenth times were wonderful, already tainted with sadness because we knew that we would never see each other again. What is Jess doing now? Probably tapping at a computer in an office, like most people. I can’t look her up because I don’t remember her surname. There were no emails back then. I threw away her letters after I moved in with Esther, so my memories are incomplete. But I still remember her strong body, tied together by knots of muscle, honed by years of ballet and “soccer.” Her pink-brown lips open and gasping for air.
The large Brazilian flag above her bed, which she had bought for the World Cup in 1986. Her amused dismay that I couldn’t remember the winning country from that year: Argentina, Brazil’s number one rival. Walking through Manhattan in the summer. Jess in a short print dress and sandals. Her confidence brazen and lovely. The smell of rubbish, slowly rotting in the sun.
On our last night, after we had sex, Jess put Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue on the record player and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The room was dark and the kitchen light. Cars outside, beeping. Der-dum der-dum der-dum der-dum. Der-dum. Her naked outline as she stood in the doorway—strong legs, curved hips, short curly hair—already lost to me, even though I was still there. Der-dum der-dum der-dum der-duh-dum. Der-dum. Already lost, so we fucked again. The room went blue when the sun came up.
Already lost.
When I masturbate in the shower, these are the memories I return to.
What was Luana’s surname?
TWENTY-FIVE
Oi André,
This is the last one. I’m sorry that I’m doing this to you. No, actually I’m not sorry at all. Your father said you wanted nothing to do with us, but he’s dead and I’m too old to care. You will know, because I’m telling you.
It was a year ago, in December. That’s why I’m in Belém, at the moment—because it’s been a year. Iracema and Jorge are here too, all of us together.
This is what happened to Francisco. Iara told me everything. One night, everyone from the restaurant had gone home apart from Chico and Iara. As I suspected, they had been dating for a few months—she admitted that to me, afterwards. They were sitting on a bench at the end of garden, overlooking the river. Who knows what they were doing there, long after their shifts had ended. You can only guess. Iara says they were chatting. Apparently Chico hinted that he wanted to marry her, but maybe that was wishful thinking on her part. They barely knew each other. She says that he invited her to Marajó to meet me. Chico’s never brought any girl home—that’s not his style.
They were about to leave, to go back to his flat. He said he needed to pee first. He stood up and walked towards the river. Só Deus sabe why he didn’t use the toilet in the restaurant. That’s not how I raised him, to piss out in public, onto a tree, into a river, or whatever the hell he was doing. Iara watched as he walked away, until she couldn’t see him anymore—he’d gone behind some bushes. It was dark, but night was fading. The river was black. I asked for all the details. I wanted to know exactly how it felt, so that I could pretend I had been there. That he hadn’t been alone when he fell in.
Birds were singing, Iara said. The sun was coming up and she could see the river once again. She shouted his name, but he didn’t reply. It happened so quickly, she said, or maybe she was too drunk to notice the time passing. Both of them were drunk. They never found his body. The river moved fast. He was swept out to sea. Maybe to Londres, to the father he never met.
I thought you should know. Please respond: [email protected].
Luana
Querida Luana,
It’s good to hear from you, but I’m not sure I understand. My father told me that our child was never born.
Beijos,
André
André,
He was alive for twenty-six years. His name was Francisco. But you already knew that, didn’t you?
Luana
Luana, what on earth are you talking about? My father said that you had an abortion.
André
Really? You believed him? And you never tried to contact me to check that it was true, or even just to see if I was all right? Matheus told me you didn’t want to know about Chico. I was angry for so many years. I’m still angry. That’s why I sent the letters.
My father [our father, I want to say] never told me a thing
. He took you to the surgery—I thought you had the abortion. In fact I saw you, walking back together. You had our son? And he’s dead? Are you serious?
I write again, before she replies:
You’re right. I should have got in touch. I never imagined that he was lying, but perhaps I should have assumed it—he had been lying for years. But even if he hadn’t been, I should have called. I’m so sorry. I was a kid. I didn’t know what to do.
I’m at work at the moment. A new patient comes in every five minutes, so I put away my phone, bring up their records, and pretend to be interested in them. I’m well versed—no chance that they’ll notice. Good to see you again, Mrs. Gregson, you fucking hypochondriac. Yes, yes, here’s a prescription, take two a day and it should all clear up in no time.
In my in-box, her name appears as Luana da Cruz. Her married name.
I was a kid too—a kid with a baby. You ran away to Europe, while I raised him alone. My mother helped, but I was alone, just as she had been. I’m glad that you’re sorry, André, but I can’t forgive you.
Yes, we went to the surgery, but I didn’t go through with it. My mother was so against it. We stayed there for hours, just talking. Your father was trying to convince her. After she left, he told me about their affair. It was insane. We both cried. Everything fell apart. He told me, that’s why you have to do it, because the baby might be sick. But I couldn’t do it, so he let me go. He gave us money and helped us to find new jobs. I can’t believe he did this. No, that’s not true. I can totally believe it.
Here are two photos of Chico—one is from his fifth birthday, in Rio, and the other is from a few weeks before the accident.
Hi, Azim. I’m fine, and you? … My kids are great. How are yours? Usually I like to chat to Azim, who runs a corner shop I visit nearly every day, on Albion Road, and whose eldest daughter is in Hannah’s class at school. He tells me that he can’t sleep at night. I go to bed and just lie there for hours, awake. And then I wake up and work, work, work at the shop—you know—and I get so tired, but still can’t sleep. Poor Azim. I do my best to make sympathetic noises, but my mind is elsewhere—on the two photos I looked at for five seconds before he came in through the door. A small olive-skinned boy with black ringlets, a finger in his mouth, and little white grinning teeth. A green football-field cake sits on the table in front of him, but he’s not looking at it—he’s looking at the person behind the camera, with a child’s simple, absolute love. In the other photo, the same face is rearranged and hardened for adulthood. Still smiling, but with less abandon. Dressed in a waiter’s starched white uniform. His hair close-cropped. He wears wire-rimmed glasses. The love in his face mellow and grown. He reminds me of my brother—the delicate shape of his face. I love him immediately, this boy. So what should I do? says Azim. I’m desperate, Dr. Cabral. Please, I say, call me André.
He was muito bonito. I’m in shock. I’m at work. I don’t know what to do with myself. So you live in Marajó?
Why didn’t I look for her? I had assumed that she wanted me out of her life. A new beginning. That’s what I had wanted, anyway, but as the years passed, I realized that there are no beginnings, there are no endings, other than the beginning and end of your life. If I had known, I would have called her. Wouldn’t I? Yes, yes, yes, I would.
I’ve lived in Salvaterra for twenty years—I wanted to get away from the favela. Didn’t you know that either? Jorge and I opened a pousada recently. We used to run a restaurant.
I picture my son—one of those light-limbed, lanky favela boys—running up to the top of Vidigal, in just shorts and flip-flops. The kind of boy I passed on the street without a second glance. Skipping, skipping, skipping. Taking two steps at a time. Yellow sun on his bare brown back. When he reaches the top, he admires the glowing, turquoise Atlantic; lush green mountains surround the modern ugliness. Francisco. Chico! I want to shout his name. I would have done anything for you. I wouldn’t have left. What was Papai thinking? All those times I visited Rio, Papai had said nothing. Even when Chico was still in the city. My son and I had breathed the same air and looked at the same beach—he from Vidigal and I from my father’s window. Had I passed him on the street? I cover my face with my hands, my body shaking, trying to push the tears back inside before my next patient comes.
Did my father ever meet him?
Only once, when he was a baby. It was too much for him, the filho da puta.
Luana, I didn’t know anything. I don’t know what to do.
TWENTY-SIX
Five minutes after I email Esther, telling her that I’m going to Brazil, the phone rings.
“Thank God,” she says, which was the opposite of what I thought she’d say, “I’ve been worried sick about Bee. I’ve hardly slept since she left.”
It’s dark outside. It’s always dark in December, the cold light emerging for just a handful of hours. I’ve never got used to it; perhaps I never will. A draft blows through the old windows of my kitchen.
I hear Esther inhale and blow. “You’re smoking?”
“Just vaping. At least it’s not the real thing.”
“I’m not judging.”
“I forgot how fucking good it is.”
We laugh. Some of our happiest memories are fogged in cigarette smoke: smoking in bed, at pubs, on the street after our wedding; in Parisian cafés, on our first holiday—two young tourists in love.
She coughs and I return to the present. “How are you, Esther?”
“I’m all right.” Then she surprises me by saying, “I miss you.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“Oh, I do,” she says in an ironic tone.
“You should’ve picked a husband from a progressive country. Sweden or Denmark. They would have been taller and more handsome too.”
She laughs and I feel a small glow of optimism in my stomach. It reminds me of when we met, and how easily I made her laugh back then.
“Remember the Fitzroy?” I say.
“Of course. Why did you think of it?”
“I don’t know. When you laughed—it reminded me of what we were like when we met.”
“Things are easier when you don’t know each other.”
“Esther, you’re so cynical. We were in love.”
She doesn’t say anything, but in the silence I can hear that she agrees.
“You showed me Venus, remember?” I say. “You were depressed about Christmas.”
“I was so melodramatic.”
“You had a point.”
I pause and think, yes, I will do this. I take a breath. Oh, my heart, it hurts in my chest. “Look, there’s something I want to tell you.”
“I know all about it.”
“About what?”
“Your affair with that girl at work.”
“What?”
“That young doctor, the one who used to call you all the time.”
I can almost see her, sitting in our kitchen, the nervous flush rising up her throat. That’s what I like about Esther, her passion, the way she jumps to conclusions, the way she would jump on me when we were young.
“Annie?”
“Whatever her name is, I know all about it.”
“Esther, I haven’t been with another woman since the day we met. Did you really think—”
“What is it, then?”
“I can’t do this over the phone. Can I come round?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
When I step off the plane in Rio, it smells like home—warm and humid, the smell of damp soil. The air is heavier here too.
The night before last, I went to our house on Winston Road and told Esther the whole story. We were in the living room, next to the Christmas tree, which was covered in blinking lights. Esther’s eyes were wide and disbelieving, yet relieved, somehow, that we were getting to the heart of something. I showed her Luana’s letters, and Esther read them twice. They left her in tears, shaking her head. She was crying for Luana, not for me.
Afterwards we sat in sil
ence for ten minutes—I watched the wall clock throughout—after which Esther, with perfect timing, finally spoke. “You have to go see her. Your—your sister.”
I flinched. My sister. Papai’s daughter, sure. But my sister? No one had described Luana that way before. Yes, that’s what she was.
“You think so?”
“She raised your child. Your son.” Esther rolled her eyes in disbelief. “You owe it to her.”
She looked up and sipped her glass of red wine. She rubbed her eyes and ran her hands through her curly dark hair, which was now chin-length, going silver at the temples. But the girl I loved was still there, hiding behind her face.
“What a mess. God, how I wish you’d told me this years ago.”
“You wouldn’t have married me.”
“Nonsense. That’s your problem, André, you try to paper over all your flaws. We could have got through this.”
“Could have?”
“I’ve met someone.”
She told me about the man, some Oxford-educated divorcé. They’d been dating for five weeks—the girls didn’t know about it yet.
“Is it serious?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t been long enough for me to find out all the bad stuff about him.”
“Is there good stuff?”
“Well, he cooks me dinner, so it’s a start.”
She avoided my eyes, looking guilty. You never cooked me dinner, she wanted to say. You never helped me with the children. You never quite mastered it—being English.
We said good-bye and kissed on both cheeks, like friends.
The cab drops me off in front of our building—Thiago’s building—on Avenida Vieira Souto. The porteiro comes out of the building and tries to carry my luggage inside, but I tell him that I can do it myself. Really, I just want to stand here and look at the beach. What a familiar and beautiful sight. Ipanema on a Monday afternoon, two days before Christmas Eve. Thirty-five degrees, according to the street clocks, and not a cloud in the blue-and-gold sky. The Cagarras Islands, beyond. Small snatches of conversation as people walk past on the black-and-white pavement.
“Did you see Clarice the other day? Meu Deus, she’s a mess!”
