by Luiza Sauma
“Come on, let’s go to Lojas Americanas and buy some sweets.”
“Ai, Mamãe, look at that dog, it’s so cute.”
It’s comforting and disquieting. The sound of home. Odd, really, that this has never occurred to me before: Rio will never again be my home. What rash decisions we make when we’re young.
On the fifth floor, when I ring the kitchen doorbell, I hear small dogs yapping on the other side. My brother’s voice, telling them, with a fatherly tenderness, “Get out of the way!” The living-room door opens, a few meters down the hallway, so I walk over. I’m now a guest, deserving of the special entrance. It’s been six years since I last saw my little brother—an embarrassing length of time, but it vanishes when I see him. He is only slightly changed. His wavy hair is a bit longer and there are faint lines around his eyes. He’s still a young man, just about. Could have had any girl he wanted, but he didn’t want one.
“André!” He leans down for a hug.
My face barely reaches over his shoulders. The dogs come out—a Yorkshire terrier and a dachshund—and start hopping up and down.
“We’re all very excited, as you can see. How was the flight? Was it boring? Let me take your suitcase. Come inside.”
He leads me into the living room, which has been remodeled since Papai died. White walls, teak furniture, modern art, that view over the beach. Like something from a magazine.
“It looks different.”
“We redecorated a few years ago. Do you like it?”
“I don’t even recognize it.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“It’s wonderful.”
Thiago’s partner, Jesse, walks in from the back of the flat, flip-flops smacking on the wooden floor. He’s an American with red hair and burnished, freckled skin.
“André, welcome home!” he says in English. We shake hands. “How many years has it been? Two, three?”
“I’m afraid it’s been six. Far too long.”
“Let me show you your room.”
“My old room?”
“No,” says Thiago in his sweetly accented English. “We’re putch-ing you in my old room. Is that OK? Your room is now where I work.”
“Of course. I don’t mind, Thi. I’ll stay wherever you put me.”
“Bom,” he says, slipping back into our language. “Let’s show you around.”
Thiago leads me out of the living room, his hand on my shoulder. I’m overwhelmed by his presence. I want to hug him again, but I don’t—too English these days. Perhaps I always was. Jesse trails behind us, carrying my luggage, the dogs almost tripping him over.
“Oh,” says Thiago. “How could I forget. André, this is Kika and Biba. Say hi to your uncle André.”
Ipanema beach is quiet, apart from the tourists, bums, nutcases, and students; girls sitting near Posto Nove on foldout chairs, wearing bikinis, oblivious of their perfection, reading Freud, Marx, or anatomy books. Perhaps not oblivious, but pretending to be. Girls like Daniela. I once hung out with such girls, but now I’m just another sagging middle-aged man, watching them from the corners of my eyes. My brother and I slather ourselves in sunscreen and sit on hired chairs, facing the Atlantic, wearing swimming trunks and sunglasses—he’s still young enough to wear a sunga. I’m drinking a sweet, icy caipirinha from a plastic cup, and Thiago sips sparkling water. I’m the one on holiday, after all.
Whatever happened to Daniela?
“She’s this superfamous dermatologist,” says Thiago, and I realize I’ve said the question out loud. “All of the actresses and models go to her.”
“You know her?”
“I see her now and again. I didn’t know her when you were going out, but I met her through friends. She’s married to this journalist called Guilherme Soares—you know him?” I shake my head. “You know how it is, everyone knows each other here.”
“Londres isn’t like that.” I add awkwardly, “You should visit us sometime.”
“That would be great. I miss your family. That was a long time ago, huh, when I was in Londres? Twelve years?”
“Something like that. Why did you never come back?”
“I’m waiting for my invitation!” He laughs with that charming open smile, perfect teeth.
I can see myself reflected in his aviator sunglasses, an older man with a scrappy black beard. Maybe I should start shaving again.
“You don’t need an invitation, Thi.”
“Even so”—his smile is a bit softer now—“it would be nice to get one.”
“Consider yourself invited. Where’s Jesse’s family from, again?”
“Minnesota. It’s incredibly boring. I won’t go anymore—they don’t approve of me.”
“Fuck them,” I say in English.
“Saúde.” He holds up his water, and we clink plastic to plastic.
“Want to swim?”
“Let’s do it.”
Thiago asks a group of students to watch our things, then we walk to the water.
“Ai, it’s cold,” says Thiago as we dip our feet.
“Come on, it’s not that bad.”
I walk ahead and dive in. When I come up, squinty-eyed, Thiago laughs.
“You look like a turtle, popping its head up.”
“Come on!”
Thi wades in. Dark water dances around his body. When a wave approaches him, he dives in and we swim together, away from the shore. Not talking, just looking ahead at the islands. The waves are mild today, just perfect. A gentle rocking. We float together, facing the beach: the long stretch of yellow sand, Vidigal at the end of the strip and the tall blocks of flats, including Thiago’s.
“Que delicia,” he says. “I can’t remember the last time I did this. I hardly ever come to the beach.”
“If I lived here, I would come every day.”
“I should make an effort. Jesse comes all the time. I’m always working. He’s a kept man!”
We both laugh.
“How’s it going, the work?” I say.
“It’s good. I have too many patients. Everyone wants to go to therapy these days. Even my cleaner wants me to find someone for her.”
“You don’t have an empregada?”
“No, just a cleaner. She comes twice a week. How’s your work?”
“It’s all right. Quite boring. Maybe Papai was right—I should’ve become a surgeon.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Didn’t try hard enough. Or maybe I just wanted to piss him off.”
If I close my eyes, I can almost shrink Thiago back down to four feet, pretend that he’s seven and I’m seventeen, taking him out for a swim.
“This is paradise,” I say.
“So why did you leave?”
“Come on, you know why.”
A large wave curls over us, growing in size. We dive underneath it and it throws us in the air, towards the sun.
Thiago slicks his hair back with his fingers. “Papai was never the same again.”
“Don’t make me feel guilty, Thi. It’s not like I cut him out of my life. I visited as much as I could.”
“You were his favorite, you know.”
“That’s not true.”
“He saw himself in you.”
“For all the wrong reasons.”
We float in silence, diving underneath waves that seem to get bigger and bigger.
After the fifth or sixth, Thiago says, “Hey, remember jacaré? Let’s try to catch a wave, like we used to.”
“OK.”
We bob up and down as a couple of small waves pass us by. A bigger one gathers water twenty meters away.
“This is the one, André!”
We both wait with one arm in the air, preparing to launch into a front crawl. I feel the water rising up behind me and start swimming, swinging my arms and feeling myself being lifted up and carried along. In the corner of my right eye, I can see my brother, also riding the wave. It tails off in the shallows, where we stand with the water sloshing a
gainst our legs. Both of us laughing like children, feeling the adrenaline in our blood.
After playing jacaré a few times, we swim out again, beyond the waves, and float.
“So what happened with Esther? Bia says you’ve separated.”
“She told you?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I was embarrassed.”
“What happened?”
“She’s been unhappy with me for a long time, and now she’s found another man. She says I have no feelings. Apparently this gringo has more feelings.”
“Are you getting divorced?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping she’ll change her mind.”
“Does she know about, you know?”
“I told her a few days ago. She wasn’t that shocked, strangely. It seemed to be a relief.” I pause, wondering whether to tell him more. Before I can stop myself, I say, “Thi, did you know that Luana had my son?”
“What? I thought she’d had an abortion.”
“Papai lied to me.”
His mouth hangs open. “Are you fucking serious?”
“A boy called Francisco. He’s dead.”
Thiago gasps.
“He drowned in Belém last year, in the river. He was twenty-six.”
“Meu Deus, that’s unbelievable.”
I look away from his shocked face, to avoid the shame. A wave comes, and we dive underneath it. As I emerge from the water, I look up at the pale, bright sky.
Thiago touches my arm. He says my name. When I look at him, it’s not shame I see, but pity. “You have a son,” he says, shaking his head.
“I had a son.”
“Francisco?”
“Yes, Chico. I’m going to go see Luana. She lives in Marajó. Do you remember it?”
“Vaguely. Are you sure it’s a good idea to go up there?”
I look at the beach, at the students playing with their phones, at the food and drink sellers, walking up and down, shouting, “Guaraná! Mate! Água! Cerveja!” and “Queijo na brasa!” and “Abacaxi!” and “Camarão!” My eyes follow a drink seller, an old black guy, as he makes his way down the beach.
“It’s not like that. There’s nothing between us. I just want to hear about my son.” I think of Luana, aged sixteen. Her thin brown limbs. Lime-flesh eyes. Of course I’m wondering, will it be the same? But I hope, in my heart, that it’s not. The Luana I loved is long gone.
Back on the beach, we walk to our chairs.
“Want another drink?” I say.
“After that revelation, I think I’ll have a beer.”
I walk up to the barraca on the beach, where another old black guy is sitting on a plastic chair, under the shade.
When he sees me walking towards him, he stands up. “What can I get you, senhor?”
“Another caipirinha and a Skol.”
“Was it good, the last caipirinha?”
“It was perfect.”
“Good, that’s what I like to hear.” He slices a lime into quarters and starts smashing them in a cup. “Where are you from, senhor?”
“I’m a carioca. Can’t you tell?”
“You sound kind of different. Like a paulista.”
“Oh, come on—anything but that! I live in Inglaterra, in Londres.”
“Londres. That’s far from home.”
He dribbles cachaça into the glass, then sugar and ice.
“Have you ever been?” I say.
He hands me the caipirinha and I thank him. “No, senhor, I’ve never left Brazil, but my youngest daughter is moving to Paris soon. Met a gringo and he’s taking her away, so I’ll have to visit them at some point.”
“Paris, eh? Lucky girl.”
“Those gringos love our women, don’t they? And our women love them too, for some reason. He’s rich—that could be the reason!” The old man laughs, showing the gaps between his remaining teeth, opens an icebox, takes out a beer, and hands it over. “Oh, he’s all right. They’ve offered to take me away too, for my retirement, but I could never leave Rio. I was born here and I’ll die here. I live right over there.”
He points at Vidigal, at the end of the beach. My babá was from Vidigal, I want to say. And my sister. But I don’t say anything. I tell him to put it on the tab and walk back to my brother.
“What took you so long?”
“I was talking to the guy at the barraca. He was telling me about his daughter—she married a gringo and is going off to live in Paris.”
“Gringos love girls like that.”
“Like what?”
“Neguinhas da favela.”
“That’s what he said.”
Thiago pulls out a packet of cigarettes.
“You still smoke?”
“Don’t tell Jesse. I have one every other day.”
My brother doesn’t look like a smoker—he’s slim, tanned, and healthy. He obviously goes to the gym. Me, on the other hand: my gut protrudes, my skin hangs, I’ve got the beginnings of man boobs.
“You want one?”
“Oh, come off it. I quit years ago.”
A white lie. I had my last cigarette five months ago. I remember the exact date, like I remember my daughters’ birthdays: tenth of July 2014. A few weeks after Esther kicked me out and four days before my forty-sixth birthday. A final attempt to become the man she wanted me to be.
“Oh, go on, then. But don’t let me have another one during my trip.”
“Sim, senhor.”
Thiago lights two cigarettes in his mouth and passes one to me. I take a drag and blow, lingering on the grayish taste, which is both unpleasant and wonderful. It’s been so long, the nicotine gives me a headrush. I can taste smoke and salt on my lips and feel cachaça swimming in my bloodstream, making my limbs heavy and relaxed. It’s midday and the sun is at its highest. In front of us, my beach and my ocean. They would always be mine, no matter how long I stayed away.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I say.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t appreciate what we had.”
“You live in Londres. Everyone wants to be there.”
“Different place, same person.”
Tears prick behind my eyes. At least I have my sunglasses on. I swallow hard, to keep them from flowing. I breathe heavily and Thi puts his hand on my shoulder. I know he’s doing it to make me feel better, but his tenderness pushes me a little farther to the edge.
“I look back at myself and think, ‘Who was that?’ ”
“You were young. These things happen.”
“Especially in our family.”
“That reminds me,” says Thiago. “I found something really strange recently.”
He drains his beer and calls over one of the can pickers. A black guy in his forties, stout and sweaty from walking up and down the beach, looking for cans to sell. Slim pickings compared to the weekend. Thiago hands his beer can over and thanks him.
“I was going through Papai’s papers a few months ago and came across his birth certificate. His mother’s name was crossed out with a black pen.”
“How odd. I wonder what it means.”
“We’ll never know. Everyone’s dead now.”
We never met Papai’s parents, but I’ve seen a couple of photos. Posing stiffly in a photography studio, overdressed for the Amazon heat. Not even a hint of a smile. Papai often said they had aristocratic lineage, but that didn’t mean anything; they were born after the end of the empire, when family titles turned to dust.
“You know, Papai’s father, Felipe, had children all over the place with other women,” says Thiago.
“Oh, yes. Mamãe mentioned that sometimes.”
“There were seven or eight of them, maybe more. Papai couldn’t keep count. People would always be telling him that they’d met one of his half siblings.”
Papai never talked about this with me, but evidently he had spoken to Thiago. I feel a pang of jealousy. In my absence, they had become close.
&
nbsp; “One time,” says Thiago, “when Papai was training to be a doctor in Belém, he treated a young black woman, and when she learned his name, she said she was married to his brother. Papai said, ‘I don’t have a brother. I’m an only child.’ ”
“Cabral’s a common name.”
“This woman knew our grandfather’s full name, where he lived, everything. Her husband was Papai’s half brother.”
“What a filho da puta.”
“Makes me glad I didn’t have children. Less chance of fucking them up.”
“Makes me glad that I had daughters,” I say, forgetting for a moment about Chico, but then I remember and feel a dull thud in my chest. “Shit. Well, I guess I’m a filho da puta too.” I laugh, though it isn’t funny.
Thiago looks ahead, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses.
“Do you ever think of having children?” I say, to change the subject.
“No, but Jesse wants to adopt some street kid.”
“Really?”
“Oh, you know, these gringos.” Thiago stretches his arms over his head. “They love saving people.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
It’s the first day of a new year. Last night we celebrated at home—Thiago, Jesse, and me, and some of their friends. Dinner and cocktails, made by caterers. We watched the fireworks from the balcony, slept for four hours, and then Thiago drove me to the airport. When we hugged good-bye, I didn’t want to let go.
As the plane comes down, I notice that the word “God” is painted on the wing in English. Beyond the wing, the sky over Belém is cloudy and the buildings tall and gray, the river brown and smooth. It doesn’t look familiar. All these cheap skyscrapers—did they exist back then? I idly calculate how long it’s been since my last visit. Nearly thirty years. My last visit? My only visit. I’ve thought of Pará so often, it seems absurd that I’ve only been here once before. My head hurts.
I didn’t look up any of my old friends in Rio. It had been too damn long. What were they to me? What was I to them but someone they used to know a long time ago? Aunt Lia had died of lung cancer some years earlier, and her brother, mad Gustavo, was long gone. I had lunch with a few second cousins and their mollycoddled, underachieving children. Other than Thiago, no one in my family seems to have a job, but everyone has money. They spend their days at home playing with stocks and shares online, empregadas cleaning around them, bringing them lunch. The old Brazil, still going strong, but for how much longer? Empregadas have rights now, so fewer people can afford them. Everyone complained about the president and the things she’s done. It’s so bad here, they told me, as an empregada took our plates away. It’s never been worse. We should’ve moved to Europe, like you did.
