His Own Man

by Edgard Telles Ribeiro

  The facts, then, took place back in those days, toward the end of December ’68. One afternoon, when the two were at home (and their mother fortunately wasn’t), the boy writing a paper for school, his sister ironing a skirt, they suddenly found themselves thrust into a nightmare: they were forced apart without having time to utter a single word to one another. Informed on by a militant who had been jailed and tortured, the boy barely escaped through a window at the back of the house where they lived on the city outskirts. He jumped a wall and disappeared into the woods.

  He was no terrorist. He’d graffitied a few walls, participated in protest marches, those kinds of things. But it so happens that, under torture, people end up turning in their own mothers — to whom they attribute the worst crimes. They’ll confess anything to make the electric shocks stop. Can you imagine what it’s like to be shocked in the balls for hours on end? Or to have an electric wire shoved into your urethra and see four guys falling over laughing around you while you writhe in pain on a floor soaked with your own excrement? That’s what happened in the case of my student’s comrade. He held out as long as he could and then gave up several names out of pure desperation.

  For nearly a year, neither the mother nor the sister had any news of the boy. They knew their home phone was being tapped and sensed they were being watched. During this entire time, without arousing suspicion, they kept a close eye on friends and acquaintances, seeking any sign that would restore their hope. Trips to the hospitals and prisons turned up nothing. The same was true at the army quarters and police stations. Like many relatives of political prisoners and other victims of the system, they had no powerful friends. They didn’t know people who could assist them in any way. They concentrated their thoughts on him alone. Was he dead or alive? And, in either case, where?

  Then one afternoon, on a bus stuck in traffic in downtown São Paulo, the boy caught a glimpse of his sister sitting at the back. He lowered his head and considered the possibility that she might have been followed. The thought couldn’t be dismissed because, in the meantime, he’d taken part in undercover operations and was now seriously wanted by the military. He reckoned that they might be able to exchange at least one look. To do so, however, it was vital that his sister not be startled when she saw him.

  Taking advantage of the flow of passengers getting on and off, the boy, who was standing near the driver, gradually moved toward the center of the bus. And stopped there. Every so often he’d glance toward the back, but without lingering on his sister. Flanked by two older women, she remained absorbed in her book. He waited, relying on his right eye to let him know when to act. Each time the bus slowed, he noticed, his sister would lift her head from her book to make sure it wasn’t her stop. He realized that this was simply a reflex, common in public transit riders absorbed in their reading, and that it would be repeated every time the vehicle stopped. There would thus be an opportunity for eye contact, depending on the gaps between people.

  Now, Max, try to visualize the subtlety of the scene the boy went through. He stood still in the middle of the bus. Bringing his left hand up to his chin, he began to rub his index finger over his lips, “the gesture,” as he put it, “of someone lost in thought.” An unconscious motion suggesting peaceful musing. Thanks to which, at the decisive moment when his trusty eye gave the signal — confirming that his sister had suddenly seen him — he was able, in profile, to raise his finger for a second, “in a vertical line that went from his chin to his nose.” With this, he sent a clear warning, which made the girl keep her eyes glued on her book — “a novel,” in her words, “that now anchored her.”

  They continued the ride that way. Profoundly joined, profoundly apart. For an indefinite period of time. On a trip that was in no way connected to the space or the men and women around them, “as if the bus were floating,” she said. (Of the two, she is more introspective, poetic; whereas he’s practical and objective, a man of few words.) Once past the danger of an undesired gasp or a destabilizing surprise, they felt they could steal another look. Brief as it might be, they knew it would take place in slow motion, as if it had a life of its own — and time on its side.

  It fell to the brother, then, as he signaled the driver for the next stop, to let the girl know that the precious moment was approaching. She remained immersed in her book and nervously wondered if there might not be an opportunity, at that split second, for a quick smile. But seeing him still in profile, wearing the same stern look, she decided to let him take the initiative. She promised herself that, whatever he did, she would try her very best to mirror his expression, so that he could see in her eyes a reflection of the love they shared.

  It’s a sappy image, you’ll say. Maybe so … but it touched me like few others. Because life, when it comes down to it, is about these very moments. And that’s how things went. Just as that was how mother and daughter, clinging to one another that afternoon, regained the strength to await the day they’d all be together again. It didn’t matter anymore how long it would take. Something had happened to restore a sense of order. The two women learned then to have faith. They felt that the boy would take extra precautions from then on, to spare them further pain — after having brought them utter joy.

  And that’s precisely what he did, distancing himself little by little from his clandestine life. He changed his name and, with the experience he’d acquired while undercover, met his family again in a safe place. Eventually, they found refuge here in Brasilia.

  Max, when this story was recounted to me by the brother and sister together, in its third and final version, they reenacted the experience for me, each reliving details from his or her point of view. As if they were two cameras capable of simultaneously revealing the images and secret pulse that connected them, they celebrated their feat, presenting it as if it had all been a game. It so happens, however, that on the previous occasions, when the event had been told to me by just one of them, there had been nothing uplifting about those scenes. They were imbued with the anxiety both had faced. The narrative had been the same, but it was perceived through the prism of fear.

  That’s what led me to tell you this story. More than the images of the dead and tortured, more than the lists of disappeared, more than the accusations reported by the newspapers, what happened to these young people illustrates the absurdity that’s taken hold among us. Because if the image of a defiled body makes us think of death — and horror — the scene between them is all about life. There had been just two possible outcomes in the tiny, almost invisible scene they went through. Love and hope, on one hand; torture and death, on the other. In the middle, emptiness.

  How could we possibly have reached this point in our country? In the name of what? How could it be that one half of our population is dying from hunger and the other from fear? The fear is real here, Max. Anyone living in Brazil feels it up close — unlike someone who’s abroad, like you. Information travels by word of mouth, despite the censors’ efforts. And conveys vivid images. A father suddenly gone. A voice missing at a university. A bride led to the altar by an uncle or a brother. A teenager who comes home for lunch but fails to show up for dinner. Year in, year out — nothing changes. On the contrary, it gets worse. All of these absences taken together weigh heavily and clamor — not so much for revenge but for explanations. Yet none is provided. Not a word.

  Unlike our pleasurable diplomatic missions (and you’ll forgive the grotesque comparison), they produce permanent absences, Max, which never allow for the joy of reunion. They don’t bring peace or tranquility. Quite the opposite, they deepen the despair of everyone involved. I’m afraid that the seed planted in our midst in ’64 will give rise to a sickly tree, the branches of which will end up multiplying out of sight. If pruned, they’ll grow in other directions, poisoned by the same evils.

  The day will come, of course, when things improve. In five or ten years. Sometimes I dread that moment almost as much as the present. Sad to say, isn’t it? Fears evolve; they change with times an
d circumstances. They retrace the path that led them to panic. Then they’re reduced to misgivings — and a permanent feeling of uneasiness. Caused by an impunity that will last and explain the crimes that will be committed in the future. Ah-ah! you’ll say. Who dares to make such cavalier predictions? Who? Our good old friend on the Johnnie Walker Red label, Max, the one who never fails, as you’ll recall. The Striding Man from our Old Highland Whiskey, his hat tipped to you. Who proves to be more prophetic with each shot … Who else could it be? Or do you think I’d have managed to write this letter completely sober?

  I’m off to bed now. So I can wake up early and pick up the papers from Rio at the newsstand. Censorship remains rampant, but even so it’s possible to glean things here and there. They’re pros, our journalists. At least those who still resist … Some manage to convey plenty between the lines, using that tiny space to project deafening screams only a few of us can hear.

  Speaking of which, have you been an eyewitness to much in Montevideo? Anything you can tell me about? How many weeks until the coup in Uruguay? And in Chile? Will these two countries shift the uncomfortable attention of the international press away from Brazil? I never find the courage to ask you these questions in person. It’s easier by letter. But don’t feel obliged to respond.

  Kisses to dear Marina and sweet little prince Pedro Henrique.

  And a brotherly hug to you.

  N.

  PS:

  The FM station that kept me company throughout this letter has started to play “Imagine” again. Ever since the song was composed, the radios seem to play nothing else. All around the world and even secretly in countries where bans are in effect. So much has happened since we first met. From Woodstock to man’s landing on the moon, from feminists burning their bras to the first cries in defense of the environment, from the eternal struggle for human rights to the fatigue of those who cashed in their chips and latched on to this or that system. Today on TV the news reported that the twin towers of New York’s World Trade Center (110 floors each!) have just opened for business. There was also coverage of “the beginning of the end” of the Vietnam War.… How many years of darkness and uncertainty still await us? What explanation (I no longer dare to say “lessons”) will we leave for those who come after us? Will we blame the cold war for the deaths and torture that occurred on this side of the Berlin Wall? And when the wall comes down one day, in two or three generations, as it must, won’t its fall reveal an infinite number of others, dividing the planet into not two but two thousand sides? Walls, fences. This side, that side. With so many walls, I sometimes find myself questioning the difference between one side and the other. That’s when I know it’s time to stop drinking and go to bed! But to end with “Imagine,” what will the world be like when John Lennon is surrounded by diapered grandchildren and then great-grandchildren? Will we be closer to or farther from his verses then? Will they have lost their relevance? Or will they remain as meaningful and poignant as ever?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am indebted to Judith Gurewich of Other Press for her remarkable editorial suggestions, which gave this English edition of my novel a smooth narrative flow while further balancing and focusing its content. I am also grateful to my Australian publisher, Henry Rosenbloom, from Scribe, who had his curiosity piqued by a story dealing with a forgotten war in South America — which resulted in the first English publication of a book originally written in Portuguese. Equally heartfelt thanks go to my agent, mentor, and longtime friend Thomas Colchie, to whom I owe much more than these few lines can possibly convey. Elaine Colchie’s editorial expertise also greatly enriched the text. My sincere gratitude to Kim M. Hastings, who faced the many challenges inherent to the translation with imagination and tenacity, added to a rare degree of professionalism and dedication. To my new colleagues at Other Press who shepherded my manuscript through the different stages of production, Yvonne E. Cárdenas, Keenan McCracken, and Cynthia Merman, my deep appreciation. As for my wife, Angelica, love of my life, I wish to say that, as editor of the ten books I have published in Brazil, she has more than paved the way for the literary journey we have covered together in these past two decades.

  Edgard Telles Ribeiro was born in Brazil in 1944 and graduated from the Diplomatic Academy in 1967, when he joined the Brazilian Foreign Service. Prior to that, he was a journalist and film critic writing in Rio de Janeiro. The author of seven novels and three collections of short stories, several of which have won major literary awards in Brazil, he currently lives in New York.

  Kim M. Hastings is a translator and editor based in Connecticut. She lived in São Paulo for several years, studied Brazilian language and literature at Brown University, and holds a PhD in Spanish and Portuguese from Yale. Her translations have appeared in Words Without Borders, Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas, Two Lines, and Machado de Assis, among other publications.