Granta 121: Best of Young Brazilian Novelists
Page 3
– I can’t believe I found you
and Violeta, back at home, sewing, Chile then under a military regime, a news blackout. I assume at this point Miguel Angel must have already been captured, the water barrels, the silence.
I visited the old house where my grandmother and Violeta lived for most of their lives, in Prado, where I ate grapes off the vine stretched over the pergola in the backyard, in a grey part of Montevideo far from the centre. Miguel Angel wanted his Montevideo to be free of the military, my grandmother was nervous about yet another police inspection into her home
– My son how long is this going to go on, please don’t get mixed up in this business like your cousin did
my father attempting to calm her down, saying that he knew nothing, that he had no intention of becoming involved, my sister’s mother was pregnant, the move to Rio
– Now the bird
my grandmother comforting her sister, telling her that they would find Miguel Angel just as soon as that military nightmare came to an end, that he must be either in Chile or perhaps in Bolivia, he had always been clever, even if at times somewhat coarsely spoken, my new wool coat
– Son when I arrived from Uruguay we no longer had any news of my cousin
(I was listening carefully)
Violeta’s Alzheimer’s, the visits to the old people’s home, Ximena collecting the benefits for the children of the disappeared, the afternoon cup of tea, my grandmother
– Viola do you remember when Miguel Angel was little and used to say he’d grow up to be the captain of a big ship?
my great-aunt nodding her head in agreement, adding milk to the tea
– Son when I arrived from Uruguay we no longer
the house in Prado, the pergola in the backyard, the sweet grapes, the Alzheimer’s
– Viola do you remember when Miguel Angel was little
my baptism in the parish church of São Conrado, the heat of Rio de Janeiro, I grew up intermittently hearing the Spanish I struggled to emulate
– Son
on the plane returning to Rio, dinner was gnocchi with tomato sauce, not a patch on what my grandmother used to prepare
– Viola you remember when Miguel Angel
I landed at Rio’s international airport and called a taxi, the driver was from the south of Brazil, his maté right there
– Where are you coming from chief?
he had been to Uruguay and Argentina too, of course, it was winter in Rio de Janeiro, it was exceptionally cold, and my wool coat was in the boot of the car.
II
When he enrolled in the School of Fine Arts, Miguel Angel was probably unaware of what awaited him, the military coup, the life of a revolutionary. In Chile he became a chauffeur for the Finnish Embassy, and extradited Uruguayans to Chile with the help of his Finnish girlfriend, the dictatorship there by then, too, I imagine that was why he went to Argentina, to the Victoria del Pueblo Party, to prison. Soon he was on one of the death flights: they were all political prisoners on that plane, the launch chute opening, then all of them gyrating through the air, what went through his head at that moment
(Violeta, the house in Prado, his daughter?)
my father
– I was always ashamed of having studied at the military school, my cousin was the one who opened my eyes
crying as he related this to me, I told him not to be ashamed, I said that at times we really don’t see things for what they are
(descending in free fall)
my father opening the cupboard containing the photo albums, hoisting the flag at school
– My cousin was the one who opened my eyes
now in Rio, calling his mother, all was well and she could soon go and visit him, the journey was cheap by bus, all she had to do was to follow the coast road up through Brazil, preferably during winter because of the heat, Miguel Angel gyrating through the air, the distant plane, Violeta’s phone call
– Chiche your cousin has disappeared
and then her travelling across Chile and Argentina looking for her son, about to embark for Bolivia, and my grandmother
– Viola don’t go, can’t you see that Miguel Angel isn’t there any more
giving up on trying to convince her, putting more milk in the tea
– Chiche your cousin
(falling at an ever-increasing speed)
– Chiche
I used to visit the house at Prado and sit on the swing, watching for ages the pergola offering shade dotted with small spots, Blacky the puppy at my heels, Violeta
– Miguelito don’t be afraid, she doesn’t bite
she spoke a rapid and convoluted Spanish but this much I understood
– Miguelito don’t be afraid
her curved nose, the tickles and me begging her to stop, my grandfather, Totito, had a cupboard full of junk, stuff he used to make swords and shields for me
– Touché
crouching down so that we could fight as equals, throwing himself on the floor, he was toppled and I really was the bravest knight who had ever been seen or heard of in our backyard. I remember seeing him there, playing cards with Violeta’s husband, after they’d sold the house, the walking sticks leaning on the white armchair
– Viola don’t go
they moved to Pocitos but luckily Violeta’s old people’s rest home was nearby, on the days they brought her home she would sit sewing in the corner of the living room, the Alzheimer’s, and always the same questions
– Telma where is my son?
always
– Telma
and more milk in her tea
(in free fall, the sea always drawing nearer
– Touché )
Months later they found some bodies in the bay of Cabo Polónio but Miguel Angel was still missing, I returned to Uruguay and Violeta at the airport
– Miguelito
glad to see us, tickling me
– Miguelito
I saw a photograph of her at the age of twenty, leaning over the windowsill, boots up to her knees, she would have been out riding that day, lifting her face to the strong winds of Lavalleja, my father closing the album, storing it back in the cupboard
– I was always ashamed
the sea of Montevideo, I never understood why almost no one goes swimming there, they just hang out on the sidewalk, by the shore, drinking maté, maybe because they had seen the bodies washed up onto the beach at Cabo Polónio, maybe because of the brown water, when I go to the rambla and see the empty beaches I feel a pang, the sea empty, people on the shore looking out towards the horizon as if they could see something, as if the waves could bring them someone they’d not seen in a long time, as if they were
as if they longed to dive in but somehow couldn’t manage to.
III
Returning from Uruguay was always different from returning from any other country. Once inside the plane, I kept my eyes fixed on that empty prairie, an immense plain stretching as far as the horizon. I gazed at that green desert, thinking how that could be possible.
Before, on the way to the airport with my uncle in the car, I would slowly scan the historic houses of the old centre, the port, the market, the rambla filled with people drinking their early-evening maté. I think the trip lasts for more or less an hour. Looking through the plane window at the runway, I consider the melancholy this country has always evoked in me, but why? It does not seem to be about the buildings in the old centre, nor the late-afternoon sun on the red stone benches of the rambla. Perhaps it should be put down to the people and everything I had already been told, that’s just what Uruguay was like, and then those days when the tango singer Zitarrosa was still alive etc., or maybe the ex-Tupamaros. Perhaps it’s those restaurants with their elderly waiters, it’s drinking grapefruit juice from glass bottles. I picture Miguel Angel eating with Violeta in one of those restaurants, saying how one day he would become a ship’s captain, her placing the order with one of the old waiters
– A r
oll and two small white coffees
(the husband would be coming very shortly). My father opening the albums, the military school, the shame. I bear this melancholia with me, and I can’t and don’t want to let it go. My eyes stay fixed on the immense vacant plain surrounding the new airport at Carrasco. The death flight, Miguel Angel toppling through the air. On take-off, I can’t stop myself from crying, as once again I gaze down on the enormous patchwork of plantations with their different shades of green. I could return, yes, to Violeta waiting for me at the airport
– Miguelito
and she would tickle me until I couldn’t stand it any more.
IV
Who was Violeta? I think about it while I walk through the front garden of the house at Prado, where she and her husband lived side by side with my grandparents, and with Marta, Violeta’s daughter, at the back with the twins. I think if we get to know someone only when we are still children, the memory we have of that person is different. As if we had not been able to understand enough and needed to know something more, something beyond a child’s comprehension. And which is brought to light when someone, years later, tells us about it.
I also remember the sun coming in through the kitchen at the Prado house, my grandmother preparing Milanese steak and Russian salad, the backyard out there so inviting. Before going into the rest home, Violeta would come to us talking loudly and laughing, laughing uproariously at something, which then gave rise to guffaws from all. My grandmother and she were like Martha and Mary: while one of them supervised the sauce cooking on the stove, the other would stay around the table with us, making everyone laugh with her jokes. Violeta loved to play ‘arm-measuring’: as her arm was obviously longer, her hand reached up to my armpit, which always gave rise to another round of tickling. I remember few of the things she told me directly, but I do remember her loud laughter perfectly.
Once Alzheimer’s had set in, the silence grew more and more. Soon she would just smile, but never laugh out loud. That silent laughter made a strong impression on me, she seemed to want to laugh at something, but couldn’t exactly recall what. That was why she kept a ready smile on her face, and that was how she used to look at us when we arrived at her rest home.
The day she died I was unable to go to Uruguay. My father did, he called me from there, very sad. I think that had I gone I would have asked them to use make-up to recreate that smile on her lips. It would have been the ultimate silent laughter. I learned that the cemetery where she was laid resembled a public garden, as large and leafy as a park.
GRANTA
* * *
BLAZING SUN
Tatiana Salem Levy
TRANSLATED BY ALISON ENTREKIN
* * *
TATIANA SALEM LEVY
1979
Tatiana Salem Levy is a writer and translator. She was born in Lisbon and now lives in Rio de Janeiro. Her debut novel, A chave de casa (2007), won the São Paulo Prize for Literature and was a finalist for the Jabuti Award and the Zaffari & Bourbon Award. It has been translated into French, Italian, Romanian, Spanish and Turkish. Her second novel, Dois rios (2011), is forthcoming in Germany, Italy and Portugal. Levy co-edited Primos: histórias da herança árabe e judaica (2010) and is also author of the book-length essay A experiência do fora: Blanchot, Foucault e Deleuze (2011). ‘Blazing Sun’ (‘O Rio sua’) is a new story.
After living abroad for seven years, I arrive in Rio de Janeiro in late December, in the middle of summer. The walls and furniture of my flat are hidden beneath a layer of mildew. If it weren’t for the green paths traced by the mould, I’d say that the interval separating my departure from my return never existed. The strong smell almost drives me away, but I persevere, and enter. I leave my suitcases in the hallway and open the window, my big glass window, its wooden frame painted white.
Muggy air envelops my face; there isn’t a hint of a breeze. Beads of sweat rapidly squeeze through my pores, cross the barrier of skin and trickle down my body, leaving me drenched. It’s been years since I’ve sweated like this. It’s been years since I’ve felt my clothes stick to my body as if I were standing in a downpour.
Finally and immediately, I understand why I have returned. My body understands; the same body that always protested against Europe’s harsh air with dry legs, straw-like hair, nausea, dizziness, difficulty breathing. In a sweat, it recognizes itself. Much faster than I had imagined, my blood stirs, aroused by the month of December. Then I realize, sitting on the sofa moistened by my sweat, why I have returned: because here, in Rio de Janeiro, my body feels at home.
A few days earlier, I awoke, reluctantly climbed out of bed – it was cold and grey outside – and when I saw you lying on the sofa with a book over your face, I thought: It’s time to go back.
Is something wrong? you asked me. No, I answered: I just miss it. I want to spend a little time there. Ah! you sighed, as your face twisted into a lopsided expression, I see. You didn’t say anything else, just lit a cigarette and started pacing the room in circles. We both tried to cling to the word time. Just a little time.
Our parting was silent. We smiled, pretending to believe we would be reunited. Now, slouching on the sofa in my old flat, I perspire: it’s never easy to trade one love for another.
We came to Rio together only once. I vividly remember your enchantment with every last detail of the place. I was at the peak of my anti-Rio phase, while you, on the other hand, were delighted by everything. Why didn’t we ever come back? Is coming here without you a betrayal? Is that what you think, that I’m betraying you? No matter how hard I cast about for the redeeming word, all I can say is: only solitude makes sense. Solitude in this city that overnight shouted out that it was missing from my life. Me, of all people, who has always made people my home. Suddenly I hear the rumbling voice of a city, like the voice of a former lover that comes to life again with the violence of things stowed from sight. (What if I regret my decision? If I change my mind, will you still be waiting for me under the bear-fur blanket?)
First thing to do: scrape the mould off the solid surfaces, free up the flat’s pores. I came here to breathe.
In the summer, the minutes leading up to a storm have a greasy thickness about them. The plants give off a strong, sweet smell. The black sky announces that the world is about to be turned inside out.
Before the storm is the very definition of disaster: nothing has happened yet; everything is about to happen soon, very soon. The imminence of tragedy in its extreme beauty: few things are more beautiful than the instants that precede momentous things, the second before a passionate kiss, before a marathon runner crosses the finish line, before a rainstorm hits Rio de Janeiro.
Before the water comes crashing down, Rio teems with activity, people make a frantic dash for it, birds disperse in a flurry, cockroaches scurry, monkeys leap from branch to branch, all seeking shelter, a roof of any kind. The city suddenly begins to palpitate when the humidity reaches an unsustainable level, when you know that the hot, heavy, sticky weather is about to come undone in a downpour. And if you are lucky enough to be somewhere safe, you will soon see nature’s strength unleashed, supreme, reminding us of how fragile and fleeting we are.
That is why, in December, when the smell of approaching rain reaches my nostrils, I am filled with genuine joy: the joy of things that are about to happen.
Between one bout of cleaning and another I head out into the streets. The buildings are ugly; the pavements, potholed; the heat, inhuman; and, nevertheless, it is what I need: to feel like going out.
You shook as we took the cable car up. I, on the other hand, was filled with enthusiasm. Sugarloaf Mountain is the only tourist attraction I visit each time as if it were the first. I love to see the world from up high. From Morro da Urca, halfway up, when I see the mantle of water washing over the rocks, I feel like a traveller discovering Brazil. I imagine myself five hundred years ago, anchoring a small ship in Guanabara Bay and being struck with awe as I take in the still-pristine landscape.
I don’t envy the Amerindians who were already here so much as the Portuguese who arrived and discovered an inhospitable, scandalously beautiful world.
Almost a week of cleaning: there is no more mildew on the surface of things, but I still can’t get the musty smell out of them.
When anxiety gets the better of me, and with it doubt and nostalgia, I head downstairs to seek relief and dive into the swimming pool in the summer storm. The children laugh at the thunder that rumbles and lights up the sky as if it were day.
Theory regarding the cheerfulness of Rio’s inhabitants: sweat lubricates the muscles; it makes us move.
You insisted: you just had to go to a Rio funk dance. Men, women, mothers, brothers, friends, strangers in a continuous curved line down to the ground. With their legs slotted into one another, showing that that was what they were made for, they slotted together. Sweat wasn’t an inconvenience, just another fluid.
Just don’t ask me to like Carnival, I told you.
The heat here is so great that it has melted away the ‘h’ that the Portuguese still retain. The seriousness of the ‘h’ blocks direct access to umidade, the Brazilian version of humidity that hasn’t got time for this letter that goes up before it comes down. Everything bursts out, without permission. Fluids run even from solid objects. Houses melt, papers drip, photographs discolour.