Granta 121: Best of Young Brazilian Novelists

by Unknown

  But the Portuguese humidade contains the ‘h’ of ‘humus’ and the ‘h’ of ‘humour’.

  Humus: the remains that retain water, keep the soil wet, the earth damp. The decomposition of remains is also what gives life to everything else. It creates the broth. The earth feeds on its dead; the present, on its ghosts. Humidade suggests memory swallowed and transformed. The adjective húmido has more history than úmido, more vestiges. It doesn’t arrive on a straight path: it has to take detours, go around things, but it gathers moisture more intensely.

  Humour: a liquid or semi-liquid organic substance. In natural history, it was believed that the human body contained four such fluids: blood, phlegm, choler and black bile. A healthy man (good-humoured) was he who maintained a balance between the four. In a sick man (bad-humoured), the balance was disrupted. Health was directly related to the bodily liquids. (Could the good humour of Rio’s inhabitants stem from there? From their moist bodies?)

  The books are all on the floor, and the cloth by my side: the obstacles to resuming an interrupted story, to restarting a life left behind.

  Things I don’t like in Rio: the water that drips from the buildings in the city centre when summer is at its peak.

  The sea is serene at first. Waves form, looming bigger and bigger until they are frightening, until they drag me from wherever I am – from the sand, from the beach promenade, from the sea itself. First I see the white of the foam, then an enchanted world, brimming with sea horses, anemones and corals, then everything goes dark. I wake up sopping wet, the blanket in a tangle, my pillow on the floor, and I ask myself: Why aren’t you here?

  I used to buy flowers every Friday. I would remove the previous week’s arrangement from the vase and replace it with the fresh flowers. My little wonder, my quota of moisture in that dry land.

  Here, the flowers are abundant; they are large-lipped and catch the warm, sticky rain that the sky pours on them. Here, I don’t buy flowers.

  I’m going to buy a plane ticket, you say. I’m going to join you in Rio. No, I say, drily, as if the European air were able to pass through the telephone line. Each thing in its own time.

  I leave home at ten o’clock at night, dressed in white, and head for Copacabana. For the first time I’m going to spend New Year’s Eve on my own. I walk along the lakeside until I get to the Corte do Cantagalo, and then down to Copacabana, arriving shortly before eleven. The beach is crowded, a vast carpet of yellow sand dotted with white. I carry my sandals in my hands and let my feet sink into the moist sand, strewn with offerings.

  The afternoon was sultry, and now heavy clouds menace the city. I circulate among the people, brush past strangers’ bodies. Looking down I see thousands of naked feet in the sand, among lit candles, boats and giant flowers. I have my own: four white gladioli.

  Before I toss them into the water, I sit facing the ocean. I’ve never seen Copacabana so crowded, and I have never felt so alone. But my solitude doesn’t trouble me. It would be beautiful, I think, if for one moment the people lining the waterfront fell silent and the sound of their breathing was indistinguishable from the coming and going of the waves.

  I get up and head for the sea. One by one, I throw the gladioli to the orixá of salt water. The first three are for my dead, so they will know they are always with me. Last of all, I throw one in for you.

  The people start preparing the champagne, holding hands, anxious. I join a circle of strangers, who invite me over when they see that I am alone. There is a countdown and, suddenly, fireworks in the sky. Immediately afterwards, as if they have been politely waiting for the spectacle to end, the black clouds pelt down on us, mixing with the champagne, sweat and salt. Then, locals and tourists rally the vaguest certainty, with astonishing conviction: the year to come will be the best of their lives.

  The solid weight of the humidity: in 1770, the Marquês do Lavradio observed that the inhabitants of Rio de Janeiro were inordinately lazy.

  The air saps voices of their enthusiasm; they are drawn out, slow, quiet, almost a whisper. The people of Rio economize on words: they don’t greet one another in the lift, or when they get on the bus; they don’t say excuse me before walking between two people, or sorry when they bump into someone; they rarely say please or thank you. When I first arrived back, coming from a country where words build things and define relations, I thought everyone was rude. Later I understood: Rio’s inhabitants speak with their bodies. With their bodies that collide, slide, cross, brush up against others. They greet one another and say excuse me, sorry or thank you with their lethargic, flexible bodies, with their flesh and hair that rub against one another without modesty or disgust, their hugs on first meeting, even if they are sticky with sweat.

  Today, comparing the two places, I’d say: Words don’t always contain the truth, but the body never lies.

  I awake with a start. The emptiness on the other side of the bed. Difficult choice: air or hand?

  Theory regarding the cheerfulness of Rio’s inhabitants: sadness exits through the pores.

  Etymologically, melancholy means black bile. Bad humour, the body overflowing with black moisture. Unlike the other three humours enumerated by Hippocrates – choler, phlegm and blood – black bile doesn’t exist. It is merely fictional.

  The people of Rio don’t accept sadness. They don’t know how to live with pain. Not feeling well? Take a dip in the sea, crack open a cold beer, go dance samba in Lapa. Sadness: only with music, only in community. Sadness: only with cheer.

  That’s why I left, why I went away for so many years: nothing is more contradictory to happiness than the obligation to be happy. The requirement that one be cheerful in Rio can be as oppressive as the grey sky in Paris, London or Berlin. Everything in excess becomes banal. And I wasn’t able to be happy having to be happy all the time.

  The posture of one who is melancholic: sitting, hunched over himself, head tilted, chin in one hand, he stares downward, lost in the void. His body paralysed, petrified, his soul immersed in memories and regrets.

  How is one melancholic in Rio de Janeiro? You lower your head, but on your right side a hill rises up, majestic; on the left side, scandalous nature makes its presence felt; in front of you, the infinite line of the sea. You try, but your right eye stubbornly wants to see the landscape; the left is drawn to the greenery. And you know that if you happen to lift your head and look at the horizon, there’ll be no way out: you will smile.

  One must, therefore, find the melancholic corners of the city, those in which you can look down without being sucked in by the landscape (but where?).

  On the other end of the line, the shaky, faltering voice, slightly stammering, asks: Are you trading me for a city?

  I’m sorry, but I never did learn to live in such aridity. The chapped skin was ageing me. Little by little it is recomposing itself. Beads of sweat work like stitches, and I think: I am going to survive.

  Theory regarding the cheerfulness of Rio’s inhabitants: people walk to the beach in bikinis and swimming trunks. They share the pavement with men wearing suits and ties and women in high heels.

  On the telephone, I beg: Please wait a little longer.

  When uncertainty strikes, I get up and walk over to the window. A dense fog covers Corcovado in white, splitting it in half, separating the foot of the mountain from the top. Christ the Redeemer floats, and I chat with him, a habit that in times past filled many a solitary night in this flat.

  My organs were becoming equally arid and dry, atrophied. Little by little, the moist air expands them again. I cycle through Flamengo Park and have the curious feeling of being almost happy.

  Don’t ask me to talk as if time hasn’t passed, I tell you. At the other end, I feel the weight of my selfishness: for you, time is intact, monolithic, waiting for someone to give it a shove.

  The beach has always been my refuge. The sea, my home away from home. When I was very young, I liked to dive under and hold my breath. That was how I forgot the outside world and imagine
d that a mermaid would lead me with her warm hand to a colourful universe, full of anemones and creatures of the depths, where I would no longer need to breathe.

  I also liked to stretch out along the seashore while my sister covered me in wet sand, leaving only my face exposed. I would stay in this position, unmoving, until the tide rose and the waves licked my body.

  I set the rules: from one end of Copacabana to the other, only on the black paving stones. If my foot slips and touches a white one, I have to go back to the start. Between one leap and another, cool air rushes up my legs, reinvigorating me.

  The phone rings and I don’t answer it. Today I put my suitcases in the wardrobe.

  Theory regarding the cheerfulness of Rio’s inhabitants: bodies always on display. Women are constantly flattered. Men whisper smutty things when a woman goes past in a pair of shorts and, instead of a kick, they get a smile.

  Tonight the Carnival theme song is to be chosen at the Salgueiro Rehearsal Hall. I am here to cheer for a samba composed by a friend. My body is just another cell in an enormous fabric, a uniform blanket of skin and fluids. Impossible not to kiss someone, says a friend. Here you only breathe collectively. I try to inhale the rarefied air but can’t. Panic begins to set in and I think of the organized bodies on the other side of the Atlantic, until there isn’t enough oxygen for my brain, my limbs loosen and I give my body permission to be part of an anonymous mass and mingle with other bodies until it finds one that really appeals to it.

  When I return home the only guilt is the guilt of not feeling any guilt.

  On the telephone, you tell me my voice is different. It’s the humidity, I say. It purifies the voice.

  Things I don’t like in Rio: the bold cockroaches that scuttle out of drains during summer.

  Sitting in the only bar overlooking Arpoador Rock, I order a caipirinha. It is a little after 7 p.m. and the pavement and sand are still bustling, even though it is only Wednesday. The sun is about to sink from sight. The sea is placid and reflects the red of the horizon, while more and more people gather on the rock. Whales used to be harpooned from there not all that long ago. Whales that now only put in rare appearances in these parts, causing wonder and commotion among the locals. I hear laughter around me, other people’s conversations, I see people going past on bicycles, others drinking coconut water while sitting on a cement bench or at a plastic table. Rio de Janeiro in the summer says many trite but true things. It says, for example, that complicating something as simple as life is useless; that cultivating pain is a waste of time; that all is worthwhile even if the soul is small.

  When the sun sets, my glass is empty. People flock to the rock, as if they have come to watch the final judgement, and once the blazing sphere has dipped into the sea everyone claps, whistles and gives thanks. And I, who always thought this spectacle unbelievably ridiculous, find myself clapping along with everyone else, immersed in anonymity, happy to have rediscovered my enthusiasm. When we are done and people finally disperse and start heading home, I think that I don’t need you in order to have you with me after all.

  The telephone hasn’t rung for days. Perhaps you want to avoid the answer that is so light and simple for me, but so cruel for you: Yes, I have traded you for a city.

  If it were possible to choose a perfect ending for Rio de Janeiro, I’d say: a tsunami on a summer Sunday. Anyone on the beach in Ipanema or Leblon would see the ocean pull back as far as the Cagarras Islands. Anyone in Copacabana would see Guanabara Bay dry up all the way across to Niterói. The sea peeling back its own flesh, leaving exposed and airless, for a few seconds, its deepest inhabitants. Then this same ocean would return as a giant wave, covering its creatures once again, but also covering those who are not of the sea. We would all be dragged under, swallowed by the water. Unhurriedly, but magnificently, the ocean would engulf the entire city, its buildings, its forests, the people, the animals. Only the tops of some of its hills would be left uncovered: Morro Dois Irmãos, Corcovado, Sugarloaf, Pedra da Gávea.

  Anyone here would have the right to one last image: Rio de Janeiro submerged by the sea itself. Limpid Rio, translucent beneath the water, the extreme beauty of the disaster.

  With the years, centuries, millennia, the ocean would expand even further until it found a trace of sand on which to rest. And Rio de Janeiro would be a mere vestige of a marvellous city, lost in the ocean’s depths, inhabited by fish and corals, which would make its debris their new abode.

  GRANTA

  * * *

  EVO MORALES

  Ricardo Lísias

  TRANSLATED BY NICK CAISTOR

  * * *

  RICARDO LÍSIAS

  1975

  Ricardo Lísias was born in São Paulo, and holds a PhD in Brazilian literature from São Paulo University. He is the author of one short-story collection and four novels, the latest of which is O céu dos suicidas (2012). His work has been translated into Galician, Italian and Spanish. His writing has also been published in the magazine piauí and in issues 2 and 6 of Granta em português. ‘Evo Morales’ is a new story.

  1

  The first time I had coffee with Evo Morales, he had not yet been elected president of Bolivia, and I was a long way from winning the title of World Chess Champion. My mother was coming back from Australia, where she had been to visit my brother. She was returning to Brazil on a connecting flight from Buenos Aires. Shortly before her scheduled arrival, I discovered that her flight was going to be almost two hours late. I decided to have a coffee to pass the time. At the counter, when I was about to order a second cup, I noticed a strange figure beside me.

  A short, stocky man wearing a poncho typical of the indigenous peoples of South America was trying to chat up the waitress. Obviously uncomfortable, the girl managed to disappear. The man was left with no alternative, and so asked me where I was flying to. I explained I was waiting for my mother and asked him: And you, are you from Peru?

  I saw he understood Portuguese well. No, replied Evo, I’m Bolivian. As if sensing my curiosity he told me he was hoping to run for the presidency of his republic, and had come to Brazil to meet the leaders of some social movements. Evo seemed particularly impressed with the Landless Workers’ Movement. I recall that he smiled when he mentioned one of their camps, which he had visited.

  I asked two or three more questions, and then we said goodbye. It was time for Evo to board his plane. When I told my mother the story, she said that she also seemed to meet some weirdo whenever she flew. Being in an airport brings it out in people.

  Two years later, I was shocked when I saw Evo Morales on television. My friend had become the first indigenous president in the history of Bolivia.

  2

  The second time I met Evo Morales was in the transit area of Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. I was on my way to Moscow, where I had to take an internal flight to the tiny town of Khanty-Mansiysk to compete in the Chess World Cup. My illustrious friend was returning from a meeting in France.

  Evo recognized me and signalled to me from inside the cafe. When I went in, after congratulating him on his victory in the election, I joked that he had one of the essential requirements of a chess player: a good memory. Evo laughed and replied that he didn’t even know how to move the pieces. I promised to teach him the next time we met. My friend was delighted, and said that, as soon as he came into office, he hoped to give the sport as much support as possible in Bolivia.

  I realized how good I felt in his company, and all at once that made me sad. Now that he was the president of Bolivia, he was only going to travel in a private jet. Evo laughed and told me that Bolivia was in no position to permit such luxuries. Only countries like Brazil could afford privileges like that, he said.

  He wanted to know more about my profession. I explained that I had started to play chess as a child because, according to a psychologist, practising a sport would help me overcome my shyness. I was a very lonely child – I couldn’t make friends at school, and preferred to spend my time playi
ng shut up in my room. But if I had to go out to play chess, I would have to come into contact with other people.

  My parents first tried football, and then basketball, because of my height. It was my grandfather, a Lebanese immigrant who made his fortune setting up mills and selling textiles, who first taught me how to play chess. He soon realized I had a great talent for it. Later, I began to take classes, and at nine I took part in my first competition.

  Evo showed great interest in my story and, when we said goodbye, he wished me luck and told me that at our next encounter he would like to learn how to play. I think he meant it seriously.

  3

  The flight to Moscow was uneventful. On my computer I checked a few openings I was planning to use against my first opponent, a young Romanian who seemed very promising but who would find it difficult to match me. I had a great deal of sympathy for him, perhaps because he reminded me of myself during my early days as a grandmaster.