Granta 121: Best of Young Brazilian Novelists

by Unknown

Henrique’s father was a university lecturer, but he’d left the faculty two years earlier to take over a carpet shop, which he’d inherited from his grandfather, a man from Lebanon. At first he struggled to understand how the whole business worked and he nearly had to shut the place down, but after a year spent working himself to the bone, sales began to improve. He opened a branch in the new shopping centre, in the Zona Norte, and the first sign of his prosperity reached the street six months after the Christmas of the jeep, on Henrique’s birthday.

  It was a late afternoon, in June. Rodrigo and I were competing for a sticker of Fillol, the Argentinian goalie, while others watched us, standing or sitting on their bicycle seats. That was when we heard the buzzing, much louder than the noise Rodrigo’s jeep had made – it was the sound three bees would have made if they’d been the size of three cats. When we turned, we found ourselves face to face with Henrique, in dark glasses and a beige uniform, sitting on a little electric motorbike, a faithful copy of the one used by CHiPs, the highway patrol from the television series. Without a word he accelerated straight past us. He went as far as the parkland at the end of the road, which we used to call the Bush, then returned, calm and haughty like Jon Baker or Frank Poncherello, the cops from the TV programme. Rodrigo pretended none of it had anything to do with him, but when he slapped his hand down to claim the sticker, Fillol stuck to the sweat on his palm.

  From then on, no one was interested in the jeep. All we thought about was having a go on the CHiPs bike. Sometimes Henrique would let one of us ride it, but only sometimes, and even then he would run alongside. ‘Not too fast, it’ll break!’, ‘Careful with the pothole!’, ‘Only as far as the tree, then give it back!’

  Henrique’s reign lasted several months, and there didn’t seem to be anything to threaten it before Christmas, but at the start of the eighties the porn industry was storming ahead, which meant that by September, on a perfectly average Wednesday, there came Rodrigo’s response.

  It was around noon, and we were conducting the funeral of Fonseca, the Australian parakeet belonging to Ernesto, a red-headed boy who lived at the end of the road. Australian parakeets didn’t have the status of dogs and cats, not even of turtles or hamsters, and Ernesto had organized the ceremony less out of any attachment to the bird, who had been found lying stiffly at the bottom of his cage that morning, than for the amusing possibilities of the burial. The funeral moved on foot from Ernesto’s house to the Bush, some forty metres away, where a little grave awaited us, already opened up with twigs and ice-lolly sticks, in a bed of violets. The deceased was in a shoebox, with Henrique’s bike standing in for a hearse. Ernesto walked alongside, his hand on the handlebar, controlling the speed – a privilege Henrique had granted him, I don’t know whether out of respect for his bereavement or as a guarantee that the deceased would travel by motorbike.

  We were already nearing the Bush when the electric murmur of the little bike was overwhelmed by a loud roar, so loud that it would be useless to try and compare it to the humming of bees, even if they were as big as tigers: what we were hearing was the unmistakable din of an internal combustion engine. The cortège stopped, we turned, and found ourselves face to face with Rodrigo, in helmet and gloves, on a red Fapinha mini-buggy.

  (To say that a mini-buggy was to childhood what a Ferrari is to adulthood is inaccurate, because once we’ve grown up not everyone is interested in cars, while at eight there wasn’t a single boy who didn’t dream of having a Fapinha; it would be no exaggeration, then, to say that there was not, nor will there ever be, an object more coveted by every man born between the sixties and eighties of the last century.)

  All it took was for Rodrigo to come past the funeral, and that was enough for the glory days of Henrique’s motorbike to be brought to an end, but Rodrigo wanted more. He’d been suffering over the downfall of his jeep and the sight of the other boy from head to toe in his CHiPs outfit more than three months earlier: not only did he give everyone a ride on the back of the little car, almost crushing the brand new mini-buggy, but he also offered up the passenger seat to transport Fonseca, the ex-parakeet. Henrique followed behind, alone on his bike, inhaling the exhaust fumes. After that he was quiet for weeks, kicking gravel, breaking twigs, cutting worms in half and squashing ants. He knew the competition had come to an end. What could his father buy? A mini-helicopter? A mini-submarine? There was no place left to go, they had hit the ceiling: the only path to tread, from now on, was downward.

  On the twenty-third of December, after dinner, Henrique turned up at my place, nervous. I was still at the table and my mother had just gone to the kitchen carrying the plates. ‘I’ve got a plan,’ he whispered, glancing inside, afraid to be heard, and gestured for me to follow him out to the street.

  We stopped outside Rodrigo’s house. I reminded Henrique that our neighbour was away. He had gone with his family to spend Christmas in Chile to see his first snow. Rodrigo smiled slightly. ‘Precisely,’ he said, taking a broom handle from its hiding place in the bushes and taking aim at the front door: an iron frame with four rectangles of tinted glass, one above the other. ‘If we break them, we can get in.’ I didn’t understand. The space left by the glass was big enough for us to slip into the house, but never enough for us to bring out the buggy. ‘It’s not the buggy,’ he muttered between his teeth. Only then did I understand: what my friend was planning was an attack that would have symbolic impact. He had lost the war, he knew that, and his revenge would be to capture, a year after the start of hostilities, the thing that had first sparked the conflict, which awaited us on the upper floor of the house, in Rodrigo’s room, at the back of a cupboard: the remote-control jeep. Perhaps Henrique was going to hide it under his bed, or perhaps he’d smash it up with a hammer and bury the remains in the Bush, I don’t know: the important thing was to steal it.

  I was scared to take part, and even more scared to try and stop him and look like a coward, so I just stood there, while he made an assault on the glass in the door using the broom handle like a battering ram. The first time, nothing happened. The second, again nothing. Then he stepped back to the pavement, gathered momentum, and this time, yes, this time he got what he wanted. Or nearly: as the glass smashed into thousands of tiny shards, the noise reverberated down the street and we raced off, each of us back to his own home. I don’t know how, but we were found out, the grown-ups made the connection to me as an accomplice and the cost of fixing the door was split between my parents and Henrique’s.

  The following month, Henrique’s family, who now had carpet shops scattered across the city, moved into a penthouse apartment in Morumbi. Not long afterwards, Rodrigo and his parents also left, for a house with a pool, in Jardim América – they had by that time seven porn rental places in São Paulo, two in Rio de Janeiro and another in Brasília.

  A week after Rodrigo moved, an estate agent turned up on the street, and there was a couple with him. He showed the house to the potential buyers, and on the way out I saw him hiding the key in the fuse box. Late that night, without waking my parents, I slipped out of bed, took the key and entered the house. I walked across the hall, in the dark so as not to attract the attention of the neighbours, up the stairs, went into my friend’s room and opened the cupboard in which the jeep had been kept. I knew how unlikely it was, almost impossible, but what did I have to lose? I found a single blue sock, a bald Playmobil figure, eight stickers of Valdir Peres, three of Juanito and seventeen Poloskeis.

  GRANTA

  * * *

  TOMORROW, UPON AWAKENING

  Antônio Xerxenesky

  TRANSLATED BY INA RILKE

  * * *

  ANTÔNIO XERXENESKY

  1984

  Antônio Xerxenesky was born in Porto Alegre. His first novel, Areia nos dentes, was published in 2008 and his collection of short stories, A página assombrada por fantasmas, in 2011. Xerxenesky has collaborated with several newspapers, magazines and websites, including Estado de S. Paulo, Suplemento de Pernambuco and Blog do
IMS. In 2007, his short story ‘O desvio’ was adapted for television by the screenwriter Fernando Mantelli. English translations of his work can be found at wordswithoutborders.com and the online edition of Two Lines magazine. ‘Tomorrow, upon Awakening’ (‘Amanha, quando acordar’) is taken from his story collection.

  There is a clear distinction to be made between Christmas celebrations and those of the new year. The former are family occasions, or, for those without family, sad get-togethers with friends (and even then only close friends, the ones regarded as family). But New Year celebrations, being held in a spirit of renewal, an atmosphere of ‘from now on everything will be different’, of ‘put it all behind you, here comes 2011’, are all about good riddance, and nobody really wants to celebrate that sort of thing with people as permanent as family. Seeing in the new year is a ritual to be undertaken with friends, lovers, casual acquaintances. The city of Porto Alegre empties out completely, leaving only beggars in the streets, while the lower-middle, middle-middle and upper-middle classes flock to the Rio Grande do Sul and Santa Catarina beaches, where they celebrate the turn of the year as if it were a carnival compressed into a single day. Which explains all those crazy stories that do the rounds, like: ‘I screwed two chicks at New Year,’ or: ‘Then we all went skinny-dipping,’ or: ‘I took acid and lay on the sand and watched the fireworks.’

  He, for his part, had had no such experiences. At nineteen years of age he felt he had missed out on every opportunity for a good time, breaking free, getting some kicks. He had never even travelled on his own (that is, without his family). So in the new year he would make sure things were different, and now was a good time to start. The way he spent this New Year’s Eve would be a symbol of what was in store, an introductory ritual to the adventures he would have in his twenties, making up for his boring teens and a childhood which, if not sad, had certainly been dreary.

  That was the plan. He had rented a house in Imbé (with financial help from his father); a small town with few buildings and a cold, brown sea. It was a bit far away from his friends, who would be on the neighbouring beaches, but he was taking his girlfriend Juliane. His very first trip alone with a girl. Even if this escapade was still far removed from the kind of kicks his friends went on about, in him it aroused sentiments of epic proportions. To him, aged nineteen, having sex was no routine occurrence – each time was new and amazing and special. He didn’t like to admit it, but Juliane was his first lover. She was three years younger than he was, but seemed infinitely more experienced – if not more experienced, then at any rate more relaxed about sex, and consequently more relaxed about the world in general.

  They arrive at Imbé on 30 December, after some tense moments in the car because he isn’t sure if he has taken the right road. They leave their bags in the rented house (pretty, despite hideous furnishings and a musty smell). Darkness falls.

  They go out to meet some friends who are having a barbecue on the next beach, Tramandaí. The evening goes well. More friends arrive. One guy opens the boot of his car and connects a sound system, turning the volume up loud enough to provide party music for an entire neighbourhood. Juliane drinks beer. So does he. He keeps glancing at his watch: the truth is he can’t wait to say ciao to his friends and to the horrendous noise, and go home to bed with Juliane, get down to some full-blown intimacy and fall asleep together in the small hours (so that he’d know what it felt like to sleep next to a woman).

  It is 2 a.m. by the time they return to their rented house in Imbé. He drives nervously, opens the front door nervously, draws Juliane to the bed and scrambles out of his clothes nervously, almost shaking with nerves, like a teenager taken to a brothel by his uncle (an experience his friends claim to have had but not he, and now it’s too late).

  They wake up at noon. It is the 31st, the last day of the year. Tomorrow will be 2011. They have lunch (they’ve brought packets of instant noodles). She wants to go to the beach. He prefers going to the supermarket while it’s still open, to stock up on beer and sparkling wine for tonight, not to mention the pork for the traditional pernil, the grapes and the lentils. So that’s what they do. He takes his time going round the shelves, determined not to overlook a single ingredient of the good-luck rituals, because all rituals matter. Everything is a symbol, and he more than anybody else needs to define his symbols for the year to come, his year of change.

  He drops his purchases off at the house and walks to the shore to meet up with Juliane. She told him earlier that she would stay on the nearest beach, the one at the bottom of the road. But finding her isn’t as easy as anticipated, the sand is packed with people and parasols and dogs and children and beach chairs and corncobs and empty beer cans and soda bottles. There’s a competition going on (not official) for the car with the loudest sound system. Three women in bikinis are dancing around a Celta – much to the dismay of the owner of the Corsa, whose music has attracted just one pot-bellied man holding a cup of maté.

  He spends half an hour looking for her. Each time he spots a head of blonde shoulder-length hair he waits for the person to turn round in case it’s Juliane, but it never is. He gives up and returns to the house. The first thing he sees upon entering is her pink, sunburned back (she didn’t use suntan lotion and her fair skin can’t take the sun). He tells her about his search on the beach, to which she smiles and says: ‘We must’ve just missed each other – while you were looking for me, I picked up my stuff and came home. The sun’s too strong out there.’ And she’s right: the sun is too strong, in spite of the clouds which do nothing to cool the air, only trap the heat.

  They while away the time with a game of poker, then go to bed. Come six o’clock, he gets up, puts the groceries on the kitchen table and starts making supper. She opens the fridge and starts drinking. Night falls, as ever. They eat the roast pork. He has overdone the pepper, and the rosemary tastes a bit strange, but she doesn’t comment on this. They clink with beer (the sparkling wine is for later on, at midnight). They discuss whether or not to go down to the beach to watch the fireworks, whether or not to jump over the waves (which must be done seven times in succession for good luck in 2011). Is she wearing white panties? he asks. All the papers have been going on about white being the lucky colour, so wearing no panties is preferable to wearing black ones. She claps her hand to her forehead and says: ‘Silly me! I forgot all about taking a shower!’ and runs off to the bathroom.

  He has brought a book with him to Imbé, something warmly recommended by an uncle of his, a professor of literature. The title is somewhat pompous – Tomorrow in the Battle, Think on Me – and the novel is rather long. There’s not much point in starting it now, as he will have to stop when she comes out of the bathroom. So he switches the TV on, puts his brain in neutral and watches the new year celebrations taking place around the globe. His eyelids droop.

  He is not sure whether he dozed off, but has the feeling that a long time has elapsed. It’s eleven o’clock. He can still hear the shower running.

  He goes over to the bathroom. Thinks to barge in and surprise her. Instead, he knocks on the door timidly. ‘Everything OK?’ No answer, and a shiver runs down his spine. He turns the handle and the door won’t open. Locked? He tries again, and the door gives way (it just needed a little push). Juliane straightens up, startled. She has been hunched over the toilet bowl. ‘Go away!’ she says. ‘I don’t want you to see me like this.’ He asks her what’s wrong, did she have too much to drink? There are traces of vomit on the seat and on the floor around the bowl. ‘I don’t know. I feel terrible.’ He says not to worry, that he’s there to help. She doubles up again and disgorges another torrent into the bowl. He takes a wad of toilet paper and wipes up the spill. Her skin is still wet from the shower. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ she repeats, as if to say it’s not her fault.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No, really, this has never happened to me before.’ He suggests possible causes – the sun, the beer, the roast pork (the pepper, the rosemary
). He asks if she has any allergies, but she doesn’t seem to hear, because she doesn’t answer.

  She cleans herself up. He helps her to the bedroom, she lies down. She asks him to bring her a bucket, and he goes off in search of a bucket all over the unfamiliar house, eventually finding one tucked away in a small, dark, cobwebby space, presumably the maid’s room. She vomits again, in the bucket this time. Thirty minutes left of 2010.

  ‘Could be an allergic reaction,’ he says.

  ‘But I’m not allergic to anything,’ she replies.

  ‘How about giving your parents a call?’

  So then she explains – feebly, her voice choked from the strain of throwing up. She told her parents a lie, said she was going on this trip with a girl as they wouldn’t have let her go with a boyfriend. Parents from the backwoods, you know how it is, they think a girl of sixteen’s less safe with a boyfriend than going off with her mates to some wild party where she’ll be hassled by all sorts of guys. No, he can’t call her parents, they mustn’t hear his voice or they’d know she was lying and never let her go on a trip ever again.

  ‘What if I take you to the hospital?’ But she has no health insurance, she’s underage, they don’t know where the hospital is, her parents would end up finding out (they always do).

  She is dripping with sweat. No respite from the heat even at night, that’s what the summers are like down south, in December. He gets up to switch on the fan: a breeze might do her good. No sooner has he done this than she’s fast asleep. The effect was so sudden that for a terrified, insane moment he thinks she might actually be dead. Then, seeing her chest rise and fall as she breathes, his fear is assuaged.