This didn’t solve my problems, though, as the prospect of dropping back in was looming on my horizons. What had I to show for my time in Rio except that I was capable of extraordinary indolence? Perhaps it was my proximity to deportation from Brazil, or perhaps it was simply another miserable swing of the pendulum of values, but dangerous thoughts entered my mind about what I could possibly achieve in Brazil before my inevitable departure. I was going to need more than my samba song-and-dance number to cut it with the high achievers when I was eventually forced to go home. The days when you got accolades with the home crowds for just having existed overseas were well and truly gone. You made it through Africa for three months? So what? Did you do it on horseback through a civil war zone? Did you get captured by a tribe unknown to man, and survive their cannibalistic rituals? Even travel, that mother of all excuses for doing nothing, had become an art form.
So I guess it was only natural that when my friend Dominique came to visit for Carnaval, we took the opportunity to shine up our idle lifestyles with a glamorous side-career in cabaret. Dominique was another anthropologist who shared my original dream of becoming a Saint Tropez heiress. She also harboured fantasies of becoming a Brazilian soap star. Needless to say, she and Gustavo became firm friends. Dominique was an old friend from my rodeo days, when I’d first arrived in Rio de Janeiro, and she’d been plotting and scheming her return ever since. I wasn’t surprised to see her again. From my experience of seeing dozens of travellers come and go, Brazil is the kind of the place that works a little hole into your soul without you even realising it. It’s the kind of place that really makes its impact once you get home and have to abide by everyday laws, go to work, read letters from your bank, and perform all those other trying little tasks of living in an orderly society.
Our opportunity came at the tail-end of a fairly disappointing Saturday evening in Lapa. It had been a slow evening, devoid of a magician doing tricks or an unbathed bohemian charming us with his tales, when we ran into my musician friend Foguette and were invited to a star-studded party at a cabaret house. We accepted, and were shortly afterwards ushered into the VIP room of the cabaret house — a dusty theatre at the back of the club behind a magnificent red-velvet curtain, where we drank free champagne while the cocaine-fuelled proprietor, Rubems, showered us with undeserved compliments. It was an entertaining evening. We drank a lot, Foguette played drums, and Rubems grew more liberal with his compliments. He called us his divas; we furnished his fantasy with some high-pitched laughter, clasping at imaginary pearls around our necks, and by the end of the night we received our first invitation to perform cabaret. We looked at each other, smiled with the knowledge that the world was conspiring to support our destinies, and agreed.
Of course! Why hadn’t we thought of it before? I wouldn’t have to return home, and Dominique would finally realise her dream of becoming a Brazilian soap star. We would be rich and envied. Two birds of paradise hit with one diamond-cut stone. We didn’t bother to tell either Rubems or Foguette that we had only ever sung in front of a bathroom mirror. Somehow it didn’t seem relevant as we downed the fifteenth glass. This was not about the singing of cabaret, but about the vision of us saying casually at some time in the future, ‘When I was singing cabaret in Rio de Janeiro … ’
In the haze of our champagne hangover, we forgot all about the invitation, and spent the next two weeks on the beach at Posto Novo. We were only reminded of our arrangement three days before the date of our debut when Foguette turned up on the doorstep. I yawned, remembered the discussion, woke up Dominique, and grudgingly agreed to cancel my beach appointments for the day. We managed one more hour of freedom before Foguette poured our coffees down the sink, stubbed out our cigarettes, and ordered us into the living room for rehearsals. Dominique raised her eyebrows haughtily and I shrugged. As it transpired, underneath his laid-back bohemian appearance lay a militant musician; one who would less than 72 hours later drive the usually composed Dominique to tears of horror at the idea of having to perform a solo of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ with nothing more than a drum-beat accompaniment, and me to a furious confrontation with Fabio about who wore the feather boa in our relationship.
Yes, our choice of music was completely random: ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ by Bonnie Tyler, unsurprisingly, left in the ‘free box’ at the music shop on Rua Carioca; ‘Jolene’ by Dolly Parton (even though, unbeknown to us, the White Stripes hadn’t arrived in Brazil yet); ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ by Al Green because we loved the I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know bit in the middle; and the obligatory, ‘I Will Survive’ by the wonderful Gloria Gaynor. Chiara also suggested that we do ‘I’ve Been to Paradise but I’ve Never Been to Me,’ but we refused, sagely sensing her malicious intentions.
In typical Brazilian style, a small, enthusiastic crowd of people who never seemed to work gathered under the tropical bird-of-paradise canvases to watch our rehearsals and to offer unwanted advice and criticism. The crew consisted of Gustavo, who in addition to being the owner of the rehearsal space was also a well-known and respected patron of the arts; Fabio, an experienced cabaret star of Lapa; Fimmer, a stunning Danish pianist with an anthropological degree in world music and the only one with formal music training in the room; and the two boys from downstairs who had a crush on Dominique and pretty much agreed that anything that came out of her mouth was excellent.
The first day went well, due to our sheer astonishment at finding that we could even hold a note. Our support crew gushed with compliments and applause, and we couldn’t help but allow ourselves to believe that our cabaret performance might just be the start of something beyond our imaginations. We looked towards Foguette for confirmation, and upon receiving a pleased nod gave in to our delusions. We sang, we strutted, we developed dramatic expressions, and had afternoon lie-downs to calm our nerves. We gave each other pep talks and discussed how we would spend the money after our first record deal. By the end of day one, we could taste success on the tips of our tongues. We could feel it vibrate on our tonsils as we beat out that last note with violent anticipation … ‘And I need you now forever ... And I need you now tonight ... I really need you TONIGHT! Forever is gonna start TONIIIIIIIGHT!’
After the first few songs, Fabio assumed the role of our producer and began to conduct his work with the vigour of an American film director, strutting across the front of our mock stage wearing a tennis visor and brandishing a sharp conductor’s stick with which he would gesticulate wildly when we hit a wrong note, yelling, ‘No, No, NO!’ Gustavo took on creative-director responsibilities, dressed in a white caftan and sitting on the end of the zebra-printed couch, hands on spread knees, his eyes closed, and his head rocking softly side to side. Paulo, the mad actor, dropped in a few times as well, but Gustavo kicked him out after he started laughing hysterically at us. ‘He’s mad, of course, completely mad,’ Gustavo hurriedly reassured us after seeing Dominique’s flared diva nostrils.
Foguette tried to rein things back into the realm of reality towards the end of the day when Dominique and I started arguing over whose name should go first — fighting over the subtle differences between ‘Dominique and Carmen’ and ‘Carmen and Dominique’ — but it was too late. Gustavo had already disappeared to plan the hors d’oeuvres for our record-launch party, Fabio was negotiating large credits down at the local bar, and the boys from downstairs had invited their friends around to meet us before we became too famous. Only Fimmer looked dubious; but, having lost her voice in the festivities leading up to Carnaval, she was unable to voice her Nordic concerns against the inferno of Brazilian enthusiasm.
In stark contrast to the previous day, the rehearsals on day two took a heavy turn. Bad omens abounded from the early morning. The smell of a dead animal lingered at the door, and nobody could tell where it was coming from. The Rottweilers went crazy all day, snapping viciously at passers-by and whining at the unidentified smell. Dominique and I started sifting th
rough potential worst-case scenarios, returning constantly to the most dreaded — a room full of English people instead of Portuguese-speaking Brazilians. Not to mention the fact that we started feeling that there was something slightly ridiculous about us thinking we could sing cabaret in the most musical country in the world. I lit my twenty-third cigarette of the day. It was too late to be unravelling the tapestry of our delusions, anyhow. Our gig was in less than thirty-six hours, and Foguette didn’t have the look of a man who was going to cancel over our insecurity about the quality of our musical contribution. ‘The show must go on,’ he said with professional enthusiasm.
Fabio passed by at lunchtime, and we had a terrible fight about something so petty that I refuse to recall it. He threatened to leave me for the hundredth time that month, and even though anyone who has ever been out with a Latin person learns to get used to it after a while, his timing could not have been more inconvenient.
‘Thanks very much, darling, for upsetting me on the day before our performance. You are very unfair,’ I said.
‘Life is unfair,’ he responded with a magnificent Brazilian non sequitur.
Afterwards, Dominique and I sat in the kitchen at Gustavo’s to lament the complete and utter inexplicability of Brazilian people in general, and composed a neat little ditty called ‘Heart on a String’, the appreciation of which depended on the audience not speaking English. (‘Heart on a string. Heart on a string. You’re setting up battles only you can win. Heart on a String. Heart on a Striiiing.’) We sang it until the dogs stopped howling at the smell and started barking at us instead, and eventually Foguette showed up again. With the crew glaringly absent on day two, there were no flourishes of compliments to brighten our perspective on ourselves. We came to the cold and brutal conclusion that the performance was simply bad. We were not reaching the high notes to ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’; ‘Ain’t no Sunshine’ sounded empty without a heavy electric riff and without, as Chiara pointed out, a black man’s voice singing it; and the Africanised version of ‘I Will Survive’, which we had cooked up on the suggestion of Fabio, was sounding like feeding time at the zoo.
On a far graver note, Dominique and I were not connecting. We were both swinging wildly between extreme narcissism and desperate insecurity about our talents as singers. I thought I was singing the parts better to ‘Eclipse of the Heart’ and that she should just do accompaniment on ‘Jolene’. She felt we should do alternate verses of ‘Jolene,’ but I thought that would be contrary to the singular voice of the lyrics. In the end, Foguette resolved it for us and told me to stay out of ‘Eclipse of the Heart’ and Dominique to do backing vocals only for ‘Jolene’. Fabio returned in the late afternoon and, without even mentioning our fight, promptly went to sleep on the couch. Gustavo was still nowhere to be seen. By mid-evening we were both stuck in a trough of self-loathing, and Dominique closed the day of rehearsals with the excuse that her voice needed a rest.
In the words of Gustavo, who saw life as a series of Disasters and Roaring Successes, day three was officially a Disaster. We started rehearsals mid-morning, with our show due to start at midnight that night. The crew was back with a meaner edge, time and reality having blunted the generosity that had spiked the follies of the days before. Things were further complicated by the fact that my friend Julie from across the road had five foreigners who wanted to take a tour to the samba schools that night, and Fabio and I needed the money. Well, Fabio needed the money anyway. Or rather, I needed Fabio to need the money. I spent day three juggling rehearsals, costume selection, and tour management while Fabio slept on the couch. Foguette was not at all happy. We had set up dramatic drum endings to each song, but kept missing them and having to sing the last chorus over again, each time with less and less enthusiasm. ‘The finish is everything’, he said, adding, ‘… in music and in anything.’
The scene looked bad. Gustavo was shaking his head, muttering ‘apocalypse’ over and over again, Fabio had woken up with an Afro and a terrible temper, and Fimmer had simply disappeared. Dominique’s voice was giving out a little, and I kept getting calls from Julie to reconfirm the night’s tour, which Fabio was going to have to run solo — an additional cause for concern. On our thirty-third finish of Bonnie Tyler’s wretched number, Dominique cracked, croaking tragically that she couldn’t take it anymore. She disappeared upstairs to have a tearful lie-down on the Chinese princess bed while I tried to sort out Fabio, who was looking stubbornly disagreeable about the fact that he, the bohemian, was going out to work, while I, the foreign provider, would be singing cabaret in his Lapa. It was too much of a role reversal for one afternoon, and he drank a bottle of whiskey in protest.
Eventually Dominique re-emerged, and we decided to ease back into the afternoon rehearsal by singing our own number, ‘Heart on a String’. To our surprise, everyone loved it and said it should be included. It was but a brief ray of sunshine in the storm. The rest of the afternoon went badly. We failed to locate a car for the tour, missed the sound check at the cabaret theatre, and were informed that our performance time was two hours before the time we had expected. I left the car issue in Fabio’s incapable hands and went to arrange our costumes. At 9.00 p.m. I arrived at Julie’s to find five English tourists waiting eagerly at the door, wearing novelty feathers. I greeted them pleasantly, rang Fabio, and discovered he was still smoking pot at his house and that there was still no car. I told him to come to Julie’s immediately and he turned up fifteen minutes later, unabashed. I repeated my question. Why was there no car?
An intersection of confronting subjective realities occurred, and what followed was a tradition I call the Great Brazilian Argument. Like yoga in India, tai chi in China, or even prayer time in the Middle East, the Great Brazilian Argument is a sacred time of the day, where this tropical race come together to cleanse themselves of their frustrations, absolve themselves of guilt and, of course, develop a pretext for wild sex. Beyond the spiritual and physical benefits, the Great Brazilian Argument is also a fine performance art, developed over hundreds of years inside a rich historical framework. For the inexperienced Anglo-Saxon punter, the first Brazilian Argument can be somewhat bewildering, even petrifying, but things are infinitely easier once you understand some basic rules. Certainly there needs to be a cause, although this is not essential; it can and should be something as petty and insignificant as forgetting to shut a door, not answering your mobile, drinking the last of the milk, and so on. These are all infinitely more enjoyable to argue about and, ultimately, more fun to resolve in some passionate way than the big issues of life such as lack of gainful employment, drug addiction, starving children, and life-threatening illnesses, but the real creative energy of a good old Brazilian bust-up is in the fight itself.
THE GREAT BRAZILIAN ARGUMENT
Ingredients: a handful of petty reasons, one public stage (street outside house or popular bar gives the best rise), a bin and other easily throwable props, one timid Anglo-Saxon participant (when in season), and a bunch of flowers to decorate.
Preparation: set the temperature to maximum by ensuring that as many people as possible (preferably peers of the person being argued with) are within hearing distance.
1.Storm up to the person concerned with a furious expression and demand a private conversation.
2.Do not wait to be granted the private conversation you requested, but start immediately by presenting the pettiest reason decorated with a vicious personal insult, for example: ‘You drank all the milk, you shameless whore, didn’t you?’
3. Do not wait for answer. Add more petty insults.
4. If participant shows signs of leaving the scene, take the bin and throw at concrete wall.
5. Add more grave insults such as: ‘Your mother is an ugly cow’ or ‘Anyway, I slept with your best friend.’
6. If participant really goes to leave, throw something else in their path.
7. If participant succeeds in exiting stage, stop tal
king and give a bellowing roar. Threaten suicide if bottles or rocks are handy.
8. In the rare case that your threat of suicide is ignored, throw yourself on the ground in front of a moving taxi (taxi drivers are used to this in Rio, but do not attempt this with Leblon four-wheel drives).
9. In final scene, present flowers, on knees.
IN FABIO’S CASE, the tension of having to work for the first time that year had built up a rush of frustration so great within him that he felt compelled to pick our bin up and smash it on the sidewalk. Afterwards, he fell to his knees, tore at his breast, and bellowed like a wild animal, smashing his fists on the cobblestones until he began to sob uncontrollably. The tourists cowered behind the gate and watched on with wide eyes. Dominique came out onto the Portuguese-tiled balcony with a sleep mask on her head, and the shutters at the priest’s house opened. Fabio slumped against the gate and choked back an enormous sob of self-pity. I remained stoically unemotional throughout this exhibition until eventually he stopped, wiped his eyes and smiled, even a little bashfully, as an actor might after having given a star performance of Hamlet. He thrust a dirty-nailed hand in the direction of the tourists to reassure them, but they shrank from his grasp back behind the gate. I sighed deeply and took the opportunity, in the lull of emotion, to inform the tourists in an American-customer-service-style voice that they would be departing shortly. A red-haired girl from Liverpool came forward from behind the gate and asked in a fragile, sympathetic whisper if everything was all right. I smiled broadly.
Chasing Bohemia Page 18
