by João Almino
There was general dissatisfaction. Complaints about the irrelevance of the work, the disinterest of the Minister in the employees, ill-timed reforms, new policies, the manager’s personality . . . Then in one afternoon the policies and reforms recovered their prestige, the Minister and the manager their affection. The miracle, printed in the good humor of photo # 22 (above), was achieved by the salary increase. The person at the center, arms raised and eyes satisfied, shouts the news, which irradiates joy in anyone moving along the first floor corridor. It’s the photograph of a joy comparable to a carnivalesque explosion. The good humor the photograph was able to preserve lasted only until everyone became used to the few extra reais and began to consider them too little to cover their increased cost of living.
[August 2]
23. Violeta
My expression must have been like a shiny, giddy, elastic ball bouncing from floor to ceiling and ricocheting from one wall to another until it gave off sparks as it hit another shiny metal. One afternoon when I laid eyes on Violeta’s languid face, there were so many sparks they left me dizzy. From my meager office experience I had already figured out a golden rule: not getting involved with work colleagues, even if we were in different areas, with me in the basement and Violeta on the first floor. It would be annoying to have to pay attention to them and alleviate their sorrows when it was just supposed to be casual sex. They would become too friendly or too unfriendly. The photograph I took of Violeta—# 23—was at her request. She looked at me with her brown eyes, a mix of disdain and seduction, as if a model on a runway, a face half lit by the window’s natural light and a glow on her serene red lips. Using my professional mask, I kept the necessary distance between photographer and subject. I would strictly obey my golden rule.
August 4, pre-dawn
I think Laura is growing tired of me. When she came by yesterday she went right to the darkroom. The coldness in her low, prudent voice bothered me. She hadn’t worn perfume. She barely greeted me and didn’t offer to help me continue selecting photos. Her steps were loud, as if she was pounding the floor in anger. Does she think I’m an old teacher trying to seduce her?
I had to ask her to please put two or three photos I had written about in order. That was all she did, hurriedly, without even mentioning the old Beatles and Caetano Veloso songs I put on for her to hear.
Later Carlos phoned. I wasn’t expecting his call. How kind.
– How are you, my friend? What have you been doing? he asked.
– I’m writing my memoir from the perspective of a man twenty years younger.
– Then I need to send you one of Ana’s favorite short stories; I don’t know if you know it. It’s by Borges, the title is “The Other.”
I immediately remembered a literary discussion between Guga and Ana many, many years ago.
– I don’t think I’ve ever read it.
– I’ll send you two versions: one for you to listen to on the computer and a printed one that someone can read to you.
I was unfair to Carlos in the first pages of this diary. If I said that I outlived all the friends from my generation who still live in Brasília, it’s only because he’s older than I am and I never really considered him a friend. Still, he’s the only one left from my former circle of friends. I like to get his calls and his kind-hearted attention. Noticing a catch in my throat, maybe left over from my last cold, he gave me some serious advice, and was sincerely worried about me.
After we said goodbye, my seventy years came knocking on the door, took control of me, brought me to this armchair, relaxed my muscles and my thoughts, and left me alone with my past. During the remainder of the day I listened to the computer voice speaking what I’ve written up until now. The choice of a man’s or a woman’s voice, old or young, high-pitched or low, makes a difference. I put on a young, male voice, but there’s no way to avoid a monotone on the computer that makes me frightened and tormented. The solution was to listen to Mozart’s Symphony No. 41, the Jupiter, with Marcela at my feet.
[August 7]
24. Of a woman’s scorn in a cat’s eyes
It was a cold clear day, the start of winter. Aida didn’t want to go with me to Ana Kaufman’s house. She didn’t know her but already hated her.
I rode with Tânia to keep her company because Paulo Marcos had gone to São Paulo. She wore the sincere affection of deep friendship on a face that was almost bare of make-up, and was dressed with the casual elegance I’ve always associated with cariocas.
I brought Ana new copies of the photos I’d taken of her fewer than two years earlier, the same ones I’d sold to Eduardo. I’d already given her some others at that time, but after cropping and careful darkroom work these were clearly better . . .
Ana and her cat Josafá had an airy way of looking, of moving their heads and settling into the armchair. Josafá, with his lustrous yellow coat, silently exhibited his interior life and white paws. He scorned me as much as Ana did. She barely looked at the photographs I’d brought. She seemed more interested in my brother Guga, with whom she started a literary conversation. The two loved Borges and traded views about his short stories.
– My favorite book is The Book of Sand, Ana said.
– Is that the one with the short story about the sect of the thirty? According to the rationale of many members of the sect, someone who eyes a woman, coveting her, has already committed adultery in his heart . . . Just look, Tânia! Guga was staring at her like the leading man in a novela. Then all men commit adultery. And since desire is no less culpable than the act, as the text says, “the just can give themselves up without risk to the most outrageous lust.”
Tânia returned his look and laughed, although with a laugh that to me seemed pro forma, from someone who laughs to be polite.
It pained me inside, an unacknowledged frustration, that Ana was being condescending to me, looking down at me with a superior air. And I who thought that a woman who had been mine, who had given herself in such a complete way, could be reconquered . . . I took a photograph of Josafá and recorded Ana’s scorn for me in his facial expression. That’s what can be seen in photo # 24 (above).
25. Feels like Sunday afternoon
On the other hand, Carlos had good whiskey. He served me a triple.
– Weren’t you going to bring your girlfriend? Ana asked me. I’d told her I’d be coming with Aida.
– She didn’t want to come.
– Is it serious this time, Cadu?
– Not just this time . . .
– You know what I mean. Do you think you’ll get married someday?
I almost answered that I wasn’t married by choice; I was convinced that a man’s desire was roving and raced from one woman to another.
– You act like my brother Antonio. I’ve been married several times.
– Sorry, I’m not criticizing. But you never took your relationships seriously. You didn’t even take your marriage to Joana seriously.
– Tell me what you’ve been doing, Tânia said.
– Nothing. I’m dedicated to leisure. After trying too many different things and failing at all of them, I’ve concluded that nothing is worth the trouble. I was echoing one of Guga’s lines whose meaning I was beginning to understand.
It wasn’t a manner of speaking. I’d grown tired of looking for meaning in meaningless things. I didn’t expect anything from life or love, I didn’t even hope to overcome life’s emptiness or escape the void. Even so, this situation didn’t leave me melancholic like Guga or resigned, but rather relieved and combative. Without the anguish of someone fearing defeat, I made an effort to reach my goal, which was mainly to vanquish my worst enemy, the one who had robbed the country and stolen my wife—Eduardo Kaufman.
– Cadu’s going to found Brazilian nihilism, Ana ironized.
– It was Emperor Septimius Severus who said: “I was everything: nothing is worth the trouble; Omnia fui, et nihil expedit,” Carlos said, displaying the Latin of a former seminarian.
– You’re lazy, Cadu. With your talent, you should get to work, set up your darkroom, Ana said.
– It is set up and dedicated to weddings, baptisms, and birthdays. No one has hired me for funerals yet.
– If you want, I can suggest your name to the artistic director of the National Theater, a good friend of mine. She must need a photographer for the tribute to Paulo Antonio that she’s organizing.
– Paulo Antonio was worshipped for the wrong reasons. For nationalism. For megalomania, Carlos said.
The blood went to Tânia’s head. She turned crimson when she got worked up. She passionately defended Paulo Antonio. She had unwavering opinions when it came to politics.
If I had known how to say it intelligently, I would have said that politics didn’t interest me. I let Guga keep the discussion alive:
– In this country, anyone who isn’t a populist or an authoritarian is both things at the same time.
– Don’t exaggerate. Liberal traditions do exist, Ana said.
– Liberalism can’t survive in the face of so much poverty, Guga replied.
– If Paulo Antonio weren’t black he wouldn’t have been as popular, Carlos responded.
– To the contrary, the old racial discrimination created distrust and rejection in many people, Tânia said.
– One thing is certain: ideological differences today count for little. The urgent problems are hunger, disease, and ignorance. And there aren’t that many ways . . . Ana tried to change the focus of the discussion.
– I agree that the main difference among politicians isn’t ideological. They can be classified by decibels. The ones who yell the loudest are the most convincing, I said, thinking of Eduardo Kaufman’s inflamed discourse in the Garden of Salvation, expounding in public for the first time the theory that I’d been developing.
– That’s why, Guga, what matters most today is being a good manager, Carlos continued with Ana’s rationale. And dividing lines exist between the corrupt and the uncorrupt; between the demagogues and the problem solvers; those who see only their private interests and those who are concerned with the common good. And you’re right, Cadu, there’s also a difference between someone who wants to make the case based on blows and bellows and someone who knows how to lay out his reasons calmly.
– We need to improve the institutions so we don’t need to depend on the quality of the individuals, Guga explained.
– Eduardo isn’t behind this tribute, is he? Because if he is, he’ll veto my participation, I said to Ana, referring to her proposal for the National Theater.
– No. He’ll probably be there as a guest. No more than that.
– He’s a typical example of a demagogue, Carlos said.
– Demagoguery, amplified by the media, is the essence of politics. Appearing to do is more efficient than doing. Whereas doing can provoke undesired reactions, any second-rate actor like Eduardo Kaufman exerts a seductive power in front of the cameras, Guga said.
What bothered me was that he was a thief. What had the Revenue Service done with my letter and the documents I’d sent?
– I really wanted to have an exhibition of my work, I explained to Ana.
– I’ll remind my friend about your Paulo Antonio photographs.
– Now I want to show another kind of work.
– You have beautiful photographs. You should show them, Tânia agreed.
– The problem is that no one’s interested . . .
– We’ve a friend who opened a gallery. I’ll tell you right now, the location is strange. But that aside, the space is wonderful. What kind of work would you show? Tânia asked.
I vaguely mentioned the panels of triangles as abstractions based on the geometric arrangement of body details, something that recalled, as I had told Ana earlier, those two paintings in the living room—the one of photographs of a series of houses and the one that showed labels and business cards. I also wanted to dedicate a wall to Brasília, through plants and flowers, juxtaposing the rainy season with the dry season.
Walking around the garden looking for a better angle for a photograph, I met Termite, Ana’s nephew. I had seen him on several occasions, the last time about two years earlier.
– If you need white dust, the good stuff, come to me. I have some strong weed too.
When the sunlight lost its sharpness and the shadows stretched along the ground, I recorded the Sunday afternoon atmosphere that enveloped us all in the panoramic photo above (# 25). In the foreground, a carpet of crimson blossoms. To the right, wooden columns through which the pool can be seen. In the background, to the left, the interlaced arches of the JK Bridge, like a flower. In the center, the printed proof that Tânia and Guga’s eyes are meeting. They talk animatedly on the terrace shaded by fronds from the carnaúba palm, while the Paranoá Lake shines spattered with sailboats, the Pilot Plan in the background.
August 11
Flu symptoms and my back pain are sufficient to bury my youthful fantasies. I have spent a lot of time lying down, listening to noise from the neighbors and smelling the odors coming in through the window. At this age a mere flu can be fatal.
As if they were tree trunks in the middle of a powerful current, I clutch objects that are already part of me and still provoke me: Joana’s clothes and a silver heart that I keep as relics, and above all photographs and more photographs that are like a summary of everything I ever was. Grafted to my body, under my skin, are the memories mixed with the remains of a daydream that I sometimes call hope and that disguises it all as a circus magician in order to fool death.
Carlos came by to visit and brought me the short story he promised. The book of thick porous pages belonged to Ana, he said. He also gave me a digital copy that I can listen to on the computer. The tone of his voice offered clear evidence of a body stooped with age.
The elderly talk about illnesses and about the advantages of youth over old age. That’s not our case. Although the novelties no longer seem new to me, my instincts still retain something of my youth. As for Carlos, he was already behaving like an old man when I met him. That’s why it doesn’t surprise me that he defends the advantages of old age over youth.
– It’s in Plato that age substitutes the pleasures of the body for those of conversation and brings a great feeling of calm and freedom. When they asked Sophocles how sexual desire evolved with age, he answered that he felt as if he had escaped from a crazy, furious tyrant; it’s Plato who tells us this.
Carlos is probably right. But his philosophy, like Plato’s, is of little use when I think about Joana or when Laura comes over. Age doesn’t have its own virtues. It affects each person differently. It just reacts, like a chemical product, to whatever we already carry inside ourselves, in other words, to our own defects and qualities. I didn’t respond to Carlos, but I’d bet that this is in Plato too.
– I only regret that it’s precisely when we learn to live that we have to bid farewell to life, Carlos added.
[August 16]
26. Ana and her three husbands
I had moved into my studio at the end of North Wing when I got a call from the artistic director of the National Theater. She confirmed her invitation for me to document the tribute to Paulo Antonio Fernandes. Besides that, the curator of the exposition to be inaugurated at the same event wanted to see my work.
I took her my portfolios and she selected three photos from the series I’d been preparing for Eduardo Kaufman. One was of Paulo Antonio’s inauguration. I went to the National Theater on the appointed day with my camera in hand. Aida was to pick me up when it was over. From there we would go out for dinner.
Stepladder paraded from one side to the other handing out smiles and greetings. Attending every reception was an ingredient in his formula for success, a formula that also included being pleasant, bragging about the things he was doing, and inventing incomprehensible concepts. It wasn’t difficult to fool those who, like most of humanity, couldn’t see.
Eduardo Kaufman took the floor.
He spoke of social drama. Of hope. He lied with statistics. Three or four times he referred to the future and also to the memory of Paulo Antonio, the leader who had helped modernize the country. Loud applause. The photo that I took from below records the false smile etched in the corners of his mouth. It begins with long, fat legs that narrow and ends with a tiny head, a photo that I came to sell together with others of the same type, in circumstances that I will yet relate.
I was intrigued by a scene whose meaning I only came to understand days later. The congressman who had met me, Eduardo’s supposed enemy, greeted him effusively. They didn’t seem to exchange harsh words. They behaved like old friends.
When I saw Eduardo head toward Ana, I approached. He treated me indifferently. If he had learned of my denunciation of him to the Revenue Service, he didn’t let it show.
Ana was wearing a long, dark-blue dress, cigarette in hand. She praised my photos in the exhibit and asked me to take her picture between her ex-husband Eduardo Kaufman and her current husband Carlos. All very modern, I thought, surprised as much by Ana’s attitude, who seemed to have forgotten the scandal of her separation from Eduardo, as I was by Carlos’s, who feigned being comfortable beside someone he had so criticized. Afterward Ana suggested I join them for a group photo that I took with the tripod using a cable release: from left to right, me, her, Carlos, and Eduardo. It’s the photograph # 26 (above). In it everyone is smiling their cocktail party smiles, except me, genuinely happy to be promoted to a level equal to husband or ex-husband. I posed for posterity. I wanted a photo, as someone already said, reflecting my essence, corresponding to my neutral image and representing the person I believed myself to be. I felt my value enhanced beside Ana, noting her renewed appreciation of me.
– Dona Ana and her three husbands, I whispered in her ear.
– You, a husband? she laughed.
– What? Carlos asked.
– No, nothing, she responded and winked at me.
It took me a while to realize that neutral images don’t exist, because photography captures only the passing moment, which can never be repeated.
