by João Almino
– Your son will unite the two of you. He needs you. He’ll be a source of worries and also of great joys. And he’ll help you both in your old age.
Mauricio had remained seated on a sofa outside. Iris hadn’t said “Aida’s son” or, by mistake, “your son with Aida,” just “your son.” The comment could only apply to Bigfoot, my son with Berenice. Finally, she commanded:
– Look straight ahead without fear.
Straight ahead I didn’t see anything other than her wrinkles and still some doubts. I didn’t believe she had foreseen the future, but she certainly reminded me that it existed and that part of it was up to me.
I left with two resolutions. The first was that I should meet Big-foot. The second left me euphoric. The time had arrived to propose to Aida. As Guga would say with his erudite quotations, the reason was simply simple; if we liked each other so much, why not marry her and make it official like my parents and Antonio had done, as Mother had always demanded?
That night, Aida and I made love as if we’d been married for forty years. By this I’m not saying that it was boring, unimaginative sex. It was good in that there was no anxiety or urgency in our movements and that our bodies knew each other, adjusted to each other, fitting perfectly and comfortably like two magnets attracting. We stayed that way until sleep came over us and each rolled to one side. I couldn’t consider the relationship with Aida a wild passion. It was a friendship with sex, the tranquil marriage in pastel colors that I had always wanted and that contrasted with my troubled past and gaudy colors in Joana’s company.
The day dawned and the great kiskadee sang continuously: “kiska-dee?” From the window of Aida’s apartment a vibrant green, spattered in purple by the ipê, shone with the first rays of sun. That’s when I took photograph # 34.
[August 23]
35. Fixations number 1
In August of 2001 I received a note from the triangle-on-the-wall girl at my work address, together with a newspaper article. She had fulfilled her part of our deal. A critic had written about my exhibition. I wanted to believe that the opinions of others didn’t matter but suddenly they mattered a great deal, regardless of whose opinions they might be, even a critic’s, just one inarticu-late and despicable critic who was incapable of understanding the deepest meanings of my work and who, probably moved by envy, wrote for a newspaper no one ever read. If those words had just been spoken to me, they would have gone in one ear and out the other. But written text, if it escapes the trash, can be viewed forever, like a photograph, and end up being confused with reality.
We know mankind’s first sentiment was pride; the second, vanity. We’re capable of killing over such nonsense. I use the royal “we” so that my defects are transformed into an excusable human characteristic. I must admit, my pride and my vanity were wounded. I wanted my work to seduce, surprise, and shock. Suddenly my critic considered it tedious, graphic, and vulgar, in addition to not at all original. Indifference and silence would have pained me less than that cruel attention to my work.
I reproduce (above) one of the panels from the exhibition so that it can be judged with impartiality and objectivity, although, for that, one would have to imagine it a hundred times larger.
[August 23, afternoon]
36. Happy couple
I had a nightmare. The vestal virgin that we’d met at the entrance to the Garden of Salvation was brought to me by Mauricio. A thorn had entered her body right above the vulva. She asked me to help her remove it. I looked. She was wearing nothing under her petticoat. She had no pubic hair. And her whole body was milky white. I took her to the temple in Aida’s car, looked in vain for a place to park and ended up leaving it in a no-parking area. Next we walked holding hands, crossed a glass-covered bridge alongside the crowd, and then I was the one who was naked. We slipped on the soapy floor, I didn’t know where we were going to stop and I worried that Aida and Mauricio could see us through the glass. I awoke relieved that it was only a dream.
I called Antonio:
– I think I’m going to get married.
– You’ll like it. It’s never too late to have children.
– It’s not children I’m thinking about—and I almost told him that I already had a son.
Antonio was right in fact; I’d never feel fulfilled until I could be a father to someone, and I couldn’t say I’d been a father to Big-foot. But Aida didn’t need to conceive another child, I could adopt Mauricio. Or, who knows, I could approach Bigfoot and acknowledge paternity. Only a biological son would transmit my genes to future generations.
Since Antonio wanted to meet Aida, my phone call resulted in an invitation for one of his Sunday lunches.
– So, when’s the wedding? he asked us as soon as we arrived.
– Things are fine the way they are. We’re not thinking about that, Aida answered.
I hadn’t gotten up the courage to make my intention lead to a marriage proposal and, faced with Aida’s answer, I preferred to keep quiet when faced with Antonio’s look of interrogation and censure.
When we sat down at the table, he wanted to know about my participation in the tributes to Paulo Antonio Fernandes, the reason for my coming to Brasília. I told him my problems with Eduardo Kaufman.
– Opportunistic s.o.b., Veronica said.
– Don’t be such an extremist. You always think all politicians are opportunists, Antonio answered.
– Yes, I’m an extremist. There isn’t a single one who’s any good. This Eduardo, besides being an opportunist, pays for the politicians’ orgies.
– You’ve made up your mind: No one in the world is any good.
That small disagreement was enough to set Antonio and Veronica off into an elaborate demonstration of their methods of warfare. They were explosive, sparks flying in the form of a word, an unspoken word, a glance, a missed glance. Both of them felt offended for no apparent reason and claimed that the other one was too touchy about innocent comments.
Aida seemed shocked by the way the two of them were behaving. My nephews, also at the table, said nothing.
– This interests me. Are you sure that Eduardo finances these parties? I asked Veronica, indifferent to the conjugal battle.
– They say he does, you know? Apparently he uses an escort service.
I remembered the site I’d consulted in the apartment at 104. The indications of Eduardo’s involvement were clear: Veronica had heard about it . . . and there was the evidence of the sites he logged onto on the computer. Maybe Akiko, the Japanese girl who appeared on the site, the champion of page hits on Eduardo’s computer, could one day be useful.
– You two make such a cute couple! Veronica said, offering to take my photo with Aida, the one seen above, a smiling photograph of our faces touching.
I feel enormous affection for that photograph that I didn’t take and I prefer it to any wedding photo. For the tenderness of our expressions, it’s the best of all of the photos of me with Aida. Anyone studying it objectively—even Veronica herself, who took it, couldn’t see its value. There are photographs that have only subjective value, sometimes for the person who took them and in this case for the subject, like the page of a diary that records what moved us deeply and whose dimensions only we understand.
Several days later I put that photo in a frame and gave it to Aida as a gift. Without thanks or comment she placed it on the bedroom dresser and said:
– I need to talk to you. It’s very serious.
What could it be? She seemed depressed, pale, as if she were still in shock from suddenly hearing some terrible news. Could somebody have told her about Livia and me? I couldn’t allow some nonsense named Livia to destroy the image of happiness printed on that photo on the dresser. I thought about telling her everything, feigning profound regret. I say “feigning” because if, on the one hand, Livia had added above all a certain uneasiness to my triangle collection, on the other I didn’t feel anything approaching regret, much less profound regret.
– Aida, I k
now it doesn’t matter to you, but it does to me. I’d like you to agree to be my wife. For us to get married in church and a civil ceremony, the way it should be. Look at this photo, it doesn’t lie: we’re a happy couple.
Aida began to cry. She wept.
– We’ll talk later. I want to be alone, she said, sobbing.
Mauricio came into the bedroom. Aida hugged him, still crying.
August 28
When Mauricio arrived this morning I hugged him, remembering the hug that Aida had given him two decades ago. He came at my request to help me organize the photos of his mother. Even when I could see I never wanted to revisit them, but of all the photographs they’re the clearest in my memory.
He was upset by some violent scene he’d witnessed.
– Do you remember when you used to carry a pocketknife and I told you Brasília wasn’t Rio? Today I’d say you’re right, I said.
I asked if he’d seen Carolina. No, he hadn’t. I tried to tell him how much alike they are. They have the same sensitivity and the same interests: I mentioned my goddaughter’s intelligence and musical taste.
– She doesn’t play an instrument like you do but she knows how to appreciate good music.
I described a concert she’d taken me to a few days ago. In short, I left Mauricio with the most vivid impression of my goddaughter.
By chance he met Laura, who raved about me and described the work she’s been doing here. How wonderful that Laura sings my praises!
In my future, two little lights shine. One, with a new glow, is named Laura. The other has a persistent, yellowish old-fashioned glow. It’s Joana. They’re distant stars. But I can still see them.
The tiny future stars dazzled me so much that I almost gave up organizing Aida’s photographs. I realized my error in time. That would be abandoning what was so dear to me for an unattainable future. I don’t want to cure the pain of yesterday with today’s fantasies. I’ll never forget Aida. Mainly, I’ll never forget those days of waiting and agony.
I dictated the files corresponding to Aida’s photos to Mauricio. I renumbered some of them. They’ll serve as an outline for whatever I write over the next few days. I continue to avoid showing Mauricio what I’ve already written. I fear that our memories don’t coincide and that when he reads certain passages he’ll think I’m trying to improve my own image in his eyes, feigning an amiability that I don’t actually feel. But when I finish I’ll ask him to edit my Book of Emotions. I want him to improve the writing and if he doesn’t like the content, I hope he’ll forgive me. I haven’t included and I won’t include anything more than what was lived. Less, yes. Words to describe profound pain will always be insufficient.
– Laura’s right, Mauricio told me. You never forget an image.
– I do too, many of them. But I don’t forget you or your mother.
Now that he’s left, I’m updating my diary on the computer and writing a few more pages in my Book of Emotions. I served myself a glass of wine. The ethanol odor of the cars filling the streets enters through the window. It’s a good thing I don’t drive and almost never leave home.
The helicopters leave the sky confused. I manage to neutralize their noise listening to Cole Porter with the volume turned up. Marcela’s at my feet and by the way she rests her head on my shoes, I know she’s happy with my musical choice.
[August 29]
37. Anguish disguised in bowling balls
– I should have told you before, Aida said, a few hours after her fit of sobbing. I acted selfishly. I thought I’d live at least a few happy days before I die. The doctors give me six months at most.
It was a cancer that had been detected too late. It had already metastasized.
I didn’t know what to say. I hugged her for minutes that lasted an eternity and later tried to cheer her up:
– You’re tough. You’ll come out of this.
– No. There’s no hope. The doctors have already given me the bad news.
– Whatever happens, I’ll be right beside you. I’ll take care of you.
– Promise that you’ll take care of Mauricio?
– I’ll take care of you and him.
I felt good being loving, useful, and mainly honest, with a purpose in life. It was good to show that I was good. To feel good. To be good. Good was right and right was good.
I invited Mauricio to go bowling. We went in Aida’s car to the Parkshopping Mall. We stayed there late, concentrating on the game, not saying a word. That’s where the photo above is from, # 37. It’s not for the good composition or the pleasing way I framed the bowling balls that this photograph deserves to be reproduced here. It could well be confused with a good advertisement. But it’s special to me, because the shock I felt is engraved in it. Never had a piece of news taken the ground out from under my feet and undone my horizons like this one. I could write an entire book about how a disease can interrupt our calculations, plans, and foresight, destroy the meaning of the story we were writing on earth, and leave us adrift, bewildered in the face of the unexpected and unjust. Aida never left my thoughts, which came and went, associated with the bowling balls. Life is just what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.
38. Mauricio thinking of Sharon Stone
– I brought a film with a gorgeous, totally naked woman, I told Mauricio the next day. A film I hadn’t seen in years.
We went out for a walk around the block. I showed him a guava fruit at the top of the guava tree. The branch as hard as glass broke under Mauricio’s weight. I took him home and patiently applied dressings to his injured arm. It was the first time I had been a nurse or even taken care of someone.
I kissed Mauricio’s scalp. I didn’t say that what was happening to him and his mother was divine injustice only because I didn’t believe in God.
– And your homework, have you done it?
– No. I don’t want to today. Let’s watch the film you brought.
It was hard to imagine that Aida would die, but if it happened, I would indeed take on the responsibility of raising Mauricio, even if that meant I’d have to redouble my efforts to earn a living. My love for Aida would live on in my dedication to Mauricio. That could be my mission in life. I hoped to live long enough to see him become an accomplished adult.
The afternoon sun invaded the living room. Thick, black eyebrows delineated Mauricio’s thin, dark face. I recorded in the photograph above, # 38, a gleam in his eyes and the spontaneous laugh of someone who’s happy at the possibility of seeing Sharon Stone naked. In that look and that laugh, I saw another possibility, dear and sublime: I’d be a real father to Mauricio, taking him to school every day, helping him with his homework, playing with him, and watching movies together.
[August 30]
39. Spaceship with crown of thorns
The same barren fields, the same esplanades, the same park that earlier wore vibrant, varied colors had acquired a sepia tone. I’d be alone in the world. It was one more reason to take photographs. When taking photographs I felt accompanied, I didn’t know yet by whom. But one day I’d show those photographs or those photographs would show themselves.
Brasília sizzled like a pan. I wandered aimlessly, stooped with sadness. The series of photos of cracked sidewalks came from that period. Tufts of grass emerged from some of the cracks. From others only red clay was visible.
From one of the cracks I picked up the cellophane wrapper of an empty cigarette carton. I was playing with it between my fingers, not paying attention to it or to myself. A living photo played out before me: starving boys, expectant mother, perfect framing of social drama. Now another approached, it looked like a Cartier-Bresson, a girl jumping a water puddle, still suspended in air while the expression of the elderly in the background was one of pain and uneasiness. The moments were fleeting. The photographs vanished. The faces of the elderly were now expressionless. The girl, with her back to me, was swinging her flowered dress in the direction of an apartment block.
An un
known gringo appeared. You know a gringo by the movement of his lips, a rhythmless body, and by the style and size of the shoes. I waited until those shoes took long strides across the background composed of trash thrown on the grass at the edge of the curb, the dry leaves, pieces of styrofoam, perforated paper, cigarette butts, a popped balloon, aluminum foil sparkling in the sun, cardboard, broken roof tiles . . . I threw the cellophane I was still carrying in my hand on top of that trash. A photograph of what? I didn’t know. A photo of a recognizable long stride atop abandoned refuse.
I walked several more kilometers, sweating my shirt and my thoughts through those repetitive interquadras, with their “air of elegant monotony,” as someone famous said. “Man’s eye serves as a photograph of the invisible, just as the ear serves as an echo for silence,” I remembered the complete sentence quoted by my brother Guga. The landscapes repeated themselves as in Ravel’s Bolero, blocks and more blocks, highway cloverleaves and more cloverleaves, until the clouds bled in the late afternoon sky.
I walked down in the direction of the Esplanade. I contemplated the human creation as if it were divine, the anti-city, symbol and desire, that came to humanize the Central Plateau; technique in search of beauty, as Niemeyer said. I had already seen those buildings thousands of times, but I was seeing them anew. In the foreground, the baptistry in the shape of a spaceship transported me to a strange faraway world where Aida’s voice resounded softly in the midst of the thick fog and disappeared little by little. But I saw her hands crossed over her chest holding a red rose I’d given her. She was pale and her eyes were closed. I did the framing for photo # 39 (above), its metallic colors emphasized by the Cibach-rome print. Behind the baptistry the cathedral rose like a crown of thorns. I didn’t believe in God, but there I rendered my soul unto Him.
[August 30, night]
40. Mysterious writing
I continued walking, now in the direction of the South Wing. The enormous square, with no trees or fountains, an immensity of stones and concrete, was spattered with street vendors, neckties and more neckties hanging on a line, a rational and surreal landscape right in the midst of Banking Sector South. The ruins of the modern were the ruins of my dreams.
