by João Almino
It was frustrating to confirm that Eduardo had escaped once again. On the other hand, my neighbor’s bitch had had a litter and two of the puppies were for sale. When one of the female pups started jumping on me, the name “Marcela” came to mind. I had promised Marcela I’d give her name to my daughter. The three-month-old puppy hanging onto my legs was the closest to a daughter I’d had or would ever have, and I still found the name beautiful. I did a test. I called her: “Marcela!” She came running into my arms. I had fulfilled my promise. With no daughters or cats, I would name my dog Marcela.
[October 19]
Carolina, then four years old, pulled Marcela’s tail or ears while Tânia and I speculated about whether Rio or São Paulo was more violent now that the mafia war by the Prime Command of the Capital dominated the São Paulo scene, and whether Eduardo Kaufman was included among the leeches, the parliamentarians who, by amendment, extracted money from the national budget to purchase overpriced ambulances for municipal governments.
– No. He’s too rich to need to do that, she asserted.
– I heard on the radio that scientists measured the distance between Brasília and hell. It’s only forty kilometers.
Then we all went downstairs—Marcela, Carolina, Tânia, and I—to stroll around the block. Seeing her poorly outlined and using the automatic shutter, I took a photo of Marcela jumping on me. She laughs and looks askance, as if she were a person. I would be exaggerating if I said I was happy, because happiness is a mirage we can see when we look backward or forward. But nothing was making me unhappy, and having my faithful companion Marcela kept me closer to happiness.
October 19, night
A few years ago life in the Pilot Plan was still peaceful. Today the swelling of the surrounding communities asphyxiates the city. Millions of people fight over the scarce water and limited urban space. And I imagine that it’s because of the kilometers and kilometers of asphalt that it has hardly rained at all, the air stays dry and the weather hasn’t cooled off. The heat is intolerable today.
Mauricio and Laura came by and solemnly asked me to be best man. I accepted willingly. They seem made for each other. They prove that marriage is far from being a bankrupt institution. I’ve just been unlucky.
They asked Joana to be the maid of honor.
– What do you think? Mauricio wanted to know.
– I don’t think anything. It’s not my marriage. And if she accepted . . .
– She was really thrilled when we said we were going to ask you to be best man.
I had also never been so pleased and not because I think Joana’s interested in me. Maybe it’s because of the wedding atmosphere, because I’m surrounded by young love and see Mauricio and Laura happy.
[October 22]
59. The mechanical eye
Time was marked by the varying degrees of my vision loss and my corresponding inability to take photographs, until a few years later I reached the phase of photographs of darkness, photographs of voices and other sounds, sometimes mere noise or what touch and smell revealed. When my weak sight unsaw things, my memory and conscience revived them. I saw what my eyes couldn’t see. The colors of our surroundings only exist for our eyes, which capture almost nothing of the world’s light. But when our eyes go dark those colors cease to distract us and our eyes feel free to explore what is beyond mere appearance. Over time I grew convinced that truth can be clearer in the dark of the blackest night, and I discerned another meaning for the sentence Guga had uttered and which I had never forgotten: “Man’s eye serves as a photograph of the invisible, just as the ear serves as an echo for silence.”
Since my photographs of voices and other sounds weren’t marketable, I stopped working. I was being supported by Antonio with my future money, in other words, I finally persuaded him to agree to deduct his cash advances from my inheritance. When my grandfather died, Mother had preferred to move from the ranch to Porto Alegre where Guga was living. With the sale of the land she’d acquired a nice house, an eighth of which would one day be mine and would be combined with my small self-employment pension to pay for my food deliveries.
My inheritance didn’t take long to arrive. I didn’t want to ask Antonio for money to go to Mother’s funeral nor did he offer any. So my financial debt to him didn’t increase, as opposed to my debt of gratitude to her. I’m not a man to cry even when there’s plenty of reason to, especially since as a child I cried for no reason. But when Antonio told me Mother had said my name in a coma just a few hours before she died, I cried my silent heartfelt cry. Her absence loomed larger than I could have ever foreseen. I dreamed about her several times. I know how much she loved me and how little I knew how to return her love. I rarely paid her a visit. We spoke little, besides the exchange of banalities by phone.
Antonio also told me that those had been her exact words a few days before: “Tell Cadu to contact Guga. I want them to reconcile.” In the depth of my stubbornness I always followed her teachings. However I ought to discard that advice. Guga was the one who had stopped contacting me. And why had Mother not directed the advice to him, the one who had arrived in time to witness her death?
Once in a while I drank more than I should, thinking about Mother and also still thinking of Aida. I could no longer see enough to walk alone outdoors. One day as I staggered home I was struck by a car. Thrown against the sidewalk, my head hit the curb. I shouted at the driver. Still holding the camera that I insisted on keeping with me, counting on my luck not to be robbed, I tried in vain to take a photograph of what I couldn’t see, the car that was leaving without giving assistance.
– He’s crazy, a boy yelled. Others around me laughed.
I made out the deep voice of a teen:
– Leave Cadu alone.
Once again the improbable had happened to me: my camera remained in one piece and it recorded some scenes in response to the nervous movements of my index finger. They tell me that in the blurry photograph reproduced above (# 59, which proves the hypothesis of an optical unconscious), the light is mysterious, there’s a colored movement in the shape of an “s” and the plasticity of a work of art. A mechanical photo, whose framing was set by the camera’s objective eye, an eye that sometimes surprises by seeing more than the human eye and that was able to record for all time not only that exact moment but also what came later.
[October 22, late at night]
60. Touching Tânia
The voice I had recognized was Mauricio’s. He wanted to take me to the hospital. I refused. I had felt only some slight dizziness and the injuries appeared to be superficial. He finally left me in my studio and dressed my wounds. Later I had a call from Tânia. She was on her way. Mauricio had let her know.
Since I still refused to go to the hospital, Tânia insisted on redoing the dressings, perhaps to confirm that the accident wasn’t too serious. She wanted to know if the fall had been hard, if I felt head pains. Paulo Marcos had traveled to Miami on business, she said.
That night I had a nightmare. I dreamed I was embracing Tânia; I’d discovered that I truly loved her as I had never loved another woman. She was hugging me and she said we’d be happy. We were holding hands leaving the bedroom and when we opened the door we ran right into a wall. “The door is further ahead,” Tânia said. We walked a few more steps. When we opened the second door we saw Paulo Marcos accompanied by Mother. He had an angry look on his face and Mother had a surprised expression, not yet knowing how to react. Then she accused me with a harsh look: “You committed a grammatical error!” I awoke with a start, feeling that Mother was sitting there beside me on the bed.
Tânia and I went out together several times. When I was with her, her interest in what I was saying made me feel intelligent. Words came easily, quickly filling the too brief time for everything we had to say to each other. I didn’t always agree with her. She had hard-line political positions and believed in the leaders of her party, especially when they were the opposition. But I forgave her political opinions as muc
h as she forgave my indifference. There was only one thing I would never forgive, and for this reason I never asked her what had happened between her and Guga because I didn’t want to hear an unacceptable answer. I also never learned whether she told Paulo Marcos about our meetings.
I spent years fantasizing about the day he would die. I didn’t wish for it exactly. I liked him. But when I placed on one side of the scale the lightness of the sincere friendship I felt for him and on the other the consistency and solidity of my feelings for her, the scale tipped toward the pan with the affection, admiration, and desire where my love for Tânia lay. Tânia’s complexion was not dark but she could get a very dark suntan, her eyes and hair were black and seeing her again had been unexpected. I didn’t even need to believe in the tarot cards to bring the fortune-teller’s prediction to fruition. I thought several times about reminding Tânia of our earlier conversation and telling her that when she was free I would be ready for us to live together.
With time, I finally understood Guga’s earlier lecture about desire and happiness. He was right, desire had made me suffer, because we want what we don’t have, and desire is like a cell that reproduces itself easily. As soon as one is satisfied another appears. I was able to free myself from my desires, seeing the world in a disinterested manner and, despite the advance of my blindness, acquiring a peace I had never known before. It was good not to be able to look at myself in the mirror, to cease admiring the shapes of my face and lamenting the visible signs of aging, as if Narcissus had finally been convinced by the blind Tiresias that he’d live better if he didn’t see his reflection. Perhaps I was less focused on myself. Being happy in Tânia’s happiness was sufficient.
I serenely contemplated the world that had so tormented me. It now idled impassively before me, like a shining, seductive, fancy dress forgotten on the bedroom floor on Ash Wednesday morning after keeping me awake on Carnaval night. I came to value the ascetic behavior of someone who wants to accomplish something greater than himself and to build virtue through resignation. It was possible to fight against vanity and renounce material aspirations. I just couldn’t forgive Eduardo Kaufman.
One day Tânia and Paulo Marcos took me to a concert in the Martins Pena Theater. I left Marcela at home and went out with my cane. The odor of the old velvet, carpet, and cleaning products made me queasy, when to make matters worse Eduardo Kaufman came over to talk to me during the intermission.
– I wanted to tell you that I was the one who bought the photographs you took of me. They’re really funny. I’ve shown them to friends and they’re a big hit. If you still have any more, I’ll buy them.
His words unleashed the anger I had been saving for years. I needed to at least punch him. It was an act of desperation, my settling of old scores, since I hadn’t been able to do anything else and never would. I located him with my cane, clenched my fists and shot my right arm in his direction with all my strength. The strike at the air threw me off balance, almost knocking me over.
– Are you crazy? he said, avoiding me as I tried again and again. Finally, with all the violence I could muster, I struck a blow to the outside corner of the wall. Thus my revenge was summed up in an attempted blow and the only noticeable result was my bloodied hand.
Tânia witnessed it all. She was understanding and—I believe this is the right word—loving. Having her faithful friendship, life seemed to roll by like a lighthearted movie, a daydream that allowed a beam of reality to shine—a reality that didn’t delude and couldn’t disappoint. When she came to comfort me the next day I asked her to pose for me. I touched her hair with my fingers to be sure of the framing of her face, and her lips to measure the expression of her smile. If they told me she was no longer beautiful, I wouldn’t believe it because my touch confirmed the image my eyes had preserved intact. Photography stops time and can retain feelings so that they can be relived in memory. The photo above (# 60) was the last I took of Tânia.
October 30
I asked Carolina for news of her parents. She gave me their email addresses.
– They’d love to hear from you.
I sent a brief message to Tânia, saying that my goddaughter had been keeping me company and that Brasília was never the same after she and Paulo Marcos left for Miami.
November 2
It’s been nine or ten days since I wrote a line for my Book of Emotions. I wasn’t feeling well and I believe that’s why I thought about settling scores, now that I’m better: to pay homage and express my gratitude to the deceased. Following my suggestion, today Carolina, Mauricio, Laura, and I went to the cemetery.
It had been some time since I’d ridden across the city by car. I went with my goddaughter. We took the Main Axis, and I was measuring distances according to the number of cloverleaves that I recognized by the loud hoarse noises of the car tires. With each curve and stop, I went on guessing the places we passed.
Knowing Brasília isn’t about knowing the Esplanade of the Ministries or the Plaza of the Three Powers or the superquadras, or even South Lake or the satellite cities. Inside me I felt the weight of its drama, intrigues, contrasts, its chaos disguised in straight lines, its worm-eaten dirty modernity, its dust, light, hot sun, the rot of the power dungeons, the spilled tears and laughs heard in the corridors of Congress, so many actors, my memory of desire, an essence of the desert, of nothingness, everything from which I plucked my remnants of hope. I saw myself as a fool who wanted to recover Brasília’s myth and utopia, its beauty and dream of equality.
The quantity of flowers we carried revealed the number of our dead. First, Mauricio and I deposited flowers at the foot of Aida’s grave near the stone with the phrase “I fought for justice and lived to make others happy.” I asked Mauricio to clean and restore the words that Aida’s sisters had had engraved. It’s a simple grave as are all the graves in Brasília’s cemetery. I covered myself in the shadow of the trees growing around it, inebriated by the smells of the wreaths we had brought. In front of Aida’s grave, I kissed the silver heart she gave me. I like rituals.
I asked them to take me to the graves of some friends I never forget and who are also there under the ground. I don’t believe in life after death, but it’s as if in some way they were still alive for me. As if through those flowers we’d brought I could communicate to them how much of what I am—mainly whatever good there is in me—I owe to each of them. I kept smelling the flowers we were passing and tried to identify the perfume of each one.
We found Carlos at Ana’s grave, where the smell of jasmine was strongest. He asked me about Guga.
– I have no idea what he’s doing or where he is, I answered.
Carlos may not know about my battles with Guga. He saw us together at Ana’s funeral a few months ago where my brother and I didn’t say a word to each other, although he came over and hugged my shoulder as if to say “let’s forget the past” or perhaps “we should cry over our common past together.”
Ana’s greatness hovered over Carlos and me. I became emotional at his emotion, expressed in his voice. Unfortunately, Ana died before we had the chance to renew our old friendship. She was more offended than I could have ever imagined over such a small thing as the sale of her beautiful pictures to her ex-husband and lost confidence in me. Carlos never learned the real reason why Ana put distance between us and continues to be kind to me when we meet.
He invited all of us to go to his house. These days I recognize houses by their smells and, on arrival, the smell of that house reminded me of the previous times I’d been there. It was as if Ana’s spirit were making itself present in the smell given off by the furniture, rugs, and wooden beams.
– It’s a shame they’ve never allowed public access to the lake-shore, Carlos said, and described the landscape, speckled with so many sailboats.
I added his description to the old photo I’d taken from that same angle and that way I saw perhaps even more richness of detail than anyone else present.
We remained on the terrace
talking about our deceased for the better part of the afternoon and in that regard Carlos recited a Portuguese poet:
– “Death is mute. When death speaks, it’s because it’s life.”
Judging by the length of our conversation, Ana’s death was a life that would never be extinguished.
I asked about Berenice. She was bedridden. They took me to her room, which reeked of mildew and urine.
– I don’t want you getting involved with my son, she said when they left us alone. Her voice showed her fragility and advanced age.
I attributed the comment to her senility. I wasn’t involved with Bigfoot and I wanted to be honest with her and myself:
– He’s my son too.
– No, no he’s not. I should have told you a long time ago. It was my foolishness back then. He’s not your son. Listen to me. Please forgive me. It’s all my fault. All mine, she repeated. It was my lie. I was all mixed up back then. I needed money. Forgive me. I don’t want to die with this weighing on my conscience. I don’t, I don’t.
She seemed lucid and sincere. I was disconcerted.
– You’re making this up.
– Why would I make it up?
– So I wouldn’t contact Bigfoot.
– I know he’s the one who contacted you. I told him the truth and he didn’t believe me.
I have the impression that the driving forces of my life were pure winds, but strong winds, the kind that give meaning to movement and sweep up anything lying in their path. I’m still mulling over the sentence: “He’s not your son.” Now it makes perfect sense to agree to Bigfoot’s request: I’ll take the DNA test. For me, he was always the proof of Joana’s infertility. If I don’t submit to a fertility test as well, it’s only because I’m too old for that now.
