by Frei Betto
Lassale picked up on the subtext. The editor leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on the desk. He interlocked the fingers of his hands underneath his jaw and leaned his chin on his thumbs. He made an effort to contain his excitement, the better to control the rhythm of his speech and thoughts.
“The literary placebo is as effective as the medicinal one,” he said, battling a slight stammer. “It may not act upon the social organism itself, but it does have a positive collateral impact. It broadens people’s outlook, provides oxygen for the spirit, soothes the soul, rids sinners of guilt, spreads belief that a world without conflict is possible and – not the least of it – creates a new readership and familiarizes them with the act of reading.”
Lassale paused, as if choosing which metaphor to pluck from the sky.
“It’s like breathing in incense: the pleasant odour stimulates our sense of smell for as long as there’s smoke in the air. I’m not a missionary, nor do I harbour any intention of founding a church. I just want to publish texts that allow people to forget their worries for a while. Give them a semantic lift, make them feel better, more connected to their beliefs.”
The editor was getting carried away, a maelstrom of ideas swirling around beneath his thick grey hair. Cândido tried to bring him back down to earth.
“I don’t find the opportunity to go scrambling about physical and spiritual nooks and crannies particularly appealing.”
“You’ll be swapping retail for wholesale,” said Lassale, paying no attention. “Do you know Doutor Bramante and Doutora Kundali?” It was clearly a question designed to provoke a reaction rather than an answer.
Cândido knew nobody. He barely knew the name of the Presidente da República, though he was well versed in the vernacular of government, having read thick treaties written in the language of office. He saw himself as a hillbilly book-lover whose parachute had, by chance, landed in the big city.
“Roberval Bramante is a leading sexologist,” said Lassale, “and Mônica Kundali an acclaimed anthropologist. Like many stars of the science constellation, their names are not known to the wider public; they prefer the fluorescent lights of research labs to the studio lights of television sets. Together with them, you’ll form the triumvirate responsible for the collection.”
Cândido’s face showed absolute indifference. The editor stood up to bid him farewell.
“We’re having dinner with Bramante tomorrow night,” Lassale said as he walked Cândido to the door. “The doutora had a prior engagement, but you’ll meet her next week.”
Lassale called out to Cândido as he left:
“Careful now! Don’t go getting your head chopped off – I need it!”
FRACAS
A scream of terror cut through the early morning, waking Cândido from his dreamy sleep. The sound of shattering glass made him bristle with fear. He got out of bed, put on his white dressing gown and slowly opened the door. He saw Pacheco standing in the corridor in his breeches, his body scratched and bleeding.
“Help! Pervert! Filho de uma vaca!” yelled Rosaura from inside her room. “Poliiiiice!”
Pacheco was pleading with her to open the door, to let him explain.
Diamante Negro, wrapped in a red Chinese crêpe kimono, poked his head out into the corridor.
“What’s going on? Has sua excelência taken to raping garotas now?”
“Shut up, everyone!” hollered Madame Larência from behind her door. “I need my beauty sleep!”
Jorge arrived on the scene, wielding his fish knife.
“I went to the dining room to get a glass of water,” said Pacheco, imploringly, “but I didn’t take my glasses, and on the way back I got the wrong door. It was dark. I accidentally went into Rosaura’s room. I only realized my mistake when she screamed and threw something at me.”
“What drivel, Pacheco, what utter drivel,” said Marcelo, coming out of his room in a blue dressing gown. “Admit it: you thought tart was on the menu and ended up with humble pie.”
“Open the door, Rosaura!” Jorge insisted. “Dona Dinó wants to talk to you. In the dining room.”
He turned to Pacheco.
“And the doutor, too.”
The landlady was sitting at the head of the table, holding her broom like a staff. Osíris clung to her with his eyes closed, moulded to her bosom.
Diamante Negro got some cotton wool from the first-aid box and started cleaning Pacheco’s wounds. The political aide felt rather self-conscious standing there half naked. He kept his head down, as if fascinated by the daisies in the pattern of the tablecloth. His lack of spectacles gave his appearance a particular ridiculousness.
Rosaura entered the room in a salmon-coloured nightdress, crying against Jorge’s shoulder.
“What happened, Rosaura?” asked Dona Dinó.
“This is all one big misunderstanding!” said Pacheco, before turning to Diamante Negro. “Owwwww!”
“Keep still, criatura. I’m not going to castrate you. It’s just a splash of iodine – to stop the cut from becoming as infected as your mind!”
“I wasn’t asking senhor,” stressed Dona Dinó. “I asked the girl.”
“Speak up, menina,” said Jorge, by Rosaura’s side.
“He,” she said in a trembling voice, pointing a finger at Pacheco, “came into my room and tried to get into my bed.”
“It was a mistake,” Pacheco repeated.
“There’s no smoke without fire,” said Dona Dinó. “Come on, let’s have the whole story, garota.”
“He promised to get me a place in the chorus line of a TV show. I suppose he thought he’d cash the favour in early, before it had even been fulfilled. So I smashed the lamp over his head.”
“And what does the doutor have to say for himself?” asked Dona Dinó.
“It’s true, I did promise to help her. But I never asked for anything in return. I’m a man of principles. What happened tonight was that I simply got the wrong door – our rooms are side by side.”
“Shock! Horror! Pacheco is a liar and a philanderer!” said Marcelo, who’d come in and sat down opposite Dona Dinó.
The landlady gave them all a lecture on morals and how she expected them to behave. Then she dismissed the guests, though not without a warning.
“If this happens again, you’ll be out on the street – both of you.”
Dona Dinó stood up, sending Osíris sliding down her legs. The cat landed on its feet, marched across the room, back held high, and settled down by the stove.
2Dinner
Lassale had booked a table at one of the most traditional restaurants in town. It was housed in a former market hall shaped like a giant birdcage, at the boat terminal on Praça XV. Green wooden shutters opened onto a view of Guanabara bay, Pão de Açúcar standing out against the sea in the background, bursting out of the silvery waters into the bright moonlight.
Cândido walked in and found himself lost among a sea of waiters and diners. He scanned the room for Lassale but couldn’t find him. He set off in search. As he walked between tables and chairs, he tried not to look at people’s plates: he considered eating to be deserving of privacy, even when done in public. Just looking at the diners felt intrusive, but he had no choice if he was to find the publisher.
He eventually spotted Lassale at a candlelit table by the window out the back, in the company of another man.
Roberval Bramante was holding a small curved pipe flat against his chin. His eyes had a dull shine, his nose was hooked like a bell and he was stoutly built. His long curly hair, streaked with the first signs of grey, fell down to his shoulders.
Lassale welcomed Cândido in an effusive fashion and Bramante stood up with some difficulty to greet him. He seemed reserved, as if instinctively suspicious of newcomers.
“So here’s our scribbler,” said Lassale, as the attentive maître appeared at Cândido’s side and handed him a menu. Cândido laid a napkin on his knee and settled himself. Lassale proposed that they all have sh
rimp and selected camarões à grega for himself. The scientist followed suit and chose camarões à baiana.
Cândido had never had shrimp before and couldn’t tell the difference between all the different options. In the end he chose camarões fritos, thinking that fried promised fewest surprises. Lassale ordered a nice bottle of vinho branco to go with it.
The doutor cleared his throat and gently tapped the bowl of his pipe against the edge of the ashtray. He rearranged himself in his chair, lit his pipe and motioned for Lassale to carry on the conversation they’d been having before Cândido arrived.
They’d been talking about sexuality.
“I was only saying that while you can point it out, you can never cancel it out,” Lassale said cautiously, fearing the scientist might refute his layman’s claim and realize that, although he was the publisher, he was much less cultured than he liked to make out.
“It’s the same as the impulse to breathe or to eat. At birth, our first instinct is to seek the maternal breast. Pure fulfilment!” said Bramante. He released a puff of smoke right into Cândido’s face, leaving him with no choice but to inhale the syrupy fumes. The scientist went on, a strange smile sketching itself on his face. “Babies manage to harmonize three basic pleasures: breathing, feeding and sucking at breasts. It’s no simple thing: you try drinking a whole bottle of water without taking your mouth off the bottle! I’ll show you – watch!”
He drew a waiter over, who was laden down with a tray of dirty plates from the next table.
“Hey, amigo,” he said, holding out a bottle of mineral water, “if you can drink this bottle in one, you’ll earn a good tip.”
INTERLUDE
“Odid, this guy’s so full of himself!”
“Calm down, man, give him a chance. Can’t you see he’s just trying to impress the boss?”
“But I worry he’s going to be a nightmare to work with.”
“You worry about your own work,” said Odidnac. “Do too many cartwheels and you’ll fall flat on your ass.”
WONDER
The waiter paused. He needed a moment to process what he’d heard.
“Whenever I get thirsty, senhor, I go and have a glass of water in there,” he said, pointing to the kitchen door with his chin.
The waiter went on his way. Bramante put the bottle back on the table.
Cândido broke the awkward silence.
“The more we try and rationalize what comes naturally to a baby, the more we run into trouble. Can we not see sexuality as something more than a merely reproductive or sensory act?”
Bramante rolled his eyes to the ceiling and exhaled a puff of smoke. Sensing a chance to test Cândido, he turned to him and said:
“Is that the way you see it?”
Cândido felt pressurized. He didn’t want to start an argument with his new colleague.
“I often wonder,” he said, feeling self-conscious, “how we might recover the liturgical aspect sexuality had in primitive times. For the more spiritually inclined Orientals, the pleasure lies not so much in the orgasm as in the communion of bodies and the effusion of the spirit. We Westerners are a long way from understanding such wonder.”
Bramante smiled, though Cândido couldn’t tell whether out of empathy or mockery. It seemed the doutor was about to say something, but he was interrupted by the maître.
FAROFA
The maître had come to take their knives and forks away. Cândido tried to hold on to his.
“What am I supposed to eat with?” he said in a loud voice.
“I’ll bring senhor the appropriate cutlery,” the maître whispered in his ear, before bowing like a pianist grateful for applause.
When the new cutlery arrived, Cândido studied it suspiciously, thinking such a tiny knife and fork could only be appropriate for dessert.
Bramante was absorbed with his own thoughts and seemed not to have noticed any of this. Cândido wanted to ask him if the baby sucked for the pleasure of the milk or the breast. He resisted so as not to come across as prosaic. Right then he felt more inclined to the first hypothesis: he was starving and wouldn’t swap his meal for any woman in the world.
Nevertheless, he felt apprehensive. He would have preferred to be about to tuck into a feijão tropeiro or chicken and farofa. He loved farofa! He loved it whether it was made out of manioc flour, bread flour or maize, whether it was fried in butter or egg yolk, whether it was mixed with olives, raisins or banana. He hadn’t tried shrimp before – it was quite a rarity in Minas – but he’d heard that, besides being expensive, it was very tasty.
“Centuries of repression,” said the doutor, “have bequeathed us a schizophrenia whereby we flick between affection and sex. One day we’ll free ourselves of our taboos and repression and become sexually unitarian again. We’ll return to our original state of innocence – even incest will no longer be anathema.”
“The primordial freedom experienced by Adam and Eve,” suggested Cândido.
“Experienced and lost,” said Lassale.
Bramante gave them both a stern look. His face seemed to swell. His voice came out somehow deeper.
“Forgive me, but it wasn’t lost because of sex. God, if he exists, clearly won’t tolerate competitors. That the forbidden fruit was Adam and Eve’s desire for one another is a nonsense priests feed the gullible. That may be forbidden territory to the priests, but it wasn’t to Adam and Eve, and if they hadn’t screwed, we wouldn’t be here talking about it. As far as sex was concerned, the first couple was free to do exactly as they pleased.”
“And without the risk of being unfaithful,” said Lassale, laughing at his own observation.
Bramante became excited, hoping he might shock Cândido.
“Exactly! Adam and Eve were mere reproductive moulds who got ideas above their station and started naming the livestock, a divine prerogative in a world yet to discover science. That’s why they were punished.”
The scientist picked up his wine and took a sip. Cândido made the most of the pause.
“Adam and Eve are the paradigms; God is the mystery that excites our curiosity,” he said, as if the monk inside him had awoken from its slumber.
Bramante interrupted him.
“It’s impossible to draw definitive conclusions about anything, much less find proper answers, without research. The primordial couple’s problem was that they trusted too much in instinct. They were banging their heads against a brick wall!”
Before the conversation could confuse Cândido any further, the food arrived. The shrimp were large and pink, though Cândido thought them ugly and his portion small.
INTERLUDE
“Odid, they could at least have taken the eyes out! How did they survive the frying? Although on second thoughts, maybe it’s better this way, so as not to remind me of Seu Marçal’s head!”
“But still, you’d think they’d remove the heads – remember what Diamante Negro said to Pacheco?”
“And how are you supposed to eat the thing?”
“I don’t know, man, but if you’ve been given kids’ cutlery, I guess they must be pretty soft.”
THE FLIGHT
Cândido put a shrimp in his mouth and bit into it.
“Ow! It’s rock hard! It’s like eating fried plastic.”
“Take the shell off,” said Lassale.
Cândido speared the fork into the shrimp’s neck and picked up the knife with the curved end. He prodded it into the camarão, trying to force it open, but the thing slipped, slid across his greasy plate, flew across the table and landed in Lassale’s lap. The publisher stood up, somewhat aggrieved, and called for a waiter.
The maître came rushing over and sent someone to fetch hot water. He made a compress out of a napkin and applied it to the stain, then poured salt on top to absorb the fat.
“It’s best to use your fingers,” said Bramante.
Cândido apologized and took Bramante’s advice. He soon confirmed the disappointing truth: there was more crust on the cr
ustacean than there was meat. He’d have much preferred a good pan-fried steak.
Not wanting to remain the centre of attention, Cândido asked the sexologist to go on with what he’d been saying.
Bramante turned to Lassale and talked as he chewed.
“I love the idea. A collection of periodicals for the masses!” He gave a self-satisfied sigh, wafting a hand in the air. “I can picture it on news stands now! We’ll shine a light on all manner of sexual behaviour, from venereal disease to the morally perverse and the pathologically deviant.” He brought his hand down and placed it on the publisher’s arm, before continuing enthusiastically: “We’ll broach pornography, Eros, Philia and Agape; Dharma, Artha and Kama; the Encratites and Don Juanism.”
“And eroticism in art and worship,” added Cândido.
INTERLUDE
“If old Gordo could only see me now, Odid, in high-minded rumination on the most base parts of the human organism.”
“Doubtless the good abbot would say, ‘the profanity of science leads the soul to the flames.’”
INCOMPATIBILITIES
Cândido liked to spend his spare time reading books, but the abbot, concerned about the upkeep of the monastery, didn’t like him being in the library.
“Come join the community in caring for the cows and sheep, cultivating the vegetable patch, making things in the workshop. A novice’s hands should always be either up or down: raised in oration or plunged into the soil. I will not have you sitting here for hours on end with your head buried in books.”
All the same, Cândido became a compulsive reader at the monastery. He felt at home among the mahogany bookcases, the shelves packed with tantalizing spines and arranged into themes: theology, mysticism, philosophy, literature… He learned to read by topic rather than by book, except when reading a novel. He’d select a collection of books that broached the subject that interested him, pile them up on a table by the window and work his way through them, finding what was relevant by consulting the indices. He made notes on sheets of paper, writing in a tiny, slightly childish hand.
