That Saturday, Sr. Segiera was back from the interior, and Mother informed me that the following day, Sunday, the senhor would be taking us to the country to meet his mother and his son, Paolo.
I wasn’t thrilled by the news regarding his son. If he paid attention to me at all, he would want to wrestle and prove that he was stronger than me, or race, in which case I would win and he would be angry, or play some sort of game where I had to be the bad guy and get punished in the end for being bad. Or he would have some friends with him and they would make fun of the fact that I couldn’t speak much Portuguese or didn’t know any of their games. Or I might just hurt someone again.
But then, Mother sat me down on my bed and explained that I had to be very nice to Paolo because he was crippled and couldn’t walk. She said that he had been in a car accident two years ago, in which his mother was killed and his legs got all smashed up.
I had known two people who couldn’t walk. One was my grandfather, who had been very old and paralyzed from the waist down, and I always had to be very quiet around him. The other was my Uncle Mortikai, who had only one leg, and I was told to feel sorry for him and be extra nice to him, bring things to him and so on, to compensate for his loss. And, of course, you weren’t supposed to look at a crippled person’s deformity, or whatever, or to ask questions about it, but just act as though they were completely normal—but, at the same time, feel very sorry for them because they weren’t, and, of course, be extra nice to them.
The next morning, Sr. Segiera picked us up again, in his old Chevrolet, to drive into the country. On the way down to meet him, Mother asked me why I wasn’t bringing my airplane. I hadn’t brought it because I didn’t want it to get damaged and had no plans to ever fly it again, but I knew that Sr. Segiera wouldn’t approve of that, so, instead, I said that I didn’t want Paolo to feel bad by running after it, when he couldn’t, and Mother stroked my head affectionately.
It was a long and boring ride. Mother said to look at the beautiful mountains, and to think about the good time I was going to have, playing with Paolo, but mountains didn’t interest me, and I dreaded the idea of having to play with a crippled boy, whom I didn’t know, and in a language I wasn’t all that comfortable with. When Sr. Segiera finally tooted his horn as we pulled into the driveway of a small house, I felt an immediate tension at the prospect of the imminent meeting.
Before we could get out of the car, a woman, whom I immediately recognized as the senhor’s mother came out of a side door and hurried towards us. She had the same black hair as Sr. Segiera, except parted in the middle and pulled severely back, the same thick eyebrows, and the same longish face. As she ran towards us, Sr. Segiera walked around the car and was helping Mother get out. Then he and his mother put their arms around each other and hugged.
I was just wondering whether the crippled Paolo was able to come outside, when I saw him wheeling around from the back of the house, in his wheelchair. He almost bumped into his grandmother’s legs, as he released the big wheels on his chair and raised his arms toward the senhor, before the chair stopped rolling, and insisted on being hugged as well—in what I thought was a shocking breach of courtesy. Sr. Segiera immediately released his mother and lifted the ill-mannered boy right out of his wheelchair, wrapping his arms around him in a big hug. Suddenly, I was overcome by a great envy. No one had ever swept me up off the ground and into their arms, like that. But I satisfied myself by feeling sorry for the grandmother, as she had to step to the side, while that went on, and turn to shake hands with my mother, without her son introducing them.
Sr. Segiera tossed his son up into the air and caught him several times. Paolo was laughing, I supposed at the way that he had succeeded in pushing his grandmother aside for his father’s attention, or, maybe because he could see my envy showing on my face. I was very surprised that the senhor and his mother permitted such rude behavior. More importantly, I was concerned how I was going to fare, for the rest of our visit, at the hands of this aggressive and self-centered playmate.
Then, still holding his son with one arm, the senhor turned to, finally, introduce my mother to his own, speaking slowly in Portuguese. Then, he introduced Mother to Paolo, and I heard Mother say, “Oh, he is so sweet.” And, finally, the senhor reached his free arm out to place his hand on my shoulder. With Paolo still against his chest, Sr. Segiera’s hand on my shoulder felt very differently than it had that day at the beach. “Paolo, this is Julio,” he said, using the Portuguese pronunciation of my name and still speaking quite slowly and distinctly, “Julio, this is my very big son Paolo.”
As far as I could tell, Paolo was no bigger than me. He had, the same dark hair as his father and grandmother, but a rounder face. He reached his hand out, from the perch on his father’s arm, and we shook hands, while I worried how firmly it was safe to grip his.
Then the senhor said, “Paolo, Julio is new in Brazil. He and his mother used to live in Poland when the war—that you know about—began last year. When the Bolsheviks occupied where they were staying, Julio and his mother did a very courageous thing and escaped over the mountains.”
I could not help feeling a little better after that introduction.
“Julio is still learning to speak Portuguese,” Sr. Segiera continued, “so you’ll have to speak slowly and clearly to him. So why don’t you go and show him your room now.” And he carefully set the boy back down in his wheelchair.
Gripping the two big wheels of his chair in his hands, Paolo pulled them in opposite directions, and the chair spun right around. Without a word to me, my host began wheeling back towards the back of the house, at a speed which would have required my running, if I had had any interest in keeping up—which I didn’t. I finally caught up to Paolo, as he had to slow down for the slope of the wooden ramp that led to the back door of the house.
I wondered if I was expected to push the wheelchair up the incline. But he reached the door without my help, and we were in the kitchen.
I followed Paolo’s rush through the house until we reached what I immediately recognized as his room. There was a photograph on the wall of someone kicking a soccer ball and another of his father, in a big cowboy hat, riding a horse, and I immediately felt that tang of jealousy again, as I thought of the only photograph I had of my own, late father, which was just the head of a balding man, wearing a tie. And, on one wall, there was a photograph of the same airplane that was in the picture the senhor had given me, except that the door was open, and Paolo was sitting inside.
Then I noticed a shelf full of books with brightly colored covers, something black on a bureau top that must have been a camera, and the radio on the table beside his bed. I was sure Paolo never had to look very hard for ways to occupy himself. And finally, what I hadn’t noticed until Paolo picked it up off his bed, was a cat. It was orangy brown, with a bright orange spot on its forehead and had been snuggled up against a pillow, looking like a stuffed toy. But it turned its head to lick its side, as Paolo held it in his arms.
“Her name is Lila,” he said, enunciating very slowly and holding her towards me.
Evidently, he wanted me to hold her, and that totally surprised me. I had never held a cat before, but more than that, I had not been expecting any gesture of that sort from my host.
I reached out with my hands and, carefully, received her. She was a lot lighter than I had thought, and I had no idea an animal could be that soft. I cradled her in the crook of my elbow, like a baby. I stroked her head with my free hand, but Lila seemed to ignore my caress and took this as an opportunity to lick her own belly. Suddenly, I found myself laughing at this, and Paolo began to laugh as well.
I would have been happy to just sit in a corner and stroke Lila all day, but saw that Paolo had taken a box off a shelf and looked as though he was waiting to show it to me. It was a flat, wooden box, about the proportions of a cigar box, but several times bigger. It had some abstract design painted on the cover and sides.
I went
to hand the cat back to him.
“Just drop her,” he said.
I wasn’t sure that I had understood correctly.
Paolo must have noticed the look of uncertainty on my face, because he laughed and repeated the statement. He accompanied his words with a gesture of releasing something to drop to the floor.
Carefully, I did as directed. Lila landed, lightly and noiselessly, front paws hitting first, and immediately proceeded to continue her grooming. I could not help laughing again, and my host, again, found it funny as well.
Then he took the cover off the box. Inside there was a series of compartments, separated by wooden partitions. At first I couldn’t understand what the unrelated objects in the compartments were all about. One was a very pretty seashell, another, an even prettier butterfly. There was a long, curved tooth and a piece of flat, triangular rock with sharp edges. Then I realized that this must be a collection of things Paolo had found.
My scan of the collection was suddenly stopped by an eye, looking at me out of one of the compartments. I had heard of people who had lost an eye having it replaced with a glass one, and I guessed that that was what I was looking at—and what was looking at me—and immediately wondered how Paolo had come into possession of such an object. Paolo saw me looking at it, said something I didn’t understand, and laughed. I laughed too. It really hadn’t occurred to me that the eye was funny, but I was beginning to like Paolo.
Then Paolo said something quickly, which I didn’t understand, and wheeled himself back towards the door. I would have preferred to hold Lila some more—she was back up on the bed, now, snuggling against the pillow where we had found her—but Paolo was already wheeling himself out of the room, and I had to run to keep up.
In the back yard, there was now the smell of meat cooking, and I could see the three adults standing beside a little stone chimney, that stood right on the ground, with smoke coming out of it. I had never seen a chimney like that and assumed there was an underground room below it, like the root cellar I had seen on the farm in Poland, before our escape. But Sra. Segiera was, apparently, cooking something right on that chimney. Nor had I ever seen anyone cooking out of doors. But the senhora had a kind of paintbrush in her hand, and she was brushing something onto a piece of meat, as they talked. But I didn’t get much chance to examine this more closely, because Paolo wheeled right through the back yard, to where a path had been cut through the high vegetation under the trees. The path twisted and turned to get around trees and to avoid upgrades and downgrades. I understood that it must have been made especially for Paolo’s wheelchair.
The wheelchair could not move as fast here, as it had before, and I was able to keep up at a walk. Then, suddenly, we were at the edge of a stream. Somebody had built a square wooden deck, about the size of a small room, out over the water, with a railing around three sides. Paolo wheeled out onto this platform, rolling right to the railing at the far end. He motioned for me to come to the railing with him. I saw him lean forward and look into the water and looked down as well. Paolo didn’t seem to find what he was looking for and wheeled to his right along the railing. “There he is!” he finally said, pointing down into the water. I looked down too and saw sand and rocks under the water. There were some green plants growing around the rocks and wiggling in the slight current. And then I saw a fish.
I had never seen a fish in the water before. Except before the war, when Marta, our cook would bring a live fish home from the market and put it in the bathtub until it was time to cook it. But here was a fish, about the size of a man’s shoe, standing still, next to a rock, his mouth and his gills opening and closing.
Paolo said, “His name is Pedro,” and I was about to ask how he knew that, when I realized that Paolo must have named him that, himself. Then he said, “Someday I’m going to catch him and eat him,” or something close to that.
Then Paolo turned towards me and put his finger up to his lips, as though for silence. Except that I wasn’t saying anything. He lowered his face in a mysterious look, and with his finger still to his lips, looked left and right. I got the impression that he was about to tell me a secret, which I wasn’t supposed to repeat to anyone. Then, using his hands, he pulled each of his feet off the chair’s footrests and lowered them to the deck.
Again, he raised his finger to his lips and swung his eyes left and right. Finally, he put his hands on the railing and pulled himself up to a standing position. Balancing himself carefully, he lifted his hands an inch or so above the railing. I saw him totter there, and held my breath. Then, as he began to lose his balance, he grabbed the railing again and dropped into his chair.
And, smiling this time, Paolo put his finger up to his lips again, in a sign that I clearly understood now. I nodded my head, assuring him that I would keep our secret.
CHAPTER XI
Riding home in the dark, I was physically tired, for the fist time in a long time, from all of the time that Paolo and I had spent outside. We had played catch with a rubber ball, that I was very careful to throw within Paolo’s reach, and which he caught with one hand, every time that it was within his reach. I, on the other hand, trying to catch the ball with both hands, had it bounce off my hands, much of the time, producing laughter from Paolo, as I chased it across the yard.
Mother and Sr. Segiera were whispering, in the front seat, probably thinking that I must be asleep. When we had first gotten into the car, I had heard Mother praise Paolo for how well he dealt with his affliction, how cheerful and active he was—words that I supposed I was meant to overhear. Now they were whispering. But I was far from asleep. I was going over my day with Paolo and longing deeply to have a life like his—a cat to sleep on my bed, a fish I could name—while I schemed to catch and eat it—a secret to share with friends, a father who rode horses and picked me up and hugged me. And I longed for a disability that I could deal with. I appreciated how difficult it must have been for Paolo to learn to stand on his crippled legs, and I longed for something in my life that I could devote energy to overcoming.
I did, of course, have my stutter, but there was no way, that I knew of, of overcoming it. It wasn’t something that I could secretly practice a little bit of, and then an imperceptible bit more the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, until those imperceptible bits added up to a difference that I could surprise somebody with. It wasn’t so much for the praise. Even if, for some strange reason, I couldn’t show it to anyone, I would still know that I had done it.
I wrapped my arms around myself, closed my eyes very, very tight, and longed for a wheelchair that I could teach myself to whip around the way Paolo did and to practice standing up out of, as he had learned to do.
My thoughts were interrupted by a deep purring sound, and I opened my eyes. Sr. Segiera had his right arm around Mother’s shoulders, and she was nibbling his ear. The sound, I presumed, had been an expression of satisfaction from the senhor about having his ear nibbled. Mother gave a little, throaty laugh.
I heard Sr. Segiera whisper to Mother that he would carry me inside, but I let them know that I was awake. “Thank Sr. Segiera,” Mother said to me, and I extended my hand from the back seat and stammered out a thank-you. Mother leaned toward Sr. Segiera’s cheek with puckered lips, but he wrapped both arms around Mother’s chest and pulled her to him. Mother resisted just a little, and they kissed just like they do in the movies. Embarrassed, I opened my door, and walked across the sidewalk into the hotel.
Then, as I walked into the single-story addition that was the hotel lobby, there sat Irenka, in an armchair, a red suitcase and a carton on the floor beside her. She was wearing sunglasses, and stood up as soon as she saw me. But she headed not to me, only towards Mother, and burst into tears before she reached her. She was considerably taller than Mother, but Mother put her two hands on Irenka’s shoulders, as though to keep her from falling down.
I watched Irenka telling Mother something, though I was too far away to hear much of
anything. I did hear her address Mother with, “Please Missus,” in several places, and I saw Mother maneuver her to a chair and, actually, push her into it.
“Yulian, get Mrs. Kosiewicz a cup of tea,” Mother said, as she squatted in front of the, still crying, Irenka.
“Th. . . th. . . the r. . . r. . . restaurant is c. . . c. . . closed,” I stammered.
“Oh my God!” Mother said, “can’t you do anything? Go ask the desk clerk.”
I couldn’t imagine the desk clerk going into the closed-up kitchen and putting on a pot of tea, but I explained to him that Mother had asked me to ask him for a cup of tea for the lady who was crying, though I didn’t know what about. He looked in Irenka’s direction, then, to my surprise, said, “Yes, just a moment,” and disappeared into the office.
In a while he was back with a mug, with a teabag string hanging out. I thanked him and conveyed it to where Mother was, still squatting in front of a sobbing Irenka. She was assuring the younger woman that she had a powerful friend in the government who would have Mr. K. found and arrested, that Mr. K. would not be able to hurt her again, and that all she had to do was to smile and be happy. What I would learn later, to my great delight, was that, while I was waiting for the tea, Mother had told Irenka that she could move in with us, since she had been evicted from her own suite for, long-term non-payment of hotel bills.
In the meanwhile, I stood behind Mother, holding the mug, its handle hot in my hand, waiting for her to take it from me, while Irenka, with Mother’s filmy, green kerchief to her face, was saying, “Missus is so kind to me. I won’t be any trouble, and I will help with Yulian and Missus’s wash and Missus’s hair.”
Loves of Yulian Page 18
