Sergio Y.

by Alexandre Vidal Porto

  “My parents made sure I was spared. They never mentioned my brother’s death. I never shared in their pain. Had I not found that picture in my mother’s wardrobe, I think I’d never have known I’d even had a brother.”

  In our sessions, he spoke of his parents’ expectations and his indecision when it came to his career choice. He considered himself “tough to make friends with.” Sometimes he mentioned Sandra, a classmate, for whom he had apparently harbored platonic feelings. He told me he “admired her way of being.” When asked if he would like her to be his girlfriend, he said he had “more urgent things to take care of in my life.”

  I was curious at the mention of “more urgent things,” but I wanted him to introduce them spontaneously. I had no clear understanding of what Sergio sought in therapy. I found him mysterious. It seemed better to give it time. So, that is what I decided to do.

  Over the course of our sessions, no one theme took precedence. Our therapy was a patchwork quilt. My impression was that, as doctor and patient, we had a nice dynamic, and even a productive one at times, but at the same time an overly slow and cautious one.

  One of the recurring themes in our talks was Areg, his great-grandfather, who took the decision to leave Armenia and emigrate to Brazil. Another constant theme was his unhappy condition.

  He considered himself unhappy even if it was not readily apparent. He was sober. His grief did not show. If he did not reveal his feelings, no one would have known. No one would have even suspected.

  I believe this sobriety was the expression of a soul mature beyond his years. He did not deny his unhappy condition. On the contrary, he recognized it, but he rejected it, he tried to escape it, to defeat it. His seeking therapy was evidence of this. However, he felt no need to publicly display it.

  With me he would speak more of his family than of himself. I have the impression that in speaking of his family, he wanted to expose the history from which he came, to show how he fit into a broader narrative. Sergio Y. wanted to make sense of himself, to understand the genealogy of his inescapable unhappiness in order, I hoped, to overcome it.

  THE GREAT-GRANDFATHER

  The most interesting and productive sessions we had were those where Sergio Y. spoke of his great-grandfather, Areg Yacoubian, who at sixteen boarded a ship for Brazil.

  Sergio told me how his great-grandfather had settled in the city of Belém, where a countryman, Hagop Moskofian, had opened a wholesale distribution company four years earlier. His ship arrived in Pará in March of 1915 after making stops in Recife and Fortaleza.

  Areg’s first job was as a warehouse man. He prided himself on being fast and keeping tight control over inventory. He helped Hagop as needed. For twenty minutes every night before bed, he would struggle to read the news in the Noticias do Pará in an attempt to teach himself Portuguese. He had a reputation for being frugal and good-natured and living for his work.

  When Areg arrived in Belém, Hagop set him up in a small room above the store, which Areg slowly appropriated during his first year on the job. The space soon became his bedroom—“and his dream room,” as Sergio was keen to stress, quoting his great-grandfather.

  In 1919, fellow countrymen arriving from Constantinople, fleeing the Turkish massacres, brought news that Areg’s family had been deported from Erzerum, where they lived, and had not been seen since. It was later learned that on the same day, in a single blow, Areg lost his entire family—his parents and eleven brothers, who had made the decision not to seek lives happier than those terminated at the hands of Ottoman troops.

  According to what Sergio told me—so he had been told—after Areg, the last surviving Yacoubian, learned of his family’s death, he never again shed a tear for any reason, either happy or sad.

  He knew how to prosper. He became Hagop’s partner in the company and, in 1924, at the age of twenty-five, he married Laila, the only daughter of Samir Simon, who owned a women’s clothing store in the Comércio district.

  Over time, the two Armenians forged a brotherly friendship that lasted a lifetime. They became best friends. Areg continued to be Hagop’s partner, but he also opened other businesses by himself or with other partners. He sold everything from toys to industrial ovens. At twelve, his only child, Hagopinho, already worked with him at Laila Stores.

  By the time he died at 103, he owned a commercial and real estate empire that practically stretched throughout Brazil.

  Areg’s importance in forming Sergio Y.’s worldview was immense. This became clear again when, not very long ago, I played back the recording where he told me about his great-grandfather’s hundredth birthday party.

  I have a recurring dream of my great-grandfather Areg. In the dream, he gives a speech, but I’m the only person in the audience. He begins, but he speaks softly, and I can barely hear him. I move closer, but I can only make out his last word: “happy.” I know why I have this dream. It’s because of my memories of Areg’s hundredth birthday party, in Pará. I went. My whole family traveled to Belém. My parents, my uncle Elias, my aunt Valéria, my cousin José. Everyone. We all stayed in my grandfather Hagopinho’s house.

  The party was held at my grandparents’. They’d hired a caterer from São Paulo and set up tables on the porch and in the garden. They even set up a tent in case of rain. Between relatives and guests, there were about fifty people. After we all sang “Happy Birthday,” Areg called everybody’s attention by tapping his wineglass with a fork. When everyone was quiet, he stood. He took out a sheet of paper from his pocket. He held the paper with both hands and stared at it, and it seemed as if he would read from it, but instead he folded the paper and laid it on the table. He cleared his throat and began.

  At one hundred, Areg was in good health. He was full of life. He walked slowly but firmly. He spoke softly, but his message always seemed positive. I think most of the guests that evening could not even hear him. But I was close to him, sitting at the family table, and I heard every word. I realized he was choking up and stuttering a bit. I was about eleven or twelve at the time. I remember it all in detail. I’ve never been able to forget what he said. I think I’m here today because of that day. It was because of his speech that I understood I needed to do something to be happy. I watched Areg’s birthday video so often I know the speech by heart. You want to see? I can even do his accent. [ . . . ]

  Once the speech was over, and the guests began greeting him, I walked over and picked up the piece of paper he’d left on the table. I quickly shoved it in my pocket, without thinking, as if I were shoplifting. Later, locked in the bathroom, when I opened the piece of paper, I realized that the only thing Areg had written on it with his shaky handwriting was the words: “If happiness is not where we are, we must chase her. She sometimes lives far away. You must have the courage to be happy.”

  I brought the sheet of paper with Areg’s message to São Paulo. I put it in my datebook in my desk drawer. I have it to this day. It’s like a talisman.

  THE SPEECH AS HE REMEMBERED IT

  Dear friends,

  In this celebration of the centennial of my birth, I would first of all like to thank family and friends. I also wish to thank our beloved Brazil, to which I owe everything I have.

  I came from a town called Erzerum. There I spent my youth, but there was no joy in living. I could see there was no future. I could feel the war approaching. I needed to get out of there to be happy. Something told me it was my only chance.

  Now that I’ve turned one hundred, I know that life is too short to be sad. A happy life is more happy days than sad ones. So the advice I give to the young ones is this: always try to make your days happy. The important thing is having as many happy days as possible.

  We must never forget that sadness exists, because we know sadness really does exist. But you must reject sadness and unhappiness. You must also work hard, because work helps in everything.

  When I was a child, I never i
magined there was a country on the other side of the world called Brazil—nor that I myself would one day become a Brazilian.

  I’m proud I had the courage to leave Armenia to seek my happiness, that I found it, and that I was able to ensure the continuity of my family’s name. The family I lost in Erzerum I restarted here in Bélem.

  Laila, Hagopinho, Otília, Elias, Valéria, José, Salomão, Tereza and Sergio. My eternal brother, Hagop, who has already left us, who I cannot forget, friends, colleagues. You are the happiness I found in Brazil.

  Had I resigned myself and stayed in my city, the place where I was born, our family name would no longer exist. There would be no Areg, there would be no Hagop, there would be no Elias, there would be no Salomão, or Sergio or José. There would be no one. Our name would have disappeared. There would be no Yacoubians here now.

  So the message I want to leave the youth is that you must believe in happiness. Then go after her, even if that means you must do something new, that you never could have imagined before. Happiness comes from the courage to do something new. Happiness exists. I am proof of this.

  IT WAS WINTER FOR OTHERS, BUT FOR HIM,

  IT WAS SUMMER

  During the time Sergio worked with me, he suspended treatment just once, for four weks, from December 15, 2006, to January 15, 2007, for vacation.

  During those four weeks, Sergio went to New York with his parents. I stayed at my beach house, reading, swimming, taking long walks and supervising the repair of a leak in the guest room which forced me to redo part of the roof.

  While I bought cement in Ilhabela, Sergio Y. was reinventing his destiny. I wonder now whether he was still in New York when he decided what he would do with his life, or if it was only later, when he was back in São Paulo and had returned to his daily life.

  On one of those days during his vacation, Sergio decided to undertake the most radical journey of his life. I have no way of knowing if he began that journey on a subway ride, the 4 train, or if he arrived at Battery Park by taxi.

  But the means of transportation he used to get from his hotel on the Upper East Side to the Immigration Museum on Ellis Island, off the southern tip of Manhattan, where his life began to change, makes no difference. Either way, he would have arrived on the island by ferry. The important thing is that when he stepped off that boat, he was leaving water for firm ground.

  In the notes I took and in my recordings of the sessions leading up to that vacation, there are frequent references to New York. I could not imagine in our sessions the importance the city would acquire for Sergio. Since I had lived there once, I suggested some sightseeing options. One of them was a visit to Ellis Island.

  “You like stories of courage, so you must go to the museum at Ellis Island. You might find the stories of those immigrants interesting. You’ll see their belongings, learn stories about people who, like Areg, bet everything on their own happiness,” was more or less what I told him before his trip.

  I was aiming at what I saw and hit what I had never seen.

  In our first session after the holidays, on the afternoon of January 16, Sergio Y. came to my office a little before his scheduled appointment. In the waiting room, he handed me a plastic bag, one of those duty-free ones. Inside was a small framed print and a hardcover book.

  “Sorry, I didn’t get the chance to gift wrap it,” he said.

  The book was an English translation of The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa. The title was superimposed against a purple backdrop. The print was of an old ship elegantly crossing the ocean. A caption read: “SS Kursk, 1910-1936, Barclay, Curle & Co. Ltd. Glasgow, Scotland.”

  “It’s a bilingual edition. I found it helpful. The picture I found on Ellis Island. I hope you like it. It’s special. I bought lots of books there. Thanks for the tip,” is what he basically said.

  I remembered that, at some point, he had told me he liked Fernando Pessoa’s poetry. “His concept of heteronyms is amazing. How can one person feel like so many, and in such different ways?” he said during one session.

  The fact that he had given me a bilingual edition of his favorite poet was predictable, almost clichéd. I had received exactly the same kind of gift from other patients. It seemed unusual, though, that he should give me a cheap print of a ship called the SS Kursk, which, I later learned, operated between Liepa–ja and New York at the height of the great European migration to the United States.

  I confess that at the time, although grateful for the gesture and the thought, it bothered me a little that Sergio thought I would hang a picture of that quality on my wall. I could see he had bought it at the gift shop of the museum I had recommended. This was how I justified the gift.

  For months, I left the SS Kursk picture floating in the office, sometimes on the desk, leaning against a wall, sometimes moored to the books. Now that it has become much more special to me, it is permanently anchored to a spot at the end of the hall, above the shelf. I have positioned it so that it is one of the first objects I see when I arrive at the office.

  In his next session, Sergio chose not to lie on the couch. He asked to sit in a chair facing my desk, the same place he had sat the first time he came to see me. Calmly, looking straight into my eyes, he said he no longer wanted to continue his treatment with me. These were his words, sitting in front of me with his car keys in his hand: “Dr. Armando, I think I found a way to be happy. I had a revelation in one of our talks and I think I now know the path I need to follow in my life. I feel like I don’t need to come back anymore. I apologize for not saying anything earlier, but I didn’t know. Thanks for everything.”

  That is what he said.

  It was as if, after hours and hours of a long bus ride, a passenger were to get up calmly from his seat and, addressing the driver, explain that he had taken the wrong bus and that he needed to get off.

  He handed me a check for the sessions he still owed me for, shook my hand and went out into the rain.

  The episode put me in a bad mood, and I slept poorly for several days.

  I wondered if the process of arriving at this “revelation” he had mentioned could really have been triggered by one of our conversations. If so, which one?

  I admired Sergio Y’s intelligence. I would have liked to have continued to have him as a patient. His abandoning treatment saddened me greatly as a doctor. But the perfect is the enemy of the good. As a friend of mine liked to say: that’s life in the big city. Things do not necessarily happen the way we want them to.

  Years later, Sergio Y. no longer occupied my thoughts much, but neither had he completely disappeared from them. In my professional bookkeeping, Sergio Y. was a net capital loss.

  Things only began to change one summer afternoon when I went to the shopping center to look at shoes and decided to make a quick stop at the supermarket first.

  THE MOTHER’S PERFUME

  AND THE SMELL OF CHEESE

  I noticed her presence immediately and had the impression she had also noticed mine. We were both waiting for the lone clerk to finish waiting on a lady who was buying buffalo mozzarella.

  I wanted to look at her, but instead I decided to turn to the cheeses and avoid that woman, with her black hair pulled back and diamond earrings so big that even I, who am not particularly aware of jewelry, noticed them. Staring at the cheeses, I thought of how obviously she exhibited her wealth. There she was: the female embodiment of a category of people I know very well from my practice.

  She asked the clerk for a piece of Parmesan cheese, which she pointed at with her outstretched finger. While waiting for her order, she looked my way, came nearer and spoke:

  “Dr. Armando?” she said as if she knew me. “It’s Tereza Yacoubian, Sergio’s mother. He was a patient of yours a few years back.”

  At first I didn’t understand what she was saying. It took me a couple seconds to retrieve Sergio’s name from my memory. I greeted her alm
ost mechanically.

  “Nice to meet you, how do you do?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,’’ she replied, looking up at me. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, but from the time Sergio was in therapy with you, I’ve always wanted to tell you something that I’ve never had the opportunity to say. We have mutual friends, but you know how crazy life in São Paulo can be. We live in the same city, but we might as well live in separate countries.”

  “That’s true,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

  I found the whole situation strange, but since Tereza had approached me and was being friendly, I was confident that what she had to say to me would be nice. In fact, at that moment, I was glad that coincidence had put me in touch with the mother of my former patient, who I had not heard from in years.

  “You helped my son so much. I don’t know how to thank you for all the good you’ve done Sergio. That’s why I took the liberty. You were very good for my son. I wanted to thank you. I didn’t want to miss this opportunity. Thank you so much, really.”

  I did not expect those remarks, and much less that they should end with an expression of gratitude. It made me blush, but I liked hearing it.

  “I thank you, Tereza. I’m glad to know I was able to help. Sergio is a very intelligent boy. How is he doing? What is he doing?” I asked, trying to be friendly.

  “He’s happy. He moved to New York a month after he stopped his treatment with you. He’s been living there ever since. It’s been almost four years. He’s changed completely. If you ran into him, you wouldn’t recognize him. He graduated from culinary school in June. He’s crazy about cooking. This cheese I’m buying is for a recipe he sent me. His father is opening a little restaurant for him so he can gain experience. It’s tiny, only eight tables. Earlier today, he called to tell me he finally got his liquor license . . . ”

  “He’s opened a restaurant? What a surprise! Does it have a name yet?”