Senhor Eisinger, on the other hand, was very sprightly. He was already in the lobby of the hotel when I arrived ten minutes early. He pressed the keys of the big blue Mercedes into my hand and then ushered Anna-Maria into the back of the car. He opened the door for her and brushed away the attentions of the doorman. Then he walked round to the other side of the vehicle and opened the door for himself. For a moment he seemed childlike in his enthusiasm. He opened and closed the door a second time just to listen to the clunk it made, then he said to me, ‘Fine German engineering.’
Senhor Eisinger instructed me to drive north, up towards Praia dos Ingleses. I think he was saddened to see some of the ugly developments that have been built there. I caught glimpses of him shaking his head in the rear view mirror as yet another white apartment complex came into view. As we drove past Rio Vermelho, I remembered the surf contest I had competed in up there some years ago. It had been the first contest in which I had been placed, and one of the last that my father came to watch.
‘Do you like it here?’ asked Senhor Eisinger.
‘Yes, Seu Otto,’ I replied. ‘I came here with my father once, when I was young.’
‘You are not so old now.’
‘I suppose not. But it feels like it was a long time ago,’ I said.
‘Your father, he is not a surfist anymore?’ asked Seu Otto.
‘No, not any more. He was never much of a surfer really, but he encouraged me.’
‘So now?’
‘Well, we don’t speak much now,’ I replied. Seu Otto nodded to himself and was silent.
‘Pietro’s father Gorka, my son in law, is not an easy man,’ chimed in Anna-Maria. ‘He left my daughter to bring up Pietro all by herself. I ask you, what kind of a man would do that?’
Seu Otto did not reply. I remained silent too. I think we were both wishing that Vovó were not quite so outspoken.
From Rio Vermelho we headed south to look at the village of Pantano do Sul. The houses there are big but charmless; Seu Otto’s expression left me in little doubt that he felt the same way. Instead of stopping there, he told me to drive on to the famous Bar do Arante restaurant. I had been to Bar do Arante once before, on a date with Marina a year ago. The inside of the restaurant is covered from floor to ceiling with handwritten notes left by diners. There is not an inch of wall visible. The notes are written on serviettes in languages from all over the world. Some notes are more like postcards, others are wishes. My own note must be there somewhere too. I think it said, ‘I wish to sleep with Marina tonight.’ I think that even happened. If I could make another wish now, I would make a more serious one.
A tradition of the restaurant is to serve each diner a caipirinha before the waiter has even taken your order. Seu Otto didn’t know about this. At first he tried to send the drinks back. When the waiter explained that they were complimentary, Seu Otto thanked him and, having waited for the waiter to leave, he told us that he wished to propose a toast to his own future death on the island. I don’t know what prompted this thought. Vovó and I were both surprised; neither of us knew how to respond. Perhaps Seu Otto noticed our confusion; he said, ‘Well, can you imagine a better place to die?’ I shook my head.
I took a sip from my caipirinha which was strong and good, not too sweet. I noticed that Anna-Maria did not touch hers. Seu Otto said, ‘What, you do not like caipirinha?’
Anna-Maria shook her head.
‘Will you have something else?’
‘No, that’s okay,’ she said.
‘Anna-Maria, please. I wish to drink a toast. You must have something.’
Vovó seemed surprised by Seu Otto’s insistence. ‘Well, maybe a gin and tonic?’ she asked, meekly. Seu Otto waved to the waiter and ordered the gin and tonic, then we toasted his future death. I am fairly sure I detected a glint of amusement in his eye.
*
After lunch we headed back to Florianópolis. On the way we had to pass through Lagoa. I sank a little lower in the driver’s seat, in the hope that I would not be recognised behind the wheel of a gleaming, brand new Mercedes. If one of the owners of Divino had seen me, I would have had some explaining to do. Although, realistically, I think they would have assumed the car didn’t belong to me. Nevertheless, I was grateful that the car windows were tinted almost as dark as a politician’s limousine.
I drove Senhor Eisinger and Vovó back to the Hotel Imperial. Seu Otto thanked me and told me that he wouldn’t need me for the next two days since Kika, the real estate agent who is a friend of my mother’s, had offered to drive him around the island to view a number of properties. Seu Otto shook my hand, once again with surprising firmness. Then he gave me a folded bill which I didn’t look at until I was back in the combi; it was extremely generous, more of a gift than a tip. As he handed the bill to me he also invited me to visit him whenever I wished, whether in São Paulo or once he was installed on Santa Catarina.
The truth is that I would like to see Seu Otto again. He certainly cuts a strange figure, always wearing his dark suit on this island of surfers and holidaymakers. I have never met anyone like him before and I have the sense that, underneath all that formality and inflexibility, he possesses some rare and admirable qualities. I can’t imagine Seu Otto ever having gotten himself into a situation like the one that I’m currently in. Of course, things were different when he was young, but maybe they were different precisely because the people were different. Or maybe I just want to see him again because I have always felt that he likes me, and that is an agreeable feeling.
‘Won’t you hug your grandmother, or don’t you love me anymore?’ asked Vovó, interrupting my thoughts about Seu Otto. I am fond of her but I find these emotional entreaties quite annoying. Nevertheless, I did hug her goodbye, though I also noticed that Seu Otto had turned around so as not to see. I am not sure whether he did that so that I wouldn’t feel embarrassed, or so that he wouldn’t. In many ways he is still an enigma to me, and that is another reason why I would like our paths to cross again.
Chapter 3
I MOVED into the new house at the beginning of February, shortly before carnival. We spent the first few days unpacking; this was even more straining than the packing had been. Moving house is no occupation for senior citizens, be they of ever so formidable a constitution. There are too many objects whose location needs to be decided upon, and each object triggers too many memories… but I become sentimental.
After three days of unpacking I felt I needed to get out, so I made my first trip to Florianópolis. I also had to go to the bank to withdraw cash to give to Anna-Maria for household expenses. I changed into my suit and proceeded to the bus stop on Sambaqui’s cobbled main street. The bus stop itself has a small slanted roof so I was able to wait comfortably in the shade, despite the hot summer sun.
That inaugural trip to Florianópolis coincided with the first day of carnival festivities. I was unable to go to the bank since it was shut. Not only that, I found myself caught up in the procession known as the ‘bloco dos sujos’: the parade of the dirty ones. It is the custom in Florianópolis for men of all ages and physiques to wear women’s clothing for a day. The results are at times quite fear-inducing: I saw a well-rounded gentleman in his later years drunkenly rolling down Rua Felipe Schmidt wearing only a pink tutu. However, it amused me that wives and girlfriends, usually the centre of sartorial admiration, were for once in the shadows whilst husbands and boyfriends paraded like birds of paradise, complimenting each other on their outfits.
Having escaped from the bloco dos sujos, I wandered the streets for an hour. I was astounded by the number of clothing shops, the vast majority selling nothing but shorts, t-shirts and sunglasses. Can there really be such enormous demand for these items? I continued past clothing shop after clothing shop until I reached the historic town square. Several restaurants vied for space beneath a tall, honey-coloured portico. I was reminded of the piazzas I had seen during a business trip to Italy many years ago. As in Italy, the red plastic tables in
front of the restaurants proudly displayed the ubiquitous Coca-Cola ensign.
Since the main carnival festivities took place in Florianópolis, I thought it was quite possible that Pietro would be there for the day. The chances of bumping into him were of course small, though I was tricked from a distance on a number of occasions – there are many blond Brazilians on the island of Santa Catarina. Most are the descendants of the Germans, Poles and Ukrainians who immigrated at the end of the nineteenth century. Those like me, who came after the war, are a relative minority. Despite the false alarms, I remained vigilant in the hope of spotting Pietro’s blond shock of hair.
I wandered underneath the portico to the cobbled square on the other side. Here there was a fountain which had seen better days. The mermaids had been defaced with graffiti moustaches and the water which had been intended to spray in a jet from the dolphin’s mouth was just a sad dribble. I sat down on the side of the fountain and observed the vaivém. On the other side of the square a large stage was being prepared for the arrival of some musicians. Girls whose ample behinds had been squeezed into tight, shiny trousers began to arrive in large groups. They tottered over to the stage where the technicians were still setting up the equipment. I could tell from the timbre of the girls’ voices that they were excited; they must have been expecting musicians of some renown.
One of the technicians was wearing a skier’s red hat with a pompom, despite the warmth of the afternoon. He climbed onto the stage and announced that he was going to play the first ‘set’. I could still not see the musicians; perhaps there was a hidden orchestra pit which I could not discern. In any case, the technician continued to fiddle around with the equipment. Some of the young people had already, somewhat precipitously, started to dance. Truly, young people today are very impatient – I imagine it is due to the culture which peddles instant gratification. After listening to the discordant notes and circular rhythms for a while, I began to wonder whether the equipment was broken. I did not wish to wait around for the necessary repairs to take place, so I hailed a passing cab and returned home.
*
Once I had settled into the new house, I began to enjoy a pleasing routine. The crescent beach of Sambaqui stretches for two kilometres from a small sandy promontory at the northern end to a similar promontory at the southern end. Before the accident I used to swim from one promontory to the other and back every morning. Now I can no longer swim quite that far. Nevertheless, swimming is a wonderful occupation; I am able to exercise without placing any strain on my hip or my arthritic knee. My knee can be a source of great discomfort, especially on humid days; sometimes I even require the aid of a walking stick.
From the water I can see the tower blocks of Florianópolis to the south and the steeply rising green mass of the mainland to the west. The absence of any waves makes the bay ideal for swimming, unless one of my neighbours decides to shatter the morning calm on a hateful, petroleum-excreting jet-ski. Otherwise flying fish are common, especially before a storm, and on a number of occasions I have seen the horny flipper of a sea turtle rise solemnly above the water like a papal benediction.
After my swim, I take morning coffee on the patio outside my library. A pleasant dappled shade is cast by the vines, which have been trained to grow around the wooden beams overhead. Then I read the Diario Catarinense, which is delivered to my door, and the Folha de São Paulo, which I buy once a week at exaggerated cost in Florianópolis. When I am done with the newspapers, I attempt to plug the gaps in my knowledge of the literary classics. I recently finished reading the Nibelungenlied and I am currently trudging through Dante’s Inferno with the help of a Portuguese translation. I confess that Dante often sends me to sleep. However, I am usually woken after a short time by the clanking of the garden gate. Valdemar the gardener arrives at midday, and then I too have a job to do. Valdemar is both lazy and of limited understanding, by no means equal to the task of maintaining the perfect lawn that I have inherited. I am obliged to dog his every step.
The previous owner of the house left a file describing how best to care for the grass - a lawn service manual. I was able to purchase extra seed and the necessary fertilisers from the All England Rackets and Tennis Club via an import company in São Paulo. After consulting the file and inspecting the grass, I issue instructions to Valdemar. In the early days of our collaboration, I was not so conscientious and within a couple of weeks the grass was already turning brown and sickly, despite the clockwork regularity of the automated watering system. However, with the aid of a ruler I discovered that Valdemar was mowing too deeply; each blade of grass was losing over fifty percent of its length every time it was cut. The optimum summer percentile, according to the file, is twenty-five.
Since then I have been following the instructions to the letter and I am happy to state that the results have been gratifying. However, I have been surprised by the amount of work required. Great vigilance is also necessary since Valdemar will cut corners (and grass) wherever possible. I have taken to sitting at the back of the garden in a pliable chair with the file on my knees, observing Valdemar whilst he waters or mows or aerates or scatters or scarifies or fertilises. A perfect lawn may mean nothing to him, but I delight in its luminous verdure.
The lawn is certainly the garden’s most salient feature. However, around the perimeter of the lawn there are a number of other noteworthy plants. A mat of bright purple bougainvillea festoons the wooden fence at the back of the garden. It is a fine specimen of a hardy plant – even Valdemar’s erratic watering does not appear to dull the intensity of the bright, papery flowers. The bougainvillea is named after the French Naval admiral Louis Antoine de Bougainville; he took cuttings in Brazil during his circumnavigation of the globe and brought them back to France. It amuses me to think that this plant, so characteristic of the languorous Mediterranean, is really a native of these shores.
Further along the wooden fence there is one plant which is not a native of this continent – the honeysuckle. It also grows well in this shaded area and it is abundantly adorned with yellow and white blossoms. But for some reason it has no scent. I remember an afternoon a long time ago, a sunny afternoon during my childhood in Germany, during which I was entranced and intoxicated by the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle wafting through an open window. Well, all I can say is that this Brazilian plant, for all its superficial charm, is a very poor cousin of that glorious German relative. How sad, to be a scentless honeysuckle.
Twice a week, following my rounds of the garden with Valdemar, I take the bus to Florianópolis in order to buy the Folha de São Paulo, a newspaper which is not sold in Sambaqui. There is a little newsagent on the corner of Córrego Grande which also sells very fine pastéis, lightly dusted with icing sugar. It was in this newsagent’s that the incident occurred.
I am referring to the fateful Monday morning in March, some weeks after the carnival. I had been swimming that morning, following which I helped Valdemar mix the manganese-boron fertiliser. I watched him begin to spread the fertiliser and, when I had assured myself that he was not going to bungle the job, I went in to change. Large thunderclouds were piling up in the south and from my bedroom window I could see the flying fish flash brightly as they leapt from the water, heralding a storm. My knee was already beginning to ache, so I went to fetch my stick before walking the short distance from my house to the bus stop.
In summer even the Sambaqui bus is crowded; the holiday makers from Argentina and Uruguay are everywhere. I was standing in the aisle holding onto one of the billiard balls attached to leather straps that hang from the roof when a corpulent lady with a downy moustache began to undulate menacingly; then she stood up and offered me her seat. I declined the offer, thinking to myself that she had greater need of the seat than I, though it was a sentiment I tactfully kept to myself. I was momentarily tempted to point out to her that I had already swum over two kilometres that morning and that it was well within my capabilities to stand on my own two feet for a few minutes, but I restrained
myself.
The clouds had moved in more quickly than I had anticipated. By the time the bus stopped in Córrego Grande, the wind was picking up too and it had started to spit with rain. I leant into the wind and made my way towards the newsagent’s where I selected a pastry. I then picked out the Folha de São Paulo from the newspaper rack. As I did so, my eyes were drawn to the black-and-white cover photo of a magazine bearing the title História. Why were my eyes drawn to it? I cannot say. Though at the time I could not know it, that moment turned out to be of no small significance.
The black-and-white cover photo depicted a column of Hitler Youth boys standing to attention in Nuremberg’s Adolf Hitler Platz. Despite the graininess of the image, I was able to recognise a number of the buildings from my own visit during the rally in 1938. I looked hard at the column of boys but I did not recognise any of them; that would have been too great a coincidence. Of course I recognised the uniform – the brown shirt, the black neckerchief held in place with a leather knot, black shorts worn good and tight round the waist, black belt, beige knee socks and polished black shoes. And I recognised the salute too, the raised arm with hand outstretched. But maybe I also recognised something else in this photo, in the expression of these boys: the pride that comes from dedicating oneself to something much greater than the individual.
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