*
It was very hot in the sun but the caipirinha was ice cold and surprisingly refreshing. Also, I found myself enjoying the surf competition. Through my binoculars the wet bodies glistened in the sunlight. There appeared to be an almost inexhaustible variety of ways to fall off a surfboard. I was struggling to match what I saw before me to the drawings on the paper that Pietro had given me, but with the caipirinha taking effect this did not trouble me greatly.
After a while, however, my eyelids began to feel heavy and I was aware that my posture was deteriorating – I was slouching over my desk. The glass beside me contained just lime skins and a few remaining cubes of ice. I put the glass in front of my face and rested my chin on the table and tried to force my eyes to stay open by focussing on the ice cubes. They sparkled in the sunlight, almost melted now yet still retaining something of their cool blue transparency; a pleasing antidote to the heat of the day. My eyes closed a little more and I was aware that my mind was starting to wander. Cool blue ice, a shade like that sapphire line above me, the freezing waters holding me. Siggi’s foot kicking in front of me, seizing it in my hand, my hand bleeding from the cut in the flesh of the palm, bleeding into the snow in concentric spiralling circles, spiralling like a whirlpool, sucking down the surfers, sucking down Pietro on his board…
*
‘O Senhor Eisinger!’
I opened my eyes. There were faces all around me. Concern in the faces.
‘Is O Senhor alright?’
The light was bright. I did not recognise the faces.
‘Seu Otto?’
I looked to the voice. The coconut girl. Pietro’s girlfriend. ‘Marina,’ I said.
The concern was still in the faces surrounding me. Young faces. There was some movement now, one face disappeared and was replaced by another. The bodies moved very carefully.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
A hesitant cough.
‘O Senhor fell asleep,’ said one of the other judges. You were talking in your sleep, then shouting, then thrashing about. The empty glass was knocked off the table, then O Senhor woke up. It is nothing to worry about. It is easily cleaned up.’
I looked down. It was true, the wooden planks of the scaffold were covered with hundreds of tiny shards of broken glass. The judges were all barefoot; that was why they were moving so carefully. Then I saw a small pile of lime skins and lime pulp nestling in my lap. I started to brush the sticky mess onto the floor but small flecks of pulp stuck obstinately to the dark material of my trousers.
‘Here, let me help,’ said Marina. She began to brush my trousers with a damp towel.
‘Are you alright?’ asked one of the judges.
‘I’m fine,’ I replied.
‘We thought you might be having an attack.’
‘What sort of attack?’
The judge shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know. Any sort.’
The loudspeaker announced that the contest would recommence shortly. One of the other bikini-clad girls mounted the scaffold with a small broom to brush the bits of broken glass into a pile. Marina pawed at my trousers where tiny particles of lime pulp continued to resist her efforts.
‘I am going home,’ I announced.
Marina looked up, surprised. ‘Do you not feel well?’ she asked.
‘Not very well, no.’
That was not entirely true. I did not feel ill. However, with moisture seeping through my trousers and the prickly sweat of embarrassment beginning to trickle down my back, I had a great desire to be elsewhere. What is more, I felt I had caused a scene that was beginning to verge on the grotesque.
I stood up and stabilised myself against the desk.
‘But Seu Otto, wait until Pietro returns. You might hurt yourself,’ said Marina.
‘I will be fine. Please pass me my crutches.’
Marina passed the crutches and I began to make my way over to the steps, occasionally feeling a tiny shard of glass crunch underfoot. I felt Marina’s hand on my elbow.
‘Please, leave me now,’ I said, shaking it off. ‘It is enough.’
I descended the steps, lowering myself from one to the next with some difficulty. Of course, there was now no one to help me onto the four-wheeled motorbike, or to drive it, so I decided to walk back to the steps in front of the restaurant where João had picked me up. It was a long way but I had the whole afternoon ahead of me. In any case, making the journey on foot, no matter how long it took, was preferable to begging for a lift.
I started to make my way across the wide expanse of the beach. I had to pause every few minutes to rest my hands; the handles of the crutches had made them quite sore. But each time I paused I turned around and looked back with pride at my lengthening tracks in the sand – one footprint with a small indentation either side, like some peculiar three-legged animal.
After a while the wind began to pick up. I could see the currents of sand grains snaking over the beach. My more distant footprints were no longer visible; they had been smoothed over by the wind, the memory of my passing entirely erased. I looked down at my feet and at the grey rubber tips on the ends of my crutches. The wind whipped at my ankles with increasing ferocity and at times the ground was obscured by the swirl of tiny particles. I was reminded of the first beach I ever saw – the beach at Zoppot on the windy Baltic coast where I found the piece of amber with the insect wing frozen inside. I could never have imagined that seventy years later I would be the acclaimed hero of Sambaqui, battling resolutely forward on my crutches between the Atlantic breakers and the great dunes. No one can deny that I have come a long way.
Chapter 24
A WEEK after the surf contest, I take a flight to São Paulo to meet Dr. Raposo. He only has time to see me over breakfast, so I have to spend the night in a cheap hotel and take a taxi to his office the following morning. Fortunately I am able to pay for this with my winnings from the surf contest.
The Rede Globo offices are housed in a tall building whose mirrored windows reflect the early morning clouds that are scudding by. As I enter the building, I cannot help thinking to myself how lucky I am. Of all the thousands of students graduating in media studies and journalism this year, only a tiny proportion will have the opportunity to set foot inside the headquarters of the most powerful television and media company in Brazil, and the fourth largest in the world.
Since the day I went surfing with Marina, I have had a sense that the tide has been turning. This was confirmed by my victory in the surf contest. It was only low-level pro, but still, it was a good win considering how little I have practised. And now I am about to enter the offices of Rede Globo; I feel I am standing on the threshold to my future, and all really thanks to Seu Otto.
The long reception desk stretches from one side of the entrance hall to the other. The desk itself is made of glass and inside the glass bright tropical fish are swimming around. The desk is staffed by cold, sleek young women with erect postures, all of whom are wearing the sorts of handsfree headsets which you usually see on fighter pilots. I choose a receptionist who looks less glacial than the others and inform her that I have a breakfast appointment with Dr. Raposo. Her hands dance over the keyboard, she puts through a call and then asks me to take the elevator to Dr. Raposo’s offices on the 4th floor.
When I get out of the elevator, I am confronted by another icy receptionist. She checks my name on a list and asks me to take a seat. I am about to sit down when I notice that the photographs and awards which hang on the walls all depict Dr. Raposo. There is a framed magazine clipping showing him with the dispossessed Indians from the Histórias Humanas episode. Raposo has his arms around the Indians and is grinning from ear to ear, although they look less cheerful. The caption reads: ‘Doutor Raposo, presenter of Historias Humanas, is awarded the Roberto Mourinho prize for his exposé of government greed.’
Another photo shows Raposo in black tie at a gala awards ceremony. He is triumphantly brandishing a golden figurine in his hand. I move around the room l
ooking at more pictures. Most of them depict Raposo at different gala events. He usually has his arm around some model or reality TV star.
‘O Doutor Raposo,’ the receptionist announces.
I look up to see Raposo himself. He looks just as he does in the photos – grey hair tied back in a pony tail, an earring in one ear, and gaunt, pointed features. Standing beside him is a girl in her twenties, his assistant, obligatory clipboard in hand.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘Good. The breakfast in our roof-top café is excellent. Come.’
We take the lift up to the 11th floor and are shown to a table outside, on the corner of the terrace. The view is spectacular: the grey metropolis stretches away from us in every direction, as far as the eye can see. The scudding early morning clouds have also disappeared and the sky is an unadulterated blue. Only where the sky meets the horizon is the blueness smudged by a faint line of smog.
‘Pietro, I hate to waste time. Let’s get straight to the point. I have spoken to Professor Monteiro and he assures me that you can deliver this Senhor Eisinger.’
Doutor Raposo stares at me. There is no warmth in his eyes.
‘I can arrange the interview,’ I say.
‘So tell me,’ he says, ‘why should I go through you? Why don’t I get my own people to set it up?’
‘Because Senhor Eisinger has agreed to do this interview as a personal favour to me. He won’t do it otherwise.’
‘Ah ha. I see. Perhaps I underestimated you. If we are to pay you for the privilege of this interview, I would like to know, what can you guarantee?’
‘Well, Senhor Eisinger will tell you about the attempt to climb the Matterhorn, about the –‘
‘Yes yes, I have read the treatment. I know his story. But I need something with meat. Something which will cause a stir. Can you guarantee me that?’
‘I can guarantee that Senhor Eisinger will tell you the truth, the truth about a number of things which, until his recent hospitalization, he had never spoken to anyone about. Human stories that have been repressed for half a century, buried in an old man’s subconscious –’
‘Pietro, I hold a doctorate in psychology, you will not impress me with jargon.’
Professor Monteiro had warned me about Dr. Raposo’s manner. Even though I had been prepared, I feel under attack.
‘Dr. Raposo, Senhor Eisinger will tell you the truth about his past. I can promise you no more than that. But I also believe that the truth should be enough, especially when the story is as interesting as Senhor Eisinger’s.’
Dr. Raposo is about to reply, then he thinks better of it. He leans back in his chair and surveys the cityscape.
‘Pietro, I was an idealist once. But ideals are not enough, not in this business. You need a nose too, a nose for a story, a nose for scandal, and a nose for what the public wants. And, maybe most importantly, you need to be ambitious. That’s something you cannot teach. But the fact that you are here, offering me this story, confident that only you can make it happen, well, that shows me you have ambition. And you have your ideals too, otherwise Senhor Eisinger would not trust you the way he does. Do you have a nose? I’m not sure. But I am prepared to take a chance. You say you can guarantee that Senhor Eisinger will speak to me openly and freely? Well, let us hope that will be sufficient. As you say, the truth is a very marketable commodity. But it must be the whole truth. On that understanding, I am willing to proceed. What do you say?’
Dr. Raposo has made his position clear. He wants complete openness, complete honesty from Seu Otto. It seems like a fair demand. To the best of my knowledge, Seu Otto has been open and honest about everything. Perhaps it has not always been easy for him – it has run counter to fifty years of defences. But, since the accident, he has been willing to look candidly at the past. And he has agreed to do the same in an interview, in front of a television camera. Surely this is a guarantee I can give? Surely I can deliver what Dr. Raposo wants? I have complete faith in Seu Otto’s honesty. And yet, for some reason, I find myself hesitating. Something is making me feel uncomfortable.
‘Is there a problem? If there’s a problem, it would be best to tell me now,’ says Dr. Raposo.
‘There’s just one thing,’ I hear myself say.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, Senhor Eisinger will only do the interview if it takes place in his own home.’
For the first time, Dr. Raposo smiles. That is to say, one side of his mouth is drawn upwards. A tiny tweak.
‘I prefer to conduct interviews in my interviewees’ homes. It helps me understand them,’ he says. Then he leans forward and extends his hand.
‘I’ll have my lawyers prepare the rest,’ he says. ‘Sacha will take care of everything else,’ he indicates his assistant with the clipboard. ‘But remember: complete honesty.’ Then he shakes my hand and leaves me to breakfast by myself.
Chapter 25
IN THE days following the surfing competition, I made a particular effort to focus on my old routines. I read the papers, listened to the news and discussed the day’s gardening with Valdemar. Anna-Maria prepared my favourite food and I whiled away the twilight hours watching the fishermen wade out into the bay. For a small fee, I arranged for Linda Pereira, the physiotherapist, to visit my house. By staying away from the hospital I was able to avoid reminders of the last few weeks.
I also avoided speaking to Pietro directly. Most of the time Anna-Maria acted as an intermediary. If I am honest, this was partly because I was feeling guilty about Pietro. I was afraid that I had made him look foolish for inviting me to judge the surf competition. After falling asleep at my judge’s desk and smashing my glass, I had attempted to make my way back across the beach unaided. The Coastguard subsequently found me lying on the sand where I had collapsed, exhausted.
When Pietro and I eventually did speak directly, he mentioned neither the incident with the Coastguard, nor my falling asleep and breaking the glass. Quite the opposite; he was effusive in his expression of gratitude for the fact that I had attended the competition and that I had agreed to be interviewed by him on film. So I was in fact quite pleased to have the opportunity of the interview in order to prove myself worthy of the generosity of his feelings.
Upon his return from São Paulo, Pietro called to tell me that the producer of the show had agreed to film the interview in my library in Sambaqui. This was the one stipulation I had made. I thought that I would at least feel at ease in my own home. However, I could not have predicted that things would turn out as they did.
Having informed me that Dr. Raposo was happy to film in the library, Pietro asked, ‘Seu Otto, you will answer the questions just as you did in the hospital, yes?’
‘Pietro, I don’t remember exactly what I said in the hospital, but I shall stick to the facts, that I can promise you.’
‘And if, say, someone else were to ask the questions?’
‘Facts are facts, Pietro. It doesn’t depend on who’s asking the question. But I only agreed to be interviewed by you. Who else will be asking the questions?’
‘It is possible that Dr. Raposo may ask one or two questions himself. But they will be my questions. Just like in the hospital.’
But it was nothing like in the hospital.
*
I rose early on the morning of the interview and went for a swim in the bay, something I have only recently started to do again. I am no longer able to swim as far as before, and I am very conscious of not kicking too hard with my new hip, but it is a great pleasure to be able to start each new day in this way. It makes me feel that things have more or less returned to normal.
I decided to wear my best dark suit, the one I usually only wear to funerals. I knew Pietro was planning to ask me once again about Siggi’s death and I thought the suit would set the right tone. I was dressed and ready half an hour before Pietro, Dr. Raposo and the film crew were due to arrive, so I went down to my study and occupied myself with the Folha de São Paul
o. It was of course my visit to Florianópolis in order to buy that very publication that had set in motion this whole sorry cycle of events. But if I am honest, I also have to admit that, despite everything, I have enjoyed the acclaim that the incident has brought me. What is more, if things had not happened the way they did, I would never have become friends with Pietro. Despite what had happened at the surfing competition, I found myself looking forward to Pietro’s arrival with considerable anticipation.
The doorbell rang punctually at 11 o’clock and I went to open the door myself. Pietro was standing on the doorstep. I had never seen him so presentable. His hair was brushed in a side parting and he wore an elegant navy blue suit. There was an unmistakeable warmth in his handshake. For one brief moment I was tempted to cast decorum to the winds and to embrace him, but I checked the impulse.
‘Seu Otto, may I introduce to you Dr. Raposo, the presenter and producer of Histórias Humanas,’ said Pietro, indicating the slender man just behind him.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Sr Doutor,’ I said.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘call me Ruben.’
Ruben Raposo must have been in his fifties, although his grey hair was tied in a ponytail and he wore an earring. His pointed features reminded me of an animal; I was not sure exactly which.
I led Pietro and Ruben Raposo into the house. As they stepped forward I caught a brief glimpse of the circus behind them. There were two large vans parked in the road and people rushing about everywhere – unloading boxes, checking lists, shouting down portable telephones.
‘Please, do sit down,’ I said, indicating the small leather sofa in my study. ‘Would you like tea? I can ask Anna-Maria to prepare tea.’
‘Do not trouble yourself, Senhor Eisinger,’ said Dr. Raposo. ‘We have a catering lorry outside. They will provide us with everything we require.’
‘I see,’ I said.
The silence was broken by Pietro: ‘Seu Otto, how much do you know about Senhor Raposo’s show?’
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