The Veríssimo Project

This is an exemplary story, it’s just not very clear what it’s an example of. Either way, keep this away from the children. It also has nothing to do with the Brazilian crisis, the apartheid, the situation in Central America, or the Middle East, or man’s adventure on this Earth. It is situated on the somewhat lower level of the minute afflictions of today’s middle class. Anyways. It happened to a friend of mine. Fictional, of course.
He was coming back home as he usually did, loyally and routinely, at the same time every day. A man nearing forty, at the age where he knows he will never own a casino in Samarkand, or have diamonds in his teeth, but can still expect a few surprises in his life, like winning the lottery or getting a flat tire. He got a flat tire. With difficulty he succeeded in pulling over to the sidewalk and was preparing for battle against the jack, a medium sized jack that probably did not work. He got the jack to work, lifted the car, changed the tire, and was closing the trunk when his wedding ring slipped off his oily finger and fell on the asphalt. He took a step to pick up the ring, but accidentally kicked it. The ring bounced off the tire of a passing car and flew into a sewer drain. There, it disappeared right before his eyes, a sight that took him quite a bit of time to process.
He cleaned off his hands as best he could, got in the car and drove home. He started thinking about what he would tell his wife. He imagined the scene. Him coming home and answering his wife’s questions before she asked them.
-You will not believe what happened!
-What?
-Something incredible.
-What?
-If I tell you, you won’t believe me.
-Tell me!
-Don’t you notice anything different about me? Isn’t something missing?
-No.
-Look.
He would show her his finger, ring-less.
-What happened?
And he would tell her. Everything, just as it had happened. The jack. The oil. The ring on the asphalt. The involuntary kick. The ring’s flight and disappearance.
-Wow, she would say, calmly.
-Isn’t that unbelievable?
-No. It’s perfectly possible.
-Well, yeah. I…
-YOU SONFABITCH!
-Honey…
-Do you think I’m stupid? Do I look like a clown? I know what happened to that wedding ring. You took it off to be with another woman. Right? To go on a date. You come home at this hour and have the balls to invent this ridiculous story only an idiot would believe.
-But, baby…
-I know where that ring is. It’s lost in the shaggy carpet of some seedy motel. Down the drain of some big, round jacuzzi. You bastard!
And she would leave, with the kids, without another word.

He arrived home and said nothing. Why was he late? Traffic. Why that face? Nothing, nothing at all. Then, finally:
-Where’s your wedding ring?
And he said:
-I took it off to be with another woman. To go on a date. I lost it in the motel. There. I have no excuses. If you want to end our marriage now, I will understand.
She looked like she was going to cry. Then she ran to the bedroom and slammed the door. Ten minutes later she came out. Said that this meant that their marriage was in a crisis, but that they, together, could overcome it.
-The most important thing is that you didn’t lie to me.

And she walked to the kitchen to make dinner.

Labels: adultery, brasil, Brazil, brazilian, cheating, divorce, husband, lying, Marriage, motel, Rio de Janeiro, wife

This is what happened: Vânia finally conceded and agreed to meet Rogério in an apartment in Copacabana. But insisted on absolute security. Nobody could see her entering or leaving the building. If her husband found out, if her husband even had the faintest inkling…Rogério swore that no one would see her.
-This is not a busy street. I pay the doorman not to see anything. The next-door neighbors are only home at night. The neighbors on the other side are never around. Their apartment might even be empty. There is no risk. Trust me.
They worked out the minutia of Operation Meet-up, or Operation Finally, as Rogério referred to it. She would tell her husband that she was going to Copacabana to shop. Including the trip to and from Grajaú, they would have two full hours. From six to eight. She would arrive the building alone, wearing sunglasses and a scarf over her head, and would go up to his apartment. He would be waiting. Right? Vânia hesitated:
-My God. Antônio. Our children… If someone finds out.
No one was going to find out. No one would see her. They would have two full, wonderful hours. Away from the world, away from the eyes and tongues of Grajau. Vânia sighed and agreed. Six o’clock, then.
At six Vânia knocked on Rogério’s apartment door. In addition to the sunglasses and scarf, Vânia had popped the collar on her coat and wore a bandana over her nose and mouth. Everyone on the streets had turned to look at this woman, covered up from head to toe despite the heat, trying so hard not to be noticed.
She was nervous.
-If Antônio finds out…
Rogério tried to calm her. He took her to his room. They began to undress. Then they heard noises in the hall. Screams, running. Vânia’s eyes were open wide.
-It’s Antônio!”
-It can’t be. Calm down. I’ll go see what it is.
Rogério was in the middle of his living room, in his underwear, when he heard them knock on the door. Violently. He hesitated. It couldn’t be her husband. Impossible. Such racket… He would have had to bring half of Grajaú with him to cause such a racket. A neighborhood punitive expedition to defend the neighborhood’s honor. I’m getting lynched, he thought. Dismembered by the middle class. A martyr. The first pagan saint of the Southside. Then, amidst the violent knocking he heard:
-Open up! It’s the police! Open the door or we will knock it down!
Rogério opened the door. He was thrown against the wall by an avalanche yelling men armed with machine guns. 

Labels: adultery, brasil, Brazil, brazilian, cheating, favela, Marriage, news, television, violence

He arrived at the beach on a Tuesday, which was weird. When the kids came home from playing and swimming in the ocean, they found their father on the veranda. “Huh,” they remarked. Moments later his wife came home and also thought it was strange that he was home on a Tuesday, especially with that look on his face. She immediately thought the worst. “Is it my mother?!” No, no, her mother was fine. Everything in the city was fine. He had missed her, got in the car and drove to the beach. That was it.
Later, away from the kids, he told her the truth.
-I heard you have a boyfriend.
The woman laughed loudly. Who could have said such a thing?
-I heard… he said, vaguely. A surfer.
-Me, dating a surfer?!
She couldn’t understand how he could believe such a thing. Her! A surfer! He became increasingly dramatic.
-I'm worried about the children.
-But this is crazy! Me, dating some boy?
-I did not mention the surfer’s age, he said, as if this undoubtedly signaled her incrimination. She tried to play it off.
-Look, they're all boys around here. Young or old.”
He did not find it amusing. He was convinced. Maybe he deserved it. Her infidelity. But he still worried about the kids. She hugged him. But what was that? After years of marriage, such mistrust? They had never mistrusted one another. Ever. She backed away and said:
-Marjory is behind this, isn’t she? I bet this is her doing.
Nope. It wasn’t Marjory. It was an anonymous phone call. He had tried so hard not to give the phone call any thought. He had made a conscious effort not to believe it. But he couldn’t resist.
-I’m sorry…
She hugged him again, teary-eyed. Made him promise one thing.
-Let’s not ever doubt each other. Promise?
-Promise.
They held each other and kissed for a long time, until one of the children came to show them the frog they had found in the bathroom.
-Are you sleeping here tonight? - the woman asked.
-No. I have an appointment in the city early tomorrow morning.
He returned to Porto Alegre late that afternoon. His appointment was actually that very night, and her name was Maitê. The whole anonymous phone call story had given him a sort of preventative habeas corpus. What the hell, he thought. The world in the shape that it’s in, this could be his last summer. But he couldn’t look the doorman in the eye.

Labels: adultery, Brazil, brazilian, cheating, Marriage, Rio de Janeiro