The Veríssimo Project

He said:
- But, Land Reform...
She said:
- You gonna tell me you're against it?
He tried bailing:
- It's a complex issue.
She insisted:
- Hold on a sec.
- Gimme a kiss, girl.
- Wait. This is important. I want to know.
- What?
- Land Reform. Are you against it?
- Why? Are you for it?
- Obvie.
- You want the old man to have his land taken from him and given away?
- Your father owns a lot of land?
- Tons.
- I did not know that!
- There is a lot about me you still don't know, sweetheart. Come here and I'll show you...
- Wait. Seriously.
- Gimme some...
- Seriously though, shit.
- Ok. What do you want to know?
- Your dad. How many hectares does he own? Or acres? Is it hectares or acres?
- I dunno. I've never been out there.
- How many?
- Lots.
- More or less?
- Look, they can get in a jeep at the farm in the morning, drive all day and not reach the end of our lands...
- Jesus!
- The jeep always breaks down. Now gimme a kiss, please...
- Stop.
- Come here, woman!
- No. Look, I just never thought...
- What? That my dad is a farmer? How do you think I am paying for school? And the car? And the apartment? And our engagement rings?
- Does he own unproductive land?
- Yes. It's exactly the land that he is keeping to give to us when we get married. It's our land, honey.
- But... what about your speech?
- Well...
- Even I thought it was a bit radical. And you know I lean to the left...
- Let's not fight over this.
- But, the things you're always talking about... Social justice...
- Yes.
- The insensitivity of the rich in this country...
- I stand by it.
- The absurdity of the landless in a country this big...
- Absolutely.
- Ok. The other night. At this very bar. You said that all private property is theft. I thought that was so inspiring...
- The phrase just popped into my head. Now, listen...
- And now you tell me you are against Land Reform.
- I am not against Land Reform. Theoretically, I am for it.
- So then...
- Don't you get it? Now it's not theory. Now it's the old man's land!

She (young, beautiful, alone) had just finished rubbing tanning oil on her arms, after applying it to her legs, thighs and face. She looked around. A few meters from her, sitting on the sand, a man read the newspaper. No one else was around. She examined the man carefully. Wedding ring? Yes. Married. Thirty, Thirty-five. Definitely not ugly, though his nose was a tad long. She spoke:
- Why were you staring at me?
Startled, he turned towards her.
- Are you talking to me?
- Why were you staring at me?
- I’m sorry. I was not staring at you.
- Why not?
He laughed, not knowing what to say.
She continued:
- What do you want?
- Me? Nothing.
- Are you sure?
- I can assure you that…
- Nothing at all?
- Nothing. I swear.
- You weren’t imagining that fate placed us here, side by side on the same beach, with something in mind, a plan for us? You never considered saying a word to me? Asking me out? Having an affair?
- Nope. Not at all.
- Do you find me repulsive?
- No! Really. It’s just that…
Here it comes, she thought. He’s gonna tell me he’s a homosexual. Or impotent. Or, my God, that his wife died yesterday! But all he says is:
- Look, the last thing I am looking for right now is emotional involvement, ok? Don’t take this the wrong way. You are a very attractive girl. I’m just not interested.
Perfect, she thought. Just one more thing:
- Is your wife around?
- My wife? No.
Perfect. She got up, walked over to him, sat down beside him and asked:
- Will you rub oil on my back?

- Hello?
- Russ, let me talk to Moira.
- What?!
- I know she’s there. Put her on the phone.
- Michael, have you lost your mind? Why would Moira be here at this hour?
- I just wanna talk to her, Russ. I’m not gonna fight, I won’t make a scene…
- What is this? Do you have any idea what time it is?
- I’m sorry if I interrupted anything, but I need to speak with Moira.
- Michael. Listen. It’s three o’clock in the morning, I’m sleeping, there’s no one here with me, especially not… C’mon, Michael! What do you think I am? You and Moira are my best friends!
- But Moira’s not just a friend, is she, Russ? I know. I know about you two.
- You’re crazy! Michael…
- Let me talk to her!
- You know something. Go f… Look, if Moira isn’t home, it’s not my problem. She’s not here.
- You don’t know this but I saw you buying the earring at the market.
- What earring?
- I saw it! And the next day Moira was wearing it!
- And she told you I gave it to her?
- She didn’t say anything. I saw it!
- Michael…
- You really want me to make a scene? Fine. I’m coming over. Let’s make a spectacle of this, Russ. Cuckolded husband, gun-in-hand… Get ready.

Michael hangs up. Russ sits and thinks for a second. Robert, on the bed next to him, says nothing. Finally, Russ speaks. There is no anger in his voice. Only disappointment.

- You and Moira, Robert?
- Why me and Moira?
- The earring I bought you. She has it.
- They’re probably just similar.
- Please, Robert. Don’t lie to me.
- Ok, ok. I gave the earring away. But not to Moira, to Lisa.
- To Lisa?
- Yeah, to Lisa, my wife. I swear.
- And Lisa gave it to Moira.
- You think?
- Do you know where Lisa is right now, Robert?
- Should be home, why?
- Because Moira isn’t home.
- You think Lisa and Moira…
- You better go, Robert. I’m expecting someone.
- Who?
- Michael. He’s coming to kill me.
- I’ll stay.
- You’ll leave.
- Fine.

Robert gets out of bed and gets dressed to leave.

- Robert…
- Yeah…
- You didn’t like the earring?

“I am becoming accustomed to the idea of considering every sexual act a process in which, at least, four people are involved.” S. Freud




- Try to relax…
- Sorry. It’s just that there’s a part of me that, you know? Stays out of it, distanced, watching it all. A part that can’t give itself to you…
- I understand.
- It’s as if there’s a third person in bed.
- Right. It’s your superego. Mine is also here.
- Yours too?
- Of course. Everybody has one. The trick is learning to live with him.
- If only he would close his eyes!
- Calm down. I know how you feel. In these cases I always imagine that my mother is present.
- Your mother?
- Yup. She’s in bed with us too.
- Have you seen a shrink?
- I see one, actually. Now that I think about it, he’s also here.
- Who?
- My analyst. In bed. My God, next to my mother!
- My father is here…
- Your father, too?
- My superego and my father.
- Your superego and your father could be the same person.
- No, no. They’re definitely two. And they won’t stop staring at me.
- But sex is such a natural thing!
- Tell them.
- Actually, isn’t it? We aren’t even ourselves. I am what I think I am, I am as you see me…
- And we also are what we think we are to others.
- In other words, each one of us is actually three.
- Four, if you count who we really are.
- But who are we, really?
- I dunno. I…
- What a second. Let’s go over this again. On your side you have you, your superego, your father… – that’s three right there.
- And on yours there’s you three, your mother and your analyst.
- And my superego.
- And your superego.
- Anyone else?
- And Jimmy.
- Who?!
- My first boyfriend. He was the one that…
- Hold on a sec. Not Jimmy.
- But…
- Get Jimmy off this bed.
- But…
- Either Jimmy leaves, or me and my crew leave!

Paul and Dee invited Lana and Antonio for dinner at their house and then to watch what Paul referred to as “a lil porno” on the VHS. Antonio went against his will, whereas Lana didn’t see any harm.
- I don’t see any harm.
- C’mon, Lan!
- What’s the problem?
- I dunno – said Antonio, who didn’t want to be a party pooper, but c’mon!
They barely knew Paul and Dee. He eventually agreed on one condition.
- If this thing involves a midget or a goat, I am walking out!

When he put the tape in the player, Paul winked and said, “This one stars Mike McGee.”
- Ahh, Mike McGee – said Antonio, as if he knew who that was.
- Is he good? – wondered Lana.
- Watch – said Paul.
Dee chimed in:
- Just watch.

In the car, on the way home, Lana was silent. Antonio had already dissed the food (“Strogonoff, in this heat?”), dissed Paul (“He cuts out articles from the Christian Science Monitor, did you see?”), even dissed the dog (“Annoying”) and Lana remained silent, pensive. Finally Antonio said:
- How ‘bout that Mike McGee?
And Lana:
- Crazy, right?
Antonio looked at her from the corner of his eye.
- That could be a trick, you know?
- Trick? How?
- A trick. Make-up. It could be fake, rubber.
- I don’t think it was.
- The guy is an imbecile. C’mon, be serious. He looks retarded. Don’t you think?
- Not really.
- Oh come on, Lan. Could you imagine someone like that… someone like that…
- What?
Antonio searched for words. Finally he said:
- Reading Rilke?
Lana exuded disdain.
- I don’t know what good reading Rilke has brought some people…
I knew we shouldn’t have gone, thought Antonio.

The last time they had seen each other one was trying to bash the other over the head with a bat, while the other attempted to defend himself by throwing wild punches at the first. One yelled, “Communist!” and the other yelled, “Fascist!” But this was years ago. Now here they are, years older, at the same old dive bar. They had greeted each other discreetly. Embarrassed. After a few minutes of hesitation, the one invited the other to have a seat at his table. What the hell, it was ancient history.
The fight had occurred when they were both students. They were friends, but had different ideas. It was a tumultuous time. One day they found themselves on opposite sides of a political protest. One was against and one was in favor of something or other. They were young and impulsive. They cursed at each other. At which point the one attacked the other, bat in hand. Different times. Different hormones. They hadn’t spoken since.
- Are you still in that thing?
- Thing?
- Yeah, what was it? Castrated Christians against something or other.
- Christian Crusade against Communism. No.
- Does it still exist?
- I don’t know. You?
- Me, what?
- Are you still a communist?
- Ha!
It was an answer. The other asked:
- Does it still exist?
- Communist? There’s a couple. But the Russian police has their addresses already.
- Were you militant?
- See this right here? Police. Billy Club.
- It wasn’t me?
- No, you didn’t get me with that ridiculous bat. Christian Crusade… you’re nuts, man.
- And you? With all your fanaticism talk. Marx, Trotsky, Gorki.
- Gorki? What Gorki?
- I don’t know. That litany.
- Nope, litanies are your thing. You’re the fanatic. Religious fanatic.
- Was.
- You left the Church?
- Long time ago. Disillusioned. I was full of doubts. Lost my faith.
- That’s similar to what happened to me. The few certainties I had were lost with everything that happened in Eastern Europe. And Russia. You can’t believe anything these days…
- It’s better this way. We are mature. Rational. Regaining reason is one of the benefits of old age.
- What are the other benefits?
- Haven’t found them out yet.
Before they realized it they were toasting their renewed friendship and exchanging information about their families and discovering that their meeting at that bar had not been that much of a coincidence. They were both waiting to attend the talk given by Rangar Krisnamon on his first visit to Brazil. They were both Rangar Krisnamon’s disciples! Both had read “The Inside Eye” and “My Lives,” both possessed the Regenerative Amulet. They removed from their respective pockets the thin container which held a strand of Krisnamon’s beard, which they lightly dragged over their bodies, reciting the Millennial Prayer:
- Oam, patapai
- Oam, patapai.
Then the one looked at his watch and suggested they head towards the auditorium, which would soon be crowded, for they both longed to be close to Krisnamon and, if possible, touch his feet. For it is said that he who touches Krisnamon’s feet will be filled with Unique Truth, like a pitcher of Unique Truth, and they left the bar in each other’s arms.

Daphne could not believe her ears. Her left ear, specifically, through which she heard Peter Vest-Pocket’s voice, on the phone.
- Daphne, are you there? It’s me, Peter.
When she finally regained her senses, the small and lively Daphne – that’s how she had been described as a debutant in Tattler a few years back – did her best to control her voice.
- You mean the dirty, betraying, disgusting, lacking all decency and character, stupid, despicable Peter Vest-Pocket?
- The very same. It’s good to know you still love me.
- You, you…
- Try pig.
- Pig!
- See, that’s why I left you, Daphne. You always do what I tell you to do. It was like living with a german shepherd. Now, calm down.
- You fucking pig!
- Ok. Now take it easy. Ask yourself why I’m calling you after two years.
- I couldn’t care less. And it’s been two years, two weeks and three days.
- I need you, Daphne.
- Peter…
- I do. I know I was an asshole, but I’m not proud. I am sorry.
- Oh! Peter. Don’t fuck with me…
- Daphne, do you remember that week in Taormina?
- Do I…
- The jasmines in the hotel lobby? The olives and white wine at dusk in the café by the piazza?
- Peter, you’re making me cry…
- And that time we went skinny dipping, in the moonlight, and that security guard asked for our papers, and the three of us started laughing and he ended up taking his clothes off too?
- No. I don’t remember that.
- Well, must have been another time then. And that bed and breakfast in Rapallo, Daphne?
- Oh! The old man with the accordion, who only played Torna a Sorriento and Tea for Two.
- And that birthday party we mistakenly went to where I ended up doing my Maurice Chevalier with laryngitis impression.
- Peter…
- Remember the stuffed red pepper Signora Lumbago made, in Rapallo?
- I can almost taste it.
- What was that secret ingredient she used, which she refused to tell us until we threatened to tell her husband about the affair with the waiter?
- It was.. hold on.. it was basil.
- Are you sure?
- Yes. Oh, Peter, Peter… I just can’t stay mad at you…
- Great. Thanks, Daphne. We should meet up sometime. Bye.
- Bye?! BYE?! You said you needed me, Peter!
- I did. I’m making that stuffed red pepper for a lady friend and could not for the life of me remember that secret ingredient. You really helped me out, Daphne, and…
- You animal! You insensitive piece of shit! Son of a…
- Daphne, I already told you I was sorry. You want me to grovel?

An insistent knock on the door. The old lady walks across the living room of the old house with difficulty, to open the door. As she opens it she sees a big man, almost twice her size, smiling at her expectantly.
-Auntie... he says.
-What?
-It's me, Auntie.
-You! she exclaims.
But then she realizes she doesn't know who he is.
-Who are you?
-Don't you recognize me, Auntie?
The old lady examines the man carefully. Then says:
-It can't be!
She stumbles backwards, afraid. She repetes:
-It can't be, it can't be!
She comes back to the door and says:
-It really can't be. He's dead. Who are you?
-Think about it, Auntie. You really liked me a lot.
-Yes?
-I was the most important thing in your life. You took care of me, fed me, bathed me...
-Yes, I'm starting to remember...
-One day I disappeared and never returned. But now I'm back.
-You're back. Oh, Rex!
-Rex?
-My dog, Rex. My little fluffy. My passion. You're back!
-No, Auntie. I'm not Rex.
-Then who are you?
-Auntie, get ready. I'm...Walter!
-No!
-Yes!
-NO!
-Yes, Auntie. Yes!
-I DON'T KNOW ANYONE NAMED WALTER!
-You're favorite nephew. You raised me. Try to remember, Auntie.
-I didn't raise no nephew. And definitely none named Walter.
-Are you sure?
-Certain of it. I've always lived here, alone.
-This isn't house 201?
-No. It's 2001.
-Damn. My bad. Look, I'm really sorry about this.
-It's ok.
The old lady shut the door. After a few seconds, there was another knock. She opened it. It was Walter.
-Listen... he said.
-What?
-You really never had a nephew by the name of Walter?
-Never.
-And... would you like one?
-Well...
-It's just that 201 is so far. Since you live alone...
-Ok, she agreed. Come in.
But she immediately warned him:
-I'm not bathing you, though.

Souza said of himself:
-I am the world's last romantic!
And he really was a rare breed. A gentleman. Women did not know how to respond to his advances. They were confused when Souza not only kissed their hands but said, "At your feet." Was he kidding?
But they liked it. It was different. They had to try hard not to laugh sometimes when Souza said something particularly clumsy about the color of their eyes, or when he compared their necks to marble towers. But what the hell, a compliment is a compliment, the specifics don't really matter. And many a girl surrended to Souza's old school charm. Then they said of Souza that he wasn't really after anything. He really just wanted to date, see a movie, get some ice cream. He was antique, a respectful young man.
Laura was beyond beautiful, and Souza, as soon as he met her, wrote a sonnet. Laura thought it was funny, made some comment or other, "Nice" or "Sweet," and forgot about it. Also because she did't know what to say to a man with oil in his hair, wearing a zoot suit.
Souza sent Laura flowers. A bouquet a day, everyday, along with an original sonnet. Written in green ink, "like my hope." But Laura would have none of it. She worked, went to school, wanted a degree in psychology; she had other things on her mind. This guy's so annoying, was her only reaction. Until Souza had an idea.
-A serenade!
His friends tried to talk him out of it.
-People don't do that anymore, Souza.
-I know. That's why it's going to work.
In no time Souza had gathered everything he needed: two guitars, a "cavaquinho", a flute and, on vocals, Nosso, a pharmacist.
The serenade was ready to be performed. There was just one problem. Laura lived on the eight floor, in the back. If he performed the serenade in the front of the building, he would wake up everyone in the front part and Laura wouldn't hear a thing. And behind the building, there was a freeway to deal with.


Souza and his group - two guitars, cavaquinho, flute and Nosso - explored the terrain. The freeway had one advantage. It was elevated up to the fourth floor, which would put them nearer to Laura's window, on the eighth. But they ran the risk of getting run over mid-serenade.
-What time are we doing this? asked Nosso.
-It's gotta be after midnight. There's no point otherwise.
-There won't be much traffic then, and if we do see a car, we'll have time to get out of the way.
-No, said Souza.
He couldn't permit Laura to see the group dispersed by some bus in the middle of the second verse. There was only one solution.
-We are going to have to do this from inside the building.
-What?
-Through the door. We go in, go up the elevator, and play in the hall, outside her door.
Nosso didn't like the idea. Hallway serenade; it didn't seem right. But, afterall, this was Souza's plan.


They met at the building's entrance at midnight. Souza noticed that Saraiva, one of the guitar players had a giant bag with him. What was that?
-My guitar is electric!
-Never fails. Where are we going to find an outlet?
The front door was locked. They would have to have someone buzz them in. Until they hit the right buttons, they heard a lot of complaints over the intercom. They finally got the right apartment. Laura asked what they wanted in a groggy, sleepy voice.
-Hit it! yelled Souza.
Over the intercom, Laura heard Nosso's singing, and then screaming.
-It's the cops! Easy there, take it easy... We aren't burgle...
Then shots. Then nothing. She went back to bed and told her boyfriend, a systems analyst, that it was probably a prank.
When she heard what happened, Laura felt she should go visit Souza at the hospital. The cops' bullet had gone right by his lung. When he saw Laura come in the room, Souza jumped up in bed and tripped on an IV while his friends watched in horror. He was taken back to bed. Laura apologized. And Souza, barely able to breathe, said:
-At your feet, at your feet.
He was incorrigible.

They bumped into each other, after thirty years, at a party. She smiled and said, "How are you?"
-You two know each other? asked the host.
He did not say, "We do know each other. In the biblical sense, in fact. She was the love of my life. I almost killed myself over her. I could drop dead right now. Oh, life, life."
He said:
-Yup.
-It's been ages, huh? she said.
He sat down next to her. He was overcome with emotion. He could barely say the words:
-Thirty years...
-Yeah, no kidding. I feel like an old lady.
And she added:
-Senile.
Funny. She had put on weight, of course. She had wrinkles. But what had really changed was her voice. Or had her voice always been like that? Impossible. He remembered everything about her. Everything. She was the love of his life. She was poking his arm.
-So, you're...
-What ever happened to you? I mean...
-Tell me about it. I'm a grandmother, did you know that?
-No!
He hadn't managed to hide the horror in his voice. But she took it as a compliment. She yelled, "Harold!", calling her husband who walked over with a smile on his face. She introduced him, "This is an old friend..." But she didn't say his name. My God, she forgot my name! She said to her husband:
-Show her a picture of little Gustavo.
And to him:
-You've gotta see how cute my grandson is.
Harold grabbed his wallet. She forgot my name. And I remember everything! The appendix scar. The apartment on Andre da Rocha. "I'll always love you!" Everything!
Harold took the picture out of his wallet. He took the picture. Little Gustavo looked at the camera through frightened eyes.
-Isn't he cute? she asked.
He gave Harold the picture and said:
-No.
-What do you mean, "No"?
-I don't think he's cute.
And he went off to find a glass of whiskey.

They met at the building's trash area.  Each holding their bag of garbage.  It was the first time they spoke to each other.

Beach scene.

-I know you'll laugh, but...

Dentist's waiting Room. Man in his forties. Young, beautiful woman. She flips through a Cruzeiro from 1950. He pretends to read a Dental Life.
He thinks: what a woman. Those legs. It's rare, seeing legs nowadays. Everyone's wearing jeans. We're back to the time where the most you could hope to see was the ankle. I've always been a leg man. Legs with stockings. Nylon stockings. Man, I'm an old-timer. It made a good sound. Swish-swish. They crossed their legs and swish-swish. I was crazy 'bout the swish-swish.
She thinks: funny. He's reading that magazine upside down.
He thinks: I will rip your clothes off and kiss you all over. I'll start at your feet. Imagine the scene. The nurse opens the door and finds us naked, I'm down on the ground kissing your feet. What's going on here?!?! It's not what you think ma'am, there's something in this lady's eye and I'm trying to get it out. But the eye is on the other end. I was getting there! I was getting there!
She thinks: he's looking at my legs over the magazine. I'm gonna uncross and recross my legs again. That'll show him.
He thinks: she uncrossed and recrossed her legs again! My God. She's trying to kill me. She knows I'm looking. Also, my magazine is upside down. Now what? I'll have to say something.
She: he looks nice enough, poor guy. Salt and pepper. Distinguished. He's gonna say something.
He: what do I say? I have to make a reference to the magazine being upside down. I can't let her think I'm a fool. I'm no teenager. I can pretend to look at the magazine a little more closely and say, "you know what, I just realized this magazine is upside down! I thought it was in Russian." She'll laugh and then I'll say, "And that Cruzeiro of yours? It's so old its probably written in latin, isn't it?" Then we will both laugh, in a civilized manner. We will talk about the elections, and general things. After all, we are two normal people, meeting circumstantially in a waiting room. We will speak cordially to each other. Then I'll jump her and rip her clothes off.
She: is he gonna say something or what? He's shy. He'll probably talk about the weather. He's the kind of guy that still asks, "Ms. or Mrs.?" It would be different at least. These days guys are immediately ready to jump you... Wanna switch positions, baby? But wait, we haven't even met, we haven't made love in any position at all! I just hate foreplay. This guy is different. Distinguished. Respectful.
He: what should I say? There is an obvious approach. We are both waiting to see a dentist. That's something we have in common. First visit? No, no. I've been coming here for years. I'm in the middle of treatment. Root canal? Yup. And you? My annual check-up. I might have a cavity back here. Wanna see? I don't know if this light is... Let's go to my apartment. The light is better there. Or she'll say, poor thing, you must be in so much pain. Come here, lay your head on my shoulder. I'll give you a kiss to make the pain go away. It hurts... Maybe if I use my tongue...
She: he gave up on saying something. I like timid men. Mature and timid. He's fanning himself with the magazine. He's gonna mention the weather. Hot, huh? And I'll say, "it's summer." And he'll go, "that's exactly it! You are so insightful. Let's get out of here and grab a draft." "Don't even mention beer." "You don't like beer?" "It's my crown...anything cold makes it hurt like hell." Oh, so you're here to see the dentist, just like me. What a crazy coincidence! We're both hot, we both agree it's because it's summer. We both have the same dentist. It's destiny. You're the woman I've been waiting for all these years. Will you marry me?
He: She's almost done with the magazine... She's done! She looked at me. Now's the time. I'll say, "Are you here to have your legs cleaned? I mean, teeth? Or for something a little more serious like love at first sight?"
She: what if I say something? I need someone stable in my life. Someone grey. This could be my big break. If he says anything, I'm going for it. "Hot, huh?" "I love you too!"
He: I better not say anything. She's too hot. Who am I? She's got too much leg for me. If she only had one... But two! Forget it. Think about your cavity. It'll do you good. Saying a little something couldn't hurt, though. You come here often? Do you like Roberto Carlos? I wonder what black holes are like? My God, she's gonna say something.
-Could you...
-No! I mean yes...
-Pass me another magazine?
-Sure... Cicada or the Weekly?
-Cicada.
-Here you go.
-Thanks.
The nurse opens the door and says:
-Next.
And they never see each other again.

She saw him looking pensive in the imported wine aisle. She wanted to turn around, but it was too late, her cart was right by his foot. He stared at her, first blankly, then surprised, then embarrassed, and they both smiled. They had been married for six years, separated for one, and that was the first time they met since the separation. They smiled, and he spoke before her; they almost spoke at the same time.
-You living around here?
-At daddy's.
At daddy's! He shook his head and pretended to organize the produce in his cart - canned goods, cookies, many bottles - so that she wouldn't noticed how emotional he was at that instant.
He had heard of her father's passing, but couldn't make it to the funeral. It had been soon after the separation, and he hadn't the courage to offer his condolences to the woman whom, only one week earlier, he had called a cow. How had he phrased it? "You are a hearless cow!" She wasn't bovine in the least, a beautiful woman, but the insult had sprung to his mind. It was the last word he had said to her. And she called him fake. He thought it better not to ask about her mother.
-And you? she asked, still smiling.
She still looked pretty.
-I have an apartment around here.
It had been wise not to go to the funeral. It was better that their first meeting be like this, informal, at a grocery store, at night. What was she doing there at night?
-Do you always shop this late?
My God, he thought. Will she think I was being ironic?
That had been one of the problems with their marriage, he never knew how she would interpret his words. That's why he had called her a cow in the end. "Cow" left no doubt that he despised her.
-No, no. I just have some friends over and realized that I have nothing to serve them.
-That's funny. Cause I also have some friends over and just stopped by to get some drinks, pate, that kind of thing.
-Funny.
She had said "some friends." Was it somebody from back then? The old gang? He had never seen their old friends again. She had always been more social then he. Maybe it was a male friend. She was a thin, beautiful woman, of course she could have boyfriends, that cow.
And she was thinking: he hated parties, hated having people over. Going out, to him, was going to Dad's house for poker. Now he has friends over? Maybe it's a female friend. After all, he was still young... He left her at home and came here to get groceries. And imported wines, that fake bastard.
He thought: she doesn't miss me. Has a house full of friends. And I am sure she noticed how emotional I was when I saw her. She thinks I miss her. Well, I won't give her the satisfaction, no ma'am.
-My liquor cabinet is always empty nowadays. There's always people over, he said.
-It's one party after the other at my place.
-You always like parties.
-And you didn't.
-People change...
-I can see that.
-You wouldn't recognize me if you lived with me now.
-For God's sake, she said, still smiling.
They both laughed. It was an informal meeting.
During those six years they had loved each other intensely. Couldn't live without one another. Their friends always said, "Those two... If one goes, the other will commit suicide." Their friends didn't understand the intricacies of their relationship. There was always the threat of a misunderstanding between them. They loved each other very much, but just couldn't get along. It was as if their love was stronger because it took the place of understanding, it had an accumulated function. She interpreted the meaning of his words, and he meant nothing by them.
They walked through the cashier together, he offered to pay for her things, after all, she would pay for them with his alimony anyways. He thought of asking about her mother, she thought of asking him whether he was ok, if the uric acid thing hadn't returned, they both started at the same time, laughed, then said goodbye without another word.
When she arrived at her house she heard her mom yell from the bedroom that she needed to stop shopping for groceries so late at night and that she needed to find some friends, do something, instead of mulling over her lost husband. She said nothing. She put the groceries away and went to bed.
When he arrived at his apartment, he opened a can of pate, the packet of cookies, the bottle of Portuguese wine, got drunk and ate alone, until he went to bed.
Fake bastard, she thought to herself before falling asleep.
Cow, he thought to himself before falling asleep.