The Veríssimo Project

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.

I met Rick Blaine in Paris, not too long ago. He has a joint near Madeleine that gathers all the american drunks that Harry's Bar kicks out. He's 70, but doesn't look a day older than 69. He has the same bags under his eyes, his hair is gone, and his belly only stopped growing for lack of space behind the bar. He denied being Rick at first.
-I don't know a Rick.
-It says so outside. On a giant sign. Rick's Cafe Americain.
-It does? I haven't been outside in years. What do you want?
-A bourbon. And something to eat.
I picked a sandwich off a long list and Rick yelled my order to a big black man in the kitchen. I recognized the big black man. He was the piano player at Rick's bar in Casablanca. I asked why he didn't play piano anymore.
-Sam? Cause he only knows one song. The clientele couldn't take it anymore. He also always makes the same sandwich. But nobody comes for the food.
I sang a verse off As Time Goes By. I asked:
-What would you do if she walked through that door right now?
-I would say, "Cup'a tea, Grandma?" The past is the past.
-She came back once. Of all the bars in the world, she had to choose yours, in Casablanca, to walk into.
-She won't be back.
But he looked up quickly when someone came through the door. It was an american asking for money to go back to the States. He was running from Mitterrand. Rick ignored him.
He asked me what I wanted besides the bourbon and the sandwich, which was awful.
-I always wanted to know what happened after she got on that plane with Victor Laszlo and you and the inspector Louis walked off, disappearing in the fog.
-I spent forty years in a fog, he answered. Obviously he didn't want to talk about it.
-I have a theory.
He smiled.
-Another one...
-You were the first to be disillusioned by the grand causes. You were your own neutral territory. Victor Laszlo was the guy. He must have died young and taken many an idealist with him, thinking they were saving the world for the sake of democracy. You never held any misconceptions about humanity. You were a cinic. But also a romantic. You could have gotten rid of Victor Laszlo and stayed with her, but you preferred the grand gesture, to be the bigger man in her eyes. Why?
-You remember her face at that moment?
I did. Even through the fog, I remembered. He was right. You would sacrifice even the lack of ideals for a face like that.
The door swung open again and we both looked up, but it was just another drunk.

Labels: casablanca, Paris, rick blaine, victor laszlo

-I have never been unfaithful to my wife, doctor.
-Yes.
-I've never even had another woman. I was a virgin when I married.
-Right.
-But, from the very beginning, when I was with her, I thought of another woman. It was the only way I could, you know? Function.
-Function?
-Make love. Sex. You know.
-Right.
-At first, I thought of Gina Lollobrigida. Do you remember Gina Lollobrigida? Then, for a while, I thought of Sofia Loren. I closed my eyes and imagined those breasts. That mouth. And Silvia Mangano. I had a Silvia Mangano phase also. Great thighs.
-Great.
-Sometimes, to mix things up, I thought of Brigitte Bardot. On Saturdays, for instance. But for the day-to-day, or night-to-night, I stuck to the italians.
-There is nothing abnormal about that. Many men...
-Of course, doctor. And women too. How can I be sure she wasn't thinking of Raf Valone the whole time. At least they are the same race.
-Continue.
-I had my american phase. Mitzi Gaynor.
-Mitzi Gaynor?!
-Goes to show. And Jane Fonda, when she was younger. Some Playboy bunnies. I had my nationalist period. Sonia Braga. Vera Fischer. Then it started.
-What?
-Nothing would do it for me anymore. I had to start thinking of all women possible. I closed my eyes and concentrated. Nothing. I couldn't, couldn't...
-Function.
-Function. And we were already in the Upseola phase.
-Upseola?
-It was one per week. But nothing worked. Until one day I thought of a vacuum cleaner. And I was excited. For some reason, that image excited me. Another day I thought of a '48 Studebaker. It worked. So I had my objects phase. I tried to think of the strangest things. Wooden eggs. That worked twice. Purple pencils. The Statue of Liberty. The Rio-Niteroi bridge. All these worked. When my wife came at me I started, desperately, to browse this imaginary catalogue of things I could think about. The Kaiser's helmet. No. A semi-automatic Singer sewing machine. Nope. An accordion! Mmm, yes, an accordion, a tempting accordion, hot and sweaty... But after a while, the objects phase passed. I tried animals. Historical figures. Nothing worked. Then, all of a sudden, a figure appeared in my imagination. An older woman. Graying hair. Brown eyes... And when I thought of this woman, it excited me. Even more than once a week. Even Mondays, doctor!
-And that phase passed?
-Nope. Still in that phase.
-So, what's the problem?
-Don't you see, doctor? The woman I described. It's her.
-Who?
-My wife. My own wife. Help me, doctor!

Honey, I swear it wasn't me. That's so ridiculous! If you were here - Hello? Hello? - look, if you were here you would see my face, inocent as the devil. What? What do you mean ironic? "As the devil" is an expression, dammit. You think I would kid around at a time like this? Hello! I swear, on my mother's grave, on our joint bank account, on our children's lives, that it wasn't me in that Carnaval photo in the Morning Paper. What? Hello! Hello! How do I know what picture? Didn't you just say... Ah, you didn't say... You hadn't said it yet... You didn't say which paper it was in. Well, ok. You aren't gonna believe this, but I saw the same picture. Don't hang up! I saw the picture and had the same reaction. I thought to myself, that guy really looks like me. Could be my twin. Now look, honey, never, in my wildest dreams, are you listening? It never crossed my mind that you would think that - baby, I'm starting to find this amusing - that that was me. For the love of God. Look, could you really see me wearing a red sarong and hawaian necklace, jumping around on the float surrounded by half-naked women? C'mon, please. And look at their faces. Honestly, you can question my fidelity, but you could at least trust my taste! What? Honey, I did not say, "red sarong." I am absolutely, positively, unequivocably sure that I only said "sarong." How could I know it was red if the picture was in black and white, right?! Hello? Hello? Don't hang up! No...look, if you hang up, it's all over. All over. You don't even have to come back from the beach. Stay there with the kids and start a fisherman's village. No, I mean it. I'm done with this. After all, if you don't trust me, there's no point to any of this. A marriage should be...what's the word? Should be rooted in mutual trust. Marriage is like a trapeze act, you need to trust each other with your eyes closed. Blindly. That's right. And you know what else? I didn't have to stay in the city during Carnaval. It was all a lie. I didn't have work piled up at the office. And you know why? To test you. Staying in the city was like doing a summersault, without a net, just to see if you would catch me. A test of our love. And you failed. You let me down. I won't even cry for help. No, no, don't interrupt me. Sorry won't cut it anymore. The next sound you hear will be of my bones breaking when I hit the ground, the hard ground of reality. Hello? I said, the next sound you hear... What? You can't hear me? What was the last thing you heard, sweetheart? Yes, I told you, I am absolutely sure I did not say "red sarong." I haven't the faintest clue of the color the sarong that bastard was wearing in the photo. You have to believe me, baby. Marriage is like a trapeze act... Yes. No. Of course. What? No. Right. When you come back you can ask... You want me to swear? Again? Well I swear. I spent Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday at the office. I didn't even see the Carnaval out the window. I came home only to shower, eat a sandwich and then went back to the office. What? You called the office? Baby, of course, the operator wasn't working, right? Ha, ha, you are too much. Look, honey? Hello? I'll be there Saturday. Give the kids a kiss for me. Help. I said, love you.

Labels: Carnaval, Rio de Janeiro

When he felt that he was going to die, Dr. Ariosto asked for a few moments alone with his wife, Mrs. Quiléia (Quequé).

Labels: Brazil, death bed, family, Marriage, prayer

Gisela confessed to Martô, her best friend, that no single piece of recent news had shocked her more that the newfound trendiness of boxer shorts.

Labels: boxers, Brazil, speedo, speedos, underwear

It was scandal when a certain succinct phrase about Silva's wife's, how should I put this, moral conduct, was found painted on the front of Souza's house. Silva, furious, went off to confront Souza:

Labels: adultery, Brazil, infidelity, Marriage, neighborhood, Paint, wife

I think everyone should have a fiancé in Grajaú, especially married men.  Before you accuse me of promoting adultery, let me add that my fiancé in Grajaú is purely theoretical.  And note that I say fiancé, and not girlfriends or lovers.  Grajaú fiancés are chaste and withdrawn.  They'll only let you hold their hand, if that.  That little mound of meat on the base of the thumb, for instance, only in marriage.

Labels: Brazil, fiance, Grajau, Marriage

When she heard the apartment door open, the woman sat up in bed and said:
-My God! My husband!
Her lover also sat up, spooked, less by the husband than by the phrase.
-What did you say?
-I said, "My God! My husband!"
-That's what I thought, I just didn't want to believe it.
-He told me he was going to Sao Paulo!
-Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's a burglar.
-We should be so lucky. It's him. He's coming to the room. Quick, hide in the closet!
-What? No. Anywhere but the closet!
-Then get under the bed.
-Ok, the closet.
Her lover jumped off the bed, grabbed his clothes off the chair and got in the closet thinking, "this cannot be happening." He started laughing uncontrollably. That is, until he remembered that he'd left his shoes by the bed. He heard the bedroom door open. The husband's voice:
-Who were you talking to?
-Me? No one. It was the TV. And I thought you were going to Sao Paulo?
-Wait. There's no TV in the bedroom.
-Don't change the subject. What are you doing home?
The lover started laughing. He couldn't contain himself, the closet was shaking. He put his hand over his mouth. He heard the husband ask:
-What's that noise?
-Doesn't matter. Why are you not in Sao Paulo?
-I didn't end up going, period. These shoes...
The lover froze. But the husband was referring to his own shoes, which were tight. He was probably taking them off. Silence. Then the bathroom door opening and closing. Husband in the bathroom. The lover was about to start laughing again when the closet door suddenly flew open. It was the woman, handing him the shoes. She closed the closet door and flung herself on the bed before he could tell her that those weren't his shoes, but her husband's. Crazy!
The bathroom door opening. Husband back in the room. Long silence. Husband's voice:
-These shoes...
-What about 'em?
-Whose are they?
-What do you mean, whose are they? They're yours. You just took them off.
-These shoes have never been mine.
Silence. The woman obviously examining the shoes and realizing her mistake. The lover, by the way, was running out of air. The woman's voice, aggressive:
-Where did you get these shoes?
-Those shoes aren't mine, I told you!
-Exactly. And whose are they? How do you leave the house in one pair of shoes and come back in another?
-Hold on...
-Where've you been? C'mon, answer!
-I came home wearing the same shoes I left in. These shoes aren't mine.
-They are the shoes you took off. You even said they were tight. Therefore, they weren't yours. I want an explanation.
-Just one second! Hold on one second!
Silence. The husband trying to think of something to say. Finally, the wife's voice, triumphant:
-I'm waiting...
The husband regrouping. Moving on the offensive.
-I am ABSOLUTELY sure I did not walk in here wearing these shoes. And look, they couldn't have been tight because they are bigger than my foot!
More silence. The woman, coldly:
-Then there is only one explanation.
The husband:
-What?
-I had another man in here when you came in. He jumped in the closet and forgot his shoes.
A terrible silence. The lover tried to hold his breath. The woman continued:
-If that's the case, where are your shoes?
The husband, lacking conviction:
-You could've given the man in the closet my shoes, by mistake.
-Fair enough. So now, besides an adulterer, you are saying I'm stupid. Thanks a lot.
-I dunno, I dunno... I heard voices in here.
-Tell you what. Then go to the closet and open the door.
The lover felt the closet shaking. But this time it wasn't his laughter. It was his heart. He heard the husband's bare feet walking toward the closet. He visualized his escape: jumping out of the closet, running out of the room and apartment before the husband could react. He would knock the husband over on his way out. After all, he had bigger feet. But the woman said:
-You are aware, of course, that the very moment you open that door, our marriage is over. If there is no one in there, we could never live with the fact that you thought there was. It will be the end.
-And if there is someone in there?
-Worse. If there is some lover of mine standing in there in his underwear, our marriage will become a farce. Like cheap theatre. Vaudeville. We won't be able to live with the ridiculousness of it. It will also be the end.
After a few minutes, the husband said:
-Well, I have to open the closet door to put my clothes away, anyways...
-Open it. But think of what I said.

Slowly, the husband opened the door. Husband and lover were face to face. No one said anything. After three or four minutes the husband said, "Excuse me" and started hanging his clothes. The lover got our slowly and walked toward the door. He stoppend when he heard a "hey." He said:
-You talkin' to me?
-Yes, said the husband. My shoes.
The lover realized he still had the wrong shoes in his hand, along with the rest of his clothes. He put the husband's shoes on the floor, and grabbed his. He walked out the door and that was that.

Labels: adultery, Brazil, closet, lover, Marriage, Sao Paulo

José died, with poetic justice nonetheless, on a plane halfway between São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro.  It was his heart.  He died in a grey suit and dark tie, holding the same black briefcase with which he landed at the Santos Dumont airport every Monday, for years.  Only this time, he got off the plane horizontally, the briefcase on his chest like a provisional tombstone.

Labels: Brazil, caricature., carioca, fake, funeral, paulista, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, stereotypes, widows

Dado, sixteen, informed Caco, fifteen, and Marcelinho, fourteen:

Labels: ads, Brazil, brazilian, kids, prostitution, telephone

The middle class is a strange land.

Labels: adultery, Brazil, brazilian, cheating, Marriage, men, motel, relationship, Rio de Janeiro, women

Nobody thought it was strange when, after twenty-five years of marriage, and after raising their children together, Dr. Pompeu's wife filed for divorce.  The reasons behind it were the usual for the time: she didn't want to be a housewife.  She wanted to live her own life, study psychology, have her own career.  Alright.  The scandal, evidence of lingering prejudices, really occurred when it was discovered that Dr. Pompeu had found a husband instead of a new wife.

Labels: adultery, Brazil, brazilian, divorce, gay, husband, men, Rio de Janeiro, wife, women

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