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.
-Good ol' Paulista, said his colleagues at work, at the wake, mourning the loss of their companion, so serious, efficient and hardworking. His nickname in Rio was Paulista, which literally means "someone from São Paulo."
His wife and 18 year-old son maintained an air of sober resignation throughout the wake. That was José's style. No emotional outbursts or demonstrations of feelings of any kind. Sobriety. Burying him in a vest was his son's idea.
-The truth is that he never really adapted to the habits of people from Rio, the habits of cariocas, whispered one of the partners at José's firm.
-He was paulista to the core.
-To the core? But he was always coming and going, someone said.
It was at this moment that a lady and young girl entered the wake, dressed in jeans and crying hysterically, carrying big leather bags which they had brought all the way from São Paulo.
-Carioca! yelled the older lady, walking towards the coffin.
-Carioca, is it really you?
-Daddy! yelled the young girl, sprawled over the solemn cadaver.
There was total consternation.
Dr. Lupércio, the family's lawyer, finally got José's two women together in a separate room. Getting the second woman off the coffin had been extremely difficult. It didn't take long for them to figure out what was going on. José had another family in São Paulo. His daughter was 15 years old. The woman from Rio said dryly:
-I am the legitimate wife.
-Look, sweetheart...
-Don't call me sweetheart. We don't even know each other.
-Easy, easy.. urged Dr. Lupércio.
-Now I know why Carioca never brought me to Rio.
-His name is José. Or it was, before all this happened... stammered the first wife, not knowing whether she meant his death or the discovery of his other family.
-In São Paulo, the gang calls him Carioca.
-Gang? asked the first wife. In Rio they didn't have a "gang." They rarely left the house. They'd maybe go out to dinner here and there, in small groups. A concert every now and then. But they were usually in bed before ten.
José's son was trying not to look his half-sister in the eye. They looked alike. Had their father's features. The girl, eyes still brimming with tears, had said that it was the first time she had seen her dad in a tie. The son was about to say that he couldn't remember ever seeing him without a tie, but decided against it. It was an embarrassing situation.
-Poor Dad, said the girl, hiccuping. He was such a jester.
The son couldn't believe what he was hearing.
His nickname, in São Paulo, was Carioca. He arrived at the airport every thursday in a casual shirt. At most he had a pullover draped across his shoulders. One time he even arrived in shorts and flip-flops. He loved having friends over at his apartment, or going out to restaurants and nightclubs. And if anyone threatened to leave saying, "we got work tomorrow," he would say that paulistas didn't know how to live, that all paulistas thought about was money, and only cariocas really knew how to enjoy life. His joyful informality brought him success with the paulistas. Even in business, despite his shirt being unbuttoned down to his navel, he was a hit. Every monday he took a plane to Rio. He said he needed some beach, needed to breathe some fresh air.
-Didn't you notice that he always came back from Rio as pale as he had gone? asked the first wife.
-He said it didn't matter if he got a tan in Rio, as soon as he stepped in São Paulo, he would go pale.
The two women smiled.
Later on, at home, Dr. Lupércio thought about the case.
-A hero of two worlds...
His wife, as usual, wasn't paying attention. Dr. Lupércio continued:
-In Rio, he was a typical paulista. A caricature. Yes, that's it!
Dr. Lupércio always became agitated when he wrapped his mind around any thesis. That was it. In Rio, he was a caricature of the typical paulista. The carioca's image of what a paulista is. In São Paulo, it was the opposite.
-And more. When he played the part of the paulista, in Rio, it was a jest. When he played the part of the carioca in São Paulo, it was a business strategy.
The lawyer, in all his enthusiasm, grabbed his wife's arm.
-Don't you see? He was being sly in a carioca kind of way when he was playing the part of the paulista, and utilitarian in a paulista kind of way when he played the carioca. A stereotypical gigolo! A Brazilian synthesis! Which one was the true José?
The two widows slept alone. The one from Rio without her José, the epitome of standards and responsibilities in the midst of all that carioca inconsequence. The one from São Paulo without her Carioca, the refreshing gust of marine wind blowing over the grey São Paulo.
They sighed.
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