The Veríssimo Project

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

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

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