Crossing the River (12 page)

Then the seriousness of the moment—this step through the first of those mirror-multiplied doorways into manhood—broke. Everyone dispersed into the room and we were given slices of cake and guarana-flavored soda pop.

Skyler, too, would soon turn thirteen. I hoped we'd stick it out that long in Brazil so that he, too, could have the chance to be tested and pass through such a doorway, to experience a rite of passage that doesn't exist for many young people in the United States. I hoped that here in Brazil, Skyler wouldn't have to make his way alone but would have instead the comfort of a group to help him understand who he is, as an individual, and what his role might be as part of something larger than himself.

14
14

Relax
Relax

B
Y THE END
of September, our third month, we'd survived an ambulance trip to Arapiraca (and Skyler's next five visits to the emergency room—for stitch removal, dehydration, and spreading foot infections); we'd found a house and furnished it from scratch; the kids had started school; Peter was generating new writing projects; and I'd established a pleasant daily routine of market shopping and work for my dance company back home. We'd accomplished a lot.

I made a list:

In three months, I have learned:

          
   
to pick out the good juice oranges with the small pores.

          
   
to stop the grizzled old man in the bent felt hat with the street cart and buy a warm cup of coconut-milk-and-corn soup.

          
   
to drink chilled
água de coco
out of a green coconut with a straw, while waiting for a
lancha
to take us across the river.

          
   
to get to the bank at 7:00
AM
, before the lines form and the ATMs start to break down.

          
   
to be sure I have “small money” for the market because vendors rarely have change.

          
   
to hide my money in multiple places, the way the market women hide cash in their bras, in the folds of the stall's black plastic roofing, or in the microwave, as at the snack stand at the sand-soccer court.

          
   
to say “
Ne?
”—Isn't that right?—at the end of most sentences, and, if in doubt, to just use the verb
ficar
—to become, to stay, to make out: it works for most things.