Nowhere People (20 page)

One in the morning. Donato connects to Skype. It’s the first time he’s done so since arriving in Porto Alegre. Luisa is away. Less than twenty minutes later, the call comes. Typical time for her. He accepts. Hi, Luisa. He turns on the camera. She turns hers on, too. The two of them look at each other: framed faces in different sizes on the screen. Noises from the two environments crackle through the speakers built into his laptop. Well? she asks. Both of them know they should not talk about the days that have already gone by. He says that being on his own has done him good. She says she understands what he means. He comments on the house and then says he has begun to suspect that this really is the place for him. Then she asks whether he’s had a look at all the stuff she left. Many times, he says. He knows now that she was only fulfilling Maína’s request. He asks whether she and Maína had been friends. Luisa says yes, that there had been an incredible empathy between them, but that Maína ended up becoming closer to Henrique, perhaps because Henrique had been so attached to her son. Donato lets her talk about it and, as he looks at her on the monitor, he realises that she is not the same woman who left the city more than a month ago saying she would be back in forty days. He knows that she’s doing well without him. Luisa did as much as she could, there’s no reason to condemn her. And she says that at first she thought the whole business of Henrique adopting him was lunacy, but they were not together at that point, there was no way she could have persuaded him against it. Luisa and her candour. Then they were left once again with no idea what to talk about and, out of the blue, Luisa says she’s got herself a boyfriend, a guy her age. Donato just tells her he’s been sleeping on her mattress, and she smiles (which he captures with a Skype screenshot) and then, herself again, Luisa replies that they can talk about that properly tomorrow.

Catarina arrived before him, sat down at one of the tables in the ice cream parlour on the other side of Barreto Viana, strategically positioned behind the tower of potted Swiss cheese plants that adorn the outside, she asked for the menu, put her video camera down on the table and waited. Here he comes, from Praça Maurício Cardoso. She starts filming. He stops outside the hotel. She keeps filming from a distance for a few minutes longer. Time to get up and meet him. She crosses the street and, still filming, walks over to him. ‘Hi.’ He’s singing (and he doesn’t stop to greet her). ‘Can I film for a bit? This is a great camera, the sound quality is nearly perfect. I want to have some record.’ He keeps singing, she goes on filming. Never crossing the boundaries of the public pavement, he walks close to hotel entrance. The take there lasts a minute. Eyes squeezed in between the fixed slits in the direction of the lens. She cuts to his whole body, which is now maybe some four metres away. Two security guards in black jackets enter the frame, approach the masked man, try to talk to him, but he does not interrupt his singing. The taller of the security guards waves his arms in annoyance, he’s telling him to keep moving, to leave, get out of there. Catarina shouts: ‘Hey, you can’t force him to leave, the pavement’s public space, didn’t you know?’ The guard turns to the camera and orders Catarina to switch it off. She cuts to the back of the man in costume. The security guard is yelling that the police will be here in a few minutes, that you can’t be filming the front of the hotel without permission and that they are embarrassing their clientele. Catarina tells the guard he’s acting out his role as the Wicked Witch of the West beautifully. The guard threatens to take her camera, but a group of people who have got involved in the situation stop him. (
What a lovely new opportunity has just presented itself
.) Catarina does not stop filming. The masked man sings more forcefully, louder than he has up till then. The police arrive, but (very much as a consequence of Catarina justifying the beauty of the peaceful performance that is taking place there) there’s already a larger group supporting this
pair of performance artists
. The policemen tell them not to dawdle too long, they might get in the way of the traffic. Catarina keeps filming. The police leave. The security guards keep their hands off, but standing a little under two metres away from the man in the mask, they realise there is not much they can do. The masked man seems to be in a trance. She doesn’t disturb him for nearly half an hour, she doesn’t turn the camera off for a single second. But the time comes for her to say: ‘Man, this isn’t the right place for you, there are better places for you to be doing your ritual. Let’s get out of here.’ He does not move. ‘I’m staying,’ he says. ‘You really are crazy … These guys are going to end up giving you a beating,’ and she takes his arm. ‘Let go,’ he warns her. She obeys. ‘What do you suggest?’ asks Catarina. He doesn’t reply, but she can see that he has been worn out by the whole thing. ‘We can go to my apartment. I live with my great-aunt, but this is the day she goes out with her friends and she only gets back in the evening. There’s the maid, but she’s on my side.’ Not letting go. ‘Come on now, forget all this, for today, at least.’ He hesitates. ‘Come on, do it for me.’ She gets behind him and gives him a push. He starts walking, sluggishly, with dislocated steps. And they have already been walking for more than fifteen minutes. ‘Why have we been zigzagging round all these blocks?’ he asks. ‘Oh, you’ve discovered my plan at last,’ and she laughs. ‘You really don’t know when to stop,’ he says. ‘To be honest, I thought you’d complain a lot sooner.’ He stops. ‘I was waiting till I was sure … I can’t see very well in the mask.’ She gives him an affectionate glance. ‘So tell me what you think now? Have we already gone past the building? Are we far? Near?’ He turns his back and starts walking. ‘Right … Back this way, we’re nearly there. The building’s on this street.’ He stops and turns to face Catarina. She’s smiling and pointing at a building with a grey and blue frontage, many stories high, a hundred and fifty metres from where they are standing. ‘The plan was to get you to break a sweat so you’d have to take that mask off.’ She walks over and takes his arm. A police car passes them slowly and the two policemen look at them closely. There’s no denying it: he has been gaining some notoriety. ‘Seriously, though. Can I ask you something? Would you take off those clothes, and that mask?’ He answers, ‘That’s not going to happen.’ She grimaces. ‘Have you got some kind of deformity?’ she asks, concerned. ‘What kind of deformity were you imagining?’ he asks. ‘On your face?’ She adopts a scared expression. But he knows she isn’t the type to be scared. ‘Perhaps,’ he provokes her. They reach the building. ‘Shall we?’ The gate opens (the man on the front desk has already seen her). They go in, she with her arms folded, cool. ‘Hi, senhor Carlos,’ she greets him with a wave and heads for the lifts. She presses the button, they wait. ‘Do you like heights?’ she asks. The lift arrives. She presses the button for the fifteenth floor, then reaches out her right arm to touch the surface of the mask, scratching it lightly with the nails of her middle and index fingers. He doesn’t wait for her to ask: ‘Balsa wood.’ ‘A custom-made life-vest,’ she teases. They step out of the lift, walk over to 1502, Catarina rings the doorbell. The maid answers it, a girl of eighteen at most. ‘Thank you, Fátima.’ Catarina kisses the girl on the cheek. ‘This is a friend of mine. You don’t need to worry about serving anything because he has made a promise to one of the saints and he isn’t going to drink, eat or take off the mask until Easter next year. You can make a green tea for me, leave it on the coffee table and get on with your own things without worrying about us … ok?’ The maid excuses herself and leaves. ‘Want to listen to some music?’ Catarina asks. ‘No. I just want to understand why we’re here,’ he says, looking through the windowpane at the privileged view of the inside of the DMAE water treatment plant. ‘And I’d like to believe that the fact we’re here started with a good coincidence,’ she says, animated. ‘A coincidence? I see … ’ he replies. ‘I try not to be afraid of good things,’ and she positions herself in front of him (between him and the window). ‘And how do you know I’m a good thing?’ he says. ‘I’m in a hurry to get to know you … And because I’m in this hurry, that’s how I know. And when I know, I know right away.’ She is touching the mask. ‘And what if I’m violent, the kind of guy who might, say, cruelly take advantage of a situation like this?’ She makes an angry face. ‘Like in that Prince song?’ He doesn’t reply. ‘In that case I’d use one of the dozens of protections that right now are scattered strategically about the house. All of them within reach, all of them very well hidden. Besides which, as you can see, I’m a strong woman … ’ She shows off the strength in her biceps. He steps to one side and keeps looking out of the window. ‘You like taking risks, Catarina, don’t you? And completely gratuitously.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t think the fact I want to get to know you is gratuitous at all.’ The two of them stand in silence until the maid comes back in with a pot of tea and a cup. ‘Thanks,
negra
,’ says Catarina, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I’m going to my room to get changed, to put on something lighter so I can dance a bit here in the living room … When I come back, will you do that chant for me?’ He sighs. ‘I will, then I’ll go … ’ She leaves the room, but comes back at once. ‘And do you mind if I get the camera to do some filming?’ she asks. ‘No,’ comes his reply. ‘Great. I was going to say make yourself comfortable, like you could possibly make yourself comfortable wearing that thing.’

Catarina goes into what is supposed to be a bedroom, her bedroom. The nails and drawing-pins from her last street intervention have been on the bed for more than a week along with scraps of green plastic and two kinds of sticky tape: masking and double-sided. (She sleeps on the leather sofa in the library, and the bedroom is a mix of bedroom, walk-in closet, study, meeting room, video-editing room and office for her Foundation, especially when she needs to use the Mac to write up projects with other partners; the cleaner is allowed to gather up whatever’s on the floor, hoover, tidy the clothes in the wardrobe, but never to touch the bed, the bookshelves or the desk.) She undresses, puts on an oversized jumper that goes all the way down to her knees. She takes the burgundy-coloured bag hanging on the clothes rail. She scatters berets, wigs and masks across the bed, picks out one of the masks, a kind of Spirit mask, puts it on. She looks at the disarray. It’s the first time in weeks that she has been able to go in there without being overtaken by a mad desire to turn back the hours, the days. She gets the digital video camera that happens by good fortune to be in plain view. As soon as she can, she will ask the cleaner to clean everything and change the sheets and the curtains and leave the windows open and allow the sun, which is strong there in the mornings, come in. She runs to the living room. ‘Sing for me,’ and she takes off the jumper. He begins his chant, and she dances dressed only in the mask and her underwear.

With some effort Catarina’s great-aunt is overcoming the restrictions imposed on her knees and ankles by osteoarthritis. She puts her key in the lock with care so as not to disturb whatever Catarina is up to this time (it’s always easy to tell whether her great-niece is in the house or not), she turns it, opens, enters. ‘What on earth are you doing, Catarina?’ she shrieks. Seventy-two years on one side; twenty-one on the other. Catarina is losing the thread, she no longer understands the importance of the basic principles, she thinks she has mastered them already, she thinks that positioning herself critically against the canons of dance will make her somebody in the history of dance. She does not suspect how foolish she will feel a few years from now for having failed to tackle this most basic of disciplines like any other, for not having examined its technique exhaustively. The prizes that this great-niece won so young have done her harm. Catarina is pure impulse. Catarina is naked in the living room. And who is that thing in the terrible mask? ‘I can explain,’ says Catarina. ‘Who is this pervert?’ The old woman puts her bag down on the table by the door. ‘He’s … ’ Catarina hesitates. ‘Get out of my apartment, you animal … What’s that smell, have you been smoking pot?’ ‘Bettina, look, the smell is from the wood, the wood of the mask.’ Catarina gets dressed. ‘I don’t want to know.’ And looking at him, ‘And you, I’ve already told you to get out of my sight.’ He doesn’t move, just watches her. ‘Look here, you … you … whoever you are … Take off that thing … ’ She takes the glass ashtray from the coffee table like someone who means to hurl it if necessary. ‘No,’ he replies. ‘My name is Bettina de Alencar Macedo, you scoundrel, and I am the owner of this apartment.’ The maid comes into the living room, Bettina immediately turns to her. ‘And you … I begged you not to let strangers set foot in here … You … you’re fired.’ Catarina goes over to him. ‘Look, I’m sorry … ’ Bettina still is not satisfied. ‘What’s your name?’ She gets between them. ‘You don’t have to answer.’ Catarina takes his arm so they can leave the apartment together, but he doesn’t move. Bettina addresses the maid. ‘Bring me a pen and paper, quickly.’ Catarina is trying to drag him out, but he is too strong for her. ‘But madam, you’ve just fired me’ (surprising Bettina with a cynicism that has not been apparent before now). ‘Don’t play smart with me, my girl … Go fetch what I’ve asked you to.’ The maid does as she’s told. ‘And where do you live?’ Bettina keeps going. ‘That’s enough, Bettina,’ Catarina steps in. ‘Why?’ Donato asks. ‘Because I’m going to report you to the police,’ says Bettina, threatening him. The maid hands her employer a pencil and a sheet of paper. ‘That’s going too far … ’ Catarina objects. ‘You can find me on Avenida Cristovão Colombo, madam, number eight hundred and thirty-nine … It’s a house.’ Bettina is panting. ‘You still haven’t said your name.’ The great-aunt is nervous, shaking. ‘You’ve got the address now … I’m not going to go anywhere … ’ Bettina puts a hand on her chest. ‘You don’t want to give your name? Fine, you’ll be answering to the law all the same … And now, for the last time, remove that monstrous costume.’ He moves towards the door. Catarina opens it. ‘My name is Donato, and it wasn’t a pleasure to meet you, madam.’ Both of them go out into the hall. She won’t go down with him, because she has to go back in and confront Bettina. She will tell Bettina that she has finally managed to embarrass her in front of a friend
–
one of the most polite ever to have been in that apartment. Her great-aunt will allow her to speak, and then she will say a dozen sentences that will demonstrate just how shaken she was by what she witnessed, sentences that will make Catarina understand that, this time, she is not joking.