Nowhere People (22 page)

Catarina’s friend has incredibly good taste in interior design, a rare skill in making the best use of space. It isn’t by chance that Catarina feels so at ease in this apartment, in this kitchen, and always asks her friend if she can borrow it when she needs to be alone with someone without having to resort to the embarrassment of going to a motel or to risk running into her great-aunt (a situation still unresolved). She opens the fridge, takes out the glass bottle of water, goes back to the living room and stands face to face with him. (She doesn’t know that in the masked man’s pocket is a poem he wrote for her less than four hours ago.) ‘You all right?’ Donato asks. ‘I don’t know … I did something really stupid a while back … ’ Catarina says. ‘Welcome to the Circus Catarina,’ he tries to put her at ease. ‘I’m not kidding … I did something wrong … Or not something wrong, but something that went wrong … It was just before I met you, and … it’s ridiculous … because I swore to him, to this guy I like a lot or … it’s just I swore to him I wouldn’t tell anyone … but I can’t do it, I’m up to my neck in this … ’ He interrupts her. ‘What are we talking about, Catarina?’ She takes a few steps back and sits down. ‘About a guy … a guy I still love … ’ It was supposed to be the most important day. ‘Who you love? … And do I know him?’ he asks. ‘No. I’d rather you didn’t even know who he is.’ She starts to cry. ‘He hurt you.’ Donato tries to keep his cool. ‘Worse … He forced me to … ’ She falls silent. ‘Forced you to?’ he ventures. ‘An abortion … ’ she says, sobbing. ‘He was violent, is that it?’ Donato asks sympathetically. ‘He convinced me, he persuaded me, he blackmailed me … I thought I would get over it, but it wasn’t like that … I wanted the baby, I really wanted a child, because it was this guy’s child … you understand?’ He has to interrupt her. ‘And you’re telling me this because … ?’ She lies down on the sofa. ‘The chant from that day outside the DMAE water-tower … it … after I heard it, in some way I can’t explain … it helped me understand how much I regretted having got rid of the baby … When I closed my eyes and just tried listening to you … For those minutes I felt like the baby I got rid of was still with me … I mean, inside me … except it wasn’t going to grow, wasn’t going to come out, be born
–
oh, I don’t know … But at the same time, and this is the crazy thing, it was comforting to admit what I was feeling,’ she says, and dries her tears. ‘You know it isn’t really like that. It wasn’t a baby yet.’ She sits up again. She’s looking better. ‘I know that, I’m not a complete idiot.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘What matters is that … finding you, a faceless stranger, doing something I respected from the very first moment … in a way it made me stop and admit that I’d made a mistake … and it’s nothing to do with morality … it’s just that I wanted,’ she starts crying again, ‘I really wanted … ’ Donato tries to make her see reason. ‘A child isn’t a toy, Catarina … and at this point in your life, you know … You’re still so young … ’ She gives him a crazy smile. ‘I bother everyone so much already … a child wasn’t going to make a difference … know what I mean?’ Not letting him go on, ‘He made … the bastard made me swear that I’d keep it secret … It’s awful, it’s an awful feeling … And the son of a bitch … he won’t even speak to me any more … he just cut me off … I’ve been feeling so weird … a stranger when I’m around other people … ’ and she looks at him. ‘Except me … Am I right?’ She lowers her gaze. ‘Almost,’ she says, awkwardly. ‘That chant … ’ she starts speaking again. ‘If I were to choreograph it … and if I got into it … I thought it would help me face up to the situation … that we could be partners and we’d fall in love with a shared piece of work … and we’d fall in love … but you’re so different, you aren’t all jumbled up with the others … with the string of idiots I’ve known … the idiot I am … you’re not jumbled up with anything.’ He considers saying that she isn’t being clear, but he doesn’t. ‘I think you’re idealising me, Catarina,’ is what he says. ‘You idealise me, too,’ she murmurs. ‘I’m sorry. All along I’ve tried hard to understand you, not as an artist or … but for God’s sake, if you’d just take that mask off at least … You can’t even come out from inside this bizarre character you’ve created, this messiah figure I invented and you joined in … Know what I mean? I’ve tried to imagine what you must be running away from to get you to a point where you put on that mask and bury yourself so deeply in all this madness,’ she complains. ‘I have a purpose,’ he says. ‘A purpose,’ mimicking him, his serious tone of voice and São Paulo accent. ‘Catarina,’ and Donato’s voice comes out even more serious than usual. ‘What?’ she softens. And he says: ‘I don’t want to live any more.’

The president of FUNAI tendered his resignation, but the resignation has not yet been officially accepted. The number of the undersigned multiplies online, analysts are saying the masked man inspires people to pay attention, he is undoubtedly an unpredictable provocateur. At eleven in the morning he will speak at a small press conference called by Catarina (the first offline interview to have a wide reach) to talk about the meaning of his appearances and about the hearing at tomorrow’s Minor Offences Court.

‘What’s the mask
for?’

‘The mask is an allegory, it has a personal purpose.’

‘What would that
be?’

‘To reclaim my identity, my dignity as an Indian.’

‘Reclaim your identity by hiding?’

‘
…’

‘You’ve threatened the government. Am I right in saying that?’

‘If talking about the dignity of indigenous people is threatening,’ he pauses deliberately, ‘then I’m delighted to be the cause of such a threat.’

‘Is there any way you could clarify a bit what you mean by dignity?’

‘It’s about returning the lands that have been usurped … When I was younger I thought the only solution was to take all the Indians and civilise them in the non-Indian way once and for all, but I was wrong.’

‘Is it true you’ve done a deal with a toy company to produce a doll wearing a mask just like yours?’

‘
…’

‘And that the toy mask will be removable?’

‘That’s absurd. It’s never going to happen.’

‘But if it did, do you think any child would want
it?’

‘Children aren’t usually scared of things that are real.’

‘Are you real?’

‘
…’

‘Is it true that people have been mobilising and encouraging donations to your cause right across Brazil?’

‘No.’

‘What about this hearing tomorrow?’

‘Justice wears a blindfold … A blindfold? I won’t be going that far myself.’

Then, deliberately disturbing the rhythm of the interview (to tell the truth, this was the only reason he agreed to do it), Donato says he would like to read out two very short stories written by his mother, a young Guarani Indian called Maína who lived on the side of the BR-116 and who, like hundreds of other Indians all over Brazil, precisely because she was unable to see any sign of a possible future, committed suicide in nineteen ninety-three. After this, and as though it would be impossible to go back to answering questions, he volunteers to talk about the meaning of his chanting. He confirms that, yes, the straw and wood do hurt a little, and the interview comes to an
end.

An hour and a half later, Donato arrives home. He turns on his computer, checks the messages. Another one from Rener. She has been sending messages for more than two weeks. They always say the same thing, to add her on Skype or make a reverse-charge call to the number of the house where she’s living now. (If not today, then when?) He opens Skype, calls the number she has given him. ‘Who is it?’ the voice asks in French. It isn’t a good connection, there’s some hissing, but all the same he’s so pleased to hear her. ‘Curumim here, Brown Sugar.’ She laughs. (How he has missed that laugh.) ‘You told me to forget you, but I couldn’t do it,’ she says. ‘I can see that.’ ‘I’m never going to forget you, my shy little thing … ’ He says nothing. ‘I wanted to give you a bit of news, and ask you for something,’ she says. ‘Just like that, after all this time? Ok. You’ve managed to scare me, Rener,’ he stutters a little but it’s barely noticeable. ‘I’m moving in with a guy … ’ she says. ‘He’s French?’ She takes a moment to answer. ‘Yes.’ He leans on the table with the computer on it. ‘And is he cool?’ he asks. ‘I think he’s really cool.’ He can tell she is happy. ‘You’re still very young for this, Sugar … You sure?’ ‘I love him, that’s all … I got tired of changing boyfriends every week … and, another thing, I’m pregnant … ’ This did shake him. ‘You’re going to be a mother? Really?’ She lets out a shriek (one of those genuine Rener shrieks). ‘I’m seven months gone already. So isn’t that Proper News?’ she asks. ‘I … yes, of course, it’s a huge piece of news. I’m very happy,’ he says, unnerved. ‘And now the request … drumroll … I want you to be the baby’s godfather … You know how my family’s Catholic … ’ She is preparing the ground. ‘I know … and Catholics … ’ ‘You know I’m crazy, right? And this guy, though I really do like him very very very much, well he’s a lot crazier than me … ’ Still preparing him. ‘What does he do?’ He takes on a paternal tone that makes no sense. ‘He works in the circus, he’s a clown … ’ Coincidences. ‘Now I can see our childhood games have gone too far.’ She burst out laughing, she’s jubilant. ‘Things are coming full circle, Curumim. For better or worse, there’s no way out. Accept it.’ ‘The godfather of a child, a child with two irresponsible parents?’ he says happily. ‘Right! The child of your best friend, almost the love of your life,’ she says and laughs. ‘Listen
–
you really love this guy?’ Silence. ‘I’d like to think so … He loves me very much, I’m sure of that.’ ‘Everyone loves you, Rener.’ ‘That time is over, Curumim, I’m no longer that revolutionary … Listen. I’ve already spoken to my parents, they’re going to pay for the flight … and you’ll stay here at mine.’ He says nothing. ‘I need to think. It’s quite a hard decision … ’ ‘I know you’ll accept … Paris will be good for you … I’ll leave it to you to choose a name for her,’ she says. ‘Her?’ and he can’t contain himself. And Rener starts telling him everything that has happened to her in these past years and makes him laugh a lot. The Skype credits are running out. He will let them run out and then he will call her
back.

When he came back to Brazil in nineteen ninety-five with only the clothes on his back and a law trainee’s rucksack, the first thing Paulo did on walking out of the arrivals area at Salgado Filho Airport was get into a taxi and ask the driver to take him to Barra do Ribeiro (he didn’t stop to think about whether the money he had changed in São Paulo would be enough for the whole fare). They passed the last of the three bridges that come after the Casa das Cucas, asked the driver to clock exactly six kilometres, and stopped nowhere at all. There was no more encampment. He made the driver pull over. He walked between the low shrubs, a sign that there once used to be a clearing here, a little open space, came to the foundations of the white house. Nothing left. He returned to the taxi, asked them to drive on a bit further south. He managed to find another three encampments; he stopped at all three and asked after the Indian women. They told him that they’d moved to a village in the north of the state, and that was it. Seeing that the driver was starting to lose his temper, he asked if they could keep trying just a little longer, the driver refused, they had gone much further than they’d agreed, and Paulo threatened to stay right where they were and not pay the fare, and the taxi-driver gave him another twenty minutes. They arrived at what seemed to be the last encampment. A well-spoken Indian who was very insistent on selling his handicrafts gave him the news of Maína’s death. Paulo asked how it had happened and he said it would be best for Paulo not to know. Paulo grabbed hold of his arm hard, said the information was very important to him. The driver got out of the cab, telling Paulo to let go of the Indian. Paulo stopped short, apologised to the Indian and (in front of the Indian) thanked the taxi driver for his intervention (sometimes Paulo needs them). He looked up at that sky, the landscape that had acquired a threatening horizon. Time to return to Porto Alegre. On the way back, he couldn’t look at the road. The first days flew by. A week, a week in his parents’ house was enough for him to have his first crisis. He no longer needed the superhuman self-control that he had learned in London, in his homeland some kind of relief ought to be possible (relief that no longer existed anywhere), but no. Thinking that it will get better. Allowing himself to feel hope. This is the fatal symptom of a moment when you are no longer able to find peace. He started to medicate himself, fixed up some job or other to keep himself busy, went back to studying law to keep himself busy; he couldn’t get seriously involved with anybody. One day he started teaching at a social awareness programme in Vila Cruzeiro. It was this that kept him going. And so the years went by. Trying not to succumb once more to the confusion of thoughts, trying not to give in to panic and to the growing fragility of his emotions. He met new people, had girlfriends, watched his friends get poorer, get richer, marry, separate, people who had been alienated going into politics, people bursting with ideas getting tired of politics. There was no place to hide: his friends are the new impresarios, the judges who will soon become High Court judges, High Court judges who will soon be serving on the Supreme Court, coordinators of the most important government programmes, actors, writers, state police chiefs, heads of the Federal Police, members of the Public Ministry, academics, newspaper editors, owners of high-traffic blogs, tweeters with many followers, advertisers, diplomats. Life goes on. He enrolled in the master’s programme to keep himself busy and completed it with honours to keep himself busy, he started teaching on a law course, one of those really crappy ones in a far-flung corner of Rio Grande do Sul just to keep himself busy. Paulo saved up money and bought himself an apartment in the centre of Porto Alegre when it wasn’t yet fashionable to live in the centre of Porto Alegre. His parents still keep up a crazy pace of trips with married friends of theirs. His sister has married a Canadian and had four children, she isn’t planning to come back to Brazil. A lot has happened in the world. He never heard from Rener again, or the Lebanese men. Two years ago, Leonardo, who is today one of the country’s District Prosecutors, invited him to be his chief of staff, Paulo did not want to accept (working with a friend, as his subordinate, is one of the hardest things), but he accepted. Today is the graduation day of the girl who is working as an intern in Leonardo’s office. The Ceremonial Hall at the state university is packed. Paulo hasn’t the patience to watch guys his age showing off long-legged twenty-year-olds with highlights in their hair, each one more Miss Brazil than the last, the keys to their imported cars, their thousand-
real
suits, their anabolic workout. The intern is a sweet girl but she isn’t worth the sacrifice. Paulo leaves at the beginning of the guest of honour’s speech. He leaves the building, crosses Avenida Osvaldo Aranha heading towards Independência. He’s hungry, he decides to have dinner in a restaurant in Barros Cassal, where the food is good and cheap. He sits at a table in front of the television because it’s the furthest from the table where the members of a crummy local band are sitting, yet another crummy band trying to relive a great moment in the world history of rock music, with their stereotypical clothes and a breed of dog in their name. Right in time for the news. He asks for a steak with a fried egg, listens to the story about that Indian in the mask who is going to have a hearing tomorrow afternoon at the Central Forum. Yet another dickhead doing whatever he can to draw attention to himself. He is being accused of theft, but there are many other accusations. The man gives laconic answers to a few questions and then asks if he can tell some stories by his mother, an Indian woman called Maína. Paulo gets up, walks straight over to the volume button, turns it up to maximum. The guys from the appalling band protest. He shrugs, tells them to go suck Bob Dylan’s greasy dick. The story told by the man in the mask is about an old Indian woman who spent her days by the side of the road gathering up loose pages from newspapers and magazines carried there on the wind, and Paulo begins to shake, he is shaking from his head down to his feet, and one day, the masked man continues, the old Indian woman was bitten by a lizard and before fainting from the poison that was circulating round her body she made a bonfire of the paper she had gathered and when the flames began to imitate a sacred song of return the Indian woman dressed herself in them and disappeared. Paulo turns, takes his blazer off the back of the chair and leaves the restaurant. He doesn’t even look at the guys from the band gesturing for him to go fuck himself.