The Discovery of America by the Turks (5 page)

Man’s fortune is fickle, the saying goes, and Ibrahim’s example proves it twice over. Only a few years ago a prosperous merchant, a respected family man with lots of leisure at his disposal, the husband of the most competent, desirable, and virtuous of women, he had suddenly been transformed into that thing we now see. From being the exclusive favorite of the matriarch Sálua—a pasha he was!—he was on the point of becoming impecunious and impotent. In a toast to Sálua, Raduan Murad sipped his raki, emptying the glass.

Raduan kept no set schedule for lunch or dinner (except when he was invited), nor for sleeping. That he would do during breaks from his elegant prose, his art, and from the poker table, his main profession, from the books he read and reread, from the pieces in checkers and backgammon games, from sprees with his hookers, his innocent diversions. In exchange for that, he was able to drink whenever he wanted, at any hour. Competent in the handling of his glass, he showed a preference for alcohol with the taste of
anise. He was a good drinker, but he was even better at gabbing and carrying on.

He was lingering all alone in the bar at sundown, nursing his aperitif and preparing himself for the night’s multiple adventures. He didn’t have to cheat in order to win at poker in the rear parlor of the Hotel dos Lordes. He would do so only occasionally, just to teach the contemptible cardsharps a bit of decorum. He was astute enough to spot the nature of the cheating and quickly figure out how to use his chips with skill and mastery. He would unmask bluffing and put it to use for himself with ridiculous assurance. As card players say, he could sing his opponents’ tune. And he had the gift of prophecy.

As a lover he was lavish with flattery and fancies. Going to bed with Raduan Murad brought on disputes over the privilege along with much cursing and cuffing among the whores. Evil tongues whispered the names of mistresses and married women. Virgins gazed from a distance at his slim, impeccable figure in a white suit of H-J linen, his graying hair, his long fingers clutching his ivory cigarette holder. They would sigh. A bachelor well into his fifties, he was more alluring than any young guy. Over his empty glass he was pondering Ibrahim’s fate, both a slapstick comedy and a melodrama.

The prudent Sante, owner of the bar, had gathered in the day’s earnings, leaving just a bit of change, and he went off to dine at home. Adib was washing glasses, mixing drinks, putting bottles in order, and getting the bar ready for the great nocturnal hubbub that was about to begin. Just the right moment to pick up a conversation with the potential candidate for the hand of Adma, at the free lunch counter.

Raduan felt an obligation to help the harassed Ibrahim in his struggle to rise up out of his misfortune, overcome his bad luck, and recover his right to shade and cool water, in consideration for their old friendship, his comradeship, the memory of Sálua’s eyes, the inaccessible Sálua, but above all, to have some fun in one more game, just as exciting as
poker—the game of destiny, already mentioned, in which the cards are human beings and the bets are for life itself.

He half-closed his eyes. Night was slowly reaching the opposite bank of the river, which was still uninhabited. Sorcery and malignancy at the crossroads for the small store. To confront the crisis, Raduan Murad’s weapons were wisdom and trickery. Raising his voice, he asked Adib to give him another shot of raki, and the inquiry and negotiations got under way.

The exact terms of the conversation between Raduan Murad and young Adib Barud on that Itabuna twilight were never known. They carried on the dialogue alone and kept to themselves the matters discussed. But even that didn’t prevent someone from reproducing the long dialogue point by point, referring to tones of voice, waves of laughter, and the depth of the silences. Some stated that the dialogue, begun in Arabic, had ended in Portuguese; others swore it was just the opposite: It had begun in Portuguese and went on in Arabic—a language, furthermore, that Adib, born as a Brazilian from southern Bahia, spoke scrupulously poorly.

To believe the generally accepted version, one still worthy of credence and repetition, when Raduan was served his drink of anise he most likely asked the waiter, “How about you? Don’t you eat any dinner, young fellow?”

Adib answered yes, he did eat dinner, and quite amply. A dish prepared by Dona Lina, Sante’s wife. Sante would bring it to him when he got back from home. He added a nice comment about his boss lady’s looks: “Dona Lina’s a knockout, don’t you think, Professor? A pair of hips…”

In spite of the fact that Raduan wasn’t a schoolmaster or even a private tutor, lots of people called him Professor, and he accepted the title without surprise or arrogance. He showed an interest in knowing just where and how Adib had been able to appraise Lina’s hips. It had happened quite accidentally: Having gone to deliver a message to Sante’s house, he’d found the aforementioned lady squatting and scrubbing clothes in a tub, her skirt hitched up and her hips
showing. He’d chanced a peek. Besides being bold, Adib was nosy.

“There are those that say—”

Raduan, knowing full well what they were saying, cut off Adib’s jabber. “Hearing always brings advantage, my boy; repeating doesn’t. Forget what you’ve heard if you don’t want to lose your job.”

Lose his job? God save him and keep him! In the bar, a privileged position, Adib lived in contact with the rich and influential, the upper crust of the city, always current on happenings and stories, enjoying himself in debauchery with the whores who made their rounds there to pick up hicks. Throw away all those benefits? He’d have to be crazy.

Before that he’d toiled for three years at the Style Shop, a store belonging to his brother Aziz. Did he like it at the store? If he had to work he’d rather have the bar, for the reasons mentioned. He’d begun working behind the counter at the Style Shop for nothing, to learn the ropes. Only in the past year had he got to collect a salary, a pittance. Not being a pack mule, he’d quit.

What about as a partner? As a partner, or even just sharing in the profits, Professor, that was just a lot of talk. Because Aziz would never give him an interest in the business, no matter how much Adib killed himself with work and pleased the customers. The Style Shop of Barud and Brother? Fat chance! His ideal was to get a cacao farm—like Saad, his older brother, the son-in-law of Colonel João Cunha, who gave him a free hand, and Saad was piling up the money.

“You’re not one to get involved in these things—isn’t that so, Professor? You live a life that’s nice and easygoing. But not everybody can live a life of comfort like a lord without working. For that you’ve got to have a lot of gray matter in your head.”

An unexpected rascal, thought Raduan Murad, smiling good-naturedly as he listened to the unlikely commentary. How many others might there be, thinking the same thing without daring to say so? He was sorry Adib was interested
in only the daughter of a plantation owner and disdainful of the daughter of a merchant. Too bad.

“Who said so, Professor? Just show me where there’s one to be had and I’m off on the run after her. I’ve got a lot of drive behind the counter; you can ask Aziz. He’s always trying to get me back, but I’d rather work for Senhor Sante. You can learn something here.”

“Even if the girl’s not like those beauties, maybe a little ugly?”

“No woman’s ugly if she’s got a little dough.”

“Right you are, my boy. I can see you’ve had a good upbringing.”

They got their good upbringing in the bosom of the home and loitering on the streets. While still adolescents they adopted and practiced the articles of the prevailing codes of the region, the unwritten but undisputed laws. When the time came to take a wife, they had to choose a virginal and virtuous woman, hardworking and upstanding, because it fell to her to give birth to and rear the children, take care of the house, and live in circumspection and modesty, be submissive. Beauty and youth are secondary qualities, especially if the principal dowry of the bride is measured in leagues of land or the number of doors on a place of business—the Bargain Shop had three doors opening onto the street. Beauty, grace, and youth are preferences when one is looking for a lover, a flirtation, or companionship for a night in bed, for a lay. In those cases, yes, the prescription calls for a pretty hooker, youngish, a fresh and cozy cunt. Healthy principles, the foundations of family and society.

“What if the one in question is a couple years older than you?” Raduan went on with his inquiry.

“What’s that got to do with it, Professor? I never heard it said that age was a defect. It’s just no good if she’s been plowed. Covering a hole opened by someone else, that I won’t do. She’s got to be a virgin.”

Raduan Murad paused to contemplate the young fellow, who was smiling and rubbing his hands together, excited over the direction the conversation was taking.

“If you know someone, Professor, just give me her address and I’ll take care of the rest.”

So why not? Adma was a rough deal, hard to swallow. Facing her called for decisiveness, courage, and the stomach of a camel. Tall, slim, muscular, doltish, Adib was like a dromedary. His youth and greed made him capable of chewing straw and finding it tasty, of standing up against an aging, sour old maid, busting her cherry with delight, raising her up into a frenzy, to beatitude, to peace with life. Well screwed, Adma would cease being a drag on humanity.

Filthy conjectures. Raduan Murad kept them to himself. He waxed poetic and wise before announcing the name of the maid in need of a husband. Certain virginities are like wine, he declared in Arabic: They improve with the passage of time and little by little they become refined, purified, and are finally transformed into liqueurs, brandy, cognac. They change their state but preserve their quality. In the heights of his curiosity and interest, Adib declared that he preferred cognac to wine.

“I know one, yes, my boy, someone who is a well of virtues, as pure as the Virgin Mary.”

“Who is it, Professor? Come on. Tell me.”

“Do you know Ibrahim Jafet? He was in here with me just a while ago.”

“I know him, yes, sir.”

“And do you know his daughters, too?”

“Them, too. Each one prettier than the next.”

“Except one.”

“Hold on, Professor. I’m beginning to catch the drift. You want to talk about the wallflower, right?”

“The one who marries her will become a partner in the store.…”

What Raduan Murad and young Adib Barud discussed and decided that late Itabuna afternoon no one knew. A lot of things were said and commented on: gossip and tales, nothing more. Sante, for example, stated that when he got back from dinner he heard Adib’s final words, which, repeated to God and everyone else, became a kind of mantra.
But how could he have understood them? For Sante himself had begun by telling those listening to him that they’d been talking in Turkish. The bar owner, a flathead from Sergipe, didn’t understand beans about the Arabic language, to him a complicated jawbreaker, indecipherable gabble.

In any case, inscribed here as truthful is the phrase, attributed to Adib Barud, with which the session was adjourned:

“Just leave it to me, Professor. You can tame a woman with a pat or with a whack. Or maybe with a little bit of both.”

From him or from somebody else, whichever way it went, that affirmative was worthy of general acceptance and hearty approval. A surprising person, Adib Barud, the youngest son of Moamud and Ariza, both deceased. An orphan, he had educated himself haphazardly, an elegant, exquisite upbringing.

It could be seen immediately that Jamil Bichara and Ibrahim Jafet were twin souls, made to understand and esteem each other. The meeting took place in the cabaret. Glorinha Goldass introduced them. It didn’t take her long to regret it. The two Turks, instead of devoting their time to her, began to gab, leaving her reduced to the ridiculous role of a deaf-mute, as though she were a piece of furniture. Wounded in her self-respect, she went off to dance with Chico Lopes, a traveling salesman given to the conquest of hookers. He’d been laying siege to Glorinha for some time without any success until then. The one in question didn’t give of herself for free, except on those rare occasions when tricks were played on her, clouding her judgment. Not out of avarice, but from necessity. In Laranjeiras, where she had come from to ply her trade in Itabuna, she had left four sisters, devout virgins, a crippled mother, and a father who worked other people’s land for his consolation of cachaça. All those and, in addition, two loony aunts—“my dearly beloved creatures,” she would weep with longing as she remembered them—all dependent on her, on the little money she would send each month by Aureliano Neves, the owner of the Casa Sergipana, first-class furniture, her parishioner on Saturdays.

The youngest daughter, a flirtatious mulatto girl in full bloom, had given her cherry for free to the judge’s son, that son of a bitch, who after making a great fuss over her had kicked her out as soon as she’d been fucked, to the fury of her drunken but moralistic father, without even a good-bye. He’d promised to set her up in a house, all established, for a
love affair. In some strange way she was grateful to him because when he’d popped her cherry he’d brought her good luck. The divine Glorinha went off to be a whore in cacao country, Glorinha Goldass, sought after. The fulsome pledges of the traveling salesman went in one ear and out the other, in spite of his elegant mustache and his hair that gleamed with brilliantine and was parted down the middle just like a pussy, the height of fashion. The dandy danced well, and Glorinha wasn’t far behind him in that. She adored waltzes, polkas, mazurkas, but the best of all was the maxixe.

Interest on Jamil’s part was there right from the start when, rejoicing in the unexpected appearance of the ideal candidate, Ibrahim went straight to the business at hand. On that afternoon the person of his fellow countryman was still the center of attention, the object of conversation and speculation. Raduan Murad, a friend in common, a man of great aptitude, had proposed the name of Jamil, and he had regretted his absence. What had his name been proposed for? To solve a problem of interest for Ibrahim, but one that might be of equal interest for Jamil. He would like to lay it out if his countryman would care to listen and set a time and place. Right here and now was his answer. He didn’t have any time the following day, completely taken up with replenishing his stock and shipping out the merchandise. The mixture of vermouth and cognac had loosened the tongue of Adma’s afflicted father. All ears, out of natural prudence Jamil wasn’t showing any enthusiasm for the scheme at any time.