The Painting of Porcupine City (32 page)

work yet?»

«Yeah. Uncle Renaldo might still be there, though. He was just leaving.»

«Auntie and Uncle?»

«My dad’s in Belo Horizonte doing set-up shit for Carnival. Mom went. This is what happens when you give no notice! Olivia’s here though. Somewhere.»

«Why Belo? Ours not good enough?»

Vini shrugged. «Hey, are you home for Carnival?»

«I wish. Well... jeez, when is it this year?»

Vini’s jaw fell slack. «You mean you don’t
know?
»

«I lose track of this shit up there, V.»

Vinicius told him the date and Mateo frowned. «Don’t think I can stay that long, no.»

«Well how long you home for?»

«Week or so.»

«OK. So at least we have some time. I can’t wait to show you my stuff. I’ve been getting into stencils. I tell you that? Hey, can you get in the house?» He fished in his pocket, pulled out his keys, and wiggled one off the ring. «Here you go,» he said ceremoniously, pressing it into Mateo’s palm and closing Mateo’s fingers around it. «Some things never change,» he added about Mateo’s blue fingers. He turned Mateo’s hand over so he could read his watch face. «Who wears a watch anymore?»

«Had to turn my phone off so it won’t roam.»

«This SP time yet?»

«Yup.»

«Then shit, I’m late. I gotta get to work. Tiago’s gonna have my ass. Not the way he wants it, of course.»

«You guys still carpooling?»

«Yup. He’s still got the armored car so that’s how we roll. I pay him in blowjobs. Just kidding. That’s your job.»

«Sure.»

«He asks every once in a while what you’re up to, you know—wants to ask more often. You must be a hell of a lay, primo, because that boy’s still hung up on you.»

Mateo shook his head.

«Wish I could take the fucking day off and kick it with you!»

«Me too!»

«Can I tell Ti you’re home, or is it a secret?»

«Secret for now. Unless you can’t control yourself, I guess.»

«He’s gonna be happy.» Vini wiggled his eyebrows.

«We’ll see.»

Vinicius grabbed him again and hugged hard. «So fucking good to see you!»

«I know. Go to work.»

«Booo!»

Mateo walked slowly up the

street. It took some figuring to find his family’s door—the outer door was part of the wall that ran along the street, and like everything else around it, it was covered in graffiti. And that graffiti too had changed since the last time he’d been here. Like ever-changing landmarks. He had to look up beyond the wall to the houses and rooftops—those colors stayed the same. That was how he found his door. Filling it and a few feet on either side of it was a pink and blue sunset, across which flew a dragon-bodied creature with the head of a toucan. It was gorgeous. Must be little Edilson again. Mateo sighed.

He pushed through into a tiny yard. The stiff grass was brown in places and there were plastic lawn chairs set up around a grill, and some flower pots. He walked across the patio to the bright blue front door and used the key Vini had given him.

“Olá!” he called into the warmth. “Bom dia!”

No reply. The house was quiet.

He left the door open so the air could circulate. He dropped his backpack on the couch and took off his shoes and socks, feeling the cool tile floor beneath his feet. This was one of the feelings of home. The whole house was floored with this same beige tile, even the bedrooms; there were little brightly-colored rugs here and there, but no carpeting. It made the house seem more airy than the houses up north, especially Marjorie’s big old house with its thick carpets and hardwood floors.

He squiggled his toes on the slippery tile and left shaded evaporating footprints.

“Mateo está em casa! Onde está minha família?”

In the corner by the television a birdcage hung from the ceiling. Two little birds, yellow and gray, hopped around inside tweeting.

You’re new
, he thought, wondering what else was new around here. “Oi, passarinhos,” he said to them.
Hi, little birds.
He poked his finger through the pale blue bars of the cage. “Onde está minha família?”

The birds went on cheeping, but it was clear from the silence in the rest of the house that he was here alone. That was a relief. He was exhausted, had not slept for countless hours, not since briefly during his layover in Panama and fitfully on the plane, and the short interaction with his cousin had drained all his remaining energy.

He yawned. His bare feet carried him across the tile into the kitchen and his fingers reached for a bowl of fruit and a piece of chocolate cake. His hands brought the food to his lips and his mouth made him chew. He looked out the windows at the neighbor house, at a basket of wet laundry waiting to go on the line.

Then his feet carried him into the bathroom and his hands undid his fly and he peed. Then he was carried down the hall into his bedroom, and upon seeing it filled with Vini’s things his tired brain reminded his feet that this room was no longer his. He turned in the doorway and his feet carried him back to the living room. His toes tipped him forward and his heels let go of the smooth floor and he flopped onto the couch, where he sprawled out, rubbing his cheek against the cushion until it found a comfortable place.

And he slept like the dead.

There was a gasp and

a crash and a
glugluglug
of liquid and then Sabina was upon him with kisses.

“What are you doing here? Meu Deus! What a surprise! The door was open! I thought you were a thief! What are you doing just laying there—help me clean up this milk!”

“Mamãe,” he said, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

She stopped amid the spilt groceries and all was quiet except for the birds cheeping, and she clasped her hands against her belly and smiled all the way from her hair to her chin. “My baby,” she said.

I’m told the people in

Brazil are more about lunch than dinner, but that night, in celebration of the return of their American boy, they did it American style and had a feast. The prodigal son was given the head of the table. Sabina plunked in the middle of the table a big bowl of spaghetti with a dozen tiny meatballs rolling around on top.

«Vinicius, go get your sister,» said Renaldo, who was standing behind Mateo’s chair squeezing his son’s shoulders. Vini leaned out the back door and yelled up to his sister’s window.

Renaldo released his son’s shoulders, rolling his eyes at Vinicius. He hooked his cane on the back of the chair beside Mateo and sat down. His shiny bald head reflected the overhead light, and a graying mustache hugged his upper lip.

“You look good, son,” he told Mateo. He knew his English wasn’t what it had been sixteen years ago but he made an effort to speak it all the same. “Big. Strong!”

“Dad.”

“So. Your flight was good?”

“Felt longer than usual, but yeah. They had good movies.”

“Good.” Renaldo crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. There were limits to what they could talk about, areas he could not venture into. Mateo’s home life, particularly. “How is your work going? Your job.”

“It’s fine.”

“The computers.”

“Yeah. It’s good.”

“Do you like it?”

Mateo laughed. “No. But I’m not really concerned about liking it. It’s a necessary but minor part of my life.”

“Like pooping?” Renaldo said with a smirk.

Mateo blushed.

“And you are still doing a lot of—?” Renaldo made the motion of a spraycan.

Vinicius saw the gesture and said, «Ah, his favorite topic.»

Mateo replied, “Yeah. A lot. And I’m getting pretty big. People recognize my work. They write about me on the Internet. Sometimes even in the newspaper. They don’t know it’s me.”

Renaldo frowned and looked at his son’s hands clasped on the table. “You have to be very careful.”

Mateo could sense his father’s old alien fears—the need to be unseen, perfectly law-abiding in all ways but the one. “I’m a citizen, Dad. If they catch me they can’t deport me.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But there are other things.” Sabina handed Renaldo a big wooden spoon and he stuck it into the spaghetti. “You still have to be careful. It is not like here there. I know here sometimes you can get away by saying,
OK, sir, I did it, but at least I am not one of those horrible, scribble-writer pichadores! My work has beauty!
”

“Heh.”

“Right?”

“They’ll never catch me.”

Renaldo laughed and began stirring the pasta. “The moment you really believe they won’t, filhinho, they
will
.”

After the spaghetti they

finished what was left of the chocolate cake. And after that, when everyone else retired full-bellied to the living room, Mateo joined the younger of his two cousins at the sink.

«I’ll wash if you dry,» he told Olivia, and she took the striped towel he was holding.

«Deal.»

«We should’ve used paper plates,» he said. The tap offered only cold water and he swirled his hands in the sink to help grow the suds.

«What, afraid you’ll get dish-pan hands?»

«No.»

«Heh. Well it won’t hurt you to get a little soapy, maybe some of that paint will finally come off.»

«Then how would you recognize me?»

He gave her a wet plate and she rubbed the towel across the front and back and placed it in the drying rack.

«I told my friend Gabi you’re home and she wants me to ask you if you know any American movie stars.»

«Movie stars?»

«Or if there’s anybody in a band or something.»

«Like a rock star?»

«Mmhm.» She pressed her lips together and nodded nonchalantly, her dark hair—more the color of Mateo’s than Vini’s—coming untucked from behind her ears.

«Is this Gabi your t-shirt business partner?»

«She thinks we need an American contact. She says if we can get Americans wearing them first they’ll take off here.»

«Ah.»

«So do you?»

«Sorry. I’m the most famous person I know up there, but no one knows it! Is that one of yours?» He pointed at her shirt.

«Yup.» She threw the towel across her shoulder and used both hands to stretch out the t-shirt, showing the detail. The design was a stenciled sea turtle swimming in water highlighted with sewn-on silver and blue beads.

«Cool. Do you have other ones besides the turtle?»

«We can.»

«I’ll buy a couple off you. My friend Phoebe would like one.»

«Cool.» Olivia took a plate and resumed drying. «Wait. Phoebe the retarded one?»

«She’s a Downsie.»

«Ah,» she said, placing the dry plate in the rack. «I see how it is.» She smirked. «You see my shirt and your first thought is,
Oh, that would be a smash-hit with the retards
.»

«Heh. I thought no such thing!»

She laughed. «Did too! Take that!» And because no one in the Amaral-Bittencourt clan had ever passed up a soap fight, the kitchen was soon dripping with suds.

When Sabina and Renaldo went

to bed and Olivia hit the phone to discuss t-shirt plans, Mateo and Vinicius loaded into a backpack a few cans, a pair of small rollers, and two Coke bottles full of watered-down latex paint. Then they slipped out into the muggy night.

Mateo was glad to be outside again. The streets, the walls—these felt more indisputably his domain, a domain that seemed no longer to include his house, especially since Vinicius had commandeered his bedroom. At the house he had no
place
—his belongings were scattered across the living room couch, and even that had already been cleared off once when people needed space to sit. The streets welcomed him more fully, as they always had, as they did everywhere. He breathed in the air.

«Where do you want to go?» Vinicius said.

«I don’t know. I’ll follow you. Anything interesting up at the Buraco da Paulista?» He meant the big overpass downtown, prime graffiti real estate where the big boys played.

«I think there’s a giant Nuncamais piece up now. Least there was last time I was there. I wish some of these guys would leave some prime space for us smaller outfits.»

«Wah wah. You got the whole city!” Mateo said. “The legal guys have it harder. Only so many places you can do it legal.»

«Well— Let’s head down that way, check it out. There’s some stuff I can point out on the way.»

«Yours?»

«Yup.»

«Cool.» Mateo rubbed his arms. The moist night air was making him damp.

«How are the tats holding up?» Vini said. «Need any touch-ups or anything?»

«They’re good.» He held out his arm. «No touch-ups exactly but there’s a couple new Boston buildings you could add at some point.»

«Lots new here too. I could see if Zé will let us into the shop?»

«Eh. Don’t bother. Too sweaty out to be wrapped up in plastic.»

At the bottom of a concrete staircase leading from a plaza to the street Vinicius said, «Down here,» indicating the direction with a tilt of his head. He went down around to the side of the stairs. «Good, it’s still here. This is mine.» He wiped his hand across the piece, clearing away pollen and street-dust.

«Wow.»

«Like it?»

«Definitely.»

«This is one of the first things I did with stencils. One of my favorites too. Beginner’s luck. This part is all regular latex—»

«Uh-huh.»

«—then the details, this, this, this is all sprayed stencil on top.»

«Very cool. —Can I riff on this?»

Vini grinned. «Of course.»

«Wouldn’t want to fuck up your piece.»

«You won’t.»

Mateo shook his can and began waving it around Vini’s work, teasing out the lines he wanted to make before he let out any paint. He sketched out a dragonfly that would be holding Vini’s original work between its wings like a crest.

Vinicius watched closely, feeling like he was learning something. He’d always been enamored with his cousin, even instantly upon their first meeting when Vini was six and Mateo ten. Back then Mateo was the faraway cousin whom Vini had only ever seen photos of and talked to from time to time on the phone. Short exchanges of whispered sentences, which cannot even be called conversations, shared when the boys’ mothers pressed the phones to their ears and said, «Say hi to your cousin!»