The Valeditztorian (3 page)

“Not as far as I know.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“I’m not really sure, but I’
ve felt this way ever since I was a kid.”

“Well, if you’re
not going to kill them, what’re you going to do with them?”

I pause to consider the
question.

“I don’t know…
probably set them free, outside.”

For a moment
, Grace looks too surprised, or possibly disgusted, to say anything, so I ask, “Got anything to eat around here?”

“Just very l
arge bugs,” she answers faintly, eyeing my Tupperware.

“Would you happen to know if th
ey’re kosher?” I ask out of curiosity.

“How would I know wha
t’s kosher?” says Grace. “I’m Catholic.”

Unlike my grandparents, my laid-
back, ultra-reformed Jewish parents never kept a kosher household. In fact, as a teenager my dad used to drive my grandmother crazy by clandestinely frying bacon out the window in an electric pan that he purchased himself, specifically for this purpose. Unfortunately for my pork-starved father, the smell of bubbling bacon is strong, and Grandma Sally had a pretty keen nose.

Though
I’ve never felt guilty about eating bacon, or animal products in general, as a child I couldn’t bring myself to hurt the tiny creatures that frequently invaded our house.

“Momma
, there’s a spider crawling in the bathtub,” I said one day when I was five.

“Don’t worry, honey,” my mom
called from the next room. “I’ll be there in just a sec.”

Soon my mother
appeared at the bathroom door, holding a paper towel.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“What are you going to do to him?”

“Kill it, of course.”

“No Momma, you can’t kill him. Sammy’s my friend.”

“What do y
ou mean ‘Sammy’s your friend?’ I don’t see any spiders in the bathtub. Wait a minute. What’ve you got behind your back, Emma?”

“You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

“Show me, Emma, right now.”

Ever so slowly I moved my f
ist into view and uncurled my fingers, revealing the tiny, black spider I’d hidden in my palm.

“Oh, Emma
. What am I going to do with you? You’re lucky that this type of spider doesn’t bite. Some of them do bite, you know. A few are even poisonous.”

“But Sammy’s a nice one, Mommy.”

She chuckled, just a little bit.

“I can see that
. Why don’t you bring Sammy downstairs and put him outside, before you kill him by accident.”

“Okay
.”

As carefully as possible
, I ran downstairs, slid open the screen door leading to the outside world, and released the spider into the grass. As predicted by my mother, however, the creature never moved. In the time it took me to reach the backyard, I’d already smothered it. The experience nicely illustrates the dichotomy which threatens my career choice. On the one hand, since I believe in protecting all forms of life, becoming a doctor fits well with my personality. In practice, on the other hand, I’m a threat to anything living. Isn’t life ironic?

As Grace dresses
, she explains that she’s been living in Brotas for the past six months and is nearly fluent in Portuguese. Thank goodness one of us is. During this period she’s been working in a mouse oncology lab, studying melanoma.

“Do yo
u like working with the mice?” I ask, while battling stubborn knots in my thick brown hair.

Grace shrugs her shoulders
.

“It’s
okay,” she says.

“Do you have to kill them
?”

“Sometimes.”

For a moment I cease detangling and stare at Grace.

“Isn’t that difficult, considering they’re so furry?”

From my standpoint, killing rodents is even worse than squashing bugs, though I try not to hold this against Grace. At least she’s doing it for medical purposes.

“Not really,” says Grace
. “We just break their necks. It’s quick. They don’t even know what’s happening.”

Without warning a
n image of my favorite childhood pet flashes before my eyes. Sweet-tempered Fred had long, silky, orange-brown fur. I would hold that hamster for hours, stroking his warm little body until he’d fall asleep in my shirt pocket. Sometimes he’d pee right through my clothing, but I didn’t care. When he died, I bawled for hours and held a funeral in the backyard, burying him under a bunch of rocks that I decorated with oil paints. With such fond memories of Fred and subsequent loveable rodents, I’d never work in a mouse lab.

Once Grace
is dressed, we head downstairs and exit the building into the fragrant morning air.

“Grace?” I ask
.

“Yeah?”

“You were kidding about the edible bugs, right? Because right now I’m so hungry that cockroach tartar is starting to sound appetizing. And saying that is a big deal, since I usually go out of my way to avoid stepping on ants.”

“Brazil is an
exotic place, Emma, but not that exotic. Eating insects won’t be necessary. Speaking of which, isn’t it time to release the vermin?”

“Oh, yeah
,” I say.

I
’d almost forgotten about the Tupperware in my hand.

“Enjoy your freedom,” I say to the roac
hes, opening the container under a cluster of bushes.

“At least we live on the tenth f
loor,” says Grace, as we watch the insects skitter into the foliage. “They probably won’t find their way back, right?”

“I doubt it
. They’re not like migratory birds. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if they still have relatives living upstairs. About the food you mentioned….”

“At the moment
, I’m feeling a bit queasy,” says Grace.

“Well, I’m not,” I say
. “And if I don’t locate actual food soon, I’m going to be forced to eat this Tupperware.”

“Don’t worry, Emma,” she says
. “Your problem is about to be solved.”

To m
y great relief, Grace directs my attention to a vendor situated just across the street from our building. Wearing a white turban and a matching cotton dress, an extremely wrinkled old woman is seated behind a rectangular, metallic food cart.

“Emma, this is Lucineige
. Lucineige, Emma,” says Grace, once we’re close enough for introductions.

When I wave to
Lucineige, she smiles in return, deepening the thick crow’s feet lining the corners of her eyes.

“Lucineige is a Baiana.”

“A Baiana? What’s that?” I ask.

“A seller of Bahian street food.”

In my ketotic state, Lucineige looks more like an angel of salvation, the Bahian version of weenie man. Though all of her teeth are missing, she is absolutely beautiful. When I attempt to snap her picture with a disposable Kodak camera, she hides her face in her hands, and I quickly slip the camera into my back pocket.

Grace
speaks to Lucineige in Portuguese, ordering something called abara. Ironically enough, it turns out that abara is shaped just like a hot dog. Grace explains that the “bun” is made from mashed black eyed peas steamed in banana leaves, while the center, rather than holding mystery meat, contains a sprinkling of tiny shrimp.

When I take a bite, the warm, salty concoction flows over my tongue like manna from heaven.

“Oh, my goodness, Grace,” I exclaim. “Abara is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten!”

Grace raises her eyebrows doubtfully.

“That’s probably because you’re so hungry,” she says.

Wh
ether she’s right, or abara is genuinely good, I’m not sure. After I wolf down the portion in seconds, Grace laughs and buys me another one.

“You know, abara isn’t th
e only thing to eat around here,” she says. “Let me take you to a little supermarket around the corner.”

As we stroll together
, I get a better sense of the neighborhood. Right behind our building, Grace points out a favela, or shanty town. Hundreds of tin-roofed shacks are packed closely together on a dirt hill rising up directly from the edge of our complex.

“If I were you,
” she says, “I’d stay away from the favela.”

“How come?”

“Drug use and crime are big problems in there.”

“B
ut Grace, it’s ten feet from our building. We can’t really avoid it.”

S
he sighs and gives me a shrug.

“Just don’t go looking for trouble.”

I don’t mention the fact that trouble usually finds me, whether or not I go looking for it.

Walking along
, I notice that most of the roads leading to the market are unpaved and dusty. When the occasional car drives by, dirt kicks up and the air becomes unbreathable. Grace explains that it’s the dry season here, and Brotas has received almost no rainfall for the past two months. Nonetheless, lovely blooms of bougainvillea overhang archways between houses and low-roofed, brick commercial buildings, draping the neighborhood in floral swaths of white, pink, red, and purple. Stray dogs roam the streets. One female, who must’ve recently given birth, ambles along the road, her swollen teats swinging close to the earth. On another corner I’m impressed by a stone retaining wall depicting a colorful, larger than life-sized image of Bob Marley’s face. Brotas is a palette of contrasts.  

“Is
reggae music big in Salvador?” I ask.

“Are you kidding?” Grace answers
. “Bob Marley is like a folk hero down here. The local drumming groups, like Olodum (pronounced ‘Oh-loh-doon’), are also really popular.”

“Olodum
? Who are they?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard their music
. You just don’t recognize the name. They collaborated with Paul Simon on
Rhythm of the Saints
.”

“Right,” I
answer, and a dim light goes off in my head.

Since I was raised by a couple of Dead Heads on music from the sixties and seventies, I’m
a huge Paul Simon fan. In using the term “Dead Head,” I should clarify that my parents weren’t drug addicts. At least I don’t think they were.

“Sure we experimented,” said
my dad when I questioned him, “but no more than anyone else in the sixties.”

“What
did you take?” I asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s because you lost too many brain cells,” said my mom.

“Not because it was
such a long time ago?” said my dad.

“That too,” said my m
other.

“You di
dn’t answer my question,” I pressed.

“Oh, I don’t know, Emma,” my d
ad continued. “We smoked a little pot, but not much. Maybe we tried a few hallucinogens.”

“Like LSD?”
I said.

“Yes,” said my mother
, “and you should know I only tried that stuff once.”

“How come?”

“It was a completely terrifying experience. After I took it, I didn’t know which end was up.”

“So you’re not recommending LSD
?”

“Definitely not,” she said
.

Though they apparently didn’t care for the drugs, my parents loved the music from that era, and they shared it all with me
. As a child, I was raised on the songs of the Beatles, Joni Mitchell, and Crosby, Stills and Nash, amongst other quintessential folk-rock artists from that time period. Unfortunately, this early education ruined my taste for “modern” music. Since about 1990, I’ve been unable to listen to any of the crappy pop that’s played on the radio. Flipping through the stations always makes me feel like I was born about 20 years too late.

“I’ve heard Olodum play a few times in the
Pelourinho (pronounced ‘Pel-oh-reen-yoo’),” says Grace. “Maybe we’ll see them before you go home.”

Speaking of
home, I really start to miss New York when we arrive at the so-called super market. From the outside, the place appears to be little more than a tumble-down shack. Though I eat my share of junk food in the city, I also consume fresh fruits and vegetables on a regular basis, and it’s doubtful whether I’m going to find anything like that here. Indeed, even before we cross the threshold, the rancid smell filtering through the doorway decimates what’s left of my appetite.

“Umm, Grace,” I say, “
I’m not sure I want to go inside.”

“Don’t you want to see the food?”

“Why see it when I can already smell it? What’s that noise, by the way?”

As I stand
in the entryway, my eardrums begin vibrating in response to an intense buzzing noise. When I reluctantly step forward, the source of the droning becomes obvious. Hundreds of flies hover thickly over a series of wooden stalls holding an assortment of rotting bananas, apples, pears, and some local varieties, like jack fruit. Even for a bug advocate like me, the scene is vile. What a waste. When I try to locate a refrigerator, or any fresh vegetables, I’m similarly disappointed. However, I do notice some canned greens, including peas and string beans, which look decent, at least externally.