Winning the Game and Other Stories (6 page)

“All the letters should be from women,” Peçanha reminded.

“But this one is real,” I said.

“I don't believe it.”

I handed the letter to Peçanha. He looked at it with the expression of a cop examining a badly counterfeited bill.

“You think it's a joke?” Peçanha asked.

“It might be,” I said. “And it might not be.”

Peçanha put on his reflective look. Then: “Add some phrase of encouragement to your letter, like for example, ‘write again'.”

I sat down at the typewriter:
Write again, Pedro, I know that's not your real name, but it doesn't matter; write again, count on me. Nathanael Lessa.

“Shit,” said Monica Tutsi, “I went to do your great piece of drama and they told me it was stolen from some Italian film.”

“Wretches, band of idiots—just because I was a police reporter they're calling me a plagiarist.”

“Take it easy, Virginia.”

“Virginia? My name is Clarice Simone,” I said. “What idiocy is this of thinking only Italian fiancées are whores? Look here, I once knew an engaged woman, a really serious one, who was even a sister of charity, and they found out she was a whore too.”

“It's okay, man, I'm going to shoot the story. Can Betatron be mulatto? What's a Betatron?”

“She has to be a redhead, with freckles. Betatron is an apparatus for the production of electrons, possessing great energy potential and high velocity, impelled by the action of a rapidly changing magnetic field,” I said.

“Shit! That's really a name for a whore,” said Monica Tutsi admiringly, on his way out.

UNDERSTANDING NATHANAEL LESSA.
I have worn my long gowns gloriously. And my mouth has been as red as tiger's blood and the break of dawn. I am thinking of putting on a satin gown and going to the Municipal Theater. What do you think? And now I'm going to tell you a great and marvelous confidence, but you must keep my confession the greatest secret. Do you swear? Ah, I don't know if I should say it or not. All my life I've suffered the greatest disillusionment from believing in others. I am basically a person who never lost his innocence. Betrayal, coarseness, shamelessness, and baseness leave me quite shocked. Oh, how I would like to live isolated in a utopian world of love and kindness. My sensitive Nathanael, let me think. Give me time. In the next letter I shall tell more, perhaps everything.
PEDRO REDGRAVE.

ANSWER:
Pedro. I await your letter, with your secrets, which I promise to store in the inviolable reaches of my recondite consciousness. Continue this way, confronting aloofly the envy and insidious perfidy of the poor in spirit. Adorn your body, which thirsts for sensuality, by exercising the challenges of your courageous mind.

Peçanha asked: “Are these letters real too?”

“Pedro Redgrave's are.”

“Strange, very strange,” Peçanha said, tapping his nails on his teeth. “What do you make of it?”

“I don't make anything of it,” I said.

He seemed preoccupied about something. He asked about the illustrated love story but took no interest in the answers.

“What about the blind girl's letter?” I asked.

Peçanha got the blind girl's letter and my reply and read aloud: “Dear Nathanael. I cannot read what you write. My beloved granny reads it to me. But do not think I am illiterate. I am blind. My dear granny is writing this letter for me, but the words are my own. I want to send a word of comfort to your readers so that they, who suffer so much from small misfortunes, may look at themselves in the mirror. I am blind but I am happy. I am at peace, with God and my fellow man. Happiness to all. Long live Brazil and its people. Blind but Happy. Unicorn Road. Nova Iguaçu. P.S. I forgot to say that I am also paralyzed.” Peçanha lit a cigar. “Moving, but Unicorn Road doesn't ring true. You'd better make it Windmill Road or something like that. Now let's see your answer. ‘Blind but Happy, congratulations on your moral strength, your unwavering faith in happiness, in goodness, in the people, and in Brazil. The souls of those who despair in their adversity should take nourishment from your edifying example, a flambeau of light in the darkness of torment.'”

Peçanha gave me the papers. “You have a future in literature. This is a great school we have here. Learn, learn, dedicate yourself, don't lose heart, work hard.”

I sat at the typewriter:

Tesio, a bank employee, resident of Boca do Mato, in Lins de Vasconcelos, married to Frederica in his second marriage, has a son, Hipolito, from his first marriage. Frederica falls in love with Hipolito. Tesio discovers their sinful love. Frederica hangs herself from the mango tree in the back yard. Hipolito asks his father for forgiveness, leaves home and wanders desperately through the streets of the cruel city until he is run over and killed on the Avenida Brasil.

“What's the seasoning here?” Monica Tutsi asked.

“Euripides, sin, and death. Let me tell you something: I know the human soul and don't need any ancient Greek to inspire me. For a man of my intelligence and sensitivity it's enough to look around me. Look closely at my eyes. Have you ever seen anyone more alert, more wide awake?”

Monica Tutsi looked closely at my eyes and said, “I think you're crazy.”

I continued: “I cite the classics only to demonstrate my knowledge. Since I was a police reporter, if I don't do that the cretins don't respect me. I've read thousands of books. How many books do you think Peçanha has read?”

“None. Can Frederica be black?”

“Good idea. But Tesio and Hipolito have to be white.”

NATHANAEL.
I love, a forbidden love, an interdicted love, a secret love, a hidden love. I love another man. And he also loves me. But we cannot walk in the street holding hands, like others, exchange kisses in the gardens and movie theaters, like others, lie in each other's arms on the sandy beaches, like others, dance in night clubs, like others. We cannot get married, like others, and together face old age, disease, and death, like others. I do not have the strength to resist and struggle. It's better to die. Good-bye. This is my last letter. Have a mass said for me.
PEDRO REDGRAVE.

ANSWER:
What are you saying, Pedro? Are you going to give up now that you've found your love? Oscar Wilde suffered like the devil, he was ridiculed, tried, sentenced, but he stood up to it. If you can't get married, shack up. Make a will in each other's favor. Defend yourselves. Use the law and the system to your benefit. Be selfish, like the others, be sly, implacable, intolerant, and hypocritical. Exploit. Plunder. It's self-defense. But, please, don't carry out any deranged gesture.

I sent the letter and reply to Peçanha. Letters were published only with his approval.

Monica Tutsi came by with a girl.

“This is Monica,” Monica Tutsi said.

“Quite a coincidence,” I said.

“What's a coincidence?” asked the girl Monica.

“The two of you having the same name,” I said.

“His name is Monica?” Monica asked, pointing to the photographer.

“Monica Tutsi. Are you Tutsi too?”

“No. Monica Amelia.”

Monica Amelia stood chewing a fingernail and looking at Monica Tutsi.

“You told me your name was Agnaldo,” she said.

“On the outside I'm Agnaldo. Here inside I'm Monica Tutsi.”

“My name is Clarice Simone,” I said.

Monica Amelia observed us attentively, without understanding a thing. She saw two circumspect people, too tired for jokes, uninterested in their own names.

“When I get married my son, or daughter, is going to be named Hei Yoo,” I said.

“Is that a Chinese name? “ Monica asked.

“Or else Wheet Wheeo,” I whistled.

“You're becoming a nihilist,” Monica Tutsi said, withdrawing with the other Monica.

NATHANAEL.
Do you know what it is for two people to like one another? That was the two of us, Maria and I. Do you know what it is for two people to be perfectly attuned? That was us, Maria and I. My favorite dish is rice, beans, kale, manioc meal, and fried sausage. Guess what Maria's was? Rice, beans, kale, manioc meal, and fried sausage. My favorite precious stone is the ruby. Maria's, you guessed it, was also the ruby. Lucky number 7, color Blue, day Monday, film Westerns, book The Little Prince, drink Beer on Tap, mattress Anatom, soccer team Vasco da Gama, music Samba, pastime Love, everything the same between her and me, wonderful. What we would do in bed, man—I don't mean to brag, but if it were in the circus and we charged admission, we'd be rich. In bed no couple was ever so taken by such resplendent madness, was capable of such a dexterous, imaginative, original, pertinacious, splendiferous, and fulfilling performance as ours. And we would repeat it several times a day. But it was not just that which linked us. If you were missing a leg I would continue to love you, she would say. If you were a hunchback I would not stop loving you, I would reply. If you were a deaf-mute I would continue to love you, she would say. If you were cross-eyed I would not stop loving you, I would respond. If you had a paunch and were ugly I would go on loving you, she would say. If you were all scarred with smallpox I would not stop loving you, I would respond. If you were old and impotent I would continue to love you, she would say. And we were exchanging these vows when a desire to be truthful struck me, as deep as a knife-thrust, and I asked her, what if I had no teeth, would you love me? And she replied, if you had no teeth I would still love you. Then I took out my dentures and threw them on the bed with a grave, religious, and metaphysical gesture. We both lay there looking at the dentures on top of the sheet, until Maria got up, put on a dress, and said, I'm going out for cigarettes. To this day she hasn't come back. Nathanael, explain to me what happened. Does love end suddenly? Do a few teeth, miserable pieces of ivory, mean that much?
ODONTOS SILVA.

As I was about to reply, Jacqueline came by and said that Peçanha was calling me.

In Peçanha's office was a man wearing glasses and a goatee.

“This is Dr. Pontecorvo, who's a—just what are you?” asked Peçanha.

“A motivational researcher,” Pontecorvo said. “As I was saying, first we do a survey of the characteristics of the universe we're researching, for example: who is the reader of
Woman?
Let's suppose it's the Class C female. In our previous research we've surveyed everything about the Class C female—where she buys her food, how many pairs of panties she owns, what time she makes love, what time she watches television, which television programs she watches, in short, a complete profile.”

“How many pairs of panties does she own?” Peçanha asked.

“Three,” Pontecorvo replied without hesitation.

“What time does she make love?”

“At 9:30 p.m.,” Pontecorvo replied promptly.

“And how did you find all this out? Do you knock at Dona Aurora's door in the housing project, she opens the door and you say, good morning, Dona Aurora, what time do you get it on? Look here, my friend, I've been in this business for twenty-five years, and I don't need anybody to tell me what the Class C woman's profile is. I know from personal experience. They buy my newspaper, understand? Three pairs of panties … Ha!”

“We use scientific research methods. We have sociologists, psychologists, anthropologists, statisticians, and mathematicians on our staff,” said Pontecorvo, imperturbable.

“All to get money from the patsies,” said Peçanha with undisguised scorn.

“As a matter of fact, before coming here I put together some information about your newspaper which I believe may be of interest to you,” Pontecorvo said.

“And what does it cost?” said Peçanha sarcastically.

“This I'll give you for free,” Pontecorvo said. The man seemed to be made of ice. “We did a miniresearch on your readers, and despite the small sample size I can assure you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the great majority, almost the entirety, of your readers is made up of Class B men.”

“What?” screamed Peçanha.

“That's right, Class B men.”

First Peçanha turned pale. Then he began to turn red, then purple, as if he were being strangled. His mouth open, his eyes bulging, he rose from his chair and, arms spread, staggered like a crazed gorilla in Pontecorvo's direction. A shocking sight, even for a man of steel like Pontecorvo, even for an ex-police reporter. Pontecorvo retreated before Peçanha's advance until, his back against the wall, he said, trying to maintain his calm and composure, “Maybe our technicians made a mistake.”

Peçanha, who was within a centimeter of Pontecorvo, underwent a violent tremor and, contrary to what I expected, did not pounce upon the other like a rabid dog. He seized his own hair forcefully and began tearing it out, as he screamed, “Con men, swindlers, thieves, exploiters, liars, scum of the earth.” Pontecorvo nimbly made his way toward the door, as Peçanha ran after him throwing the tufts of hair yanked from his own head, “Men! Men! Class B!” Peçanha snarled madly.

Later, after calming down—I think Pontecorvo escaped by the stairs—Peçanha, seated behind his desk again, told me, “That's the kind of people Brazil's fallen into the hands of—manipulators of statistics, falsifiers of information, con men with computers, all of them creating the Big Lie. But they won't pull it off with me. I really put that wretch in his place, didn't I?”

I said something or other in agreement. Peçanha took the box of El Ropos from the drawer and offered me one. We smoked and talked about the Big Lie. Afterwards he gave me Pedro Redgrave's letter and my reply, with his okay, for me to take to the composing room.