There are three old women who live in a large house, which is also old. 

In the house there is also a boy of around fifteen. 

Lázaro is neither son nor grandson of any of them. He is homeschooled. Dália teaches religion and piano. Lobélia teaches languages. Alpínia teaches cookery and basic anatomy. The radio is always turned up loud for the old women to listen to music and, so say the local children, to muffle the voices in the attic. 

The town is called Santa Graça—nationally renowned for its virtue and cleanliness. In the future, no black or sick people were seen there. 

ÍCARO CROSSES THE OCEAN

Brazil, 1930s

Lázaro shouts:

Wash your hands, Íris, scrub them. Wash them properly to see if the blackness comes out.

Íris thinks:

Little liar. Lázaro says he came from Germany, but old Alpínia says the kid isn’t very trustworthy and his origins are more local and precise: Três Vendas, the rural part of Santa Graça. His mother, who no one knew, left the child in the street. One day, Dália and Lobélia were passing through the town to buy quinces from Bela Vista farm when they spotted a bundle of cloths inside a hamper. The boy was very white. They looked both ways. The air was tight. Dry. Nobody. An unwavering afternoon. No one to be seen under the intense, orange heat. They sat on the threshold of the chapel and waited almost the whole afternoon for someone to collect the child. That’s how Lázaro was born. He was born from no one wanting him. 

He was as white as a cloud and it was unusual to find a pure child like that without a mother or father. There were plenty of black children without families. Loads of them. They went around in packs, begging for scraps of food and water at the houses of Santa Graça’s rich families. That’s how I grew up, that’s how a lot of kids from Mata Cavalo grew up and how my Joaquim would have too, if he’d grown up. 

One Monday, when young Ícaro came home from school, he hung over the balcony of his mother’s room and saw some four or five kids stop outside the big house. My people: ragged clothes the orange colour of the dirt roads. They asked for a cup of water. Here at Ícaro’s house, I can’t open the door to them, Ícaro’s grandmother doesn’t let me. When they see me from the fence, they shout my name asking for stale bread. If I went out, Dona Rosa would fire me. Ícaro and the black children mustn’t even talk. Dona Rosa and the boy’s mother, Dona Ondina, taught him that black children went into other people’s houses to steal. They were different from the gypsies who came in to read our palms and tell our futures; they stole and we didn’t even realise it. Boys of colour, if need be, would fight each other and take things bought with hard sacrifice. Dona Rosa also said they were lazy because if they, who were white, studied and worked to earn life’s comforts, why didn’t the blacks do the same?

I have my health and I thank God the Father for that every night. I also have the desire to kill Dona Rosa. It was Father Arcanjo who taught me to pray to God and Jesus. He’s a holy man; he also taught me not to be sorrowful for serving others. Everything is part of God’s plan and He knows what He’s doing. The kingdom of heaven belongs to me. Father Arcanjo reminded me of the good life I have. My grandmothers were almost certainly slaves and, thanks be to God, things have improved a lot. 

I moved away from the window so the children didn’t see me, then spied on them as they knocked on the three witches’ door and rang the bell. Ícaro watched them too. Poor thing, he just wanted to play. 

Lobélia opened the door. She motioned for them to wait on the veranda and I watched as she called to someone inside the house. Dália came out onto the veranda and gently patted the heads of the children, who opened their mouths and showed their teeth, but they weren’t smiles. Alpínia arrived with water and cookies and a towel which Dália used to clean her hands after having touched the children. She told them to come back the following day for bread, at the same time. The kids went down the steps that led from the veranda to the street. They seemed happy. Their dirty hands clutched the black sweets they’d earned, those ones with a burnt taste that crunch on your teeth. One of the black boys spotted Ícaro. He smiled with all his teeth, the same ones he’d just shown to the women at the big house. Ícaro was scared, not of the other boy, but of his grandmother if she saw him smiling back. He hid behind the curtain. A whoosh by my right ear. I looked at the little black boy. He smiled again, waved, and went on his way. From the varnished wooden floor, I picked up the sweet he’d thrown for Ícaro. 

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, the same thing happened. The kids from Mata Cavalo knocked on the big house’s door, Alpínia or Lobélia gave them bread and water, Dália patted their heads, filled their dirty hands with sweets and they left. The same boy who had thrown a sweet for Ícaro, threw several others until Friday came and that was the last time I saw Ester’s boy. 

Ícaro thinks:

Íris washes plates, clothes, the floor, but her hand stays black. She scrubs sheets in the basin, bleach on the veranda floor. It’s no use: her hand is always black. 

I saw the boy who throws sweets and four others knock on the door of the big house and this time they went inside. It was almost seven at night and the smell of soup coming from the house was a sign that the kids had been invited to sit at the table, to eat like important people. Perhaps a hunk of fresh bread to go with the creamed corn I could smell from the balcony of my mum’s room. 

I hung out the window until eight o’clock when my mum shouted that dinner was ready. From seven to eight, not a sign of them. They must have been really getting stuck into the food. 

I struggled to sleep. The street had been quiet for hours but I was still awake. I thought about the boy who threw sweets: a black boy couldn’t be my friend, Grandma would never allow it. Nor would mum or dad. The whole week we had played at tossing sweets back and forth, him out there and me in here. I looked under the curtain and all over the orange wood floor, but I didn’t find anything. 

The ducks outside the big house were making noise and it was late. They screeched as if someone was robbing the place. But nothing happened in Santa Graça. It was just the puppy, hungry or annoyed. A loud bark that took half an hour to stop. When the animal was done barking, I fell asleep. 

Lázaro says:

Íris washes plates, clothes, the floor, but her hand stays black. She scrubs sheets in the basin, bleach on the veranda floor. It’s no use: her hand is always black and dirty.

My birth mother was German. She gave me away because she didn’t have a husband. Father Arcanjo asked the three old women to look after me and raise me. My blood is pure, just look at me. I don’t want to play with Ícaro because he’s slow.

Dona Rosa orders:

Go play with Lázaro, Ícaro. Be a good boy now. Íris can’t watch you. She needs to clean the house, wash the bathrooms, everything’s filthy. Don’t get close to her, son. God made us all a certain colour so we know what our role is. And we don’t want to argue with God. Whoever heard of such a thing?

Olavo explains:

I’m crazy about my son. Ícaro is a good boy, but he has many limitations. Something or other genetic that we don’t know how to explain. Ondina and myself do everything we can for that boy and we want him to have a normal life. He goes to school. He’s very popular with his classmates. They don’t pity my poor son for those wobbly legs of his. In fact, the other, normal children adore Ícaro. We can feel it just from looking at his little face. God the almighty father has given us this boy to look after. We have a lot of expenses due to Ícaro, the medicines are costly, but they are worth every penny to see him improve. Ondina is a wonderful partner. I hit the jackpot. We were blessed with Ícaro.

Olavo thinks:

The way that child drools, hobbles… it’s embarrassing. Fly, Ícaro, fly.

Ícaro thinks:

At home, every Saturday, at midday, the whole street hears Lázaro’s piano lessons. He combines piano with singing and the lessons last an hour and a half. It’s also the time when the puppy goes crazy. Piano, barking and singing fill the street. From my room you can feel the floor shaking. The clock chimes half-one and returns silence to the house. The loud noise coming from that house irritates me. When it becomes hard to hear from such a racket, I bang my head against the wall to see if all the noise is coming from me. 

With no school to go to that day, I spent the whole time at the window looking for the boys with the sweets. Nothing. They must have left the big house while I was having dinner. We missed each other. Íris didn’t see when they left either. Maybe they would come by after six. Surely they would be hungry and thirsty and would knock on doors until someone gave them some leftovers. The boy with the bright black eyes would look for me and throw another sweet onto the floor of my mum’s room for us to play with. But he didn’t come at six, or seven, or any time at all. 

From the big house there came a strong smell of food. They cooked meat on Sundays. The three sisters cooked together. From the back rooms of my house, you could see their woodfired stove. Huge pots. The constant fire, a nonstop show of food, cutlery, herbs collected from the backyard. The kitchen was dark, old. Every Sunday they cooked seasoned, aromatic meats, with top-quality cuts as Alpínia herself said when she saw me at the back window watching their lives. 

Ondina thinks:

Every Sunday, before lunch, our three neighbours from the big house go to mass. I go, too. Olavo and my mother accompany me. We take Ícaro because my boy needs a lot of prayers. Our Lady of Miracles must intercede and give him the strong legs he deserves, and clear speech and a sure head, poor thing. We share the bread that is the body of Christ and swallow the soggy wafer that becomes the eucharist after a short prayer. God forgive me, but that has made my stomach turn since catechism.

The old women and young Lázaro go, too. They return with Father Arcanjo, who has lunch at the big house every Sunday without fail. 

All of Sunday goes by and Father Arcanjo leaves the big house at four in the afternoon. He carries a bag and a dish of leftovers. The old women of the big house spoil him as much as they can. They are very devout and maintain a close friendship with the priest. Sometimes, Father Arcanjo takes Lázaro with him to the church. If I happen to be on the balcony when they leave, the priest explains that Lázaro takes Latin lessons with him on Sunday afternoons, a time of rest from prayers.

Ondina comments:

Latin classes… right.

Íris makes

Coffee for Olavo.

Olavo watches

Íris washing the soapy spoon up, down, up, down.

Ícaro thinks:

That Sunday, I waited once again for the street kids to go to the big house and ask for food, but they didn’t. My parents kept saying I should play with that weirdo Lázaro. He said he’s a doctor and he cut bugs in half. He sowed and glued spiders’ legs to ants’ bodies. He also had a collection of bones he found under the earth. Lobélia said that before they bought the land for the big house, it had been a dog cemetery. But that was just a story to scare children. What was really under the ground was people, buried years ago and turning to compost and myths. Lázaro found their bones and built the skeletons of imaginary beings. Monsters that he saw. 

At night, around six, the puppy barked with all its might. The radio on full blast for the deaf old women. An hour later, silence. The hushed beginning of the night was broken by the grating of the iron gate, covered in mud and rust. It was Father Arcanjo bringing Lázaro home. He praised the boy’s progress in Latin and announced that Lázaro had already had his bath. He had indulged in some dulce de leche and become smeared in it more than is acceptable for a boy of his stature. The priest had suggested, therefore, that he clean himself up in the parish house before returning home. Without further discussion, Alpínia said goodbye to the priest who went back up the hill, clutching his cassock so as not to trip, head down, always humble. 

I went to sleep unable to stop thinking about the boy with the sweets. The boy who, seemingly, had disappeared. 

Translated by Andrew McDougall

From the novel Puro (Relógio d’Água, 2023; Todavia, 2024)

Photo: Rafaela Biazi, Unsplash

Editor’s Note: This text is available in English and Portuguese. Click “Español” to read in Spanish.

We’re a family of four. I sleep very late because I’m an insomniac. Sometimes I only manage to fall sleep around four AM. At six I’m already up and tending my beard in front of the mirror. I see Letícia from the corner of my eye, slowly returning to consciousness from a deep sleep. By the time I’m done with my beard she will be awake, stretching, wishing me a good morning, complaining about her back pain, sneezing three, four times, complaining about the dust in this part of the city. I’ll listen to her with a smile and apologise for not chatting with her while tending my beard. I’ll kiss her when I’m done, and she’ll smile once more.

I met Letícia at university. We had a few seminars together, but we weren’t friends. At a party one night I got turned down by someone and ended up with her instead. I wasn’t just turned down, I was rejected. Every man gets rejected, that’s what my father used to tell us, his three sons. We grew up thinking that women were there to humiliate us, to select the best of us, and that we had to be successful for a chance at being chosen by the most beautiful ones, the most intelligent ones, the richest ones. Getting turned down is part of life for men. Rejection is something else. We’re rejected for what we are, we get turned down for what we have.

A story forms in silence. Before Letícia came into my life, I was in love, vulnerable, smitten, so she came at a good time. She stopped my thoughts from spiralling. She got me back on my feet, helped me let go of the hopeless yearning for a love that would never have worked out, it was a delusion, a mistake.

Letícia truly had all of the finest qualities. I was never going to get a better chance, so after a year together, I asked for her hand in marriage. She was thirty years old. I was twenty-nine. My mother was the happiest when she heard the news. Then it was my father. My brothers were also interested, hoping Letícia had a big group of friends just like her. But she didn’t. Letícia always has been, and always will be, different, unique. Our marriage will last forever.

When our first son was born, we decided that Letícia would stay at home and look after the baby, because another would soon be on the way. Letícia gave up her career in law to become a mother. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t believe you can be a jack of all trades. It was the perfect solution for me. I’ve always had plenty of money; money from work, money from the family, it never runs out. Letícia’s never complained about it. We have a life that few people even dream of: we’ve never argued, we go out to dinner at the best restaurants in town, to the cinema, the theatre, we have a huge library where we spend a lot of time, we give each other shoulder rubs, sometimes elbow rubs, there’s always music playing in the background. A testament to the love we have.

In fact, our marriage is practically perfect. Our boys are healthy, handsome and wildly intelligent. They’re nineteen and twenty years old. They’re always out on the weekends, they have lots of close friends. Letícia and I are in good health, we always get tested with some of the best doctors in Latin America. Life couldn’t be better. On those repetitious nights of insomnia, I imagine disturbing scenarios, like a bomb falling on our roof and destroying the house, our corpses exploding and turning into dust in an instant. Or maybe an apocalyptic silence, a long-buried, fossilised revelation made manifest.

I don’t think very much about my rejection before I dated Letícia. Every day in the car, on the metro, in the office, to try to forget it.

Gustavo, my eldest, sometimes tries to get me to talk about past girlfriends; he wants to know who I was before I was Dad, before Letícia. I give him the same answer as Lucas, the youngest, who is also very curious. There is nothing to know. It’s not important what happened before Letícia. I’ve never been as happy as I am now, with your mum. Imagine that. I would have been unhappy no matter how life turned out; but here and now, I feel good, I’m a lucky man, don’t you agree?

The other day, Lucas brought his girlfriend over. A beautiful young woman, good family, raised well, she studies Languages and wants to be a translator and writer. Shame, but nobody’s perfect, I thought to myself. Still, she was lovely; her political stance was neutral, she wasn’t critical of the left nor the right. Gustavo couldn’t stand her. My eldest son is immensely passionate about politics and, as a result, is a radical leftist. We never argue or have heated discussions, but sometimes he gets carried away. Gustavo has always said that if they aren’t left wing or right wing it’s because they’re right wing. He doesn’t like false smiles, good behaviour. Gustavo is a force of nature. A very clever lad, but I feel there’s something aged existing in him, a kind of sadness that I can’t quite put my finger on. Sometimes he reminds me of myself when I was young. It’s as if he hasn’t quite got it together. It might sound silly, but he gives me the impression of being a drifter. Gustavo is very discreet about his relationships, just like me. He never introduces us to his girlfriends—and we know he’s had several.

His best friend is a lad from the favela. He’s black, something that makes Letícia uncomfortable, she has to explain it to her friends. Gustavo is very different. He’s the black sheep of the family. He’ll find his place sooner or later.

When Gustavo was a child, he lived for playing with the son of Angélica, our maid. They’re the same age. The boy, like Gustavo’s new friend, was also black. When they used to play together, Letícia and I thought that it would be a good idea to expose them to other realities, integrate them into the community and leave the glass dome we were always under. Give the kids a little life experience. Gustavo became a little too attached to Little Bruno. They did everything together. Birthday parties here at the condo were a nuisance: the first slice of cake always went to the maid’s son. Nothing for Lucas. Then came the inconvenience and stress of having to take Gustavo to Little Bruno’s birthday parties in the favela—it’s not called that now, but it’s the same shit. Letícia and I went up the hill with Gustavo, the only positive on that day. Angélica didn’t really know how to behave when we got there and kept telling us that we could go if we wanted, that she would take care of the kids. But Letícia was terrified of being kidnapped. We all stayed there, among people who looked at us untrustingly, as if we were the problem. We managed to convince Angélica to hold parties for her son here at the apartment building, in the gourmet lounge and the playroom. Surprisingly, the residents even agreed to make the pool available. It happened once, never again. Only Gustavo, Lucas and one of Lucas’s friends went. Nobody from the favela went. Angélica ended up throwing another party the following week as the boy was sad that so few people went. Letícia and I were surprised. We thought the place would be full of people from their neck of the woods. If not for the boy, then at least out of curiosity to check out one of the best condos in the city. But no, nobody came.

The boys became teenagers and Letícia was starting to feel uncomfortable. We thought of firing Angélica but couldn’t find anyone able to work the long hours our faithful maid did. Angélica stayed on, Little Bruno became big, and was practically part of the family. Gustavo never left his side. He would lend him reading books, he started teaching him English. I had a talk with Gustavo, to try and get Bruno to stop dreaming so big. Gustavo even gave him clothes as gifts. Letícia sorted bags and bags of old clothes for him, which offended Gustavo. He said he wasn’t homeless, he was clothed, he was loved, he was educated. He said he was the same as us. Gustavo always had these outbursts, this passion, these excesses. I let him know that he wasn’t going to wait around, the lad was going to want to go to university to become a doctor, a lawyer. Lucas has always had his head screwed on. He never got involved with Bruno. He was very polite, but always kept him at a distance. It’s that Gustavo is a little different.

It happened on the registration day for the university’s admissions tests.

Gustavo went with Bruno to register. A young black man to fulfil their quotas, how ridiculous. Anyway, it’s his right, apparently. That day, Gustavo managed to come home, thank God. The police hit a group of kids who were causing a ruckus, disturbing the order. Many were people like Gustavo. But there was also a group of people like Bruno. There was so much confusion that the police ended up shooting at the whole crowd to keep the order. Such a shame, that accident, the bullet lodged in Bruno. Gustavo is still horribly traumatised. We are lucky to be able to afford therapy with the best psychoanalysts in the city. Angélica had to go. Poor woman, she couldn’t tell sugar from salt anymore. She burst into tears whenever she saw Gustavo, a dark cloud hanging over him as well, in the hallways at home. We understand the poor woman’s suffering, but we also need help. Letícia can’t handle everything on her own in a house this big, and Angélica’s presence was getting in the way of Gustavo’s recovery.

Bruno’s accident happened about two years ago. Gustavo still doesn’t talk about it. In his room there’s a picture of the two of them climbing a mountain in Minas Gerais. There must be more hidden away somewhere, but I won’t go look for them, leave the boy in peace.

Aside from that rough patch, our family is, and I mean it when I say this, exemplary. There is mutual support and respect at home. I’ve talked with Letícia about Gustavo perhaps going to Europe to do a masters. He could stay for a year or two in England. We have friends there who could help us, in case he needs contacts. I think leaving Brazil would be good for our boy. It’s not that it’s bad here. On the contrary: up to a certain point in the past there was theft and corruption here like you wouldn’t believe. Finally, the curse was broken and a man who brought some vitality, some new blood got in, with more solid Christian values. Yes it’s a controversial subject. For a long time his persona shocked us all. But he’s a transparent leader. He’s never hidden what he thinks. I value that honesty very much.

I also think it would do Gustavo good to breathe different air and stop with this communist nonsense. Who knows, maybe he’ll get an English girlfriend? Letícia would be so happy. Imagine bilingual, blonde grandchildren, wonderful. Perhaps Gustavo is depressed because Lucas has been with Valentina for years and, as a result, they will get married. We met her parents, very good people. Letícia made a new friend. Valentina’s mother, Vanessa, is a charity coordinator that serves soup to the city’s poor and homeless. Once a month, Vanessa comes here to pick up Letícia and the two go there to feed and chat with the poor, before making their way to the wine club they’re members of. It’s a rush, but there’s time. I am so proud of that woman’s big heart. She does her part. She’s not like those people who just talk. Letícia walks the walk. She chats with, and even hugs the poor souls once a month, fills their bellies with soup. And then she has to cope with Gustavo laughing in her face, calling his own mother a snob, saying how she would be doing more good by teaching the people to read, and find jobs. Sometimes they argue. Two very different points of view.

Whenever we touch on the success of Lucas and Valentina, Gustavo gets up and goes to his bedroom, slamming the door, or heads out. The poet, the black boy, his new friend, has stopped visiting. Gustavo said they’re still friends, but it’s him who is ashamed of his household. The world’s gone mad. Gustavo says he’s ashamed of living in one of the most luxurious condos in the city. I always thought it would be a good idea to expose people from those communities to our reality, so they have some ambition in life. There are such warm, receptive people here, and still we’re made to feel guilty for our jobs and quality of life. It’s become so difficult to live in this world I don’t recognise anymore.

I slept at four. It’s six o’clock and before I finish doing my beard my lovely Letícia will be awake, stretching, wishing me a good morning, complaining about her back pain, sneezing three, four times, complaining about the dust in this part of the city. I’ll listen to her with a smile and apologise for not chatting with her while tending my beard. I’ll kiss her when I’m done, and she’ll smile once more.

We’ll have breakfast without the boys, who weren’t at home last night. She’ll check if I’ve packed everything for my conference in Uruguay. It’s only for three days, but Letícia hugs me and says she’ll miss me, asks me to ring her regularly, bring her news and a surprise. I like these work trips a lot. Some people go to psychologists, others go to conferences.

In the taxi on the way to the airport, I take a sweet the driver offers. My hands unwrap the brightly coloured paper to find another, thinner piece, which really protects the sweet. The sweet glistens in my fingers, which are beginning to tremble. I think that I might die soon, but I don’t like thinking about death before flying. Instead, I think of my rejection before meeting Letícia. This traffic can go to hell. We are stuck and we haven’t even made it a kilometre from home. I distract myself by looking out of the window and spot Gustavo. He doesn’t see me. He’s with his friend, the poet, the black lad. I lower my eyes and see that their hands are open, together, holding each other, most certainly sweating on a day like today. I think of his girlfriends that we never got to meet. I think of my girlfriends before Letícia that never existed. I think of what my boys asked me, about who I was before I got married. I look again at Gustavo’s hand, enveloped in that man’s. I think how being turned down is not the same as rejection. I look at my hands, still trembling and empty.

Translated by Emyr Humphreys

From Mapas para desaparecer, copyright © 2020 by Nara Vidal
English translation copyright © 2021

Photo: Praça da Liberdade, Belo Horizonte, Brazil, by Thaynara Pellerin, Unsplash.