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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rodrigo Lacerda was born in 1969, in Rio de Janeiro. He has published the following books:The Mystery of The Rampant Lion (novel, 1995), The Dynamics of The Worms (novel, 1996), Tales

to the 21st Century (childrens book, 1998), Tripod (short stories, 1999), An Image of Rio(novel,2004) and The Maker of Old People (childrens book, 2007). Living in So Paulo, he worked aseditor and publisher for some of the most important publishing houses in Brazil (The

University of So Paulo Press, Nova Fronteira, Nova Aguilar, Cosac & Naify).


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(1995)


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ABOUT THE MYSTERY OF THE RAMPANT LION

A delicious farce, unforgettable since the beginning. No Mnimo

Rodrigos critical analysis of the historical moment proves to be perfect:

delicious, full of humor and acute. A Gazeta

Smooth, elegant and funny. Jornal de Braslia

This author is a learned man. Learned and with a free mind.Tribuna da Imprensa

A seducer on narrative art. Jornal da Tarde

Funny & sophisticated as Oscar Wilde. Jornal da Universidade de So Paulo

Deserves only the best praise.Veja

The new star of Brazilian literature. Jornal do Brasil

His style is surprisingly under control.O Globo

Two Times Winner as Best Novel: Prmio Jabuti and Certas Palavras


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ABSTRACT

In 17 th Century Elizabethan England, an evil spell prevents a young countryside aristo-

crat from conceiving an heir. In vain she tries to free herself from the spell, using all

kinds of pious treatments and exorcisms. Finally, a sorcerer discovers the origin of the

spell: Henry Vs coat of arms, the English king buried in Westminster Abbey. Following

this lead, the young aristocrat and all her relatives, including her husband, are forced to

travel to London, the heart of British Renaissance. There, a performance of

Shakespeares Henry V propitiates the encounter between the playwright and the girl.

That night will shake all her notions about people, society and the ways of the world.


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JACKET TEXT

Elephantum ex musca : so went the old saying in its wisdom.Indeed, it is a grave mistake to make an elephant from a fly, a mountain from a mole-

hill. All writers should be aware of this. And yet, its a poor sort of persistence the one that

gives up so easily, and such maxim has been widely disobeyed, among others, by the author

of The Rampant Lion . A wholehearted admirer of Shakespeare, he has rescued from obliv-

ion an unimportant anecdote the only one in which the playwright is quoted by name.

He has added to the tale, fleshed it out, until at last it became a short novel.

There is no need to repeat the story in detail here; it will be found in scholarly works.

As for the novel, the essential points are these:

The author: this is a tricky business, as there are three of them. First we have John

Manningham, who preserved the nucleus, the Elizabethan anecdote, for posterity. Then

there is Walfred Margarelon, a fictitious personage who is the novels narrator. And there

is Rodrigo Lacerda, in fact the true begetter of the book; to him should go the literary

prizes or the readers vituperations when reading is done.

The Stage: the plot unfolds in 17th century England, as Elizabeth Is reign and, con-

sequently, the glorious Tudor line comes to an end. At one moment the characters are to

be found in the labyrinths of urban London. But the narrative starts off in the county of Shropshire, a name that commands an honorable place in pronunciation tests.

The characters: Those taking part in the adventure include William Shakespeare and

Richard Burbage, the most famous actor of his time. The numerous non-historical char-

acters include buffoons, gluttons, a scattering of mystics and mystery men (and women),

almost all of them cynical and depraved.

The Style: The author confesses to be proud of his long paragraphs. But there are less

demanding dialogues, interruptions and cadences, so the reader need not surrender to fatigue

or disheartenment. The text is good-humored throughout. Of all the books that have dealt with the crucial role played by Shakespeare in the renaissance mind be they biographies,

theses on literary history or historical studies, this one is by far the most enjoyable.

It may not be a good idea to contradict the wisdom of old sayings, but these pages

prove that, starting out from an insignificant detail among the vast documentation of the

English Renaissance, one may approach the most profound dilemmas of that period. From

an insignificant fly, by all despised and forgotten, a fine elephant might appear.

The authors persistence, once in a while, has its rewards.


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FOREWORD

by Joo Ubaldo Ribeiro

Contrary to what one might think, the discovery of a young talent is one of the great-

est pleasures available to a writer. No envy is involved here, just genuine pride and hap-piness at the chance to display sincere enthusiasm. Like so many other words, talent

has suffered much abuse, and has been so irresponsibly bandied around that it runs therisk of losing all impact. I use it parsimoniously, and so I can fairly say that RodrigoLacerda has a great deal of talent. The Mystery of the Rampant Lion is an extraordinary

exercise in literary sensitivity, and its authors control over his prose is of a rare order. We have, unfortunately, been used to regarding literature as the climbing of intellectu-

al mountains, suffering to be undergone in the name of supposed cultural increment.But this young man I nearly wrote boy has an instinct for the ground he treads; heis a born soul mate of those who have written and do write good prose, part of a lin-

eage that he will not increase and grow only if he wishes not to. This is not something one learns in school; it comes from a mysterious kinship with the great prose writers,from something that escapes rigorous description. I do not wish to exaggerate, though

it is a temptation; I am sure, however, that Rodrigo Lacerda will be whatever he wish-

es in the world of letters; his love for words, his sense of action, his delight in descrip-tion and characterization, his intimacy with his chosen material, his precocious (let ussay) professionalism, will take him wherever he wishes to go. This Elizabethan story,this superior literary game, merits our attention. It needs no recommendation from me,

nor did he ask for one; as this is his first published work, it was thought necessary. Sohere is my recommendation. But I repeat: I am adding nothing to his existing talent. It

is ready, finished, polished, the moving erudition of a writer who, for me, hardly outof his nappies, is a writer indeed. God bless him.

Joo Ubaldo Ribeiro is a member of The Brazilian Academy of Letters.Book published in the US: An Invincible Memory , HarpercollinsSergeant Getulio, Houghton & Mifflin Co.The Lizards Smile , Scribner


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EXCERPTS

1.

At the end of last year, my cousin Maria Margarelon gave her hand in marriage to a

continental nobleman, Francois du Barry. He was of an extremely rich family whose

lands spread through the South of France, across the Pyrenees, and into parts of

Spain. The du Barrys were of traditional stock; it goes without saying that they did not

work, had no profession, and lived entirely of renting out their land. At harvests end,

they automatically confiscated the produce, so as to sell it back to those from whom

it had been confiscated in the first place. They were good people, as you can see, hon-

est and refined in their manners. The only regular activity undertaken by the valiant du

Barry clan was the production of some exceptional wines, to which they gave the

highly original name of Chateau du Barry. Whites and reds, dry and sweet, all were of

equal excellence. Naturally enough, the consumption of these wines was also a regu-

lar du Barry activity, but this matter can wait a little longer.

When Maria and Francois married, the brides mother, my aunt Harriet

Margarelon, and her father, Frederick Quince Margarelon through marriage and

uncle Fred to his intimates were still living together in the castle in Shropshire liv-ing, indeed, right royally, thanks to a debt of gratitude owed to our family by the Tudor

dynasty. It is well known that Henry VIII was possessed of rare virility, a man on

whom no wife could have conferred the mental equilibrium necessary for concern

with affairs of State. My grandfather, Sir Richard Margarelon, at an early stage an ally

of the Tudors, was apprehensive as to the Kings performance in political matters,

of course; there was no reason for any such preoccupation in other areas of royal

activity. He perceived that brave King Henry found difficulty in keeping his concen-

tration during the meetings imposed on him by his Council of State. International pol-itics, alliances, the devilries of the Kings of Spain, the economy, overseas trade, these

and other such matters stretched the patience of the impetuous King to its extreme.

Then it was that, in a gesture of both personal friendship and deep political loyalty,

my grandfather established a direct connection between the royal castle and a certain

lady, Rore Harlot by name. Mistress Harlot lived on the outer fringe of London, and

was aunt to the most adorable nieces known to anyone in this island. From that time

on, the Tudor dynasty recognized an eternal debt of gratitude to my family as also


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did the English navy. This was, so legend has it, due to the tranquility which arose

from the fraternal friendship between the King and Mistress Harlots nieces (and that

alone) caused him to give ear to his admirals; and so to build more ships, even today

the basis of our wealth.But to go on: at the time when Maria entered upon marriage with Francois du

Barry we lived amid an abundance of comfort, thanks to the allowance from our

Queen, Elizabeth I. The first months of the marriage were peaceful enough, and

passed by with no apparent surprises. The family was already awaiting the heralds of

maternity and the announcement of the forty-seventh generation of Margarelons. Yet

the longed-for heir failed to make an appearance. This circumstance caused Francois

popularity among his new family to fall to deplorable depths. Furthermore, increased

familiarity had led us to perceive other signs of weakness in his personality; among

these were a degree of disinterest and inability deemed prejudicial to the administra-

tion of the family estates, and a somewhat exaggerated taste for alcohol, a habit which

he had not left behind at his crossing of the English Channel. In brief, the defects typ-

ically displayed by sons-in-law all over the world, but particularly uncomfortable in the

bosom of our own family. He had at first seemed a good match, bearing in mind his

wealth and the land which he would inherit on the continent, but no one had foreseen

the severe limitations of his moral reserve.

Since, as the often plagiarized saying goes, disgraces do not come as single spies,

but in battalions, it must now be admitted that Maria was also revealing herself to bea wife of questionable quality. Francois demonstrated all due dedication to the noble

cause, and did battle nightly on her account, but she seemed incapable of conceiving

a son and heir. As a girl, vivacity had never been a strong point in her character, but

she now exhibited unusual indifference to the matchless efforts of her husband. She

was uninterested, overcome by the deepest melancholy; she sighed her way around the

house, her unseeing gaze falling on the things about her. She was unimpassioned by

games of love, though not only did she have a right to them, seeing that she was mar-

ried according to the laws of man and God, but they were also her duty, since our ownfamily and the du Barrys were awaiting the fruit of this union with much anxiety.

Her mother, my aunt Harriet, was sister to my deceased mother, and had taken me

in after my parents had died in an attack by highway bandits. She was an extremely reli-gious lady, even if less orthodox than was advisable in those days of latent Puritanism.It is unbelievable how much fuss these Puritans can make about mere trifles or even

about nothing at all. I am prepared to wager that they will still give the monarchs of this land a good deal of trouble. But to get back to our subject: Aunt Harriets religious


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bent was such that it overflowed the bounds of any religion; none of the dogmas thenin vogue, be they Catholic or Protestant, was sufficient to satiate the thirst of that goodsoul for divine blessing. Priests and pastors were, to her way of seeing, men of equal

worth in the sight of God, men equally ennobled by their vocation for religion, no mat-ter what the creed professed. Yet, in spite of this religious passion, my aunt Harriet wasfar from being a mere church mouse. Her strong temperament had turned her, over the

years of her marriage with Uncle Frederick, into a matriarch whose authority in thefamily home brooked no discussion. Her rotund and imposing body, her loud and

sonorous voice, her face, lined but still firm, completed the character dictated by hertemperament. And this is what caused her, not only as a mother but as a chief of theclan, to be the first to hear from Maria an explanation of just what was going on. As

the objective of my proposal is to establish the truth of the facts, I will reproduce ver- batim any dialogue which may seem relevant to my purpose.

Mother mine, said sweet young Maria, since my marriage I have been assailed

by a strange dream, which haunts me at every moment, sleeping or waking, a vision

which I do not understand, but which leaves me neither day nor night. This obsession

which takes from me all interest in the caresses of my husband, which makes me lose

all appetites of the flesh, important as they are to the success of my marriage. In this

dream a golden lion, with solemn mane and majestic movement, runs through a flow-

ery meadow; the flowers are blue, all alike, in their hundreds and thousands. The lion

runs towards the horizon, until at last its hind paws lift, it takes a leap, and disappearsinto thin air.

My daughter, what the devil (my aunt was to repent of her own accord for hav-

ing thus sworn, and to take to her prayer-desk for weeks afterwards) is all this stuff

about a dream? A lion? Get away with you! Stop being silly; youre a married woman

now. How could a dream affect your mind thus, or cause you to lack interest in your

husband?

I know not. I only know that the lion is carrying something in its mouth, and

that I am running after it. It is running away with something of mine, and I am run-ning after it, running for all I am worth, but without catching up. From time to time

it looks back, and I see something white hanging from its teeth, and in my sleep I

know what it is, but not when I am awake. Then I only know it is mine, and that I

want it back, but that I cannot get it. The lion looks back before it leaps into the void,

and it seems to smile, full of malice, full of devilry. It runs, and it knows I will follow,

and it seems to wish this, but I cant catch it, I cant catch it, mother!


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2.

I am the Mother of Nottingham; take me to the room of the possessed, so that I

may know how she can be cured.On our recovery from the surprise at first caused by this vision, the sound of

these words awoke us as if from some sort of collective trance; we hastened to rise

and take her to the room in which the sick woman lay. Marias rooms were on the same

floor as the banqueting hall, and were decorated with the utmost simplicity. There was

a heavy chest of drawers, carved from fine wood, on which stood candlesticks and an

ivory crucifix; there was a narrow bed, and above it, hanging on the wall, an enormous

arras depicting a bucolic French landscape. The modesty of the room was not in keep-

ing with the Margarelons traditional good taste in furniture and decoration. But the

simple nature of the girl herself, the fear that the procession of old witches might

bring thieves in its train, the humility always to be recommended when divine favors

are being sought, all these had spoken in favor of austerity.

On her entry, the Mother of Nottingham went towards Maria and without fur-

ther delay began to question her as to the dream by which she was afflicted. The curi-

ous thing was that no one had spoken so much as a word to her about this dream or

any other. Perhaps it was all part of her magic, but it is not up to me to explain her

mode of work. Once again, however, the mysterious flight of the golden lion was

described in every detail such as the field with its coloring of blue flowers, the white

object in the lions teeth, the malicious smile, the leap, and the disappearance into thin

air. The Mother of Nottingham listened attentively, and assured us that only too often

the cure of bewitchment is hampered by ignorance of the objects which unleash the

forces of evil. The objects are placed near the victim of the bewitchment, and work

as a point of attraction for the demoniac powers within her; these must be discovered

and nullified.

If the powers are not brought out, then the bewitchment cannot be ended, the

old woman pronounced her sentence.

3.

The Mother of Nottingham returned to her labors, and quickly plagued the room with

the smell of cheap tobacco. She then asked us to find her a pair of scissors and a sieve.

Once in possession of these objects, the old woman jabbed the scissors into the rim


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of the sieve and asked Maria to put her two index fingers through the handles, and to

hold the sieve with her remaining fingers. While Maria rather clumsily undertook the

prescribed movements, the old woman repeated under her breath the words: Think

of the dream, remember the lion, the flight of the golden lion, the fields of blue flow-ers, the sickness which afflicts you, concentrate concentrate on the lion, and thus

induced my cousin to evoke the mystical forces which held sway over her.

Slowly, absolute silence descended upon the castle; night fell, and only the soundsof darkness were to be heard. The foggy atmosphere of the smoke-filled room and the

guttering candle-light isolated us from the cold, the darkness and the rest of the world.No one dared to say a word, while the sorceress whispered her magic spells, full of thenames typical of popular belief. Wheres the lion, cub of foul Fiend Flibbertigibbet?

Wheres the meadow full of flowers, Saint Withhold? Or she spoke to Maria.Concentrate on the lion. Fix your thoughts on the lion. Think of it, think. The sus-

pense grew and grew, until suddenly the tapestry hanging behind the bed tore straightacross the middle and shattered the silence rrrrriiiiiip as if two giant yet invisiblehands were pulling it apart before our very eyes. We looked in fright at the wall, and

Maria leapt from the bed, pushing scissors and sieve impulsively aside in her fear thatthe arras might fall on her head. She clasped her mother, trembled and perspired, whilethe old sorceress walked slowly to where the tapestry lay on the floor and from within

its weave withdrew a small piece of embroidery in the shape of a coat of arms.

Now these embroidered shields are, as everyone knows, common in our country;they are symbols of social recognition for families or individuals, and through their fig-urative conventions they tell us much, including the owners origins, the activity to

which he dedicates himself, and so forth. The Margarelon coat of arms, for example,

is extraordinarily fine. It has the shape of a shield, broader at the top, narrowerbeneath. It portrays a most noble wild boar, standing upon its hind legs, stabbing

proudly at the air with its curved tusks, its mouth open as if in a savage snarl, announc-ing from afar its warlike ferocity and visceral courage. Now, the reputation, social posi-

tion, and even the knowledge that you my gentle readers already have about the mem-bers of my family, albeit indirectly by way of this narrative, make it clear that theMargarelons belong to an ancient warrior lineage, always ready to risk their lives for the

King, St George and England. The background behind the sacred wild boar is occu-pied by a red and white chessboard pattern, scattered with graceful cows teats, pink and attractive symbols of our proud rural origins. As regards the Margarelons motto,

inscribed at the foot of their arms, a malicious and unhappy rumor has spread about,the inevitable price to be paid by families which excite envy, such as ours. Long before


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the episode recounted here, of old Henry VIIIs debt of gratitude to my grandfather,our motto used to be a line from Horace, Laudator temporis acti , that is, Acclaimer of time past. This was an effort to crystallize, in just a few words, our appreciation of the

traditions and the glorious history of our family, inseparable from those of theKingdom and the English people.

However, after we obtained the royal patronage, certain courtiers and nobles to

who envied us for our fortune and the thanks bestowed upon us by the crown con-

ceived an ironic version of the royal gift. It was whispered about the court, and sub-

stantiated by the distortions of the manuals of heraldry, that the motto crowned by

our coat of arms was in fact Lentus in umbra that is, Idle in the shade. I take this

opportunity to tell the rabble responsible to go jump in the lake!

I ask your pardon for my somewhat sanguine reaction to these despicable calum-nies, and for having gone into such analytical detail on the subject of our family arms.

My underlying purpose was to provide certain basic mechanisms for interpretation, sothat the significance of the coat of arms found in the remains of the tapestry mightbe more easily understood. This too was in the form of a shield; I say this because,

although it is the commonest shape, there are coats of arms with a horizontal arrange-ment, in which two animals flank a circle containing the family symbols, with the mottoor emblem beneath. As I have said, the coat of arms suspected of being the evil instru-

ment and perpetuator of my cousins sexual ailment was of the traditional form. It was

divided into four quarters by straight lines, one vertical from top to bottom; the otherhorizontal. It contained only two iconographical patterns. One was a rampant lion, acommon enough figure in English arms, being the symbol of England. Such lions arecalled rampant because they stand upright on their hind legs; similarly our wild boar is

a boar rampant. Above the head of each was a small crown, making the animal acrowned rampant lion, showing this to be a royal coat of arms; the other figurative pat-

tern was composed of blue fleurs-de-lis , an indubitable symbol of the Royal house of France. The upper quarters of the arms showed the lions on the left and the fleurs-de-

lis on the right; in the lower quarters, the figures were inverted. The connection between the dream and the coat of arms was evident. For the

first time, we had made steps towards Marias recovery. As it happened, none of us

was familiar with the annals of heraldry; we were thus unable to identify the owners

of the coat of arms just through the symbols of which it was composed. Our ability

was limited to the apprehension of certain messages implicit in its motifs; that was all.

To make our reading even more difficult, it had no motto; that would have greatly sim-

plified identification. And then, the simplicity of its composition, just two figures on


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a white ground, was in striking contrast with the importance of those figures, symbol-

izing as they did the Royal Houses of the civilized worlds two most powerful king-

doms. This might mean that the coat of arms was old, dating from a time when acces-

sory decorations had still not come into use, or it might merely indicate a falsification,a non-existent emblem.

The sorceress had left the mysterious piece of embroidery on the bed. We gave it

every consideration, and arrived at the dilemma which I have just described. We

turned to ask the Mother of Nottingham what part the arms might play in Marias

cure. She was not there. As she had come, so she had gone mysteriously, and we had

never even seen her face. All that was left was a piece of paper on the floor, with the

message Look for the owner.

4.

According to the report we received, the details of which correspond to the noises

which I had heard from the bedroom below, what in fact happened is just what I havesaid. The playwright arrived before his friend Burbage, and disguised as him, just asarranged. That merchant of vulgarities then indulged in illicit enjoyment of the favors

of my cousin, and welcomed his friend with a jest. My cousin told us that when she

perceived this perfidious deceit, she had a moment of despair; in due course she endedup by telling her lamentable story to the vile Shakespeare, whose heart of stone anddemons soul were impervious to her grief. Guilt and fear were mingled in her heart,Maria told him, as he was not the man she had seen upon the stage that afternoon,

wearing the apparel and the arms of Henry Plantagenet. This mistake might have con-tributed to the exacerbation of her mortifying ailment, as it might also have compro-

mised her honor in public. The ignoble fellows answer was not a little disdainful andoverbearing, most reprehensible according to the rules of gentlemanly conduct.

My dear, all this nonsense hardly suits the girl I heard earlier on in the wings of thetheatre giving my friend Burbage an invitation. An invitation nay, more like a com-

mand which, surprised and intimidated by your firmness, he obeyed. Yes, my dear;

even he, a man of the world, well tried in the capricious ways of the wheel of fortune,

even he was surprised to see in the eyes of so young a maiden the strength of a great

Queen. A Cleopatra, a Theodora or why not, as regards force of temperament an

Elizabeth, though I hasten to add that I mean no disrespect, since the chastity of our

Queen is public and of note. But thus he thought, and thus thought I, hidden as I was


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behind one of the few pieces of scenery of which our company can boast. It was the

interest that your strength awoke in me which set off our little jest. But now you seem

no more than country lass, such as I have known and had the pleasure to love on more

than one occasion. The moment the fleshly act ends, they are repentant; ah, not thatthey didnt enjoy it; they did, and greatly, as you did tonight. But this is their method

to relieve their consciences. It is a reflex, conditioned by the traditional pieties; they

blame themselves as if they were Magdalene, full of contrition and remorse. The

world has changed, my dear; nature is no longer the place for order, in which a uni-

versal hierarchy rules over all on earth, ordering good and evil into absolute values.

Nature is, I tell you, a space for disorder, in which we all struggle to make our own

way as active individuals, owners of our destiny, capable of running our lives in accor-

dance with the desires and aims set out in our minds. The story you have just told me

shows that in our world today good can conceal evil, and evil good, a thousand times.

Our criteria for good and evil are broad, they make use of basic values only, not

absolute values, to judge both one and the other. It is up to us to know the relative

importance of appearances, of social decorum, of name, of wealth. And so the spell,

or what you call a spell, was good; it raised you from your apathy? Excellent! In your

search for happiness you have laid with a stranger? Do not blame yourself in vain!

This act does not make a whore of you, nor will it cause society to fall apart. Each

human has duties and obligations to society, and we clearly wish to make our offering

to the happiness, the peace and the collective good of the Kingdom. But we clearly wish, too, to become rich, to take our pleasures, to be respected. Such is natural, see-

ing that it is only thus that we make space for our personality to flower. Amid these

two, worry at our collective destiny and nourishment of our individuality, man and

woman are animals, full of desires and failings, who must be pardoned and not

blamed. We must learn how to profit from our errors, not to go forth to self-chastise-

ment or inquisitorial punishment. Protestants give themselves over to nonsense of

this sort, but Puritans and you nostalgic Catholics go beyond the bounds of all sense.

Come, dry those tears and see what has occurred as a positive, something which hasgiven you back your womanhood. If your husband is a cuckold and a booby, why then,

he got what he deserved; just as your acts are not wholly sinful, so his simple-mind-

edness and generosity are not wholly kind and noble. They may tell of incompetence

and weakness, which in the case of your husband seems to me to be so. Do not let

time flee with your life, grasp the opportunities which appear, and as far as today and

tonight go, forget this rubbish about spells and possessions. I know when a woman is

in full enjoyment of her sensuality, and believe me, you are. Whatever stood between


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you and love has ended, no thanks to Burbage or to me, no thanks to the coat of arms

and the King. It has ended because you wished it so, because you have fought to con-

quer your happiness once again. Lifes a stage, my dear, and theres no use in the

Supreme Author writing the speeches if the actors do not take the stage and speak outloud, with conviction and authenticity. Let your aims crystallize in your mind and fight

for them. Grasp the opportunities. Live and be happy! Farewell!

***


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(2004)


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ABOUT AN IMAGE OF RIO

More than a gripping novel, an affectionate view of Rio de Janeiro, shown in some

of its fractures between the utopia of modernity and reality. Jornal do Brasil

Lacerda writes about Rio de Janeiro without sounding as a travel guide, and that is a

challenge. Jornal da Universidade de So Paulo

Lacerda reaches the level of those writers that really make the difference.Folha de So Paulo

Vigorous and learned narrative.Veja

A solid and poetical plot. poca

The right themes and the right way of talking about them.Gazeta Mercantil

A powerful novel.O Tempo

A novel to its contemporaries.

Rascunho

Three Times Short-listed as Best Novel: Prmio Jabuti, Telecom, Zaffari & Bourdon


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ABSTRACT

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. In the 70s, two kids grow up in an upper class modernist build-

ing. One of them is initially a homeless child, later adopted by a sweet woman and her

rich, bad tempered, and authoritative husband. The other is the son of an alcoholic

Latin teacher father. His mother lives abroad with her second husband. Brazils eco-

nomical crisis, with all its social consequences, is reaching a crescendo. In the 80s, the

two friends now young men gradually grow apart. One marries, has a daughter,

divorces and lives a bureaucratic and ordinary life. The other becomes a well-known

artist, rich and full of enthusiasm. The countrys social disaster is imminent. In the

90s, the friends meet again. One of them has a fatal disease, and asks the other to stay

with him in the hospital, for a last hope treatment. The modernist utopia has come to

an end, and Brazils socio-economical problems have reached the point of no return.


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JACKET TEXT

by Moacyr Scliar

Only understands the city of Rio de Janeiro someone who, from the frontiers

between its natural perfection and unstable urban order, is able to extract a way of life,

a most subtle and peculiar ethics. These are words of Rodrigo Lacerda, and the acu-

ity with which he knew how to formulate them shows that yes, he belongs to the

privileged category of writers that understand or ever understood that city. An illus-

trious group, of which are part Machado de Assis, Lima Barreto e Rubem Fonseca,

chroniclers like Rubem Braga, Fernando Sabino, Paulo Mendes Campos, poets like

Vincius de Moraes, theatrical writers like Nelson Rodrigues. Rio de Janeiro is an infi-

nite theme, but it is also a challenge, especially for fiction writers: the scenery is too

magnificent, too rich, too full of contradictions.

But Rodrigo Lacerda is grown up to the challenge. He had already demonstrated

it in his previous works, The Mystery of The Rampant Lion , The Dynamics of The Worms and Tripod . He is a young writer, but with remarkable control of the text. And, this isan important detail, he was born and grown in Rio de Janeiro. His style, although with-

out slangs or equivalent literary gadgets, is viscerally carioca. But it is not just a chron-

icle of the city, what he does in An Image of Rio; it is a human story, a story that talksof dreams, aspirations and frustrations (many frustrations) of Brazilians living in thecity that is a paradigmatic expression of contemporary Brazil. Tell, always tell, says

Virglio, who, in the narrative, is somehow an equivalent to Dantes character. To tell

not only in the meaning of giving out a narrative, but of announcing a revelation, a

revelation through the fictional art. The scene of the hand-glider flight, for example,

is of great beauty and of a symbolism eminently typical of Rio de Janeiro.

An Image of Rio is a modest title. An image, perhaps, but an important image,

because the eyes that see are the eyes of a talented author who, with this book, takes

a decisive step to the consolidation of his literary work.

Moacyr Scliar is a member of The Brazilian Academy of Letters.Books published in the US:The Centaur in The Garden , Key Porter BooksThe Collected Stories of Moacyr Scliar , University of New Mexico PressThe Strange Nation of Rafael Mendes , Ballantine Books


20/35

EXCERPTS

1.

Difficult, smuggling a hummingbird back to the building, but that done, then came the

fun part. Without anyone knowing.

Virglio stuffed it into the blender and screwed on the lid. The critter just tapped

a little off the sides, at first, kind of hovering in the air.

When Virglio switched it on minimum speed , then we saw the first flashes of

adrenaline course through that tiny, steely blue-green body. Startled by the hum of the

blades, it beat its wings more vigorously and slammed more forcefully against the sides.

I watched it panic through the plastic blender jar. Looking through the lid, I

noticed Virglios nails and the palms of his hands, that much paler in tone than the

rest of his skin. Thin fingers, the movements showing through.

Though any bird would do, there was nothing quite like a hummingbird. It was

playfulness, sadistic delight and scientific curiosity rolled perfectly into one. We had

always had a thing for animals.

We loved the mice bought at the pet shop, sedated and dissected in the bedroom.

The scalpel slicing through the thin leather of their bellies, releasing an acrid smell thatmixed with the ether we used as a general anesthetic and to sterilize the instruments.

We loved the tadpoles from the aquarium, those tiny exposed fetuses, black, with

funny eyes, transforming in plain view, acquiring webbed feet like deformations pro-

voked in vitro, their tails slowly dissolving. Or the ants wed stick to ice-cubes, so

theyd be temporarily frozen stiff, and then leave on the windowsill to resuscitate in

the sunlight. Sometimes successfully. Then there was the behavioral laboratory

Virglio invented, and which wed set up in Nossa Senhora da Paz square. It was a

basin filled halfway with water, with rocks for islands and toothpicks for bridges, where ants of various species rushed to and fro, marooned on the makeshift archipel-

ago, killing and being killed for the privilege of devouring the corpses they were

becoming in droves and the globules of ice-cream purposely dotted here and there.

Suicide was not uncommon; ants hurled themselves into the water in desperation.

A flurry. The body, metallic, muscular and small, was beginning to tire. Virglios

kinks seemed electrified. His green eyes all lit up.

Hes strong I said.


21/35

Virglio gave no response.

We smiled nervously, hearts skipping a beat.

Stray cats and dogs were a whole other story. We had a blast tying them to the rear

bumpers of buses. When they couldnt keep up any longer theyd get their paws in amuddle, roll into a bundle and get dragged off, bouncing across the tarmac. Other

times wed suffocate them in plastic bags, observing as their faces crunched into a gri-

mace. On special occasions, enticed by the exuberance of their final moments, wed

incinerate them with alcohol and matches. The flames rose easily in the rubbish skip.

With the victim flung to the flames, the routes of escape all blocked-off, Virglio

would relish the countdown as the squeals carried through the iron plating, 5 4

3 2 Between fear and expectation, the way was paved for a rocketing ball of fire.

The whole neighborhood became our back yard. Ipanema, in Tupi, the lan-

guage originally spoken by the indians in that area, is no compliment, meaning

pestilent water.

Almost drained now, the hummingbird was slowly giving in, letting go, descend-

ing. Capitulation was becoming an option. And yet the brush of its tail against the

swirling blades was all it took to inject a fresh bolt of energy. The bird struggled once

again into a climb, its luck running out, its fortune fatally wounded. Its wings were fill-

ing a space beyond their span, in the grip of the frenzy only fear of death can pro-

voke. Convulsions, palpitations, and those black eyes, the size of a pinhead, filled with

expression. It slammed frantically against the plastic lid and sides, darkened by Virglios looming shadow, as he tapped gleefully on the blender with his fingertips.

Pressing the second button immediately sent the blades into a spin so fast and

loud that the screaming motor hurt the ears.

If it was a scorpion, it wouldve killed itself by now said Virglio.

The bird could never have imagined it, but the flowers were plastic, the water, arti-

ficially sweetened, the shade, a trap: its whole world had betrayed it.

It was only natural that it should fall, and fall it did. The blades were momentari-

ly muffled, until the force of their rotation overcame the resistance, slinging a thick, wet, crimson paste against the plastic interspersed with some vaguely recognizable

metal-green feathers, hard matter, aqueous goo and entrails. The hum of the motor,

only slightly dulled, returned to its normal pitch.


22/35

2.

Virglio came home earlier than usual. The elevator stopped on two floors on the way

up, but no-one opened the door. Once in, he went straight to the kitchen for a glassof water. The sun was fading outside, but it was still swelteringly hot. There was a note

stuck to the draining board from the housekeeper to her husband saying shed gone

to the supermarket. Virglio had got that far without the slightest mind for silence, but

neither had he gone out of his way to make any noise.

Something muted and subtle was in the air. The tinted glass door between the

kitchen and the service area was wide open. He passed through it and glanced at the

row of three slatted doors to the housekeeping quarters that ran along the tiled wall

to the right. They revealed nothing at first, but the door nearest him was slightly ajar,

allowing a glimpse of a black-and-white television, switched off, and an ironing board

beside a chair stacked with sheets and clothes. There was no-one there. He could hear

a bird chirp. The second door was closed, but Virglio knew by heart what was on the

other side: the double bed in the middle, the crucifix pinned to the wall, dead center,

symmetrically dividing the space above the headboard, the magazine spreads stuck to

the walls as decoration. He moved on, the sound was not coming from there.

Virglio thought of the dog and the sound it made when chewing on stuff, but

that wasnt it. This was different. Intrigued, he cast a glance around the service area of

the apartment, decorated with Fatimas potted samambaia ferns and Jairos caged

canaries. She talked to the plants. He loved his birds. They reminded him of his native

state, Cear, and of his father, already dead before he left for Rio de Janeiro. The

Estrela de Ipanema apartment block, however affirmative of modernity it may have

been, still harbored a few nostalgic hearts after all. The cook and the driver, a married

couple, seemed to enjoy a kind of pre-industrial happiness, gifted rather than won.

They had a son, Miguel, who was twelve. Life was stable and simple.

Ftima was a joyful Baiana with a strong mulatto smile. She had always been a lit-

tle heavy-set, but now, heading on forty, she was packing it on for real. She had learnedto cook in the manner of a genius with no rules. Her good humor and talent made

all the difference.

Jairo was fair-haired, short and stocky, with large hands. He was of a more seri-

ous temperament than his wife, which is how she kept him over a barrel. She had him

laughing all the time, enraptured one minute, faking disapproval of her whims the

next. He was discretely good. He kept a scaling knife in the car, under the drivers seat,

but that was just macho posturing, pure show. He was a delicate man who took care


23/35

of the birds with fatherly zeal, changing their water each day, mixing the rights feed

for each phase of life. He had canaries of various colors yellow, orange, brown and

dappled , all with the short, sharp beaks typical of the species. He stroked them,

hand-fed them, talked to them. He knew when to scare them like some terrifying giantand when to stretch out his hand and let them come to him, brazenly. When he was

at home with no work to do, he would sit by the window out back, silently savoring

Fatimas coffee, and let those tiny little birds wing him away to some far-off place.

The males sing more and better than the females hed say, explaining who was who

in the cages. Virglio and I never did learn to tell them apart, not by song nor color,

and we always got the names mixed up. Jairo never suspected our predilection for

hummingbirds.

The sea-breeze blowing in through the eleventh-floor gently stirred the cages,

making the canaries hop from perch to perch. The late afternoon had soaked the sky

in pink and orange. The nearest mountain was a jagged profile of shadows in the

background. The birds began to chatter in unison, conspiring, so that Virglio could

hear nothing else. They soon went quiet again.

When he reached the third door, what initially drew his attention was the naked

ass. Nice, he thought. And then he realized it was a mans, and noticed the dropped

trousers, the back, the muscular arms. And the hands that gently cradled the skinny

rump of a boy, barley leaving finger marks with each slow, rhythmic thrust.

From where he stood, Virglio could not quite make out the faces, but the bodies werecalm, standing, stretched, and exhaling the warm vapor of breath. The son with his

legs parted. The father, Jairo, kissing his neck.

3.

On the other side of the road, there was a small sentry-box. Virglio turned the car off

the asphalt, driving up onto what was practically an embankment, so we could makesure of where we were. We soon perceived numerous cars some yards to the right in

what we realized was the visitors car park. Tourists and the just curious usually walked

from there. Only people who were going to fly were allowed to drive up to the other

car park, close to the ramp. We had arrived at the path of Pedra Bonita, beautiful

rock, the second part of our journey.

Virglio suddenly accelerated, crossing both lanes and pulling up right in front of

the sentry-box, which looked empty at first glance. I noticed its warped, damp-rotten


24/35

walls and the figure of a bird-headed man painted onto the flaky white paint, wings

spread in demonic flight. Then we saw the two sentinels sitting on the curb, guarding

that miserable little shack.

In no particular hurry, they got up and came over to our car. My friend explainedthat an instructor was expecting him up top, one Alexandre. They knew who it was

and lifted a rusty rail to let us through. They warned us to keep honking all the way

up the ascent, as the track was narrow.

Once off-road, it was my turn to spark the joint. Virglio dug his hand into the

rucksack and pulled out another beer (by that stage, the first was a crumpled tin rolling

around on the floor). Encouraged by the hypothetically restorative effects of the burg-

er I just had, I cracked one too.

Almost immediately, however, the joint was clipped and the beers were dumped

in my lap. The track really was narrow, like the guards had said, but no simple verbal

warning could have prepared us for what we found. Honking every meter wasnt just

advisable, it was essential to survival. All of a sudden, each bend became absurdly

steep, like bended knees jutting up before us. Craters, and that is no exaggeration,

seemed to pop like bubbles from the asphalt. The tires bounced and dropped, jolting

all the way. With each more violent bump my wounded back ached and I clutched the

dashboard for support. Virglio was gritting his teeth at the wheel. The worn tarmac

started to emit an ominous groan and the vegetation had begun to invade the road,

lush and slippery, damp down to the trunks and the rocks. The embankment magnet-ic attraction came into play.

Now lets be frank: only those who have managed to extract a lifestyle, an ethic at

once subtle and particular, from the brink between the natural perfection and unsta-

ble urban order can truly claim to understand Rio. I was in revolt, subject to bouts of

civil indignation, of civilizing omnipotence, but not Virglio; he was a fervent adept of

the model.

So much so that he thrived on adrenaline while I endured it. For me, the best thing

about that road was its shortness. A kilometer later, at most, and it was over. Wereached a rocky tree-bed, round and buried up to the rim, some two meters in diam-

eter and half a meter tall.

In the middle, perched above ground, stood an old jack-tree, in pride of place,

master of its own private and curious dynamic. In the shade of its bough, the sur-

rounding trees, stunted and rickety mangoes and palms, were condemned to the most

complete insignificance. They seemed more like scrawny tufts of grass. And yet the

jack-tree itself was underdeveloped by the standards of its species. There was little


25/35

room for its roots. A harsh destiny; poor egocentric, claustrophobic, schizophrenic

creature, at once victim and villain.

The rock-bed split the road in two, slipping round it in two lanes that merged

again on the other side, at the exclusive car park for fliers. There were other cars there,so we pulled up alongside them. To the right, a gate opened onto a row of three or

four houses, presumably for the park staff (seemed the only explanation). To the left,

a makeshift flight of steps surmounted a bank, the planks of heavy wood shaping the

damp soil into stairs. This was the way up to the ramp.

Virglio was wound up like a spring and jabbering non-stop about his plans again,

an endless stream of dreams, prophecies, hopes and deliriums. Im gonna direct my

own movie, start up a theater company, write a manifesto, shag like mad,

youll see.

I was a few steps behind him, struggling from the pain in my back and under the

relentless nausea. The sun, the burger, the pot and the beer had not done me half as

much good as one would expect. On top of all that, I was on-edge, out of sorts, pes-

simistic, melancholic Virglio and his destiny; and me and mine, what was I going

to do with it?

As for our friendship, maintained by a past of shared experiences that resulted in

diametrically opposing temperaments, what would become of that?

Luckily Virglio had brought the rucksack of beer, so I decided to try to cure my

nausea with shock treatment. I knocked back what was left of the first beer, caughthold of my friend halfway up the steps and grabbed another can.

It was then that I asked:

What does this instructor look like?

Dunno. We only spoke on the phone.

So how are we gonna know which ones him?

His glider is white with three diagonal stripes; red, orange and yellow.

Do you know anyone whos flown with this guy?

After renaming me Marcrapper, Virglio explained that Alexandre was a profes-sional pilot, that he made a living doing tandem flights. He lauded his competence,

informing me that he was known among the fliers as Alexandre the Great and for his

exploits flying from So Conrado, where we were, to the statue of Christ the

Redeemer, very far from there.

From So Conrado to the Christ, Virglio, give me a break...

Scorning my disbelief, he marched ahead to the top of the steps. I followed close

behind.


26/35

On a peak higher up, two metal towers gleamed in the distance. Microwaves flow-

ing out across the city.

The clearing was much smaller than expected. You could even say it was cramped.

There was something scenographic about the greenery. A curtain of leaves girded theplateau, broken only by the launch ramp out front. But it was no forest. Beyond the

brush it was five hundred meters of nothing.

Left as you arrived, the ramp itself seemed small, not to say crude and precarious.

Its pillars reached down some four or five meters, in pairs, through the undergrowth.

Mere shoddy pegs.

The fliers were just as unceremonious as the place they jumped from. I had

imagined them kitted out in jumpsuits, rigged with safety gear, boots and helmets.

Not even close, it was all much more improvised than that. They flew in shorts and

sandals.

Here and there swollen wind socks flapped in the ocean wind that swept in over

the mountain.

Down below, sun-drenched and beckoning to the adventurous spirit of Rios

bourgeoisie, the view reigned supreme the blue of the sea, the white strip of spray

and sand, the grey scratch of asphalt, the soft green of the Gvea Golf Club. A few

fliers were already preparing their garishly colored wings for flight. Others, rigged and

ready, were hanging around waiting for who-knows-what. Watching the whole thing,

I had this enormous fear of suddenly jumping, for no reason and with no equipment. Virgilos excitement was obvious. The height really made him believe that all his

dreams depended on the next thermal swell. As soon as he clamped eyes on the hang-

glider described by the instructor, he exchanged some gestures with the closest man

to it and we headed straight for the guy.

Which of you is Virglio?

My friend introduced himself and then me. Alexandre looked me over with dis-

trust, eyeing my clothes and shoes. I risked a friendly aside, noting the coincidence of

us three sharing the names of celebrated figures of Antiquity: Virgil, Marco Aurelioand now Alexander the Great. The instructor shot me a condescending smile, quite at

home in his ignorance. Virglio looked toward the ground. My observation, less cul-

tured than it was misplaced and pedantic, created an immediate syntony between

them. I dont know what possessed me to make such a stupid comment.

Virglio was the kind of person whose friendships were instantaneous, ours

excepted. He often fell in with jerks for practical reasons, but sometimes out of

anthropological curiosity, and he dumped them just as quick if he got bored. And I


27/35

who had learned to keep my distance, but couldnt cut people off quite so brusquely

bore the indirect brunt of these comings and goings.

The instructor introduced a colleague of his Z Emlio, another pro. His coun-

tenance was a little more intelligent, his speech, less rudimentary. He was encouraging Virglio, recalling his sensations on the day of his own first flight. He then went on to

extol the mastery of Alexandre. My friend said he was excited and unafraid.

Another flier, Fabio, joined the group. Alexandre introduced him to the man of

interest:

Hes gonna fly tandem with me.

Virglio, now the centre of attention, dumped the rucksack in my arms. I could

hear the inviting clatter of the remaining beer cans.

I was there as a mere extra, a secondary and inexpressive figure. It wasnt spoken,

it was left latent, but the fliers knew how to get the message across. After a certain

point they didnt even bother to look at me any more. My aspect clothes and reac-

tions didnt gel with theirs. I didnt fly.

As I watched them chat I felt rotten inside and out. A flier was preparing for take

off behind us.

Duuuuck!

Our little group split in two, making way for the gliders three-meter wingspan. I

took the chance to drift off alone, unnoticed. I pretended I was going to check out

the view and wandered off. They wouldnt miss me.From a distance I could observe Virglios new friends more closely. Alexandre

was tall and well-tanned, with long hair, an athletic body and large hands. He was shirt-

less, in only Bermuda shorts and trainers. The other guy, Z Emlio, was wearing a

white T-shirt, baggy pants and flip-flops. Fabio, the fairest-skinned of the three, wore

mirrored sunglasses and had a white cream smeared on his nose and lips. He was shirt-

less too, wearing a pair of shorts that revealed a sinister tattoo on his calf.

There were also two girls sitting on the ground nearby, a few meters ahead. They

were together, accompanying someone. Who? One of those guys? Who? Which? Bestnot to know. They were clear-eyed, young, athletic and lovely, with a marvelous tone

of skin. Never had beauty, strength and health been so indissociable. The blonde was

holding the collar of a huge Great Dane, with a mottled grey hide and white belly and

paws. It was a bizarre presence on the mountain top, a surreal aggressiveness. The

other girl, a brunette, was wearing cropped shorts and just a bikini top. I cogitated an

explosion of animal sexuality, but then I was me, and Id never get passed the Great

Dane anyway.


28/35

The fly-boys were talking near the aluminum frames, in the half-shade of the syn-

thetic sails with all their purples, reds, oranges, yellows, browns and greens. The light

seeping through the colors tinged everything people, ground, air with their hues.

All around me were glimpses of a philosophy of life that could never be mine, a kindof spontaneous coloration that I simply didnt have and could never acquire. Looking

at my body, its fake, unnatural tan, nature itself was telling me this. In that group,

obligatory, permanent good humor, physical beauty, muscle tone and aggression were

synonymous with self-realization, signs of power amid the urban chaos. Everything

that went on between those sporty men and women struck me as brutish, even the

love. Corporeal Primitives, Virglio used to say. Although he, out of pure devotion

to idiosyncrasy, had taken us up there.

There on the launch ramp, dug into the mountainside, I relived this most intimate

discomfort, albeit obvious to any stranger who cared to observe me with a seconds

grace. It was the cross I carried, and not even the beauty of this summers day could

make it any lighter. Not even the beer I had just popped open in my hand.

Anger gives us weapons to endure life? A thirst for power? Egocentricity? Greed?

I could even believe that, but what of me? Was I bereft of anger?

Unfortunately, this self-deceit went beyond the bounds of the acceptable. The

right question was: why did my anger not convert into force? Why did it simmer into

resentment?

The burger churned over inside me, steeped in beer and smoked with pot.

When it stirs, cold,

appears jarred and pickled.

Feels pleasure, uneasy,

The pain embraces it and dilutes.

And if a mirror reflects, dejected,

It reverses the real.

But the body is calling

I remembered one of my poems. If someday I ever lost the fear of really writ-

ing A frightening desire, even in isolation, and more so when you consider the

possible results. There was no way of knowing when I would be ready never, I

supposed.


29/35

When it doesnt sleep, unending,

The more it dreams the night.

On the days it doesnt feed, fading,

It ends up talking gruff.Its sometimes even good in bed,

Coming clean, alone.

The body that will pass away.

Something very wrong gurgled in my stomach.

I walked out onto the ramp, contrite. Its long planks shot out towards the

precipice, toying with me.

I stumbled upon a little shrine near the steps. It had been erected to Saint Conrad,

who, in painted tiles, offered up a prayer for the safety of all who practiced hang-gliding.

At the head of the launch platform, the evening light lent a soft golden hue to

Virglios dark skin. His eyes were lucid green in the sun, his flaring nostrils pulling in

drafts of fresh mountain air. The wind rustled his black locks, like living, restless, pul-

sating antennae. His thin, wiry body was fidgety, the very opposite of the studied,

thickset, manly presence of the instructor and his colleagues, who were busy giving

him instructions in truculent tone or carefully checking the minutiae of safety.

Virglio, every bit as alien to that world as I, was the very picture of reckless joy as he prepared himself for his tandem flight. At ease, as always. Inadequate and out

of place, but with that special way of winning people over. He always ended up well-

liked in the most unlikely of groups. There he was, being strapped into the hang-glid-

er, cracking jokes with Alexandre the Greats instructions, taking the piss out of his

own inexperience and making wisecracks out of the jargon: control bar, I hate the

jealous kind, topless format, even up here!, kingpost, is that a kingpost, or are you

just pleased to see me?

As someone who believes in words, I would never entrust my life to things whosenames I didnt understand. My dream had always been to use simple words to say what

I thought.

I could feel the connection between self-knowledge and my resignation to being

average.

Spreading out before us, the landscape shimmered in all its glory, like a command-

ing spectacle, effusively aglow. Across the beach and in the city streets, the sunlight

multiplied on the semi-naked bodies, in the drops of seawater, on the white sand, on


30/35

the lemon and leaf-green tones, on the tinfoil wrappers of the sandwiches, on the rat-

tles swirling in the hands of the lollipop sellers, on the Styrofoam ice-cream coolers,

the tapioca pancakes, the sunglasses, the coconut trays, the colorful kiosks, the plas-

tics, the drinks cans, the litter, window-glass, the passing cars; it was a ricochet of dart-ing, scintillating rays.

You could imagine the asphalt after hours of storing up heat. Anyone who has

grown up in Rio de Janeiro knows what its like to cross the street barefoot on the way

to or from the beach, the soles of your feet sticking to the softened tarmac.

On the farthest formation of the massif, nestled on the Dois Irmos mountain,

you could see an immense slum looming over the city. On one side, Ipanema,

Copacabana, blue sea. Closer to the ramp, a second mountain, which someone

informed me was called Crocaine. A nickname given by the fliers I made a mental

association with cocaine? Or maybe a distortion of Cochrane, in fond tribute to some

imperialist of yester-year? There was a street down there with an English name

Well, it was a fine mountain, one way or another.

To the right, almost at our backs, was the Gvea Rock. Mysterious and solemn.

When I looked out to sea, which dominated the horizon before me, I felt a sud-

den fear. It might swallow my friend. A wee strip of a lad, quite literally a drop in

the ocean.

I looked to either side. And what if Virglio went down in the surrounding moun-

tains? Hed be dead just the same. A crumb on a huge green carpet.If it was me, I thought, Id fear an even darker fate: immediate freefall. It would

all be over from the moment of the first jump, quick and before I knew what hit me

(I couldnt stand the idea of experiencing even death unconsciously). One resounding

and pathetic plunge, like in the film footage of the pioneering aviators, piloting their

speeding contraptions into a thumping Laurel and Hardy-style crash.

I walked carefully along the ramp, in slow steps, looking around me, trying to find

some sense to the things I saw, to those people, so young and beautiful; to that mar-

velous view of such a fucked-up city. That beautiful, stifling day. The strange combi-nation of sun and sea, beach and mountain, asphalt and slum, human insignificance

and the immensity of nature for some sense to being young and feeling so old, to

that good life, so difficult, so hurried and so unfree.

I went on walking, sort of dizzy, lightheaded. I had drunk and smoked too much.

On the edge of the ramp, still standing, I looked down and saw an abyss, gaping open.

I fled, looking skyward, but the sky was torn too. I turned to run, reeled back

toward the foot of the ramp. I saw my friend, without knowing what to think.


31/35

A giddy Virglio was about to commit that disguised modality of suicide. He and

the fliers were posturing their way through the radical ceremony of initiation. Hed be

flying in a nylon sock rigged to the aluminum bars of the glider, with no prior train-

ing whatsoever. Anyone who saw it would not have believed the abyss was real. In fact,from up there, the vastness did look unworldly, of dimensions far too grandiose for

the daily reality. It made human life and death look pure silliness by comparison, but

I was worried nonetheless.

I finished off another beer and waited on the edge of the ramp for a while in the

hope of curing the nausea with the wind in my face. I tried to contain my anxiety. I

took a deep breath and went to rejoin the others, my heart beating, eyes downcast,

embarrassed, ashamed of everything. I watched as Alexandre strapped himself into

the goddamned hang-glider. He rehearsed the take-off maneuvers with Virglio, while

his colleagues gathered round to watch.

Intimidated, I edged closer to Virglio:

Are you really gonna do it?

As soon as the question was out of my mouth I saw the instructor glaring at me.

The other fliers were also darting me dirty looks.

Already gone, dude quipped Virglio, overdoing the ghetto drawl.

This was his specialty: worrying the hell out of those closest to him while never

getting in a spin himself.

Youre gonna risk your life, just for the hell of it? Marcoward

Virglio and his penchant for playing with my name. Like that, in front of that

crowd, it was an insult. I responded dryly:

What?

See ya later, alligator!

Typical flippancy. Typical. They all laughed. Virglio, in the most critical moments,

always acted like nothing serious was happening. All that mattered was that it was

radical.I withdrew, fuming, stung, mortified. I walked round the back of the hang-glider.

I had nothing to do with this. Flying wasnt my idea, I didnt know those people and

I didnt trust them, I didnt feel welcome and I had tried to get him out of there.

Whats more, I hadnt asked to come along. I was at home, just doing my thing. Want

to jump? Jump then, you son-uv-a-bitch.

It didnt take long. Virglio and the instructor took the first steps. The colored tri-

angle bobbed, large and floppy. They started to trot, then run, taking short strides at


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first, looking for synchrony. Then longer strides, one now in the others shadow. The

horizon yawned wide a deep breath , the height a gallop , I heard the noise on

the ramp

I covered my face when Virglio launched into the air. The voices around me fellsuddenly silent. There was no way of knowing what had happened. When I opened

my eyes there was no glider in the sky.

I ran to the edge of the ramp and looked down. The wind blasted into my face

and I could see nothing again.

Then, an invisible movement in the abyss. My eyes traced it. There they were, in

one piece, miraculously. You could see when they caught the current and settled into

a glide. I stayed there for some time, dumbfounded, watching them ride the bubbles

of warm air. It was working. Unlikely, but true. The glider was gaining altitude.

Relief. No, thinking again, I really was an asshole.

I looked around me; no-one else had taken such a fright. I was disappointed in

myself. I sat down right where I stood. Z Emlio and Fbio, thank God, left me alone.

I watched their celebrations from a distance, the blatantly choreographed congratula-

tions, full of upraised arms, heavy backslapping, dancing index fingers. Behind every

flier, surfer, skater or intellectual theres a psychopathological condition. Being normal

was a difficult, uncertain and very lonely vocation.

I stared down, fixedly, knowing I could jump if I wanted to. Rio de Janeiro, the

city against which I had protected myself all my life. Precisely that: protected against.I could feel that land begin to seethe.

Soon I would have to make my way down the mountain in the car to pick

Virglio up at the beach. In other words, Id have to descend into hell with the air-

conditioning full-blast. Furthermore, Id have to do so whilst respecting the speed

limit, flashing the indicators, always checking the rear-view mirror, doing everything

just right. No license, but going through the motions like a senile Sunday-driver.

Disgustingly square.

My father once asked me which Latin maxim I preferred as a philosophy of life:Seize the day or The Golden Mean. When I told Virglio he gushed praise for the

way my father had brought me up. And when I retorted, saying that I had my doubts

as to whether the contradiction explicit in the options was really necessary, he replied:

Sophism, my sensitive little man, sophism. Your dad wasnt God to be able to teach

you that one.

Some say its not what you live, but how you live. If so, a minimalist biography

like mine could possess great depth. The sedentary could live an existential life every


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bit as rich as that of the adventurer, idem the chaste as the debauched, idem idem the

blind as the painter, and so on. Although I thought this a fine idea and would have

loved to apply it in my life, I never could really feel it was true. It was an attractive

rationalization, but ultimately false. While my embarrassment at certain internal andexternal circumstances drove me to don the mask of the well-balanced, eminently

contemplative individual, I felt a latent over-ambition that humiliated me, a restless-

ness, an anxiety to act, to do, to build a future full of life, of experiences, of perma-

nent and simultaneous artistic-moral-sexual excellence, or sexual-moral-artistic excel-

lence, or if all went wrong, at least a moral-something excellence. Faced with so many

demands and hindered by so many limitations, there was obviously not the slightest

chance of appeasement.

The hang-glider was sailing gently through space, in sweeping maneuvers, very

high up and very far away, as if there was no danger at all.

Despite the wind, I managed to light what was left of the joint. I wanted the free-

dom promised by the fumes from those burning folds. I filled my lungs with smoke,

held it there, let it out. Inhaled, held and let it out. I tried to relax, tried to forget there

were other people around. But it was impossible. The anguish grew.

Down there, the immensity, the sea and the asphalt. Up above, soaring, Virglio.

Life looking down, destiny opening and closing like a mouth, a trap for the larger-

than-life, nihilistic, mathematical. And he? Literally flying. Perhaps his biographical

turnarounds, or just general luck had made him irreverent like this; given him that hal-lucinatory way of being loving. Made him solitary, made him feel entitled to throw

himself out on invisible currents of air that slid up the mountainside, whirling and

swirling, clashing and overlapping, slow and spreading one minute, fast and rising the

next, leading the glider across the sky in an anti-gravitational waltz.

Virglio and I had bet all our self-esteem on a single source of satisfaction. Art.

Art. Art. We were living the same moment, though diverged completely in the way we

faced it. In different, almost opposite ways, neither of us had, thus far, displayed the

only gift indispensible to artistic success, namely the ability to mingle with powerfulpeople while pretending that youre revolutionizing.

I relit the joint. I was afraid, anxious, pessimistic and anguished. The beauty of that

day depressed me. I couldnt stop thinking. I saw that my complaints about the past were, deep down, complaints about myself. Obstinate earlier incarnations, draining allmy energies, butting in and barring my way towards the real problems. All the infinite

hope of childhood, eternally promising, was running to ground upon the somberdenouement of adolescence. Destiny opened and closed with increasing clarity.


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Some clouds drifted far off, slowly. Shredded by the breeze, they unraveled in

space, though continued on their way regardless.

I felt time rushing ahead at breakneck speed inside me, outstripping my real pace.

I had always been in a hurry, though my destiny could no longer be decided onimpulse, on pure whim. I knew that. Even haste had become methodical with me.

I smiled, grimly. The danger was to die without having really lived. Die before

having truly loved, for its own sake, for no reason. Before having loved, above all else.

Sitting on the edge of the ramp, I looked up to shake off a sudden vertigo. It just

made it worst. The pot, the beer, the want of an honest lunch, the burger, it all came

back to me in a ball. The sky went blank.

Blue

Sun

City

Future

Fear

Sky

Greed

Character

Loneliness

Greenery

Mountain

Sea

Present


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A wave made my body falter. A rapid, uncontrollable tingling that ran from my

legs to my head. The colors left the spectrum. The blue became too blue, blurring the

frontier between the sea and the sky; the yellow sun became yellower than yellow,exploding its focus into a huge ball. My skin, red, drained white; running from hot to

cold. A strange sensation came over me, a kind of absence. It wasnt me touching

things, or even myself. The muscles were beyond control. I tried to stand up, but col-

lapsed, consciousness just about to crash, a black sheet covering everything. I strug-

gled to keep my vision from closing down, I fought against my own weight.

In the depths of my reeling, I could feel Virglio far off, loose in the air, and me

here, pinned to the ground. I imagined a formidable fall and a lifeless routine. From

that flight on, we would never be so close again. We were condemned now.

Spasms made my chest tighten. I coughed, turned my face away. My stomach

wrenched, my mouth was flung open; a hot, sour jet sprang from me, making me

shudder. I vomited up my soul, my childhood, the drink, the pot and the gunge of

poetry. There was soul splattered everywhere, mixed with my envy of Virglio, with

fear, History, shame, the minced-meat of the hummingbird, the buggering of the

housekeepers son and the venom of that ramp. Spewed up with my future and my

certainties.

I gasped for air. My stomach pumped another jet of vomit. My neck stiffened as

I brought it all up.I sucked in more air. Along came a third spurt, though weaker. My sight was

immediately restored, my hands regained their strength.

I was in a cold sweat, drained, staring at my vomit, into the abyss, I dont know

for how long.

Where is it written that the role of man on earth is to be happy?

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