I was born in the twentieth century. So was Dad.
— and study fascinating things and live an interesting, modern life, full of culture, and make the most of it all and have your own family, who will also benefit from it all, and so on. The kind of thing our ancestors thought we were going to do, you know? Your dad never let me get on your case about these things when you were growing up, and now you think that letting your beard grow in a tiny summer rental that smells of mold and fish, earning just enough to pay the electricity bill, is a decent life. That’s not how I see it. One day you’re going to want to get married. You’re going to want to make a home for yourself. This new girlfriend of yours is from Porto Alegre, isn’t she? Does she want to spend the rest of her life here? I doubt it. Do you think you’ll go the distance with her? Do you think you might get married? Have kids? Is there a decent school for them in this place? You told me she’s well educated, doing a master’s. She must be ambitious. I’ve seen it all before, believe me, and things won’t turn out well for you. You can spend the rest of your life looking for another Viviane, but unless you change your outlook, the same thing is going to end up happening over and over again—
Only if you give me another son of a bitch for a brother.
— because the problem is that you see life as something to be lived alone unless circumstances force something different on you. I know you don’t do it on purpose, it’s in your nature, but you need to fight it, darling. And if you want to call your brother something, call him something else because I’m no dog.
I didn’t mean—
You need to stop hating Dante for what happened. It’s not his fault Viviane took an interest in him.
You don’t know anything.
And the way you ran off from your father’s wake was embarrassing. Why do you have to avoid running into Dante and Viviane if you’re as independent and self-assured as you think you are? Do you really think you don’t need anyone else? Years ago I actually thought that Dante was the son who was going to have a hard time in life with his dream of being a writer. I still have no idea how he makes a living, seeing as his books don’t sell much and he never wins the prizes with the big money. I think it’s from his speaking engagements. But I know he’s living in São Paulo in a great apartment that he managed to buy—
He’s got a thirty-year mortgage.
— because he went after his dreams—
And she pays half.
— and objectives, while you let your furniture and few belongings go practically for free to the first person who appeared at your apartment in Menino Deus. You granted power of attorney to your lawyer friend so he could wrap things up for you, while you ran away to the beach and burrowed a hole in the sand like an armadillo. How do you know she pays half?
She told me.
When did you talk to her?
She sends me messages on Facebook sometimes.
But you aren’t friends on Facebook. I’ve looked.
You don’t have to be a friend to send a private message.
I didn’t know you were speaking.
I don’t answer her messages. And I closed my account the other day anyway.
I didn’t know she pays half.
There are lots of things you don’t know.
Dante never told me she pays half.
It’s normal. They live together. And I hope you’re done, because I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It was good we had this talk ’cause now we don’t need to have this talk anymore. I couldn’t give a fuck what Dante does or doesn’t do, and I don’t care if he’s your favorite until the day you die. I came to terms with that a long time ago. Just don’t compare me to him. Spare me. São Paulo? You always hated São Paulo, and now that they live there, it’s the only place a human being could want to live. Look me in the eye, and tell me that you think someone like me could—
I’m not comparing you, darling, I just wanted—
I’m fine here. Seriously. I know you don’t understand how it’s possible. But try. I like living here.
I love you both equally. I don’t have a favorite.
It’s okay.
I don’t.
How are you, Mother?
I already told you. I’m really well. I’ve talked so much since I arrived. I don’t know what else to tell you. What do you want to know?
Are you walking? Have you managed to get your triglycerides down?
Yes. Walking and stuffing myself full of omega-three. I got tested last month, and the doctor told me my blood is like a little girl’s.
What have you got them down to?
Two hundred and a bit.
It’s not like a little girl’s but it’s come down a lot. That’s good. Are you working? I know you get a big kick out of this Ronaldo guy, but I reckon you should take more interior decorating assignments to keep busy.
I’ve been busy with your dad’s will and probate.
I thought Dante was looking after almost everything.
Dante’s in São Paulo and only comes if it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve been acting on his behalf. By the end of the year, you and your brother should get your money. And I’m going to sell his house. I’d like you to give some thought as to what you’re going to do with the money. Use it to set yourself up. Get a partner and open a gym in Porto Alegre. Or put a good-size deposit down on an apartment. Don’t give your money away.
Who would I give my money to, Mother?
You know what I’m talking about. You’re too generous. Hold on to the money when it comes. Promise your old mother.
Do you miss him?
What are you talking about?
Do you miss Dad?
She turns to stare at the ocean and bites the insides of her cheeks.
I hate to admit it, but I do. Now that he’s gone, I miss the good years. There were lots of them.
That’s nice to know. I’m glad.
His mother wants to feel the sand on her feet. They drive down to the south end of the beach, walk to Meio Lagoon, and return. They barely speak. The hills are imposing and make them seem small in comparison, while on the other side the ocean flaunts its infinitude. The wind blows his mother’s straw hat off twice, and he has to chase it over the soft sand. The beauty of the beach erases the last traces of the animosity of lunch.
Jasmim greets them in her cabin in Ferrugem late in the afternoon with coffee, maté, and an orange cake cut into little cubes. They give her the yerba maté that his mother brought from the Porto Alegre Public Market. He instructed his mother the night before not to bring up certain topics, and the conversation flows without any hitches, propelled by the contrived enthusiasm of his mother, who thinks everything is absolutely wonderful, funny, and incredible. It is at times like this that he is most irritated by her, when she is trying to please and there is no trace of the love that underpins her scolding and judgment and eternal comparisons to his older brother. Jasmim hams up the story about the metal detector, and his mother laughs until she cries. At one point, which he can hardly believe, they actually discuss a detail of the plot of the nightly soap opera, even though Jasmim doesn’t even own a television set. There are no questions about what it’s like for a woman to live alone in a place like this or about future expectations; nor are there any quips about mothers-in-law and grandchildren. He wonders if they could really get along. It is possible. With time.