Beside me a gentleman in a white suit for whom no time has been found on the program is angrily jumping up and down as he argues with some official. The stand sways and groans. I’m expecting the scantlings to give way any minute.
The speeches go on and on. Every local politico has his say. A gentleman named Duarte Filho is running for prefeito. Evidently the campaign is violent in Mossoró because the denunciations of the opposition become more and more extreme as twilight falls. There are too many adults among the children in the square. Toughlooking waterfront characters like the men in the bar. I’m worried about what would happen to all the little children if the meeting should end in a brawl.
While I’m trying to catch what the speakers are shouting a skinny grayhaired man, shoved up against my midriff by the crowd on the stand, pours into my ear a story you could hear only in Brazil. He too worked at the American submarine base. He too likes Americans. He knows a cave where there are crystals that shine bright as the headlights of a car. He has samples at his home. If they aren’t diamonds they are something just as valuable. He wants me to tell him the name of an American engineer. Brazilian engineers don’t have the education to exploit such a treasure or else they will try to steal it all for themselves. Can’t I find him an American engineer to prospect the cave? Diamonds as big as your fist shine with their own light in the darkness.
The square grows dark. The closepacked crowd is getting hotter and hotter. On the stand we sweat rivers. Speeches are becoming more and more violent. Men in the crowd have a threatening look. A dangerous tension seems to be building up. Suddenly a samba band begins to play.
I’ve been noticing one small band that officials have been trying to keep quiet, behind the speakers’ stand, shushing and pushing back the dark boys with instruments. The minute the governor stops talking they won’t be shushed any longer. Their drums throb. The sound of sambas rises from every street that leads into the square.
In three minutes half the people are dancing. The oratory fades away. No more traffic jam. The floats are moving. The meeting turns into a sort of carnival parade with samba schools dancing ahead of the floats, each behind its own banner. TOO YOUNG TO VOTE, reads one. Songs take the place of speeches. Children, teenagers, old men and women, everybody is dancing.
No more tension. A cool breeze seems to sweep through the streets. The young kids are marvelous. In front of Duarte Filho’s house it is like a ballet. I’ve never seen such really beautiful dancing as fills the streets of Mossoró for hours, far into the night.
The governor and his party have gone on to another comicio. Don’t they ever get tired? I can still hear the piping and throbbing of distant sambas drifting in through the window of the pleasant old tropical hotel — there’s a shower, and a clean bed and the trade wind through the louvers, and even a reading light — what more could you want? — as I drift off to sleep.