“I liked your story,” Monica Tutsi said.
“A pinch of Romeo and Juliet, a teaspoon of Oedipus Rex,” I said modestly.
“But I can’t photograph it, man. I have to do everything in two hours. Where do I find the mansion? The cars? The picturesque convent? The flowered wood?”
“That’s your problem.”
“Where do I find,” Monica Tutsi continued as if he hadn’t heard me, “the two slim, blond young people with blue eyes? All our models tend toward the mulatto. Where do I get the wagon? Try again, man. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And what does Sophoclean mean?”
Roberto and Betty are engaged to be married. Roberto, who is very hard working, has saved his money to buy an apartment and furnish it, with a color television set, stereo, refrigerator, washing machine, floor polisher, dishwasher, toaster, electric iron, and hair dryer. Betty works too. Both are chaste. The date is set. A friend of Roberto’s, Tiago, asks him, “Are you going to get married still a virgin? You need to be initiated into the mysteries of sex.” Tiago then takes Roberto to the house of the Superwhore Betatron. (Attention Monica Tutsi: the name is a pinch of science fiction.) When Roberto arrives he finds out that the Superwhore is Betty, his dear fiancée. Oh heavens! What a horrible surprise! Someone, perhaps a doorman, will say, “To grow up is to suffer.” End of story.
“One word is worth a thousand photographs,” Monica Tutsi said. “I always get the short end of things. I’ll be back soon.”
DR. NATHANAEL. I like to cook. I also like to embroider and crochet. And most of all I like to wear a long evening gown and put on crimson lipstick, with lots of rouge and eye shadow. Ah, what a sensation! What a pity that I must stay locked in my room. No one knows that I like to do these things. Am I wrong? PEDRO REDGRAVE. TIJUCA.
ANSWER: Why should it be wrong? Are you doing anyone harm? I had another reader who, like you, enjoyed dressing as a woman. He carried on a normal, useful, and socially productive life, to the point that he was chosen a model worker. Put on your long gowns, paint your lips scarlet, put some color in your life.
“All the letters should be from women,” Peçanha reminded.
“But this one is real,” I said.
“I don’t believe it.”
I handed the letter to Peçanha. He looked at it with the expression of a cop examining a badly counterfeited bill.
“You think it’s a joke?” Peçanha asked.
“It might be,” I said. “And it might not be.”
Peçanha put on his reflective look. Then: “Add some phrase of encouragement to your letter, like for example, ‘write again’.”
I sat down at the typewriter: Write again, Pedro, I know that’s not your real name, but it doesn’t matter; write again, count on me. Nathanael Lessa.
“Shit,” said Monica Tutsi, “I went to do your great piece of drama and they told me it was stolen from some Italian film.”
“Wretches, band of idiots—just because I was a police reporter they’re calling me a plagiarist.”
“Take it easy, Virginia.”
“Virginia? My name is Clarice Simone,” I said. “What idiocy is this of thinking only Italian fiancées are whores? Look here, I once knew an engaged woman, a really serious one, who was even a sister of charity, and they found out she was a whore too.”
“It’s okay, man, I’m going to shoot the story. Can Betatron be mulatto? What’s a Betatron?”
“She has to be a redhead, with freckles. Betatron is an apparatus for the production of electrons, possessing great energy potential and high velocity, impelled by the action of a rapidly changing magnetic field,” I said.
“Shit! That’s really a name for a whore,” said Monica Tutsi admiringly, on his way out.
UNDERSTANDING NATHANAEL LESSA. I have worn my long gowns gloriously. And my mouth has been as red as tiger’s blood and the break of dawn. I am thinking of putting on a satin gown and going to the Municipal Theater. What do you think? And now I’m going to tell you a great and marvelous confidence, but you must keep my confession the greatest secret. Do you swear? Ah, I don’t know if I should say it or not. All my life I’ve suffered the greatest disillusionment from believing in others. I am basically a person who never lost his innocence. Betrayal, coarseness, shamelessness, and baseness leave me quite shocked. Oh, how I would like to live isolated in a utopian world of love and kindness. My sensitive Nathanael, let me think. Give me time. In the next letter I shall tell more, perhaps everything. PEDRO REDGRAVE.
ANSWER: Pedro. I await your letter, with your secrets, which I promise to store in the inviolable reaches of my recondite consciousness. Continue this way, confronting aloofly the envy and insidious perfidy of the poor in spirit. Adorn your body, which thirsts for sensuality, by exercising the challenges of your courageous mind.
Peçanha asked: “Are these letters real too?”
“Pedro Redgrave’s are.”
“Strange, very strange,” Peçanha said, tapping his nails on his teeth. “What do you make of it?”
“I don’t make anything of it,” I said.
He seemed preoccupied about something. He asked about the illustrated love story but took no interest in the answers.
“What about the blind girl’s letter?” I asked.
Peçanha got the blind girl’s letter and my reply and read aloud: “Dear Nathanael. I cannot read what you write. My beloved granny reads it to me. But do not think I am illiterate. I am blind. My dear granny is writing this letter for me, but the words are my own. I want to send a word of comfort to your readers so that they, who suffer so much from small misfortunes, may look at themselves in the mirror. I am blind but I am happy. I am at peace, with God and my fellow man. Happiness to all. Long live Brazil and its people. Blind but Happy. Unicorn Road. Nova Iguaçu. P.S. I forgot to say that I am also paralyzed.” Peçanha lit a cigar. “Moving, but Unicorn Road doesn’t ring true. You’d better make it Windmill Road or something like that. Now let’s see your answer. ‘Blind but Happy, congratulations on your moral strength, your unwavering faith in happiness, in goodness, in the people, and in Brazil. The souls of those who despair in their adversity should take nourishment from your edifying example, a flambeau of light in the darkness of torment.’”
Peçanha gave me the papers. “You have a future in literature. This is a great school we have here. Learn, learn, dedicate yourself, don’t lose heart, work hard.”
I sat at the typewriter:
Tesio, a bank employee, resident of Boca do Mato, in Lins de Vasconcelos, married to Frederica in his second marriage, has a son, Hipolito, from his first marriage. Frederica falls in love with Hipolito. Tesio discovers their sinful love. Frederica hangs herself from the mango tree in the back yard. Hipolito asks his father for forgiveness, leaves home and wanders desperately through the streets of the cruel city until he is run over and killed on the Avenida Brasil.
“What’s the seasoning here?” Monica Tutsi asked.