When they arrive in front of the Timpanas, the old man contemplates the ancient buildings lined up to the corner of Rodrigo Silva Street. “It’s all going to be torn down,” he says. “You two go on in, I’ll be along shortly; order rice and peas for me.”
Kelly and Augusto sit at a table covered with a white tablecloth. They order a fish stew for two and rice with peas for the old man. The Timpanas is a restaurant that prepares dishes to the customer’s specifications.
“Why don’t you hug me the way you did that dirty black guy?” Kelly asks.
Augusto doesn’t want to argue. He gets up to look for the old man.
The old man is looking at the buildings, quite absorbed, leaning against an iron fence that surrounds the old Buraco do Lume, which after it was closed off became a patch of grass with a few trees, where a few beggars live.
“Your rice is ready,” Augusto says.
“You see that balcony there, in that blue two-story building? The three windows on the second floor? It was in that window to our right that I saw her for the first time, leaning on the balcony, her elbows resting on a pillow with red embroidery.”
“Your rice is on the table. It has to be eaten as soon as it comes from the stove.”
Augusto takes the old man by the arm, and they go into the restaurant.
“She was very pretty. I never again saw such a pretty girl.”
“Eat your rice, it’s getting cold,” Augusto says.
“She limped on one leg. That wasn’t important to me. But it was important to her.”
“It’s always like that,” Kelly says.
“You’re right,” the old man says.
“Eat your rice, it’s getting cold.”
“The women of the oldest profession possess a sinuous wisdom. You gave me momentary comfort by mentioning the inexorability of things,” the old man says.
“Thanks,” Kelly says.
“Eat your rice, it’s getting cold.”
“It’s all going to be torn down,” the old man says.
“Did it used to be better?” Augusto asks.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“In the old days there were fewer people and almost no automobiles.”
“The horses, filling the streets with manure, must have been considered a curse equal to today’s cars,” Augusto says.
“And people in the old days were less stupid,” the old man continues with a melancholy gaze, “and not in such a hurry.”
“People in those days were more innocent,” Kelly says.
“And more hopeful. Hope is a kind of liberation,” the old man says.
Meanwhile, Raimundo, the pastor, called by his bishop to the world headquarters of the Church of Jesus Savior of Souls, on Avenida Suburbana, listens contritely to the words of the supreme head of his Church.
“Each pastor is responsible for the temple in which he works. Your collection has been very small. Do you know how much Pastor Marcos, in Nova Iguaçu, collected last month? Over ten thousand dollars. Our Church needs money. Jesus needs money; he always has. Did you know that Jesus had a treasurer, Judas Iscariot?”
Pastor Marcos, of Nova Iguaçu, was the inventor of the Offerings Envelope. The envelopes have the name of the Church of Jesus Savior of Souls printed on them, the phrase I request prayers for these people, followed by five lines for the petitioner to write the people’s names, a square with $ in large type, and the category of the offering. The SPECIAL prayers, with larger quantities, are light green; the REGULAR are brown, and in them only two prayers can be requested. Other churches copied the Envelope, which greatly annoyed the bishop.
“The devil has been coming to my church,” Raimundo says, “and since he starting going to my church the faithful aren’t making their offerings, or even paying the tithe.”
“Lucifer?” The bishop looks at him, a look that Raimundo would like to be one of admiration; probably the bishop has never seen the devil personally. But the bishop is inscrutable. “What disguise is he using?”
“He wears dark glasses, he’s missing one ear, and he sits in the pews at the back, and one day, the second time he appeared at the temple, there was a yellow aura around him.” The bishop must know that the devil can take any appearance he wants, like a black dog or a man in dark glasses and missing one ear.
“Did anyone else see this yellow light?”
“No, sir.”
“Any special smell?”
“No, sir.”
The bishop meditates for some time.
“And after he appeared, the faithful stopped tithing? You’re sure it was—”
“Yes, it was after he showed up. The faithful say they don’t have any money, that they lost their job, or they’re sick, or they were robbed.”
“And you believe they’re telling the truth. What about jewels? Don’t any of them have jewels? A gold wedding ring?”
“They’re telling the truth. Can we ask for jewels?”
“Why not? They’re for Jesus.”
The bishop’s face is unreadable.
“The devil hasn’t been there lately. I’ve been looking for him. I’m not afraid; he’s walking around the city and I’m going to find him,” Raimundo says.
“And when you find him, what do you plan to do?”
“If the bishop could enlighten me with his counsel …”
“You have to discover for yourself, in the sacred books, what you must do. Sylvester II made a pact with the devil, to achieve the Papacy and wisdom. Whenever the devil appears, it’s always to make a pact. Lucifer appeared to you, not to me. But remember, if the devil outsmarts you, it means you’re not a good pastor.”
“All good comes from God and all evil from the Devil,” Raimundo says.
“Yes, yes,” the bishop says with a bored sigh.
“But good can overcome evil.”
“Yes,” another sigh.
The lunch at the Timpanas continues. The old man speaks of the Ideal Cinema, on Carioca Street.
“The Ideal was on one side on the street, the Iris Cinema on the other. The Iris is still there. Now it shows pornographic films.”
“It may become a church,” Augusto says.
“At the night showings the Iris’s ceiling would open and let in the evening cool. You could see the stars in the sky,” the old man says.
“Only crazy people go to the movies to see stars,” Kelly says.
“How did the ceiling open?” Augusto asks.
“A very advanced engineering system for the time. Pulleys, pulleys … Rui Barbosa always used to go there, and sometimes I sat near him.”
“You sat near him?”
The old man notes a certain incredulity in Augusto’s voice. “What do you think? Rui Barbosa died just the other day, in 1923.”
“My mother was born in 1950,” Kelly says. “She’s an old woman who’s falling apart.”
“For a long time, after Rui died, and until the theater became a shoe store, his seat was separated by a velvet rope and there was a plaque saying This seat was occupied by Senator Rui Barbosa. I voted for him for president, twice, but Brazilians always elect the wrong presidents.”
“The theater became a shoe store?”
“If Rui were alive, he wouldn’t let them do that. The two facades, one of stone and the other of marble, and the glass marquee, a glass just like that in my skylight, are still there, but inside there’s nothing but piles of cheap shoes; it’s enough to break your heart,” says the old man.
“Shall we go there?” Augusto suggests to Kelly.
“I’m not going anywhere with you to see fountains, buildings falling to pieces and disgusting trees until you stop and listen to my life story. He doesn’t want to listen to the story of my life. But he listens to the story of everybody else’s life.”