Heliopolis (19 page)

‘He hasn’t spoken to me,’ he said. ‘And he barely mentioned me in his speech.’

‘I’m sure that wasn’t deliberate.’

‘It was. And I know why.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He offered me a job yesterday, and I turned it down.’

‘You turned down a job with him?’ I said. ‘That must have paid a fortune.’

‘He wanted me to give up my studies, and take a business course so I could work for him. But that’s not me. I want to work for myself.’

‘He’s just sulking because you refused him. He doesn’t like it when things don’t go his way.’

‘And have you seen him and my parents? They’re best friends all of a sudden.’

Whatever Zé’s initial misgivings about their son, he knew Gaspar and Olinda well. They were his kind of people. He had entrusted the well-being of his daughter to them and their beach house many times. They were on fine terms, and working the event as a pack.

‘It’s a disaster,’ Ernesto went on, ‘I’ve annoyed him before the marriage even starts.’

‘I think you did that before today, when you got her pregnant.’

‘Shut up, will you? We’re not talking about that.’

‘How is anybody going to explain where this baby came from when it appears? The truth will come out eventually.’

‘Well, it’s not coming out now. If there was one thing I could do that would piss Zé off more, it would be to release that little bit of information.’

‘Stop worrying about it. You’re family now. He has to like you.’

‘I guess you’re right. Have you seen my wife?’ he said, looking around him.

‘I’ll go and look for her.’

I had no intention of finding his wife — at least not for Ernesto — and I needed to see my mother. I feared that she was being taken for granted as much as the place. Never had she been treated so conspicuously as a servant, and I hated it, so much so that I was angry with her for putting up with it.

‘Look at my son all dressed up,’ she said, sweeping a speck from the shoulder of my jacket. ‘You look so perfect—anyone would think this was your wedding. Where have you been all this time?’

‘Busy. Not as busy as you though. The food is incredible. Everyone is saying so.’

‘I’m glad you came to see me. I have been wondering how you are.’

‘I’m fine. I didn’t even have to make a speech.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I mean, how are you about Melissa getting married?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ludo. Who do you think you’re talking to here?’

‘She’s my sister.’

‘We both know she’s more than your sister.’

‘That’s an unhelpful thing to say.’

‘She’s pregnant, isn’t she?’

‘Mamãe. Lower your voice.’

‘You can’t hide that sort of thing from me.’

‘Just keep quiet about it.’

‘And you can’t bear it, can you? That’s why you’re running off to the United States.’

‘I thought you of all people would find the idea of my turning down the opportunity to go to the United States unthinkable.’

‘Of course. So long as you are doing it for the right reasons.’

I paused, suppressing a shout. ‘Thank you for your advice. You should get back to work now.’

I wanted to go back, to say sorry immediately. I got as far as the kitchen door. Then I saw her shrug sadly, grab an icing squeezer from a waitress, and start putting the finishing touches to a mountain of cakes. The look of concentration on her face rekindled an old instinct—I knew she was not to be disturbed. I turned to go again. My last sight of her that evening was a glimpse down a long corridor stacked high with shiny aluminium pots, her forehead beaded with sweat, setting out petits fours, and I never did apologise.

Tramping out from the kitchen and down to the pool area, I saw the tree house ladder hanging from the foliage of the fig tree. I bolted up there, a wounded animal retreating to a trusted refuge.

My blood fizzing with regret at what I had said, and the vestiges of the anger that precipitated it, I sat breathing heavily, my legs crossed and my eyes tightly shut, inhaling the woody aromas of the tree house, hoping to be spirited away by them to simpler times.

Feeling the lumpen shapes of three or four steaks in my pocket, I took one out, rotated it in my hand, and bit into it. The outer crust of charred flesh and cracked peppercorns made black marks on my palm. I closed my eyes, and chewed, concentrating on the black, bloody flavours, hoping if not to be taken away to childhood then at least to be transported by the meat.

The band had started playing. Called Funkcetera, they were a successful outfit at the time, specialising in wacky outfits and polished, anodyne music. Looking down, I could see the dance floor near the pool undulating with multicoloured, disco-lit revellers. I relaxed, enjoying my place of safety, and decided to stay there hovering over the reception like a ghost for the rest of the evening.

A distant pop sounded, and the music went dead, along with the lights. Suddenly the farm was a flickering darkness of lanterns and scandalised laughter. It was Silvio’s worst nightmare. The power grid, unable to cope with the demands of the party on top of the storm, had given out. At least it had happened after most of the food had been served.

There was warmth in the unforeseen darkness, in my comfortable hiding place in the dripping trees. The smell of wet forest was suddenly sharper in the air, and the sounds of the night rose to a higher pitch, as if this reassertion of nature over man and his pleasures was that apparent, that physical. And with no town nearby to light up the skies, the darkness away from the feeble light of candles and lanterns was almost total.

I knew exactly how long it would take to get the power back. Silvio would be careening down the hill to the backup generator with his torch. He’d have to get down there, hope the generator room wasn’t flooded, possibly refuel the machine and spend a few minutes getting it started up. We had about half an hour of this lamplit magic.

I could hear Ernesto’s voice as he searched the party for his wife. There were roars of laughter and volleys of sarcastic remarks.

‘Good start, Nesto! You’ve lost her already!’

‘She couldn’t face it! She’s run away into the night!’

A slithering sound in the darkness. Someone hoisting herself up the ladder. Who else could it be?

‘Shh.’ A whispered giggle. Her teeth glinting in the darkness, she planted a big kiss on my mouth, tasting of vodka and lime juice. I licked my lips, delighting in her proximity, in the coconut warmth of her skin.

‘Drink?’ she said, handing me a cold glass, clinking with ice.

‘You’re drinking? You shouldn’t—’

‘Oh, shut up. It’s my wedding day.’

I took a gulp of the drink. It was powerful, delicious.

‘You’re supposed to be congratulating me,’ she said. ‘Not hiding up here.’

‘You should be careful of your dress,’ I said. ‘It’s not meant for tree climbing.’

‘It’s done its work,’ she said. ‘It concealed my bump. It got me married. I can destroy it now. Before my husband rips it off.’

I paused, swallowing. ‘I was just enjoying being above it all for a second.’

‘I knew you were here. I saw you disappearing.’

I allowed myself a glance at what I could see of her face in the dark. ‘You look—’

‘Shut up. You don’t need to say anything like that.’

‘But you do.’

Her hair. The child’s plastic watch.

‘You smell amazing too.’

‘You smell of dinner. How many steaks have you eaten?’

‘Too many.’

She laughed and took another swallow, and we sat side by side, staring down into her wedding, listening to the shouts and giggles of guests as they stumbled around in the gloom.

‘Why didn’t you look at me in the church?’

‘Sorry. There was a candle. It looked like it was about to set fire to the flowers. I didn’t want the place to burn down.’

I shifted awkwardly, suddenly aware of how long I had been sitting cross-legged, and feeling the onset of a cramp. ‘I should get down to Silvio at the generator. He’s probably knee-deep in mud.’

‘In the absence of my husband, his best man has to look after me. I think you’d better stay here.’

‘I expect Silvio could do with my help.’

‘I’m serious. Stay with me.’

‘We can’t stay up here. You have to get back to your wedding.’

‘Not now. I mean don’t go to the United States. Stay with me.’

‘You’re going to have a family now. I couldn’t stay living with you even if I wasn’t going away.’

‘Are you telling me you haven’t thought it?’

‘Thought what?’

‘That it could be our family?’

‘Unless the gestation period for a human baby has gone up by over a year, I think that is very unlikely.’

She laughed.

‘Don’t say stuff like that,’ I said.

‘Sorry.’ Her hand found mine in the dark. ‘So, you’re really abandoning me.’ Her damp lips brushed the back of my knuckles in a half kiss.

The lights came back on. A microphone whined feedback from the stage. A huge cheer went up. Reality kicked back in like the accelerating drone of a new cine-reel kicking into action. A voice from the stage through the microphone.
Sorry for the technical hitch, everyone! Now for the second part of tonight’s show!

‘Maybe you should go,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it will be good for you. I’m going back to work. You can finish the drink.’

Crawling across the floor to the ladder, she left the glass on the wooden floor of the tree house, the smells of vodka and limes in the air, droplets of condensation sliding down the outside. If I could live for ever in a single moment of time, this might be it, looking at that half-full glass she left behind for me—that tiny, longed-for pulse of goodwill in my direction—still ice-cold, her handprint glazing over on its surface.

The rain and the blackout had sent everyone to a higher pitch of excitement. Something about the calm of the power cut (how many furtive moments were stolen during that half hour?) meant that when the electricity came back on, the guests felt the need to compensate, and began a more violent process of destruction. We were in for a long night.

I drank the rest of the vodka, too fast, so the alcohol made me reel, and the cold brought on a headache. Then I came down the tree house and made my way down the hill towards the generator, so that I could show Silvio I had at least intended to help him fix the problem.

I ran into him on the way up, his suit spattered with mud. He looked old, and his breath came out in a wheeze.

‘Looking good,’ I said.

‘It’ll brush off when it dries. I’m still respectable enough, aren’t I?’

‘I was coming to see if you needed any help.’

‘You’ve got more important things to do than help an old man start an engine.’

‘I haven’t. Sorry not to be here sooner.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ He put an arm round me fondly. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a strong drink. The worst that could happen has happened, so there’s no reason for me to stay sober. And your mother and I have hardly seen you.’

‘I’ll meet you up there in ten minutes,’ I said.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Quick walk,’ I said, carrying on past him down the hill. ‘Pour me a strong one. I’ll be right there.’

‘Don’t think too much,’ he called after me. ‘You’ll hurt your head.’

I couldn’t be sure I had found the right spot, but when I guessed that I was close to where Melissa and I had made our jungle hideaway fourteen years before, I sat down at the foot of a tree in the rain, watching leaves dancing in the drops. I grimaced, and stretched out my arms, and begged any forest spirits who might be listening to bring her back to me, whatever the cost.

I
t’s the day of the big MaxiBudget meeting: Ludo versus Dennis, with Oscar and Ernesto looking on. I have done nothing. Since yesterday my visit to the favela has been replaying itself on a loop in my head. I even found myself in a photographic shop this morning, buying five packets of instant camera film—and I don’t know the girl’s name.

Oscar is on high alert, as always when new work is being presented. He gives a jumpy, enthusiastic preamble on how revolutionary an idea MaxiBudget is; how much good it will do; how the fact that it benefits us and our clients is a beautiful added bonus, and nothing to be ashamed of. The speech is for Ernesto’s benefit, to show him how excited we are about the job, but rather than reacting generously to Oscar’s bluster, as I would expect—however little he buys into it—our client sits hunched over his coffee, failing to look engaged. Ernesto has always lacked guile. His feelings show as plainly as if they were tattooed on his forehead, and knowing him as well as I do, I can tell that something is wrong, and that it has nothing to do with the meeting.

Dennis is trying to be modest, but is keen to make an impression. He thinks his ideas are something special, and eventually his moment arrives.

‘All feedback welcome, of course,’ he says, standing to unveil a series of large boards. ‘They’re just concepts really.’ He retreats further into the silence. ‘A starting point, at least.’

The images before us are of happy, well-fed children of all races standing by piles of food waste—rotting fruit, flyblown meat, ripped plastic bags—and looking up with smiles on their faces into the beaming light of the MaxiBudget logo, from which bursts fresh produce of every variety, along with the names of some of the big brands whose products will be available in the stores. There’s a choice of two different lines printed in large yellow letters over the images. One reads,
MaxiBudget
:
On Your Side
. The other reads,
MaxiBudget
:
Now It’s Your Turn
.

‘I was trying to play around with this benefit we’re offering —that with MaxiBudget you’ll have access to the quality brands you couldn’t afford before. That you aren’t alone. MaxiBudget as your ally, if you like.’

A couple of people round the table murmur noncommittal compliments, waiting to judge the mood of the room. Everyone looks expectantly at Ernesto.

‘I think we’ve got something interesting here,’ says Oscar, in the gap left by Ernesto’s silence. ‘It’s simple, and clear, and it would work across all the different media. I don’t see these as final strap lines, but as a starting point for the tone of the launch I think they are promising.’

‘OK,’ says Ernesto, knowing he’s expected to respond.

‘It’s only a start,’ says Dennis. ‘But I think it could set us in the right direction.’

Ernesto turns to me. ‘Ludo, what do you make of this?’

‘Honestly?’ I say, not looking in the direction of Oscar or Dennis.

‘Of course.’

‘I think it’s patronising.’

Oscar’s eyes widen. His urge to leap for my throat is tempered only by the presence of an important client.

‘It implies they’re already at rock bottom,’ I continue. ‘It implies that they want the same things we have brainwashed the rich into wanting—and that the summit of their ambition is to be consumers like us.’

There’s an audible intake of breath. If Oscar wasn’t conscious of my family link to Ernesto then I would be dead by now. Yet again my connections are my safety net.

‘These people aren’t beneath us,’ I say. ‘They’re just unlucky. They deserve nothing but respect. Everything is against them, but they hold on. They are humanity at its most tenacious. Can you imagine living like that? If your house is washed down the hill, you have no choice but to regroup and start another. It’s a state of near-anarchy. But somehow, the system works. Ingenuity prevails. Walls are built from scrap and rubbish; materials are reclaimed and recycled. People struggle on.’

Dennis tries to talk over me, but I hold up a hand to stop his voice.

‘One day we may all have to live like this. And then they’ll have the last laugh. Answer me honestly: who around this table would know how to build their own house? Who would even know where to
start
? These people are the advance guard. They’re trained-up and ready. They are insured. I don’t think we can speak to them like this. They won’t listen. They’ll laugh in our faces.’

Everyone’s looking at me.

‘So what would you do, Ludo?’ says Ernesto, with interest. Thank God he’s not a real client. If I spoke like this to someone who actually cared about his business I’d be thrown out of the window.

‘I don’t know. Something that’s more of a tribute to their powers of survival than a lesson in how to graduate to a consumer lifestyle.’

‘And how exactly is that going to launch a chain of supermarkets?’ says Oscar, keeping his rage in check for now. ‘This is a business. We have a commercial responsibility, not a social one.’

‘But even looking at it purely from an advertising point of view, this campaign won’t work. Of course these people have aspirations, and of course they want a better life, but they are also proud of the communities they have made. Don’t try and tell them that we have what they’ve been waiting for, and that it’s a scaled-down version of what’s available to the affluent. They won’t want to hear it.’

I sit down again, shrugging my shoulders as if to say
Take it or leave it
. Dennis wants to weigh in to defend his idea, but Oscar is shrewd; he holds back to see how Ernesto reacts.

‘I agree with Ludo,’ Ernesto says, quietly. ‘The last thing we should do is be patronising.’ He is barely in the room—just staring off into space—but it’s the steer Oscar was waiting for.

‘Well done, Ludo. Those focus groups of yours are obviously paying off,’ he says. ‘But what should we do instead?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I have a nasty feeling that the whole idea of the MaxiBudget chain is suspect.’

‘Could I talk to you alone for a moment?’ says Oscar.

When we’re out of earshot of the meeting room, he pulls me into an alcove that’s painted with a huge, cartooned grim reaper, his scythe menacingly poised over Oscar’s head.

‘Brother-in-law or no brother-in-law, this is starting to piss me off. You’re putting an important piece of business in jeopardy. I don’t care what this is all about—maybe you’re in love with that cleaner of yours—but whatever it is, don’t ever undermine one of our ideas in front of a client again.’

When we return to the meeting, Oscar says, ‘I think we should take a short break, and come back with some fresh thoughts.’

Everyone files out, leaving Ernesto staring down at a pad on the table, making listless notes.

‘That was very unlike you,’ he says, looking up. ‘I enjoyed it.’

‘Good. Now are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you?’

‘Can we talk somewhere?’

‘Let’s go for a walk. Get some street food.’

I take him to a place I found yesterday on my way back from the favela: a ramshackle kiosk near a newsstand on a dusty street corner, manned by a jovial guy in a filthy apron who is probably one of Flávia’s neighbours. We order salt cod
bolinhos
and cheese pasties, and stand at the counter eating and talking, while the man behind the counter makes fresh sugarcane juice, forcing the long, fibrous stalks into a giant pulping machine and collecting the sweet green liquid in beakers at the other end.

‘I wouldn’t have pictured you here,’ says Ernesto. ‘I thought you were only interested in the finest restaurants the city had to offer.’

‘I’m only a snob about quality.’

‘Hear that?’ says Ernesto, transmitting my compliment to the proprietor. ‘You should be delighted—this man is hard to please.’

Setting down our juice, the owner smiles appreciatively, and flexes his bicep for us, like it’s an indicator of his culinary prowess. As we’re about to walk off with our food, he holds out a plastic pot of individually wrapped wooden toothpicks.

‘For after your meal,’ he says. ‘The poor man’s pudding.’

‘Poor man’s pudding, exactly,’ Ernesto says, smiling at him.

We stroll back in the direction of the office.

‘So what’s the matter?’ I say. ‘Let me guess. Your wife?’

He nods. ‘I talked to her about the stuff we were discussing the other day.’

‘You did? How was it?’

‘It could have been better. I came clean with her about working for her father. She told me off for being secretive. And that annoyed me. So I just brought it up.’

‘Brought what up?’

‘My suspicions. I didn’t mean to. It just came out.’

‘And what did she say?’ I ask. My food is instantly inedible.

‘That I was right. That she had been seeing someone else.’

Interesting.

‘Some guy from her office,’ he goes on. ‘It’s over now, apparently, and it only happened twice.’

‘Shit, man. I’m sorry to hear that.’

What fucking guy from the office?

‘How are you feeling about it?,’ I continue.

‘I’m glad, in a way. It means I’m not going mad—that there was something happening when I was away.’

‘What else did she say?’

‘Actually she told me to come and talk to you about it. She said you’d know what to say. Sisterly love, huh?’

I smile. ‘That was good of her.’

What fucking guy from the office?

During the second half of the meeting, my legs quiver. The urge to overturn the table and sprint out of the room is so strong that I want to hit myself into submission. Dennis stands with a marker pen while everyone else calls out words that describe how it would feel to live in a favela. I have said nothing, but words like
angry
and
hungry
and
impotent
are accumulating fast on the whiteboard. Knowing that I will have to RIP OFF MY SKIN if I am made to stay in this room for a moment longer, I get to my feet.

‘Ludo? You’re leaving us?’ says Oscar.

‘Bathroom.’

‘Come back with an idea, will you?’

I take a deep breath as the bathroom door closes behind me. Flávia has been here recently—the smell of her eucalyptus cleaning fluid and a hint of her sweat linger on the air. Already though, the floor round the urinals is tacky. Oscar, no doubt, idly hosing all over the place while his mind lingered on something unpleasant. To think that Flávia has to deal with this every day, cleaning up after people who imagine themselves too busy to take proper aim.

I need time to think. I can’t deal with Oscar staring me in the face waiting for an idea when Melissa and her ‘guy from the office’ are on my mind. What does it mean? Is it a signal from her, a warning shot? And what is this other feeling—this crippling guilt towards Ernesto? Suddenly, the sight of his big, desolate face across that meeting-room table is more than I can bear.

After staring at myself in the mirror for a minute and splashing water on my face, I quietly re-enter the airless, mindless room.

‘We had an idea while you were away,’ says Dennis, impossibly smug.

‘Tell him,’ says Oscar.

‘I’m sure you have a point about the strategy being wrong,’ says Dennis. ‘I don’t know enough about it yet. And those ideas were just a starting point. Perhaps I should spend some time in a favela to see it for myself.’

‘That might help.’

‘In the meantime, I had another thought that might be interesting.’

‘This is great, Ludo, listen to it,’ says Oscar.

‘I thought we could organise a launch night for MaxiBudget here in the building. Invite everyone from the favela round the corner and announce our intentions—to make sure they understand where we’re coming from.’

‘Isn’t it a cute idea?’ says Oscar. ‘A launch party where we invite all those kids right on our doorstep to come in, explain the plan to them, and get feedback on how we should position it. Like a big community brainstorming event. You say we haven’t got it right, Ludo—well, let’s
ask
them. Let’s throw open our doors and show them a good time.’

‘You could even, if you liked, only serve the brands we represent, seeing as those companies will all be present,’ says Dennis.

‘Better still, have themed courses, sponsored by different clients. That way everyone can be involved—even the detergent people,’ I say, not entirely seriously.

‘Now you’re getting it!’ Oscar claps me on the shoulder with a damp palm. ‘And your job, Ludo, is to use the contacts you have in the favela to get the word out. Explain to them what’s going on and get them all to come over here. I think we should do this soon. At the end of the week, if we can. Let’s aim for Friday night.’ He turns to Ernesto. ‘Happy?’

Ernesto nods miserably.

‘Excellent. Perhaps we could even see if our friend Zé Generoso is available to attend,’ says Oscar. ‘If we all ask him at once, he might be persuaded to make the time.’

‘OK,’ Ernesto says.

‘You’re a genius,’ says Oscar to Dennis, who smiles awkwardly in his spotlight. ‘This guy. What would we do without him? I swear if he was a woman, my next love child would be quarter Australian.’

After the meeting, Ernesto and I go to my office.

‘What do you think I should do?’ he says, collapsing on to the sofa.

‘I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe she’s been so stupid. I’m furious with her myself.’

‘Please don’t say anything to her. I don’t want her to think I’m being indiscreet by talking about this stuff with you.’

‘As you wish.’

His last words as we say goodbye in reception are, ‘I just don’t know where I went wrong.’

When he’s gone, I rush back upstairs and call Melissa at work.

‘What’s this about a guy at the office?’

‘Educated people usually begin telephone conversations with some form of greeting.’

‘Tell me. What’s his name?’

She sighs. ‘For a genius, you can be very stupid at times.’

I pause, trying to catch up. ‘There is no guy at the office?’

‘Of course there isn’t. I did you a favour, though I can’t imagine why. The guy from the office is you. And as I told my husband, I’m not seeing him any more. Haven’t we already had this conversation?’