If I Close My Eyes Now (30 page)

‘Who’s speaking?’

‘The phone kept ringing, but nobody picked up. There was no answering machine for me to leave a message.’

‘Who is this?’

‘I don’t live here. It’s a long time since I’ve been here. It was
on an impulse that I looked for his name in the directory.’

‘Yes, but who is “he”? Who do you want to talk to?’

‘I did the same when I was in Rio, ten years ago. I also tried in Porto Alegre. And in Recife. In Brasilia, Manaus and Belo Horizonte. Wherever I go in Brazil, I look for his name. I never thought of it until recently. I’d given up …’

‘But who are you?’

‘… Until, four days ago, when I saw the phone directory here in my hotel room, I opened it and looked. And found the name. I think it must be him. I hope it is.’

‘What is it you want?’

‘The name’s the same. I thought it might be him.’

‘Who’s speaking?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t say who I am. I’m a bit … emotional. Forgive me: I didn’t think I was ever going to find him. It’s been such a long time since we … since we saw each other. I never lost hope of meeting him again some day. But, living abroad as I do … and coming here for only short periods of time … only a few days … meetings, talks … and yet deep down, I always believed that one day … I’m sorry. I’m not someone who finds it hard to express himself, but when you answered the phone, so many things went through my mind. It’s been so many years …’

‘Are you trying to sell me something, is that it?’

‘No! No! As I told you, I simply want to talk to him. I don’t even know what I’ll say to him, after such a long time. We were friends in our childhood. Our adolescence. Well, when we were almost adolescents. Circumstances drove us apart. Ever since then …’

‘Were you friends in Taubaté?’

‘No. We were classmates in the interior of Rio de Janeiro state.’

‘My husband has never lived in Rio. He’s lived in many places throughout Brazil, but I’m sure he was never in Rio. You’ve got through to the wrong person.’

‘He never lived in the interior of Rio de Janeiro state? In a city called—’

‘Never.’

‘No?’

‘Never.’

‘Ah … well then, I’m sorry. It’s just that I saw his name in the directory, the same name as my friend, so I thought … I thought it could be him. I thought it was him.’

‘Which directory?’

‘This one. The directory for São Paulo.’

‘I thought you’d looked in Yellow Pages. My husband’s name isn’t in the general directory.’

‘It isn’t? But this phone number …’

‘Have you called to speak to Fábio?’

‘Fábio?’

‘My husband.’

‘No, not Fábio. I didn’t call to speak to anyone called Fábio. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. But the name’s here in the directory. I even underlined it …’

‘It must be an old book.’

He looked at the front cover.

‘It’s from 1996.’

‘Ah, that’s why. The number was still in my father-in-law’s name then.’

‘Your father-in-law? This is his number? Could I speak to him? It’s been many years since we saw each other, but he must remember me.’

The woman’s voice did not reply.

‘May I speak to your father-in-law?’

‘What is it you want?’

‘Forgive me insisting, but I’m in a hurry. My taxi will be here any minute. I tried to get through earlier. As I said, I rang several times, but no one answered.’

‘We were away, with the kids. School holidays.’

‘Yes of course, I understand. Your father-in-law …’

‘Who exactly are you?’

‘A friend. From way back. We each went our own way, and …’

‘Wait a moment. I’ll call my husband.’

He heard the sound of the phone being put down on a hard surface. Then there was silence for a while. The noise of children in the background. The woman’s voice, then a man’s. Her voice once again. More silence. Her voice. The sound of footsteps. The telephone being picked up, then a man’s voice at the other end of the line.

‘How can I help you?’

‘Good day. You don’t know me …’ His voice dried up. He was so moved he couldn’t go on. He was talking to his friend’s son! After all these years!

‘Good afternoon.’

‘Yes, of course, good afternoon. Good afternoon. You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of your father’s.’

‘I know all my father’s friends. There weren’t very many of them. Which one are you?’

‘From a long way back. When we lived in the interior of Rio de Janeiro state.’

‘Papa left there when he was twelve.’

‘I know. I left at the same age. Both his parents and my father were forced to—’

‘Did you study with him at the Faculty of Engineering?’

‘We never saw each other again.’

‘Why are you trying to get in touch now?’

‘I’d like to talk to him. I’ve been trying for years. I lost contact with him. We split up. Life split us up.’

‘What is it you want?’

‘Nothing. I can understand you being so cautious. I’m a stranger to you. But not to your father. As I said: I don’t want anything. I don’t live in Brazil. A taxi is about to come to pick me up. I’m flying out quite soon, so I don’t have much time. I’d like to talk to your father, if only for a few minutes. Now that I’ve found him, we could arrange to meet in the future. Is he there? Can I talk to him?’

‘How long is it since … you heard from him?’

‘Forty years. It’ll be forty-one years in April.’

‘So you really knew my father?’

‘Yes, yes, I knew him. He was my best friend. I was his best friend.’

‘What were the names of his parents?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You can’t remember my grandfather’s name? Or my grandmother’s?’

‘No, quite simply, I can’t.’

‘Didn’t you say you were friends?’

‘Yes, we were. But I never thought about his parents’ names. I don’t know if I even knew them.’

‘You never knew? The name of your best friend’s father? Or of his mother?’

‘It’s been forty … forty-one years since we last spoke, since I last saw him, since I had any news of him. His father and mine had to leave the city where we were living. A crime took place there. Did he never mention that?’

‘Never.’

‘Did he never talk about the murder of a woman called Anita?’

‘No.’

‘Aparecida?’

‘No. Aparecida or Anita?’

‘I’ve remembered!’

‘What?’

‘His father’s name: Ronaldo.’

‘My grandfather wasn’t called Ronaldo.’

‘He wasn’t?’

‘No. Are you sure you didn’t dial the wrong number?’

‘Adolfo. Was that his name?’

‘No. Who do you actually want to speak to?’

‘Your father had lost his mother. I remember that.’

‘My grandmother is still alive.’

‘He hadn’t lost his mother?’

‘It was my grandfather who died young. At forty-something. He had a heart attack. The same problem that killed my father.’

Silence.

‘Your father …’ he began, but couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Papa died six years ago. Of a heart attack too.’

‘Your father …’ he began again, his voice trembling. He saw his face in the wardrobe mirror. He had gone pale. He took a deep breath and tried again:

‘Your father’s name was …’

‘Eduardo.’

‘Eduardo …’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Eduardo José Massaranni.’

‘That’s right. Eduardo José Massaranni. So you knew him?’

Silence.

‘Hello?’

No sound at the other end of the line.

‘Hello?’

Still no reply.

‘Hello? Are you there?’

Nothing.

‘Hello? Hello?’

Nothing.

The sound of breathing into the mouthpiece. But he didn’t say a word.

‘Can you hear me? Hello, hello!’

More breathing. But not a word.

‘Hello? Are you still there? Hello?’

‘I’m here,’ said the voice, faintly. Then, in a louder tone: ‘I’m here.’

‘Forgive me for giving you the news so abruptly. I didn’t think that you … I can tell it came as a shock.’

‘Yes. I never imagined that. I never imagined he … I’ve
been searching for Eduardo for so long, and just when I thought I’d found him … How long ago did he die?’

‘Six years ago. In 1996.’

‘He must have been forty-seven.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘We’re the same age. We were. I’m slightly older. Forty-eight days older. I was born on 11 January. His birthday is 28 February. Was. It was his birthday today.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry to break the news to you like that. I never thought …’

‘Did you say he studied engineering?’

‘Yes, he was a civil engineer. He helped build lots of hydroelectric dams in Brazil. Including the one at Itaipú. We lived in Paraguay when he was working on that. My father took his family with him wherever he went.’

‘Always?’

‘Always. We lived in places no one has ever heard of: Itumbiara, in the state of Goiás; Icém, in Minas; Três Lagoas, in Mato Grosso do Sul; Candeias do Jamari, in Rondônia, close to the border with Bolivia; and even somewhere that had no name, a tiny village in Pará, in the midst of the Amazon jungle. Four hundred kilometres from Belém, when they were building the hydro-electric plant at Tucuruí. Have you been there?’

‘To Belém? Yes.’

‘There was one place, in Rio Grande do Sul, that had the most incredible name you can imagine: Passo do Inferno, the gates of hell. In the mountains there. It was unbelievably cold. I hate the cold. We lived in loads of places. My brother liked it, but I didn’t.’

‘You have a brother?’

‘And a sister. There are three of us. I’m the youngest. Julia is the middle one. She’s in Brasilia. She works as a dentist. And Paulo—’

‘Paulo?’

‘Paulo Roberto.’

‘Paulo Roberto? Eduardo called one of his sons Paulo Roberto?’

‘My elder brother. He’s a doctor. He lives in the United States. In Cleveland. He’s a cardiologist. He wasn’t here when our father had a heart attack.’

‘Does he look like Eduardo?’

‘I resemble him more. Paulo is more like his mother. He’s darker-skinned. He looks almost like an Indian. His mother is from Rio Grande do Sul.’

‘You and your sister …’

‘We’re from his second marriage. Paulo used to spend his holidays with us. He only came to live with us when he was about fourteen. That was in Uruguaiana, down near the frontier with Uruguay. Our father was working on some hydro-electrical project or other on the border. I can’t remember which exactly.’

‘What was he like? Your father, I mean. What was Eduardo like as an adult?’

‘Thin. Lanky. Always well dressed.’

‘What was he like as a person? You can understand why I’m curious, can’t you? We got to know each other as kids, and …’

‘He was very quiet. He didn’t laugh much. He went to bed early. He used to go out to buy bread, milk, the newspaper. He
read a lot. Newspapers, books, magazines. He wrote. He listened to music at night, when he thought we were asleep. He liked opera.’

‘
Tosca?
Did he listen to
Tosca
a lot?’

‘I don’t know. All opera sounds the same to a young boy, doesn’t it? He tried to get us interested in opera and classical music. But I never got hooked. Nor did Julia. Paulo did though. He also likes to read. Comics, newspapers, books, he always read everything that fell into his lap. Just like our father. He must still do the same, in the States.’

‘Don’t you see each other?’

‘I’ve never been there. My daughter is still small, and you know how complicated it is to travel with children. And now since 9/11 everything is even more difficult, what with the American paranoia over terrorism, the restriction on visas and all the rest. Besides, it seems Cleveland is a very cold city. I can’t bear the cold. The winter here in São Paulo is bad enough. And Paulo and I were never very close. Are you an engineer as well?’

‘A sociologist.’

‘Great. And what do you do, as a sociologist?’

‘My most recent work has been in East Timor. We’re building schools there. I work for an agency linked to the UN. Some Brazilian contractors have put in bids for the construction work. That’s why I came to São Paulo.’

‘If you work for the UN, you must live in New York.’

‘No, the headquarters of the agency I work for is in Lausanne. I have an apartment there, a base. But I don’t live in Switzerland. I don’t live anywhere, really. I live where I work.
At the moment that’s East Timor. Before, I’ve been in Mozambique, Algeria, Bosnia. Sri Lanka … Some months here, some months there …’

‘Do you have children?’

‘Two. One lives with his mother in Sweden. Joseph. The younger one. He doesn’t know whether to study architecture or biology. He’s only seventeen. The other boy is in India. He’s a web designer. Neither of them looks like me. Thankfully for them. Their mother is very pretty. She’s Swedish.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘His name?’

‘Your eldest son.’

A pause.

‘Edward,’ he said eventually.

‘Eduardo? Like my father?’

‘Yes. Like your father.’

A silence fell at both ends of the line. Neither of the two strangers knew how to continue with a conversation that was distant and yet intimate. Still sitting on the bed, Paulo looked at his watch. The taxi must already be waiting for him downstairs. Outside the double-glazed window that let in no noise, from the twenty-eighth floor of the Alameda Santos Hotel he could make out the milky summer sky of São Paulo, above and beyond the mass of tall buildings that made up the city centre. Then the landscape became blurred, and he realized he was seeing it through a mist of tears.

‘It’s been so long …’ he murmured.

‘What’s that? What did you say?’ Eduardo’s son asked.

‘Forty-one years,’ he said softly, wiping away the tears.

‘I didn’t hear what you said.’

‘I would have liked to have met your father again. I really would. It’s a shame I only found out where he lived when it was too late.’

‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Tell your brother … and your sister … Tell Paulo and …’

‘Julia.’

‘Tell Paulo and Julia that a friend of your father’s called, and sends them a big hug.’

‘I’ll tell them.’

‘He was the best friend I ever had. I learned a lot from him. Above all, about solidarity. Eduardo even corrected the mistakes I made in Portuguese. Whenever I wanted to know the meaning of a word, he would look it up in his dictionary and write it on a bit of paper for me. Eduardo was the only boy I knew who had a dictionary. I hid the bits of paper in my wardrobe so my father and brother wouldn’t find them and destroy them. I took them all with me when we left there.’