And a Brazil with a woman he had betrayed in a degrading manner.
He dreamed about Vanessa, devoting nights as well as days to the settling of accounts. He was out of the running, waiting for a flight that could take him out of the country; for a policeman at his door, who would give him a summons; for Ivaldo Assis.
The cowardice, the lies, and betrayal haunted him. The boundaries of his personal life were becoming blurry, everything was being mixed into a bitter concoction that he was forced to swallow over and over again.
He put on his shorts and a linen shirt, left the apartment and went out, strolling aimlessly, headed up toward the lighthouse, took September Seven Avenue north, stood for a long time by the wall above the little beach by the harbor and studied the bathers, thought he saw Vanessa several times, strolled over to the small square, sat at the outdoor café, and ordered a beer. He had always liked the little square by Barra’s harbor, even though it was a haunt for a number of shady characters. Various drug deals were settled around the pay phone; the fences, pimps, and whores wandered around. Others picked up cans or begged.
He took several sips of beer, rejected a few offers of getting a massage, and studied the people. Some faces he recognized from previous years. The waiter was the same, always equally furious at Lula and the other politicians, “bandits” he called them. It struck him that this was where he felt at home, in this swarm of contrasts.
It was as if he was seeing himself for the first time, as the person he really was. He was bursting with knowledge of Salvador and Brazil, but also almost completely isolated. He had experienced that before, the dilemma of the temporary visitor and passive observer of a reality that he would never be a part of. Until now he had managed to keep that feeling in check, handled it; he was a journalist, and could temporarily dampen the discomfort and alienation with alcohol. After that he had again plucked up courage, dutifully continued to record and industriously gathered material. Then he went home, simply to depart once again, apparently tirelessly curious.
It was his duty to tell the truth, how things really were. That’s how he had viewed his work.
The new insight that slipped up on him was that he was also isolated in Sweden. He only existed as the eternal activist, but without roots.
He had been given a chance with Vanessa to become part of the Brazilian reality. He could have bought a house, married her, had children, and settled down, but he had chickened out.
I’m too much of a European to feel at home here, he thought. Perhaps that was the ultimate reason for his flight from Itaberaba. Or was it? Yes, that’s how it is, he continued his monologue-now on his second beer-I love her, or in any case what I think is love, she loved me, but I put my tail between my legs and ran.
I miss Europe… Sweden. It’s that simple. But what is in Sweden? A little Spartan two-room apartment in Uppsala, a number of contacts with newspaper and magazine offices, where I have a fair reputation, a few friends I’ve neglected over the years, a mother I haven’t seen in two years. That’s it.
And then Ann Lindell. Is she what’s different from before? Do I love her? Can I imagine a life with a policewoman? What would that be like?
What exactly it was about Ann that made him so deeply attached he did not really understand. Maybe it was an unspoken wish for a kind of normalcy, just to be part of a context, build something lasting with a completely normal woman.
She was bright, pleasant to be around, her son seemed to be a good kid and would certainly not create any problems, they’d had an amazing time in bed. Ann seemed to be starved for love and affection, and she had made up for that with a vengeance. He had probably never experienced such intensity.
They had widely disparate backgrounds and experiences. He was a politically oriented journalist and, from what he understood, she was a politically indifferent police detective, but that no longer worried him.
He was facing a choice, perhaps the most significant in his life, and he had no answer. Soon he would go home to Sweden. The distance to Vanessa would become, if not insurmountable, then considerable. And perhaps she never wanted to see him again, or even hear from him. He had burned his ships and there was no point in going ashore and searching. But if… if he changed his mind, would she want him back, despite his treachery? The question tormented him. He hated making the wrong choice.
He thought about Vanessa’s amazing body, got excited there at the outdoor café. She was a true Brazilian mix-a little white, a little red, and a lot of black. Her mother came from south Bahia and had half-Indian blood in her veins. Her grandfather was an Italian engineer from the southern part of the country, while the other relatives were descendants of African slaves from Benin and Senegal.
There was nothing to match Vanessa’s beauty. She attracted attention wherever she went, especially during her visit in Sweden, and he had often been proud to walk by her side.
During her stay in Sweden they did not spend many days in Uppsala. For a week and a half they stayed in a borrowed cabin outside Ludvika. The cabin was completely isolated by a small lake. Vanessa had watched in amazement as he threw himself into the water from the wobbly pier. She never got in more than up to her thighs. For a week they did Stockholm, acting like real tourists, stayed at a hotel and ate at nice restaurants every night. He wanted to spoil her, but sensed that she had been most at home in the simple cabin in Dalarna, taking care of themselves and with nature at their doorstep.
He lost himself in memories, ordered a third beer, and built on the painful feeling of loss, longing, and guilt.
When they separated at Arlanda, she was sure he would soon follow her to Brazil, where the mutual promises would be fulfilled and plans for the future take more substantial form. Doubt had started to gnaw in him, but he kept up appearances. After his return home he started brooding, sat in his apartment, and got nothing done.
Her visit had clearly shown that she would have a hard time adapting to Sweden, which she had also expressed in her careful way. But could he imagine living in Brazil?
Only a few days after her departure, he called Ann. He was ashamed afterward of his faithless initiative and how their first encounter immediately developed into a violent, uninhibited sex orgy.
He had a hard time admitting to himself that he called and asked Ann out because he had been attracted to her at Görel’s dinner, which took place only a few days before Vanessa showed up. Yet until he was standing in front of her, with her wrapped in a bathrobe, he convinced himself that it was only about dinner, some nice conversation, and nothing else. Deep down he knew differently.
Now he was torn between two women. And he didn’t know what love was.
The third beer was finished. The proposals for massage came more often, quickly whispered invitations, and he decided it was time to get up and make his way homeward.
On the other side of the square, right where September Seven Avenue begins its climb up toward Vitória, a young woman was standing, with one hand against a railing, one leg raised and crossed over the other. With the other hand she was adjusting the heel strap of her shoe. Their eyes met.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
Instead of answering dutifully with the same phrase, he shook his head.
“No, an inferno,” he said, and stopped.
As if by silent agreement they left the square and without exchanging a word along the way they went to a small hotel on the beach promenade.
The desk clerk looked bored as they stepped into the cramped, dirty lobby. An unbelievably large grandfather clock stood ticking in one corner, a Portuguese product, Brant saw on the face of the clock. The clock was wrong, almost exactly five hours slow. It showed Swedish time.