Roman drawings
According to Paulo’s instructions, when they pass the last of the three bridges that come after the Casa das Cucas, they will be exactly six kilometres from the encampment. Passo Fundo wonders how many times his friend took the same route before he knew for sure that there were six kilometres between the bridge and the Indian girls’ tent (that’s just one of the questions that goes through his head as the Monza speeds along the BR-116; questions to which there might be no answer). Then they see the two-person blue igloo-style tent belonging to Paulo, half of the Indian girls’ tent and, as they get higher than the tops of the trees that block their view of the building work, two men doing the roof. Passo Fundo’s cousin slows the Monza, pulls over onto the right-hand side of the road, switches off the engine, unlocks the boot. They get out of the car. Passo Fundo puts another guaraná seed in his mouth, looks around at the place. He couldn’t say no when asked for help by the one friend who supported him when his father, a retired police chief, kicked him out of the house when he found a bag of more than a hundred grams of cocaine under the mattress slats. (Father and son had reached a kind of truce. In an attempt at reconciliation, they’d even attended half a dozen sessions with the therapist at a clinic near the Moinhos Hospital, one of those specialists in family problems related to substance dependency; as a result the ex-policeman felt betrayed when, even though he knew he was breaking the bond of trust suggested by the therapist, he searched Passo Fundo’s room and discovered cocaine in sufficient quantity to be sure that it was for dealing.) Paulo doesn’t care what other people say since he’s already been branded a cokehead, a loose cannon, messed up and every bit as irresponsible as Passo Fundo (or more), just for being his friend and taking him in on the two occasions he tried to get clean; Passo Fundo tries to reciprocate adequately whenever the chance arises. They unload the eleven tins of paint, the two buckets, the brushes, sponges for the retouching, rags, solvents, a sports bag holding his fleece sweater, a pair of shorts, a sleeping bag, two packets of cream crackers, a bottle of water, a half-full Smirnoff and his clarinet in its wooden case. They carry the things over to the other side of the road. The girl who can only be Maína is the first person to appear. Showing no surprise at seeing them there, she says that Paulo is round the back and then goes into her tent.
Maína knows she hasn’t welcomed them as she ought to, but what could she do? What else could she say? That the builders had arrived at six in the morning and, that same moment, had set about unloading the material round the back of the encampment? That she hadn’t come out of the tent and had made her sisters stay lying there where they were and asked her mother not to leave either? That she’s been hearing Paulo’s voice telling the workers how careful they were to be, where the room was to be built and, again and again, that they should be quick and un-intrusive? The worst kind of invasion, one which could have been avoided and hadn’t been. That (around nine in the morning, when her younger sister escaped from the tent and ran over to Paulo, making the others run out after her) Paulo talked about the men being finished with the whole thing in two days, assuring them that they’ll be surprised when the job is all done? That she tried as best she could to be attentive to the four nasty, hulking carpenters who might under other circumstances have intimidated her?
Passo Fundo and his cousin don’t make it further in. Following on the heels of the Indian girl, Paulo emerges from behind the tent and greets them, declaring in a tone that is solemn and, as such, out of place, that there is nothing more invigorating than getting involved in the assembly of a prefabricated house. Not wasting a second, he tells them just to wait right there. He follows the girl into the tent. Passo Fundo tells his cousin to leave things with him now, he thanks him for the lift and asks him again not to be late when he comes back to fetch him tomorrow. The lad says goodbye, returns to the car without looking back (Passo Fundo would have given his right arm to know what he was thinking, what he made of all this weirdness), switches on the engine, waves, then gives a quick honk of the horn and pulls out. Paulo comes out of the tent apologising for not having paid him proper attention till now, saying that unfortunately Maína’s mother and sisters are not there at the moment, they won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon (the girls’ excited activity was hindering the progress of the work too much). Passo Fundo asks what needs to be done. Paulo says that the carpenters will be finished in an hour at the most and then it’s just the painting left to do. ‘We should make the most of what’s left of the daylight then, and get the paints ready,’ Passo Fundo says before picking out a board nearly two metres long, improvising trestles and positioning seven tins of paint on it. The brightness of the day is almost gone. The one who seems to be the biggest loudmouth of the four workmen announces: job done. Immediately the one acting as an assistant to the others starts collecting up the material into the rented van, which has already been waiting for them for fifteen minutes. Maína comes out of the tent, walks around the works inspecting them. The man approaches Paulo and gives him a series of instructions; Paulo listens to him not finding any of it very important. Night falls completely, there is a crescent moon. Paulo accompanies the four carpenters to the van; Maína and Paulo’s friend are left standing opposite one another. ‘Do you like it?’ Passo Fundo ventures. ‘Grey,’ she says, directly. ‘What?’ He is no longer able to see the girl’s expression properly. ‘I don’t like the colour.’ And he realises that Paulo never consulted her. ‘White is pretty cool,’ is all he’s able to say. ‘She wants grey, because when it rains the room … the house … won’t look … it’s the shaman side of this girl here,’ Paulo says behind him, turning on the torch, shining the beam of light on the building. ‘Between you and me … ’ he says, provocatively, ‘Maína doesn’t want the house. Isn’t that right, Maína?’ At that moment Passo Fundo understands why her behaviour was so withdrawn. She leaves. ‘Headstrong and proud … Could you ever have imagined such a thing if you hadn’t seen it with your own eyes?’ Passo Fundo bends down to pick up one of the open tins of paint. ‘Point the light over here for me, Paulo … ’ He knows he shouldn’t get involved in whatever might be going on between the two of them, ‘I don’t know whether it’ll work out if we put a coat on it without sanding it first.’ Paulo is still looking towards where Maína had gone. ‘They said it wasn’t a problem. Just give it one coat and then the other, four hours later,’ says Paulo, positioning the torch on a box to light up the wall of the room that was to be painted first. ‘Thank you for coming, Passo Fundo. I don’t know if I could have done all this on my own.’ Passo Fundo paints a large star on the door. ‘It’ll be a doddle. We’ll paint this whole white elephant of yours in one go. I’ll take the ladder; I’ll do the top part, you do the bottom. Sound good to you?’ Paulo nods. Within less than half an hour, Passo Fundo’s arms and legs are beginning to itch (he hasn’t told his friend that he is allergic to the smell of oil paint, to the solvents), he tries to get himself upwind. It’s dark, his friend won’t notice the blotches, the lumps that will start to show up on his skin in a few minutes.