‘Shall we go to the bathroom?’ says the little Portuguese girl who has been clinging to Paulo since he arrived at Sol (she gets all tangled up wanting to talk like the Brazilians, it’s embarrassing after a while). ‘I’ll stick round here,’ Paulo replies without any warmth at all, fascinated by the tall black girl with the big glasses who has been watching him for several minutes and who is standing at the entrance to the corridor that leads to the other bar. Perhaps he would have been intimidated by her determination if he were sober, but that isn’t the case, he has already drunk all the beer he meant to drink, his superego is suitably caged in, he puts the empty glass down on the window ledge, walks over to the girl. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Hi,’ she replies, stepping closer, because the noise is really loud in that part of the bar. ‘I saw you today’ — taking Paulo by surprise — ‘I was outside the South African embassy two hours ago,’ she explains. ‘Are you involved with the South African cause?’ he asks (he thinks he hasn’t used quite the right term). ‘We all are, aren’t we?’ she replies. And suddenly he feels as though he has seen her before. ‘By the way, my name’s Paulo … What’s yours?’ She holds out her hand. ‘Rener.’ They shake. ‘Tell me, Rener, where are you from?’ he asks. ‘I’m from Paris. You know the one? The city that’s in Paris, you know?’ letting herself smile for the first time. ‘The way London’s in London?’ He tries to go along with it. ‘No, in London it’s completely different,’ and she takes a sip of her soft drink. ‘Typical Parisienne,’ he said. ‘I do like the geography, but I’m not a typical Parisienne, I don’t share the city’s mood, I’m not proud of having been born there … I mean, it doesn’t make any difference that that’s where I was born.’ She pulls him over towards the wall, their conversation is obstructing other people’s passage. ‘You’re not a committed neighbourhood-ist, a nationalist. Is that what you mean?’ he says (there’s always some room for error when two people who speak different languages are using a third language to communicate). ‘I don’t believe in nationalities … Just like I don’t believe in victims … My presence at the pro-Mandela action was just to see how far the speeches by those two guys would go and if they’d resort to the old trick of victimising, in the sense of victimising people and cultures,’ she said, firmly. ‘That’s the kind of answer I need a whole night to understand, and another whole night to come up with an adequate retort’ — he is even more convinced that he’s seen her before. ‘Ok, so I’m giving you a hard time, aren’t I?’ she takes hold of his arm, ‘but I can assure you, I’m a pretty cool person.’ She takes the last sip of her soft drink. ‘I like it when people give me a hard time … ’ says Paulo, flexing his arms and puffing up his chest in an attempt to recreate Popeye the sailor’s pose without, however, remembering quite what Popeye the sailor’s pose was. The joke didn’t work. ‘How about we get out of here, Paulo?’ she suggests, ‘Paulo who caught my eye out there and who, as it happened, showed up here at my party and caught my eye again.’ He looks at her. ‘Coincidences, Rener. Though it’s hard for me to admit, life is made up of them.’ And someone taps his shoulder. ‘You’d better be careful with that black girl, she’s extremely dangerous,’ Drake says loudly, Fabio is with him. ‘Since you’re the type of guy who’ll even read the instructions on a medicine packet — didn’t you read last week’s TNT? There was a photo of that beauty there that took up nearly half a page of the magazine.’ And Paulo realises where he’s seen her before. ‘That’s right, comrade, my ex-colleague from Sol is an important woman, she was named the boldest of the three leaders of this squatting movement robbing the owners of large south London properties of their peace of mind,’ he goes on. ‘We only occupy properties that are empty,’ she says, ‘and of course homes belonging to the government.’ Drake kisses her on the forehead. ‘I love you.’ And then speaking in Portuguese, ‘I always wanted to fuck her, never managed to do it.’ Then switching back to English, ‘So Paulo, has she told you she’s a huge fan of Nietzsche?’ Paulo shakes his head. ‘Nietzsche,’ Drake continues, ‘the Coca-Cola of intellectualism for the under twenties.’ Rener leans over towards Paulo and whispers: ‘I do like the book Ecce Homo, that’s all.’ Fabio tugs on Drake’s arm. ‘Hey, genius, use all that philosophical stuff you know and score some more beer for your compatriots.’ Drake gestures let’s go on, and they leave. ‘I love you too, Drake,’ she says and, turning to Paulo (and before saying that her problem isn’t that she’s twenty-six and still likes Nietzsche), Rener puts her hands on his face and kisses him on the mouth.
Rener asks him to be quiet, the woman who lives in the next-door apartment has a sick daughter. She puts the jug of water and the glass on the small tin tray on the edge of the bedside table, turns on the little lamp, opens the wardrobe, takes out a Marks & Spencer carrier bag, throws it over to his side of the bed, he opens it (it’s full of every brand and style of condom), she turns off the ceiling light and immediately tosses a tube of lubricant onto his chest, she says that they are going to do what two uninhibited men should do when they feel there’s the chance of a great friendship between them.
Coincidences.
Paulo said he had to be at the restaurant before ten in the morning and it’s already eleven thirty-five (straight after the alarm clock had gone off, at nine, Rener had opened the bedroom curtains; she didn’t say anything, just made a cup of coffee, left it beside the bed and went back to sleep). From the moment he opened his eyes he was immersed in this stony silence. He must have said what he hadn’t told anyone since leaving Brazil. It was a good night in any case. She will introduce him to some guys who will get him to choose an empty building in Elephant and Castle. Arrive when it is getting dark (there’s no reason to hide from the building’s other residents; greet everyone, be polite, try not to give any impression that you’re going to be a bad neighbour), break the sealed padlock put there by the government and remove the metal bar blocking access to the door, break down the door, change the lock as quickly as you can, check that the new keys work, lock the door and only then tell yourself that the place is yours (at least until the squatter eviction proceedings, which can take years to progress, come to an end). It isn’t a question of good faith but of sorting out your life, yours and other people’s along the way, too. Sorting it out the way she, Rener, has been doing. She remembers having said that any mistakes must not be because of cowardice. Perhaps this was what made him agree like that, but it’s hard for her to know, it could have been so many other things. The worst mistake would be to try and guess, now that it’s nearly midday and she has to say that in a week’s time they will be entering a property valued at more than nine million and she’s counting on him, she needs there to be seven people besides herself and she has only managed to get six, there aren’t many people who will risk an occupation like this. If things work out, twenty people will get a new home; if they go wrong it’s every man for himself. Rener will figure out some way of getting back to Paris and, assuming there are no further coincidences, she and the Brazilian will not see each other again.