7 From Brazil, Without Love

In the mornings, in the absence of Valentina, I could receive customers in a corner of the living room and advance my service without interference. Many times I thought about carrying the computer and the dictionaries home, but it was perhaps what David needed to get me out of the company. He had already greatly reduced my quota, with some reason. It was not for him to bear the wages of a dozen writers who, rightly or wrongly, were entrusted with my responsibilities. But with five per cent of Melo & Silva, he said, I could lead the life of a nawab, have lunch in Paris and dine in New York, dive in the Caribbean with my wife, go around the world until I get dizzy. And I was just thinking about Valentina's next vacation, on the day that David burst into my room with a new phone, talking louder than usual.

It was the first time I saw that model and, distracted, I almost forgot to hide the monitor. But between my fingers, he must have seen a heart, diamonds, a king, an eight of swords, the green screen. There was a time I just turned on the computer to play solitaire.

He was on a call with the Russian, apologizing on my behalf for the word committed, for the deadline, for the advance spent abroad, for the derisive contractual fine. He hung up and said that if I did not care, he would outsource the Russian's book because he had just hired a boy who was a genius, and I do not know if he was bluffing or if he just intended to trample me. Anyway, I closed the game, rolled up my sleeves, put my fingers on the keyboard, sailed from Arkhangelsk, entered Santos Bay, and preferred not to listen to the Russian's tapes. I was a fair and healthy young man when I entered Santos Bay, I wandered through the streets of Sao Paulo and met Maria. When I heard Maria sing, I fell in love with her language – and after three pernicious months, I felt I had the story of the Russian at my fingertips. Writing came spontaneously, in a rhythm that was not mine – and it was in Teresa's leg potato that I wrote the first words in her native language. At first, she even liked it, she was flattered when I told her I was writing a book on her. Then she became jealous, she refused to let me touch her body, she said that I was only looking for her to write in her, and the book was already in the seventh chapter when she abandoned me. Without her, I was off the rails, I returned to the preface, my knowledge of the language regressed, I even thought to drop everything and returning to Arkhangelsk. I spent the days in a catatonic state, in front of a blank sheet of paper, I had become addicted to Teresa. I tried to write something in myself, but it was not as good, so I went to Augusta Avenue look for whores.

I paid to write on them, and perhaps, I had paid them beyond what I owed because they mimicked orgasms that robbed me of all concentration. I ringed at Teresa's house, she was married, I cried, she gave me her hand, allowed me to write a few words while her husband did not come. I began to harass the trainees, who sometimes let me write on their blouses, then on the fold of the arm, where they felt ticklish, then on the skirt, on the thighs. And they showed these writings to her colleagues, who appreciated them very much, and they went up to my apartment and asked me to write the book in their faces, at the neck, then they would undress the blouse and offer me their breasts, bellies and backs. And they supplied my writings to new colleagues to read, who came up to my apartment and begged me to tear off their panties, and the black of my letters glistened on their pinkish buttocks. Young women came and went, and my book was scattered around, each chapter flying to one side. That's when the one who laid in my bed and taught me to write back and forth appeared. Zealous of my writings, only she could read them, looking at herself in the mirror, and at night she erased what had been written so that I would never cease to write my book in her. And she became pregnant of me, and in her belly, the book gained new forms.

And went on for days and nights without pause, without eating a sandwich, locked in the agency's room, until I could, at the limit of strength, utter the final phrase: "She got on top of me. That might be the subject of an interesting story, but my story is ended."

I returned to the beginning of the text and revised. Revising a book always was a time of extreme attachment to me. Soon soon, it would have a new author, and giving up a ready and finished book was always painful, even for a hard-nosed professional like me. But the Russian's book, perhaps because it was written in a spurt, I could not even enjoy it, the words escaped me. Newly written words, as quickly as they had been written, were no longer my own. I could see my words on the screen and, horrified, I imagined they would abandon me as the Russian lost hair.

I printed the book, I leafed through it for the last time, and because it felt like it was my last book, I did not want to sell it for any more money. I got to keep the originals in the drawer, I locked it, then I thought about David's face, I opened the drawer. I slipped the packet into a brown envelope, wrote on the label, by hand, the title 'From Brazil, Without Love', and the letters went pale, it seemed that my own ink was running out of it.