David

Lying in my bed, I watched the local journal "New twist in the case of children with pierced eyes. Last night, the governess of the orphanage, who was supposed to have fled in Paraguay, deliberately went to the police district of Sé." The narration was drawn, the voice dull, surely Valentina had recorded that text early in the morning. "The delegate did not want to say whether the housekeeper's testimony could further upset or complicate the seamstress's lover. No, no, there's nothing conclusive, the lady seemed sedated or in shock, she'd say unconnected phrases..." then Valentina came on live announcing the women's football after the commercials, a clean voice, a half-smile appropriate, equidistant of the two news. She wore eyeshadow, hair stuck, beads necklace.

I sat on the bed, the answering machine was flashing on the bedside table, I let it play for a while.

"Breno, it's David, you must have... Tina, it's me, Patricia, the phosphorescent balls... Breno, it's David, man, the german-boy is... Valentina, the speaker here is Miguel, you can call me on the mezzanine. Tina, it's Patricia, I thought the balls... Breno, David, it's noon, man, you..."

I had taken wine, barbiturates, the plane was late in Seoul, there was a stop in Rio de Janeiro, luggage was lost, time zone, jet lag, I took a shower, I ate bananas, I went down to Paulista Avenue, close to the bike path, girls pedalling, girls in skates, autumn sun, I stopped the car in a Starbucks. The kiosk was quiet, I asked for a coconut and I folded my arms on the counter, I put my head in my arms, people crossing my back: "you saw his face, the douchebag still goes pale... she removed her panties and... only equipment of the first world, full of friezes... later they would say that it was for a Creole... then I told him that I was menstruating... but I was going to give a considerable amount... the vice president told me on the phone... to me suddenly that's the way it was..."

I thought about going to rent a bike for a ride, but there were none near and gave me laziness to search for one. I had to go to the agency, I got in the car, laziness was enormous.

Laziness I did not know, in the time we attended in a room three by four in the centre of the city. I attended, actually. David spent his days on the street, making contacts, making arrangements. While still announcing the agency in the classified, he used to print the word confidentiality in bold. And every type of people appeared, staring down, talking with their crooked mouth, at that time I was accepting any order. Not for the money, it was barely enough to take the rent out of the room; they paid me the current fees in the market as if they paid per page to an old scribe, a typist, an encyclopedias copier. They paid in cash upon delivery of the merchandise, and they left in a hurry, without even opening the envelope to check the number of sheets there. For me, those monographs and dissertations, medical examinations, petitions from lawyers, threats of suicide, love, farewells, despair and blackmail letters, all texts I showed David before cleaning the archive, were worth as an exercise in some sense.

He peered at the screen and spoke genius, genius, thinking of other things, David never thought exactly what he was looking at. And Valentina implicated with him at the very beginning of our courtship. She referred to David as the vampire, because he sucked my talent, locked me in the agency while he went out for cocktails. She said that because she loved me, not my writing, which she did not read, Valentina did not even know what kind of writer I was. She knew me already quite upright, unaware of how much David had believed and invested in me, from the college to the agency, set up on his initiative. He had some family money, was well-connected, and when he approached a political staff, I was able to write speeches for any circumstance, from a draft or a brief interview.

Campaign speeches paid well but left me unsatisfied, even unhappy.

Often the speaker would run over the passages I cherished, not hesitating to skip whole paragraphs if the schedule was full or the sun was strong. And he would burst in and out contends of his head, the crowd applauding, then he leaves the paperwork on the platform for the wind to take.

So I only obtained professional reward with the start of full publication of my articles in newspapers of great circulation. My name did not appear, of course, I had always been destined to be a shadow, but my words were attributed to more and more distinguished names, it was stimulating, I felt like I was progressing. Melo & Silva Cultural Agency was then established in three environments overlooking the avenues of Vila Olimpía, and David invented to frame and hang on the walls my works of his fondness. They were articles written in the name of the president of the Federation of Industries, the minister of the Federal Supreme Court, the Cardinal Archbishop of São Paulo, in short, it was a gallery that David exhibited to anyone who entered the agency, saying: Breno Silva is a genius. He looked for companies, municipalities, foundations, unions, clubs, steakhouses, and opened a book with my articles.

"Breno Silva is a genius," he proclaimed.

"But, David, and the confidentiality?"

He laughed in a pitched voice, a funny giggle coming from a big, hairy man.

"I guaranteed that our customers were the first to advertise for Melo & Silva. Even non-clients bragged about having dismissed their advisories, paying a little more for our differentiated services," David spoke those words. And yet the articles on the walls bothered me, the book bothered me, being in evidence was something like breaking a vow. That was what I told him in frank conversation, and David listened to me with his eyes fixed, thinking of other things. And he went on expanding the gallery and hired an employee to carry the book, which by now was a letterbox. In any case, as we bragged about our factory of texts in the market, I was now careful to omit my name; if they asked him if he would not be himself, David de Melo, the versatile writer, he would bow his head.

"Let it go," he says while grumbling.