{"id":15043,"date":"2018-12-01T03:29:14","date_gmt":"2018-12-01T09:29:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/?p=15043"},"modified":"2018-12-12T15:50:59","modified_gmt":"2018-12-12T21:50:59","slug":"through-the-night","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/15043","title":{"rendered":"Through the Night"},"content":{"rendered":"

An excerpt from a novella by Caio Fernando Abreu, translated from the Portuguese by Ed Moreno.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He lit a cigarette. He followed the smoke streaming toward the open window with his eyes. Absentmindedly. As if he might stop talking. Then he smiled again, to one side again, and went on: \u201cSomething perfect. I insist on perfection<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s like this. An instant before perfection. Perfect, about to unfold and\u2014bam, just like that\u2014nothing! Doesn\u2019t happen. And then\u2014when you can\u2019t work out what did or didn\u2019t happen, or why it should or shouldn\u2019t have happened\u2014someone comes out of nowhere and punches you in the gut. And the hand you knew would hold something\u2014bam!<\/em>\u2014empty again.\u201d<\/p>\n

He extended his hand. Observed his fingers, his half-smoked cigarette, repeated, dramatically, \u201cThe hand you knew would hold something\u2014bam!<\/em>\u2014empty again.\u201d<\/p>\n

He jumped up. He bent his body in an exaggerated bow, looking to the front, to the sides, up to the crowded balconies\u2014expressing his gratitude for the thunderous applause, the blistering bravos!<\/em> Alone on an empty stage filled only by his presence, the stage set, and dozens of corbeilles de rosas<\/em>\u2014most likely red.<\/p>\n

At the same time, the other said\u2014slowly, feeling foolish, searching for the right words\u2014\u201cYou could\u2019ve been a dancer.\u201d<\/p>\n

The response was deadpan. \u201cIt\u2019s too late for that now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOr an actor, you could\u2019ve been an actor. You have an incredible sense of\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight, an actor. At least I can talk about other people\u2019s work, which is always some consolation. Or not.\u201d<\/p>\n

The other detected, who knows, a certain melancholy in the depths of a voice roughened by too many cigarettes. But he only shook his head in silence\u2014crystal, the moment of transition from one to the other\u2014as he walked toward the bookshelf in steps so precisely placed that they seemed to have been choreographed. As did what came next.<\/p>\n

\u201cListen,\u201d he said, leaning against the bookshelf, \u201cI had an idea. It\u2019s been a few days since we ran into each other, but now that you mention it\u201d\u2014the other made a face as if to say mention what<\/em>, but he went on\u2014\u201cabout being a dancer, or an actor. Or, I don\u2019t know, whatever\u2014I don\u2019t like it when people go on about what didn\u2019t happen, what could\u2019ve<\/em> been. Oh, God! Not on a Saturday\u2014especially not at night. Not tonight, please\u2014tonight\u2019s no good. I have\u2026 I\u2019ve got this feeling of resentment\u2014of failure. You get it? As if I had a duty<\/em> to be, or to have tried to be, someone else.\u201d<\/p>\n

But you\u2019re such a successful guy, the other almost said. But he still felt foolish, stuck there like a bull grazing in mud, and kept silent. It was as if they were rehearsing a script he hadn\u2019t memorized: he\u2019d forgotten his cues, so he stared stupidly at the half-full glass of wine. But he was coming back from the bookshelf, improvising quickly to cover the other\u2019s slip, three books in his hand. He sat on the arm of the sofa, showing him the covers.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know these books?\u201d<\/p>\n

Slowly, he read the titles in Spanish: Los premios<\/em>, by Julio Cort\u00e1zar; Cr\u00f3nica de una muerte anunciada<\/em>, by Garc\u00eda Marquez; and Conversaci\u00f3n en la Catedral<\/em>, by Mario Vargas Llosa. He gently touched the covers. A certain distant fondness. Intense, like someone touching an album of not-so-old photographs, the bright colors already giving way to the yellow of time on paper. He smiled, halfheartedly. \u201cOf course I do.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cKnow and like? Or know and don\u2019t like? Or know and don\u2019t care? Come on\u2014multiple choice. Or tick the last box\u2014the one that says other<\/em>\u2014and on the dotted line, specify what you mean by other, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

What has that got to do with? He thought, My God, what has that got to do with\u2026 Threads he didn\u2019t follow. Bogged down in mud, Taurus, the bull. He had to lift his head slightly to better see the face beside him on the arm of the sofa: upside down, over his shoulder. Unshaven beard, two days\u2019 growth. A few silver strands in his hair. Lowering his eyes, he noticed the frayed knees of the acid-washed jeans.<\/p>\n

\u201cFirst box,\u201d he said, drawing a big tick in the air.<\/p>\n

\u201cKnow and like?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Very much.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cListen up, ladies and gentlemen. Pay attention, please: so tell me, and which do you prefer?\u201d<\/p>\n

He rested his head on the back of the sofa. Beyond the face so close to his own, he saw spindly cracks between those plaster embellishments typical of large aging apartments in the city center. Their eyes met unexpectedly. He turned his away, back toward the ceiling, while thinking without thinking: how extraordinary. And at the same time he thought of a ship leaving the port of Buenos Aires, and the sound of the accordion came to mind, unwanted (the stereo had already been switched off), how extraordinary, and how swift, the waters of the R\u00edo de la Plata, always crossing, inevitably, in the streets, by chance, someone, they turned away, quickly, afraid, even in a random street in Lima, but he\u2019d never been to Peru. So timid, like those creatures he\u2019d mentioned\u2014how\u2019d it go? Machu Picchu\u2014he\u2019d always wanted to visit, it must be beautiful, unbearably mystical\u2014you must reach carefully within silence, within the eternal, was that it? As if\u2014in that brief encounter, graze, flicker, fishhook, one lighthouse signaling here, another there, powerful reverberations, answering, or not answering\u2014there was a menacing, indecipherable code, more powerful than anything. Then, sweeping everything else aside, the image of a young man dressed in white, backed against an old door in the afternoon, dark wood\u2014oak, mahogany\u2014then the knives, the deep stab wounds\u2014were there seven?\u2014, his blood staining the white linen, like blood roses strewn across the empty stage, then the applause, the curtain\u2019s fall, the dressing rooms, the wings. He blinked. And turned to look at him. \u201cDeath<\/em>,\u201d he said. \u201cI prefer Death Foretold<\/em>. I remember it so clearly now, like a photograph, amazing: Santiago Nasar backed against the door, and everyone knowing he would die but him.\u201d<\/p>\n

He jumped up abruptly, causing the other\u2019s arm to tremble slightly, sprinkling a few drops of wine on the thighs of his white corduroys. Like Santiago, he thought\u2014Santiago Nasar\u2019s blood staining the white linen suit.<\/p>\n

\u201cSantiago, then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure. Santiago.\u201d<\/p>\n

Standing in front of him, solemn, comical, the other reached out, the small book in his hand like a sword, to tap him ceremoniously on the right shoulder, a king conferring knighthood. \u201cI dub thee Santiago. You must swear eternal loyalty to this name. On this cold July night, I christen you Santiago. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

But he didn\u2019t hear. He never stopped talking. Putting the books on the album cover\u2014which he couldn\u2019t quite make out\u2014he went on. \u201cP\u00e9rsio. I\u2019ll be P\u00e9rsio from now on. I always wanted to be called P\u00e9rsio. Do you remember P\u00e9rsio, that kook from Los premios<\/em> who gazed at the stars from the quarterdeck? Is that what it\u2019s called? Quarter. Or main. The open part of a ship. Or poop. Where\u2019s the poop deck? Boats have so many parts. Prow and poop, locks, hatches. That crazy P\u00e9rsio was an astrologer. I think. Or an astronomer, I\u2019m not sure. Or just plain crazy. Whatever it was, I\u2019ll have to go on about the stars. P\u00e9rsio didn\u2019t know shit about stars.\u201d He walked to the open window and looked out at the sky. A Coca-Cola ad shone in the distance, red, white: drink.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut the stars are never visible in this fucking city, or else I\u2019d be talking about them now. It\u2019s all right, I can do it later\u2014who knows how this ends, right? It\u2019s gonna be a long night, after all. The night is still young, the night\u2019s just a baby, man! You\u2019re Santiago. I\u2019m P\u00e9rsio. And Santiago and P\u00e9rsio are doing the town on this long winter\u2019s night. Are you with me, Santiago?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d the other said, grinning (was he mocking him?). \u201cI don\u2019t think so.\u201d<\/p>\n

He turned from the window, spread his arms, slapped his palms against his thighs, excessively downcast. \u201cWhat do you mean no<\/em>, man? What\u2019s to understand? It\u2019s easy. From now on I\u2019m P\u00e9rsio and you\u2019re Santiago. Okay, Santiago? Don\u2019t you like the name? It\u2019s fantastic, man. \u00a0Apart from Santiago Nasar\u2014who you like\u2014there\u2019s Santiago from Catedral<\/em>, that journalist obsessed with poverty, the faggot son of a politician. It\u2019s a double homage. Like Rubem Fonseca did with \u201cSimone Clarice\u201d in that story\u2014what was it called, \u201cLonely Hearts,\u201d was that it? Not to mention Santiago de Chile\u2014may God watch over Allende\u2014ah, it\u2019s a triple homage!\u201d<\/p>\n

He walked toward the sofa. \u201cTriple homage? Try quadruple! God, what a great word, quad-ru-pull. Remember Bu\u00f1uel\u2019s The Milky Way<\/em>? Santiago de Compostela. Spain. Galicia, right?\u201d He stood right in front of him, so close that the toes of his blue-and-yellow-striped socks\u2014loud as a Swedish flag\u2014almost touched the tips of his white tennies.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd there are more: there\u2019s Santiago de Boqueir\u00e3o, in Rio Grande do Sul, on the Argentinian border, land of the gaucho, have you heard of it, tch\u00ea, mano, <\/em>bro? It exists. Care to see it on a map? I\u2019ve got a friend from there\u2014whatever happened to Ruy Krebs?\u201d He leapt up, his eyes wild. \u201cIt\u2019s impossible for you not to like this name. It\u2019s a quintuple<\/em> homage, man. There\u2019s even more, geez! There\u2019s Hemingway\u2019s fisherman. Sextuple. There\u2019s more if you look. There\u2019s no shortage of Santiagos.\u201d<\/p>\n

His excessive enthusiasm was comical. Or crazy. Ex-tra-va-gan-za, he drew it out. He sipped his wine, laughed awkwardly. \u201cThe name\u2019s fine. It\u2019s not that. What I don\u2019t g\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cP\u00e9rsio.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSay: quote unquote, \u2018The name\u2019s fine. It\u2019s not that, P\u00e9rsio<\/em>.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

Their eyes met again. How extraordinary. In the street, on the bus, in the elevator. Do you recognize me? If so, do I scare you? The plague they accuse us of. How horrific. He lowered his eyes\u2014they were almost always looking down\u2014at his feet, the stripes, blue, yellow, the maroon rug. The other dropped his knee to the floor in a melodramatic appeal.<\/p>\n

He laughed. \u201cYou\u2019re crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSay it, say it, please say it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, I\u2019ll say it.\u201d Trying to contain his laughter, laboring over every syllable in a faltering Spanish, he said, \u201cNo, el nombre me gusta. Tudo bi<\/em>\u2014\u201d He started laughing uncontrollably. He had to put his wine down next to the other\u2019s knee on the rug.<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, come on, say it, one, two\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, P\u00e9r\u2026 P\u00e9rsio.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did you say, Santiago?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cP\u00e9rsio. I said, \u2018Okay, P\u00e9rsio.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

The other clapped, laughing. A cat in midday sun, stretching itself on the rug in an enormous living room. He crossed his arms and gripped the worn knees of his faded jeans. \u201cYou called me P\u00e9rsio!\u201d He rubbed his hands together. \u201cWe\u2019ve only just begun, and it\u2019s going so well. What a beautiful name, man! No one\u2019s named P\u00e9rsio<\/em>. It isn\u2019t an homage to anyone.\u201d<\/p>\n

The other shook his head, still laughing. He sat on the floor with his legs crossed like a yogi, contemplating a point on the wall somewhere above his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcept for Persia. All those rugs, cats, Sorayas, ayatollahs. Even Persia\u2019s not called Persia anymore, right? It\u2019s Iran. I have a friend who clutches her heart and rolls her eyes whenever anyone mentions Iran or the Northeast. \u2018Jesus,\u2019 she screams, \u2018Iran, my God, Jesus, the Northeast! It\u2019s no wonder I drink so much champagne, goddammit!\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, P\u00e9rsio, I don\u2019t get\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, Santiago?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat this has to do with what I said before.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBefore?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBefore, about being a dancer. And what you said after that, about\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

He rocked back and forth over his crossed knees, earnest, aping a catatonic fit, eyes transfixed on a distant spot on the wall, far above his head, \u201cI know, I know. I just hate talking about what we could have been. It feels like\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFailure?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBingo. Failure, regret, defeat. Something out of a Walter Hugo Khouri film\u2014no way. I decided right then that we weren\u2019t gonna talk about what could\u2019ve been. Not this Saturday night in July when we\u2019re out on the town\u2014not when Santiago and P\u00e9rsio are doing the town. Got it? Tonight we relinquish all regrets precisely because you\u2019re not Jo\u00e3o or Paulo, and I\u2019m not Carlos or Pedro. You\u2019re Santiago and I\u2019m P\u00e9rsio. It\u2019s a political statement, right? Spot on, perfect\u2014so much better than names like, I don\u2019t know, Jean-Paul or Vittorio or Steve or Wolfgang. With names like ours we can paint the town without repercussion\u2014from uptown to downtown, champagne to cacha\u00e7a, Jardins to Jeca, disco to dive bar. Guilt-free, man! Two Latin-American dudes doing the largest town in South America.\u201d He sang off-key, \u201cVivemos na melhor cidade da Am\u00e9rica do Sul. <\/em>Baby baby. H\u00e1 quanto tempo\u2014<\/em>how long?\u201d He looked straight at him when he asked, \u201cIt\u2019s been a long time, huh? Since high school. Since the green years in the province. Remember The Green Years<\/em>? Who would\u2019ve thought?\u201d He stood slowly, extending his hand. \u201cWhat do you say, Santiago? Do you accept the names I gave us?\u201d<\/p>\n

He took hold of his outstretched hand. Warm, kind. Just like his face. A face which, if you erased a few white strands at the temples\u2014nearly invisible, little more than silver flashes when the light hit\u2026 and that deep crease at the corner of his mouth (ah, that lopsided grin). He shivered, a chill on his neck\u2014the window was still open, but it wasn\u2019t cold, just a not-quite-frozen chill which carried something from faraway with it, something crystal-clear yet half-obscured: a field of grass, oddly slanted. The setting sun, scent of dirt, chin resting on a size-five leather soccer ball, the special ones you only get at Christmas, not like the black-checked balls you see today, a blade of grass between his teeth. A face which\u2014if you took away the zits from then and the blue of today\u2019s two-day-growth\u2026 sweet sournesss on his tongue. Back then a voice which rose and fell like a rollercoaster veering between treble and bass, transforming, overlapping, late afternoon, the sky, the grassy field, smooth hair on overlapping hands, clasping, warmhearted: I do recognize you, yes, so well, a long time, so much.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, Santiago?\u201d he asked. Seen from here, upside down, his eyes seemed to sparkle. Dark, bright. Slightly damp. \u201cWhat do you say? Do you accept?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

He squeezed the other\u2019s hand. \u201cYes, P\u00e9rsio,\u201d he said, \u201cOf course,\u201d and realized that he was trembling. Could it be that he saw something beyond all that? Abruptly, P\u00e9rsio withdrew his fingers to rub his palms on his bare arms. \u201cYou cold? Why don\u2019t you put on something warmer?\u201d<\/p>\n

P\u00e9rsio, in silence, no longer gazed above his head or into his eyes, but through him to a region so unfathomable that it wasn\u2019t him he was looking at anymore. And it was.<\/p>\n

\u201cShould I close the window?\u201d He stood without waiting for a response, shook his half-asleep legs: half-asleep from wine, the damp of the rain, July\u2019s cold, the length of time he\u2019d been sitting there, the other\u2019s crazy stories. He had to swerve around him (whiff of weed and cigarettes, clean sweat, warm sheets) to reach the window. In the dark below, he saw the gleam of headlights, bright billboards\u2014Minister, Melitta, Coca-Cola, smoke, drink, buy, die\u2014floating, hovering, spaceships. The windows of other buildings, some lit up red-hot, intimate as a nightclub, the vague eroticism of nebulous silhouettes in other people\u2019s rooms: others who might kiss each other, fondle breasts, stroke thighs, dip fingers into moist hair. They moan softly, urgently, behind drapes, between parched plants. Throaty moans of urban pleasure.<\/p>\n

On the asphalt several meters below, puddles reflect the neon\u2019s artificial glare: the inverted Saturday night pulsing in the middle of the street. A great dark sea, a calm high sea, over which they (God, the captain of a transatlantic liner, a helicopter pilot) had spattered phosphorescent paint. Carefully, he closed the windows. The clang as one metal handle penetrated the other mingled with the piercing chime of the phone.<\/p>\n

P\u00e9rsio let it ring, hand poised above the glass-topped coffee table in front of the sofa. Before picking up, he winked. \u201cUrban Telephone Etiquette,\u201d he said, \u201cWeekend Edition. Lesson One: always allow three rings, or else you seem desperate. No one can know that you live tied to the phone. Especially nights and weekends. Obviously. Of course none of this matters if you have an answering machine, which, sadly, I do not.\u201d He answered coolly, \u201cHello? Speaking.\u201d Receiver balanced between his right shoulder and his chin, he searched the table for a pack of cigarettes with his free hand. He lit one, took a drag. \u201cGood, you?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

CAIO FERNANDO ABREU & ED MORENO<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

An excerpt from a novella by Caio Fernando Abreu, translated from the Portuguese by Ed Moreno.   He lit a cigarette. He followed the smoke streaming toward the open window with his eyes. Absentmindedly. As if he might stop talking. Then he smiled again, to one side again, and went on: \u201cSomething perfect. I insist […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1704,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[54],"tags":[36],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-3UD","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15043"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1704"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15043"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15043\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15208,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15043\/revisions\/15208"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15043"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15043"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15043"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}