Brasília is an imaginary place where I watched Godspell on TV with my sister, in the dark. Someone had photographed my dream-the inevitable conclusion. But what of that photo? Me in a hat, my dad hugging me, and the soggy brown animal fraternizing with us from the other side of the bars. Until the day I was desperate to go to the bathroom and gave an unexpected response). (I was learning to talk and my mother used to show me off to visitors, asking: what are we going to do at the Gilberto Salomão Mall? To which I’d reply: play. Maybe Brasília is just a childhood fable in which meaningless words echo like super block, Monumental Axis, and Gilberto Salomão. I return to Brasília apprehensive, thirty years later. Soft radio, a headache, and choices ahead-Centro, Copacabana, Tijuca. Saudade means looking for the car keys in your purse and opening the door and there in the sky: vulture planes with spread wings. The silence amid the voices wears blue eye shadow. There’s a moment when it’s necessary for them to release their hands, for her to erase the image of his broad shoulders from her mind. There’s a big glass wall separating the world into two hemispheres. Departure gate such and such-excuse me, where do I pay for parking, thanks.Ĭold ceiling, gray floor. They squeeze each other’s hands and turn slightly apart. She says, that’s because I was conceived on a farm. You're sweet, he says, you don’t seem like you were born in a sea town. The smile from their embrace and the arc of salvation in their gaze, one’s forehead resting on the other’s raised shoulders.Įscalators. Certainty, uncertainty, the recollection of a vague jealousy and a fierce promise, the lemon from the lemon drops in the rough saliva. Another number, destiny.Ĭold hands, the soft touch of fingertips along the down of the nape, the forearm hairs. In the airport lines, Mozart, Walkman, dolls, vultures, cigarette. Monday had spilled over from Sunday like leftovers, as if an autonomous day didn’t have the right to exist. Cold clean floor, gray ceiling, gentle accent. A boy carried a surfboard, coming from where. Someone held a wine-colored passport with gold inscriptions. Someone was smiling and a salesman was speaking English. A nearby sign warned that the speed limit was 60 km/hr. The ceiling was gray and gentle and nearby vultures landed atop lampposts to dry their spread wings. Another cell phone played Mozart, A Little Night Music. A man with a Cearense accent was talking on his cell phone. The salesgirl wore blue eye shadow and pink lipstick that was doll-like, it’s true, but she was beautiful. And the kid with short hair and a gold hoop in his ear was listening to his Walkman.
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