Pablo behind me. Our mother watched us as we giggled and couldn’t contain her smile. The hollow wood floor responded to every step I took, giving in a little, shouting back at me each time I touched base. Pablo gradually distanced himself as I gained confidence and looked at my face instead of my feet. His smile was as big as mine must have been.
…
Only three weeks before the dictatorship came to us, there was a big party inaugurating the street that led to the mine. It was a dirt path, really, created within the meadow from all the workers coming and going to their daily shifts. The party would officially turn that path into a street, one that would be named after my father.
Our mother had busied around the house all afternoon with about ten rollers in her hair, leaving behind a trail of powder makeup smell and rose perfume. Her steps were louder than usual against the hollow wood flooring, giving away her excitement.
“Tuck your shirt in, Pablo, and please, please comb your hair, honey,” she announced as she walked past us toward the small front balcony facing the main street. Mãe was always humming something, singing parts of songs we didn’t really know except from listening to her. I used to think they reflected her mood, as if they could say the things she chose to keep to herself. On that day though she sang the same song, over and over.
“Se essa rua, se essa rua fosse minha
Eu mandava, eu mandava ladrilhar
Com pedrinhas, com pedrinhas de brilhante
Para o meu, para o meu amor passar.”
Outside, women carried big casseroles covered with hand-painted dishcloths, while men swept sidewalks, fixed tables with bricks and wood planks, and children buzzed around them like flies, seeking attention.
“Yes! Big day for us!” our mother yelled from the balcony as she pretended to check on the flowerpots instead of the commotion.
“We’re so honored!” she said, clasping her hands together, like a character in a Victorian novel.
She took one last look at the street and headed back in. Pablo and I were both sitting by the radio, eating chocolate cigarettes our mother had given us. They came in a pack just like regular cigarettes, wrapped individually. We pretended to listen to the news as we copied the way our father squinted when he took a drag, and how he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back before exhaling, his bare belly more and more noticeable when he relaxed. Then we’d eat it and move on to the next cigarette.
On her way back to her room, our mother stopped to watch us. She took out one of my chocolates and tucked it over her ear, pushing one of her rollers back.
“Long day today,” she said with a rasp as she took a seat. “You boys keep quiet, will you?” She forced each word onto the next, the way our father did. Mãe reached for the radio to turn the volume up. “Aaahh…There’s so much coal in this place, there’s work for your grandchildren here.”
She looked straight at us, her shoulders hunched, her brows knitted in a frown, but she couldn’t keep the deep tone for too long. Our mother took the cigarette out, pinching it between her delicate thumb and forefinger, her nails painted a deep bright orange for the party. She looked at the cigarette in between her fingers for a moment but broke out with laughter before she could get through the gesture.
We were being bobos. Pablo finished another cigarette, turned the volume down, flicked his hair back, and looked at our mother.
“Mãe, can I please just wear it like this? This is how you’re supposed to wear your hair nowadays.” Our mother stared at Pablo for a few seconds, considering his plea. “Por favor?”
“Does Rita like it like that?” she asked.
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Pablo shoved a chocolate into his mouth, his cheeks slightly pink.
“Doesn’t Rita mind when you wear it messy like that?” she insisted.
“Mãe,” Pablo pleaded.
“Sure, honey. You’re handsome no matter what.” She glanced at her nails. “Besides, we’re visionaries, aren’t we? At least that’s what people say.”
While we were home, counting down the minutes to the big party, our father was working as if this was just another day. Mãe grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and stepped again onto the balcony to water her lilies, taking another glimpse at the street below.
“Such a beautiful day! I can’t believe how it cleared up! It will sure be muddy, though,” she said as she headed back to the kitchen. “I just hope your father gives himself enough time to clean up.” Her voice echoed through the hallway.
The party was on the corner of the city’s main street and what would become our father’s street – Rua Antonio Fonte. Everybody but those who had the night shift showed up. Each family helped out with something to eat or drink.
While Pablo and I stuffed ourselves with fried chicken thighs dipped in yucca flour, our mother circled through all the cliques with a cachaça com butiá in her hand and a tireless smile. Every time she saw someone sipping their own drinks, she would just barely moisten her lips, licking them immediately because she liked the taste but not the burn. Then she would go on repeating herself over and over about what an honor the whole day was. Tio Joca’s wife, Ana, had brought a huge tray of cold cuts and cheeses, and also circled around the party with it. The warm and tangy smell of homemade linguiças, morcilhas, and sausages left a trail behind her. But Pablo and I followed her for the cheese. She made the best cheese around. It was so creamy and salty, it’d almost melt on your tongue as soon as you tasted it.
Meanwhile, our father stood with his workers and closest friends by Tio Joca’s truck. Tio Joca had parked on the opposite corner from where the street sign would be revealed. The truck’s radio was on, but all one could hear was the monotone hum of my father’s favorite show. He leaned against the passenger door without saying much at all, both hands tucked inside his pockets, while his drink rested on the truck step. He had cleaned up alright but couldn’t be convinced to wear his nicest suit, as much as our mother had tried. Pai said it wasn’t appropriate.
Whenever someone walked by with a platter, our father and his friends would help themselves with preserved hard-boiled eggs, pastel de carne, or more cachaça. Tio Joca glanced at his wristwatch and at the lowering sun, then moved on to pull out a crate from his truck, placing it underneath the street sign still covered with a black cloth.
“Antonio, Senhor, I think that everybody would like a speech, right?” He glanced at the crowd while approaching our father. A big smile on his face. One of his incisors was edged in gold, and sparkled against the sun’s pinkish light.
Our father looked down at his polished shoes while our mother rushed to his side. Pablo and I followed her.
“Antonio,” she called in a whisper. “Isn’t Brizola coming? Shouldn’t we wait?”
“He’s not coming, Rose,” our father replied. The state governor had become a friend of our father, but as it turned out, he was on the very first list the military had put out of people considered enemies of the Union, and he was gradually losing ground. What our father sensed, and we had no idea, was that Brizola had probably already fled to Uruguay by then.
