Brazil Part 5

 I am sick of living in this prison of fear. Fear of shitting, coughing, blowing my nose. fear of making a noise when I open or close a  door. Fear of putting down a cup with a click. Fear of flushing the toilet .

I must be mad because as I sit writing this on the terrace in a quiet residential estate at siesta time. My hostess is lying down. But all I can hear is the roar of motor bike engines. The house next door is a motorbike repair business. The noise is unbelievable. Why am I so scared of making a noise. I remember when my father lay on the settee to sleep. He could have gone upstairs to bed but that would not have shown how powerful he was. We had to creep about silently in the tiny living room. Does my fear of making a noise stem from that time.

I almost stop crying and walk to the road to see if they have returned to the car. The car is not there. The bitch has left me here. I look around trying to decide whether I could risk walking back to the house. Would I find the way but before I reach a decision I see the car turning the corner at the furthest point on the road. Getting in the car again was difficult because I wanted to cry again and I knew that no one wanted me there. 

We returned to the sister's house where Jocara was staying. ( I was staying a few doors away in Jocara's mother's house.) Just as we had all settled down to watch the daily soap out came another box of photos. I remained polite. Ecriva  ( the sister) actually gives  me a photo of her beautiful, clever daughter. I think what do I want with a photo of your child. I want a photo of my own.

Jocara asks me why I cried. She knows about Simon. I told her last year. She told me that her own baby had died.

She asks, "Is it because Philip isn't here?"

"No".

"Is it because you are far from home?"

I think I uttered Simon's name but she chose not to hear me. I started to explain but in French as Jocara spoke no English. I couldn't stop the tears and said I couldn't explain without crying. She turned to watch the TV.

The best and worse thing happened next. Her  sister's son Philip was sitting on my right and is training to be a lawyer . Jocara's sister is sitting on my left with a big box. Christ not more photo's I think. No, no not photos this time- baby clothes. Apparently they had been worn by  J's son and then by the afore mentioned Philip. She held each one up and handed it to me, every single garment in the box. Tiny vests, nighties, rompers and hats the lot. She even handed the christening shawl to me. Each garment had been carefully folded and kept for forty years. 

Simon will be 40 on September 26. No wonder I am crying. I have been holding the date since I was told last year. No wonder I am grieving. Why didn't I think before I left home that I would be here on his birthday. I wonder if I should send a card to his adoptive parents. Will they understand my need to do this? I want to do something, anything to acknowledge him. Can I make a donation to the Terence Higgins foundation. Anything would be better than pretending he never existed.

It didn't end there.  We sit around the table having drinks. J asks me if I am Catholic. I say that I am not. She probes further. "What religion are you?"

"I am a Humanist," I say. 

"What's that is it in England?" 

"No it is Worldwide ."

"What is it again?"

"Humanist".

"Is it a Saint? It must be a Saint."

I decide to try to explain but find it difficult in French especially to a devout Catholic but I don't want to hide my beliefs. I have hidden too much already. Why should I be afraid. Catholicism is  flaunted on every wall and cupboard and sideboard.

"No it is not a Saint."

I write it down in large capital letters.

HUMANIST HUMANIST HUMANIST

"What do you believe?"

I explain that we don't believe in God (mistake) but our first rule is to do good to all human beings and to care for the whole world, nature and the environment.

She explains to her sisters. I could tell by their reaction that they had not heard beyond "We don't believe in God".  I emphasised again that our primary intention was to do good to all people. I know this was a pretty lame explanation but I am/was using a second language to someone who is hearing it in her second language. I could tell by the looks and a chilliness that I was someone to beware of.

The rest of the evening was spent pouring over jewellery. The fact that it was GOLD jewellery was impressed on me several times. I tried to be polite. I even tried on some earrings. But they didn't suit me and when I asked the price it was impressed on me that they were a bargain. They were real gold and real diamonds and were a bargain at 2,000 reals R$. I couldn't explain that I already had two pairs of gold earrings which I think is already too many and I couldn't possibly pay out another 2,000R$ as I had already paid that much on the car I hired for J to drive. Also I think it is particularly wicked to wear gold and or diamonds when I know that the men who work in the mines are oppressed - low wages and awful working conditions. I think at one point someone commented on my lack of enthusiasm. I couldn't say, " Wow, beau, belle, magnifique ."

Some days later I wrote a letter to J to explain what I was feeling and the reason I was crying so much. I also had a lousy cold and felt like shit. I went to her sister's where she was staying to give it to her but before I could give it to her another friend arrived and guess what she did? She went to her car and brought back not one album but at least six albums of photos. This time they were not family photos but photos of her travels and she spoke French which helped me. I was able to ask question about some of the photos. I got the feeling that J criticises me for not speaking she resents it when I have a conversation with someone else.

Eventually I gathered that lunch had been arranged but I wasn't informed . J and I went to town to buy a telephone card and to find dvd's for my camera. She asked me what was wrong and I said I would explain after the shopping.  The shopping was endless and ended by her shouting at me and saying ,"It's not my fault."  But she wouldn't listen to me when I tried to explain that she was trying to but the DVD's in the wrong shop.

We went back to the car and I asked her to stop for a coffee. " Why we can have a coffee at the house."  " I want  to talk to you," I said. "Oh yes," she said. She had forgotten.

I tried to ask her about the little restaurant which was near the house but she just kept saying that we could eat at her sister's.    We stopped the car and went into the cafe.  

"Why do you want to eat here?"    "Why?"

She can't hear me.