Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [144]
I realize that what I miss most when I leave Brazil is the laughter. Brazilians taught me that laughter is one of the strongest companions we have. In every interaction—with a bank teller, sitting on a bus, standing in line at the grocery store—mundane moments can become a delight. With laughter, pain, and hardship comes the organic substance of a reality we all share. With shared laughter comes compassion.
“Fio was just in the hospital for another attack of his spinal meningitis condition,” Rita told me on the last night of my visit. We were sitting together drinking fruit juice and sparkling water—pretending it was beer. We’d decided to go to a special bar in Barra, down by the sea. I watched the reflection of the moon across the water, a trail of light that frothed into iridescent mist as it hit the foam of the waves. I turned to Rita, question in my eyes. “No, he’s OK,” she said.
We sat silent for some time. Barra was a mixed middle-class neighborhood where many tourists stayed. At the table beside us, a man in his fifties shared a table with two beautiful men who looked to be in their late teens or early twenties.
“Of course you can take a walk with one of us,” one of the young men said in broken English.
Rita looked at me.
“Negotiations,” I explained.
Rita nodded and smiled. “Hope our older gentleman is not so stupid as to go.”
I laughed. “We shall see.”
“So, you were telling me that Henry is coming to Bahia in a few months with some Rotarians?” Rita asked.
“Yeah. He came and talked with me. He asked me for advice on the trip.”
“That took courage.”
I nodded. “I have respect for Henry. I’m glad he did it. We were supposed to meet for coffee, but it stretched into lunch.”
Rita smiled. “Well, I’m pleased he’s coming, so he can see for himself what we’ve done. I think he’ll be proud.”
“Yeah. I think he is already. And James, the other fellow who was against the building?” Rita nodded. “He has now asked his Rotary club to give us funds to furbish the new building. He really supports us now. I guess things just got confused for awhile.”
“We’re getting old,” Rita said.
“Maybe you are. I certainly am not.”
“That’s what the fellow beside us thinks.” We both snickered. “You’re older than me, aren’t you, Margaret?”
“Last time I checked. Don’t think it’s changed. You can console yourself with that, you will always be younger than me.”
“We have to think about who can take over Bahia Street—after us, I mean.”
“Yeah. I’ve thought about that. Nancy seems very good, in a few years perhaps. If not her, I feel confident now that someone will come along. For you it’s harder.”
“Perhaps. Fio can’t do it. Perhaps one of the girls, when they get through university, would like to come back.”
“Yeah.” The tourist at the next table rose with the younger of his companions, the other remained seated. I looked at Rita.
“Silly, silly man,” she said. She paused. “You could come live in Arembepe. You should buy a small place on the beach there, before the dollar drops any more.”
“That’s a nice fantasy. I don’t know what I’ll do when it comes time for me to pass Bahia Street on to someone else, my excuse for coming here all the time. My heart is divided now.”
Rita laughed. “Your heart may be divided, but your soul is here.” The waiter arrived with another bottle of water for us. The young man at the next table picked up the older fellow’s backpack, which he had inexplicably left at the table, stood up, nodded to the waiter, and walked out.
“Oi ai,” Rita said. The waiter raised his eyebrows, poured us each some water from the bottle.
“Bahia, Bahia,” I said. We watched the moon. A group of young men played soccer on the firm sand near the waves. Someone down the street began beating out a samba on a tabletop, and others