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 The Brazil of the imagination is shattered in Samba Dreamers, a novel of two Brazilians in America who wrestle with the myths of movies, politics, and the American Dream. José Francisco Verguerio Silva, fleeing the brutal Brazilian dictatorship, arrives at Los Angeles International Airport and decides he will be Americanized at all costs.
He gets a job driving a bus for a Hollywood tour bus company, gets married and fathers twins, yet the Dream remains elusive as he wrestles with flashbacks of his prison torture. His relationship with Rosea Socorro Katz, the crazed daughter of Hollywood's Brazilian star Carmen Socorro, proves to be more harrowing and dangerous than what he bargained for. With his life in shambles, Joe realizes that the American Dream, just like the Brazilian dictatorship, was built on lies. Joe returns to Rio de Janeiro to face the demons he fled, but Rosea, drowning in the dream of the Brazil of her mother and the Amazon utopia that never was, throws herself in the ocean. The frame story of the Portuguese explorers pursuing the mythical Amazon warriors echoes in the modern conflict. In both the frame story and in the novel, the new arrivals want to capitulate to the new culture, yet want to withdraw to the values they've always known. The fantastical tales of strange birds and tempting fruit give way to the cannibal ritual which enticed and terrorized the European imagination. In the same way, American freedom and the myth of unbridled opportunity can also consume and destroy. A large fern covered my view. Slowly I moved the greenery aside. There, I saw my first Amazon: large, her skin painted with black genipapo dye. The long wound on her shoulder, smeared with balsam, opened slightly as she prepared her bow. A twine belt around her waist cut into her thick flesh. A magnificent cluster of purple flowers dangled from a tree above her. She raised her bow, shot her arrow and brought down a capuchin; she scoffed at its small size and stuffed the poor fellow into a bag made of human hair. Carta de Carlos Manoel Teixeira da Cunha a João Vicente Cardim da Almeida (Letter from Carlos Manoel Teixeira da Cunha to João Vicente Cardim da Almeida), O Ano 1639 Senhor da Cunha, You have let your pen wander, for exploration of a new land brings a fever. To be a part of history, there must be truth to your tales. A resposta de João Vicente Cardim da Almeida a Carlos Manoel Teixeira da Cunha (Response from João Vicente Cardim da Almeida to Carlos Manoel Teixeira da Cunha), O Ano 1640
CHAPTER 1 O Ano 1975 Clouds brushed the wings of the airplane. José Francisco Verguerio Silva looked out the window and suddenly had the feeling of bursting through the glass, tumbling slowly through white heavenly wisps, and finally colliding with the ground, his long Brazilian name smashing into pieces and scattering. He got up to his feet, sobbing as he looked for all the parts of his name, but he had lost them. He filled out the landing card and gave his passport to the airline attendant. Now he was Joe. Joe Silva. It was all the name he had left. BRAZAIR Flight 605 touched down in Los Angeles and shot down the runway. BRAZAIR had filed for bankruptcy, and Joe was on their farewell flight. He clung to the satchel containing small presents bestowed on the passengers by the melancholy but gracious crew: a child's pilot hat, a Tom Jobim cassette tape with his famous "Girl from Ipanema," and a small blue toothbrush. After years of searching his soul, Joe was finally here. The Rio movie premier of Carmen: Você ainda está no meu coração, dedicated to the memory of the irrepressible Brazilian star Carmen Socorro, had kindled his desire to come to America. Then, with the violent disappearance of his beloved Sonia, his desire burst into flames. Joe's footsteps creaked on the cold linoleum of the long, wide airport halls, the leather soles of his shoes sticky like a dry tongue. The halls echoed with human noise. He carried his duffle bag and flight satchel past directional signs that seemed vaguely familiar --- "Exit," "To Customs," "Baggage Carousel," "Gates 55--79," "Things Go Better with Coke" --- as if they had popped out of phrase books. But other signs were brief and cryptic, words cut and censored, other words added. One needed to know these new secret phrases to survive, and Joe didn't know them. He saw people coming toward him, pushing through the airless rooms, getting up from chairs as if suddenly in a hurry, snatching up their belongings. These people whispered to themselves and peered through dark glasses as if their eyes had been gouged. Speaking of gouged eyes! How could Joe not see it coming when Sonia marched up to his newsstand and announced a new love in her life: Ação Popular! The student political movement! She wanted to overthrow the military government, but all he wanted was to marry her. He had waited a long, long time, and now this? But she was not in the mood for love. "Where is the Truth around here?!" she shouted and hurled one of his newspapers onto the floor. "What a bunch of lies! Why do you sell such crap!" He panicked, fearing they would be caught, and pinned her against the corner to kiss her into silence. Her eyes blazed fiercely, half for her love of politics, half for her love for him. His feet dismantled the Jornal do Brasil Sonia had thrown on the floor. He peered down at the sly weather forecast: "Weather is black. Temperature suffocating. The air is unbreathable. The country is being swept by a strong wind...." Joe struggled to make his way through the airport, clawing through the raw and vivid memories that always blended into his present sadness, as they did now, when the memory of Sonia turned into a craving for biscoito de polvilho, which he knew he would never taste again. Clever cariocas sold these wonders in the bakeries and on the beaches of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon. Dark-legged men and women trekked on the sand and shook rattles as they toted large sacks of biscoitos, selling their wares to toasty sunbathers. Those sacks, though enormous, must have weighed less than ten kilos because a crackly biscoito de polvilho, shaped like a small ring, is no more than crunchy, intricate chambers of air flavored with salt or sugar. Joe imagined these delicious bits of enchantment crumbling in his mouth, a memory that saudade would never let fade. Joe continued to the front of the terminal to catch some kind of bus. His saudade for home now came furious and fast, not only for the biscoitos, but for the samba and the jangling strains of forró music and hot afternoons spent over a cold beer. He longed now for all the places in Brazil he had neglected. He longed for Iguaçu Falls and its multitude of rainbows, though he'd never been there. He longed for Fortaleza and its sand dunes, though he'd never been there. He longed for Teresina, the hottest place on earth; for the Amazon and the ghosts of lawless bandeirantes haunting the mangrove swamps; for the yellow birds and green frogs; for the Rio Negro and Rio Branco, where he'd never, ever been. He longed for Salvador, where he had gone once as a child ---Salvador, with its vendors selling cheap plastic clocks and vinyl wallets and pet roosters tethered to chairs. He imagined his dark-eyed mamãe, with her wavy hair tied in a bun, mouthing something he couldn't pick up, her Portuguese jumbled into the clamor of flight bags and jet engines. He hungered for her black beans and carne seca with farofa and hot sauce sprinkled on top, and he sucked his lower lip. Outside the terminal, fresh air hit his face, and he felt better. Hotel passenger vans rumbled past like a parade of army tanks. He heard the shrill metal whistles of parking attendants and saw them fling their hands at parked cars. Suitcases on wheels bumped along the cracks of the concrete. Here he was, a carioca in a strange land, a land of lazy rudeness he'd been told. But, oh, he had wanted to come to L.A., he had longed for it --- even though Sonia's friends told him that American capitalistic desires were to blame for the military tanks that came rumbling from Minas Gerais to Rio and for the period of unhappiness that followed, the Anos de Chumbo --- Years of Lead, as it was called, and now he wore his longing like a splash of ash on his forehead for penance, but most of all for sorrow. CHAPTER 18 O Ano 1978 Antropofagia I Cannibalism --- The Hunger Rosea carried her steely dog-killer .22 everywhere to protect herself. In her imagination, even in her dreams, dogs chased her wherever she went. She woke up as if still inside a dog's mouth. Her dingy bedroom smelled damp and warm from the freak early-morning rain shower; sunlight made a burning strip on the floor near the window, and the shadows of burglar bars snarled through the curtains. Rosea obsessed about dogs in the garden until it got to the point that she saw fleet-footed greyhounds chasing her car down the highway. At work, a mastiff crouched under her desk. The dark-blue alleys were Doberman nights, and weedy, dry, empty lots were German shepherd days. She thought of prison and dogs baying behind bars. She was asking for it, playing herself to the limit. Her world waited for disaster, its jaws poised. Rosea knew she could chase Joe with doglike perseverance, with Amazon longing strong enough to bust three million coconuts. She imagined chasing him through Vaughan Peter's new movie Capture at San Cristobal, a blockbuster action flick where Vaughan single-handedly mows down an evil dictator from somewhere in Latin America with a large ball of fire that rolls through taco stands and burns up rain forests. She imagined rescuing Joe while firing her gun at a herd of FBI men and finally stealing a boat and taking him to a deserted island with nothing but palm trees and turtles and a freshwater spring. She had devoured her heart in the quest for love, and now there was a big hole. When she wept with desire, she didn't have a pretty dainty cry, a lace-hanky cry. She had an ugly cry, a hacky howl, the cry of anguish described in Amazon legends. Joe followed her into the garden with the ghost of some warrior prodding his scars, licking his memory. Who knew what dogged his mind, only that she made him crave her. They kissed, their lips making small plocking sounds. His eyes sparkled as he craned his neck for her tongue to brush down his jugular, frightening him to death. Antropofagia II Cannibalism --- The Steps The ceremony is parceled in pieces. The warriors capture the prisoner and hold him for many months. He is fed and sleeps with women of his desire. When the day of celebration comes, he is taken to the river and washed, then led to the village square. The chief praises the prisoner for his bravery and skill in battle and proclaims that the honor of being eaten by his fellow man far surpasses being eaten by worms. Rosea and Joe spread their clothes under a cluster of bushes hidden from view. Anyone who came up here would have to be looking for them. Any dog that came up here would be shot. Joe lay flat on his back to hide his scar, but he had a smaller one, a white thread across his collarbone. He seemed melancholy, his manhood in soft, round puffs, too concerned with other things. He'd seen a vision a few times, he said, a woman in white, her hands stained with yellow palm oil. He didn't believe in visions because he was becoming practical here in America, but still... Hands: Rosea ran her tongue between his fingers, then continued following the life line on his palm. Joe stroked down her nose with his thumb. She kissed his palm as if it were a flower, then --- Arms: Rosea traced her fingers up Joe's arm covered with dark, silky hair. She turned his arm so that his hand faced upward and traced the maroon veins floating underneath his soft, light-brown skin. He had a small scar in the crease of his elbow. "Where is this from?" she said. Joe's face grew sad. "Soccer game." She nipped his shoulder and sucked a small lipful of flesh. Joe raised his head slightly, caught her nipple, and pulled it into his mouth. Rosea stuck her hands in Joe's hair and wrapped a curl around each of her fingers. Chest: Rosea ran her knuckles down his face, his neck, then placed her hands on his chest and licked a small patch of dark hair on his breastbone. Stomach: She lowered her head onto his belly. He flinched, his stomach tightened, then yielded. Rosea traced an imaginary black genipapo coil starting from the curve of his ribs, making a dark spiral of trouble on his skin. The black genipapo dye drained into a whorl between his legs. She rubbed her mouth on the wiry hair, releasing the scent of a man. Rosea opened her mouth, and her tongue curled into a hook as if using it to pull in his entire body. Then she sunk into his flesh, and it disappeared just like that. Loins, the Rest: Joe grabbed her shoulders, pulled her down beside him, and got on top of her. His hips slid between her legs. He took one of her knees and coaxed it up. She brought up her other knee and held him with her thighs. He closed his eyes and brought himself down, rocking until their clothes and leaves gathered in the small of her back. Antropofagia III Cannibalism --- The Sacrifice An honorable captive tries to fight back, argues with the chief that there are many people who love him and would fight on his behalf. In spite of his threats, his head gets smashed into bits with a club. The women of the village take the prisoner's body, lay it on its stomach, and begin to trace a knife down its spine --- A branch cracked. First, it seemed like nothing. Then footsteps shuffled the dried leaves on the ground. They scrambled up. Rosea grabbed her pants and began stuffing her large legs inside the tight denim. Then she threw on her shirt, leaving the buttons undone. Joe struggled to turn his pants right side out first, then managed to wrestle them on. A bush rattled, a few loose leaves spiraled in the air. Rosea grabbed her underwear and Joe's T-shirt and crammed them in her purse. She peered through the branches. A man was making his way through the trees, and the sun hit his belt buckle and sunglasses as he appeared and disappeared in flashes of light. Rosea scooped up the shoes, and the two lovers thrashed out of their hideout as they tried to get to the wall. The approaching intruder coughed and pushed his way forward, flapping aside a low-hanging branch. Rosea and Joe hurried, flinching from their bare feet on the ground. "Go faster!" Rosea whispered harshly as they scrambled over a fallen log. "Keep going!" "Hey!" a voice called. "Shit," Joe cried, stumbling to a stop, "we're caught." "Go," Rosea shoved him forward with her armful of shoes. "Hey!" the voice persisted. They turned around. Then she saw him. It was some kind of golf-links vision, here by himself. She knew this type. Anger in her grew and mounted into fury. It was a phantom from L.A., a big-time mogul's lackey or a small-time producer, looking studied snappy and bland like milk, hiding the lasciviousness. The man's pink scalp showed through his thin, sandy hair, and he wore khakis, a pink polo to match his scalp, and spiffo moccasins. He was holding a clipboard, but he spoke like a policeman. "What are you two doing here?" he demanded. "Well, what are you doing here?" Rosea fumed. Joe nudged her. "We're going." "Wait just a minute here," the man said, "this is private property, you shouldn't be here." "We're leaving," Joe assured. Under his breath, "Come on, Rosea!" "Well, who are you, Vaughan Peters?" Rosea bellowed. "None of your business. I have a permit." Rosea's back stiffened, and she let go of the shoes. Yeah, she knew these men. They worked with her mother. Galaxy Studio goons. And here they were again. The motherfuckers just kept multiplying like outer-space aliens. These men used to slip pep pills between her mother's clenched teeth as if she were a horse, and they poisoned her mai tais with hope. They were always laughing at some private joke and carried posterboard renderings of new ideas for torturous bingo-bongo hats. They loved tropical things gone mad. When her mother was on the outs, they scooted around like schoolboys with a lot of money and had jaguar convertibles and faggy boyfriends who worked in real estate. "If you hadn't had that kid," they'd say, "we could say you were still available, pure as Amazon snow." These brittle men drove lonely actresses to suicide, actresses who waited for the big break and for love. These men --- their muscles slim and hard from weight machines, their flesh slippery and blue veined --- these men, like zombies, never died because no one dared to kill them. "I'm reporting you," the man barked, gesturing with his clipboard chock-full of great big money plans, wiggling his little butt as if he had a little tail bopping side to side, "and finish dressing, will you!" Rosea unclasped her purse. He kept yapping about the shoes strewn on the ground in front of her, her exposed chest, and snorting like a Chihuahua. She slid her hand inside the purse, grabbed the .22 under the crumpled underwear, and pointed it at Mr. Golf Shirt. He blinked his beady canine eyes. "Hey there. Whoa. Whoa." She saw Joe's hand reaching over to snatch the gun. She pulled the trigger. Time suddenly sped forward like a Moviola gone mad, when the film just rips through the lens. A red spot flew onto the man's shirt as if his blood had been hurled at him. His eyes widened, his pouting mouth opened just a bit, then he fell straight back, landing with his arms out to the sides. The above text are excerpts from the book Samba Dreamers Samba Dreamers by Kathleen de Azevedo
Series Title: Camino del Sol
ISBN: 0816524904
University of Arizona Press
Paperback, $17.95 (320p) To order, contact: The University of Arizona Press, 355 S. Euclid Avenue, Suite 103, Tucson, AZ 85719 - www.uapress.arizona.edu Kathleen de Azevedo has been a contributor to Brazzil in the past. You can know more about her work visiting her website: www.kathleenazevedo.com.
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That shows that you got really pissed off with what I said. So, are you enjoying it, american nazi?
That is very true about America the way the Dream can lure and consume people, especially in LA and New York. The description was completely accurate, it's everything I have noticed in my 10 years here, even the "lazy rudeness".