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The five of us burst into laughter, a hearty, communal laughter
that not only welcomed me into
this group of workers, but
welcomed me back to Brazil, my home. I bade my colleagues
farewell and
took that laughter across the road
with me to the bus stop and onto a bus.
By
David Alexander Robert
After a rather long stay in Britain, much longer than I had intended, I was both glad to be back in my neighbourhood
of Botafogo and to be in tears of laughter only a couple of days after my return. As I have come to appreciate, Brazil can
reduce me to uncontrollable moments of laughter in the most unexpected of places, doing the most mundane of tasks. This
particular long-overdue occasion was no exception, for it took place in the foyer of the Bradesco Bank underneath Edifício
Argentino on Botafogo Beach during an attempt to pay a Telemar phone bill.
I had intentionally arrived at 4.30 pm, soon after the bank had closed, intending to take advantage of that wonderful
queue-busting machine, the automatic bill-payer. Much to my dismay I found I was unable even to reach this marvel of modern
technology as four workmen had placed their ladder in front of it, teetering upon a pool of water.
"A máquina 'tá
funcionando?" I asked in my newly-refound, though heavily-accented, Portuguese.
"Sorry mate, it's been switched off 'cos we're fixing a burst pipe."
I went to the machine's identical twin on the other side of the foyer, only to find that she too had been switched off,
obviously in sympathy. Panic set in: the bill had to be paid
(vencimento) by the coming Sunday and I was off to Serra do Cipó, in
Minas, early the next morning, for a good week. This would mean fines and interest. In my state of disorientation I looked
around for somewhere to anchor my anguish and was pleased to see a friendly face: the security guard who always stopped to
chat with me.
"Tomou chá de sumiço?"
Flattered that he had remembered me, I forgave him for being the tenth person that day who had managed to
comment on my long absence by making reference to my nation's propensity for drinking tea. Having given a brief explanation of
my "sumiço", I was helpfully pointed towards a bright red batphone upon a display board beside the teetering ladder and
also upon the ever-growing pool of water. Thanking him I approached this yet further marvel of the banking system.
FONE FÁCIL BRADESCO - they made it sound so easy. All I had to do was dial "1". So dial "1" I did. But nothing
happened. So I dialed "1" again. Still no joy. A third unsuccessful attempt. At this point I appealed to the workmen next to me
holding onto the ladder.
"'Tá fora de
serviço?"
"Try again," he advised.
It then struck me how beautifully synchronized this team of four workmen were. Each had his own role but yet
played a vital contribution to the group dynamic and thus the successful completion of the task in hand. Rather like a four-man
bob-sleigh team. One was standing on the counter with the chained-down pen, and with saw in hand he was removing
sections of the plasterboard ceiling.
The second was on the ladder, though for no apparent reason other than to watch the one with the saw. A third held
the ladder in place, preventing it from toppling over to one side, though not managing to stop it from wobbling due to both
its rickety disposition and to the fact that he was being distracted by my good self in my appeals for help.
The final team player was standing around giving a running commentary on the events. A bit of spare part really
from my point of view, for had it been a group of British workers he would have been off making the tea. Though no doubt in
the Brazilian format his role was vital.
Meanwhile, back at the Batphone, following the advice of my newly-acquired ladder-clutching ally, I tried again.
"'Tá chamando. Alguém 'tá
atendendo." I too now felt the need to give a running commentary on everything that
was taking place. My call was answered by an elderly woman who was most confused by my mention of Fone Fácil. She
promptly informed me that I had reached a residence and that I had obviously dialed the wrong number. She hung up.
"Como eu pude ligar para uma idosa em casa, só disquei
"1"?"
I questioned the team.
They all came back with their own take on events. "Impossible." "Weird." "That's hilarious." "How d'ye manage
that." We all started to giggle at the absurdity of the call, all except the man upon the shelf who was looking a trifle concerned
at what he, and only he, could see beyond the plaster board. I finally managed to get through to one of those wonderfully seductive automatic voices, which don't sound so
different to the telesex voices. The voice led me into the telephonic labyrinth of numerical options and thematic extensions. I
wondered aimlessly through numbered twists and turns, passing various different extensions, though not finding one marked
"Bill Payments". I randomly pressed a button and found myself ordering a new cheque book. Bringing that transaction to its
closure, I hung up.
I rang again, getting straight through to the telesexybank voice, happy to have not disrupted the elderly woman's
afternoon nap a second time. Still not finding the bill payment exit, I went for the next best option: "one of our attendants."
The thought of a guide to lead me by the hand out of this virtual, pre-recorded maze filled me with relief. I was not made to
wait long. I was greeted by a soft, female voice flavoured with that familiar accent that places the sound of an "R" as a
backdrop to every word, whether it actually features the letter "R" or not.
I believe it places the speaker somewhere from the interior of the state of São Paulo. Taking me confidently, yet
gently by the hand, she led me from my state of confusion to an extremely long bar code situated at the bottom of the bill. I was
to read its number. I took a deep breath: this was the equivalent to a couple of games of bingo.
"Vamos lá. Oito, quatro, meia, meia, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, tracinho,
zero."
"How many zeros is that?" she understandably inquired.
I had just placed my thumb nail over the offending zeros in an attempt to count them accurately, when the fourth
man, the commentator, revealed the importance of his purpose in a dramatic fashion.
"The ceiling's coming down," he shrieked, pouncing upon me and pushing me to safety, with the phone still tightly
in my grasp.
"Sorry, how many zeros is that?" she repeated.
"Só um minutinho, o teto acabou de
cair," I explained in amused calmness.
A whole section of plasterboard had landed in the large puddle on the floor, closely followed by what can only be
described as "a clump of water", though it was the first time I'd ever seen water "clumping" in my life. Three astonished workers
glanced up accusingly at the man upon the shelf, who was innocently waving his saw in the air.
With my thumb still firmly placed upon the queue of zeros on the now soggy bill, I stumbled through the extensive
bar code, relieved when the value cited by the Paulista
corresponded to the one upon my bill. I even managed to order a
receipt of payment to be sent to my home address, though I declined the kind offer of setting up a direct debit to pay further
telephone bills. I didn't want to overdo it under the circumstances.
Hanging up the phone, I surveyed the scene. The four men simply stood there with specks of white plaster in their
dark hair. No doubt my own hair boasted the same highlights. Three of us stood in what was now a small lake spreading
through the foyer of the bank. The only ones with dry feet were the man with innocence scrawled upon his face and along the
teeth of his saw; and the man upon the ladder, who had been rooted to this ladder the entire time- perhaps purely to prevent
his feet from getting wet. Alternatively, he may have carried it all the way there and so did not wish his efforts to be wasted.
Our gazes bounced from one to another as I slowly raised my hand and pointed to the words:
FONE FÁCIL BRADESCO (BRADESCO EASY PHONE) and said,
"É fácil mesmo."
The five of us burst into laughter, a hearty, communal laughter that not only welcomed me into this group of
workers, but welcomed me back to Brazil, my home. I bade my colleagues farewell and took that laughter across the road with me
to the bus stop and onto a bus going into the city centre. And as I sat down next to a woman who was so soundly asleep
after her day's exploits that she didn't even sense my presence, I laughed out loud.
I laughed so much that tears poured down my cheeks until my mouth was filled with a thirst caused by my own
saltiness. As I looked around me I noticed I was surrounded by inquisitive eyes; some laughing with me, some smiling at me,
others nodding knowingly towards me. And I felt nestled in a huge, Brazilian blanket that would always keep me warm.
David is a freelance writer and English Language consultant who has been living in Brazil, mainly Rio, since
November 1997. He can be contacted on davealexrob@yahoo.com
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