ELIA, MY BEST FRIEND

ELIA
C2008 JoJo

Elia Maria Gianini Perreira – my best and dearest childhood friend. She and I lived in Niteroi, which is directly opposite Rio de Janeiro across Guanabara Bay. We were friends from the time we were little girls, and I honestly can’t remember a time when she wasn’t a part of my life.

She grew up to be a stunningly beautiful girl. Long black, shoulder length hair, brown eyes, milky white skin and a gorgeous figure. For all that she was beautiful, she wasn’t in the least bit vain or stuck up about it. To give you an idea of what she looked like, for those of us who can think that far back, she was the spitting image of movie star Pier Angeli. Everywhere we went, people would rush up and ask her “Are you Pier Angeli’s twin sister?” She’d smile sweetly and reply “No, we’re not related.”

After school every day, I’d get on my bike and pedal over to her apartment building. She’d be there waiting for me at the door. Once we’d greeted each other, I’d get a running start on my bike, she’d run alongside and hop onto my back carrier, and after wobbling around on the road a bit until we got our balance, off we’d go to Icarai Beach just down the road, to look at the guys – and for them to look at us! This was a daily ritual and the local lads used to time their watches and go down to the beach, to watch us ride by. Actually, they went there to watch Elia ride by – not one of them was enthralled at the sight of me huffing and puffing, red-faced from the exertion of pedalling her weight and mine on my bike – their eyes would be riveted on Elia, who sat there like Lady Muck (or the Queen) graciously waving to them as we rode by. I didn’t wave to anyone – both hands were fully occupied clenching the handlebars, eyes fixed on the road ahead, to make sure we didn’t swerve or hit a pothole!

I can remember one time that a guy passed us on his bike, and he turned his head to look at Elia. He was so enthralled by her that he didn’t look ahead, and he rode straight into the back of a parked car, flipped over the handbars and landed flat on his face on the hood. Oh dear God, how we laughed. Poor guy, blushing furiously, scrambled off the car, got on his bike and shot away as fast as his legs could pedal him away from the scene of his debacle.

Oh I knew all the lads were all there to look at Elia, but I basked in her reflected glory.

The two of us were inseparable! We both had an irrepressible sense of humour and Elia’s sense of fun often got me into trouble!

We loved playing telephone pranks. The surname “Pires” is a very common one in Brazil. Pires means “saucer.” So we’d randomly phone a Pires, until a man answered.

“Is that Mr. Pires?” we’d ask.

“Yes it is,” he’d reply.

“Well can I please talk to Mrs. Cup?” Then we’d hang up quickly.

The Brazilian equivalent of “Go jump in the Lake” is “Vai tomar banho” – go take a bath, which when you come to think of it is much more insulting that telling someone to jump in the lake, because it infers that the person you are insulting, smells and needs to take a bath.

The rainy months in Rio are late December, January, February and March when we get monsoon strength rains. The downpours are so violent that the streets in Rio flood every time, because there isn’t a sewage system in the world that can take that volume water all at once.

Come September, October and November, the water reservoirs are low, and inevitably there’s a shortage of both water and electricity.

We’d punch in a phone number.

“Is that Mrs. da Silva? Good afternoon, this is the water company calling. Do you have any water?”

Every home had its own underground water tank in the garden, covered by a heavy cement slab.

“Just one moment please,” she’d reply, toddle off to her garden, raise that incredibly heavy cement lid, peer down into her tank, then come back to the phone.

“Yes, I have water,” she’d say, huffing and puffing from the exertion.

“Good,” we’d say, “In that case go take a bath.”

Oh we were baad.

Another favourite prank was to dial any old number at random until a call was answered by what was obviously a young guy. We’d flirt up a storm with him, and get him all hot and bothered, then make a date to meet him at Icarai Cinema the next day at 4.00 p.m. At the appointed time, we’d go to Icarai Cinema on my bike and sure enough, there he’d be waiting outside for his “date” to show up, and we’d sail on by, laughing our heads off!

Like I said, we were baaad.

Another favourite prank involved going to Rua do Ouvidor in Rio. This street is strictly a pedestrian street, with lots of stores on either side, topped with several stories of offices above. It was always congested with shoppers and we’d pick a spot roughly in the middle, stop and stare fixedly upwards.

“Do you think he’s going to jump?” I’d ask Elia in a loud voice, looking up.

“I don’t know, he said he would – quem sabe? (who knows?).

In no time flat, a crowd would’ve gathered around us.

“Who’s going to jump? What’s going on? Oh my God, is someone going to jump?”

The questions would start bouncing all around us.

I’d point upwards. “I think it’s from that window on the fifth floor.” Well the crowds would get thicker and thicker as everyone waited with bated breath to see who was going to jump.

At this point, the noise would be so loud that inevitably, someone in one of the offices overhead would open a window to look out to see what all the kafuffle was about.

Instant panic set in and people would start screaming “Nao pule, pelo amor de Deus, nao pule.” “Don’t jump, for the love of God, don’t jump!” Having achieved our purpose, Elia and I would wander off, do our shopping and when we returned past the spot where we’d gotten up to our devilment, there’d still be a few hopefuls hanging around waiting for someone to jump.

Did I mention before that we were baaad?

Another prank we thoroughly enjoyed was getting onto a bus, sitting somewhere in the middle and pick out our victim – some young man sitting on one of the seats at the front of the bus, that run vertically. I’d look fixedly at his shoes, turn to Elia (who would be deliberately looking elsewhere) and say in English “It’s a nice day today,” at which point she’d swivel her eyes, look at his feet, giggle and say “Yes it is, isn’t it?” Pretty soon everyone on the bus would be looking at that poor guy’s feet, and he’d tuck them under himself as best he could, firmly convinced there must be some doggy doo doo that had inadvertently gotten stuck to them!

But our worst prank and one that got me into trouble was the one with the Arabs.

Elia lived in an apartment on the fifth floor of a building. There was a quadrangle in between her building and the one opposite, and on the fifth floor of that building lived a huge family of Arabs. There were at least five sons and two daughters.

One evening, she and I were alone in her apartment, her parents and siblings having gone off on a trip to visit relatives. Now in my defence, the entire idea of what ensued came from Elia, although I went along with it with no hesitation at all!

We went to the bathroom, got towels, and created Arab headdresses for ourselves, by tying the towel onto our heads with a string around the crown. As an added touch, Elia put one of her mother’s scarves around my face, as a yashmack (sp?). She got her Mum’s eyebrow pencil and drew a heavy black beard on herself. We trotted out onto her veranda, and the Arabs, who were out on their veranda taking in the air, were instantly riveted by the sight of us, all togged up Arab style.

I’d taken my guitar to her house. Elia grabbed it and (having listened on the Arab radio station) started warbling in Eastern style while strumming energetically on my guitar (she couldn’t play, by the way, but it didn’t matter). I stood in front of her, waving a large decorative fan up and down, to keep her cool!

“Aaaaaargh aaaaargh aaaargh,” she sang (if you could call it singing). “aaaaargh AAAAAGH – AAAAAAAGH!”

Well pretty soon people from floors above and below of the Arab’s building all came pouring out on their verandas to witness this spectacle.

There were too many Arabs in that family, to fit on their veranda, so every so often, a hand would appear, one of them would get yanked back inside and another one would emerge!

Having assailed my ears (and everyone else’s) for a suitable length of time, I hissed “That’s enough Elia – my arms are aching and I don’t want to go on fanning you.”

We both stood up, bowed to some very enthusiastic applause, and retreated for Act II. First we prepared. Elia scrounged around and found an alarming number of scarves in her Mum’s drawer, which she artistically tucked into my waist band and around my shoulders. We came back onto the veranda, with me swathed in veils, bowed and started. In this act, Elia lounged back on a chair, her father’s pipe clenched in her teeth, while I did the dance of the seven veils – actually it was more like twenty veils! Wiggling my hips, I turned, shed a veil, did some more hip wiggling, discarded another one, while warbling what I hope sounded suitably Arab-like music. I went on doing this until I thought the Arab guys were going to fall off their veranda in their anxiety to see whether or not, I was going to be starkers under all those veils. I decided to leave them wondering, and leaving a few veils still attached we bowed and retreated, to the accompaniment of many howls of anguish, not only from the Arabs, but also from males on verandas up and down that building!

Then came Act III. I was very hesitant about this act, but Elia was adamant, so I went along with it. She rolled up her bathmat and we went out onto the veranda again. Elia put her hand over her eyes, gazing at the setting sun, unrolled the carpet, went down on her knees and started mimicking the devotions Muslims go through, facing Mecca. At the end we bowed to enthusiastic applause and went back indoors.

Well, the Arab guys were totally smitten by us. Somehow they managed to get hold of Elia’s phone number and kept asking us for dates. Frankly, we were terrified of them! Heck we’d seen the movie “A Thousand and One Arabian Nights,” and we knew all about harems and whatnot. No way on God’s green earth were we going to go out with those bearded guys!

Then one Sunday, I picked up Elia on my bike, and we were wobbling up Rua Morreira Cezar, when a car started tailing us. IT WAS THE ARABS!

“Joanna go faster, go faster. We have to lose them,” Elia squeaked.

“I’m … huff, puff … going as fast … gasp … as I can,” I howled.

On and on we went, Arabs in tow. Then we came to my street, Rua Octavio Carneiro, and headed for my house. When we got there, we dropped my bike, ran indoors and locked all the doors and windows.

Mum and Dad were at the Cricket Club, so we were alone. We rushed upstairs, and I grabbed a black serape shawl, which I carried with me. I don’t know why I did that. Anyhow, we stood on the veranda off my parents’ bedroom, and the Arabs got out of their car and stood by the wall, telling us not to be afraid of them, that look, they’d brought their sister along as chaperon so there was nothing to be afraid of. Yeah right, like we believed them.

I took the black serape and threw it over my head. To my astonishment, there was a howl of anguish from the Arabs. For the first, and probably only time in my life, they were much more enthralled by my shoulder length blond hair than they were with Elia! Apparently, dark haired beauties like Elia were a dime a dozen where they came from, but blonds were not!

“Oh Golden Goddess, don’t hide your silken tresses from us,” they pleaded.

I looked at Elia in total disbelief! HUH? Golden Goddess? Who ME?

At this point, my parents arrived back home. “WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” the Pater howled. He was totally enraged! My ardent suitors plunged back in their car and drove off with indecent haste. They never bothered us again!

I was punished for my involvement in this escapade. However, on looking back, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Elia ultimately married an English banker and they settled in Long Island New York. I went and visited them there one weekend, and after many years of separation, it was just as though time had stood still, and we were just as close as we’d been when we were young.

We both had birthdays in August – hers was on the 13th, mine on the 16th. It was a standing joke that when I’d phone her on the 13th to wish her a Happy Birthday, she’d always say “And a Happy Birthday to you on the 16th,” thereby saving herself a phone call!

Elia suffered from asthma which she’d inherited from her mother. She had it so badly that it weakened her heart. We used to phone each other weekly.

She tried to prepare me for her impending death. “Joanna, my lungs are working at 10% capacity,” she said “And my heart could give out at any moment.”

I wouldn’t listen – I couldn’t bear to listen to what she was saying.

“Oh Elia, I’m sure you’re going to be just fine,” I said “You’re going to be around for many many more years yet.”

On November 11, 1991, I was the last person to talk to her. I found her in a sweet and loving mood, reminiscing about our childhood and teenage years together, remembering events, and at the end of our conversation, she said

“Joanna, I think you know I’ve always loved you. You have been a wonderful friend to me, and I want to thank you for that.”

I got a lump in my throat and my eyes teared up.

“You Elia, are dearer to me than any friend I’ve ever had, or will ever have.”

We ended our conversation at midnight. At 1.00 a.m. the next morning, her poor, tired heart that had always been so big and so generous quietly stopped.

I didn’t get to hear about her death until a week later when I phoned. Her husband told me they’d searched high and low for my phone number, but I guess Elia had never written it down – she knew it by heart, just as I knew hers.

I was devastated by her death – it left a huge hole in my heart that I know will always be there, just as I know I will miss her for the rest of my life.