MY BRAZILIAN NEIGHBOURHOOD

I apologize ahead of time for the fact that this is a long blog, but it’s not an event that can be told in just a few words.

MY BRAZILIAN NEIGHBOURHOOD

C 1999 JoJo

Niteroi is located on Guanabara Bay, directly opposite Rio de Janeiro. Most of its residents commute to Rio daily, by means of ferries. When we lived there, this was the only means of getting to Rio; nowadays there is a bridge linking the two cities, so people are able to drive to work.

Dad, an Anglican Priest, was rector of All Saints Church in Niteroi. His parishioners were all the local English-speaking people, comprising mostly ex-patriot Brits, with a sprinkling of Canadians and Americans.
All Saints was a small, beautiful stone-faceted Church, with ivy creeping up its walls. The interior had a spectacular natural wood ceiling and the Church also boasted a pipe organ which, at that time, was the only one in Niteroi. The Vicarage was located on the same grounds and had been built specifically for us.

Paradoxically, our next door neighbour to the right was the Roman Catholic Bishop’s Palace in which the Bishop of Niteroi resided, together with all his entourage of Priests.

Across the street on the corner was a boutiquin, a low down tavern. It was not uncommon for there to be drunken brawls on the pavement outside the boutiquin, and the police were called on a regular basis to deal with them.

All in all, Rua Octavio Carneiro enjoyed a diverse segment of society which went from the divine to the irreligious.

Our Brazilians neighbours, all good Roman Catholics were both fascinated and confused by our presence there. How could a Priest be married, much less have two daughters? And why weren’t these daughters ever chaperoned? As far as our neighbourhood was concerned, it was all downright immoral, not to mention sacrilegious!
The house directly to our left was occupied by Senhor Mauro dos Santos, his wife Izaura and daughter Glorinha, who was our age. Glorinha was fiercely jealous of us because she didn’t enjoy the carefree, unmonitored life we did. One day she decided to play a prank on us. The telephone rang and I answered.

“Allo, is that the English Church?” came a voice which I immediately recognized as being hers.

“Yes,” I answered cautiously “What can we do for you?”

“Do you sell shoes for corpses?” she inquired, trying hard to muffle her giggles.

I didn’t miss a beat.

“Why yes we do, Glorinha,” I said smoothly. “What size do you take?”

Thoroughly disconcerted, she hung up. However, she wasn’t through with us yet. A couple of weeks later, once again I answered the telephone. This time she tried to disguise her voice by stuffing a handkerchief into the receiver, but I knew immediately it was she.

“Allo, is that the Igreja Ingleza?”

“It certainly is.”

“Do you baptize illegitimate children?” she asked in an oh-so-innocent voice.

“We certainly do Glorinha. By all means, bring your little bastard over and we’ll be happy to christen him.”

We didn’t hear from Glorinha again. However, the same couldn’t be said about her parents. Senhor Mauro and Dona Izaura had what could only be called a very volatile, explosive marriage. We could often hear them screaming at each other. Dona Izaura obviously had a predilection for throwing dishes because their walls reverberated with sounds of things breakable being hurled against them, accompanied by her shrieks of “Take that, you Filho da Puta.” From what we could deduce, Dona Izaura had an extremely jealous nature, and she suspected that Senhor Mauro had mistresses all over the town. Personally I just couldn’t see it – Senhor Mauro was a short, fat man with a balding head and a luxuriant black moustache. He wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses and reminded me of a fat little penguin as he waddled up the street. By no stretch of the imagination could he be perceived as being the answer to even the most desperate maiden’s prayer. But as far as Dona Izaura was concerned, every woman in Niteroi was lusting after him, and vice-versa.

Perhaps the fact that she was a genuinely ugly woman was behind Dona Izaura’s insecurities. She was as short as her husband, and twice as wide. Her long, greasy black hair was pulled back severely off her round face, and twisted into a large bun which nestled against her fat neck.

Every morning, she’d accompany him to the front gate of their garden, as he set off to catch the trolley bus to the ferry station.

“Now mind you, I expect you back by six o’clock – if you’re one minute late, I’m going to want to know the reason why,” she’d bellow so the whole neighbourhood could hear her.

It became the common practice on our street to go outdoors at six to watch the scene which took place between them on a quasi daily basis. No one made the least pretense that they were out in their gardens for any reason other than to snoop.

The bus would pull up to the stop on the corner at a quarter past six and eventually Senhor Mauro would emerge. His legs were too short to enable him exit gracefully from the bus so he was reduced to making an ungainly hop onto the pavement, accompanied by several bounces as he attempted to keep his balance.

Dona Izaura greeted his appearance with loud bellows. “Do you know what time it is, you fat toad?” she’d shriek. ‘What excuse do you have this time? So you stopped off at some puta’s house for a quickie, did you?”

Henpecked though he undoubtedly was, Senhor Mauro gave as good as he got.

“Cala sua boca feia, mulher, woman you shut your ugly mouth,” he shouted. “You should know by now that these buses always run late! Besides, if I was going to do what you’re accusing me of doing, I can assure you,” he paused for maximum effect, “IT WOULDN’T BE A QUICKIE!”

Senhor Mauro was fully aware that he was playing to an unseen audience in the dark (the sun has fully set in Brazil by six) and he’d appeal to the neighbourhood.

“Entao minha gente, well folks, don’t you think I am a victim of this woman’s foul mouth?” he yelled.

“That’s right, Mauro, you’ve never said a truer word!” Dona Marietta had joined in the fray. She was a quiet, mousy little lady who’d never married and lived in the house opposite with her ailing mother. “The trouble with you, Izaura,” she continued, in a piercing shriek “Is that you don’t know how to keep a man happy!”

“Marietta, I know it’s you – I’d recognize your reedy voice anywhere!” Dona Izaura roared. “What do you know about keeping a man happy? Meu Deus mulher my God you’re a sorry excuse for a woman – why no man has even wanted to take your virginity, much less marry you.”

I thought that Dona Marietta would bow out of the contest and go indoors for a quiet weep. However, I was wrong.

“Izaura, you are an ignorant, stupid woman,” she howled back. “What you’ve just said is ridiculous! It’s the same as saying that you, Izaura, can’t cook so you don’t know how to eat! The entire neighbourhood knows you can’t cook, but all we have to do is to take one look at you to know that you certainly know how to eat!”

This remark was accompanied by shouts of laughter and encouragement from up and down our street.

“Atta Girl, Marietta. That’s telling her!”

“Well done, Marietta, I didn’t think you had it in you!”

To Dona Izaura’s fury, Senhor Mauro joined in the merriment. He laughed uproariously.

“You’re right about her cooking, Marietta.. Thank God we have a cook or I swear this woman would have poisoned me by now.”

To the sound of the neighbourhood’s laughter, Dona Izaura rushed indoors and started hurling dishes. I thought this habit of hers must cost Senhor Mauro many cruzeiros, but their maid told our maid that Dona Izaura used to buy cast-off, defective dishes for the specific purpose of using them to vent her spleen on the hapless Senhor Mauro.

So this was the way things went – until Isabella’s husband died.

Isabella was a beautiful woman with a sweet disposition who lived with her husband two doors down, on the opposite side of the street. She was tall and slim, with dark liquid eyes, delicate patrician nose and a full lipped, sensuous mouth. Her hair was jet black and hung down to her waist. Her husband, João Goncalves, was also a very good-looking man. Tall and well built, he had a sensitive and kindly disposition. The Goncalves’ had been married for ten years and had no children. The entire neighbourhood marvelled at how wildly in love they were with each other. They didn‘t associate with other people and were obviously completely happy being in their own company.

Isabella too used to wait for her husband’s return every evening, but unlike Izaura, she’d run down the street, arms open to embrace him as soon as he appeared. They’d kiss passionately and then walk slowly back to their house, with his arm around her tiny waist, holding her closely to his side. Her exquisite face would be turned up to him, chatting animatedly while he’d looked down at her with an expression of complete devotion and adoration.

The neighbourhood ladies would’ve envied Isabella her good fortune in having such a wonderful marriage, had they too not dearly loved her. She was one of those unique people who was so good and inherently kind, no one could possibly fail to love her.

Then one day João cut himself badly on a tin can and developed blood poisoning. In one week, this vital and gentle man was gone. Isabella’s grief was terrible, made worse by the fact that she didn’t cry. She sat huddled in a chair, arms wrapped around herself, staring into space. She didn’t talk or respond to anyone. The whole neighbourhood rallied around her in force. Ladies were seen scurrying across the street, laden with food which she refused to touch.

“You have to eat querida, you must keep up your strength,” they’d say to her over and over again. She’d turn to face them, her eyes devoid of any expression. This rattled the good women who were trying to comfort her. “She looks as if her soul has gone out of her body,” they’d tell each other uneasily. This terrible state of affairs lasted for two weeks after João died. Then late one night the whole neighbourhood was shaken by the screams which erupted from her house. People spilled out of their homes in dressing gowns. They rushed to her house and started banging on her door, but she wouldn’t let them in. They stood around in sad little groups, wringing their hands while the screaming and heart-wrenching sobbing went on and on for a full two hours. Then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Slowly and reluctantly they made their way back to their houses, talking quietly among themselves as if they were inside a Church.

Next day Isabella emerged from her house and started sweeping the front steps. The entire neighbourhood breathed a big sigh of relief. Isabella was back.

Now in the Brazil of the fifties, a predatory male would regard a virgin as untouchable – not so much as a matter of scruples but principally because her family would regard the usurper of her innocence as dog meat, worthy of getting a knife in his gut. The father and brothers of the ex-virgin would make sure the bastard who’d dishonoured their house got precisely what he deserved.

However, a widow was fair game. Every respectable Brazilian male would assure himself that, having been used to getting “it” on a regular basis, widows were without a doubt, a mass of quivering, unfulfilled lust. He would consider it a kindness on his part, nay an obligation to comfort the widow and fulfill her every desire in the fullest and deepest sense of the word!

Isabella received such offers from all quarters. She refused them. When she finally settled on someone, to everyone’s astonishment, it turned out to be Senhor Mauro.

In retrospect, this wasn’t all that surprising. Senhor Mauro was a very kind man who was genuinely concerned for her happiness and well-being. I believe that at the onset, his intentions were strictly honourable. He truly cared for Isabella and was deeply concerned about her. Following her beloved husband’s untimely death, everyone had voiced the fear that she’d kill herself. Senhor Mauro was as concerned about it as anyone and went out of his way to help her, by running errands and sorting out her legal difficulties. He was a lawyer by profession, and João had left his estate in a sorry mess – Senhor Mauro straightened everything out for her.

Although his wife was infuriated by his frequent visits to Izabella’s house, she knew he had good reason to be there. In fact, everyone knew about Isabella’s legal predicament and that Senhor Mauro had come to her rescue. However, no one dreamed she would grant the pudgy, fat little man her favours.

God knows Dona Izaura wasn’t a sweet-natured person at the best of times. But even hell hath no furies comparable to hers when she eventually found herself to be a woman scorned. Long after Senhor Mauro had an excuse to visit the fair Isabella, he was seen to be toddling over to her house on a regular basis. In fact, he was so deeply in love, he made no attempt to disguise these visits.

Dona Izaura would stand at her front door, arms akimbo, yelling curses, insults and names at him but he was impervious to them. She became a desperate woman, and decided to take desperate measures. There was only one way to settle this matter – she visited the local Macumbeira, voodoo priestess and told her she wanted to put a hex on her rival.

She was told that in order for the hex to be effective, the Macumbeira had to be providedwith strands of Isabella’s hair and also some of her fingernail or toenail clippings – either would do.

Dona Izaura went back home and summoned Maria, her maid. “Are you acquainted with Dona Isabela’s maid?” she inquired.

This was a ridiculous question. Of course Maria knew Dona Isabella’s maid. All the live-in servants in the neighbourhood were very chummy with one another. Little did their employers know how much gossip was exchanged about them through the extremely efficient Domestic Helpers’ Grapevine. In fact, it was through Maria that Dona Izaura had learned her errant husband was offering the fair Isabella far more than just his legal services.

Having established that Maria could procure the required strands of hair and finger/toenail clippings, they agreed on a suitable remuneration for the services rendered by both maids and in no time at all, Dona Izaura was able to make her way back to the Macumbeira’s house, tightly clasping an envelope containing what to her, were treasures.

In due course, the Macumbeira came up with the hex, all neatly wrapped in a piece of cloth cut from Isabella’s cast-off clothing (which had cost extra), and in the dead of night, Dona Izaura crept across the street and placed it on Isabella’s front step.

Next morning, Isabella stepped out onto her porch and stretched lazily. Her eyes gazed down and beheld the hex. She knew immediately what it was, and with a small shriek, she fled into the house, leaving the hex untouched. Dona Isaura watched from behind the lace curtains in her sitting room and smiled with satisfaction.

Hexes by Macumbeiras in Brazil are taken very seriously. People are frankly and openly terrified of them. Isabella was no exception. She summoned another Macumbeira, not only to physically remove the hex from her doorstep, but also to disencumber it of its harmful powers. Once again, Dona Izaura watched from her window. There seemed to be a great deal of discussion going on between the Macumbeira and Isabella. Unfortunately it was done softly and Dona Izaura couldn’t hear what was being said. But she didn’t need to hear – she knew this was a powerful hex which could only be removed if Isabella ceased her adulterous relationship with Senhor Mauro. Her own Macumbeira had assured her of that, having charged her an outrageous fee for creating such a powerful and foolproof hex.

After some deliberations, Dona Izaura saw Isabella’s Macumbeira pick up the hex with a pair of wooden tongs (steel ones would’ve acted as a conduit and transferred the hex from Isabella to her practitioner) and she left with it.

That night, Senhor Mauro went across the street and Isabella received him at the front door. They stood on the porch talking quietly for a considerable length of time. Then he turned and walked back home. He never went to Isabella’s house again.

The next day, Isabella put her house up for sale and moved away to parts unknown.

Dona Izaura had won, but it was a pyrrhic victory because her husband never spoke to her again. Their maid related what was going on – she told everyone of the silence in a home which had once rung with passionate quarrels. She told everyone how Dona Izaura had literally gone down on her knees and begged her husband to speak to her, telling him over and over again that the only reason she’d put a hex on Isabella was because he’d turned his back on her and she couldn’t live without him.. No longer did she throw dishes at the walls, no longer did she wait at the garden gate for his return from work, no longer did she scream insults at him as he walked up the street.

We all felt that something unique to our neighbourhood had been irretrievably lost.

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I gleaned most of these facts from my maid who was chummy with both Dona Izaura’s and Dona Isabella’s maids. Mind you, I couldn’t help but hear the goings on next door, and also witnessed on a couple of occasions the kind of reception poor Senhor Mauro got when he came home every night from work.