Celebrating 15 Years
I
I really don’t want to be that guy but this doesn’t make any sense. I mean, maybe it does, you tell me. I don’t know you, we never went, let’s say, to Varadero together. Us with straw hats, drinking cocktails by the sea with salt on the rim of the glass, Buena Vista Social Club playing on the speakers, me doing crosswords and you playing sudoku, me to you, Stimulate with seven letters, us playing beach tennis (nowadays you guys are so posh, playing padel every Saturday morning with another couple, I’m always making fun of you because of that, you jerks), us getting to the airport, me walking so clumsily, because I’m always in a hurry, because I didn’t want to bother that nice lady holding a kid in her arms that was in front of me in the security line and now I got behind. I pick up my things, oh so gracelessly, I hold my backpack by one of its wings and start walking while I try to put on my belt, so that now I look like Quasimodo, if Quasimodo was a pervert, almost running because it’s time to go and ring that bell, with his pants falling down. You guys laugh at me, you say something I can’t quite understand, but I don’t get offended because, after all, we’re friends and that’s what friends do. I realize now that we are perfectly on time. I always am, we still have half an hour before boarding. So, you go get some chocolates for the flight while I go look at the books and CDs. I have a weird fascination with ugly covers and gas-station CDs. If we’re going to Varadero together, I think you should know that. Us going to a Cohen gig. Us drinking a pint at some bar in Alvalade. You guys to me, João. Me, Yes. You guys, It’s my father. I start to get emotional (I get emotional so easily), trying not to cry, because you’re not crying, even before realizing if what happened to your father was serious or not. I always liked your father very much.
II
Sorry about that, that was unfair. I promise I won’t do that again but I couldn’t start writing out of nowhere. What I want to tell you happened with me but also not. I mean, João is me and not me. I was never able to write because I could never understand why the hell the narrator (in this particular case, me) would be telling the story to his readers. Did he hear it somewhere? Is he writing it so that it doesn’t get lost? Did he find it in some drawer at his place? Did it happen to him? Is he merely thinking about it, with the readers presumably inside his head? Is he a writer at all? Shouldn’t I try to answer those questions and begin with that? I really don’t know, that’s why I don’t write. That and because I write stuff like «it happened with me but also not». Either way, I wanted to tell you this, I thought you might want to know, please don’t get offended. After all, we went together to Varadero. It was a couple of years ago, I know, but still. Besides, and I don’t like to mention it, because it seems wrong, it seems that I did it out of interest or, I don’t know, but a few years ago, remember, when you guys hadn’t got your license yet, I used to drive everywhere. So, if you don’t mind, hear me out, it’s just a few minutes and then I swear you can leave because I’m sure you have better things to do. And really, don’t bother, I’ll clean up all of this mess alone after you leave, don’t worry about that.
Now that I think about it, it was always you leaving earlier, it was always you looking at your watch, it was always you saying, Right, it was always you knocking your knuckles on the table and smiling to the waitress, while signing your name in the air. You know, I’ve never met anyone quite like you before. You don’t draw the universal symbol for asking for the check, you actually sign your name on an invisible vertical paper, you trace the T’s and make that little dot on your I’s, as if someone might accuse you of fraud or something. It was always you. Always you declaring the night over, calling a cab because tomorrow, well, you had to wake up early. So, now, please bear with me, sit down for a while and pay attention to what I have to tell you. Maybe this is completely irrelevant, maybe I’m just bothering you. I know, I know, I know that the deal is a phone call per month talking about the most banal stuff. How’s it going, my friend? Oh, man, you’re still alive? Everything is fine, and you? Ah, the same. I miss you, man, when will we go for a drink or something? This week it’s impossible, but next week for sure. Let’s say Tuesday. Tuesday is the 14th? Damn it, it’s my sister’s birthday on the 14th. Wednesday then. Sorry, sorry, my sister’s birthday is on the 16th. Let’s make it Tuesday. Did you see what they’re saying about Scorsese’s new movie?
I know, I’m sorry, but you’ve always put up with me way more than I deserve. I’ll try to be quick, I hate to bother you with all my stuff. This happened some thirteen years ago, in June. I was sitting in my parents’ house, on that rocking chair I’d inherited from my grandparents, just killing some time. I still had 40 minutes and Cinemateca was at most ten minutes away from my parents’, so there was no rush. I mean, there was no rush for an average person. For me, just knowing I have to be somewhere in 40 minutes gets me completely neurotic, unable to do the simplest task, even if that place I have to go is just the nursing home around the corner where they’ll be discussing the addition of a vegan option to their menu. I’m pretty sure that is the most annoying of my traits. My egotism is bothersome, the absolute absence of practical intelligence is kinda funny, at least on the first 500 occasions, the need for absolute control is despairing, but this habit of mine of getting on my feet, near the door, just like a pointing dog, checking my pockets to make sure I don’t forget anything, checking the time on my phone, waiting for the moment to leave would certainly be enough to make a shy bald Buddhist reflect and plan a mass murder.
III
Anyway, as I was saying, I left home to meet Tiago at Cinemateca. I got there and prepared to go to the ticket office to buy two tickets for the 3 p.m. session. At the 3 p.m. session, there are only two kinds of people: the hipsters and the old folks. You can only tell them apart by their degree of baldness. Besides that, the glasses are the same and the shirts are also very similar. That afternoon, bloody hell, there were three kinds of people there: old folks, hipsters (represented almost exclusively by me), and her. She was standing tall, smoking, with a Clarice Lispector book under her arm. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses. She was beautiful like you wouldn’t imagine. She had her legs crossed over in a way I was always unable to describe. I once tried to imitate it while talking with your cousin and I fell. Not that now I’m any good at talking to girls, but back then I was a complete mess. All the girls I knew were from our high school and I couldn’t help thinking that they spent 80% of their time with me. I never knew how someone could seduce anyone that sees them all the time. You always made it seem so easy. All of this to say that I had no clue of what to say to her, but, for the first time in my life, I knew I had to say something. I don’t remember what I ended up saying.
Actually, this didn’t happen at Cinemateca at all. I’m lying to you, sorry. It was at Berardo’s museum, but, since Sofia would get upset with me if I told you this happened at Berardo, I’ve changed it to Cinemateca. And I called her Mariana. I probably said something like: Hey, do you know where the Man Ray exhibition is? So, changing this to Cinemateca, it would be something like: Sorry, but do you know if there will be anyone speaking before the Bergman movie? I laughed nervously and she laughed back. She said she didn’t know but the man at the front office would certainly be able to tell me. I asked her if she was also going and she said yes. I asked her name and she answered, let’s say, Mariana. I asked her if she was alone, she said yes. I’m very much aware of what I should have asked afterwards. I know it now, but at that time, nervous as I was, asking her if she wanted to join us made as much sense as asking her what the capital of Albania was. I asked her if she usually went to the movies by herself. She said yes, she said she liked it better that way. And she laughed again. I got embarrassed, I said I also liked that very much (I’d never been to the movies alone before that day. And even afterwards, I’ve only done that once, to see a Rossellini documentary about the war, and fell asleep).
Oh, sorry, the capital of Albania is Tirana, yes. I didn’t mean to distract you with that. I’m sorry, my fault, but please try to focus, otherwise I’ll get lost. I went inside, and bought two tickets, for me and Tiago. She looked once to the ticket office, and we exchanged glances. She might have been madly in love with me or just trying to recall if she had left water for her kitten. I came outside, asked her for a cigarette and sat on a stool (for a couple of seconds, I wondered if it was worth it, you know, to become addicted to smoking in that moment, just because of her, an addiction that, what’s more, I imagined expansive and leading me to an untimely and painful death. Hesitatingly, I decided that it was worth it, yes). She handed me a cigarette and a box of matches, suspecting I didn’t smoke. I lit my cigarette on the third attempt and prayed to Jesus Christ, Our Savior not to cough. I didn’t cough because, no matter what people say, God can be great sometimes. I asked her if the book she was reading was any good. She said it was, but that she wasn’t quite getting it. I’ve never met anyone before capable of saying that they weren’t getting anything, whatsoever. Until that day, my friends and I, we always knew very well what was going on. After that, I never got anything quite right again. I blushed a lot, admiring her, embarrassed. She told me she had never seen a Bergman before, but that she was very excited about The Clash documentary they were showing the next day. I told her The Clash was my favorite band. She asked me if I was coming tomorrow. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, I said, while thinking about the Johnny Marr poster I had in my bedroom, which made me feel like Judas.
Then, Tiago came. Bloody Tiago.
Sorry I’m late. Since when do you smoke? And he laughed, mischievously. She looked at the floor, stepped on the cigarette butt, which got stuck between four paving stones, and smiled while expelling the last puff. I didn’t say anything at all for two or three minutes, just looking at that cigarette, so orderly, not bothering anyone, incapable of getting stuck to anyone’s shoe. Tiago was there talking about stuff like Benfica, or Miguel Portas, or e.e. cummings. I wasn’t listening.
We went inside. She was seated four rows in front of us.
The movie played on.
We left.
IV
Tiago and I went down the street for a beer at a tasca in Praça da Alegria. He talked about the movie we just watched, or about Carolina, his girlfriend at the time, or about some other nuisance with his grades at school. I wasn’t listening. I was paying attention to the circle of water my cup was drawing on the paper tablecloth. He talked for quite some time while I looked around, facing the tasca’s customers, two well-dressed old men with their skin all shriveled and stuff. Looking like someone who, just like me until that afternoon, had absolutely no doubts in life. Two old men that today, if they’re still alive, certainly have a Facebook account where they share images of ancient Lisbon and talk about the good old days. But I guess they’re probably dead now. Actually, as I am the one making them up, I can say for sure that they are in fact dead: one with a fulminating pancreatic cancer and the other in a car crash while coming back from his hometown after Christmas. I was thinking they could look at me all they wanted, that they would never guess. Neither they nor the other guy with a turtleneck and a Russian demeanor sitting at the table in the corner, drinking wine and taking a look at the classified ads. They would look at me and see nothing, you know. At best, they would look at me and think that I had just fallen in love, that I was just a pretentious seventeen-year-old kid wondering that what had just happened to me had never happened to them or to anyone else. They had no idea. The same goes for Tiago, who, just because he was dating Carolina for two years now and because he was two weeks older than me, thought he could give me some advice. They all thought (as you also probably do, I don’t know) they could explain what was happening to me, describing the scene as just an incidence of some universal experience of initiation to adulthood. You have no idea. I mean, if you were to read Clarice Lispector, you would find it so marvelous, you would understand it oh so perfectly and then you would talk about her at the dinners you go to at your friends’ houses. You really have no idea.
Being there next to Tiago after meeting her was
I was going to use a metaphor here, but I won’t because I’m sure you’d make fun of me. We’re always making fun of metaphors but, and I’ve been meaning to tell you this for quite some time now, maybe we do that because we’re stupid, you know? Maybe this irresistible urge of ours to make fun of people who speak through metaphors has something to do with our refusal to take things seriously, our determination in not talking about stuff that is hard to say, that is tough for us and that compromises us somehow. Maybe this is some sort of masculine pride that prevents us from being sensitive and from trying to connect stuff to other stuff through an invisible line.
Anyway, all of a sudden, Tiago, who knows me a little too well, stopped talking. He then drank a sip of beer and, mockingly, he asked, By the way, who was that girl? I acted all nonchalantly, hoping we wouldn’t talk about it but wishing for nothing else than to talk about it all the same. I said, I don’t know, it was some random chick (It was Mariana, she likes The Clash and Clarice Lispector, she smokes Marlboros and she’s going to Cinemateca tomorrow). And then Tiago went all, Did you get her number? She liked you, you know? And I went: Come on, stop it, man. He changed the subject. We were there for half an hour more, and then I asked him, You really think that? And Tiago, who immediately understood what I was talking about, said, Yes. I then went to Bertrand and bought Clarice Lispector’s Água Viva. I headed home.
V
I have no idea if I was really looking at the circle drawn by my cup on the paper tablecloth. I don’t even know if it was a paper or a regular tablecloth. Again, this all happened over thirteen years ago. I just found it beautiful, that image of a glass leaving a mark on a paper tablecloth. Maybe because all the tascas in Lisbon are now being replaced by fancy hotels, and have taken with them those paper tablecloths, leaving behind only the strange longing we devote to obsolete objects that, for some reason, we imagine our pasts attached to. Maybe because, when I was a kid and went in the middle of the afternoon to my grandpa’s restaurant, he was always playing cards and keeping score on paper tablecloths and I’ve always found that, I really don’t know why, so tender, you know? Maybe because I’ve never been able to see beauty in stuff, but I know (from hearsay, I mean) that we can find it in some mountain in the Alps as well as in a paper tablecloth just like that one. Maybe because beauty always seemed to me something random we attribute to objects through a convention I was never able to understand. Maybe because saying stuff like that makes me seem introspective, intelligent, and sensitive and I always wanted you to see me as introspective, intelligent, and sensitive. Me, someone completely unable to even write one sentence without checking my phone. Me, someone who can’t tell hyacinths and daisies apart. Me, someone who has no idea why the hell I am writing this. Maybe it’s because I think that being a writer is noticing these little things and twisting them to give them some kind of meaning, to make them reveal something, those little silent things that have no meaning, that reveal nothing, or, if they do, they don’t reveal them to me.
VI
The next day, I don’t know if you remember that, I had scheduled with Tiago and you guys going to the beach, but I called him saying I wouldn’t be able to make it after all. He didn’t insist because I think he was on to me, you know him, right? At 2:30p.m., I left home, after desperately trying not to get there super early. I paged through Clarice Lispector’s book and I’d written down in my notebook: «The roses perfume is a wild mystery» so that, if I had the chance, I could casually quote it to her.
As soon as, going down the street, I was able to see the Cinemateca, I saw her standing by the door, this time with a slightly older friend, that had this urban hippie vibe, with a tribal tattoo on her left arm and all that stuff, you know? She was sideways, with the sun hitting her face and laughing at what her friend was saying. I passed by her and pretended not to notice her, as if she had one of those familiar faces, as if I had already forgotten about yesterday, as if I met girls like her every Wednesday afternoon. There was a huge line. While the line was moving, she came inside. She saw me and came straight over. She said, Hi, I’m glad you came. My incredible aptitude for dealing with girls made me say, Yes. For a couple of days, I was outraged with myself for saying something that dumb. She didn’t seem to notice my absolute stupidity, and she said, I have to go to the bathroom and then I think we’re going in, we’ll be in the center row. And I said, Nice. Another astonishingly wise and shrewd answer. She went to the bathroom. It was my time to buy the ticket. I was just there, looking at the ticket-office man. I apologized and I left. I left so as not to ruin her, so that she could be like that forever. I guess I left because I was scared that she might lose all her wonder as soon as we left the Cinemateca and I wanted to have just one thing, one fucking thing in this shitty life that was perfect, to just, I don’t know, but to just destroy all the other stuff, to set fire to all of this shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that, I shouldn’t have drunk this last beer, but in a second I’ll be quiet, I promise, and I won’t bother you anymore. It’s just that every night, before I go to sleep, I curse that afternoon in which I left, never to see her again. And when I think about her (and I think about her way more than I should), I think about her with her head down, stepping on that cigarette butt and laughing at my nervousness. I think about her smiling next to her hippie friend.
Was she talking about me?
I think about her asking me if I was going to The Clash movie tomorrow. Her saying she preferred to go to exhibitions all by herself, and me saying I also liked that very much (me, that had never been to an exhibition alone before that day, and even afterwards I’ve only done that once, to see a Larry Burrows exhibition about the Vietnam War and I left not even twenty minutes later). When I think about her, I think about her laughing at me when I told her she would be a famous guitar player. Her giving me her first autograph, with the tail of the S underlining the rest of the name that was left behind. Her having dinner at our place with you guys. Her saying how wonderful Clarice Lispector is. Her telling you that the roses perfume is a wild mystery and you, all dressed up, you, all perfumed, saying Oh yes, but of course. You saying you love, you absolutely love Clarice and also Guimarães Rosa. Her making fun of you after us winning again at padel. I think of me asking her would you yes to say yes my mountain flower and first she put her arms around me yes and she drew me down to her so I could feel her breasts all perfume yes and my heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
João Pedro Vala was born in Lisbon in 1990, and works as a literary critic and translator. He has written two novels, Grande Turismo and Campo Pequeno. In 2025, he will publish an adaptation of his PhD thesis about Marcel Proust.
