The Fugitivities, стр. 67

Jonah was mortified. “I’ve hurt her,” he kept saying. He was overreacting. Octavio knew why and he tried to reassure him. They were thinking of Taís. They had talked about her only once since leaving Rio de Janeiro. They never would again.

Octavio gave Paolina some sugarcane to chew on. Francesca disapproved but didn’t say anything. They stopped on the way home to pull up wild garlic for dinner. Paolina demanded more and more sugarcane to suck on, and Octavio shaved off more pieces and obliged sheepishly. By the time they got back and started cooking, Paolina not only sang but also banged on everything, shrieking repeatedly in her mother’s face even when she was told not to. Francesca seemed exhausted. Jonah struggled to keep Paolina distracted and out of the way. Euclides had not returned. Francesca told them that it was normal, and that they shouldn’t worry. Sometimes he decided to camp out on his own on the mountainside. Sometimes he went to find one of his women. He would be back sooner or later.

After dinner Francesca tried to put Paolina to bed, but it was useless. The girl would start bawling and wouldn’t stop unless her mother came and stayed by her side until she fell asleep. When she finally could get away, it was late and chilly outside. She joined Octavio and Jonah on the veranda, and for a time they huddled and chatted together like old friends. It was hard not look up at the stars, so clear at this elevation. To think of the world, and the sky, all those colorful spinning tops Jonah knew from the Hubble foldouts in National Geographic. He had read that the spiral arm of the Milky Way would one day reach the bend of Andromeda, and the two great puddles of stars would commingle a while, before returning into a void with no boundary at all, only an infinite thicket, like a wild jaboticaba tree climbing the visible realm, its billions of candescent branches fanning out through space and time. Perhaps Orígenes was right. On the other hand, he was still a black man laboring in a sugarcane field, most likely as he had been his entire life. As though even in all the immensity and beauty of the universe his world had no exit, no line of flight.

They heard Paolina whimper through the wall. Jonah decided to give the lovers some space and went inside to check on her. Later, when he overheard the muffled sounds of their lovemaking, he realized, to his surprise, that he didn’t mind. He was happy for them. What kept him awake was not the grating loneliness of hearing others consumed in pleasure, but the deepening shadow of self-doubt. He thought of Nathaniel’s words, and Isaac’s, and he knew he had no better answers to any of the points they had made. And he knew moreover that he would have to leave his present situation, and soon. That he was not really doing anything, despite the fact that everything in the world was seemingly free for him to choose or take, most of all the freedom itself, which was in the scheme of history both an incredible accident and a miracle, but which he had, to his mind, so little to show for.

When they got back to the city, Jonah told Octavio that he was leaving Porto Alegre, that he wanted to see Montevideo and Buenos Aires, that there was no reason for him to stay any longer. He asked Octavio whether he wanted to join him or stay and explore his budding relationship with Francesca. Octavio asked for the night to think it over.

Jonah was packing and nervous about missing his overnight bus to Uruguay the next day when Octavio showed up.

“I’m staying,” said Octavio. “Actually, I’m going to stay with Euclides for a while in Alvorada, and then we’re heading back up into the mountains with Francesca and Paolina, possibly for a week or more. You’re invited, of course, if you want to postpone that bus ticket.”

“I’m good,” replied Jonah. “You go have fun. Where’s Francesca?”

“She’s still packing. I came to get my stuff.”

“I left you my portion for the Rialto,” said Jonah.

“Cool, you’ll keep in touch? Maybe if I can swing it, Francesca and I will come find you later on.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of each other.”

“I’m sure we haven’t,” said Octavio. “Sin duda. You take care of yourself.”

“I will, compañero, I will. And listen, man. Whatever the case, be good to Francesca. Do right by her, if you can.”

On this unexpected and yet vaguely anticipated comment, Octavio reflected solemnly but gave no immediate response. “We’ll go with you to the bus station when you’re ready.”

At the bus terminal where they had disembarked, it now seemed, so long ago, the two friends embraced. Francesca was more emotional than Jonah had expected, and he felt almost immediately regretful that he was leaving. Francesca explained that she had a gift for him and extracted from her bag a little blue journal and a book of poems by Mário Quintana. Inside she had inscribed three words to him: Sul. Sorte. Saudade. “If never I see you again,” she said, carefully, as she handed it to him. He thought she misspoke and meant to say, “I hope to see you again.” But she shook her head and said it again in her own language using the word he knew meant what it did, but not what it would always mean to her. And when she tried again very softly, almost without sound, it was: “If I hope then never I will see you again.” He knew that it was true. She put her arms out and they embraced. Then he stepped up into the idling bus, giving a faint wave through the bubble of glass as he found his way to an empty seat. He held close the