O Retorno

The wine-colored violin smelled of years of beeswax polish and propolis. But for João it was the mournful sound of the strings when Senhor Pereiro played Ave Maria that transported him out of the favela and the cockroach-infested shack where he and his mother co-existed. His mamãe was known in the favela as the Buceta Ricca (Pt. “rich vagina”).  The ebony-haired, emerald-eyed mulatta’s clients were well-to-do pessoas influentes who fancied transar with an exotic twist.

Senhor Pereiro invited João over to his flat for free lessons. For João, it was a welcomed diversion from the foul odors, the loneliness and the cacophony of favela Rocinha. After lessons he sat on the couch. A pão de queijo cheese ball? Pereiro sometimes stroked João’s neck, or palmed his thigh while João played.   

Joãozinho, with practice, someday you will become famoso! 

The touch felt reassuring and warm. Sometimes João welcomed the sensation. At times, it was an awkward repulsion, like that of misaligned magnets.

  His classmates taunted João and warned him to stay clear of Pereiro. Everybody knows he’s a bacha. João knew it.

Senhor Pereiro was hospitalized. Upon his return, he found his immaculately decorated flat in Vidigal trashed. Meus violinos! Pereiro fell to his knees wailing. One violin lay shattered, another was missing. Ayyy… Jesús Cristo!

João never returned to Senhor Pereiro’s. Except for the broken violin and the fact that someone defecated in Pereiro’s toilet, leaving it unflushed, the police found no clues.  João dropped out of school. His mother became a stranger. Admit it. You never gave a shit about me! 

In the evenings, João scampered up the garbage-strewn hill with a bundle wrapped in rags under his arm. He played for hours in the shadow of a purple jacaranda overlooking Ipanema. The fibers on his violin bow began to fray. He nursed it by playing softly, unaware that ravenous dermestid beetles were scavenging the horse hairs on his bow. A spiderweb above him seemed to oscillate in synchrony with his ricochets. He imagined the tiny spider’s legs analyzing the vibrations. Could spiders hear?

One of his mother’s customers who once overheard João play, recommended him for the Tatuí conservatory. João changed his name and immersed himself in double harmonics and spiccatos. When not in class, João played at rich people’s parties, on street corners, or wherever there was money to be made. He mesmerized listeners. Obsessed, he slept with the violin, caressed it. He imagined notes flittering from his fingertips, teasing the swallows in flight over Guanabara Bay. 

João stashed enough money to audition for the Menuhin International Prize.  “Brazilian wunderkind delivers immaculate rendition of Paganini’s 24^th Caprice, captures Menuhin glory.” read the Folkstone Herald headlines. 

Catapulted to international fame, João traveled the world. Music became his balm.  In vivid dreams, he could feel Senhor Pereiro’s palms pressing his shoulder blades, the brush of Pereiro’s soft beard caressing his cheek as they embraced. His cologne. 

Joãzinho…Pereiro’s soft voice beckoned. 

But during nightmares João roiled with remorse. He’d lay awake, mired in shame and ambivalence. Senhor Pereiro was the only person who ever showed him kindness. But he hated the man. And he hated himself. Some nights, he would bolt upright. Pereiro’s soft fingers on João’s wrists became ghostly shackles, holding him down as he wept, helpless in the darkness.

João gulped antidepressants before each performance. His vivid dreams and nightmares propelled him to write rambling letters he never sent, or to make large anonymous donations, including a scholarship at Tatuí in Pereiro’s name. 

Upon reading Pereiro’s obituary, João flew 23 hours from Tokyo. At the gravesite stood the priest, Forgive our trespasses…, and two others he didn’t recognize. João caught the distraught visage of a blue-black skinned young man by the casket, holding a white rose in one hand, rosary beads in the other.  

Later that night, João awakened in a cold sweat. Could jealousy and love be expressed in one melody?  He dressed and walked two miles to the cemetery. Light rain misted his face. Straddling rivulets in the clay around the gravesite, he shouldered the violin. The bow hummed. The high notes of the Ave Maria floated, hung briefly in the darkness, then dipped silent. Tears and raindrops dripped from João’s chin down the violin’s center bout. He finished the piece, wiped the instrument, and stowed it in its case. Clasps clicked. He turned, unsheathed a spade he brought in a plastic bag, and interred the instrument beside Pereiro’s grave.