Nowhere People

Sharing a bottle of beer with Paulo on the porch, Leonardo takes advantage of Maína’s being in the bathroom to ask if Paulo knows what he’s doing. ‘Wake up, Paulo, the girl isn’t only a kid, she’s also an Indian … I don’t have to explain to you how much that makes this whole thing a huge bloody chainsaw massacre,’ and he looks at his friend, whom he has known since he was ten years old and Paulo eight, feeling as though, in spite of the mutual admiration that still exists, there’s no longer the affinity that survived up to their university days. Paulo, who just said again and again that there was no need to worry, seems to be looking out into nothingness. ‘All right, Paulo?’ Leonardo asks, crossing a line he’s sure his friend won’t like him crossing. ‘Huh? Whatever it is, get it off your chest … ’ and he puts his hand on Paulo’s shoulder. ‘Something happened yesterday … ’ Paulo says, but he doesn’t go on. Leonardo won’t press him. His old classmate is a grown-up, more mature than most of his age can manage. Even a poor bastard down on his knees begging to be put in jail, even he deserves the benefit of the doubt, he must know what he’s doing, there has to be some reason. He picks up the bottle from the tiled floor, refills his glass and then his guest’s. ‘And the degree, Paulo, how’s that going?’ he says, trying to resume the thread of the conversation. Paulo takes a gulp of the drink, grimaces slightly. ‘I think I’m going to drop out,’ he looks at him, seriously. ‘I haven’t decided yet, but if it happens it’ll be now, at the end of this term.’ Leonardo can’t help himself. ‘You never took that course seriously.’ Talking about the course is allowed, it’s an area that can be freely scrutinised. ‘Law’s a big lie, Leo, we both know that. You did your entire course reading a Federal Constitution that was shoved down our throats by the military,’ he says, and pours out what was left of the beer in his glass. ‘This Serramalte of yours is warm.’ Leonardo is not discouraged (Leonardo is never discouraged). ‘It is. I put it in the fridge when you two went out.’ And he teases: ‘I’ll let you buy me a colder one at the pizza place.’ Paulo goes back to looking into nothingness. ‘Another reason to devote ourselves to trying to make things better,’ argues Leonardo. ‘But turning into a well-meaning little prosecutor just to legitimise the power … the power of … ’ and he realises that he has fallen into his friend’s trap. ‘Just let it go.’ Leonardo laughs. ‘You know what I find most fascinating, Paulo? It’s that the good people, the most credulous and well-intentioned people, they’re exactly the ones who give up,’ and he gets up to carry the glasses and the bottle off to the kitchen. ‘It must be the particularly acute sensibility you people have, that poetic soul of yours.’ Paulo takes hold of his arm. ‘Tell me, Leo,’ looking upset, ‘what kind of prosecutor do you want to be?’ And Maína appears on the veranda, on the side Leonardo was headed. The conversation between the two friends ends there: Leonardo understands Paulo’s innate difficulty in taking things less seriously and not getting deeply involved in all of it. He always reacts. It’s what makes Leonardo admire him so much, and sympathise, too; he can see his friend’s premature frustration, he doesn’t like seeing him suffer. ‘Let’s go in my Uno. I need to get the battery going, but this means the drinks are definitely on you.’ Paulo agrees with a smile, a little ashamed. Maína approaches. Leonardo walks over to the kitchen, he’s worried about this all-or-nothing situation but, just the same, (believing he can better understand it) glad to see his old friend again.