Nowhere People

Nine in the morning. Maína is reluctant to be filmed, says that things have changed too much these past weeks, she is no longer keen on the idea of exposing herself. Luisa suggests recording just a few minutes with Donato on her lap. Maína says that if it’s going to be with her son then she absolutely definitely won’t. Luisa says she doesn’t understand her and, laughing, turns off the camera. At noon as Maína is tidying papers and folders, Luisa films her from a distance. When she realises what is going on, Maína folds her arms, yells in Guarani, but seeing that Luisa is not going to give up, says in Portuguese (her Portuguese that is getting better and better) that it’s ok; she sets aside what she is doing and gets up and moves, half-inclined to run, to imagine something from the cinema (or what she remembers from the cinema), or possibly even to dance.

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nobody reads the unexpected (second part)

The morning shower is the most dangerous moment in his day, the water beating down on his head, the relaxation in those bright surrounds of the cubicle, the waterproof white paint, the acrylic of the sliding door, positive thoughts gathering, what the doctors call a flight of ideas. Paulo is not on any medication, nor will he take any. Psychiatric treatment requires a link to the city’s health system and to the city itself that he has never wanted to establish, there is no one to take responsibility for him, a more pessimistic diagnosis might see him caught in a trap from which he might never escape. The cocker spaniel follows him around the rooms in the house. Sometimes the lady shows up and makes a comment on what he might do in order to better fulfil his role as head employee in that cheap seven-room hotel on Fitzroy Street, a two-star establishment less than a hundred and fifty metres from Euston Road and three hundred from Tottenham Court Road. He only leaves the hotel to deposit his salary in the bank, to buy toiletries; if it were up to him he would absolutely never set foot on the pavement. His job is to receive the guests who have been sent by the booking service that goes directly through the owner, an Italian who turns up there once a week; to set the tables for breakfast, served between seven-thirty and ten; and to supervise the cleaning service. Three floors and a basement, where the office and the pantry are to be found. He still cannot look directly at the sky, he can’t imagine getting into a car, going into Warren Street station, the feelings of vertigo are unbearable. In the hotel, he spends most of his time in his bedroom listening to the cassettes that the other employee, a Welsh guy, copies from the CDs he buys and passes on to him, he translates the lyrics to the songs, he gradually becomes able to read some comic books (English comics are very violent) that his colleague lends him. Sometimes Fabio, who is now manager at Café Pelican, shows up for a visit, and the effort that Paulo makes to demonstrate that he is leading a normal life is enormous. He has told no one what is going on. Sometimes his discomfort is visible, especially when Fabio, trying to cheer him up, tells him his jokes and stories of his escapades with women, where laughter is the compulsory response. The debt to the Lebanese men has been settled, Paulo never cried in front of them, never showed weakness. (Paulo does not take any medication.) One novelty is this compulsion he has to write whatever comes into his head. He thought it could be the disturbance known as hypergraphia, but he has asked the medical student who has taken up residence for a fortnight in room eleven about it, and it’s unlikely, people with that particular kind of mania can’t stop writing, he can. Writing is merely comforting. It’s not like drafting pamphlets inspired by the increase in monthly wages, student demands, the end of censorship or in favour of some trade union demand. No. It is a way of putting the day into some kind of order, of having something to do when his jobs are all done, when he cannot imagine what to do without getting anxious. He lines up his duties as though they were a chain, a row of boxes on which he places his hand on each number in sequence, he thinks about what to do, carries that out, then thinks about the next task, carries that out, in this way assuring the tranquillity of his days and saving money to return, defeated, to Brazil.

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atomic and subatomic