Nowhere People

Docinho arranges the mess of papers on her desk, opens up the Severiano Timber Merchants and Sawmill reception, glances at the bustle out on Bento Gonçalves, switches on the ceiling fan, sits down in the swivel chair. Her new trousers are tight. That’s the price you pay for looking good. Today is going to be quite something. On the radio she heard them saying it would be one of the hottest days of the year. She unlocks the drawer, takes out her hand cream. She examines her nails, the polish has started peeling. Pretty soon she’s going to call up the manicurist and schedule an appointment for about half twelve. Guto hasn’t called to say whether or not he’s going to the opening of the GIG music festival. She has sworn it a thousand times: she isn’t going to the party on her own. Standing there, matching them soft drink for soft drink, watching Celsinho ‘Bunny’ Coelho hitting on the other girls. Masochism has its limits. They’re out of plastic cups in the water-cooler. She gets up, walks over to the next room, the office storeroom, gets enough for two days. When she comes back, she is surprised to find Donato standing at the reception desk. ‘Hello,’ he begins the conversation. ‘Oh man, you startled me … How can I help?’ She almost drops the cups. ‘You stock balsa wood, don’t you?’ he asks. ‘Balsa? … I’ll need to check with the boss.’ Donato comes closer. ‘Tell him I need a block.’ She smiles in an attempt to convey to him that there are lots of types of block. ‘And what dimensions would that be?’ trying to be pleasant. ‘A hundred by sixty, a hundred by forty,’ he says confidently. ‘Millimetres?’ He folds his arms, with a sigh. ‘No. Centimetres.’ She can’t help smiling. ‘Centimetres? Of balsa wood?’ She writes the measurements down on a notepad on her desk. Normally at this point she would place a call on her internal line to senhor Deus, but the voice of caution tells her that she should discreetly lock the desk and the door to the storeroom, and go straight out to the warehouse, where the boss is usually to be found. ‘Just a moment,’ she says. He thanks her with a nod. ‘Want to sit down?’ she asks. He looks around at the room. ‘I’m fine, I’ll stand and wait.’ She narrows her eyes, reprimanding him (somehow). ‘I’ll just be a minute, then, I’ll be right back.’ She goes out into the corridor that leads to the yard and the warehouses. (When she started working there she used to feel invaded by the stares of the other employees, so much so that she had considered going to work in an overcoat and floor-length skirt, but after a few weeks she relaxed, started to enjoy the frisson that she caused; now it’s more to do with her actual self-esteem, and with Celsinho — that’s Bunny — and one other guy there, who also walks all over her) and as soon as she goes past Wing, senhor Deus’s right-hand man, she starts to move more provocatively as she walks. There’s no doubt about it, these new trousers are quite something. Then she walks through the area where the other employees are, still showing herself off, approaches the boss, who is busy with the repair of one of the planers. She says excuse me, says there’s an Indian at reception, but he’s not one of those ones from around Lomba do Pinheiro. And how does she know? She knows that senhor Deus wants to know. It’s because of his clothes and the way he talks. He’s after some balsa wood, and he hasn’t come for sticks or planks, he wants a block, a big block, she says, and hands him what she’s written down. Senhor Deus says nothing, he’s concentrated on trying to sort out the planer, he just raises his hand in a stop-the-universe-now gesture and, in a way that couldn’t be ruder, shoos her with his fingers to give her to understand that he’ll come out front soon. Docinho goes back to the office. When she walks into reception she gets another shock. The damned Indian has rearranged all the furniture (the only thing he hasn’t moved is the table where she sits). ‘You’re crazy. You must be. My boss is going to fire me when he sees this … What am I supposed to tell him? He’s going to have you out on your ear,’ she complains. ‘It’s good to mix things up sometimes, to look at things differently,’ he replies. ‘I don’t want to know. Come on, help me put this back in place.’ He smiles. ‘I like the band,’ he says. ‘What band?’ she asks, annoyed. ‘The one on your t-shirt.’ He’s flirting with her. ‘Sinatra?’ She’s surprised. ‘Who else?’ he asks. ‘This is a joke, right?’ She puts her hands on her head. ‘I saw them playing a gig when I was a teenager,’ he replies. ‘Where?’ she asks, her hands still on her head. ‘In Curitiba.’ ‘They never played in Curitiba … ’ She’s unnerved. ‘You must be mistaken.’ And Docinho’s boss walks into reception. ‘What on earth have you done with this room, Docinho?’ Time for some quick thinking. ‘Senhor Deus, sir, I … I saw, I decided … That is, I thought it would look better like this — don’t you agree?’ He appears satisfied. ‘We’ll see about that later … How can I help you, kid?’ turning his back on the receptionist. ‘I’m after some balsa wood,’ Donato says. ‘I’ve got some cedar, some really light cedar,’ he tells him. ‘That won’t work,’ Donato retorts. ‘Look, a block in those dimensions is really hard to get hold of, even in cedar.’ I read on your webpage that you’re the only people who work with it here in the city.’ ‘To tell the truth, we’re the only people in the state,’ Senhor Deus says proudly. ‘On your page you say you supply materials to the most important sculptors in the south,’ he insists. ‘None of them works in balsa wood … ’ and, getting impatient, ‘look here, I’ve got some excellent cedar, I can get that cut to the proportions you’re after. If you’d like to wait a few days I can get you mahogany, but I don’t think that would be a better option,’ he muses. ‘It’s not going to work, then … ’ says Donato, firmly. ‘Don’t you at least want to take a look at the cedar?’ ‘I don’t think so.’ Donato is resolute. Then senhor Deus approaches him and takes his shoulder. ‘Come on, son, I insist on showing it to you,’ and leads him down the narrow corridor. ‘Why exactly do you need a block of balsa wood in those dimensions?’ ‘Building model boats,’ Donato plays along. ‘Are you going to build a Noah’s Ark?’ ‘To be honest, I was thinking about a Viking ship with rowing traction.’ ‘There aren’t any motors that can simulate rowing traction.’ The boy is good. ‘That’s just the thing,’ Donato replies. ‘What is?’ He doesn’t say any more. Senhor Deus doesn’t want to lose his cool, he hasn’t got to where he is by trading insults. ‘You aren’t going to say what you want the wood for, are you?’ ‘Is it a condition of sale?’ Donato asks. ‘Yes, right … no, it isn’t.’ He looks at his watch. It’s starting to get dark suddenly, a storm is gathering. ‘Let’s go look at the cedar — come, it’s over that way.’ Senhor Deus does not need to work with valuable woods, it brings him more headaches than profit, but there’s a prestige he likes to cultivate, especially in the local boatbuilding industry and among artists, who are the most demanding customers; that’s why he’s used to their peculiar ways. He even starts to miss them, they amuse him so much. This young man seems to be on a level with his most annoying customers, and he finds this invigorating. ‘Will you have a coffee?’ ‘No, thank you.’ ‘Tell, me, how much do you know about balsa?’ Senhor Deus asks. ‘Is this a test?’ Donato asks. ‘I just want to know whether what you know measures up to your requirements.’ ‘And this would help me to order a block?’ ‘That’s just the thing,’ and he smiles. ‘Right … ok … ’ and an animated expression comes over his face. ‘If I could choose, I’d ask for balsa from Ecuador, which to my mind is much better than what you get from Costa Rica. I know Brazil imports a lot of wood from abroad, I know a lot of it comes in illegally … Like everyone else, I know that balsa is the lightest wood and, of the light ones, it’s the most resistant of all, which is why it’s perfect for what I need … I won’t lie to you, the ideal would be to get hold of a block that’s as white as possible, with no pink in it, and that doesn’t weigh more than fifty kilos per cubic metre, but I know that’s asking too much, you’d only get material like that from a tree more than eleven years old that hasn’t had too much sun; it would cost a fortune here or anywhere in the world.’ ‘Fine, ok, kid, I’m sold. I see you know the business.’ They go into the warehouse. A few metres from the door there are four blocks, each of them two metres high. ‘Seriously, I think one of these might really help you.’ He takes a torch the better to light up the detail in the wood. ‘How much does it weigh, this cedar?’ He hits the torch hard to get it to come on. ‘Going by your spec, I’d say about two hundred and thirty, no more than two-sixty kilos per cubic metre.’ ‘That’s not bad … ’ Senhor Deus knows the boy is not going to take the cedar (he knows that this is not a transaction of any consequence); he changes his strategy. ‘I’m going out back … ’ ‘What?’ Donato doesn’t understand. ‘I’m going to make some calls, try and get two blocks of a hundred by thirty … And you’ll have to make do with that. I’ve got good glue for it, I’ll throw that in. Not least because … this whim of yours is really going to cost you.’ ‘Oh, I do think I’m going to need a little cedar … there are a few of the details that do need to be in a more resistant wood.’ ‘Just tell me how much you need … ’ He turns off the torch. ‘And about the balsa,’ he goes on, ‘give me a call tomorrow, towards the end of the afternoon … I’d estimate it’ll be a week, if we’re lucky,’ already heading out. ‘Now you mention it, how expensive exactly?’ says Donato, not moving from the spot. ‘Much more expensive than one of those Ecuadorian surfboards you can get at the little shops in Iguatemi or Barra Sul malls … You know what I mean, right?’ he says, looking back over his shoulder and making a ‘hang loose’ with his hand. ‘I … I d-don’t surf,’ Donato stammers. Senhor Deus opens the door to the yard (it has got completely dark, it’s going to rain) and says, looking at the sky in surprise: ‘I guessed.’