Travel Journal - Prague

So here I am pretending to drink this decaf macchiato which was actually over some ten minutes ago. The girl who served it, blond hair, flawless American accent, had the same wide – somewhat disturbing – smile and overly nice manners as her colleagues across the Atlantic. “Maybe that’s why there are no Starbucks’ in Paris…” the thought crosses my mind while I sip from the empty paper cup.

My flight does not leave until nine and though I feel a bit pathetic crashing in an American chain cafe for over an hour now, this seems to be the safest place in town for killing time. Not to mention the warmest. It is cold outside and I am pretty much done with sightseeing. It is not like I did not try hanging out in a more typical spot. I just came from this traditional Czech bar, where I had the quickest beer of my life. I intended to stay longer, but the hordes of noisy teenagers made me feel out of place. The look in the waiter’s face when I said my usual “table for one, please” – like I had just disembarked from the mother ship or had the plague – did not help either. That does not happen in Starbuck’s. There is always someone alone with a laptop in Starbuck’s. It is part of the landscape (it just occurred to me that they probably hire a person to stay there staring at the screen, typing every now and then, drinking a couple of lattes…). I feel safe around lonely people with laptops. Besides, I am by this window that faces the clock tower, and spying the legions of tourists following their guides in colorful umbrellas is quite amusing when done from a safe distance.

It is November 17th. I was at Welceslas square this morning – went there very soon, hoping to get a good spot among the crowd. It turns out, for my surprise, that the square was empty. Apart from this timid photograph exhibition under the statue (clearly set up by amateurs) nothing in Prague denounces its communist past. No streets were named after martyrs of the resistance, no tribute was paid in their honor, the concierge in the hotel did not know what the velvet revolution was… It is like communism and all of its ugliness never existed (I was in Bratislava a month ago and there the old regime still shows in the buildings and restaurant prices). I recalled Orwell’s Ministry of Truth with its memory holes and thought it was at least ironic… Then I wondered whether one can erase the memory of a wound by erasing the scar… Then I remembered of my own demons and counted how many remodelings I had put myself through in order to stay away from them. I stopped mocking Prague. Everyone has the right to delete the traces of a painful past.

I knew this city long before I first set foot on it. Its streets and squares were all over Milan Kundera’s novels, which I read cover to cover without taking a breath. The Prague of my imagination was the city Sabina wanted to escape and Teresa could not live away from. It was the scenery for the despair of Thomas and the rejoicing of Franz. It was oppressive, unsafe and yet highly adictive. Its people were divided among those who collaborated with communism and those who fought against it. The Prague I can now see for myself does not resemble Kundera’s, not in the slightest. This Prague is as charming as Paris and as majestic as Vienna. Everything about it is beautiful (yesterday I could hardly catch my breath watching the sunset from the Charles Bridge). The Czechs are gentle, welcoming and laid back in a way. It is hard not to give oneself away to the sound of (good) music played in the churches, opera houses and jazz clubs.

So here I am confused by the two antagonist images of a unique city, not knowing which one is real or what to do with this notebook, which was supposed to be filled with dark poems inspired by a melancholic atmosphere. Here I am still looking for heaviness, at Starbuck’s, a little tipsy from the beer I had a couple of hours ago (one should never drink a pint of pilsen in one sip). Here I am warm, safe and overwhelmed by an unbearable lightness.

Conto: On Venusians and Martians

- Do you come here often?
- Gosh! This must be the oldest pick up line in history! Actually, I believe it was the line used by Adam to pick Eve up.
- Well… It worked, didn’t it?
- Of course it worked! Adam won by default! There was no one else Eve could hook up with in Paradise.
- There was the snake…
- The snake was not an option. Snakes have no ears. How would Eve discuss the relationship with the snake? Discussing the relationship is definitely the top rated activity by women.
- And what’s the second? Shopping?
- No. It’s talking with their girlfriends about their relationship with their boyfriend.
- Why are women so complicated?
- We’re not. We’re just verbal. Men are waaaayyyy more complicated. I mean, you don’t have to be Einstein to know what a girl is feeling. We talk about it, we complain and, above all, we cry. I’ve read somewhere that women cry so much precisely BECAUSE men cannot interpret subtle changes in facial expressions. In a nutshell, your incompetence to read between the lines is what makes us behave neurotically. We need the drama, otherwise you just don’t get it!
- Excuse me, did I hear the word incompetence?
- So you WERE listening! Quite rare for a man. Yes, incompetence! To both understand our feelings and to show yours.
- Maybe there’s nothing to show…
- Oh!!! Of course there is! I’m so sick of men nowadays. I mean, you declare yourselves as being uncomplicated but then, all of a sudden, you become all touchy and sensitive. And we don’t even know what’s going on because you don’t say it! In old times when a woman started to complain about the lack of affection a simple “shut up, I’m watching football on TV” would do. We’re used to it. We’re used to the monologue. Now everything’s different. Now there’s Patrick Marber and endless dialogues… We’re ready to not being listened to, we’re not ready to having to justify ourselves in addition to it.
- Well…
- Gosh! I’m being a girly girl now, aren’t I?
- You kinda are… And you still didn’t answer to my first question.
- Like it was a question that was meant to be answered…
- Actually it was. I work here and wanted to offer you a regular customer’s discount card.
- Gosh! Now I want to dig a hole and put myself inside it.
- It’s ok, angry girl. Will you give me your number?
- Is it part of the procedure to get the card?
- Actually it isn’t. But you are so embarrassed that I figured that asking you out was the only way to save your face…
- So it’s a charity thing?
- Definitely. This and the fact that I have a thing for incredibly pretty angry girls…

Conto: The Fifth Night

- We’ll always have Paris… I mean, we’ll always have New York – she said at the door, with a half-smile, while desperately trying to hide a teardrop that insisted in falling. He could not possibly hide anything. The red nose, the dimmed glasses, the red eyes were irrefutable evidence that he had been sobbing for hours. He held her close one last time, in an attempt to prevent her from going away, but as soon as she got out of his arms he closed the door. The corridor was too long and it would be too painful to watch her leaving.

When she looked at herself in the mirror the teardrop was gone. And, apparently, no others were on their way. She was feeling wise, almost like a prophet or a Buddhist monk. She was strong and wise. And unattached. That was why she would always be happy: because she did not need anything or anybody. She was rootless. She was brave and rootless. And free. Above all, she was free. She felt so free that she started whistling “as time goes by,” just to shut up, blushing, as a guest entered the elevator in the fifth floor.

They had first met about a week before in the conference room of that very same hotel. She was drinking the fourth glass of (undrinkable) red wine when a man approached. She thought of how big a headache she would have in the morning while the man gave her a lecture about the wine. He was on the other side of the room. He glanced at her for a split second but it was long enough for her to make a face. He laughed. She moved her lips like she was to say “save me”. He freaked out. He was just about to ignore it (approaching strangers in cocktail parties was definitely not his cup of tea) when she did it again. Now it was a matter of honor, of being a real man. And although he always thought of himself more as a mouse than as a man, that event was bigger than him. The whole humankind was relying on his performance now. And he could not let it down.

- Paulie, honey, it’s so good to see you! – she said, holding him like they were best friends. And then, turning to Mr. “wine conaisseur” – John, this is my great friend Paul. We went to school together and haven’t seen each other for ages! If you’ll excuse us, we have a lot to catch up.

His heart was pounding so hard that he wondered whether she could hear it while she dragged him across the room. The more embarrassed he felt, the louder his heart beat, the more embarrassed he got.

- So, thank you, Paul! You saved my life. It’s Paul, right? That guy’s conversation was nine points in the Morpheus’ scale.
- Morpheus’ scale?
- Sorry, it’s an inside joke. Actually it’s really an inside joke since I didn’t tell it to anyone before. I created this Morpheus’ scale to measure the level of boredom caused by a conversation. You know Morpheus, right, from the Greek mythology?
- Yes, sure – he did not, actually – And are nine points high?
- Well, let’s put it this way: Fidel Castro’s speeches amount to 10 points.

He laughed nervously.

- Wow! The guy must be really annoying, then.
- Tell me about it! Oh, my name is Viola, by the way. As you probably have noticed, from this pathetic name tag.

He blushed. He was looking to her breasts at that very moment and the name tag was placed in her blouse’s collar.

- That’s an unusual name – he got even redder. Stupid thing to say, he thought, that someone’s name is unusual – in a good way, I mean – It got even worse now, he realized. Damn it!
- It’s ok. I was teased about my name all through my childhood and adolescence. I believe I’m still mocked, but now at least people do it behind my back.

They both laughed.

- Where did your name come from? Where are you from, by the way?
- Buenos Aires, Argentina. You?
- Lausanne, Switzerland.
- Oh…
- So, is Viola a common Argentinean name?
- Not really. Actually my father named me Viola because I was born on January sixth.

He was going to pretend he understood it, but decided not to, as he was really curious and, besides, what if the conversation evolved?

- I’m sorry, but I didn’t get it.
- Well, January sixth is the twelfth night after Christmas and there is a Shakespeare’s play called “The Twelfth Night” and daddy happens to be a fan of Shakespeare’s. So it was either Olivia or Viola. Dad picked Viola because she was a stronger character. I prefer Olivia, though. It’s more common.
- Well, probably Viola suits you better. You don’t look common.
- I’ll take it as a compliment.
- It is a compliment – Damn it, he thought, she is going to think my Morpheus’ coefficient is around 10 now.

When he was expecting her to find an excuse to leave him, like feeding her cat in Bolivia or chopping wood for her fireplace, she turned to him with a malicious smile, like a child who is about to do a trick:

- Have you been seen by all the people that were supposed do see you?
- Sorry?
- Is there someone with whom you’re supposed to talk to and you still didn’t?

At this point he had big question marks written all over his forehead.

- How much do you think our careers are going to be damaged if we get the hell out of here now?

He could not believe that such a gorgeous woman wanted to escape the party with him.

- Not much – he said, although he was frightened both by the perspective of spending the night with her and by the possibility of being looked for by his boss. Actually, he was supposed to make small conversation with half of the crowd in the room and had not even started. His wallet was still full of business cards. – Where would you like to go?
- I don’t know… Let’s do something unusual! Or something very usual but unusual in a situation like this. Something tacky, like riding a carriage through Central Park or going to the top of the Empire State building… Or both! What do you say?
- Yes, why not? – he said, regretting his demonstration of courage a second afterwards.
- Cool! Let me just get my coat.

They spent that whole night up and missed the conference the next morning. And all the five mornings that followed. And they did all the tacky crazy things suggested by Viola throughout those days and nights. Paul felt free like he never had felt before. Viola felt loved and cared and admired like she always secretly wished to feel. Now she remembered of it all with a bit of sorrow as she asked for the concierge to call her a cab.

While she waited for the cab, scenes from their break up, in his hotel room, moments before, started to pop up in her head:

- But I don’t understand it. Why can’t we see each other anymore? – he said, with a somewhat desperate tone.
- Because it’s better this way. I live in Argentina and you live in Switzerland, for goodness sake! It’s a twelve hour trip!
- I can move to Argentina.
- No you can’t. You just think you can. Your life is in Switzerland. You said yourself you have strong roots there.
- Well, then you can move to Switzerland.
- I could move to virtually anywhere, but not because of you. I cannot move because of a person. What if it doesn’t work? No. It’s decided. Neither of us is moving.

He was sobbing by then. She was moved, but firm in her decision.

- Listen; stop crying – she said sweetly – there’s nothing more touching than a man crying. What we had was unique, was special. The only way not to ruin it is not to change it. It’s to accept that it’s finished.
- Exactly! What we had was special. Do you think you’ll ever find it again with someone else?
- I’m sure I’ll never find it again with anyone else. I won't find it with you either. If we change our lives because of each other we will probably become one of those ordinary couples that fight over the smallest things. We’re not going to be us anymore.
- But you’re not even giving us a chance!
- Paul, honey, I’m going to tell you now the corniest story you have ever heard in your life, but I hope it’s going to help proving my point, ok? I was once in this tacky horrible tango house in Buenos Aires taking some foreign clients to see a tango show. One of the clients was with his wife. They were Japanese, so, to make small talk, I told her about how much I wanted to see the cherry blossoms in Japan. She then told me that when it’s time for the cherry trees to blossom all the people in her city go outdoors to see it because, as it is a very windy city, the wind causes a blizzard of falling petals . But they have to do it quickly, because the thing lasts only a couple of days. So they take those days off and do nothing but admire the blossoms, even the executives, and you know how Japanese executives are. She said that when her husband was transferred to London she got very excited because she knew that there were cherry trees in Hyde Park and that London was not that windy, so the blossoms would last longer. Then she said that she got very disappointed because after a couple of days the blossoms get brown and ugly. There’s nothing admirable about them anymore. She said nothing further, but I understood it. She was talking about the beauty of what’s transitory. Things get ugly if they last more than they should. Let me go, it’ll be better this way.

He said nothing. He simply could not. He just let her go, as she asked. Her demands were irresistible, every single one of them...

She was no longer feeling that wise while she tried to ignore the Pakistani driver speaking loudly on the cell phone. As she looked for her wallet she found in her purse the post card from the Empire State Building he gave her the night they first met. On the back, he had written “heart always there”. – Always there – she thought – “no matter what the future brings”... She, who was never taught how to stay, had unlearnt how to go.

O avesso do avesso do avesso do avesso

Leveza é a última coisa que alguém espera encontrar em São Paulo, pelo menos se o alguém em questão for uma legítima carioca da caxxxxca. A gente que nasceu nos arredores da Cidade Maravilhosa quando enfim se muda para lá se embasbaca, aprende o sotaque e jura amor eterno. Invariavelmente. É impossível ficar indiferente àquele je ne sais quoi que têm o Rio e os cariocas (os da gema, que fique bem entendido). Por isso quando vim para a Paulicéia não esperava levar dela mais do que stress, muito trabalho e alguma grana.

Como amante fiel que sou, resisti o quanto pude aos encantos da cidade que havia elegido como lugar para cumprir exílio voluntário. Afinal, ao Rio e só a ele jurei amar e respeitar até que a morte nos separasse. Quando fui à Vila Madá pela primeira vez, quis compará-la a Santa Tereza. E quando primeiro pisei no Grazie a Dio, fiz um comentariozinho sobre o Café Sacrilégio. Que bobagem! São Paulo é única e irresistível. Não demorou até que eu estivesse completamente seduzida pela “capital da América Latina”.

Certo que não nos apaixonamos à primeira vista, Sampa e eu. Mas nos conquistamos aos poucos como fazem aqueles que constroem uma relação duradoura. Hoje, quando me preparo para a terceira grande mudança da minha vida (haja mala e haja cuia!), posso dizer que amo São Paulo e que ela me permitiu que eu fosse leve e louca como raramente havia sido antes.

É claro que nunca deixarei de amar o Rio. Não conheço quem tenha esquecido seu primeiro amor. Aliás, não conheço ninguém que tenha esquecido qualquer amor. Os amores sobrepõem-se, misturam-se e tornam-nos quem somos.

Não posso terminar esse "manifesto" sem antes dizer que talvez minha relação com São Paulo fosse diferente não tivesse eu tido a sorte grande de encontrar pelas ruas da metrópole algumas pessoas especialíssimas. Aproveito a oportunidade, então, para agradecer a Vanessa, Alex, Natasha, Jesse, Paula Vivo e principalmente ao Javi (my favorite person in the whole wide world!) por me terem traduzido a cidade. Para mim vocês São Paulo. E o serão sempre.

Vale a Vida

Para Isaac em Manhattan, do Woody Allen, Groucho Marx, Willie Mays, o segundo movimento da sinfonia Jupiter, a versão do Louis Armstrong para Potato Head Blues, os filmes suecos, Educação Sentimental, de Flaubert, Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra, as incríveis maçãs e peras de Cézanne, o siri do Sam Wo's e o rosto de Tracy fazem a vida valer a pena.
Para mim, o que faz a vida valer a pena é Nova Iorque no Outono, o Rio no verão, Paris em qualquer época do ano, Amsterdã "on my mind", Casablanca (o filme, embora eu seja louca para conhecer a cidade), Annie Hall, Manhattan, Zelig e Love and Death do Woody Allen, os diálogos do Tarantino, Noites de Cabíria, do Felini, O Beijo do Hotel de Ville, do Doisneau, If You Were Coming in the Fall, da Emily Dickinson, Madame Bovary, do Flaubert, Breakfast at Tiffany's, do Capote (o livro, apesar de o filme ter lá o seu charme), Dom Casmurro, do Machado de Assis, Fernando Pessoa, Jorge Luis Borges, Chico Buarque, Millôr Fernandes, Douglas Pereira Pedra, o Dr Assis, a versão da Madeleine Peyroux para You're gonna Make me Lonesome When you Go, do Bob Dylan, e a do Frank Sinatra para You do Something to Me, do Cole Porter, o Cole Porter, Billie Holiday, Cartola cantando O Mundo é um Moinho, Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi, Seinfeld, Fla x Flu no Maraca, Santa Tereza à tarde com o Fabrice, o colo da minha mãe, o abraço do Jr, o cafuné do Pai, o sorriso da Julia, ninar a Lívia, o almoço de natal na casa da vovó Vera, o bicho de pé do Amor aos Pedaços, as intermináveis conversas telefônicas com o Martin (a telemar agradece), trocar emails com Always There, o humor ácido do Sr. Cebolinha, a lista dos melhores filmes do ano do Iorio, dormir à tarde no meio da semana, o frio na barriga do segundo encontro, fazer da cama do flat uma cama elástica.

O que faz a vida valer a pena para você?

Conto: Swan's Way

It began in a hotel room in São Paulo, in the moment of silence that follows the ecstasy. She was never silent, though. At that very moment a thousand voices were shouting simultaneously in her head, just like her aunts in her grandma’s kitchen on Christmas day. She found it way too noisy. There was only one possible way to shut those voices up. She had to say something in order to become quiet inside. – He’ll hate it – she thought. He really enjoyed the silence. He used to say that it was the moment in which he felt most comfortable: in bed… with her in his arms… in absolute silence… – Ok, five more minutes… – She waited about a minute and a half. The voices became louder. – To hell with him and his comfort:

- Did you see the eight o’clock news yesterday?
- No – he answered, somewhat surprised – why?
- There was this report on a swan that fell in love with a paddleboat in one of those little lakes in a park in Berlin.
- And… - his eyebrows raised
- I don’t know… I thought of us…
- Oh, no – he said laughing – you’re going to say that I am the paddleboat, aren’t you?
- Don’t laugh! – she said, laughing herself – it’s pretty serious! The lake was about to freeze and all the other swans flew to South America, except this beautiful black swan. It stayed in the lake with its beloved paddleboat… Do you know what intrigued me the most about this story?
- What? – he said, holding her closer.
- The swan was a male swan.
- What’s intriguing about that?
- Well, I don’t think a male would be capable to just give love, you know? Without receiving anything in return…
- Says the non sexist-liberal-open minded-twenty first century woman…
- Ok, you’re right. I guess it’s about time for me to stop reading “The Second Sex” – she said smiling maliciously.
- Why am I the paddleboat, anyway? Why can’t I be the swan? You’ve said yourself it was a male swan…
- You? The swan? Are you kidding me? You are soooo the paddleboat…
- Why is it so?
- Because… you’re emotionally unavailable. Just like the paddleboat. And I, like the swan, will freeze myself to death just to be around you.
- I’ll bring you some blankets – he said smiling tenderly – and hot cocoa, maybe. If you behave… Now come here…

She came. He was such a delight just to hang out with! At that moment she even thought he was worth becoming an ice cream for… a nauseously sweet ice cream…

- I hate when you look at that wristwatch of yours… Do you really have to leave? – she said with a sweet warm voice, while he moved towards the chair where his clothes were.
- You know I do. I have to get home before the kids fall to sleep. And, you know, Ana is getting suspicious…
- I know…
- You know I hate to leave! I would stay if I could. You know that, don’t you?
- I know…
- Are you going to stay in São Paulo tonight?
- Yep. I might go to that Japanese restaurant you told me about. Or to that new jazz pub. Bravo magazine rated it very highly.
- All by yourself???
- No. “The Second Sex” will be my date.

They both laughed.

- I’ll catch the first flight to Rio tomorrow.
- Why do you have to leave so soon?
- What do you care? – she thought – you won’t be here, anyway… – but she said, instead: - I have a meeting early in the morning with that French client I told you about. The one that thinks that we, Brazilians, are nothing but an exotic tribe of Indians… Très exotique… I just hate the French people… Don’t you? Although Paris IS the most beautiful city in the world…
- Amsterdam is the most beautiful city in the world. It is the ONLY city in the world… Would you care to come back there with me some time? To go to Concertgebouw again? You looked stunning that night in that black dress…
- I would love to… But how are we going to manage it? I mean… we can barely find the time to sneak into a hotel room for a few hours…
- We’ll find the time. I’ll tell Ana I am attending one of those two-week courses in some university in Holland, she won’t want to come, she never leaves the kids. Actually, I might as well attend one of those courses… It’s not a bad idea at all… So, what do you think?
- I’ll think about it – she said with a bittersweet smile.
- Aren’t you going to jump on the bed this time? – he said to her with a cute inviting look in his face. It was irresistible.
- Of course I will!

And she started jumping on the bed like a five-year-old kid, wrapped in a white sheet, laughing happily as only kids and lovers do. Her eyes were sparkling. Her messy hair was going up and down to the rhythm of her jumping. He laughed as well. – She is such a delight! – he thought. And then he left.

Half an hour later, she checked the Blackberry. There it was: an email from him. The subject: Have a nice trip tomorrow, Swan!

- He DID found the story amusing! – she thought exasperated – That’s because he’s not the swan. Bastard! All men are bastards, aren’t they Simone? – and grabbed the book, heading to the jazz pub.

A couple of days later, her cell phone rang. No caller ID. She knew it was him who was calling. She looked at the clock: eight a.m. –“Quel rat!” He not only refuses to disclose his cell phone number, he calls me before eleven on a Saturday morning as well. I won’t answer, not this time.

The phone rang again.

- Hello.
- Hi, Swan! Did I wake you up?
- No, not at all… I mean… Just a little… But I was about to wake up anyway.
- You sound sleepy.
- I AM sleepy – she said somewhat angry – it’s eight in the morning. I went to bed at five.
- So… Party Swan went out last night … - he said, ironically, almost managing to disguise the jealousy in his voice.
- I did not.
- So what happened? Couldn’t sleep?
- No. It was not that, either. I just hung out with myself at home, drinking red wine, eating camembert, listening to jazz… I bought this Diana Krall album, very good. Then I began to watch old movies and just couldn’t stop. When I realized, it was morning already.
- Sounds like a party to me – he said, clearly relieved – Which movies did you see?
- “Casablanca”, “An American in Paris” and “Annie Hall”.
- Didn’t you see “Annie Hall” last Friday night?
- I see “Annie Hall” EVERY Friday night – she said chuckling – how pathetic am I?
- I don’t think you’re pathetic, I think you’re adorable!
- That’s ’cause you’re the paddleboat! Oh, speaking of the devil, they found out that the swan is a female. I hate to say I told you so… She couldn’t possibly be a male swan! They even gave her a name: Petra. It has something to do with her being black, they've said. A black stone or something. Do you know that black swans are quite rare?
- Oh, yeah?
- Yep. They even use the expression “the black swan” to describe unpredictable random events. I’ve read that in “The Economist”. Something to do with the Gaussian bell curve.
- Oh! Is that so?
- Umhum… Don’t you think it’s weird that the most extraordinary swan on the lake fell in love with a paddleboat? I mean, she could have had any swan she wanted. She’s a black swan, for goodness sake!
- Maybe that’s exactly why she chose the paddleboat. Maybe she, being different, chose the different one. It makes complete sense to me…
- Yeah, maybe so… Anyway, they removed her from the lake so she wouldn’t die frozen. She then stopped eating and got sick. So they had to bring her the paddleboat. The problem was that the owners of the paddleboat didn’t want it removed from the lake. The Mayor of Berlin had to buy the paddleboat. Isn’t it funny?
- It indeed is!
- Now they are both swimming on an artificially heated pond, in Berlin’s zoo. People are buying tickets to see them together. Can you believe it? Anyway… I miss you!
- I miss you too, Swan!
- Really?
- Of course! I love you! I dreamt about you last night.
- What was the dream about?
- Nothing much. But you were there. How I wanted to quit everything right now, you know? And live with you… It would be just wonderful.
- You know I am not asking you to quit anything.
- I know, but I want to. The only reason why I did not do it yet is ’cause the kids are too little. We have to be patient, you know?
- I know…
- Have to go now. Send me funny emails throughout the weekend, ok? You’re the only person who makes me happy nowadays.
- I will. Bye.
- Bye, Swan. Go back to bed.

- Like it was possible! – she thought, and got up. It was the perfect day for breakfast in the Fort of Copacabana… by herself, of course.

The next Saturday he called at 9 a.m. It was becoming a habit. Apparently he was taking tennis lessons on Saturdays at 10 a.m. and availed himself of the opportunity to check if she went out the night before.

- Hello. – she said, half awake.
- Hey, sleepy Swan. Get up!
- I will… In a minute.
- So, what did you do last night?
- Watched a movie. And then went to a rock concert with Isabel.
- Rock concert? Aren’t you too old for that?
- My spirit is young. And, besides, I am younger than you.
- Yeah, but my hair is not becoming gray yet…
- I told you, it’s genetic! My mom’s hair got completely gray when she turned 28.
- Ok, grandma. I buy it.
- It’s true…
- I am teasing you, silly. So, which movie did you see?
- “An Affair to Remember”.
- Let me guess: it’s a black and white movie from the nineteen twenties.
- Close. It’s from the fifties…and it is in color…
- I never heard of it.
- Never heard of “An Affair to Remember”?
- Never, grannie.
- You know, Deborah Kerr… Cary Grant… The top of the Empire State Building…
- Doesn’t ring a bell.
- Never mind. It reminded me of us.
- Oh, yeah? Why?
- There’s a scene in which Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr get off the ship and go visit his grandmother. She then tells Deborah Kerr about the difference between swans and ducks. The first are unique, classy and monogamists while the latter are ordinary and polygamists. If a swan looses its partner, it will cry for eternity… It’s a beautiful scene.
- How about the difference between swans and paddleboats?
- There is nothing in the movie about paddleboats.
- That’s a shame. Listen, I got to go now. I really miss you, Swan.
- I miss you too, Paddleboat. Bye.
- Bye, sweetie.

It has been a week since he last called. She just wanted to hear his voice, but she could not call him on the weekends. That was the deal. So she waited until Monday morning.

- Good morning, Paddleboat! – she said, pretending to be cheerful.
- You’re in such a good mood today. How was your weekend?
- It was good. I’ve read a lot. Oh, and went to Santa Tereza with Fréderic yesterday. He’s lots of fun!
- The French guy?
- The French guy.
- I thought you hated French people.
- Only French clients. He’s cool.
- Oh… - he said, evidentially jealous – And what did you read?
- Hannah Arendt’s biography. Very good. She was amazing! But she was a swan herself.
- Was she?
- Yep. I guess there are more Petras in the world “than are dreamt of in your philosophy”… Martin Heidegger was her paddleboat. For me it’s intriguing how he could have fooled that intelligent, beautiful, extraordinary woman for so many years.

He refused to answer to that explicit provocation.

- You’re my Martin Heidegger.
- Are you saying that you are an intelligent, beautiful, extraordinary woman?
- No – she blushed – I am saying that you are fooling me. I have no inclination to be a mistress.
- Please don’t say that word – he said, upset.
- And which word should I use? We should stop using euphemisms when referring to each other…

A long silence followed.

- … I should have left you that first week in Amsterdam.
- Why don’t you leave me now? – he said, aggressively.
- I can’t. I love you too much. I don’t know… My brain says I should leave you, but my heart and my body say the exact opposite.
- That’s two against one. I rest my case. – he was calm now.
- That is just unfair… Anyway, got to go. Call me later?
- I will. Bye, Swan.
- Bye, Paddleboat.

It suddenly got dark. She was at the office for twelve hours now and it felt like she had just arrived. She thought of a funny idea for an email. Subject: The Economist – Special Report on Swanland’s Dictatorship. The email: “HEARTLAND. Is all fair in love and war? International Human Rights Watch NGO’s are trying to convince the UN Security Council of the opposite. The UN, in its turn, is still reluctant to send in troops to Swanland, where dictators took over power, deposing president Brain. The US has reasons to believe that the dictators, Mr Heart and Mr Body, under the command of the first, are hiding weapons of mass destruction. France, on the other hand, understands that the UN should avoid interfering in a sovereign country’s politics. An intervention is very unlikely to occur. No one, not even the US, has enough courage to intervene when it comes to matters of the Heart.”

- She’s really something – he thought the next day, laughing, when he got the message.

The days flew by. Soon it was Carnival. She was alone in town. It felt like she was alone in the world. The city was on fire. Everybody was dancing on the streets. She was miserable, though. He was traveling with Ana, just the two of them. He called.

- Hello – she said, sobbing.
- Hey, Swan. Are you crying?
- It’s over.
- What? What do you mean? Why?
- I don’t do triangles anymore. I would do threesomes, if I am drunk or high enough. But not triangles. Not anymore. I always hated geometry.

They lapsed into a great silence. It was possible to hear the fan blowing a hot humid air on her bedroom.

- You can’t do this to me. Not now. I told Ana today that I was getting interested in someone else. That our marriage was not working. It was terrible. She’s devastated…
- I don’t care. It’s over.
- Please be patient. Things are settling down. Please don’t walk away from me like that.
- I already did. Be happy. Take care. Bye.

The fan blew louder.

- Is that what you want? Really?
- It is.
- Well… then… bye, Swan.
- Bye, Paddleboat.

She felt sorry for Ana, even though she never got to know her. She felt sorry for herself above all.

In an attempt to free her mind from thinking, she went jogging by the lagoon. The horizon was getting pink and the view of Gavea’s stone on one side and of the Two Brothers’ mountain on the other was breathtaking. As she ran, she saw a paddleboat sliding quietly on the lagoon. It was one of those paddleboats shaped as a swan, just like the one Petra fell in love with. – It is such a rudimentary disguise – she thought – how could we have fallen for that? – she thought of Ana as a swan as well – Are we that naive? Is it because we think of ourselves as beautiful black swans that are too good for the insignificant ordinary white ones? Why should we fall for a piece of wood that doesn’t even remotely look like a swan? Why does it present itself as a swan, after all, if it knows it’s incapable to love? Were we really tricked into it? Did we ever believe that it was a real swan? – her thoughts ran faster than her legs. A thousand voices were shouting again. She wanted to shut them up. The voices became louder and louder. She got afraid of losing her mind and called Andrea on her cell phone. It was the ultimate solution.

- Hey, Andrea.
- Oh, hey, honey! Are you ok?
- No, I’m not.
- What happened?
- I just broke up with that married guy I told you about.
- Good for you, darling! That is wonderful news! You’ll get over him. You’ll find another one, you’ll see. One that’s not taken. You’re a catch!
- Thanks… - she said with a sad voice – How are you?
- Well, you know… adapting to the new city. The weather here is terrible, just terrible. The temperature was 20°C yesterday. Can you imagine that? 20°C in February! Unbelievable…

Andrea talked about the weather in Argentina for half an hour. Then, about how hard it was to find a good house to live in for another twenty minutes. She got into a kind of hypnotic state. The voices finally shut up. A mad homeless guy woke her out of it, yelling. It was night already. Andrea was still talking. The subject now was how hard it was to find a plumber. She waited (long, very long) for that five second period in which Andrea takes a break in order to change subjects and said:

- Gotta go, sweetie. It’s late and I am by the lagoon. It’s getting dangerous, you know…
- Tell me about it! Rio is a beautiful city, but is impossible to live in peace there…

Andrea talked for additional fifteen minutes of how safe she felt in Buenos Aires and how good it was to have moved there, despite the climate.

- Yeah, yeah… Listen, I am running out of battery. Call you later. Bye, sweetie.
- Bye honey. Take care. And don’t be sad. He doesn’t deserve you.

When she got to the office, the morning after, she could not help pressing the send/receive button of her Microsoft Outlook. No email from him. No work done either.

She got a message from him three weeks later. Subject: name of that singer. She could not help calling him.

- Hello.
- Oh, Hello, Swan. – he said, surprised – How are you?
- Not good. You?
- Miserable. I really miss you.
- Me too… The name of the singer is “Madeleine Peyroux”.
- Thanks. So…seeing anyone?
- I went out with that guy from work, but nothing happened.
- Why? You have always told me that he was kind of cute…
- He IS kind of cute… and smart… and kind of funny… But still… I don’t know… I was never really attracted to him. I never knew why. He took me to see Spider Man III. At the end of the movie, Kirsten Dunst sings “I‘m through with love”. When she sang “for I must have you or no one” I realized why I wasn’t interested in him. Because he’s not you. It had to be you, you know?
- That’s a different song.
- Do you really have to make a joke about it?
- No. Actually this is the sweetest thing I have ever heard. I want to see you.
- Me too. When?
- Are you free next Tuesday afternoon? I have a meeting in Rio on Tuesday morning.
- Well, I had a conference call, but I could reschedule it.
- Please do so.
- I will.
- So, see you soon.
- See you, Paddleboat.

They met in her apartment on Tuesday afternoon, like they have planned. He got there very late and blamed the traffic. – São Paulo has traffic jams, not Rio – she thought, disappointed. They spent only a couple of hours together. She found it nice… not thrilling, not mesmerizing, not breathtaking… just nice. - Something is missing… - she thought, sitting on her couch, a couple of minutes after he went away. She used to sing “Every time we say goodbye” to him when he was leaving and actually feel like dying. Not this time. Now she was feeling empty.

The phone rang.

- Hey, Andrea.
- Hey, dear! How are you?
- Not ok…
- Don’t tell me you’re back together with the married guy.
- I am…
- Oh, no…Don’t you have any dignity?
- I don’t.
- What do you mean? We all have dignity.
- I don’t. I cannot afford to have dignity… or self respect. Dignity and self respect are often preserved to the detriment of happiness. And I don’t have enough happiness to spare.
- What do you mean?
- I mean that sometimes we sacrifice happiness just to save face. Like, for instance, when you tell a guy you’re never calling him again because you’re angry. Then the anger goes away and you feel like calling him. But you don’t because you need to preserve your dignity. Or, which is worse, you do and then feel like crap because you have lost your self respect. Either way, you end up feeling miserable. I don’t have this kind of problem. I have no dignity to preserve.
- You mean you would just call.
- I would just call.
- Just like that? Wouldn’t it even embarrass you?
- Not a bit. I give myself the right to change my mind. Actually, I give others the right to change their mind also. You’re not free until you have the right to change your mind. It should be constitutionally protected.
- I think you’re rationalizing it.
- Gosh! Where did you learn this? You sound like my shrink! Are you in therapy?
- Yep, began yesterday.
- Great, Andrea! You could really use a little psychoanalysis…
- Why? Do you think I am too fucked up?
- Honey we’re all fucked up! At least you admit it!

The two of them laughed. Andrea then spent two hours talking about her fifty minute therapy session. No question about what was the cause of her friend’s sadness. But then… Andrea never listened to the answer to any of her questions, anyway.

When she hung up the phone, the voices in her head started to shout again. She then realized how afraid she was of those voices, how afraid she was of being left alone.

It all became clear then. She called him, for the last time in her life, she hoped:

- Hi, Paddleboat.
- Hi, Swan.
- I am not a swan anymore.
- What are you trying to say?
- You know what I am trying to say.
- You’re going to break up with me again?
- I am.
- On what grounds this time?
- I have realized why I have played the swan… and why you have played the paddleboat.
- And why was that?
- We were both disguising our fears with swan’s clothing. I mean… I was trying to disguise my loneliness and you were trying to disguise your failed marriage. You have always told me that your marriage was fine until you fell for me, but I think you used me to justify your own failure… And I used you as an excuse not to live my life…
- We were both using each other, is that what you’re saying?
- That’s exactly what I’m saying. While you were with me you didn’t have to ask yourself why your marriage had failed. You just assumed you wanted to leave your wife because of me. And while I was with you I didn’t have to admit to myself that I was lonely. I can admit it to myself right now. I am going to break up with you and face my worst fear. It feels great when you face your worst fear and you win. I’ve done it before. It feels like you’re Superman.
- What if you don’t win?
- One always wins.
- How do you know that?
- Your worst fear always seems scarier than it really is. No situation is as painful as we imagine. Our imagination is pretty powerful. And besides, the humans are resilient beings. We adapt. I mean, look at us, humans. We’re everywhere. There’s a desert, we’re there. There’s an ice cap, we’re there. We adapt to the most inclement weather. Our essence is our adaptability. And nothing can hurt you once you’re adapted. I am pretty sure loneliness won’t be as melancholic as I have pictured.
- Are you sure about that?
- A hundred per cent sure…until I change my mind. I granted myself the right to change my mind – she said, with a sad smile.
- Well, good luck with your being lonely, Swan.
- I am not a swan, anymore.
- Good luck, anyway. I’m not going to try to stop you. I do love you, though. Just so you know.
- I know.
- Take care.
- You too. Bye.

As in Tchaikovsky’s ballet, the swan had to kill herself in order to break the spell, in order to become a woman again. Unlike in the ballet, however, this woman had no Prince Siegfried to live haply ever after with. She was completely alone. The voices began to shout in her head. – If I am condemned to hear you, let’s organize this mess: one voice at a time, please. And turn down the volume! – she said out loud, using a bossy tone. Then she cracked up laughing.