Rubem Fonseca - Winning the Game and Other Stories

“What’s a coincidence?” asked the girl Monica.

“The two of you having the same name,” I said.

“His name is Monica?” Monica asked, pointing to the photographer.

“Monica Tutsi. Are you Tutsi too?”

“No. Monica Amelia.”

Monica Amelia stood chewing a fingernail and looking at Monica Tutsi.

“You told me your name was Agnaldo,” she said.

“On the outside I’m Agnaldo. Here inside I’m Monica Tutsi.”

“My name is Clarice Simone,” I said.

Monica Amelia observed us attentively, without understanding a thing. She saw two circumspect people, too tired for jokes, uninterested in their own names.

“When I get married my son, or daughter, is going to be named Hei Yoo,” I said.

“Is that a Chinese name? “ Monica asked.

“Or else Wheet Wheeo,” I whistled.

“You’re becoming a nihilist,” Monica Tutsi said, withdrawing with the other Monica.

NATHANAEL. Do you know what it is for two people to like one another? That was the two of us, Maria and I. Do you know what it is for two people to be perfectly attuned? That was us, Maria and I. My favorite dish is rice, beans, kale, manioc meal, and fried sausage. Guess what Maria’s was? Rice, beans, kale, manioc meal, and fried sausage. My favorite precious stone is the ruby. Maria’s, you guessed it, was also the ruby. Lucky number 7, color Blue, day Monday, film Westerns, book The Little Prince, drink Beer on Tap, mattress Anatom, soccer team Vasco da Gama, music Samba, pastime Love, everything the same between her and me, wonderful. What we would do in bed, man—I don’t mean to brag, but if it were in the circus and we charged admission, we’d be rich. In bed no couple was ever so taken by such resplendent madness, was capable of such a dexterous, imaginative, original, pertinacious, splendiferous, and fulfilling performance as ours. And we would repeat it several times a day. But it was not just that which linked us. If you were missing a leg I would continue to love you, she would say. If you were a hunchback I would not stop loving you, I would reply. If you were a deaf-mute I would continue to love you, she would say. If you were cross-eyed I would not stop loving you, I would respond. If you had a paunch and were ugly I would go on loving you, she would say. If you were all scarred with smallpox I would not stop loving you, I would respond. If you were old and impotent I would continue to love you, she would say. And we were exchanging these vows when a desire to be truthful struck me, as deep as a knife-thrust, and I asked her, what if I had no teeth, would you love me? And she replied, if you had no teeth I would still love you. Then I took out my dentures and threw them on the bed with a grave, religious, and metaphysical gesture. We both lay there looking at the dentures on top of the sheet, until Maria got up, put on a dress, and said, I’m going out for cigarettes. To this day she hasn’t come back. Nathanael, explain to me what happened. Does love end suddenly? Do a few teeth, miserable pieces of ivory, mean that much? ODONTOS SILVA.

As I was about to reply, Jacqueline came by and said that Peçanha was calling me.

In Peçanha’s office was a man wearing glasses and a goatee.

“This is Dr. Pontecorvo, who’s a—just what are you?” asked Peçanha.

“A motivational researcher,” Pontecorvo said. “As I was saying, first we do a survey of the characteristics of the universe we’re researching, for example: who is the reader of Woman? Let’s suppose it’s the Class C female. In our previous research we’ve surveyed everything about the Class C female—where she buys her food, how many pairs of panties she owns, what time she makes love, what time she watches television, which television programs she watches, in short, a complete profile.”

“How many pairs of panties does she own?” Peçanha asked.

“Three,” Pontecorvo replied without hesitation.

“What time does she make love?”

“At 9:30 p.m.,” Pontecorvo replied promptly.

“And how did you find all this out? Do you knock at Dona Aurora’s door in the housing project, she opens the door and you say, good morning, Dona Aurora, what time do you get it on? Look here, my friend, I’ve been in this business for twenty-five years, and I don’t need anybody to tell me what the Class C woman’s profile is. I know from personal experience. They buy my newspaper, understand? Three pairs of panties … Ha!”

“We use scientific research methods. We have sociologists, psychologists, anthropologists, statisticians, and mathematicians on our staff,” said Pontecorvo, imperturbable.

“All to get money from the patsies,” said Peçanha with undisguised scorn.

“As a matter of fact, before coming here I put together some information about your newspaper which I believe may be of interest to you,” Pontecorvo said.

“And what does it cost?” said Peçanha sarcastically.

“This I’ll give you for free,” Pontecorvo said. The man seemed to be made of ice. “We did a miniresearch on your readers, and despite the small sample size I can assure you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the great majority, almost the entirety, of your readers is made up of Class B men.”

“What?” screamed Peçanha.

“That’s right, Class B men.”

First Peçanha turned pale. Then he began to turn red, then purple, as if he were being strangled. His mouth open, his eyes bulging, he rose from his chair and, arms spread, staggered like a crazed gorilla in Pontecorvo’s direction. A shocking sight, even for a man of steel like Pontecorvo, even for an ex-police reporter. Pontecorvo retreated before Peçanha’s advance until, his back against the wall, he said, trying to maintain his calm and composure, “Maybe our technicians made a mistake.”

Peçanha, who was within a centimeter of Pontecorvo, underwent a violent tremor and, contrary to what I expected, did not pounce upon the other like a rabid dog. He seized his own hair forcefully and began tearing it out, as he screamed, “Con men, swindlers, thieves, exploiters, liars, scum of the earth.” Pontecorvo nimbly made his way toward the door, as Peçanha ran after him throwing the tufts of hair yanked from his own head, “Men! Men! Class B!” Peçanha snarled madly.

Later, after calming down—I think Pontecorvo escaped by the stairs—Peçanha, seated behind his desk again, told me, “That’s the kind of people Brazil’s fallen into the hands of—manipulators of statistics, falsifiers of information, con men with computers, all of them creating the Big Lie. But they won’t pull it off with me. I really put that wretch in his place, didn’t I?”

I said something or other in agreement. Peçanha took the box of El Ropos from the drawer and offered me one. We smoked and talked about the Big Lie. Afterwards he gave me Pedro Redgrave’s letter and my reply, with his okay, for me to take to the composing room.

On the way I saw that Pedro Redgrave’s letter wasn’t the one I had sent him. The text was different:

“Dear Nathanael, your letter was a balm for my afflicted heart. It has given me the strength to resist. I will not make any deranged gesture. I promise to—”

The letter ended there. It had been interrupted in the middle. Strange. I didn’t understand. Something was wrong.

I went to my desk, sat down, and began writing the answer to Odontos Silva:

He who has no teeth also has no toothache. And as the hero of the well-known play put it, “There’s never been a philosopher who could bear a toothache with patience.” Besides, teeth are also instruments of revenge, as Deuteronomy says: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a hand for a hand, a foot for afoot. Dictators despise teeth. Remember what Hitler told Mussolini about another meeting with Franco?—I prefer having four teeth pulled. You’re in the situation of the hero of that play All’s Well If Nobody Gets Shafted—no teeth, no taste, nothing. ADVICE: put your teeth back in and bite. If biting doesn’t do the trick, try punching and kicking.