Rubem Fonseca - Winning the Game and Other Stories

“Yes,” I replied, lighting a cigarette.

“I’d like to schedule the surgery immediately following the tests I’m asking for. Did I tell you about the relationship between bladder cancer and smoking?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Three out of five cases of bladder cancer are linked to smoking. The link between smoking and bladder cancer is especially strong among men.”

“I promise I’ll stop smoking.”

“This year, worldwide, there will be close to three hundred thousand cases of bladder cancer.”

“Really?”

“It’s the fourth most common type of cancer and the seventh leading cause of death from cancer.”

I felt like telling Roberto to stop bugging me, but besides being my doctor he was also my friend.

“Bladder cancer,” he continued, “can occur at any age, but it usually hits people over fifty. You’ll be fifty next month. You’re a month older than me.”

“I’m late for an appointment. I have to go, Roberto.”

“Don’t forget to have the tests done.”

I ran out. I didn’t have any appointment. I wanted to smoke another cigarette in peace. And I also needed to meet with someone who could get me a gun. I remembered my brother.

I phoned him.

“Do you still have that weapon?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Want to sell it?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you afraid one of your children will find the gun and shoot the other one in the head? Something like that happened the other day. It was in the papers.”

“My gun is locked inside a drawer.”

“According to the paper, so was that poor guy’s.”

“I didn’t read anything about it.”

“You always say you only read the headlines. That didn’t make the headlines because it happens every day.”

“And just how did it happen?”

“The boy was playing cowboys and Indians with his brother and the tragedy occurred. Any day now I’m going to read in the newspaper that one nephew of mine killed the other playing a game.”

“Enough with the foreboding.”

“I’ll stop by there tonight.”

When I got to my brother’s house he said, “Take a look at this drawer. You think a couple of kids could break that lock?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Want to see me break into that piece of shit?”

“You’re an adult.”

“Where’s Helena?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Have her come out here.”

I told his wife about the article in the newspaper, which I had made up.

“I’m constantly asking Carlos to get rid of that damned thing, but he won’t listen,” said Helena.

“I came here to buy the revolver, but this idiot doesn’t want to sell.”

“What are you going to do with the gun?” Carlos asked.

“Nothing. Own it, that’s all. I’ve always wanted a revolver.”

Helena and my brother argued for a time. She won the debate when she said that one of the boys could get hold of the key while my brother was sleeping, or when he forgot the key in a place where the kids could find it, or on some other occasion. Finally, Carlos opened the drawer and took out the gun.

“And to make things worse, you keep the thing loaded,” I said, after examining the firearm.

“You irresponsible madman,” said Helena, furious, “you always told me the revolver wasn’t loaded. Listen, let your brother take that piece of crap with him, now. Otherwise I’m moving out and taking the children.”

I got the revolver and went back to my apartment. I phoned my girlfriend. I felt like going to the bathroom but knew I’d see signs of blood in the urine, which always sent a shiver down my spine. That could spoil my time with her. I urinated with my eyes closed and, also with my eyes closed, flushed the toilet several times.

While I was waiting for my girlfriend, I thought about the future, smoking and drinking whiskey. I was going to spend the rest of my life filling with urine a bag stuck to my body, which would then have to be emptied somehow or other. How could I go to the beach? How could I make love to a woman? I imagined the horror she would feel upon seeing that thing.

My girlfriend arrived and we went to bed.

“You’re worried about something,” she said, after a time.

“I’m not feeling well.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, we can just talk; I love talking with you.”

This is one of the worst phrases a man can hear when he’s naked with a naked woman in bed.

We got up and got dressed without looking at each other. We went into the living room. We talked a little. My girlfriend looked at her watch, said, “I have to go, love,” kissed me on the cheek, left, and I shot myself in the chest.

But the story doesn’t end there. I should have shot myself in the head, but it was in the chest and I didn’t die.

During my convalescence, Roberto came to see me several times to say we didn’t have much time, but we could still do the bladder surgery, successfully.

It was done. Now I easily empty the urine bag. It’s well hidden under my clothes; no one realizes it’s there, over my abdomen. The cancer appears to have been entirely eliminated. I no longer have a girlfriend, and I’m addicted to crossword puzzles. I stopped going to the beach. I did go once, to throw the gun into the sea.

I’m forty years old, a sensitive man who likes music, poetry, and cinema. I’m a lawyer, single, and live alone. I’m looking for a lasting relationship of love and respect. INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC.

I spent a week, me, Incorrigible Romantic, visiting chat rooms and was getting discouraged, when the woman I was looking for showed up:

DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC, Like you, I am also looking for a lasting relationship with someone worthy and affectionate. I too love music and poetry and especially cinema. Tell me more about yourself. LOUISE BROOKS.

DEAR LOUISE BROOKS, I’ve never married, not because I lacked the financial conditions to do so, just the opposite, I’m a man of means, despite living a modest life. I’ve never married because I haven’t met the ideal woman. They say there’s no such thing, that it’s a romantic illusion. But I refuse to accept such pessimism. That’s why I used the pseudonym Incorrigible Romantic. What about you? Why Louise Brooks?

DEAR INCORRIGIBLE ROMANTIC, Louise Brooks was a beautiful actress in silent films. One day a boyfriend gave me a picture of her that looked so much like me that I still have it even now. A woman with an air of mystery, which I, to tell the truth, don’t have. I’m an open book. I’ve never been married either and am looking for the ideal man. I know I’m going to find him. Who knows if he’s you. Do you have a girlfriend? LOUISE BROOKS.

DEAR LOUISE, No, I don’t have a girlfriend. I would like to meet you. You must be thinking, he doesn’t know me, how can he want to meet me? But I’m sure we’re going to get along very well. Give it some thought. ROMANTIC.

DEAR ROMANTIC, I’m a shy person, I live with my mother, I’m doing this crazy thing for the first time in my life, talking with a stranger on the Internet. I don’t know if I should go any further with this. I’m afraid. LOUISE.

I was anxious to get that woman.

DEAR LOUISE, I’m a shy person like you, it’s the first time I’ve done this. But I know, a type of premonition, that we’re going to get along very well. May I visit your home? I know your mother will like me. ROMANTIC.

DEAR ROMANTIC, At my house it’s impossible, it will have to be at yours. Give me your address. I’ll be there tomorrow, at nightfall. KISSES, LOUISE.

DEAR LOUISE, My address is on Gomes Monteiro, third floor. It’s a four-story building, one apartment per floor, one of those old buildings that real estate speculation hasn’t managed to destroy. Call on the intercom and I’ll buzz you in. Anxiously awaiting you. ROMANTIC.