Rubem Fonseca: Winning the Game and Other Stories

YOU RUIN YOUR TEETH WHEN YOU’RE A KID, but later after you make a lot of money you find a dentist who fixes your mouth. That’s what happened with me; I implanted every tooth in my mouth, a marvel of odontological engineering. I’m full of teeth that don’t fall out or decay, but when I laugh in front of a mirror I miss my old mouth; my lips open now in a way I don’t like. In any case, I don’t lack for teeth and I can champ down on women and steaks. I used to live in a lousy housing project and catch the train, squeezed in like sardines in a can. Today I live in a beautiful mansion in a gated community in the Barra, I have two cars and two drivers. I used to have one leg shorter than the other and didn’t even know it. I would go out with waitresses in luncheonettes, maids, factory workers, some of them illiterate. Money got me legs of the same length, gave me a wife from a good family, ruined but with all sorts of diplomas, gave me a mistress, without a diploma but who knows how to wear elegant clothes and put on a show when she crosses a ballroom. Money, that’s something I understand.

I didn’t go to college either. I don’t even have high school. Or elementary school, to tell the truth. That’s been a concern of mine, the only thing money hasn’t solved. If you’re rich and don’t have a diploma, people think you’re stupid. If you’re poor and don’t have a diploma, people say you didn’t go to school, don’t have even a primary education, but you learned to read the best authors on your own, and you’re a very smart guy. That’s what they said about me when I was poor. When I became rich they began spreading it around that I was a dummy who bought books by the yard, a complete lie. I should have bought a degree as an economist as soon as I started making money. Now I can’t do that anymore, people would know, the rich are always in the spotlight. Opportunity, that’s something I understand.

Then I read in the newspaper:

Become a respected writer admired by your friends and neighbors, your family, your girlfriend. I will write for you the book you choose. Poetry, novels, short stories, essays, biographies. Absolute confidentiality. Send reply to Ghostwriter, Box 333 507.

Rio de Janeiro.

I had already seen a similar ad, by a guy offering to write masters’ and doctoral theses for goof-off unscrupulous students. That day I told my wife, “I feel like writing a book, a novel. After all, if I learned how to read on my own, I can learn how to write on my own.”

“You know what you want,” she replied.

The next day I said the same thing to my mistress. “I think it’s a good idea,” she answered, “being a writer is so chic.”

I went to the post office and rented a box. I didn’t want to have any contact with Ghostwriter. If the book he wrote for me was good, I’d publish it and Ghostwriter would end up finding out who I was. But if it was bad, I’d toss it in the trash and the writer I was renting wouldn’t need to know my identity.

Ghostwriter: I read your ad. I’m interested. I want a novel of at least two hundred pages, in the style of Machado de Assis. I’ll pay whatever’s necessary. Give me the name of your bank and your account number so I can deposit the first installment, ten percent of the total amount. I’ll pay the rest in installments of thirty percent after delivery of seventy or more pages at a time.

Reply to Tomás Antônio, Box 432 521.

I made money in business by buying and selling things. That’s the way to get rich. Buying and selling. Making money, that’s something I understand. My driver is named Gaspar; my wife’s is named Evanildo. My cook can make any dish, however sophisticated. By paying three times as much I was able to lure her away from one of those society types who are still brave enough to host dinners to make the social columns. When I give a dinner I also put it in the social column. I’ve been told that’s not done anymore, that the trick is to keep a low profile here and enjoy the money abroad, away from the eyes of the envious. But then what good does it do to have the best mansion and the best cook, and the best teeth and the best clothes, and the best paintings on the wall if not to show to others? Let the envious turn green with displeasure and stew in their woe. At a dinner I gave at my house I heard a guy who was there for show whisper to the woman beside him at the table, who had also been invited just to be seen, “The money is changing hands.” That’s what he said: the money is changing hands. He, the old rich, was referring to me, the new rich. The old rich don’t want money to change hands, but how can money not change hands if those parasites don’t work? The difference between the old rich and the new rich is that the old rich, those who haven’t been ruined by their hedonistic idleness, have had money longer and are misers. But it’s true that both the old and the new stuff their bellies with free caviar in other people’s homes. Anything that’s expensive is always good, even when it’s bad, that’s the golden rule of consumptiveness. Ostentation, that’s something I understand.

Tomás Antônio: The bank is Bradesco, agency 163, account number 11 429 654-9. Name: M.J. Ramos. My fee for the book, ten thousand reais. Ghostwriter.

Ten thousand, the price of a run-of-the-mill Volkswagen. My book was going to be a piece of shit. But I deposited the ten percent in Ghostwriter’s account.

“Are you going to write your book on a computer?” Gisela asked. I haven’t spoken of Gisela, my mistress. A rich guy has to have a mistress, for relief from bourgeois routine. A poor guy should also have a mistress, obviously, if he can; it’s good for the health and makes poverty more pleasant. Wives are always a drag, both in books and real life, and a mistress makes you be more patient with her, the wife. Marriage is boring. A person’s house can be something insipid, most people’s houses are insipid, but they always want to transform them into showcases. People stick themselves inside the showcase, along with their knickknacks. Part of the showcase is nice teeth, good clothes and good shoes, manicured nails, a slim silhouette, domestic appliances, wedding rings, perfume, voice modulation and an imposing vocabulary, a face free of warts (did I mention I had a wart removed from my face?), and the more ornate the showcase, the greater our happiness. Exhibitionism, that’s something I understand.

But I was speaking of my mistress, Gisela. First, some advice for young adventuresses: if you want to find a lover, choose a man who’s new rich. They’re much more generous. Don’t think I suffer retrospective envy from having been poor when I was young. Nothing like it. It’s because the old rich don’t like money to change hands. I mean, it can change hands but only between their old-rich hands. But let’s get back to Gisela.

“Yes,” I answered, “I’m writing it on a computer. Isn’t that what all the idiots who follow fads are doing?” Actually, just to show off, I had bought the best computer on the market, with all the peripherals, multifunctions, nets, shifts, alts, ROM, RAM, the works. I had another one, state of the art, but it was my secretary who used it. But let’s get back to Gisela. A good mistress, like my Gisela, has to be pretty; has to have all her teeth; has to weigh twenty pounds less than her height in centimeters (as long as she’s not a dwarf, of course); has to speak English and French; has to like cinema; has to have small feet; has to have small breasts (but her breasts, when bare under her silk blouse, must move erect when she walks without swinging, because an elegant woman doesn’t swing her hips when she moves her legs); has to have large, firm thighs; has to have a small, tight ass; has to have a lot of hair on her head; has to eat with her mouth closed; has to have long fingers; has to have large eyes; and has to like you.