Paulo Scott - Nowhere People

Catarina goes into what is supposed to be a bedroom, her bedroom. The nails and drawing-pins from her last street intervention have been on the bed for more than a week along with scraps of green plastic and two kinds of sticky tape: masking and double-sided. (She sleeps on the leather sofa in the library, and the bedroom is a mix of bedroom, walk-in closet, study, meeting room, video-editing room and office for her Foundation, especially when she needs to use the Mac to write up projects with other partners; the cleaner is allowed to gather up whatever’s on the floor, hoover, tidy the clothes in the wardrobe, but never to touch the bed, the bookshelves or the desk.) She undresses, puts on an oversized jumper that goes all the way down to her knees. She takes the burgundy-coloured bag hanging on the clothes rail. She scatters berets, wigs and masks across the bed, picks out one of the masks, a kind of Spirit mask, puts it on. She looks at the disarray. It’s the first time in weeks that she has been able to go in there without being overtaken by a mad desire to turn back the hours, the days. She gets the digital video camera that happens by good fortune to be in plain view. As soon as she can, she will ask the cleaner to clean everything and change the sheets and the curtains and leave the windows open and allow the sun, which is strong there in the mornings, come in. She runs to the living room. ‘Sing for me,’ and she takes off the jumper. He begins his chant, and she dances dressed only in the mask and her underwear.

With some effort Catarina’s great-aunt is overcoming the restrictions imposed on her knees and ankles by osteoarthritis. She puts her key in the lock with care so as not to disturb whatever Catarina is up to this time (it’s always easy to tell whether her great-niece is in the house or not), she turns it, opens, enters. ‘What on earth are you doing, Catarina?’ she shrieks. Seventy-two years on one side; twenty-one on the other. Catarina is losing the thread, she no longer understands the importance of the basic principles, she thinks she has mastered them already, she thinks that positioning herself critically against the canons of dance will make her somebody in the history of dance. She does not suspect how foolish she will feel a few years from now for having failed to tackle this most basic of disciplines like any other, for not having examined its technique exhaustively. The prizes that this great-niece won so young have done her harm. Catarina is pure impulse. Catarina is naked in the living room. And who is that thing in the terrible mask? ‘I can explain,’ says Catarina. ‘Who is this pervert?’ The old woman puts her bag down on the table by the door. ‘He’s … ’ Catarina hesitates. ‘Get out of my apartment, you animal … What’s that smell, have you been smoking pot?’ ‘Bettina, look, the smell is from the wood, the wood of the mask.’ Catarina gets dressed. ‘I don’t want to know.’ And looking at him, ‘And you, I’ve already told you to get out of my sight.’ He doesn’t move, just watches her. ‘Look here, you … you … whoever you are … Take off that thing … ’ She takes the glass ashtray from the coffee table like someone who means to hurl it if necessary. ‘No,’ he replies. ‘My name is Bettina de Alencar Macedo, you scoundrel, and I am the owner of this apartment.’ The maid comes into the living room, Bettina immediately turns to her. ‘And you … I begged you not to let strangers set foot in here … You … you’re fired.’ Catarina goes over to him. ‘Look, I’m sorry … ’ Bettina still is not satisfied. ‘What’s your name?’ She gets between them. ‘You don’t have to answer.’ Catarina takes his arm so they can leave the apartment together, but he doesn’t move. Bettina addresses the maid. ‘Bring me a pen and paper, quickly.’ Catarina is trying to drag him out, but he is too strong for her. ‘But madam, you’ve just fired me’ (surprising Bettina with a cynicism that has not been apparent before now). ‘Don’t play smart with me, my girl … Go fetch what I’ve asked you to.’ The maid does as she’s told. ‘And where do you live?’ Bettina keeps going. ‘That’s enough, Bettina,’ Catarina steps in. ‘Why?’ Donato asks. ‘Because I’m going to report you to the police,’ says Bettina, threatening him. The maid hands her employer a pencil and a sheet of paper. ‘That’s going too far … ’ Catarina objects. ‘You can find me on Avenida Cristovão Colombo, madam, number eight hundred and thirty-nine … It’s a house.’ Bettina is panting. ‘You still haven’t said your name.’ The great-aunt is nervous, shaking. ‘You’ve got the address now … I’m not going to go anywhere … ’ Bettina puts a hand on her chest. ‘You don’t want to give your name? Fine, you’ll be answering to the law all the same … And now, for the last time, remove that monstrous costume.’ He moves towards the door. Catarina opens it. ‘My name is Donato, and it wasn’t a pleasure to meet you, madam.’ Both of them go out into the hall. She won’t go down with him, because she has to go back in and confront Bettina. She will tell Bettina that she has finally managed to embarrass her in front of a friend — one of the most polite ever to have been in that apartment. Her great-aunt will allow her to speak, and then she will say a dozen sentences that will demonstrate just how shaken she was by what she witnessed, sentences that will make Catarina understand that, this time, she is not joking.

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insomnia

Spectre asked whether the Guy had heard of the Indian Poxi, or Guaraci, a mythological figure, a monstrous being capable of witchcraft, spells and dreadful deeds, less good at being understood by the other Indians. The Guy says it would be best if Spectre stopped his research now, he was getting sick. Spectre paid him no attention and told him that after a number of conflicts and misfortunes, Poxi transformed himself into the sun. They walked over to the window and looked at the day. As they shared the sunlight flooding in, the Guy said that he had kept the note Spectre had given him, he said he got nightmares from the drawing that was on it. Spectre gave a frightening laugh and said that soon the newspapers were going to report on the measures that certain bodies and the government were going to take against him. He assured the Guy that he’d be prosecuted as a threat to public order, for slander and defamation, but that it wouldn’t make any difference, because ultimately they were never going to wake up again. And now it was the Guy’s turn to laugh.

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future crimes

Catarina does not give up on Donato; in the space of two weeks she has made the masked man an internet hit, his public appearances attract more and more people, radio and tv programmes have already included him in their news broadcasts, a young musician from the city has recorded his chants and — using a backing track (and videos edited by Catarina) — is planning a performance accompanied by the Teatro São Pedro Chamber Orchestra for the end of the year, a performance which, he has promised, will be broadcast online. Donato’s intentions remain unclear, however, to Catarina and everyone else. She needs to make him adopt a position (this is undoubtedly the next step), she tells herself as she drinks an Old Engine Oil beer at the Etiquetaria, looking at those walls covered with dark wood panelling and made even gloomier by the very weak light coming from the lamps and the chandeliers that give the bar a hazy texture. An oppressive place, but she likes it. They still have the spaceships, trains, racing cars, crazy buggies and assorted wind-up toys from the sixties and seventies, all of them incredibly well preserved, scattered in every corner and on the dusty surface of the coffee table in front of her. She always discovers some new toy when her drunkenness hits a certain point. She finishes her beer. She has given up waiting for the friend who was coming to meet her to hand over the items that were in the house of a mutual friend, a friend Catarina doesn’t want to speak to any more. She gets up, pays for what she had and walks out of that darkness. It would have been good, actually, to have met the friend who didn’t show up, to have a chat, but it’s no use, there are some things she can’t share with anyone. She walks down Protásio Alves. It’s a lovely day. She comes to the little amusement park outside Santa Teresinha Church, buys twelve tickets, heads straight for the big wheel. She hands the bundle of tickets to the man operating it, telling him not to disturb her because she isn’t getting off the ride till she feels like it. She gets into pod number six. The wheel starts to rotate; after a while she loses track of how many circuits she has done and it’s then that she starts paying attention to the landscape. She looks at the crowds below her, recognising the lad in the blue cap she walked past earlier today on the street where her building is, then at the Bordini supermarket, and she gets the impression that he has been standing there watching her now for some time. He seems to have realised that she’s spotted him (though she still cannot see his eyes), he turns, he walks away. There is nothing Catarina can do. There is no way of escaping from the pod without throwing herself out; it will be several minutes before she puts her feet on solid ground. Let him go. Poor thing (the best of them all).