Alexandre Vidal Porto: Sergio Y.

“It was worth it. After he moved to New York, everything changed for the better. There was the sex change operation, which wasn’t easy, but Sandra became an admirable person. I know he’s my son, and I’m biased when I say this, but what she achieved as a person, and was achieving professionally, was very special. I think that, in some shape or form, this was a result of all the love his father and I gave him.

“I’ll never forget one spring day when we walked across Central Park, to the West Side. We walked side by side, breathing in the spring air. It was shortly after her operation. Out of nowhere, she said, ‘Mom, I never thought I’d be this happy.’

“Dr. Armando, it helps to remember that we did a good job with Sergio. Let’s not suffer over him. He wouldn’t have liked that. He succeeded in being Sandra. It’s what he wanted. He was happy. He didn’t dwell over his misery. It was great seeing him so excited about his restaurant, seeing her look so beautiful. Like a model. It was worth it.

“Some lives are short. Others start off badly and get better. Sergio’s life was a combination of the two. We supported Sergio as best we could. We gave it our all. There was the physical distance. But that was good for his treatment, Dr. Coutts said.

“You never saw him then, but, believe me, if you’d seen her you would have been proud.”

I write from memory. I write events as I remember them. What I tell you is only my interpretation. I make this clear because not everything in my analysis is rational. At this point in my life, I am learning that often it is better to feel the answers than to hear them.

A week after my conversation with Tereza, for two nights in a row, I had a dream with three golden retriever puppies. The dream was as follows: I walked down the street with the dogs, and they kept getting tangled between my legs, and I would try to avoid tripping. And I sat on the floor of the beach house with the dogs playing around me.

They had red collars on with metal dog tags shaped like bones, with their names engraved on them. The first one was Sergio. The second one, Sandra; and the third, Armando.

It was an unusual dream. It seemed harmless, but it stayed with me. I even mentioned it yesterday to Mariana, before she told me she was pregnant. We agreed I would go to Chicago in April. By then we will know if it is a boy or a girl.

A curious thing happened earlier today. Someone on the same floor as my office left the door to their apartment open. I think I made some noise as I was getting off the elevator, and a dog came out from behind the door.

It was a golden retriever, very old, his face already white. He walked toward me sweetly, slowly wagging his tail. He was not a puppy, but his collar was red. Right then and there, I thought of the previous week’s dream.

I let him smell me. I stroked him lightly. He sat next to me and I could not help but think superstitious thoughts. It occurred to me that that dog, who appeared out of nowhere, was the same one from my dream, and that he was bringing me a sign. It seemed pathetic to believe this, but I am being honest about what I felt.

From the same door the dog had come out of, his owner, a woman of about forty, whom I had never seen before, came out. She walked toward me quickly, gently shaking her head and clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “I’m very sorry,” she said, approaching to take the dog by the red collar. “She escaped.”

I smelled her perfume, and, for an instant, the image of a braless Cecilia Coutts came to mind.

“No worries,” I said.

While she held the leash with one hand, I took courage and said: “I know this may sound ridiculous, but I had a dream about a dog just like this last week. Can you tell me something about him?”

She looked up a little surprised but flashed a smile that was part ironic and part benevolent.

“ He’s a she. A female. Nine years old. She’s excellent company. A real buddy. The best dog I’ve ever had. Everyone should have one just like her at home,” she said.

Apparently, she had interrupted whatever she was doing to retrieve the dog. Her body language was that of someone who was in a hurry and wanted to end our conversation as soon as possible to get back to whatever she was doing. Not wanting to inconvenience her any further, I asked one last question:

“What’s her name?”

“Her name is Faithfull. For Marianne Faithfull. But we shortened it to Faith. It’s easier to pronounce. And if you live in São Paulo you really do need a little faith, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, São Paulo without faith is hard,” I replied, trying to sound pleasant.

I petted Faith one last time as we said good-bye.

Back in my office, with my neighbor’s scent and the three puppies still on my mind, I thought about what had happened. I’m not a religious or mystical person, but I realize that in daily life, faith does exist. Now, as I write this, I trust, without giving it much thought, that I will wake up tomorrow morning and have a full day ahead of me. In April, I will visit my pregnant daughter. In September, I will become a grandfather. Life goes on. I firmly believe this.

Alexandre Vidal Porto was born in São Paulo. A career diplomat, a Harvard-trained lawyer, and a human rights activist, he writes a regular column for

Folha de S. Paulo

His fiction has appeared in some of the most respected literary publications in Brazil and abroad.

Sergio Y.

was the winner of the Paraná Literary Prize for best novel.