He’s a Scammer But Our Love Is Worth It

He’s a Scammer But Our Love Is Worth It

The Eclipse

Una lettera scritta sopra un viso di pietra e vapore. —Caetano Veloso, “Michelangelo Antonioni”

São Paulo, 2023. Living room of an apartment in Perdizes. On the table (round): in the center: a takeout carton from Arabesco restaurant; at the back, towards the window (open): a soiled plate, cutlery; 90º to the left: a wine bottle (Trapiche, Malbec, 2021, online offer) (half drunk); 90º to the right: a glass (almost empty), a pair of sunglasses (worn, scratched, at hand for the eclipse viewing), an iPhone (off) and a MacBook Air laptop (on)—in front of which sits Joanna (77 but she feels 30), breathing heavily. On one side of the window, there is a mid-century wooden wall clock (the laptop confirmed the eclipse would peak at 16:49); on the other, a sideboard with a box of pills, a checkbook and a photo of a man (her long-dead husband, Paulo, 1944–2009) on top.

Joanna is breathing heavily because she feels: sorry? Because she feels: sorry for having found love? Joanna feels: desire, doubts What will people think?, What will Marlene think?, doubts What will Rui think?, desire, doubts But: if not now, then when?, fear, guilt Such an unexpected development. If only she could send a check by mail. But: bitcoins? The index finger of her left hand commanding a trembling black arrow: searching for the knocked over traffic light, aiming for the yellow Caution circle; reaching it, she bats Tock {hollow} her finger on the trackpad: making the arrow strike the center of the target. Back soon. The arrow stayed where it was, but Safari disappeared—leaving, in its place, the image of a smiling Rui on his fortieth birthday.

This, inserting Rui as her wallpaper, she could manage; but actions she performed naturally on her regular computer, a Dell desktop, were replete with minor obstacles. How to flirt properly? Damn new machine! But he promised her that Some adjustments were normal and Relax she’d soon get used to it, soon forget the old commands. Where’s the tilde? Turn down the gift? Upset Rui? Never. Joanna touched Tap the sleeping surface of the iPhone The phone was enough, easy to use, which lit up: revealing the time: 16:41 (on a vertical section of the image [op. cit.] of a grinning Rui behind a white cake, Pineapple and coconut, low sugar to keep me happy).

On the clock, simultaneously, the hands announced four thirty (in pretentious Roman numerals, but with the four represented by IIII). Ah, eleven minutes slow, now.

Rui had finally made it as a film producer (a profession that, project by project, had ended up substituting his original dream: to be a director, an artist :It’s tough :People only want American movies :Just Hollywood crap :And on streaming :Originality? :Invention? :Zero backing :Zero cash); making it, then, was like steering a canoe through a puddle. And all the bills to pay each month; two kids, wife an unemployed journalist. But he never forgets Joanna.

Tap: 16:42. Early. Joanna pulls the Arabesco carton towards her; looks with her milky-blue veiled eyes into the bag; retrieves, from the bag, immaculately clean napkins, which come (complimentary) with the order ‘Hummus’ and ‘Fried Kibbeh’—the order, an extravagance for Saturday lunchtime: she was happy, after all, she was in love(!). Deserving. Carton in her hands, Joanna leaves the table.

On her way to the laundry room, mingled with less certain ideas and reasonings, Joanna lines up with the following sequence of reflections:

	Was it a good idea to order, today, from the Arab restaurant?
What if the delivery guy, today, was Hamas?
Is there Hamas in São Paulo?
Was a two reais tip enough, on the Rappi app?
Does Bill like Arab food?
The trash stinks.
Arabesco carton + Pinati carton.
I’ll take the trash out tomorrow morning.
Was it a good idea to order, yesterday, from the kosher restaurant?
‘Hummus Shawarma’ and ‘Falafel’.
An extravagance for Friday dinnertime.
What if the delivery guy, yesterday, was Hamas? Undercover.
What if he poisoned the food?
Was a two reais tip enough, on the iFood app?
Does Bill like kosher food?
Rui says we should stand up for the Palestinians.
But: what about Marlene?
Marlene posted a red and white warning sign on Instagram. 
Marlene announced: 
Anyone who doesn’t post in defense of Israel is an antisemite.
I’m not an antisemite.
I don’t want to be an antisemite.

Joanna comes back into the living room, back to the table; sits. Laptop off. Cell phone off. On the clock, bought by her father in 1953, the hands say four thirty-five; the nineteen-fifties: a prosperous decade for the business interests (the property dealings) of the Costa Mello family. Tap: 16:46. What went wrong? [She looks at the photo of Paulo on the sideboard.] What did you do, Paulo? How did you blow it all? If Joanna had gone to college. If she hadn’t obeyed her father, may God rest his soul, if she hadn’t obeyed Paulo, may God rest his soul, if she’d become a lawyer—her life . . . ?

	Marlene’s daughter lives with her family in Tel Aviv.
Marlene’s daughter’s son: called up to fight in the war.
Rui doesn’t live in Gaza.
Rui doesn’t live in Tel Aviv.
Rui’s kids: called up to fight? No.
(Thank God.)

? . . . Worth it, though. Rui. Bill too, now. William. A certain anxiousness, however, came over Joanna: she was happy and in love(!) in a time of suffering, conflict, chaos. Maybe she should give Marlene a call? A WhatsApp message, perhaps. But what to write? Tap: 16:47. Ask if she’s okay You weren’t at water aerobics on Thursday. No: Marlene definitely knows Joanna has seen her stories about Israel. Marlene knows Joanna knows Marlene’s grandson is a soldier.

To write, in the message, Sorry, my dear? Sorry for having found love in this moment of devastation for the planet? Love, now? Bill despises WhatsApp. An old soul. How lucky Joanna is. But she has the right, doesn’t she? On her own since 2009, since Paulo’s—sudden—heart attack. Sudden. Ambulance. Funeral service. Burial. Mourning. Loneliness. Sudden. Infinite. And for two months Joanna has been another Joanna. Rejuvenated, even. 

But the Joanna Joanna deludes herself about is dissipated by the sound of an alarm—her cell phone lights up: 16:48. [She looks at the box of pills on the cabinet.] Despite the fact she’d been waiting for the alarm, not its usual time, the sound made her jump, just a little, and, having switched it off, run through her daily medication: for her blood pressure, for her cholesterol, her insulin injection.

Twelve minutes, by the clock, to the eclipse.

The idea of the almost fulfilled eclipse brought, click, Alain Delon and Monica Vitti-Delon so effervescent in the office-marketplace-boxing ring of the stock exchange and Vitti in slow takes, click, transporting her to the peculiar rhythm, to the silence, to the noise, to the set of her favorite movie, a fictional Rome?, and to the archaeological sites of memory Was it at the Cine Bijou?, of adventurous circumstances: a teenager: a teenager loose in the center of São Paulo, a fictional São Paulo?, no husband or son, back then, no military dictatorship. Rui likes The Eclipse, but prefers The Night; though really he likes Almodóvar best of all (Joanna likes Almodóvar too, but finds him sometimes obscene, improper; sometimes, though, she laughs at what she considers obscene, improper).

Eleven, by the clock.

Joanna puts on her sunglasses (Ray-Bans, a gift from her father when she turned sixteen) and goes to the window. The sky. All she can see is a thick web of gray clouds-gray clouds-gray clouds. No annular solar spectacle, no eclipse. No ring of fire. Nothing. Useless window. She turns Paulo’s photo face down. She goes back to the table and, in a single gulp, downs the rest of the wine (Doctor Chico permitted one-two, two-and-a-half glasses); she sits.

Tock {hollow}: the laptop lights up: a scenic view and Saturday, 14 October / 16:50 / Joanna Costa Mello Alves / Touch ID her right index finger or Enter Password or the passcode: 1-9-6-2—

	1962, the Antonioni film, Was it at the Cine Bijou?
and, 1962, her Ray-Bans It was quite a party,
1962, her first cigarette Was it at the Morocco?,
and 1962, her first cocktail Was it at the Riviera?,
1962, her first kiss At the Galeria Metrópole
and, 1962, the future: immense: a precious
architecture, with door upon door, but doors which,
one after another, closed. Closed. Disappeared?
Gaps? Craters?
Ruins?

Send a check in the mail? That won’t work. Joanna’s checkbook—dusty-sticky on the sideboard—the checkbook makes her feel sad—the checkbook physical, the checkbook palpable. Once, printed on every page, the five stars, *****, favored clients only. Then, all of a sudden, an empty space more telling than the stars, blatant. And to sign it Joanna Costa Mello Alves: a wasted gesture.

Alves. Get rid of the Alves? Joanna Costa Mello—once again?

Paulo’s pension was paid in every month: automatic payments went out, online offers, the butcher on Tuesdays, the produce store on Wednesdays, an occasional Extravagance order; each month, fifteen to twenty reais to spare. Small change. And, with a few missteps, the Caixa Bank savings account has survived, since the estate was settled. Fifty thousand. Will Bill notice the Alves and throw a fit? Get rid of it? Bill is jealous, Bill had warned her. How to get rid of it? At the registry office? Joanna reopens Safari

	and on her bank’s website Huh
and the arrow searching for the knocked-over traffic light
and the green circle-Matte?-Moss?-Huh?,
and Is that better? Or worse? the tab (2 unread): joanna.cos- in Yahoo—the screen Huh strange, dull, completely darkened.

With both index fingers, in a single breath, Joanna types:

Dear Bill, How are you ? Sorry for my bad English,always. Im sending fifty thousand reais,it is all I have saved in bank . This is all I can send for the marriage, ok Thanks you for promising to pay back in the month of November. I will need because my son cant discover this and the fifty-thousand reais are all I have. I love you it is a very Blessing to found you in life. Im dreaming about how you look personally. You are so handsome,my miracle ! When you did arranged the marriage and determined the day exact of the Church, I will tell Rui . February, ok February is much good for Rui because his kids are going to be at school vacation. Im sure Rui will make the American visa to me and buy plane tickets and himself and his family are going to travel with me from Sao Paulo Sao (I dont know how put accent Sao here in this fancy little computer) to Austin to our marriage. It will be a party ! A breakdown party! It will be of Hollywood! (Do you agree on a cake diet ) You will like Rui .He is a good boy . And his sons,my grandsons, are good , are the most beautiful of the world. his wife is nice . I want to invite my friend Marlene too,but she only is thinking about her grandson who is a soldier for Israel. Do you have a side by the way? Lets hope the war is finished until February!Im sending now the money. I will follow the instructions to transform in crypto coins. And send,ok Tell me if gone right. Did have the eclipse in Texas?Only clouds from my window. Do you like Antonionis Leclisse?Kisses, Joanna Costa Mello

Caetano Veloso: “Michelangelo Antonioni” starts to play—at the end of the song, blackout.

About the translator: James Young is a translator and writer from Northern Ireland. He is the winner of the 2022 Peirene Stevns Translation Prize, and his translation into English of The Love of Singular Men by Victor Heringer was a finalist for the 2024 National Book Critics Circle Award John Leonard Prize for best first book. His short fiction has appeared in a range of publications, and been shortlisted for the Wasafiri, Sean O'Faolain, Fish and Bath short story prizes.