“My dear Rémi, I spoke with the school. They will not hear of my departure and are instead prepared to grant me unpaid leave. That is a luxury here, you know. It gave me a little glow of satisfaction. I will leave at the end of the school year.
Helio is still making scenes. My plan has left him badly shaken. I remember a very different time, when he refused to put down roots. He is growing old. He needs to clear out his garden and burn whatever is drawing him closer and closer to the earth.
I thought I could leave the Internet easily. I had forgotten that it is the only way I know you. All I possess are electronic memories of you. Are you real?
Let me tell you another story, a true one this time. It may be a sign, for you as much as for me.
I filled in for someone at the school this evening. Afterwards, I went to a nearby bar to meet some friends. We drank and argued about my departure. I left very quickly, in a foul mood.
To make matters worse, the bus was late, and I was fuming over the foolishness of my supposed colleagues. A young girl approached me at the stop and began talking as though we knew each other. At first, I thought she was a student from the school, but from the way she was dressed, I soon understood that she came instead from the poor neighbourhoods farther south and might have been working in my more prosperous district. As the bus still had not arrived, I decided to walk for a while, hoping to get away from her. She asked whether she could accompany me.
I panicked. A teacher, especially in my country, must preserve appearances, you understand? I was afraid I had fallen into a trap. Despite her dishevelled appearance, her eyes seemed sincere, and I agreed to let her walk with me. I have never been able to discern good from evil in people.
She was dirty and clutched her handbag with an unhealthy intensity, as though afraid someone might steal it. She talked about anything and everything—the new Madonna song, problems with her boyfriend, the usual adolescent chatter. It was difficult to guess her age: probably too young to be innocent, too old not to have known rape.
To my great relief, the bus arrived. She wanted to board as well. I realized she had no money for the fare, so I paid it for her. She thanked me with a beautiful smile. Where had she learned to smile like that? She sat beside me. I was more uncomfortable still. I did not want anyone to think I was buying myself a poor prostitute. Fortunately, we were alone except for one harmless old man.
For a while, neither of us said anything. Then she began talking again, telling me about her wretched life, her unhappy childhood and all the rest. Her manner was strange because she was not trying to impress me. She was trying neither to soften me up nor to extract money from me.
She simply talked, without even requiring me to approve or disapprove of any part of her life. I listened, most of the time watching her hands clutching the handbag so tightly. It was both endless and outside time.
From her cluttered bag, she drew a laminated photograph with bent corners. Her mother holding her in her arms shortly after her birth, she explained. The mother was smiling and looking proudly at the camera. In the photograph, I noticed a handbag identical to the young girl’s. No doubt it was the same one. She suddenly stood, thanked me for listening and got off at the next stop.
That is all. I did not learn the end of her story and probably never will.
She shook me deeply, Rémi. She offered me her story as though doing so were perfectly normal. I felt her distress and could do nothing for her because, in any case, she asked me for nothing except, no doubt, that I listen.
All these dead, Rémi, all this misery, all our ignorance of this poor human race. It will have no end, and we, we…
…And we will barely have had time to love one another, to loveship one another, as you put it so well.
I kiss you,
Rui, the Brazilian.”