It was the only night that a party of mine managed to make enough noise for the apartment upstairs to threaten to call the police. I had been more or less begging for the karaoke to stop, first out of personal disdain – when Avril Lavigne supplanted MPB – and then out of pure exhaustion. It was no use; even dressed for bed and lying down on the living room floor in protest, I was dragged up to learn salsa steps.
Around four o’clock, a friend knocked on the window with a bottle of cachaça and his guitar. Everyone left was so tired that the cachaça would have been redundant, but the guitar was welcome. He propped it on one knee and began.
Within a month I was going back to the United States; Carlos and José to Mexico; Luís to Switzerland; Gabi to Uruguay; and Marília to São Paulo, which is less forbidding in terms of commute times but about equivalent in terms of culture shock. Everyone else would probably stay in Rio, to try their luck with the riot police or the job market. But for a while we were all there, albeit with an air of an epilogue. I want to say it was raining outside, but I think it had just stopped raining.
Ciro struck a soulful pose.
A tristeza é senhora
Desde que o samba é samba é assim
A lágrima clara sobre a pele escura
A noite, a chuva que cai lá fora Continue reading