looking for or not find what they are looking for.
I knew this. But when I made my decision and wrote the letter to Fernando and waited for his phone call with my only suitcase ready and then got on the plane that would fly in a north-westerly direction, at that moment finding or not finding my father was still just that, two possibilities of the same size, and I would deal with whatever I had to deal with when the time came.
Elisa sighed.
I canât go with you.
Then she cried a little.
Your mother should have got back together with Fernando when you were born. Fine, she didnât want to be with your father, she didnât have to stay with him, it was just a fling, you know? But Fernando was a nice guy. Iâm sure she liked him.
She cried a little more.
Your mother was silly. She always found fault with everyone. No one was good enough, no one was right. Thatâs why she ended up alone.
And she hugged me, and her smell had Vibrant Notes of Peach, Gold Raspberry and Patchouli, as explained in the commercial for the perfume she was wearing. I saw it all the time on the purple TV.
Then she took my head in her hands and brushed the hair off my forehead.
Fernando will take good care of you. Heâs a nice guy. He always was a nice guy. Your mother should have got back together with him. Iâm going to save up to come visit you at Christmas.
Â
In the years following that summer, I met entire families of Latin immigrants, legal and illegal, who made their living as cleaners.
I never met Maria Isabel Vasquez Jimenez, but I heard about her, the seventeen-year-old Mexican girl who died of heat stroke while picking grapes in the fields of California, without anyone offering her water or shade. It was in the month of May. The year, 2008. Maria Isabelâs core body temperature reached 108 degrees.
Fernando had been a legal resident of the United States for almost thirty years, but he had never applied for citizenship, unlike my mother. I asked why and he told me that it was because it was a laborsome process. He made some extra money cleaning for seventy dollars. Each cleaning job took two to three hours.
In Rio de Janeiro, the cleaning lady who came to clean our apartment in Copacabana once a week earned half that and was there from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. She would arrive with fresh bread from the bakery, for which my mother would reimburse her. She would stop cleaning to have lunch in the kitchen listening to the radio and then sheâd wash the dishes and make a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette and gossip and take a quick nap. Every now and then sheâd sew a button back onto my clothes or let down a hem (my mother was a disaster with a needle and thread). Sheâd come by bus from São Gonçalo and the trip took about an hour. Before starting to work for private clients like us, she used to clean the parking lot of a shopping center in Barra da Tijuca, where her monthly wages couldnât even buy her a dress. The sun was hot. I donât know what her core body temperature was, but she ended up having to quit. She was sixty years old.
After examining Maria Isabel Vasquez Jimenezâs body, the doctors discovered that she was two months pregnant. She was picking grapes for wine.
Â
At the airport in Rio, Elisa and I ate pães de queijo , the mini cheese buns, and drank guaraná . She was admirably strong until twelve seconds before we had to say goodbye.
The Federal Police officer asked for my authorization to travel and my birth certificate.
Your father lives in the United States, he confirmed.
Yes, I said, and in principle I wasnât lying.
Heâs Brazilian, the officer confirmed once again. I donât know why he kept repeating things that were in the documents: I was the daughter of Suzana and Fernando, both Brazilians, she an American citizen too, dead a year earlier, hence my trip to the United States. It was all in the
I knew this. But when I made my decision and wrote the letter to Fernando and waited for his phone call with my only suitcase ready and then got on the plane that would fly in a north-westerly direction, at that moment finding or not finding my father was still just that, two possibilities of the same size, and I would deal with whatever I had to deal with when the time came.
Elisa sighed.
I canât go with you.
Then she cried a little.
Your mother should have got back together with Fernando when you were born. Fine, she didnât want to be with your father, she didnât have to stay with him, it was just a fling, you know? But Fernando was a nice guy. Iâm sure she liked him.
She cried a little more.
Your mother was silly. She always found fault with everyone. No one was good enough, no one was right. Thatâs why she ended up alone.
And she hugged me, and her smell had Vibrant Notes of Peach, Gold Raspberry and Patchouli, as explained in the commercial for the perfume she was wearing. I saw it all the time on the purple TV.
Then she took my head in her hands and brushed the hair off my forehead.
Fernando will take good care of you. Heâs a nice guy. He always was a nice guy. Your mother should have got back together with him. Iâm going to save up to come visit you at Christmas.
Â
In the years following that summer, I met entire families of Latin immigrants, legal and illegal, who made their living as cleaners.
I never met Maria Isabel Vasquez Jimenez, but I heard about her, the seventeen-year-old Mexican girl who died of heat stroke while picking grapes in the fields of California, without anyone offering her water or shade. It was in the month of May. The year, 2008. Maria Isabelâs core body temperature reached 108 degrees.
Fernando had been a legal resident of the United States for almost thirty years, but he had never applied for citizenship, unlike my mother. I asked why and he told me that it was because it was a laborsome process. He made some extra money cleaning for seventy dollars. Each cleaning job took two to three hours.
In Rio de Janeiro, the cleaning lady who came to clean our apartment in Copacabana once a week earned half that and was there from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. She would arrive with fresh bread from the bakery, for which my mother would reimburse her. She would stop cleaning to have lunch in the kitchen listening to the radio and then sheâd wash the dishes and make a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette and gossip and take a quick nap. Every now and then sheâd sew a button back onto my clothes or let down a hem (my mother was a disaster with a needle and thread). Sheâd come by bus from São Gonçalo and the trip took about an hour. Before starting to work for private clients like us, she used to clean the parking lot of a shopping center in Barra da Tijuca, where her monthly wages couldnât even buy her a dress. The sun was hot. I donât know what her core body temperature was, but she ended up having to quit. She was sixty years old.
After examining Maria Isabel Vasquez Jimenezâs body, the doctors discovered that she was two months pregnant. She was picking grapes for wine.
Â
At the airport in Rio, Elisa and I ate pães de queijo , the mini cheese buns, and drank guaraná . She was admirably strong until twelve seconds before we had to say goodbye.
The Federal Police officer asked for my authorization to travel and my birth certificate.
Your father lives in the United States, he confirmed.
Yes, I said, and in principle I wasnât lying.
Heâs Brazilian, the officer confirmed once again. I donât know why he kept repeating things that were in the documents: I was the daughter of Suzana and Fernando, both Brazilians, she an American citizen too, dead a year earlier, hence my trip to the United States. It was all in the
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