Fantasy or reality?

Guillermo Alfonso Ortega-Noriega
da Salvador de Bahía, Brasile, Dicembre 2008

 

This is not a fictional story.
This is a true account which I dedicate to Elia,
a European boy who, if he does not read yet,
will do so in the near future because he represents the existence of hope.

 

Some people ask me why my parents, my brothers and my sisters, who arrived to Brazil in 1972, chose to settle here, whilst others preferred to go to the United States or to Europe. Those were certainly rough years for Latin America; here, however, one could experience the “Brazilian miracle”: a remarkable progress, economic growth, and a very low level of unemployment. All factors which the media divulged with pride and enthusiasm. All that my family wanted was to wait for four or five years until things in Peru returned back to normality. This however did not take place as nothing got back to normal in our country. In the meantime, contradictory to what was happening with Hispanic Americans in general, we managed to integrate easily with the reality of the country, which constituted a veritable enigma; something which one can possibly understand only after a long time.
On that morning of May, I met a dear friend, daughter of Portuguese parents, at Belo Horizonte. She wished to show me her city and to help me understand better my work objectives with regards to her country and so she took me to a poor district (or should I call it a favela?) in order to visit a woman who, thanks to the reading of "búzios” (that is, some small shells originating from Africa) was going to give me advice on which path to take. A humble house, simple but clean. Time never ceased showing me how much people here took care of their houses, despite their financial conditions, in order to keep them clean. Moreover, everyone here took at least a shower daily, even in very cold places. Apart from being a source of life, something which is of no news, water is an extremely important part in the life of this country’s inhabitants.
Upon a wooden table covered by a white linen tablecloth, Dona Josefa (this was the name of the kind lady, if I remember correctly) positioned some coloured bead necklaces in the shape of a Mandala and, after saying some prayers and uttering words which, as it was later explained to me, were in the Yoruba language, she pulled the shells in the centre of the circle which was obtained by the overlapping and the opening of the necklaces. Thus began the divining process of my future, with the relating recommendations which it entailed. At every throw of the mother pearl objects, a communication between Dona Josefa and her reading of my life was established through the set of shells. I couldn’t help but marvel at all the answers she gave to the questions I asked her. I had never seen such a thing before and, since my youth went hand in hand with sweet ignorance, I decided to find some shells, learn to use them and thus come to know what life had in store for me. “I cannot give you nor sell you anything. These shells are not destined for you because you are not an initiate and you cannot use them”. My insistence was so great, however, that I managed to convince the poor woman to sell me a set of 16 shells, with which I happily returned back to my flat.
I used to live on the 16th floor, in one of the two thousand flats of a twenty-storey building designed by the architect, Niemayer, and situated in Rua Timbiras, at the centre of the capital city of Minas Gerais. I spent two or three days trying to obtain some answers to all my questions and worries and also to my life goals. With the passing of time, I began to feel that I wasn’t happy, even though I was glad that I had finally realized I didn’t want to know anything about my future, and even less about the future of anyone else. I wanted to go back to how I was, that is, keep on being unaware of certain things.
What to do? Simple, very simple: put back the shells in the bag they were sold to me in and throw them out of the flat’s window, which was conveniently situated on the 16th floor. I looked at the lush vegetation at the bottom of the building upon which the shells ended, after having been thrown from a fair height. They would have fallen at a great speed to end up losing themselves amongst the leaves and other rubble, nothing more. My mystic experience would have ended there.
Very early one morning, after two or three days, someone knocked on my door. They were two six or seven-year-old children who, smiling (almost everyone around here smiles very easily), ask me, “Is this bag yours?” Since I was half asleep, I opened my eyes in such a way I even scared those children. How can it be possible? I thought. Every flat here is inhabited, how do they know that this bag of shells is mine? I took it in my hands to verify its contents and, asking them to wait a bit, I went to my bedroom to get some coins, intending to thank them for their deed, and bid them good bye, but not before asking them how they knew that the bag was mine. When I returned back to the door, however, the children had disappeared without any trace.
I quickly took a bath and, after drinking a strong coffee, I left my flat and headed towards Dona Josefa’s house, praying that I would be able to find the way. Tired and exhausted after the many rises and descents, I managed to find the house. “I had warned you clearly that you would not be able to use these shells as you are not an initiate. Now you are here to return them but I cannot give you back your money because I have already spent it”. “That doesn’t matter”, I replied. “I only wish you to explain to me how those children knew that I was the owner of that bag.” “Will you be staying in Brazil for a long time?” “Maybe for four or five years”. “Good. If you remain ten or fifteen years perhaps you will get to understand what happened to you this morning.”
Soon it will forty years now that I have been living in this country, almost always at Bahia, the hub of the Afro-Brazilian culture and of its great and mysterious wisdom, but, as yet today, I have not managed to understand how did those children come to appear at my flat’s door…or perhaps it could be that, at this point in life, even though I know, I am not allowed to speak about it.

Guillermo Alfonso Ortega Noriega is a professional journalist, member of the “Colegio de Periodistas del Perú” and has lived in Brazil since 1971.

mitortega@gmail.com