out in the future. Say in seven months or so? I thought I might ask if she’d have room for a diligent Brazilian getting ready for the TOEFL. But never mind. You don’t want to visit the States after all.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No?”
“All I said was I wasn’t planning on it. I wasn’t.”
“Ah.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What? What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing.”
Then January disappeared into February, and the people of Carinha disappeared into their houses completely—this even as temporary aluminum grandstands went up in the center of town, even as yellow-and-green banners and flags started filling the spaces above intersections like a second atmosphere. Elder Passos liked to picture the streets refilling after the final next week in an explosive epic hurry, Brazil having won—again!—the Latin crown. The roil of jerseys, the booming fireworks, the car horns combining like the sound of a million bagpipes … The mere thought of it could quicken Passos’s blood, make a sea-rushing sound in his ears. But after a few minutes the sound usually faded and the stark eerie quiet of late-stage-championships Brazil reasserted itself. The wind moving in the trees and the tick of each leaf. The
clop, clop, clop
of their own footsteps floating up behind them like the ghosts of footsteps.
On Monday morning the elders walked all the way from their apartment to the main square downtown and inspected the grandstands. The banked silver rows gleaming powerfully in the sun put Passos in mind of abandoned ancient monoliths. No bodies around, just the seats to sit them in. It was as if all the townspeople had been abducted in the middle of Carnival.
“Maybe everybody’s too busy preparing for my birthday,” McLeod said.
“I’m sure that’s it,” Passos said. “Celebrate the Ugly American during the last week of Latin Championships.”
McLeod’s eyes flared. “So now I’m ugly?”
“It’s the title of a book,” Passos said. “I was just kidding.”
“So was I,” McLeod said, smiling. “I’ve read it too. It wasn’t bad.”
Mondays, lately, had been the hardest days for Passos. He dreaded going back to the barren streets and lifeless doors after the relative reprieve of Sunday, which in a sense had become more rejuvenating than P-Day, especially when McLeod got it into his head to cross the city for a “powwow,” as he called it, with his friends. Last Wednesday Passos had managed to persuade McLeod to cancel his planned visit to Sweeney’s. It would have taken up most of their day off, and besides, neither he nor McLeod could afford the uncleanness that Sweeney and Kimball represented. They needed to be pure vessels, meet for the Work, meet for their principal task of guiding Leandro to baptism.
Really, it was their only task. Traditional contacting had become a fool’s errand: nobody, nobody answered their doors during the day, and only Josefina and Leandro did at night. For most of the sunlit hours, then, the elders wandered the streets like vagabonds, calling out novel church signs to pass the time. On the way out of the main square, Elder Passos called a little storefront Baptist church set back in an orange-brick alleyway: “ ‘The Great God Church.’ I’m up six to five.”
“I called that church the other day,” McLeod said.
“Good for you, whitey. I called it today.”
“You can’t do that. That’s against the rules.”
“I’m your senior companion, Elder. I
am
the rules.”
“Kidding again, I hope. Elder.”
Passos heard something small but hard-edged in his junior companion’s voice. For a second it unnerved him.
“Fine.” Passos jutted his chin at another church sign up ahead. “ ‘God’s Rainbow.’ That one’s new. I’m up six to five again.”
At last it was lunchtime, and time for the church-names game, as the elders called it, to suspend for an hour, maybe more. Passos
hoped
for more, anyway. The elders boarded a
“That’s not what I said.”
“No?”
“All I said was I wasn’t planning on it. I wasn’t.”
“Ah.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What? What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing.”
Then January disappeared into February, and the people of Carinha disappeared into their houses completely—this even as temporary aluminum grandstands went up in the center of town, even as yellow-and-green banners and flags started filling the spaces above intersections like a second atmosphere. Elder Passos liked to picture the streets refilling after the final next week in an explosive epic hurry, Brazil having won—again!—the Latin crown. The roil of jerseys, the booming fireworks, the car horns combining like the sound of a million bagpipes … The mere thought of it could quicken Passos’s blood, make a sea-rushing sound in his ears. But after a few minutes the sound usually faded and the stark eerie quiet of late-stage-championships Brazil reasserted itself. The wind moving in the trees and the tick of each leaf. The
clop, clop, clop
of their own footsteps floating up behind them like the ghosts of footsteps.
On Monday morning the elders walked all the way from their apartment to the main square downtown and inspected the grandstands. The banked silver rows gleaming powerfully in the sun put Passos in mind of abandoned ancient monoliths. No bodies around, just the seats to sit them in. It was as if all the townspeople had been abducted in the middle of Carnival.
“Maybe everybody’s too busy preparing for my birthday,” McLeod said.
“I’m sure that’s it,” Passos said. “Celebrate the Ugly American during the last week of Latin Championships.”
McLeod’s eyes flared. “So now I’m ugly?”
“It’s the title of a book,” Passos said. “I was just kidding.”
“So was I,” McLeod said, smiling. “I’ve read it too. It wasn’t bad.”
Mondays, lately, had been the hardest days for Passos. He dreaded going back to the barren streets and lifeless doors after the relative reprieve of Sunday, which in a sense had become more rejuvenating than P-Day, especially when McLeod got it into his head to cross the city for a “powwow,” as he called it, with his friends. Last Wednesday Passos had managed to persuade McLeod to cancel his planned visit to Sweeney’s. It would have taken up most of their day off, and besides, neither he nor McLeod could afford the uncleanness that Sweeney and Kimball represented. They needed to be pure vessels, meet for the Work, meet for their principal task of guiding Leandro to baptism.
Really, it was their only task. Traditional contacting had become a fool’s errand: nobody, nobody answered their doors during the day, and only Josefina and Leandro did at night. For most of the sunlit hours, then, the elders wandered the streets like vagabonds, calling out novel church signs to pass the time. On the way out of the main square, Elder Passos called a little storefront Baptist church set back in an orange-brick alleyway: “ ‘The Great God Church.’ I’m up six to five.”
“I called that church the other day,” McLeod said.
“Good for you, whitey. I called it today.”
“You can’t do that. That’s against the rules.”
“I’m your senior companion, Elder. I
am
the rules.”
“Kidding again, I hope. Elder.”
Passos heard something small but hard-edged in his junior companion’s voice. For a second it unnerved him.
“Fine.” Passos jutted his chin at another church sign up ahead. “ ‘God’s Rainbow.’ That one’s new. I’m up six to five again.”
At last it was lunchtime, and time for the church-names game, as the elders called it, to suspend for an hour, maybe more. Passos
hoped
for more, anyway. The elders boarded a
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