It’s still early in the weekend, so not much is happening. Only a few people are out, and the places that are already open are empty of customers. I turn into a narrow alley and find a courtyard with round tables, umbrellas, and trees shading empty chairs. At the far end, a short flight of stairs leads to a stone building with the door open. A sign by the door indicates that it’s a gallery of dolls, listing art classes and the dates of an upcoming puppet show. Although nothing gives me the impression that the gallery is open, I decide to enter. Worst case, they’ll ask me to leave.
A bearded man in a black flat cap greets me from behind a table covered with hand-painted ceramics and waves me in to look around. Inside, a song by a famous Brazilian singer is playing. I decide to say something about it and see what happens.
“Cê gosta de Zé Ramalho?” I ask, using my best Portuguese accent.
He stops twisting copper wire, raises his eyes, and studies me for a few seconds.
“You know Zé Ramalho?” he asks in perfect Brazilian Portuguese, which I could understand in my sleep.
“Conheço as músicas dele,” I say, smiling.
“Brasileira?” he asks.
That’s what I love about Brazilians. In the U.S., people ask where I’m from the second I open my mouth. Brazilians assume I’m one of them.
“In my heart,” I answer, in Portuguese, my canned response to the question when posed by Brazilians. And for a moment, my old self emerges from somewhere, reminding me of who I used to be before I was sucked into Rita and Vera’s orbit. A lighter and calmer, less paranoid version of me.
He asks how I learned Portuguese; I tell him I lived in Rio many years ago. It’s only part of the story, but all I’m ready to share. The conversation drifts where I hoped: connecting with a local, even if he was a transplant from another Portuguese-speaking country. He’s the second Brazilian I’ve met who lives and works here, aside from the tourists in Lisbon and the woman last night.
He says he’s from Minas Gerais. “Have you been to Minas?” he asks, like a real Brazilian, dropping “Gerais.”
“Yes, more than once,” I’m happy to say. I have friends who live near Caparao National Park. I hiked with them to the waterfalls, but not all the way to the top. He’s impressed. I’m almost a peer now. He knows the area and has even camped there.
“Why leave Brazil? It’s so much more fun,” I say, not to pry, just to show how I feel.
Fortunately, he’s not offended. He gets up and joins me by a shelf lined with whimsical handmade dolls made of colorful fabrics and beads. One of the dolls fell against another, so he picks her up and leans her against the wall. If I knew anything about making dolls, I’d ask about the artist. But I’m not crafty, so I don’t take the bait, if that’s what he’s trying to do.
As he rearranges the dolls, he tells me that he was an English teacher at a college in Belo Horizonte, but he grew tired of it and decided to try his luck in Portugal. “It’s easy to make friends here,” he says. “The only problem is that Belmonte is a small town, so there’s not much going on,” he adds, handing me a business card with the name of the artist who made the dolls.
“She owns the gallery,” he explains. “I help run it when she’s in Lisbon.”
I can’t help but wonder if he needs a special permit to work here like other non-EU residents. Unfortunately, I can’t ask. It would be even worse than asking why he left Brazil. So I slip the card into my pocket and keep my mouth shut. Maybe I’ll return to Belmonte one day and meet this artist, and who knows what may come of it.
“I thought about teaching here, but the paperwork was too much,” he says in English, as if he could read my mind. “Then someone introduced me to Mirele.”
“I’d love to meet her one day,” I respond in English.
“Meet who?” Rita’s voice quacks behind me.
Of course, she has to appear out of nowhere and interrupt this blissful moment. I shouldn’t entertain any illusions of connecting with people without her barging into the conversation and taking over. I should be grateful and graciously clear the stage because I’m the warm-up and she’s the headliner.
I don't bother to answer her question since the name is inconsequential. Besides, the Brazilian has already turned to greet her and respond to the flood of compliments she showers on the beautiful little gallery.
While she soaks up all of the man’s attention, I sulk in a corner by a display of jewelry. My part is done, and whatever spark there was dissolves into nothing as always. I tell myself: Let Rita be Rita. I’ll be me. I can endure a few more days, learning my lessons, discovering my limits, and practicing humility.
In the background, Rita has chosen a doll that reminds her of her sister. She giggles as she shows the doll, whose arms are made of decorative teaspoons, to Vera. Vera is not sure about the similarities, but agrees that it’ll be a nice gift as long as Rita doesn’t say that it looks like Sigal.
I watch Rita follow the Brazilian to the table by the door, where he gift-wraps the doll. She asks him if he sells leather bracelets like the one on his wrist.
“No,” he says. He got that one in Brazil.
I leave the gallery and wait for her and Vera in the empty courtyard. I’m beyond relieved she didn’t try to negotiate the price down. And I refuse to watch her perform the schtick she does whenever she meets a Brazilian, and pretend that it’s cute.
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