Life and Death of John Doe

The Saturday demons would come irrefragably, a reminder of the calamity of years past, when sandstorms, dragons, and beasts swept through the city, leaving an unmistakable trail of disaster. Since the Great Torment, in the mid-nineties, every seventh day of the week became a blister on the soul, so that on Saturdays, Xavier eternally retreated within himself and allowed himself to be consumed by shame for his extreme weakness, to the delight of his adversaries: counterfeit demons, to whom he offered respect more out of self-pity than fear.

The setting of this singular tragedy, the house, was a common cubicle made of accumulated bricks and clay tiles, its walls covered in concrete, quicklime, and overlapping coats of glossy paint. To the north, one side of the roof sloped down to the eaves in a design supported by three windows of oxidized iron and ambiguous glass, meant to block the wind and, with their quilted patterns, conceal the entrails of the small house.

Facing the first light of day, two gray-painted pine doors opened onto the kitchen and living room, which was more of a continuation of the former. The stove, the hanging cupboard, a table battered by the years, the blood-red pigmented floor. Another door from the kitchen to the living room, and there they were, obviously: furniture stained, varnished, sanded, re-stained, re-varnished, re-sanded, and paid for in installments.

The bookcase held the telephone, cheap picture frames, and knick-knacks gifted by cheerful friends. In its cabinets were boxes, and inside these more boxes, and inside these yet more boxes and folders with papers, bills to pay, receipts, report cards, newspaper clippings, diaries, love letters and trash, and dust, and recorded memories, important only to their owners. Beside it, the six-seat table for festive meals, for reading, for the makeshift office of a home managed by a systematic, detail-oriented mother, accountable for every word.

Then the hallway, from which flowed what were called three bedrooms and a bathroom. The sanctuary of a couple united despite controversial loves, notwithstanding the disenchantments of regular life; the room of Xavier and his younger brother, the parallel beds, the wardrobe, the place for the television. The television room. The family: father, mother, two sons, and the television.

To the south, a lean-to of asbestos fiber created the laundry room, or a covered back door, with a washing machine, and also where the third threshold to the kitchen was located. So many doors completing the sumptuous path of domestic inversions.

The outbuilding emerged from the backyard of overgrown grass and weeds, for in the mid-nineties there were still many backyards and one hundred and twenty-three orchards in the city. They lacked that grotesque pile of rotting beams and fiber roof battered by hailstorms, erected solely to protect the car from the mulberries that fell from the tree in the neighboring yard and also from bird droppings. After a few months of practice, the birds became so meticulous that they rarely missed the car, aiming their rears so that the droppings would pass through the holes made by the ice in the roof and hit the vehicle.

The brick wall seen at the far edge of the property was the ladder Xavier and his brother climbed to pick mulberries and play atop the rot, risking their lives on the most unstable ground of that touchy dwelling.

At the other extreme, where the facade faced the street, ran a low wall, and in a section of it, the small gate of old wood. Everything low, so any child could cross without the help of adults. All these elements – kitchen, television, shit, backyard – were planted behind the yellow ipê and bracatinga trees, two poor, unwavering, slender trees, lost in their immobile, vegetal form. Trees imprinted on the ground like a stamp, guaranteeing the transit of correspondence and eternally stretching with their long, slender branches, full of tiny leaves. The rectangle where the previous explanations fit, along with other rectangles, formed a neighborhood of new workers potentially controlled by the appropriate signification in each phase, and who in this last one had bought their own homes.

When everything was like this, exactly like this in every detail expanded by the repertoire and nature of signification of my readers, it was Saturday, mid-nineties, and the disaster announced itself when the day had passed. Due to the absurd displacement of signs and tropics, Xavier found himself alone as sulfurous, gaping fissures, illuminated by incandescent plasma, vomited forth unknown insects, mutations of wild wolves, and venomous reptiles. The heat melted every peace that had ever existed, the drought dried up every river, every vein of blood, until the viscera petrified.

(Continues)

Finally, it's known that they don't eat children nor are they devotees of Satan. In theory, they are the organized proletariat. Bastard children of the thinker Karl Marx, communists believe in the establishment of social equality – hence their opposition to private capital. Persecuted during the years of authoritarian delusions across the land, today they are well hidden. In fact, not even they themselves know where they are.

Anthropological studies certify that the politics of "for all" has existed since the most remote civilizations. Therefore, it's impossible to determine the birth date of socialist ideology. It's like trying to date the birth of religion, for example.

But, let's get to the Brazilian facts. Esporte Clube Bahia is still the Brazilian champion, Angela Visser is Miss Universe, Paulo Leminski dies, the Berlin Wall falls, and Collor is president of Brazil.

In Brazil's first direct elections in 29 years, the 22 presidential candidates and all other Brazilian citizens witnessed the beginning of the Workers' Party (PT) saga to seize power. Founder and representative of the PT, the unionist Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva came in second in the first round and lost the second to journalist Fernando Affonso Collor de Mello. The leftist dream, lula-lá, a shining star, remained just a dream for another 13 years.

The slick Fluminense/Alagoan ascended the ramp of the Planalto Palace and two and a half years later was ousted by impeachment, under accusations of corruption. In this country of tanned people, there were no more shouts left to compensate for the imbecility of the political castes. And from the irrefutable stupid succession comes the Bahian with the toupee. Awarded 'best inanimate object' in this report, Itamar Franco arrives with the URV (Unit of Real Value) of the man from the Ministry of Finance.

It seems this story is moving very slowly.

Itamar packs his bags and bids farewell to the Alvorada Palace to make way for the foreign-educated sociologist Fernando Henrique Cardoso. For four years, FHC was our daily bread. (In these elections, Lula came in second place, once again.)

With a president from the Brazilian Social Democracy Party (PSDB), aka tucano, older Brazilians witnessed the national downfall promoted by neoliberalism – which fiercely defends private capital, the one repudiated by communists – and younger Brazilians learned how things shouldn't be done in their country. If FHC is the right, then "what's left is the left": this is the limping thought that assaults the politicization of the "caras-pintadas" (painted faces) generation.

Each new sympathizer of this subjective left had their ideology promulgated by a national barbarity. Neoliberal shots that backfired. Privatizations top the list. When in 1997 the Vale do Rio Doce company was sold for a pittance to the Consórcio Brasil (and with a subsidy from the National Development Bank), a few thousand stateless youths became aware of the government's shady dealings. The state-owned electricity, telephone, and financial companies... were graciously handed over to private, and often foreign, capital. Of course, any self-respecting leftist couldn't agree with this.

Letter A. At the peak of revolt against privatizations, the newborn nationalists take to the streets and demand the reappropriation of public assets – no.

Letter B. The Student Movement shuts down universities, professors go on strike. High school students block schools and demand the return of technical education – no.

Letter C. Each Brazilian minds their daily business while FHC boards a plane to travel on yet another secret diplomatic mission. When he returns, he advocates for reelection in Brazil, runs a blackmailing blue and yellow campaign, wins the election, and extends his mandate for another four years. (In these elections, Lula came in second place, once again.)

The wave of privatizations reaches Paraná. Also fundamental services of the municipalities. State assets are left at the mercy of large economic conglomerates.

Here, the ex-PDT, then PFL-crony-of-tucano Jaime Lerner promotes the mechanical and media-driven scrapping of Copel, to convince people of a supposed crisis the state-owned company was going through. The litany didn't hold up.

The tolerance of this timid and anomalous new left in relation to national imbalances ends with the 2002 presidential elections. Serra denied FHC's support for his candidacy, and the little star was shining, once more. Regina Duarte saying "I'm afraid" of Lula on television only served to make things worse. The appeal came across as blatant. Ridiculous. Neoliberal.

National commotion. Even the most reserved journalists report the victory with overflowing enthusiasm. The tucano fell, and the star rose. Finally, Lula-lá ascending the ramp.

The following four years are shaped by the population's expectations regarding Lula's actions.

A restrained economic stagnation is the price of a rarefied income redistribution in the country through affirmative action in social programs and quotas in universities. But soon the politically legitimized PT faces accusations of corruption. Valerioduto, mensalão, and with fellow parliamentarians also acting as bloodsuckers. But there isn't enough scandal to prevent President Lula's reelection. The (Lula's) left wasn't bad.

Then, the 2006 presidential campaigns provided a moment of national reflection. Why was Lula ahead in the polls? Lula's youthful opponent, Geraldo Alkmin, said "I will maintain the Bolsa Família". Classes C, D, and E, which had increased their purchasing power in the previous four years, wondered what the benefit of change would be. And there wasn't any. Which is why they were still with Lula. The whole country knew about the corruption that had taken place, but adjusted their focus on this: "there has always been dirt in politics, buying of parliamentarians"... and that wasn't the most important thing at that moment. The most important thing was that the housewife had an installment plan to pay for the new refrigerator and thought "life is getting better", The (Lula's) left wasn't bad.

That new, young, and empirical left embraced the economic classes subjugated by neoliberalism. And in his second term, President Lula says no to the left. Balance. Misinterpreted by the prophets of chaos, the president still tries to explain with words. It wasn't even necessary.

Latin America goes the other way. Venezuela and Colombia are the most radical examples of the leftist ideology that preceded us. While establishing authoritarian regimes, they are harshly criticized by the world. Not that the world's criticism is absolute, but even the Christianity advocated by Hugo Chávez teaches something like "play the fool, to win the fools". Meanwhile, Brazil, with its peculiar left, is listed with Russia, India, and China as poised for significant development in the coming years. Controlled inflation (nothing like the 80% Regina Duarte predicted), country risk gradually falling, strong currency, increased purchasing power for the classes earning less than five minimum wages. There's more, but now this story is definitely moving too slowly.