MY ENGLISH IS STILL A MESS, but since those crazy guys in A Semana started publishing my stories, everything changed in my life. I started making lots of money — at least more money than I ever was able to make as a pizza deliverer — moved from Queens to Brooklyn, bought a brand new car and, last but not least, married Linda on a sunny NY afternoon. The green card was just a consequence of all this.
Of course I faced some resistance. Linda’s mother, for instance, who never accepted our relationship, went to the police complaining that an alien had abducted her daughter. She was really out of her mind and it was very difficult to take her out of the Bellevue on time for the ceremony.
Linda’s father wasn’t easy as well. The first time I went to have dinner in their house, I almost got killed. Everything because, absent mindedly, I decided to use my PT cap for the occasion, sort of a talisman I keep since Lula’s first political assembly in Governador Valadares em 1999.
— Know what? — he said in a rage —, in my good old days in Vietnam I killed a lot of guys using this kind of cap!
He didn’t wait for my excuses. Fast as a rat, he went to the wardrobe, took out a shotgun and pointed it straight to the red star in my forehead.
— Dad! — cried Linda. — Don’t!
But it was too late. The former mariner pulled the trigger and I was very lucky he forgot to load the gun.
Later on, after assuring himself that I wasn’t a Vietcong, he got calmer but had another fit when he found out I was a Brazilian and, what was worst, a Brazilian from Governador Valadares. If I ever find the bastard who spread the word that we from Valadares are all communists planning the fall of the American Empire he will see.
It wasn’t different with those guys in the immigration office. Nobody believed that Linda actually was in love with me. For them, our marriage was just a dirty scheme to infiltrate another terrorist agent in the Big Apple.
"What are you up to this time?" asked one of them. "The Empire State? The Central Park? The Wall Mart?"
From then on, they started appearing in the most awkward hours of the day or night, just to check if our marriage was for real. Once I found one of them counting our dirty clothes in the laundry to check if we were really living together. Next day, I’ve found another checking our trash can for the same purpose. Damn.
"What’s this black paste I’ve found in the bottom of your trash?" asked the agent with a sly expression in his eyes.
"It’s tutu" I answered. "Black beans leftovers sautéed in pig fat, a bit of garlic, onions…"
"Bullshit!" he snapped.
"Well, it may look like bullshit, but it is very tasty and nutritious…"
"Anyway, I will have to inform my superiors."
And, without my consent, collected a bit of my tutu in an evidence bag.
Honeymoon was another issue. Linda wanted Venice while I was was firmly decided to take her to know my mom in my hometown, in Brazil.
"Nobody go to Brazil for a honeymoon!" she complained.
"But Venice is too expensive!" I argued. "We don’t have enough for two days in a hotel without shower and half a gondola ride!"
"Vegas?" she suggested.
"We’ve been there last July" I said. "And you hated it."
"Everything but Governador Valadares!" she cried. "I don’t know how I will put up with thousands of you at the same time. I guess I gonna get mad."
"Don’t worry, kiddo" I said. "Most of them are here in the USA. The town is sorta empty nowadays. And I want to present you to my mom. You gonna love her."
Finally, Linda agreed going to Brazil, provided that we went to Rio first.
"I always wanted to meet Julio Iglesias!" she said. "Do you think he is gonna be in town next month?"
"Julio Iglesias is Spaniard" I said. "And he lives in Miami, I guess. Maybe you would like to meet Roberto Carlos instead?"
She frowned and said:
"Not really. I hate soccer. All those faggots in tight shorts kicking a round ball. It’s disgusting." She looked at the cover of the booklet we were presented by the travel agent. A gorgeous air view of Rio de Janeiro, Sugar Loaf in the background. "Can we see Buenos Aires in this pic?" she asked, squinting at the city skyline.
"I don’t think so. Buenos Aires is a bit too far.
"Gee, I always thought Buenos Aires was sort of a Latin neighborhood in Rio’s downtown."
"Sort of. But not quite."
"Is it true that there are snakes, tigers and mammoths walking by the streets?"
"Who told you that?"
"My mom. She is really scared about my going to the wilderness."
"So tell her that, as far as I know, there are no tigers in Brazil other than in the zoo, and that mammoths are extinguished for the past ten thousand years."
"And what about the snakes?"
"Don’t worry darling" I said, kissing the top of her head. "Our snakes are very tame. And most of them are far, faraway from Rio, thriving in our Congress, in Brasília."
(To be continued...)
Of course I faced some resistance. Linda’s mother, for instance, who never accepted our relationship, went to the police complaining that an alien had abducted her daughter. She was really out of her mind and it was very difficult to take her out of the Bellevue on time for the ceremony.
Linda’s father wasn’t easy as well. The first time I went to have dinner in their house, I almost got killed. Everything because, absent mindedly, I decided to use my PT cap for the occasion, sort of a talisman I keep since Lula’s first political assembly in Governador Valadares em 1999.
— Know what? — he said in a rage —, in my good old days in Vietnam I killed a lot of guys using this kind of cap!
He didn’t wait for my excuses. Fast as a rat, he went to the wardrobe, took out a shotgun and pointed it straight to the red star in my forehead.
— Dad! — cried Linda. — Don’t!
But it was too late. The former mariner pulled the trigger and I was very lucky he forgot to load the gun.
Later on, after assuring himself that I wasn’t a Vietcong, he got calmer but had another fit when he found out I was a Brazilian and, what was worst, a Brazilian from Governador Valadares. If I ever find the bastard who spread the word that we from Valadares are all communists planning the fall of the American Empire he will see.
It wasn’t different with those guys in the immigration office. Nobody believed that Linda actually was in love with me. For them, our marriage was just a dirty scheme to infiltrate another terrorist agent in the Big Apple.
"What are you up to this time?" asked one of them. "The Empire State? The Central Park? The Wall Mart?"
From then on, they started appearing in the most awkward hours of the day or night, just to check if our marriage was for real. Once I found one of them counting our dirty clothes in the laundry to check if we were really living together. Next day, I’ve found another checking our trash can for the same purpose. Damn.
"What’s this black paste I’ve found in the bottom of your trash?" asked the agent with a sly expression in his eyes.
"It’s tutu" I answered. "Black beans leftovers sautéed in pig fat, a bit of garlic, onions…"
"Bullshit!" he snapped.
"Well, it may look like bullshit, but it is very tasty and nutritious…"
"Anyway, I will have to inform my superiors."
And, without my consent, collected a bit of my tutu in an evidence bag.
Honeymoon was another issue. Linda wanted Venice while I was was firmly decided to take her to know my mom in my hometown, in Brazil.
"Nobody go to Brazil for a honeymoon!" she complained.
"But Venice is too expensive!" I argued. "We don’t have enough for two days in a hotel without shower and half a gondola ride!"
"Vegas?" she suggested.
"We’ve been there last July" I said. "And you hated it."
"Everything but Governador Valadares!" she cried. "I don’t know how I will put up with thousands of you at the same time. I guess I gonna get mad."
"Don’t worry, kiddo" I said. "Most of them are here in the USA. The town is sorta empty nowadays. And I want to present you to my mom. You gonna love her."
Finally, Linda agreed going to Brazil, provided that we went to Rio first.
"I always wanted to meet Julio Iglesias!" she said. "Do you think he is gonna be in town next month?"
"Julio Iglesias is Spaniard" I said. "And he lives in Miami, I guess. Maybe you would like to meet Roberto Carlos instead?"
She frowned and said:
"Not really. I hate soccer. All those faggots in tight shorts kicking a round ball. It’s disgusting." She looked at the cover of the booklet we were presented by the travel agent. A gorgeous air view of Rio de Janeiro, Sugar Loaf in the background. "Can we see Buenos Aires in this pic?" she asked, squinting at the city skyline.
"I don’t think so. Buenos Aires is a bit too far.
"Gee, I always thought Buenos Aires was sort of a Latin neighborhood in Rio’s downtown."
"Sort of. But not quite."
"Is it true that there are snakes, tigers and mammoths walking by the streets?"
"Who told you that?"
"My mom. She is really scared about my going to the wilderness."
"So tell her that, as far as I know, there are no tigers in Brazil other than in the zoo, and that mammoths are extinguished for the past ten thousand years."
"And what about the snakes?"
"Don’t worry darling" I said, kissing the top of her head. "Our snakes are very tame. And most of them are far, faraway from Rio, thriving in our Congress, in Brasília."
(To be continued...)
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