Chicken Coop in a High Wind

By Leonardo Costa Veras

Delve into a work shimmering with literary wit, poignant comedy, and emotional depth.

Spanning nearly one hundred years and three continents, Chicken Coop in a High Wind recounts the saga of the Breton family, setting off with the patriarch-Ernesto Jos

• Language: English
• Publisher: LEONARDO VERAS
• Release date: Jan 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798822930506

Leonardo Costa Veras

Leonardo Costa Veras was born in Belo Horizonte, Brazil and moved to the United States in 1990. He has a degree in Cinema and a career in advertising as a commercial producer. He has written screenplays, short stories, a novella and a stage play. Chicken Coop in a High Wind is his first novel. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.

Book preview

CHAPTERS

PART ONE

1. The Tonseca House

2. The Poem

3. Belo Horizonte

4. Saint Christopher

5. Nicholas

6. One Last Kiss

PART TWO

7. The Man Who Fell from the Sky

8. The Consecration of a Saint

9. Voodoo Rhum

10. Dry Storm

11. The Fisherman’s Daughter

PART THREE

12. Los Angeles, Much Later

13. A Break from Los Angeles

14. Noah’s Ark on the Hill

15. Chicken Coop in a High Wind

16. November

17. The Falcon Hears the Falconer

18. The Cigar Box

Epilogue

In childhood, we live under the brightness of immortality—heaven is as near and as actual as the seaside. Beside the complicated details of the world stand the simplicities: God is good, the grown-up man and woman know the answer to every question, there is such a thing as truth, and justice is as measured and faultless as a clock.

—GRAHAM GREENE, The Ministry of Fear

_______________

Writing a book is like building a chicken coop in a high wind. You grab any board or shingle flying by or loose on the ground and nail it down fast.

—WILLIAM FAULKNER

PART ONE

_________________

Chapter One

The Tonseca House

Ten days short of his eighteenth birthday—that official benchmark into sudden adulthood (in this case, too sudden)—Nick Breton’s father, Ernesto José Breton de Barros, fled from home because of a short poem published in the school paper.

The year was 1950, and the rains had arrived early, even though October dragged its feet. The heat ultimately peaked in the third week, bursting a hole in the heavens to release over the state capital the equivalent of a thousand soccer stadiums of rain—the way it was reported by the evening news. Those were known as trombas-d’água, as from an elephant’s trunk, a ferocious dump of water from the clouds for a short ten to fifteen minutes.

Later in life, Ernesto José was to miss those shower explosions, inevitable and indecorous, scattered throughout the day, unloaded with such a vengeful force and yet so short lived. The rains in the mountainous areas of the southeast—particularly in Belo Horizonte, where he was to build his fortune and raise a family of his own—were too light, too slim, too cold and, worst of all, persisted for days. It felt like the buildings perspired a cold sweat and the droplets hung in the air, floating sideways instead of downward. Back where he grew up, rain announced itself by slapping you in the face. Umbrellas were comical artifacts. There was scampering, and people sought masonry over their heads and ran for cover as if from a plague of locusts. They made new friends this way, under the front canopies of the tobacco shops or cramped inside the pharmacies and stifling bank lobbies. How many times had Ernesto run into one of his sisters or aunts, one of his teachers, even a more immodest wife of a politician or doctor, glowing and soaked to the skin, elbowing her way among strangers, being whistled at while seeking shelter under the awning of a grocery store?

So predictable these daily showers, work schedules were arranged around them. It wasn’t unusual for the doctor to confirm an appointment for after the three o’clock rain, or tomorrow morning, before the midday shower. It wasn’t apology, excuse, or alibi. Rain was simply embraced as another foreseeable part of the day, like time and space, a familiar pattern. But in the evening, under the protection of their own welcoming homes, the strangest thing took place: people forgot all about it. Was it still raining outside? Had it rained during the day? Had it ever?

The city of Teresina was a small state capital with no more than seventy thousand people. It was known as the green city of the arid Brazilian northeast for its multitude of parks and baronial trees. It had been the first projected city in Brazil, thought out in blueprint, with its business center sandwiched between two major rivers, the Parnaíba to the west and the Potí to the east. Think of a central Paris built between two straight-lined Seines, Ernesto José once told a group of German businessmen. Now, he continued, take the grid of the streets of Manhattan, with its perpendicular lines, and shove it between the two rivers. That’s Teresina. A capital wedged between two watery parentheses.

He grew up in a spacious house in a street lined with century-old caneleiro trees. Located in a pleasant neighborhood on the east bank of the Potí River, Neto Fonseca Street had been oddly named after an ordinary fisherman lost at sea—this, in a sea-less capital famous for two rivers. Why local authorities had chosen to immortalize such particular nobody as opposed to a more regional anybody (perhaps of freshwater fame) had never been investigated or explained.

In the spring, the caneleiros lit up the street with yellow flowers. The lush branches held hands from above, forming a large canopy to shade the road. The Tonseca house—as its inhabitants chose to abbreviate Neto Fonseca—was surrounded by a tall stone wall, like a fortress, with a sturdy iron gate belt-buckling the front. The white plaster of the wall was only seen under a few shaded areas. By then, much of it had become an open field for the creeping vines, camouflaging the building to create the impression of an ancient temple lost in some mythical forest.

All around, the house was cut open and adorned with majestic thick-framed jacaranda-timbered windows, wide enough to jump a horse through, as Professor Ademar Pinto once described it to an insurance surveyor. The story goes that André Luíz, one of Ernesto José’s older brothers, overheard the conversation and attempted to put the proclamation to a test. He broke his left leg and right wrist and couldn’t sit down for a week. The horse was unharmed but left two horseshoe gouges on the wooden floors, a reminder to all visitors of the lunacy of those living in the house.

There were twelve permanent residents in the Tonseca, but at any time, the population would grow to fifteen, even twenty, depending on who was visiting or simply passing through for lunch or coffee. The property’s title was later vested under the names of Joana Teresa Breton Souza-Barreto (the oldest sibling of the Breton de Barros family) and her husband, Ademar Pinto Souza-Barreto. Ernesto José’s father, Manoel Ernesto Luíz de Barros, had abandoned his family when Ernesto was still cleaning snot on his shorts. Besides the two Souza-Barretos—soon to become three, one curled up inside Joana Teresa—there were Ernesto José’s two older brothers, Artur Luíz and André Luíz (of equestrian fame), and three remaining sisters, Teresa Maria, Teresa Cristina, and the youngest of the family, Neúza Maria. The matriarch, Carlota Maria de Jesus Breton de Barros (Ernesto’s mother), shared a room with her unmarried sister, Aunt Maria do Socorro. Last but not least, Grandma Rita Maria shared a room with her own mother (Ernesto’s great-grandmother), Maria Ordália das Graças Breton, the oldest living thing in the house.

At 102 years old, Maria Ordália was an ancient artifact. She was virtually blind and quite delusional. Nevertheless, she wasn’t insincere when she claimed to be a titled duchess from imperial times. This was something the old relic liked to remind everyone, solemnly and repeatedly, throughout the week. The gossip (unfounded) was that her husband had lost their royal titles in a card game while inebriated at a wedding. But even after half a century, the grand dame remained a fervent Crown loyalist and believed that the royal court was still in existence down in Rio de Janeiro. She was certain that Ademar Pinto was a revolutionary Republican and treated him with the most perverse contempt. This became part of the entertainment in the house. The old woman was known to point her bony fingers at the professor (but mostly at the walls, for she couldn’t see) and shout insane proclamations, accusing the man of treason and many other lesser evils of republicanism. In response, Ademar Pinto learned to humor Maria Ordália and play along, but never sinking so low as to indict the antediluvian creature for collusion, since she lived under the same roof and ate at the same dinner table.

Inês Bonita (Pretty Inês) was a hard-working girl of twenty-four who lived in a small room out in the back of the property, past the cajú trees. She was the maid, cook, nanny, gardener and, at desperate times, faith healer and shaman. Noticeably pretty although of questionable intelligence, the young woman was treated as an adopted sibling. She shared the room with Goethe and Rilke, the two dogs Professor Ademar Pinto adopted when he first moved in with the family.

In his early teens, Ernesto José sneaked out of the main house to spy on Pretty Inês. From behind the cajú trees, he watched her undress before going to bed. The stakeout lasted only a few minutes. The longer he stayed, the greater the chance for the dogs to sniff him out. Pretty Inês never found out about the secret hideout, and how she had unintendedly exposed herself to the boy all those nights. At least that’s what Ernesto José told himself.

Besides the resident family, many others chose to visit and congregate at the Tonseca throughout the day. Lunchtime was the busiest. The children were back from school, and so was Ademar Pinto, who announced his presence by shouting, We’re hungry! the moment he crossed the foyer. They all sat around the large oak table in the dining room and waited impatiently for Joana Teresa and Inês Bonita to bring the food out.

For Ernesto José, it was a short bicycle ride from Dom Barreto Institute where he went to school. He pedaled fast under the shade of the caneleiros and conjured up the kitchen scents, and his stomach growled in anticipation. He was then able to visualize his plate, and he mentally devoured it without the need of a fork.

Each day, a handful of strangers joined the clan for lunch. These guests were arbitrary people Joana Teresa happened to bump into at the market, pharmacy, bank—namely, anywhere she had visited that morning—and decided to invite for the daily banquet. There were also mere acquaintances passing through, strategically around lunchtime. There would be half a dozen of Ernesto José’s school friends, aunts, nephews, or a never-heard-of cousin or grand-uncle. Whoever they were, and regardless of the reason presented to gain admission to the feast, there was always enough food.

One time, the family lunched with two police officers who had come to arrest a drunkard who had tried to break into the neighbor’s house. The unfortunate burglar sat handcuffed under a tree, guarded by Goethe and Rilke, while the officers spent an elongated hour inside. They had lunch, dessert, coffee, and cigarettes before finally walking away and leaving the bandit behind. Ademar Pinto had to deputize himself and take the man to the police precinct. The forgotten walked away with a bag of leftovers, good for a whole week.

Another time, on a Saturday, the mayor showed up. Ademar Pinto had run across the dignitary at the city park, across from town hall, where the two began rambling about real-estate speculation. The discussion turned heated, and since both men were opinionated enough not to allow the other to have the last argument, they carried the debate, by foot, from the city center, across the bridge, to the doorstep of the Tonseca house. Joana Teresa, never unprepared, promptly placed an additional plate on the table and magically produced a glass of fresh pitanga juice (the politician’s favorite), as if the visit had been planned for weeks.

Inês! she yelled, walking back into the kitchen, pour another jar of water in the beans!

Who’s he? Inês asked, holding the door open to look at all the commotion in the dining room.

The mayor, Bonita! Joana Teresa said. You voted for him, dind’cha?

Did I? Inês replied, struggling to remember the last time, if any, she had participated in the democratic process.

Oh, you did indeed, whether you did or not, you did! Joana Teresa declared.

The discussion came to an end, but only after the two men shoved their napkins in their shirt collars and began to stuff themselves. By dessert, a new squabble had begun. This time, it was the rabid grand dame who cried out and accused Ademar Pinto and the mayor of Teresina of being ardent revolutionaries.

I ain’ not as lacking of seeing as not to see what both y’all treacherous Jacobins have of’ve been machinating, she proclaimed, raising her dessert spoon.

Ademar Pinto leaned closer to the mayor. Believes Don Pedro is still emperor, he whispered.

Oh dear, the mayor replied.

Seditious! the grand dame shouted.

I’m afraid, dear Maria Ordália, Ademar Pinto announced, the mayor and I are much disinclined and rather lethargic to organize, on account of all our eating and drinking. In fact, I believe we are now condemned to the siesta and will very soon resort to snoring.

I believe the professor is quite right, said the mayor. We aren’t in any condition to march this afternoon.

My kingdom for a horse, and my horse for a hammock! exclaimed the professor, raising his fork. This was the signal for Pretty Inês to bring out the coffee.

After that, as abruptly as she had blurted out her denunciations, the ancient Maria Ordália das Graças Breton, former duchess of São Cristóvão and instigator of lost causes, felt robbed of her vitality as if a warm balm had been poured over her century-old self. She closed her eyes and, after discharging a loud grunt, fell into a deep sleep, still sitting in front of her cannons and horses and half-eaten coconut flan.

______________

Manoel Ernesto Luíz de Barros, Ernesto José’s father, left his small dirt-road townlet in the state of Ceará and moved to Teresina on an invitation from his cousin Firmino Antônio dos Santos, who was looking for a partner to start a business in the capital. Manoel Ernesto was a hardworking young man and Firmino an astute administrator. Together, they opened Armazén Santos de Barros, a large grocery store, which soon became well known in the region.

Manoel Ernesto moved in with Firmino. He lived with his cousin for that first year in Teresina, before finally leasing his own apartment in the city center. Vigorous and quite handsome, the bachelor could be found most evenings at the footing at Pedro Segundo Park, browsing for matrimonial potentials, as he liked to refer to the young women who visited the park with that same idea. The footing was one the few things to do for entertainment in the capital. Dressed in their best, lipsticked and perfumed, the ladies paraded in pairs, circling the large fountain in the center of the park, moving counterclockwise. The young gentlemen strolled in the opposite direction, surveying the incoming conveyor belt of prospects. This mating dance went on until one of the gentlemen worked up the courage to stop a match and together they walked to one of the nearby park benches.

People sat in the cafés across the street and spent the evening watching the charade in the park. One of these sideline spectators would later compel Ernesto José to leave his beloved city forever. But more on that later, for a few other things must still be explained before we get to that part of the story. For one, Manoel Ernesto still has to meet Carlota Maria at the footing. He will then court her, marry her, and father three of her sons and four of her daughters, before ultimately abandoning all of them.

It could be said that Firmino Antônio was the making and the unmaking of Manoel Ernesto Luíz de Barros. It began with the fourteen months during which Manoel inhabited the small back room in the Santos residence. Firmino had three young daughters: Náia Maria, Clara Maria, and Maria Clara. Náia Maria, the oldest and most charming of the three, was spoken for and soon to be married. Clara Maria, the youngest and still uninitiated in the alchemy of romantic undertakings, was too busy with dolls and imaginary friends. The middle child, however, Maria Clara, was much interested in experimenting in a newly found field of passions and amorous trysts. She took an interest in the charming young man her father had invited to board with the family.

At first, Manoel Ernesto kept his immature second cousin at arm’s length. Once he noticed the attraction, he turned cold and dismissive. She wasn’t as pretty and disarming as her older sister, but what she lacked in charm was compensated with a quiet sexual allure, something present in the languorous way she carried herself and how she stared Manoel in the eyes. She pierced though his defenses, and after only a few months, they were undressing each other.

Firmino Antônio didn’t find out about the secret late-night meetings between his daughter and his cousin—those happening behind the pitomba trees in his own backyard—until a few years after Manoel had moved out of the house. Firmino didn’t have the displeasure of catching the two in the act, even though he wished he had. Maria Clara’s father kept an old rifle for the preservation of his daughters’ reputations. That he wasn’t able to use it against the deflowerer son-of-a-whore of his cousin was a disgrace. And yet, he was able to serve his revenge cold. Firmino Antônio found a much less violent although still quite vindictive alternative through which to harm his depraved cousin: he began embezzling money from their partnership.

Manoel Ernesto Luíz de Barros married Carlota Maria de Jesus a few months after they had first laid eyes on each other at the footing. Manoel Ernesto had by then put a halt to his affair with Maria Clara dos Santos. He carried on with his new wife with the certainty that, in front of him, he had a beautiful future of familial bliss and financial security. They bought the Tonseca that same year and, for the next decade, his many children began to populate the house.

By the time Firmino Antônio uncovered what had happened between his daughter and his cousin, the latter had been happily married for many years. It isn’t certain how he eventually found out, but Teresina being a tittle-tattle town always in search of a scandal to help ward off its inherent provincial monotony, the rumor ultimately found its way to Firmino Antônio’s ears. Some say Maria Clara herself started the rumor. But for what reason, one might ask? By then, she hadn’t been involved with Manoel Ernesto for almost a decade.

Never married, Maria Clara had continued with her romantic experimentations, bouncing between numerous unwise relationships, never able to settle.

I believe she blamed your father for it, Ademar Pinto confided in Ernesto José much later. They were speculating about who had first told Firmino Antônio about the affair.

But why? Ernesto José asked.

For spoiling her innocence, the professor replied. Your father turned the young woman into a romantic nomad.

A what?

She’s a drifter, Ademar Pinto continued, and she’s condemned to be one for all her days.

Firmino Antônio set up a scheme through which, for years, he secretly siphoned a substantial amount of Manoel Ernesto’s company profits. Gradually, Manoel began to feel the pressure, though still unaware of how he had arrived at it. Some of the bills were shelved and eventually renegotiated, then rolled into high-interest loans and defaults. Manoel was a hardworking man, but he never had much of an education and was unable to recognize that he was being robbed from within his own business. His agreements were ratified solely on trust and a handshake. Contracts and signatures made him uncomfortable and reduced to a mere spectator. That way, he let all his money slip away, undetected, into the hands of his vengeful cousin.

Nearing financial ruin, Manoel Ernesto’s marriage began to suffer, especially after he began drinking. Soon, he was seeing Maria Clara again. Late at night, he met her behind the same pitomba trees that, years earlier, had sealed his fate.

It was then that Maria Clara discovered what her father was doing, and she exposed the scheme to Manoel Ernesto. It is important to understand that the girl was still infatuated with her second cousin, something she had mistaken for love, a misconception common at that age. When Manoel told her he was going to shoot her father that very night, for having driven his family into poverty, she improvised an alternative.

There’s not going to be any killing, she told him. Let’s you and I abscond instead.

Abscond? Manoel Ernesto replied.

Run away, she told him.

I’ll have to kill him first, Manoel said.

Then you’ll be a killer, not just another son of a bitch who ran away with someone else’s daughter.

Your bastard father ruined my life, Manoel yelled. And he must pay for it!

Knowing my father, Maria Clara told him, this will hurt more than any bullet in the chest.

I can’t abscond, Manoel told her. I have a family.

A family you don’t love, isn’t that the truth? Maria Clara replied. A bunch of unloved mouths chomping nine times more than what you and I could possibly digest. Just ponder yourself and calculate the funds you’ll save! Then she concluded, I’m convinced this is the best solution, surely and solely, for all of the entirety of all of your whole problems.

It didn’t take much. Manoel Ernesto felt his shoulders loosen, and the muddled confusion that had once clouded his thoughts slowly dissipated. His anger subsided, like he had sweated out a delirious fever and was beginning to come out at the other end, healed. He was quite surprised how easy and immediate it was to give up and relinquish all his problems and obligations in one liberating instant. The remorse and shame only found him years later, and he put a bullet through his head, leaning against a tree where a sick dog had been tied.

The next morning, before roosters had yet to glimpse the first ray of sunlight, Manoel Ernesto visited the bedroom where his children slept. Taking one last look at their little faces, he fell on his knees and asked Saint Nicholas to protect them against evil. He walked out of the house carrying the same old suitcase he had arrived in Teresina with, many years before. By the time Pretty Inês brewed the first jar of coffee, Manoel had been gone for hours and for good, sitting next to Maria Clara dos Santos in the back of a stake-bed truck heading south.

Firmino was unmercifully interrogated when the story was uncovered, and people demanded clarification. Maria Clara—again, hoping for an apocalyptic outcome—left behind a short letter addressed to her mother. In it, she accused her father of bankrupting Manoel Ernesto, leaving his cousin’s family in abysmal misery. Furthermore, she had the audacity to distort the episode in such a way that she came out looking as the victim and martyr of the story, as opposed to the true instigator. She ended the despicable letter by saying:

...therefore, dear mother, I found no other alternative but to accompany Manoel Ernesto in his escape. He took me away, not only to get rid of debts and commitments, but also to get even with my father, your husband. As for me, I was desperately trying to help before Manoel changed his mind, fetched his pistol, and ruined yet another family, ours. Without any time to consult with you, I prayed to St. Raphael, and he, not me, should be the one to blame for putting the thought in my head.

Nothing disconcerted Almira Benvinda dos Santos. Known for her poise, Firmino’s wife was as emotive as a chopped-off tree trunk long forgotten on top of a hill. In case of a sudden house fire, Almira would likely spend appropriate time to get dressed and brush her hair before she eventually evacuated. One afternoon, the story goes, two robbers broke into the house. She heard them come in, and without any jolting, she walked upstairs to where Clara Maria was sleeping and locked the child inside one of the closets. Then she sat down and waited for the robbers to discover her.

When they came in and elected to kill her, Almira took charge. There is no need for that, she told them. I see that you are both good Christians,—she had noticed the crucifix hanging from both their necks—and I know times are hard and people need to eat. They held their rusty old knives at her, but their resolve had been disrupted. Regardless, God will help you, she continued, and he will forgive you for this silly transgression, that is, if you choose to keep it just as silly as it is so far.

They froze in disbelief, trying to find a way to circumvent God.

Listen, she went on as she stood up from the chair, why don’t we go downstairs and pray together? I’ll brew some coffee.

Almira Benvinda didn’t get murdered that afternoon, and little Clara Maria didn’t get kidnapped or dismembered. When the police sergeant arrived, he found the two men sitting peacefully with Almira in the kitchen, drinking coffee and singing hymns. It reminded the sergeant of two devout brothers on a visit to their favorite aunt. The men thanked her for the coffee, then were handcuffed and taken to the police station.

After reading her daughter’s letter, Almira Benvinda got dressed—calmly and meticulously, as was expected of her—and left to see her husband at the store. She excoriated Firmino Antônio for what he had done. The shaming took place in the open, while customers filled their shopping carts with bread, milk, and eggs. The way some described it, Almira seemed more upset at the foolishness of her husband than at the fact that they had not only lost their daughter but also impoverished an innocent family.

Carlota Maria and her children were, after all, part of the larger family onto which Almira and Firmino were also hitched. The two were Joana Teresa’s godparents, besides the fact that everyone was also first, second, and third cousins of one another. Almira couldn’t allow Manoel’s family to perish on the streets. She was determined to make sure Carlota received all the embezzled money back and with interest.

Defeated and humiliated, Firmino Antônio began questioning his own lucidity and judgment. He sat alone in his office and struggled to make sense of his reasoning and why he had decided to do what he did. He was a sensible man. His mother thought he could have been a good lawyer, for the way he was able to analyze an issue and find common sense in it. But in this case, the more he thought about it, the more impractical it sounded and, to be quite honest, the more foolish the idea presented itself.

It took him three weeks before he was able to comprehend what had led him to commit the crime. At Joana Teresa’s wedding, he confided his findings to the bride’s oldest brother. I was wretched, he confessed to Artur Luíz. But now I know why.

We have forgiven you, cousin. Artur Luíz told him. It is my father who still owes us an apology.

All I did, I did to protect my daughter, he confessed. That’s why I did what I did. With a trembling hand, he offered Artur Luíz one of his clove cigarettes. The young man discreetly glanced over the room before taking it.

I was afraid to cork the pour, he said. "Had I shot your father dead, people would know what had happened between them two. I’d be doing my daughter’s reputation a great disservice, don’t you agree?

Sure, Artur Luíz said.

Killing that son of a bitch—

My father, Artur Luíz reminded him.

Killing wasn’t going to repolish my daughter’s name, Firmino went on, but Manoel somehow still had to pay for what he did.

And that he did.

In the end, Firmino Antônio dos Santos appeased himself by claiming he had taken the less criminal alternative. At least I didn’t kill the son of a bitch! He managed to bring this counterfeit idea of blamelessness to the grave, unaware that his cousin had, long before, shot himself, missing the family and the life he was robbed of.

Coincidentally, the disgrace of Manoel Ernesto and later redemption of Firmino Antônio, brought Professor Ademar Pinto Souza-Barreto into Ernesto José’s life. In time, the professor became the family’s true patriarch, educator, and moral compass. Later, he would convince Ernesto José to leave Teresina forever, saving the young man’s life.

A few years after Almira do Santos had scolded her husband in front of all his customers, Firmino Antônio gave up the grocery business. He sold his half of the partnership back to Carlota Maria, for a clean break. He felt better that way. Even though they remained related to one another, it was refreshing to end the daily discomfort of having to stare their secret in the eye every time the two uttered their good-mornings and how-do-you-do’s. With a new bank loan, for there wasn’t any cash left from the sale—Carlota purchased the remaining of her husband’s business with the very promissory notes his partner had surrendered to her for the embezzled money—Firmino Antônio bought a decrepit colonial house across from Pedro Segundo Park, fixed it up, and within a year launched it as a boarding house. Again, because he was a good manager, Pensão Santos thrived almost as fast as Firmino’s previous grocery business, soon becoming another reputable establishment in the city center.

Ademar Pinto walked into the airy lobby of the Santos boarding house to inquire about room availability. The place was still undergoing renovation but had opened its doors anyway. The professor came from Parnaíba City and had secured a good-salaried job at the prestigious Dom Barreto Institute. Joana Teresa was waiting for Firmino Antônio in the lobby to finalize the sale of the grocery store.

Ernesto’s sister glimpsed the handsome history professor and blushed when he tipped his hat at her. She noticed how one of his arms was slightly crooked. She stood up from her chair when Firmino Antônio crossed the lobby to greet her.

Good morning, was all Professor Ademar Pinto managed to say to Firmino Antônio, who crossed in front of him on his way toward Joana Teresa. Firmino briefly turned to the new boarder, out of politeness, with a passing How do you do? without delaying his trajectory across the room. Little did he know the new boarder was soon to become the substitute patriarch of the Breton de Barros household, replacing his old partner and forsaken cousin Manoel Ernesto.

______________

When he was seven years old, Ademar Pinto Souza-Barreto, like many other seven-year-olds before him, broke his arm playing with a friend. This happened at his father’s ranch. The boy had tried to swing from one tree branch to another when he fell on his side and heard a snap from inside his forearm.

Ademar Pinto’s father had appointed himself the family’s doctor, although his medical qualifications were nil. He owned an old medical manual called The Practical Guide to Medicine, which made up for his many nonexistent years of medical school. The little book was the real doctor, and Ademar Pinto’s father deferred to it for all cases of bleeding, breaking, or bloating, and he prescribed medicine (mostly homemade), administered vaccines (shipped from the capital city), and performed basic orthopedic adjustments whenever needed. He had always been successful, even more effectual than any other city doctor, he liked to say. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case for Ademar Pinto’s fractured humerus. After removing the two rods he had wrapped around the broken limb to make it heal in place—there wasn’t any plaster to set it in a cast—Ademar’s father noticed that his son’s arm was crooked. The bone had been twisted a few degrees in the wrong direction before setting. Realizing the error, he immediately saddled two horses and took Ademar Pinto to the capital city, a half-day’s ride from the ranch.

After a brief examination, the orthopedic doctor confirmed the blunder. There was only one way to correct the mistake: break the boy’s arm again so it could heal properly in a cast. Ademar’s father felt dispirited, at fault for his son’s predicament. They rode back to the ranch, mulling over the medical verdict. Days turned into weeks, and in the end, nothing was done. Ademar Pinto still has a crooked arm, for his father wasn’t able to summon enough cruelty to rebreak it.

The professor was smitten with the young woman he first saw in the lobby of the Santos boarding house. After a few inquiries, he was able to find out where she lived and immediately set out to see her.

Ademar Pinto was charming and humble but had been taught to be bold and direct. After leaving his father’s ranch to go to school in Parnaíba, he made a vow to education and to being straightforward. He didn’t waste time with what-ifs and whatnots and had the gift of quickly assessing a situation, reading an audience, and acting without delay or excuses. He further believed that in order to express yourself firmly, without being accused of being a buffoon, a person needed a solid education. Erudition is the weapon to tear through the imaginary walls of introversion and shyness, he told his students and colleagues. To be relevant, he continued, or even allowed to be opinionated, one needs to diminish one’s ignorance and strive to amass knowledge. A man’s odds for success are directly hitched to a robust education.

He wasn’t as pompous as he sounded.

After graduating from a local college, Ademar Pinto moved to the capital to pursue his doctorate at the state university. He had also secured a teaching job at Dom Barreto Institute (no relation), teaching history and world literature to tenth, eleventh, and twelfth graders.

Joana Teresa answered the bell, and after a few minutes chatting under the doorframe, Ademar Pinto was invited for coffee and cake. She was also studied and quite witty, with a two-year bachelor’s degree from The Normal School of Piauí, another prestigious institution that graduated young women to be educators or some other normal profession judged appropriate to women at the time.

Ademar Pinto courted Joana Teresa for three years before asking for her hand in marriage. Since her father was absent, the professor insisted on asking consent from the oldest man in the house, Artur Luíz, a tradition no one had ever heard of, but which was promptly adopted in the region after the professor had done so.

They were married at the historical Church of Our Lady of Amparo, one of the oldest buildings in the capital, from the times of the Imperial Crown. Shortly after, Ademar Pinto incorporated all of his and Joana Teresa’s assets into a single trust, took over the deeds and pending debts of the Tonseca house, and declared himself the new de facto patriarch of the family.

During her father’s last year living in the Tonseca, Joana Teresa felt the need to step up and help raise the family. Manoel Ernesto had begun drinking and was never around. Because of her poor education and submissive tendencies, the matriarch, Carlota Maria, had never been the most proactive person and was lost without the leadership of her husband. It was Joana Teresa who took the reins and became the active prime minister of the household.

After Ademar Pinto moved in, Carlota Maria relinquished all motherly duties to her oldest daughter and began sharing a room with her unmarried sister Maria do Socorro, another great aunt who had recently moved in with the clan. With Joana Teresa at the helm, it was easy to take Carlota Maria for just another aunt in the house. She was still adored by all, but her matriarchal authority had become merely titular.

As for Ademar Pinto, he became the respectable and loving stepfather to all, even though his legal standing was merely that of brother-in-law. Because of his polished intellect and character, his strong moral code, and the confidence he oozed, Ademar became the new prophet of the Tonseca.

At first, Ernesto José—being the youngest of the boys and most starry-eyed of the bunch—became a blind admirer and close friend of the professor, more than any other member of the clan. It seemed that Ademar Pinto had moved into Ernesto José’s life at the right time, to guide and inspire the young man. For that, Ernesto treasured the attention. Later, however, this would backfire. It all started to change in tenth grade, when this unofficial attention from the professor turned official and much less trivial.

There were two very important obligations the Souza-Barretos demanded of all the younger Breton-de-Barros siblings living under their roof. For Joana Teresa, it was important that every person go to church. For the professor, the requirement was that all his young subjects strive to be top of their class in school, always and without excuses. Ernesto José had been born strategically at the wrong time, factoring in the year of his sister Joana’s marriage to Professor Ademar Pinto. By then, his other two brothers were old enough and done with school, just in time to escape having to sit as a surrogate son in all of the professor’s classes. The girls went to a different school, the more religious Sacre-Couer, and between Jesus and mathematics, Ernesto José was convinced the nuns were more understanding than Professor Ademar Pinto Souza-Barreto.

Now, as a clarification, Ernesto José’s brothers, Artur Luíz and André Luíz, did in fact go to the same school as Ernesto and also got to sit in the professor’s classes when they were going through those same grades themselves. The difference was that, at the time, the professor wasn’t yet married to their older sister, which forced him to handle the two students with delicate gloves, carefully considering each criticism directed at them, as not to derail the wooing of his beloved Joana Teresa. Because of that, those two boys were treated like viceroys, do-no-wrongs, never singled out to answer a hard question in front of the class.

Much the opposite was young Ernesto’s situation. He joined the class after the wedding and was now the professor’s adopted son. As the despotic educator he was, Professor Souza-Barreto went to work on his new pupil. Ernesto became the professor’s clay to mold, his project, and his grades moved in a different curve scale, based on Ademar Pinto’s idealistic top-of-the-class requirement. Thus, a mere B was considered an F. Only an A was acceptable. An A-minus was still an F. In the professor’s secret grading charts, Ernesto José had to beat everyone in class in order to pass the grade.

It isn’t fair! Ernesto argued at lunchtime.

Doesn’t have to be fair, replied Ademar Pinto, sitting at the head of the table.

You can’t do that, the young man countered. It’s against school rules.

Who said so? the professor replied. I can grade my students any way I see fit.

You can’t just single out one specific student, Ernesto José said, and grade that one differently from the others, can you? He was now pushing the argument into speculative territory.

The professor turned quiet. He wiped off his mouth and leaned back against the chair. The small chatter around the table gradually subsided. The prophet was deliberating.

Forget fairness, Nésto, Ademar Pinto retorted. "To be honest, in life, one can rarely count on it. My job as an educator is to prepare you to succeed in life. To provide you with the most knowledge and the right knowledge and cram it all into your numb skull. He paused for a second, adding to the tension. But you brought up a legitimate argument, the professor proclaimed, then went on, and I am glad that you have arrived at it on your own, using simple reason and basic logic to frame your charge. In fact, I am proud of you for doing so."

Ernesto José and the rest of the table were quiet. The professor had humbly accepted the fact that he was dealing with a worthy adversary. It was a battle victory for young Ernesto, but the war was far from over.

I must confess, Ademar Pinto went on, "that I’ve not had the time, necessity, or compulsion, until this very moment, to consult the rules and regulations governing the tutoring of a classroom full of uninterested youths in the great Dom Barreto Institute. But I will tell you this: while the school curriculum may be mandated by the state and set in stone by the enlightened few sitting across the table from our honorable secretary of education, a professor’s method is not something institutionalized and predetermined in the smoking rooms of our bureaucracy. It is independent, and it must be kept that way.

"The hiring of a particular instructor by a respectful institution, such as the one you’re fortunate enough to be enrolled in, isn’t merely based on that instructor’s ability to read to his students the same antiquated lessons found in an old book, day in and day out. A good teacher, sometimes hard to find, must be unfettered and free to use his or her own methods to engage the classroom.

As for fairness, it is only for the instructor himself to determine whether it is or it isn’t, not the school bureaucracy who hired him for that very own subjectivity of method. If teachers were not allowed to deviate in their different degrees of ‘fairness,’ as you put it, all people of the state and of the country would know the same amounts of all things taught and learned. And you know what they say: when everyone knows everything, no one knows anything.

The prophet rested, then he extended his crooked arm and reached out for the coconut flan. Ernesto José had stopped eating, leaving most of the food on his plate untouched. Pretty Inês brought out the coffee tray. Artur Luíz lit a clove cigarette; he was now twenty-two years old and mature enough to make his own bad decisions.

However, Ademar Pinto bellowed all of a sudden, reclaiming everyone’s attention. However, he repeated, "you do have a reasonable claim, worthy of consideration, in regards to the alleged targeting of one or more specific students. It is indeed a gateway to tyranny! I shouldn’t wrestle further with it. In fact, I’d like to thank you, sincerely, for this infusion of awareness you brought forth here, as it relates to my methods." With that, he was done—or so everyone thought.

Ernesto José looked around the table with skepticism. He was not about to brag or shout in victory, still not sure what had happened and if he had in fact won the argument or not. He looked at his sister, the professor’s only deterrent and the household’s safety valve. She smiled at him.

Looks like it’s all settled then, Joana Teresa said, pouring sugar in her coffee.

Therefore, exclaimed the professor, as if still in mid-sentence.

Therefore? Ernesto José blurted out, turning his attention back to the tyrant.

Therefore, Ademar Pinto continued, I should approach your education, Nésto, much differently. I’m not going to jeopardize my professorial integrity by singling you out in class. The polishing and enhancing of your learning should, therefore, not be done at the institutional level, but at the parental level. Not at school, as a professor, but at home, as a parent.

Ernesto José looked defeated. He lowered his head down to his plate, like a dog about to lick the leftover food. He then put his hands on his head and weaved his fingers through his hairs and considered pulling them all from his scalp.

In class, Professor Ademar Pinto continued, the tyranny will be leveled as one of the same for everybody. But at home, he paused for effect, I should raise the bar and further your education with a few extracurricular assignments.

Extra what? Ernesto José mumbled, on the verge of tears.

The threat now has nothing to do with passing the grade. I know you’re smart, and you can do it without a hitch. The requirement now is for you to be above and beyond the assigned syllabus.

And how is that going to affect my grade? You can’t grade extra work, Ernesto José said, bargaining with the professor.

The punishment will be based solely on domestic obligations, Ademar Pinto continued. House chores: helping in the kitchen, or perhaps at church. Joana Teresa raised an eyebrow and smirked, pondering if this last item had been presented solely for her sake, perhaps to obtain her endorsement. But mostly, intellectual assignments: write a report on a book not covered in school, for instance. This has nothing to do with your grades. These will be my own personal admonitions, as a parent, for not meeting my own educational goals. Ademar Pinto sipped his coffee. At home, he continued, I’m no longer your professor. However, I will be a demanding and despotic parent, whose only desire is to make sure you are getting the best education there is.

Ha! Artur Luíz blurted out, flooding his saucer with coffee. Joana closed her eyes, trying to contain her laughter while Ernesto José closed his, to contain his rage.

______________

Ernesto José Breton de Barros, Nick Breton’s father, had as ordinary a childhood as any other Brazilian middle-class boy living in a state capital back in the 1940s. Like his other siblings, the boy had ordinary house chores, school chores, and church chores. Later, he grew to appreciate having had this strict regimen of responsibilities earlier in life, for they were most helpful when it came time to navigate the professor’s perverse academic obligations.

Before Ademar Pinto, Ernesto had been an average schoolboy. He played soccer in front of the house, didn’t shower much, itched to talk to girls, and shot pebbles at passing birds. At least once a month, he did something inappropriate in school and was sent to the principal’s office, but only rarely his parents had to be called in for a meeting. He realized that if he kept his grades above average, he couldn’t get into too much trouble.

Until he was twelve, he believed in Santa Claus and all the Catholic saints. After that, the saints and the president of the republic. He had a few school crushes along the way but only landed his first kiss around the same time he discovered masturbation, hiding behind the cajú trees to watch Pretty Inês change her clothes. Mariana Nassif, who he had kissed behind the school cafeteria, was one grade ahead of him and had kissed other boys before. They dated for a whole semester, broke up the following year, but were back together a year later.

The break up happened around the same time Professor Ademar became Ernesto’s tyrannical educator. The heartache, or something of the sort, must have contributed to the boy’s sudden nose-diving dedication to his studies. The initial resentment against the lack of fairness, or the frustration and hopelessness of having to go home from school just to be assigned extra scholastic work, somehow dissipated. In the end, academic penitence helped Ernesto José mend his broken heart.

He sat through mathematics and history in the morning and read Voltaire and Pessoa in the evening. For being ten minutes late for class, Ernesto was told to read Animal Farm and write a two-page report. The book apparently made him hate communism even more. Then, it was Isaac Newton’s The System of the World, or the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, or the letters of Cicero to Titus Atticus. It was a year of intense learning and of cultural betterment, romantic solitude and, to further his talents of concentration, masturbation.

Filled with knowledge (and depleted of a year’s supply of semen), Ernesto José longed for Mariana Nassif and decided to get her back. Once he had made the decision, the young man didn’t wait, postpone, or agonize over when and how to do it. He waited for her in front of the school and asked her back, amid apologies and without much elaboration. Because she didn’t say anything, he asked her if he could kiss her, and she let him, and they were back together.

At lunch, Ademar Pinto was glad to hear the news. He could sense how much more confident his pupil had become.

Mariana’s parents were fond of Ernesto José, and everyone in the Tonseca worshipped Mariana. It is fair to speculate that, had it not been for that infamous poem in the school newspaper, the two would have gotten married back then and procreated abundantly. That was not