Bernardo
A few days of every year he felt like everyone else. On these days people didn’t cross the road to avoid him, there was no space. He didn’t have to hold out his dusty hands to collect the pennies that might buy him cachaca, people handed him theirs. His tattered feet danced with everyone else’s. Carnival in Rio was his favourite time of year, he felt like everyone else. Or in actual fact, I should say that everyone else felt like him. For Bernardo, it was carnival every day of the year, and it was a pleasure to have some company for once.
Even for the other 51 weeks of the year, Bernardo had music in his head, a deep samba beat that prevented him from sleeping. The rhythm came from the throbbing of his head in response to the beer and cheap cachaca he drank constantly, but he took it for the rhythm of carnival and, rather than bury his head in his hands at the pain of it, he let his body follow his throbbing veins and his feet scuffed the floor in a maniacal dance. At the same time he would hold his grey hands out and, every so often, someone would drop a coin in them. The people of Rio seemed to like his dancing. It kept him in cachaca.
He never slept intentionally, he preferred to dance. But sometimes his mind and body didn’t see eye to eye and his body would demand a break. He could never remember falling asleep, but he’d often find himself waking up on the pavement and would wonder how he got there. Life was full of little mysteries for Bernardo. Why would people get angry with him when he told them, “Blessings to you, I’ve now enough for a new bottle of cachaca!” Why would young hooligans kick him when he was unconscious on the ground? Why did dogs like to pee on his spot in the street? Why didn’t everyone want to dance all day like him? The world was brimming over with unanswered questions it was best not to think about.
When the samba beats began to quieten in his head, he knew he was running low on fuel, he had to get more cachaca quickly, before his demons started calling. If he went without alcohol for too long his body started protesting, and the drumbeats in his mind became so weak that other thoughts and memories rushed in to fill the spaces. Dum-dum-dee-dum-tsssh, sitting with his mother on the streets, Dum-dum-dee-dum-tsssh, forever hungry, Dum-dum-dee-dum-tsssh, the kickings, Dum-dum-dee-dum, the forever shouting, Dum-dum-dee-dum, always running, Dum-dum-dee, hiding in the dark corners, Dum-dum, his mother’s hand smothering his mouth, pleading with him, “Be Quiet Bernardo, be quiet,” Dum, all the strange men, the beatings, his mother crying, a front tooth missing, his blood mixing with his mother’s, tears and blood, blood and tears.
At times like these he implored people to help him out, to give him money to stop the memories and start his internal drum. Remembering that people disliked his ‘money for drink’ reasoning, he’d shout out, “Money for samba, money for samba!” desperately baring his rotten teeth in a painful smile. It would normally work on a couple of people, and for those kind individuals he’d perform a dance. “This one’s for you kind sir!” he’d yell, or “Shake it, shake it, shake it,” as he jumped around on the pavement like a child after too many sweets. It made people laugh, and that made him laugh. Once he had enough coins he’d race off to buy cachaca, gulp down enough of it to start the percussion, and continue his dancing and hysterical laughter. Laughter and cachaca were Bernardo’s currency in life.
He had no idea how old he was and, from his appearance, no one else could tell either. He could have been a weathered and beaten forty year old or a spritely seventy year old. His long hair was matted and grey in colour, perhaps from age or perhaps from dirt. His face was pockmarked and etched with deep contours like a dark desert, and his eyes were always half open and blood shot. His stringy arms hung from a threadbare T-shirt that had once been blue, and his jeans, that seemed to have grown bigger and bigger over the years, were held up by a piece of string. His feet were caked in dirt and his soles were so hardened that they acted like shoes; he could no longer feel the ground beneath them.
Bernardo knew that carnival was approaching. It wasn’t so much what he could see; the stalls emerging on every corner selling masks and costumes, the samba schools practicing out in the streets. It was more what he could feel; the buzz in the air. People were getting excited, there was electricity in the atmosphere, and even Bernardo’s dulled senses could feel it. The Cariocas became happier and more generous when carnival was approaching. They gave more generously to Bernardo and in return he samba’d as though his life depended on it, his feet stumbling furiously on the pavement, his arms shaking around his head, and his bony behind swaying. The generosity of people, the electricity in the air, and of course the extra cachaca, charged him up like a battery. That year, he didn’t sleep for four days in advance of carnival Friday.
Carnival 2011 was later in the year than normal owing to a late Easter. A March carnival was of course accompanied by March rain; heavy and relentless. Because of the miserable weather, Cariocas and tourists alike felt the need to drink more and quicker, in order to ward off the cold and forget about the rain. And so, starting on the Friday evening, the streets were full of happy drunks, like Bernardo. They had faces obscured by glitter and drooping wet feathers, and bodies squeezed into outfits suited to better weather. Goose bumps and wet hair abounded and people danced to keep warm. The more vigorous dancers looked like wet dogs shaking themselves dry, with beads of water flying from them. The gutters flowed with rain water, spilt beer and body fluids, and the wet streets were littered with empty bottles, plastic cups and remnants of costumes that were being shaken to pieces. Rio and its people were saturated in carnival.
By Saturday morning Bernardo had drunk more in 12 hours than he usually drank in a week. Revelers had decorated him in glitter and a tiny pair of devil horns, the colour of which matched his eyes. Fuelled and styled for a party, he performed hard and fast, and soon people were making a special effort to come and see him, as word got around Lapa.
“Have you seen the guy under the arches? You’ve got to see him!”
“Look at him go!”
“I’m exhausted just watching him.”
“Let’s samba Grandad!”
People formed a circle around Bernardo, and chanted and clapped in unison. Everyone was loving his dance. And he loved everyone loving him. The appreciation touched him and for once the people also touched him. Hands slapped his back in congratulations, people dropped coins into his pockets, and danced arm in arm with Bernardo as cameras flashed around them. Deep into the night Bernardo danced and drank, with cachaca running down his face and through his glittery torso. His T-shirt had long ago been abandoned and his jeans, which were laden down with coins, were only just being held up by his bony hips and string.
‘Dance, dance, dance.’ This was the last thought that went through Bernardo’s head before he collapsed on the floor and knocked his head. ‘Dance, dance, dance, ouch.’
***
When he came round, he was surrounded by colour, glitter and light. Smiling magical faces whirled around him in a kaleidoscopic blur. He looked down at his body and saw that he was no longer wearing his threadbare jeans and string belt. Instead he was dressed magnificently. His shoulders were amplified by a huge pair of golden epaulettes that were covered in jewels and sparkle. Jewellery, like he’d never seen before, hung from his neck and ended low in his concave chest. His bare torso was decorated in dazzling paint. For the first time in decades Bernardo was wearing a pair of trousers that fit him. His legs were wrapped in a beautiful sky blue silk, that was as light as air, and his feet were being placed into matching silk slippers by a beautiful black girl. She tied the slippers onto his feet with ribbons and then reached out her hand to him.
“It’s time Bernardo,” she said excitedly.
Bernardo shook his head in confusion, he had no idea where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. She smiled at him.
“It’s time for the performance; we brought you here to dance with us Bernardo.”
He looked around him once again at the colours and movement, and finally understood where he was. This was the real carnival; he was in the sambadrome, surrounded by other dancers, all ready to shake their bones alongside him.
He was baffled and tried to piece together how he’d got there, but there was no time for thinking. Suddenly there was a crash above him and the night sky shattered into shards of light. Over and over the night sky exploded. The excitement built around him, as dancers stretched, feet bounced, smiles flashed, and voices sang.
“It’s time!”
“Are we ready?”
“We’re ready!”
As the fireworks grew to a crescendo, so did the exhilaration around him, until everyone was movement, and everywhere was colour. Bernardo was swept up into the atmosphere and once again he could hear the samba beat, but this time the pulse was coming from drums, not from his own head.
He was carried along by the party spirit and his whole body became the carnival. His feet pounded the streets, his arms shook and his voice sang out words he didn’t know. Bernardo and his fellow dancers were surrounded by crowds, and he saw more people than he thought existed in the world, all here to watch him dance. Huge trucks decorated like heaven drove down the centre of the street and everywhere was smiles. He danced and sang and loved life. He wanted this night to last forever, and he was beginning to feel as though it just might.
***
‘Dance, dance, dance.’ This was the last thought that went through Bernardo’s head before he collapsed on the floor and knocked his head. A crowd gathered around him, and panicked eyes looked at each other, seeking someone who might know what to do. Finally, a voice spoke up.
“Someone call an ambulance, quick.”
A number of people searched in their tight wet outfits until a mobile phone was produced. As the crowd argued over directions for the ambulance to follow, Bernardo bounced around on the floor in a samba-like fit. Girls cried, either a solemn whimper, or a drunken dramatic sobbing, while men tried to show some kind of authority or, failing that, just continued to drink.
By the time the ambulance had navigated its way through the carnival crowds, Bernardo was dead. His dying samba had ended with one last powerful surge of energy, before his heart finally gave in. The crowd dispersed, and people either headed home or joined the passing samba school, choosing to indulge their shock or ignore it. Bernardo’s body was zipped into a bag and taken away, never to be seen again. His last samba had pulled his largest crowd yet.