It was a spring day. The mild temperature, cold wind and frigid sea were not an attractive place to spend a day at the beach. On the sand, it was noticeable that only tourists were spreading their abayas and taking selfies.
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The years and years spent outside Rio have robbed me of my accent, faded my skin tone and made me an outsider in my hometown, even though I visit often to see my parents. That morning, while on vacation, I turned off my cell phone, accepted tourist status, and joined the others, on the sand where Ipanema borders Leblon, in Henrique Dumont.
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I let time pass without appointment. There was Rio at its best, with the sound of waves and yerba mate vendors in harmony, like a song. I was overcome by the cold, so I gathered my things to leave the camp and decided to look at my cell phone, which contained some messages from my mother. From Copacabana, she warned me of a major operation in and between the Alemão complexes, which caused a kind of early rush hour – and therefore, it would not be convenient to take the subway or bus back to Posto 6.
I almost instinctively entered the Leblon shopping mall, that air-conditioned haven that could exist in any city on the planet, but would be useful for me to use the bathroom and grab a coffee. I passed salespeople at a large sporting goods store and began to catch phrases between them: “It happened near my house,” “Shootings,” “Many deaths,” between nervous glances as they watched the news on their cell phones.
Meanwhile, in the corridors, passers-by were quietly walking around carrying their luxury bags and looking at the shop windows. I kept walking, a little dazed, trying to separate what was commonplace from what was tragedy, having trouble deciphering how malleable my body and mind were on vacation, after drinking two coconut shakes at a bar in Ipanema.
Upon entering the bathroom, the pleasant conversations between the cleaning staff pulled me back into the real world. There was concern about relatives not answering the phone and how they would get home.
At the café, the couples talked about traveling and the kids asked for cake. Meanwhile, an espresso with a slice of pie took 20 minutes to arrive at the table – the staff were alert, chatting and exchanging information. There was fear and there was death in sight. Meanwhile, there was ambient music and air conditioning.
I returned to the table, drank my coffee, watching the movement come and go. During my childhood and part of my adolescence, I attended a private Catholic school a few feet away, and I always had the impression that I found, in every unfamiliar face, an old classmate who had grown up and carried on as himself. At the same time, I feel increasingly removed from this world – not as a mere tourist, but as a foreigner in my own place.
The city seems to have specialized in keeping this franchise going while the world next door collapses. About 25 kilometers separate the Leblon shopping center from Praca Sao Lucas Feinha, where the bodies of the dead were placed in a row the day after the brutality.
And I realize that Rio is this intersection of worlds that barely touch each other: those who consume and those who serve, those who escape and those who pretend that nothing is happening – in fact, those who really believe that nothing is happening. Nihilism here overlooks the sea. Perhaps true nihilism is this quiet coexistence with barbarism, this silent belief that everything can continue as it is, even if the price is the death of others. The city seems suspended between hedonism and hell, offering a place to drink coffee while the bodies pile up.
*Lillian Currie, journalist and sociologist, was born in Rio and left Rio more than 20 years ago.
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