Last night a sound registered me awake, and although my mind
could not place it in heavy sleep or dreamy stirring; it spoke urgency. The
steel door of the brothers’ house was being worked with great leverage. It was
no knock. I have heard that rap many times on the door of the brothers’ house on
the border of Brazil and Paraguay.
I looked through my feet as I laid in the living room facing
the open air foyer. The foyer is fifteen feet long and six feet wide and
centers the chapel, the priest’s private quarter, and the front door. I felt
little distance from the door as I reasoned the situation. I saw light cracking
through the lock side jam, and then the resistance of the steel snapped the
corridor dark again. This repeated in a rhythm of force and recoil again and
again. It was a couple seconds before my instincts kicked me treading to an
upright stance.
I went first to close and lock the living room door and
alert the brothers. I found no lock, it had been removed. I didn’t know the
time I had, and didn’t rationalize the gates construction, but it was holding!
I realized all of the brothers and father were in back sleeping in the open air
kitchen because of the heat. I was alone against this tormenting wrenching. I
made the choice to swing out the side door and face the passage that shoots
from the front door to the very back of the house. This is the only way in and
out, and from there I could confront them before a breach of defense. The
brothers would hear me, and most importantly the person or persons behind the
door would hear me. I had surprise, and a solid plan.
And then quiet, a deafening quiet. As a puff of wind they
vanished, and I waited to confirm their exit for ten minutes. I returned to bed
and waited until all was peaceful, both in the house and in my mind. I did not sleep
for a time as dozing seemed indulgent. It could have been a hungry person or a
confused son just drunk enough to take his anger on inorganic object. I never
found out.
***
There are many people crammed into this house; it feels that
someone is always on top of you. I may still be accustom to living alone, but
you are never alone and even in the bathroom most of the time the knob will
rattle or there with will be a knock at the door. I think that only made my being
alone earlier so strange. I fell back asleep around four o clock. At 4:10 AM
the alarm clocks began chiming from the back if the house. I felt a relief to
have their movement in the house and soon they were buzzing around in
preparation of an early morning mass. This was not a normal occurrence; an
exception for travel to Sao Paulo for Fr. Rafael and many of the brothers. Father
walked by prepping his vestments and I stopped him to explain the sound at the
door. He agreed with me that it was strange, and that I need to sleep.
I heard the chimes of the Holy Eucharist around five
o’clock.
At seven the younger formandos sang their way to the door
and out to school.
The prayer bells rang at seven thirty and again at eight for
breakfast.
I awoke 8:00 am.
***
The Toy Maker and
German
The bells for breakfast signal the house open for our sons
and daughters to come in and have café and bread. I sat and ate two small French breads with butter
and enjoyed the calm of the near empty house. I smiled as a few of the sons
came and stood at the table. They know prayer is required and Br. Baruc, who
runs the house, lead them in an Our Father and a Hail Mary.
A square jawed man with blue gray eyes and white hair buzzed
almost to his scalp sat down and gave me a quick hello and good morning in
English. I meet him on the mission to the favelas that climb the hills above
the river. A world traveler he spoke many languages and shared many interesting
experience from his travels. He held two conversations at once, one with me in
English, and one with brother in Portuguese. He effortlessly navigated both as
neither was his native tongue.
“I didn’t ask your name the last time we met, mine’s Sean.”
He chews a chunk of bread. “It’s George, but they call me
Alemao.”
I laughed, “That makes sense being your German. (Alemao is Portuguese
for German) You speak well, did you have any problem learning Portuguese?”
“They think their language is so hard to learn, but it is
quite easy. You find things to read when you are on the street and listen to
all the conversations at bus stops. If that is all you hear, it is easy to
figure out.”
He pauses and looked me directly in the eyes, “What are
classes, four hours a week – right -for as long as you want to pay. Well I am
in class every hour of the day and I learned quickly. Very quickly and it costs
nothing! I just sit on a bench and many things are talked about right beside
me.
“That makes sense, how many languages do you know.”
“Five or so.”
A tan middle aged man dropped his duffle bag, walked to the
table, and stopped himself to pray. He finished the prayer and was handed a plastic
cup of coffee and bread. His eyes showed his quiet excitement for the small
meal. He didn’t have the steeliness of the German. He was slow to speak but not shy. I could see
him tone out when the German talked. To everyone else, he remained patient for
someone to make their point before speaking. He chose to remain silent most of
the time, but nodded to confirm he was listening.
George was speaking to brother and I started to speak with this
new man.
I spoke in Portuguese, “Hello, how are you today?”
“More or less.” He looked up at me. “ And you?”
“I am well. My name is Sean?
“Leomar.” He seemed to enjoy that I was asking him
questions.
The conversation opened up to the table. Brother Baruc asked
about his sun burn. He was newly cooked around his chest by the sun, which was
a contrast to his dark workman’s face. I could tell the new shirt was a
different cut than the one he had before. A sharp v of red was now very
obvious.
The conversation shifted and I got lost in the speed of their
words. Leomar ran over to his bag and pulled out a pair of pillars, medium gage
wire, and a handful of plastic whistles. He scattered them on the table with a
wire sculpture complete with a tiny plastic cup in it. He filled the cup with
liquid soap and handled it across the table. Brother took it and watched as
Leomar showed him in pantomime how to use it.
Soon the air was filled with soapy orbs from his simple hinged
machine. The German was unimpressed and turned to drink his coffee. The rest of
us laughed and traded the toy around trying to outdo each other with size and
quantity of bubbles. We just enjoyed the experience and Leomar showed a kindly
glint of satisfaction for our enjoyment. Brother handed it back and Leomar asked
if we would like to see him construct one. We all nodded for him to go ahead.
He turned the wire deftly, and in five minutes time had
completed the frame. Brother took a cue of his own and walked away from the
table. Leomar drilled into the whistle with an ice pick to mute it and focus
the air flow. He twisted off the steel wire around the plastic lip of the
whistle and then created a loop for a little bathroom cup that would hold the
soap. Brother returned and set a full sleeve of little plastic cups.
I walked over to watch. “How much do you sell them for?”
“Three realis,” he responded with a smile. (Three realis is
about a $1.50)
I decided to buy one
from him. He saw me going for money and walked around me. From his bag he pulled
out a few of the toys in different colors.
“Which one would you like?”
I pointed to the white one. He picked it up and in a quick
motion refused my money.
“I am blessed for this wonderful breakfast.” He said little
more as he repacked his things.
He shook my hand. “Tchau and God Bless!”
“Thank you very much!”
When he had left the German gathered his large red velvet
lined board with different kinds of jewelry pinned to it.
“Where do you go to sell your things?”
George smiled, “Hopefully where the tourists with too much
money are. That is always where I want to be.” He paused to fasten his
backpack. “Do you know what our friend’s problem is with his silly little toy?”
I indulged him, “What is that.”
“He has no interest in making something people want. You can
purchase a plastic one for nothing in the store. He might as well sell
pok-a-mon stickers off a roll for a dollar a piece, better money. He could make
a bubble gun, kids like the bubble guns, but then he would spend a day to sell
a five realis toy. The real truth, he is wasting him time.”
I thought about the previous moment, when we were all
smiling and laughing, and the pride and kindness that a simple toymaker shared
with us.
“I don’t agree, I saw a peaceful man enjoying what he made.”
The German ignored me in his shuffle and showed me a necklace
with a cannabis leaf medallion. “This is what the tourists want, I can sell
this.”
“I could see that.”
The long hallway
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