There is a thing such as a cultural centre, a place where one can appreciate a different people without leaving one's national purlieus. Which immigrant was it, tired of being persecuted by the same questions and beholden to correct the same perversions, that came up with the idea?
A brilliant idea it was too, born out of frustration, for man by nature has two obsessions. One for experience and the other for knowledge. A cultural centre satisfies both while purging restlessness and ignorance. These centres viewed from this vantage point become more instruments of public service than businesses for personal profit.
Singapore had such a centre, a Brazilian cultural centre, and various measures were taken to ensure its authentic quality. Alongside the vivid watercolour paintings that lined the wall depicting Brazilian geography and architecture the proprietor had installed multiple humidifiers to mimic the feel of a tropical climate.
This was an interesting touch as Singapore was a state of perpetual summer. People came inside panting, seeking relief from the stultifying heat, and to their surprise found the sudden jolt of breathlessness which cured them of heat but not discomfort. It served to its effects and in its stifling atmosphere one could almost hear the chatter of birds, and the buzz of insects, when one stood in the middle of the centre.
The proprietor didn't stop at the images or the humidifier. He wanted to further explore the centre's titillation of the senses and to this purpose installed large tanks around the centre.
One was an aquatic tank, filled with exotic fish purported to be sea life only found in Brazil, which gave off a strong oceanic smell. The other tank was filled with white sand, purported to be from the Lençóis Maranhenses; where guests would dip their hands into, and feel the delicate rustle of white sand in their palms and afterwards thought that their hands were softer than they had been before.
The remaining senses, the ones of taste and sound were indulged through a little diner that served Brazilian delicacies, mostly meat, whose sweet sickly smell was so thick, it was nauseating and decidedly unbearable. But still, people bore it, and even more surprisingly, spent most of their time there, appreciating what Brazil had to offer, but not because of the physical senses which the proprietor had worked so hard to indulge but because of a different sense, a distinctly human sense: the sense of beauty. This was because Eva worked there, the proprietor's daughter.
Eva's indulgence of the sense of beauty was manifold. She had a particular and highly distinctive South Brazillian hair colour, which was like a scarlet ibis hue, from her father's bloodline; and it was thin rather than voluptuous because of her mother's bloodline. Her mother was Chinese.
If you saw her outside, in Singapore's perpetual summer, you would say a resurgent autumn mustered up its courage to claim its right as an equal season, to change the green of summer to the red, yellow and a little baby orange, colours of autumn, without the death of autumn.
Her skin complexion was a strange buttery white, or jaundice, depending on the light cast upon her; and if the white sand of Brazil makes the skin softer, one wonders what touching her would do to you. Her eyes were green pools cracked in white ice sheets.
This was a young girl of nineteen, the most exotic Brazilian piece in this cultural centre.
One day, she was serving as usual with a free and easy manner that was girlish and innocent, one that heightened beauty, when, with her youthful energetic step, she plonked herself in front of the seat of a man who had been staring at her without seeing her.
'You know it's impolite to look at a woman without taking note of her,' the artful Eva said, using her eyes to make him see her.
The man was startled by her plonk and then her eyes disconcerted him enough to make him let out an embarrassed laugh.
'Did you like the bowl? What was it you had again, salmon and plantain? With a little mayonnaise on top.'
'A lot of mayonnaise on top,' the man repeated, recovering himself.
'And now you're eating dessert. Something I don't recognize. We don't allow items from outside in the restaurant,' she said with mock severity, pressing her lips together. 'Pardon, I -'
'Without sharing,' she interjected, spreading her lips into a delightful smile.
The man laughed at her boldness. She had picked up his fork and taken a bite.
'I'm Eva. You're from South America?'
'Yes,' the man said. 'I'm Paulo, from Ecuador,' he added, and accepted her look without flinching. He himself was a swarthy, tanned man with long sleek hair, wearing an outfit that made him out for a lumberjack.
She took another bite and said airily:
'Don't you guys usually eat together, on your breaks?' pointing the fork at his attire.
The man once again looked at her without seeing which mystified Eva more than it annoyed her.
'Yes, we usually do,' he replied evasively. 'But I needed some time alone.' Then he added with surprising venom, 'it's enough to torture with them, must I eat with them too?'
The diner had a playlist of bossa nova that was always playing in the background, indulging the last of the physical senses.
'Ai, ai, ai, ai, saudade,' Eva sang softly to the final strains of the song playing, suspended her fork in the air in front of her and turned her watery green eyes to his black eyes shimmering with emotion.
'This is really good. The cake I mean. Where did you get it from?'
Normally he would have been startled at the abrupt change of subject after such an emotional outburst but he was too concerned with his inner turmoil to be affected by her playfulness. He took the empty box that had contained the piece of cake and showed her.
'It's from this place; ten minutes from here, near where I'm working today.'
Eva took the box and examined it. A white box with 'P for Pastry' in pink letters on the cover.
'Must be Mauritian,' she said, while looking at it. Her mass of reddish hair dropped on each side of the box as she brought it closer to her face. It looked like a ribbon around the box. 'I have to go there.'
'Yes, you can. It's not far from here.'
'It's like seven hours from here.'
'Oh. You mean the country.'
'Yes. I want to travel to that country and everywhere else,' she said resolutely.
'I've been there before. I've travelled all over and am here because of it.'
Her almond eyes opened slightly further.
'I knew it. I saw the traveller in you as soon as I saw you, kindred spirit.'
Ignoring the coquetry he went along the same track his spirit had been on for some time.
'That's why I'm doing this senseless mutilation. To pay my way. I couldn't find anything else. Not even a serving job, en absoluto!' he said furiously. 'Every time I hear a branch snap I feel a piece of my soul snap. Soon my sanity will snap.'
'That's what I'm going to do too,' she replied animatedly, ignoring his last sentences. 'Pay my way. I'm going to see how much the world appreciates Brazil.'
'Hopefully it won't be like this. Getting a ruler to measure a leaf, making sure it doesn't reach further than the ones on the tree before that one. Any green that isn't the right green gets spray painted to ensure -'
'Green? Did you say green?'
'Yes, green.'
'Green like?' Eva asked, fluttering her eyelashes.
Paolo was flabbergasted.
'I don't know what you-'
'You know what Paolo? I think you need some lessons in Brazilian appreciation. Let's start tonight.'
Taken aback he mumbled absolutely, a little absentmindedly and they exchanged numbers.
Later that day, towards evening, Eva thought it a good idea to surprise him. She walked down the pristine streets and passed smooth, flat buildings that looked like lifeless architectural models and found the cakeshop nearby which looked like an office rather than a bakery.
'This city has no cultural history,' she mused to herself. 'No soul or heart. That's why you can have a cake shop that looks like an office. The shops in Mauritius must look different. Maybe a shed even, but I'd rather see a shed that is a bakery than a shop that looks like an insurance company.' Eva shivered at the blandness surrounding her. 'Still, I must get a cake,' she said to herself, and went inside.
When she went inside, she found herself the only one there, with the place ready to shut. This was a simple cake shop, with glass displays under the counters where assorted pastries, cakes and other baked treats rested to entice the connoisseur. Immediately her eyes found what she was after and almost greedily went up to the man behind the counter and said that she would like the cake that appeared to be mocha.
'Are you Catholic?' the man asked suddenly, clearly but pleasantly.
Eva had been preoccupied with the cakes to really appraise the staff member and now took a closer look. He was a well built white man with blue eyes and a huge curly beard. He had shaved his head. He was smiling at her with such friendliness that it was at odds with the confrontational nature of the question and the severity of his appearance.
'Maybe,' Eva answered slowly, a little surprised at his forwardness. 'You don't look Mauritian. I thought this place was run by
Mauritians.'
'No, I'm not Mauritian. This place is mine and I'm German originally.' He never once stopped smiling. 'So, are you?'
'No, I'm not,' she said sharply.
'Why not?'
He took the cake she had pointed out and laid it on the counter but didn't immediately box it. He laid his hands on the counter, continuing to smile warmly at Eva, who was unsure if this was a pick up or not. The man looked too ascetic to engage in that sort of thing.
'I don't believe in any of that. I'm interested in life not death.'
'What are your parents?'
Her lips parted slightly at his audacity and mulled not answering but in the end said:
'My father is Catholic and the other Buddhist.'
'Why did you turn your back on the
religion of your father?'
This man threw Eva for a loop. The main reason was that she was unused to a man looking at her without discomfort and this man, who looked young despite his beard, had only amiability in his eyes. She looked down at the cake in front of him and he smiled broader in acknowledgement, and slowly put it in a box next to him. Seeing things in motion she relaxed and said:
'So this is why this is called P for pastry. The P stands for proselytism.'
He didn't deny it nor did his disarming smile, a smile using only his lips, disappear from his face.
'Any time you want, you can come and we will talk about it.'
'What did you put in this damn cake? I feel like I must have this and know I will come again. Why is that?'
'I don't know. Maybe it's because they were made with reverence. Or is it something else that attracts you?' He looked at her intently.
She considered his words.
'You're a hypnotist and your pendulum are these cakes.'
She took the bag that he handed her and gave him the money.
'I do bespoke orders too.'
'God help me.'
'Help us all.'
'From obesity and tooth decay.' His smile had broken into a chuckle.
'Do you know what? I've had the privilege today of meeting two extraordinary men who behaved so unusual in my company. One saw only his own soul, the other sees only mine. I don't know which I prefer, or which was worse.'
When Eva had walked out, she turned back to look at the cakeshop.
'The best traps are laid using the most mundane of artefacts, and you can't get more mundane than that building,' she mused to herself.
She was annoyed that she would have to suffer through lectures every time she went there and even more annoyed that she would do it willingly, because these cakes were going to become a new obsession for her for the time being.
She scanned the horizon and saw trees stripped of their branches, next to a river, to make sure they were all alike. 'Aesthetic, mathematically exact,' she mumbled. 'Just like the buildings. How ugly this city is, how precise ! I swear if a glass building didn't deflect the light in the same manner as all the others they would shatter it and raise a new one that had the perfect deflection.'
As she peered forwards she saw a crowd had formed where a tree was only half way trimmed to match the preceding ones. She walked closer and saw a man lying down, with blood coming from his nose and a neck that was clearly broken. She recognised him immediately.
'What happened?' she asked a lanky Indian youth who had an excited look on his face.
'I saw it all,' the youth said. 'He was clinging onto the tree and I saw him cutting the top branch. I swear he was crying, sometimes even stopping to grab a leaf that had broken from the trembling his cutting caused, and put it to his mouth. And then he climbed on top of the branch and continued cutting it. There was a shrieking tear and they both fell.'
Eva became even more excited than the youth.
'There are such people in this world and I must meet more.' Then she became ponderous and added, 'I hope they will appreciate Brazil more than this guy though.' She noticed the youth looking at her in rapture, which went some way towards placating her fears, and turned to him.
'If you can tell me,' she began, swinging her bag with the box in it, 'what the 'p' really stands for,' she came closer, 'I'll let you eat what's in the box with me.'
