The Prophet from Pedras

The Prophet from Pedras

by

Gersi Alfredo Bays

A Novel

First written in Esperanto

Translated by

Trevor Steele

MONDIAL

Copyright

Mondial

New York

Gersi Alfredo Bays:

The Prophet from Pedras

Novel first written in Esperanto

Translated into English by Trevor Steele

Copyright © 2014 Gersi Alfredo Bays

All rights reserved.

Published at Smashwords.

Cover illustration by Samicler.

ISBN 9781595692702 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781595692856 (eBooks)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013954482

www.mondialbooks.com

BROWN BEER, WHITE BEER

It was too hot in January 1934 in Porto Alegre. In Bepi’s Cellar, in Bona­fin district, the drinkers were cooling their bodies with beer and their souls with singing:

Brown beer,

White beer,

The very best cheer

To everyone here.

More precisely, they sang not in the national language but in the Brazilian dialect of Venetian, called Talian to distinguish it from standard Italian. This is what they were singing:

Bira bionda,

Bira scura,

Tola tonda,

Mai paura.

The refrain was repeated over and over again ad nauseam. From time to time somebody was challenged to add a special verse that had to have in it words that masked erotic meanings. Didn’t they easily grasp that beer stands for woman?

The drinking and boozing took place in the basement of the cellar, a rather dark place. The table was not round, but they sat in a circle.

Before you got to that room there was a counter for serving internal customers, and a barman there was on duty just for the beer lovers.

At the entrance, three steps lower, there was a big counter for the other customers. These people did not normally see the beer drinkers but could hear the singing, which was often less than tuneful. The words they could catch, but not the added meanings.

One of the regular cellar guests was Prophet. As a non-practising Jew he was an exception among the group of Italian Catholics – as if they respected priests and the Church! On the contrary they swore religiously when singing with fervour. Swinish Nod! (so as not to say God) was a naive bit of linguistic camouflage most often repeated. Some of them were indeed anarchists, though they themselves had no idea what the word anarchistic meant.

This day Prophet was not inclined to stay with his friends. So he stood at the inner counter drinking his beer. Somehow he did participate in the joyful singing of his colleagues. He was highly appreciated because of his generous help in sustaining the costs of the circle.

He was nicknamed Prophet precisely because of his appearance: long black hair usually unkempt, and a truly prophetic long beard. He looked much older than he really was. Some people addressed him as comrade anarchist, to which he reacted with an understanding smile.

And now he was drinking his beer while standing at a balcony, and he raised his glass of beer to salute the friends in the cellar lounge. One of them started to joke: Prophet, I guess today you’ll drink brown beer ... How much do you wanna bet?

The man challenged him in that way because Prophet had not seen that a woman had mysteriously entered. A brunette! His back was to her. Mysteriously, because it was totally unusual for a woman to enter. Females don’t enter bars.

And she ordered a beer – a white one!

I won’t bet because you’ve already lost. I’m drinking a white one, you anarchist Christian! he replied to the one who wanted to bet.

Still, there was a huge amount of laughter, and they made a great noise bashing the table with their hands and the floor with their feet. The presence of a woman stimulated them in their drinking and singing. Then the Prophet suspected something, looked around, and spotted the woman.

Hey, what a pleasant surprise to have you as a fellow drinker!

To your health, Prophet! she greeted him with the name she had heard, then she challenged him by drinking a whole glass of beer with one draught and ordering another.

Put it on my bill, he said to the barman, and he invited her to sit down at a table nearby, in a corner, some distance from the counter and the noisy friends. They could easily guess that today he was drinking brown beer...

She accepted his invitation with a slight smile. She had never done anything like that. For her too the thing was a challenge. First of all, even to enter the bar. Secondly, to agree to sit with a stranger.

There they continued drinking and chatting.

What’s your name, charming surprise packet?

Luiza Dimarti. Your name certainly isn’t Prophet, but you do have the profile of a prophet. If my guess is correct, or if I dare to ask ... the only thing that’s missing is that you’re a Jew?

Well, it’s not hard to suspect that. My face itself, but I’m Jewish not only in the beard. Then there’s the big Jewish population in this district, isn’t there? Sure, Italians and Germans make up the main part in the city, but there are lots of Jews here too.

"And your name?

Ludvig Kapstein. An unknown name, isn’t it?

Not at all. Now I want to do a bit of ‘prophesying’, to avoid the word guessing. I think they wrote your name incorrectly on your birth certificate.

If you guessed that, how is my name written?

They wrote a V where it should be a W. I’m doubtful about the surname...

Yes, that’s right! How did you know that?

I teach in a high school. When I check the names of the schoolkids I notice mistakes with Italian names, even more often than with German ones. It’s quite easy: Italian sounds almost the same as Portuguese, so people think they know. But German names are so difficult that people ask about them.

If that’s so, Luiza was written with a Z and not with S, I suppose?

Precisely! In that way many names are corrupted. And the people who no longer speak the language of their origins want to pronounce according to Portuguese phonetics. It’s a bit strange!

The drinkers were greeting the growing acquaintance of Prophet with the brunette visitor with louder and louder singing of the refrain, and by adding verses created on the spur of the moment. Hm, did only Prophet understand them? Did that woman, a teacher, perhaps understand too? If she did, it could be a bit awkward!

Your friends are making a noise and trying to make daring allusions to my presence, aren’t they? If I’m translating their words correctly.

Hell, she did understand! So Prophet, after enjoying their drinking and chatting, suggested a walk with Luiza.

I accept!

They said goodbye and set off despite the protests of all the others.

While they took a short walk and then sat in the shade of huge trees Prophet learned that his companion was teaching singing and music. That she loved drawing and playing the piano. For her part she learned that he was an architect who nevertheless loved taking photos and making music. An amateur violinist. Apart from that, a collector of butterflies and other insects.

A duet of musicians?

She had now decided to send away her new acquaintance, rather regretfully, but afraid that somebody would see her with him. Why was she afraid? Wasn’t she on holidays for the whole month?

We’ll meet again at Bepi’s, won’t we? Maybe tomorrow? I’d really like that.

Maybe sometime again. But I can’t promise.

But I’ll walk you home if you let me.

Oh no! Don’t do that! I live close by, but I prefer to walk alone. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ludvig. Goodbye!

I’m sure my pleasure was greater, Luiza. I’d be happy to see you again straight away! You noticed we have the same name, because Ludvig is Luiza!

Yes, I sure did! Well, my namesake, goodbye.

Bye, Luiza. Come again!

And she walked away. But he stood there as though turned to stone. When she was already a long way off, he said very softly bye and made a gesture of farewell. She, it seemed, heard it. She turned and looked at him once more, and again waved goodbye.

His heart was full of an unknown happiness.

Was it too quick?

At another corner she took a different direction. He waited for a while, and suddenly he wanted to run after her, at least as far as the street she had disappeared into. When he reached it, he could no longer see her.

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The get-togethers in the cellar continued. The time spent there grew longer and longer. But she preferred to sit in the shade of the gigantic tree on the square. So he carried beer there, another, yet another beer. Their conversations became really friendly and pleasurable. Mostly about music. Teaching. Architecture, photography and insects. A little bit about wine. He had already taken her photo. Several times. She drew his prophet’s face. Many strokes for the hair and the beard.

But in their being together under the shade of the huge tree they were no longer alone. Other people started to imitate them. Tables and chairs were set up there, and finally somebody established a new bar straight in front of the great tree and profited from its shade.

One evening while they were together they saw a young man in a strangely green shirt. He drew her attention to it because the young man was standing at some distance but was eyeing the whole area, taking a careful look at all the people present.

Yes, I’ve already seen the fellow. There are a few of them on duty in the district. Didn’t you notice they have a particular drawing around their arm. A capital M lying on the side.

Well, what do you know! It’s the Greek letter sigma! That’s an imitation of the German brown shirts and their abominable symbol! Have the ones in our country changed the colour – at least they have better taste than the Hitlerites – and the symbol? No, it’s not a reclining M, that’s the Greek letter Σ, sigma. What the Hell do they mean by that? By all means let’s find out. It’s probably something stinking.

And in fact there was a stench of integralists, a fanatical group with doctrines similar to those of the Nazis.

The place on the square no longer appealed to them, so they went back to the cellar where the friends were.

Welcome to the returned soul!

Rather, to the returned souls!

But they no longer took part in the singing and noisemaking. They preferred to sit in their corner.

One of the friends approached them: I ask permission to pass on information to Prophet.

Yes, tell me.

We had a strange visit from a chap dressed almost in uniform. A green shirt with the symbol of a reclining M.

So now they‘re going into bars too? Just the way they do in Germany. Those guys are imitating the Nazis. They changed the brown colour to green and the symbol too, to the Greek letter sigma. What are they trying to say by that? Have the Nazis already exported their ideas and are camouflaging them here?

So you see, the drinking friend commented, we too all suspected it had something to do with politics. He cast his eye over the whole place, took note of the faces of the drinkers, didn’t drink at all himself, and then went off without saying a word."

But after that first information about their suspicions they went back to talking about more everyday and personal matters.

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Days and weeks passed.

Then there was another suspicious action by a green shirt. He entered the bar with a paper in his hand, walked up to Bepi and asked him: Are there Jews among your clients? Do you know any other Jew apart from these names?

Bepi had already heard about that thing with Jewish names, and he said: I can’t read very well, and I know only my clients and a few neighbours.

The officer forced him to read all the names. Bepi drew out for a long time the reading, intentionally misreading names.

I know only a few. But I don’t care if they’re Jews or not. I just want them to be my clients. So who is interested in this Jewish matter?

You can’t ask about that. And shut up about my questioning. On the other hand, get yourself better informed. Or we’ll break up your bar. Understood?

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In spite of those strange happenings there was continuous drinking and singing about White beer, brown beer ...

Ludvig and Luiza also met there more often. But always alone in a corner.

So as not to get caught up in lots of questions and answers, Ludvig and Luiza agreed to take it in turns to talk about their lives. She insisted that he be the first. He tried in vain to persuade her that ladies go first.

LUDVIG KAPSTEIN

Information for Luiza Dimarti:

My mother died when I was a small child. I don’t remember her. My father was religious, even bigoted. Stern. My childhood and youth were passed mainly indoors. He wanted me to learn not only about trading in watches and jewellery, but also about religion, the Bible, and of course Hebrew. Where? If not in Porto Alegre, if not in Brazil, then in Europe. In Germany!

I went there after my high school. I didn’t dare tell my father I was going unwillingly. But the wish to travel and get to know other countries, to live in another world, made me forget my lack of interest in religious and Hebrew questions.

In Nuremberg I studied in the architecture faculty. As well I of course had to satisfy my father’s wishes. I made poor progress in studying the Bible and Hebrew. But I had to prove to my father that I was making progress. A colleague and friend helped me in writing letters. We wrote in German with a goodly number of Hebrew words. As well, we made lots of mistakes ... so my father would understand I was a beginner. He pointed out my mistakes, corrected and sent back my letters so I’d learn from my errors. After a few months I could manage those letters by myself, taking care not to repeat the same mistakes. My learning proceeded at a snail’s pace. The worst shortcomings were on religious topics where my comments were not quite right. My father scolded me very severely sometimes, suspecting I didn’t even participate every Sabbath in religious services. He was right.

And the time came when I did not receive an answer to my latest letter. Months of waiting passed. I rewrote that letter, guessing that something was wrong, and added some more questions. Again there was no reply. So I wrote to an uncle. After a long while he dared to tell me that Dad had died. A sudden death, totally unexpected. He wrote that nobody had dared to write to me.

Well, despite pangs of conscience I no longer spent time on Biblical matters, nor on the Hebrew language. In addition to that a nasty political din was causing worry throughout the country, life was not easy. Most importantly, there was talk of persecution of Jews. So in Germany too! I wanted to move to Vienna. There, the same nasty news. Nevertheless I finished the studies in my faculty.

Back to Brazil. In Porto Alegre. In Bonafin district. Staying with friends. Professionally I got on quite easily. There was even too much work. Why work so much? If I had stayed in Germany my fate could have become terrible.

Was that so only in Europe? Then my ears picked up that my father had not died a normal death. My suspicions of hidden information got terrible: somebody killed my father! Police inquiries proved totally useless.

There I was, with no parents, no siblings, an only son. So why work so hard?

I dedicated myself to music. I found consolation in it. And in photography and collection of insects. I fell in love with the technology of photography. Even piece of information about cameras was welcome. Perhaps I love taking photos because I have no talent for drawing and painting. I love painting so much, but I just cannot draw even a bird or cat! But I photograph them! Such a pity the colours are missing.

Women? Ah, women! I can’t remember a special girlfriend during my high school years. Then I was a good student and did a lot of sport. Obviously I preferred football. I played as a winger. I was a faster runner than my mates.

During the years of university study I did have girlfriends. No serious case of falling in love. Non-Jewish girlfriends don’t care to be caught ... and Jewesses, damn it, almost all of them think only about religion. About other women’s matters it’s better that I say nothing.

LUIZA DIMARTI

Information for Ludvig Kapstein:

I was born in Nova Prata, a small provincial town, inland. Life really flowed simply there. That’s where I did my first four years of schooling. I was very good at school. I especially enjoyed music, and even played a harmonium in the church. A Catholic one, of course.

Later I went to a high school to become a teacher. That was the only profession for a woman. If not that, then you married, had lots of children and housework.

At home we spoke a Venetian dialect that we called Talian, in imitation of Italian. The language is a mixture of Italian dialects and Portuguese, very similar to Italian.