The Tonseca House
Ten days short of his eighteenth birthday—that official benchmark into sudden adulthood (in this case, too sudden)—Nick Breton’s father, Ernesto José Breton de Barros, fled from home because of a short poem published in the school paper.
The year was 1950, and the rains had arrived early, even though October dragged its feet. The heat ultimately peaked in the third week, bursting a hole in the heavens to release over the state capital the equivalent of “a thousand soccer stadiums of rain”—the way it was reported by the evening news. Those were known as trombas-d’água, as from an elephant’s trunk, a ferocious dump of water from the clouds for a short ten to fifteen minutes.
Later in life, Ernesto José was to miss those shower explosions, inevitable and indecorous, scattered throughout the day, unloaded with such a vengeful force and yet so short lived. The rains in the mountainous areas of the southeast—particularly in Belo Horizonte, where he was to build his fortune and raise a family of his own—were too light, too slim, too cold and, worst of all, persisted for days. It felt like the buildings perspired a cold sweat and the droplets hung in the air, floating sideways instead of downward. Back where he grew up, rain announced itself by slapping you in the face. Umbrellas were comical artifacts. There was scampering, and people sought masonry over their heads and ran for cover as if from a plague of locusts. They made new friends this way, under the front canopies of the tobacco shops or cramped inside the pharmacies and stifling bank lobbies. How many times had Ernesto run into one of his sisters or aunts, one of his teachers, even a more immodest wife of a politician or doctor, glowing and soaked to the skin, elbowing her way among strangers, being whistled at while seeking shelter under the awning of a grocery store?
So predictable these daily showers, work schedules were arranged around them. It wasn’t unusual for the doctor to confirm an appointment “for after the three o’clock rain, or tomorrow morning, before the midday shower.” It wasn’t apology, excuse, or alibi. Rain was simply embraced as another foreseeable part of the day, like time and space, a familiar pattern. But in the evening, under the protection of their own welcoming homes, the strangest thing took place: people forgot all about it. Was it still raining outside? Had it rained during the day? Had it ever?
The city of Teresina was a small state capital with no more than seventy thousand people. It was known as the green city of the arid Brazilian northeast for its multitude of parks and baronial trees. It had been the first projected city in Brazil, thought out in blueprint, with its business center sandwiched between two major rivers, the Parnaíba to the west and the Potí to the east. “Think of a central Paris built between two straight-lined Seines,” Ernesto José once told a group of German businessmen. “Now,” he continued, “take the grid of the streets of Manhattan, with its perpendicular lines, and shove it between the two rivers. That’s Teresina. A capital wedged between two watery parentheses.”
He grew up in a spacious house in a street lined with century-old caneleiro trees. Located in a pleasant neighborhood on the east bank of the Potí River, Neto Fonseca Street had been oddly named after an ordinary fisherman lost at sea—this, in a sea-less capital famous for two rivers. Why local authorities had chosen to immortalize such particular nobody as opposed to a more regional anybody (perhaps of freshwater fame) had never been investigated or explained.
In the spring, the caneleiros lit up the street with yellow flowers. The lush branches held hands from above, forming a large canopy to shade the road. The Tonseca house—as its inhabitants chose to abbreviate “Neto Fonseca”—was surrounded by a tall stone wall, like a fortress, with a sturdy iron gate belt-buckling the front. The white plaster of the wall was only seen under a few shaded areas. By then, much of it had become an open field for the creeping vines, camouflaging the building to create the impression of an ancient temple lost in some mythical forest.
All around, the house was cut open and adorned with majestic thick-framed jacaranda-timbered windows, wide enough to “jump a horse through,” as Professor Ademar Pinto once described it to an insurance surveyor. The story goes that André Luíz, one of Ernesto José’s older brothers, overheard the conversation and attempted to put the proclamation to a test. He broke his left leg and right wrist and couldn’t sit down for a week. The horse was unharmed but left two horseshoe gouges on the wooden floors, a reminder to all visitors of the lunacy of those living in the house.
There were twelve permanent residents in the Tonseca, but at any time, the population would grow to fifteen, even twenty, depending on who was visiting or simply passing through for lunch or coffee. The property’s title was later vested under the names of Joana Teresa Breton Souza-Barreto (the oldest sibling of the Breton de Barros family) and her husband, Ademar Pinto Souza-Barreto. Ernesto José’s father, Manoel Ernesto Luíz de Barros, had abandoned his family when Ernesto was still cleaning snot on his shorts. Besides the two Souza-Barretos—soon to become three, one curled up inside Joana Teresa—there were Ernesto José’s two older brothers, Artur Luíz and André Luíz (of equestrian fame), and three remaining sisters, Teresa Maria, Teresa Cristina, and the youngest of the family, Neúza Maria. The matriarch, Carlota Maria de Jesus Breton de Barros (Ernesto’s mother), shared a room with her unmarried sister, Aunt Maria do Socorro. Last but not least, Grandma Rita Maria shared a room with her own mother (Ernesto’s great-grandmother), Maria Ordália das Graças Breton, the oldest living thing in the house.
At 102 years old, Maria Ordália was an ancient artifact. She was virtually blind and quite delusional. Nevertheless, she wasn’t insincere when she claimed to be a titled duchess from imperial times. This was something the old relic liked to remind everyone, solemnly and repeatedly, throughout the week. The gossip (unfounded) was that her husband had lost their royal titles in a card game while inebriated at a wedding. But even after half a century, the grand dame remained a fervent Crown loyalist and believed that the royal court was still in existence down in Rio de Janeiro. She was certain that Ademar Pinto was a revolutionary Republican and treated him with the most perverse contempt. This became part of the entertainment in the house. The old woman was known to point her bony fingers at the professor (but mostly at the walls, for she couldn’t see) and shout insane proclamations, accusing the man of treason and many other lesser evils of republicanism. In response, Ademar Pinto learned to humor Maria Ordália and play along, but never sinking so low as to indict the antediluvian creature for collusion, since she lived under the same roof and ate at the same dinner table.
Inês “Bonita” (Pretty Inês) was a hard-working girl of twenty-four who lived in a small room out in the back of the property, past the cajú trees. She was the maid, cook, nanny, gardener and, at desperate times, faith healer and shaman. Noticeably pretty although of questionable intelligence, the young woman was treated as an adopted sibling. She shared the room with Goethe and Rilke, the two dogs Professor Ademar Pinto adopted when he first moved in with the family.
In his early teens, Ernesto José sneaked out of the main house to spy on Pretty Inês. From behind the cajú trees, he watched her undress before going to bed. The stakeout lasted only a few minutes. The longer he stayed, the greater the chance for the dogs to sniff him out. Pretty Inês never found out about the secret hideout, and how she had unintendedly exposed herself to the boy all those nights. At least that’s what Ernesto José told himself.
Besides the resident family, many others chose to visit and congregate at the Tonseca throughout the day. Lunchtime was the busiest. The children were back from school, and so was Ademar Pinto, who announced his presence by shouting, “We’re hungry!” the moment he crossed the foyer. They all sat around the large oak table in the dining room and waited impatiently for Joana Teresa and Inês Bonita to bring the food out.
For Ernesto José, it was a short bicycle ride from Dom Barreto Institute where he went to school. He pedaled fast under the shade of the caneleiros and conjured up the kitchen scents, and his stomach growled in anticipation. He was then able to visualize his plate, and he mentally devoured it without the need of a fork.
Each day, a handful of strangers joined the clan for lunch. These “guests” were arbitrary people Joana Teresa happened to bump into at the market, pharmacy, bank—namely, anywhere she had visited that morning—and decided to invite for the daily banquet. There were also mere acquaintances passing through, strategically around lunchtime. There would be half a dozen of Ernesto José’s school friends, aunts, nephews, or a never-heard-of cousin or grand-uncle. Whoever they were, and regardless of the reason presented to gain admission to the feast, there was always enough food.
One time, the family lunched with two police officers who had come to arrest a drunkard who had tried to break into the neighbor’s house. The unfortunate burglar sat handcuffed under a tree, guarded by Goethe and Rilke, while the officers spent an elongated hour inside. They had lunch, dessert, coffee, and cigarettes before finally walking away and leaving the bandit behind. Ademar Pinto had to deputize himself and take the man to the police precinct. The forgotten walked away with a bag of leftovers, good for a whole week.
Another time, on a Saturday, the mayor showed up. Ademar Pinto had run across the dignitary at the city park, across from town hall, where the two began rambling about real-estate speculation. The discussion turned heated, and since both men were opinionated enough not to allow the other to have the last argument, they carried the debate, by foot, from the city center, across the bridge, to the doorstep of the Tonseca house. Joana Teresa, never unprepared, promptly placed an additional plate on the table and magically produced a glass of fresh pitanga juice (the politician’s favorite), as if the visit had been planned for weeks.
“Inês!” she yelled, walking back into the kitchen, “pour another jar of water in the beans!”
“Who’s he?” Inês asked, holding the door open to look at all the commotion in the dining room.
“The mayor, Bonita!” Joana Teresa said. “You voted for him, dind’cha?”
“Did I?” Inês replied, struggling to remember the last time, if any, she had participated in the democratic process.
“Oh, you did indeed, whether you did or not, you did!” Joana Teresa declared.
The discussion came to an end, but only after the two men shoved their napkins in their shirt collars and began to stuff themselves. By dessert, a new squabble had begun. This time, it was the rabid grand dame who cried out and accused Ademar Pinto and the mayor of Teresina of being ardent revolutionaries.
“I ain’ not as lacking of seeing as not to see what both y’all treacherous Jacobins have of’ve been machinating,” she proclaimed, raising her dessert spoon.
Ademar Pinto leaned closer to the mayor. “Believes Don Pedro is still emperor,” he whispered.
“Oh dear,” the mayor replied.
“Seditious!” the grand dame shouted.
“I’m afraid, dear Maria Ordália,” Ademar Pinto announced, “the mayor and I are much disinclined and rather lethargic to organize, on account of all our eating and drinking. In fact, I believe we are now condemned to the siesta and will very soon resort to snoring.”
“I believe the professor is quite right,” said the mayor. “We aren’t in any condition to march this afternoon.”
“My kingdom for a horse, and my horse for a hammock!” exclaimed the professor, raising his fork. This was the signal for Pretty Inês to bring out the coffee.
After that, as abruptly as she had blurted out her denunciations, the ancient Maria Ordália das Graças Breton, former duchess of São Cristóvão and instigator of lost causes, felt robbed of her vitality as if a warm balm had been poured over her century-old self. She closed her eyes and, after discharging a loud grunt, fell into a deep sleep, still sitting in front of her cannons and horses and half-eaten coconut flan.
