There are three books, five magazines, and a pillow.
All are haphazardly placed upon a small wooden stool. Upon the pile, you will find me teetering precariously before a bookshelf. Despite all this grandeur, my fingers continue to wiggle desperately towards an object on the very top shelf.
Darn my stubbornness for not grabbing the ladder.
I can’t quite explain, but it was as if a hand had grabbed my chin and wrenched my gaze from my phone, urging me to regard this bookshelf with new eyes. Like a familial embrace, it hugs my living room wall.
I’ve known it my whole life. Through my dork years with big glasses and questionable fashion choices. Even through those distant teenage years when I would scoff at its books. It has even moved out with me, giving me hell when trying to fit it through the door of my apartment.
But you must understand, this bookshelf has long been demoted to a commonplace item from how often I trudge past it. Its mystique has worn over time. This bookshelf only ever lives in my periphery now. Yet like sirens, the relics upon it sang their sweet tunes, toying me with curiosity, and tugging me closer. Or perhaps, it was Reality and Fiction coaxing my inner writer with the promise of stories from the past.
One voice in particular calls to me more beautifully than the rest, and by sheer luck, I manage to seize the aged photobook. I dismiss the stool’s wobble of disapproval as I brush my thumb across the photobook’s well-used spine.
I drag my fingertips across its plastic pages, across all those unreachable memories beyond glossy paper windows. Then I bring it up to my nose. In case you were wondering, I’m seeking the distinct trace of Mum’s burnt incense. It was always something labelled ‘Chakra Lotus’ or ‘Moldavite’. She was a very spiritual woman, so she believed in all those things and their ability to cleanse your soul. Although I used to tease her for it, I do miss her quirks.
I inhale the scent of home.
Like a novel, my family album holds photographs like words tethered to a page, weaving a childhood tale of two twins. Yet unlike the conventional novel, this album has no decipherable beginning nor ending. Upon opening, you are skyrocketed into a collaged world of blue eyes and brown eyes. Of ‘dois corações’, or two hearts, as my father would sing.
“Um bem, um mau”, one good, one bad—
I always teased him about who he thought was which.
It is no storybook where the progressions of our lives are neatly assorted. Rather, I find the photobook to be a loved but unkempt archive rather than a novel. Procure such an archive in your mind. Go on. Do you see the explosion of papers which coat every dusty surface? Each piece of paper you find is a precious photograph and memory. An organised chaos, if you will. Or perhaps, just chaos. Occasionally, someone – just like you – might venture into the space, shuffle some papers around, purse their lips, and move that photograph from here to there.
Just to throw a spanner in the works, Reality and Fiction too might barge in through the door. They were always welcome entities in our archive. After all, my parents always had a way of conspiring with Reality and Fiction to weave the most compelling stories. The result: you would be on the edge of your seat by the end of the tale, eager for more. Although the extent of which their stories were true and how much fictional spice they sprinkled in was much up to debate.
Inevitably, it would take you years to find the beginning of our story, let alone trace it.
You would need a guide. An archivist.
Not to worry though, I would be delighted to show you around. You’re very welcome.
I catch a glimpse of a grainy image: pristine, whitewashed walls that could only be found in a hospital room. My father holds both his daughters with a toothy grin. I squint at my mother’s scrawl to confirm that this was in fact taken in the Hospital e Maternidade Santa Joana, São Paulo. Yet it does not inform you of the entire story. Now, this is where a handy archivist, such as myself, comes into play.
So, how about this for a beginning:
I was dying before I was born. What an exciting way to begin life.
Premature. 1.9 kg. Gasping for air.
All as my twin sister shrieked from the top of her little lungs like any newborn. And I was right there, in the middle of dying, but no, she had to be deemed the older sister. She simply had to.
In the end, my sister was born first by a measly three minutes. I know she probably didn't wiggle her way in front of me. Logically, they would have just plucked her first from my mother’s stomach, without much thought. But I wouldn't put it past her. I am sure you have already deduced that the title of ‘older sister’ loomed over me well into our teen years. Okay fine, perhaps into adulthood too. It didn’t help that she got the tall genes. She doesn't even need to wear glasses.
I digress.
To be truthful, this wasn’t even our first brush with death. For one, my mother’s doctor had grossly underestimated my mother's love for swimming. He didn't even bat an eyelid upon allowing her to swim during her pregnancy. Unknowing, of course, that her ‘swimming’ involved a few kilometres a day rather than a few recreational doggie paddles. It was after a couple weeks of this when my mother attained the motherhood equivalent of a Spidey-sense and suspected something was wrong. Of course, the doctor dismissed my mother’s supposed delusion that one of her children had stopped moving. I can imagine him raising a brow and tutting,
“How could you possibly know such a thing?”
Yet my mother is as stubborn as they come – she pestered the doctor until he gave in and agreed to do another ultrasound just to stop her yapping. As it turned out, she was right. She saved my life.
All's well that ends well.
My sister and I were born and happily raised in São Paulo. One of my favourite images is this one: us as toddlers, both held by my grandfather, who has long since passed. My three cousins crowd around as if they were the three wise men.
There is a corner of a torn newspaper clipping poking out of the next page. You can see it is faded and fraying, but still legible enough if I chose to read it. I don’t need to. I already know what it says.
“GHOST TOWN” – bold letters of a headline stamped above a black-and-white photograph of empty streets and shuttered windows. The kind of headline that feels more like theatre than journalism.
I’ve only ever heard my mother unravel this story once. Rest assured, I have Reality and Fiction to assist me and fill any gaps I’ve missed. Nevertheless, I do have a good memory for this one. After all, it is perhaps my mother’s best story. It is also the underlying reason behind us moving to Australia. Or rather, the straw, from a long series of straws, that finally broke the camel’s back. Truth be told, I don’t know why I didn’t start with it. Especially considering my tendency for a dramatic flair.
I mean to think, I could have easily started like this:
I was born, and, naturally, a bomb went off.
Two years later.
Let me unfold the scene for you. It’s Thursday in late 2006. São Paulo. A city of movement, vivacity. However at 3 p.m., the city shuts down. Almost Woolf-like, Reality and Fiction intertwine. They bicker like two children before a box of Lego over which piece is more important and assemble the words. A tale whispers into being, which I now present to you – the city that never slept is reduced to a ghost town.
My mother is alone. She has already sent home the maid, cook and cleaner. All that remains are her two three-year-old twins, and night’s stalking presence.
She is asleep. Until, of course, all the windows of the apartment tremble in their frames, threatening to burst into glistening tears. A bomb, three blocks down the street.
She rushes to us with bated breath. And there we are, miraculously unscathed and still in a peaceful slumber. It’s just impressive for two-year-olds. Then again, my sister and I were always heavy sleepers. We have had our share of sleeping through countless fire alarms. I know, that isn’t a good thing.
In the next few moments, my mother simply watches us. She clutches the sides of our cot as if it would anchor her. Although she appears to be still, a battle ensues in her mind.
Her family is here, her career, her newly set up medical clinic that has been her dream for so long. She couldn’t simply leave. But the life she was building, the future she was carving for us – it all suddenly felt brittle.
My mother is torn and has been for a while. But as she glances out the window onto the silent streets, she sighs and sets her lips.
The following day, my mother picks up a ringing phone with a glimmer of stubborn resolve. The machine spouts my father’s static voice. Heard from halfway across the world.
Australia.
She catches the excitement in his tone, as he exclaims,
“I got the job!”
There is no hesitation from her side of the line.
“Book the tickets. We’re leaving.”
We arrived on 17th March 2007. Our life started afresh on a Saturday. A future scraped clean of crime and corruption. We ate only chicken for weeks. It was the only English my mother knew.
It was in a living room, just like this one, where my parents would sit us down as kids. We would wander through the labyrinthine archive of the photobook together. The photographs were doors they enjoyed opening and with just a twist of a metaphorical handle, a story would unfold from their lips. The unsaid game of deciphering which words were the influence of Reality or Fiction would ensue. Yet before much was unravelled from my parents’ tongues, time would force our beings to unwillingly say goodnight.
The photobook would be dutifully returned to the bookshelf.
I move to do the same – I size up the pile upon the stool and ready myself to return the photobook to its home. But my fingertips linger on the cover. I can’t help but wonder how long it has been since I spoke to my sister. Years surely. Not much at all since my mother's passing. We were never close, after all.
But perhaps we ought to explore the archives together again.
Sometime soon.
