Jericoacoara, Brazil
She springs forth from the powdery dunes, horizon less expanses and the salt-sprayed beaches of Ceara`, Brasil. Both feet planted firmly in South America, one in her mother’s village of Jericoacoara, and the other in Argentina, the land of her father. Comfortable in both worlds, both languages, nurtured by a loving extended family, the little girl passes her days like children the world over: playing with dolls, drawing, laughing, learning, doing chores, and playing some more.
Her parents planted her namesake near their bedroom window. Perhaps as a living reminder for the gift God saw fit to bestow on them or perhaps to catch the sweet scent of the bloom as they lay in each other’s arms. The poignant reminder of their life together. Their little flower. Their greatest gift to the other. And when all things large and small are counted, their greatest legacy.
Blessed by the Tropics, she is a beautiful little girl with an easy, radiant smile that bursts forth with the slightest provocation. Tall for her nine years, she is thin with muted green eyes that are illuminated from within, mocha-brown skin, and has long, curly brown hair that seems to have been transplanted directly from her mother’s head. Energetic. Easy to talk, easy to dance.
Life revolves around her parents’ Pousada, which is the Brazilian equivalent of a Bed and Breakfast. The coming and going of strangers is like the rising and setting of the sun for her. It’s a part of life and therefore normal and accepted. These visitors, and sometimes new friends, arrive from all parts of the world. They ride over miles and miles of dirt roads and compact sand beaches, at times not believing there could be an end to the barren stretches and inhospitable terrain, only to arrive to the greetings and confusion of guides offering to bring them to the choicest pousadas.
Her parents’ pousada sits on the border of the National Park in Jericoacoara overlooking the massive, sun-scorched dunes for which Jeri is famous. It is an oasis in this hot, arid land. The grounds are well shaded from the sun by broad, covered terraces and a multitude of trees: banana, coconut, mimosa, lemon, papaya, and others known only to the inhabitants.
Her parents designed and saw to the construction of their dream when she was a baby and not quite out of diapers. They are affable and meticulous people. Every day cleaning and nurturing their piece of paradise. They are friendly and hospitable with the outgoing nature common to the people of Brasil.
One day a stranger appears. A foreigner, like many who pass through her home. The man has decided to stay awhile. He has the sense that the pousada not only borders the National Park but also a dreamlike place between waking and sunset, stars and dunes. The place draws him in effortlessly, silently, an irresistible pull like an ethereal lover insisting on an embrace like the gentle lapping of wavelets caressing long stretches of a tropical beach. A sense of unconsciousness, of rest, of barely floating, lures him.
The foreigner is quiet and shy by nature. His Portuguese is not fluent. Feeling uncomfortable in social situations, he is, as always, drawn out by the irresistible presence of a child. For him children are magical, playful little beings who see the world through new eyes and have the willingness to share their questions and imaginations with an innocence and openness not usually embodied in adults.
He finds her to be a friendly and patient girl. They talk and laugh together. She teaches him Portuguese and assigns him lists of new vocabulary to learn. She is a good teacher and open to correcting her new student.
After her parents leave one day to process the papers which will allow their precious daughter to return to Argentina with her paternal grandfather, she goes over to the foreigner’s terrace where he sits reading a novel by the renowned South American author Isabel Allende. He pauses to offer the little girl the use of his drawing pad.
Being a child, she cannot resist and proceeds to draw a picture for her new friend. Her drawing includes the sun, sand dunes, and lovers meeting for the first time. The romantic fantasies of a little girl. She makes it clear to him that she ONLY likes to play with little girls and NEVER with little boys. He nods. Smiles and nods. Of course sweetheart, how could it be any other way for a girl your age?
The reading glasses perched on the book, for him a symbol of advancing age, are irresistible to the child much as a shiny piece of jewelry is to a parrot. Both are imperturbably drawn to that which they seek and only extreme measures could dissuade them. The girl tries the glasses on: upside down, sideways, peering through one lens and then the other, squinting, adjusting the distance, distorting and contorting the world at her whim.
She wishes to see herself in the mirror while wearing the glasses. Impulsively she asks her new friend if she can use the mirror in his room. Her question is answered with a ‘No’. Surprised and a little unsure if she heard correctly, she asks again. The stranger reluctantly answers ‘No’ again. She doesn’t understand. There must be a good reason.
She leans toward him, close to him, out of earshot of the woman cleaning the rooms and whispers a question to him. He has just learned the verb ‘pegar’. It means ‘to take’. Is he afraid that she will take something from his room? No little one. We are friends. I trust you. Does the verb ‘acreditar’ mean ‘to trust’, or ‘to believe in’? He cannot remember.
The little girl is confused-angry-hurt by his answer. He says they are friends. That he trusts or believes in her. The have played together. Played together. A sacred trust between an adult and child. There is no reconciling the actions and the words. She goes away hurt and angry.
How can he explain to a child, any child, in any language, that the world is not always a safe place? How can he explain that in his culture children are taught from a young age by their parents, teachers, the police, and others, not to trust strangers? That there are people in the world who would hurt her for reasons even they do not understand? That in the moment it takes to look in the mirror, the heart and soul of a human being can be unalterably hurt? That a person can be so changed and damaged within a brief time that their life can feel as if suspended by a spit slowly rotating over the flames of despair and degradation?
He cannot. It is not his place. So all of this knowledge he must keep from her, because she deserves her innocence as he once deserved his. The only explanation he can offer is the word ‘NO’. Knowing it will hurt her as much as it hurts him. Knowing also that he risks losing her friendship which he has come to value.
Not long after, she comes to forgive him in the way only a child can forgive. Not noiselessly, but without words. She tosses her dolls onto his terrace. She brings load after load of her toys from her house and finally says to him:
“You know you caused a lot of confusion today Tomas.”
I know Jasmine. I know”
“Let’s play?”
“Let’s.”
For Jasmin with Love
May the sun, moon and stars shine down upon you each and every day of your life.
© Oysters Rockefeller 2005