the master’s student
Luisa was absolutely certain that the members of the selection panel had been impressed by her, the twenty-three-year-old lately graduated in history from the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, with unusual determination, who had come down to Porto Alegre in order to secure a sought-after place as a postgraduate at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul. ‘From one Rio down to the other,’ said the chair of the panel before letting slip in so many words that she would be most welcome on the master’s programme. Then she took a bus to the centre of town, went straight to the hotel on Praça Otávio Rocha. She decided to stay in the city until the results were released. Seven days to take in what would be awaiting her in that Distant South if she were to be accepted, seven days far away from the dullness of Urca, from the brand-new Chevette her father had given her, from her childhood friends, from the groups that hang out at Lifeguard Post Nine on Ipanema Beach. ‘Make yourself at home, Miss Luisa,’ said the man behind the hotel reception desk as he handed her the key to her room. Luisa Vasconcelos Lange, only daughter of Colonel Ambrósio, that placid man, exemplary husband, conscious of his realm of influence, capable (through his kindnesses, his sophistication, his affected reserve) of establishing a network of absolute control over every move made by his subordinates, his close friends, his wife and now, since her graduation more than ever before, by his daughter. Luisa, however, has always managed to escape. She knew that she would never be able to realise certain desires if she remained under that control. She went into the room, turned on the air conditioning, took off the suit that she had chosen specially for her interview with the panel, showered, put on a dress like the ones southern girls wear. She went out to explore the centre a little more. She walked to the São Pedro Theatre, went up to the mezzanine, struck by the five o’clock evening light, sat at one of the outside tables of the theatre café, looked at the menu (everything looked promising), ordered a chamomile tea, a slice of apple cake. She took in the Praça da Matriz, the cathedral, the historic buildings, the residential buildings and the ones filled with offices, she told herself that this would be a better place than her Rio, distant, self-sufficient, where she might perhaps discover what to do with everything that brought her closer to the freedom of a life without regrets.
names in vain
