Antonio Carlos Jobim: An Illuminated Man

Hal Leonard Books

An Imprint of Hal Leonard Corporation

7777 West Bluemound Road

Milwaukee, WI 53213

Trade Book Division Editorial Offices

33 Plymouth St., Montclair, NJ 07042

© 1996 Helena Jobim

English translation © 2011 Dário Borim Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without written permission, except by a newspaper or magazine reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review.

Published in 1996 as Antonio Carlos Jobim: Um Homem Illuminado by Editora Nova Fronteira

English-language edition published in 2011 by Hal Leonard Books

Book design by F. L. Bergesen

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN: 9781458429421

www.halleonardbooks.com

For my brother,

That faithful love,

In life and in death

Every time a tree is cut down here on Earth, I believe it will grow again somewhere else—in some other world. So, when I die, it is to this place that I want to go, where forests live in peace.

Antonio Carlos Jobim

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Foreword

Translator’s Note

Life, Death and Creation

Introduction

Opening

Trajectories

Ancestry

Childhood

Debut

Freedom

Stardom

Trouble

Revival

Loss

Dénouement

Photo Insert

Foreword

ANYONE WHO LOVES MUSIC, particularly great songs, probably remembers the moment he first listened to The Girl from Ipanema or Desafinado. For me, it was something like the summer of 1962. As a teenager, and fledgling musician, I was in orbit around the music of Motown, the Beatles, and Chicago radio jazz DJ Sid McCoy.

Then I heard the composer Jobim, and I found a part of myself. The mysteries of the long, shaped melodies and the complex harmonic structures completely resonated in me. Pretty much everything I ever composed, or enjoyed listening to ever since, had some root in that moment of discovery.

Years passed and I made my mark as a musician, and for perhaps emotional and spiritual reasons, in the early 1990s, I began listening again to all of Jobim’s body of work. Only now was I much more equipped to recognize qualities that I could not grasp when I was a kid.

I also embarked on casual explorations of all Brazilian music from the 1950s forward. This included reading as much as I could find, in English, about Jobim’s development, his history, his life. There was puzzlingly little about the man himself, his personal challenges, demons, triumphs. What was he thinking about? Obviously, we’ll never know.

There came my discovery, on the Internet, of Antonio Carlos Jobim: Um Homem Iluminado, by Helena Jobim (available in Portuguese, and perhaps, Japanese, but not English). What precious nuggets of insight lay frustratingly out of my ignorant reach?

In my reading of Internet articles, I had come across the learned and entertaining writing of Professor Dário Borim, who shared a love of music, and particularly Jobim, with me. I took a chance and wrote to him, and thus began a labor of love to bring the charming memoir to a huge population of English-reading music lovers. Mr. Borim took time from his busy activities as professor, writer, and radio personality, to take on the translation. I am forever grateful to him.

Robert Lamm

Translator’s Note

WHILE LISTENING TO ANTHOLOGICAL RENDITIONS of bossa nova classics by Ella Fitzgerald, Stan Getz, João Gilberto, Dizzy Gillespie, Oscar Peterson, and Sarah Vaughan, among others, I read Helena Jobim’s elegant Portuguese prose about the genesis of true gems of twentieth-century music. After every other minute, I was further enthused to re-create, in English, such fascinating story lines that explained the writing of Dindi, Desafinado, or The Girl from Ipanema. Moments of such sensorial and intellectual bliss had been extremely rare in my life as writer, literary critic, translator, and radio producer.

It was not always an easy spell, though. Antonio Carlos Jobim was someone else who knew all too well the perils and powers of translation. He always sought the most competent professionals in the business, such as lyricists Ray Gilbert, Norman Gimbel, and Gene Lees, to make his songs shine in meaning and elegance in the English language. He, himself, worked diligently on several of the new versions proposed for his lyrics. He understood the lights and shadows, especially the cultural and linguistic aspects, of literary translation, which demands cuts and additions, welcomes similarities and differences, but cannot refrain from gains and losses. As a result, many stanzas of Águas de março and Waters of March, for example, are not the same. Although they differ considerably even in length, the two poems display much more in common than the literal images they convey. Most significantly, neither is superior to the other.

Translating this book has been as daunting as any other translation task, except for the fact that Helena Jobim is an award-winning writer and her brother is regarded by many critics as one of the greatest composers of the twentieth century. So, I definitely gave my heart and soul to this mission, but not without the support from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and several individuals. My thanks go to John Cerullo, for trusting this project, plus Iris Bass, Jessica Burr, Mike Edison, and all other Hal Leonard staff who have helped make this volume what it is visually and otherwise. For various acts of kindness and expertise I am indebted to Helena Jobim herself, her husband (Manoel Malaguti, in memoriam), Marco Feitosa, Thereza Otero Hermanny, Ana Lontra Jobim, and Cristina Rocha, in Brazil; and Ann Fifield, Maureen Hall, Kassandra Hartford, Rick Hogan, Janet Homer, Christopher Larkosh, and Charles Perrone, here in the United States. Most of all, I am grateful for the generosity and inspiration from pianist and singer-songwriter Robert Lamm, one of the founding members of the legendary group Chicago.

Dário Borim Jr.

University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and WUMD

Life, Death, and Creation

TO SPEAK OF ONE OR TWO HUNDRED YEARS into the future is imprudent in this world where everything happens very fast and changes are rampant. Within a few years, everything is unpredictable. I think, however, that the future will command a more spiritual view of things, which perhaps will increase interest in the work of an Antonio Carlos Jobim. Quite often when I talk to friends, they ask me what I am doing. I’m used to replying to them, I’m writing for posterity. I’m working to deserve that Jobim’s bronze statue at a park somewhere.

Creation is an act of love, something that communicates with all humanity. An artist ought not to make anything that would contribute to the world’s downfall. I think I have a sense of responsibility for those I live with.

Life has an occult meaning, quite certainly. I was born in a skeptical environment, in an agnostic way. Before nature, [though], I feel that all negativity is naive, that God would not have created us for nothing.

People today are a lot ruder and more aggressive than they were a few years ago. On a deserted street, in a peaceful part of town where children play, a car may pass by too fast for the driver’s sheer pleasure of speeding or for any other reason indifferent to everything and everybody. Well—if at least they were in a hurry to get somewhere. Learning is difficult. We have to reeducate ourselves so that we don’t abuse others and we don’t let them abuse us. Despite it all, life can be agreeable for those who like what they do. Over there on that piano are unedited songs that need to be worked on. If everything goes well, if the plane doesn’t crash, we will record and we will write music for the youth, for those who want to and can make it better in the future. This is what I mean to say.

Antonio Carlos Jobim

Rio de Janeiro, 1982

Introduction

I HANDED IN THE ORIGINALS of Antonio Carlos Jobim: Um homem iluminado to my editor.

I crossed traffic-jammed streets and dreamy bridges in a misty city under light rain—it seemed I crossed the whole world to get to the beach.

And I held myself back for a moment to gaze at the sea, this sea made white-capped by the wind, this sea that is mine, that is yours, Tom, that belongs to all of us—waters that carried me in their bosom from the first to the last pages of this book.

By my side, Manoel Malaguti was irreplaceable.

We worked together on this book, night and day, through laughter and through tears. It was difficult. It was easy. Oftentimes it edged the impossible, but all of a sudden, it was also splendor, enlightenment, a fantastic voyage.

Now, there it is. I did not mean to exhaust such a vast subject matter. This was my approach, my focus, an unintentional redemption that I unconsciously pursued.

There are intimate passages narrated in first person. On other occasions, I needed to step back, use third person, and look at that fabulous landscape from above.

Um homem iluminado does not end with the last period on the last page. Neither does it conclude with the last word that I set down here. It goes on writing itself, making itself, and growing by itself.

Helena Jobim

Opening

IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK on a Thursday morning, and the day was very clear. The first mists had disappeared from the hills and the windowpanes. That sunny day seemed extraordinarily bright, after several weeks of rain. It was spring in Brazil—October 20, 1994. We were at our country house, and Oziel was planting red bougainvilleas to fill in the gaps in the hedgerow in front of the garden. It was at this moment that we received the call. Our small mongrel dog, Funny, ran from side to side ecstatically, trying to catch with her mouth the water spurting from the rubber hose. Manoel, my husband, washed the porch’s slippery floor, replete with soggy leaves stuck to its cement floor. Barefoot, with his pants rolled up to his knees, he whistled.

I remember well when the truck came in. It climbed up the ramp made of rock and edged by flowerbeds and then stopped in front of the house. It was driven by José Alonso, son of the local grocery store owner, Amador. He brought a message from my niece Elizabeth, Tom’s oldest daughter. She asked us to call my brother’s house before the day’s end. But it’s not a big deal, said the handwritten message’s postscript.

While my husband entered the house to change clothes, I asked our servant Diná to bring coffee, and right there, on the porch, I continued my conversation with José Alonso. He soon said good-bye, though, telling me he needed to go to Teresópolis. A few moments later, Manoel and I were in the car heading toward Valverde, the town with the nearest available telephone in the region around Poço Fundo, where our country house was located. In less than ten minutes, we had arrived at Amador’s store: a typical emporium of Brazilian small towns, with blue macaws painted on the facade of the building. On the counter, a modern telephone contrasted with the old-fashioned shelves with bottles and food to be sold in bulk from large hemp bags. Pink and naked celluloid dolls hung rather dustily from the ceiling right next to colorful pairs of sneakers and boots with soles made out of chunks of tire. Manoel bought some telephone tokens and we managed to connect with Rio in no time.

Elizabeth answered: I’ll have to take Maria Luiza to New York. She misses her parents too much. Elizabeth also told me that Ana, my sister-in-law, had asked me to be there in Rio for a few days, with João Francisco.

Tom’s youngest children, Maria Luiza was seven years old, and João Francisco, fifteen.

Is my brother okay?

Yes, yes, he is—finishing up his lab tests. I leave for New York with Maria Luiza Saturday night.

Saturday morning we went down the mountain. We got to Rio before noon. The trip was quick. Manoel honked in front of the stilt house. Doorman Nivaldo showed up, tall and bulky in his white uniform. He could not wipe the smile from his face.

The ramp, the small lake, the ipê tree in full bloom—those were the first sights. I climbed the stairs, crossed the living room, and entered my brother’s studio. It looked strangely deserted. The open windows framed the familiar view: the rock mount, the statue of Christ the Redeemer, the sun-bathed lagoon, and a small, faraway piece of the sea. Heavy silence enveloped me. Stuffy, windless air lingered on. Birds had been silenced by the mighty heat. Out there, no leaves dared to move. I remained motionless for a while, just looking. Two grand pianos stood in silence, one of them with its cover raised and the ivory of its keys turned yellow. On the couch, newspapers piled up. On the shelves, untidy books, left in Tom’s usual manner.

I approached such things unhurriedly: on top of one of the pianos, a collection of eye- and sunglasses, a cup with pens and pencils, and very clean sheet music. There were also boxes of cigars still unopened, and framed photographs.

I do not know how many minutes I remained there, touching his objects, but Manoel called me at one point. I heard his laughter and the house servants’ voices in the kitchen. The domestic aroma of sautéed food aroused in me some remote memories. Then the family’s cook, Tilde, celebrated my arrival. We hugged and kissed each other.

I said: What’s up with Elizabeth? How about Maria Luiza?

"Dona Elizabeth left with Maria Luiza last night. She wrote a note for you."

But wasn’t it tonight that they were going to go to New York?

"Well…it’s that dona Elizabeth suddenly managed to find air tickets for last night. Maria Luiza was too tearful…"— Tilde appeared to be very confused.

How about João Francisco?

João is in Itaipava, at his friend Zeca’s parents’ home. But he will be back tomorrow.

We went upstairs. I opened our suitcase, hung some clothes in my brother’s closet, between his coats. At two, we sat at the table to eat lunch. Elizabeth had left us some envelopes with checks, cash, and bills to pay, apart from various lists describing João Francisco’s daily schedules of extracurricular activities.

On that day, we called New York several times. Nobody answered at my brother’s apartment. We called our nephew Paulo’s home. He agreed to come see us that night. Thin rain started to come down. Lights in the garden made it possible to see flashes of water falling at an angle. They conveyed to me some vague sadness. At nine, my nephew arrived.

Paulo talked to me and Manoel until very late. Smoking a lot, Paulo looked distraught, but I could not believe what he said. In our family there had been no cases of cancer.

Cigarettes, the doctor would explain to him later. And cigars, too. They attack the lungs and bladder the worst.

I could not sleep that night. How many times did I get up? Eventually, I gave up trying to sleep. I spent a long time stooping over the rails in the porch, staring at the falling rain. Fine and incessant, it made the aroma of soaked soil drift all over the garden.

When the first glare of the day arose from above the sea, it had gotten quite chilly. Manoel woke up and saw me over there: Come lie down. Your brother will be okay.

I know.

But do come…or you will get a cold.

Just then, the vivid hues of another daybreak sky entered the bedroom.

On that Sunday morning João Francisco arrived from Itaipava. He had lost some weight. He looked more handsome, taller, much like his father. He hugged me in his blunt but tender fashion, exclaiming, How good it is that you have come!

He left his suitcase on the floor and took off at a run up the stairs. He then turned on his music system and, at the same time, tried to reach friends over the phone.

I recalled one of my mom’s phrases: Adolescents: quick and insensitive. That memory made me smile. We had already been there and done that, Tom and I, as adolescents.

We were able to talk to Tom every day. My brother seemed fine, full of hope. During the time that he spent in New York he underwent angioplasty: the little balloon, as he called it. One of his arteries was shrinking after catheterization. They ventured to think that it was some genetic factor—but the truth was that all his body’s arteries were obstructed to some degree. According to his doctors, there was no chance. It would not do any good to operate on his heart. Days later, he was subjected to a microsurgical procedure in the bladder. With epidural anesthesia they removed polyps and conducted new biopsies.

Over a weekend in Poço Fundo, two months before that trip to New York, he had revealed to me, My carotids are nearly shut off. The danger is that some plaque of fat may get dislodged and settle in the brain. If that happens…—he interrupted himself, his face turned sideways toward the fireplace.

It was ten in the morning, and it was very cold. We were by ourselves in the living room of his house in Poço Fundo, and from that spot we heard the children’s giggles outside. Sitting on the couch, my brother was leaning forward, his body illuminated by the glowing flames. It was also kept warm by a wool overcoat on top of his pajamas. His fallen shoulders and splayed hands disclosed a mighty sense of discouragement. He continued, in a low voice: I have felt some pain across my chest. Getting up rather abruptly, he concluded with a vague observation, But all this doesn’t matter.

I tried to speak without a hint of my emotions, but my breathing was paralyzed by the fear of losing him and by the notion that I would not withstand that pain. What I managed to say was simply, You will live long. I’m sure.

He turned his eyes toward me. I need to raise Maria Luiza. And be a mentor to João Francisco. He will already be fifteen years old.

But you will raise your children! You will dance at Luiza’s sweet fifteen ball.

He smiled, half bitterly, half ironically, because what I had just said was so old-fashioned and, at that point, he had by now predicted an early end to his life.

We left for the kitchen and sat in front of a long table covered with a checkered tablecloth. The dark wooden cupboard let us see, through its glass, the blue cups hanging inside it. This furniture was part of an old scene, a landscape from other eras. In a typical gesture of his, Tom put out his hand over the table to me. He then held my hand lightly. The next moment, Nininha, Ana’s maid, entered the kitchen, pushing the screen door inward: Would you like your sardines now?

It all seemed perfect, as if our chat on life and death had never happened. The skin of his face, still smooth, preserved some remains of youth. He opened the beer bottle that Silas had just brought in from Joel’s tent. He then served me some in a long-necked glass, controlling the head. Fondly I noticed the white spots on the back of his hands. He was like me, unwrinkled. As we gradually grew older, the forces of our genes accentuated how alike we were.

Once again we participated together in that Poço Fundo ritual without knowing it would be the last time: before lunch, some appetizers and some drinks. His dexterous fingers separated the sardines’ backbone and then, with a knife, he crumbled and mixed the tender fish with chopped onions. His beverage now was either bottled beer or beer on tap. When his beer was not cold enough, he added ice cubes to it. He was no longer allowed to drink whiskey.

How long had it been? It had been a few months, but now they seemed like centuries. After the results of the second biopsy had come back, he knew he had to undergo surgery a second time. This time it would require a deep incision in his abdomen. Quite probably, they would have to remove a piece of his bladder. Because of his tense emotional state and his precarious circulatory system, doctors gave him three weeks to rest before the second operation.

So he came back to Brazil.

Several of us went to pick him up at the airport. The plane was scheduled to land at Galeão at ten o’clock, after a stopover in São Paulo. My husband took my brother’s car. Tom’s older children, Paulo and Elizabeth, had already arrived there.

We did not wait long. Through the glass walls I sighted my brother among a group of people inside the customs area. He clearly had lost some weight. His way of walking remained the same, though, a very peculiar one, swinging his body a bit. He wore flannel trousers and a yellow sweater over his shirt. He also carried a heavy jacket with just one zipper in the middle. On his head, he wore a brown felt hat instead of his habitual light-colored panama. With him were his wife, Ana, Maria Luiza, and their maid Marleide. Still gathering the suitcases he saw us and waved, smiling.

When the glass doors opened and travelers came out with their luggage carts, I could see his face up close. He seemed to be in good spirits. For a while we just kept hugging, kissing, and looking at each other. Tom, however, wanted to get home soon.

On the way back, he appeared to be surprised, time and again, with the views of the sea, the islands on the bay, Sugar Loaf, and the lagoon we encountered right after leaving the tunnel. He was talkative, excited. When the car stopped by the gate to his house, he pointed at a tree. "Look at it, the ipê is blossoming! Is it yellow—God!"

As soon as he entered the house he went straight to the studio. He noticed the vase of yellow roses that we had placed on top of the piano in his honor. It was his favorite color. He inspected everything, as if he had spent a long time far away.

Tilde brought us coffee and white cheese. Servants Nivaldo and Assis showed up at the door and my brother was the same toward them as ever: he would talk to his employees with great interest and humor, craving for an update on what had happened to each one of them while he was gone. I would not get tired of gazing at his face, his vivacious expressions and curious eyes. He did not look tired at all. He watched me for an instant and then repeated a customary phrase, So, what’s new, my sister?

Later, he went to the piano. He rested his fingers over the keys, but before pressing them he rested his eyes on the splendid landscape out of the window. He pointed at the statue of Christ: There He is.…

Tom played sparse chords. The family was now reunited. We listened to him with all our hearts.

During three weeks we were together in Rio. Manoel and I had thought of visiting Poço Fundo. Tom asked us, though, Stay here. It’s now that I need you so much.…

We went nowhere. When I think of those twenty-one days in which we enjoyed each other (unlike anything else, in many months), I imagine that destiny had set up this time for us. Having Antonio Carlos Jobim as a brother was a privilege, and those days were both a farewell and a revival of our incarnation as siblings.

Once again, I keep thinking about it. I read in the dictionary, Incarnation: each one of the existences of the spirit while materialized, according to the spiritualistic beliefs.

Was that what I believed in?

Memories, so many memories. Sometimes they hurt so much. In those days I would wake up early, leaving Manoel asleep and closing the door very carefully, as Ana, Maria Luiza, and João Francisco also continued sleeping. I would walk down the main stairwell and stop on the last step. The door to the studio would be open. The sun bathed everything and it got hot there. For some seconds, before my brother could see me, I would fix my eyes on him while he remained engrossed in reading his newspapers. I would get closer, and he would smile at finding me across from him. He would drop the papers and we would kiss each other.

That was our custom. How vivid, to me, are the images of those last days!

Did you sleep well? I would ask him every morning.

I slept very well, but the older we get, the earlier we leave bed. I take the opportunity to go fetch the bread and the newspaper, so that our servants don’t get stressed out.

We would laugh. And I would ask, even though I knew the answer, Have you had coffee?

And he would answer the same way, day in and day out, Yes. But I’ll keep you company and have some more with you.

We’d sit facing each other at the marble table in the kitchen, just as we had when we were children. The door to the yard was already open, and suddenly we could notice a wind gust blow around the leaves of the beanstalks, which he himself had requested to be planted. We both could even picture our mom arriving there. From that beloved apparition, we would hear her laughter again. But soon the dogs would come in from the back of the house, jumping onto our legs, begging to be caressed. Even so, the enchantment was not broken. At the garden, Panto, the black cat, would watch us through his enigmatic green eyes.

Later Ana would show up—Manoel, next. And we would comment on several newspaper articles. My brother was interested in current affairs in Brazil and the rest of the world. His observations always compelled us to think a bit harder.

Our days started out that way. The house’s atmosphere commanded voices, gestures, and thoughts. João Francisco and Maria Luiza would come down for breakfast. Tom’s granddaughters, Chloe and Isabel, occasionally arrived, too, and so did my granddaughter Marcela, from Belo Horizonte. Soon João Francisco would join his friends Zeca and Lucas for a bicycle ride around Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon.

The telephone would keep ringing. Journalists were soliciting interviews. Tom complained sometimes, but he always granted them the chance to talk to him.

Manoel set up an appointment for us at Father Luiz Spiritualistic Center. Singer Danilo Caymmi and his friend, Otto, also helped. On a daily basis, Danilo communicated with the musician Márcio Ramos, who frequented the center. Otto pleaded for Tom’s cause to his friend Dr. Gazolla, who directed that place of healing.

Tom was a special patron. There were lines of people waiting to be seen, however. Through loudspeakers situated around the garden, a man requested, Silence, please. The Spirits are descending.

It was the voice of actor Carlos Vereza, who had been healed there. We took an elevator up and soon walked through a lounge, where Manoel stayed waiting for us—Tom, Ana, Paulo, and me. We crossed a somewhat dark room with dozens of chairs, and a second one with hospital beds. These were the sites for treatments, spiritual surgeries, and, if possible, healings. People wearing white clothes gathered around. They spoke in a low voice. Sparse blue lights barely lit the alcove. Men, women, and, sometimes, children, were directed to those beds, one after the other.

We four stayed together. Tom held his wife’s hand and mine. One spirit embodied in a physician approached him. He did various passes over Tom’s body and touched him on several parts of it. The medium spoke to Tom, close to his ears. I could not hear the doctor, but I realized that Tom posed him many questions. The doctor drew closer to Ana and me. He made passes over us, too, while clapping his hands. One of the loudspeakers started to play Tom’s song Sabiá: I will come back…I know I will come back.… Ana and I ended up crying.

On the ride back home, Manoel drove the car. While Tom took the front seat, my sister-in-law and I sat in the back. Tom made fun of everything, making us laugh. Then he called our attention to seagulls diving into the ocean. It was a quiet evening, with the first star already scintillating in the sky. We all could smell my brother’s breath embedded in the marshy smell of the sea. He, for a while, had certainly forgotten his illness, fear, and pain. Soon he turned his head back, when we were near Ipanema, and sketched in the air the Dois Irmãos (Two Siblings) Mountain that lay ahead: You know, Sis, I always thought that those two siblings were you and I.

That evening, we listened to his album Antonio Brasileiro quite a few times. The cover, designed by Ana, was lovely. Besides him, she had photographed many of his personal belongings and used those shots. Later we enjoyed the CD on which he recorded Fly Me to the Moon with Frank Sinatra. That was the last song he ever recorded. It was voted the best on the album and received excellent reviews in newspapers from around the world. Tom remarked, though, I recorded that tune under the worst conditions…I already knew I was sick. I just improvised when I said, ‘Francis, let’s fly!’

He was happy that night. He would get up from his chair and go back to it, drinking his beer, which he thoroughly enjoyed with Manoel. Suddenly he would move his arms around as if he were conducting an orchestra. Others shared the good mood. Maria Luiza, for example, danced. João Francisco was going out with friends, and Marcela, his cousin, just giggled. They were quite surprised by Tom’s rapture.

Manoel asked Tom to play the choro song Bate-Boca and then said, You have to record this.

I will. Chico Buarque is writing the lyrics.

It was good to see my brother like that. It had been such a long time.…We stayed up together till late, talking ceaselessly, in the studio.

The next day, Elizabeth and Tom’s youngest grandchild, André, came to enjoy the swimming pool. They stayed for lunch. My nephew Paulo and his wife, Elianne, arrived with their children. Eduardo and Marilena, Ana’s cousins, were there, too, just like any other day.

My brother played the piano all morning. His music filled the rooms, the entire house, like wind, like perfume. Even the servants were infused with euphoria. Ana, in turn, planned a surprise party for João Francisco, who had turned fifteen while his parents were in New York.

Tilde prepared lunch just the way Tom liked it the most: white rice, black beans with heavy garlic seasoning, barbecued meats, farofa, and a tossed salad with lettuce, watercress, arugula, tomatoes, and radishes. Plus red wine—for Tom, Just a glass to fight cholesterol. It was rare for us to eat any dessert. On that Sunday, however, Ana ordered a coupe camargo, a flavorful memento from our childhood: mashed avocado, with a bit of sugar, mixed with chocolate liqueur.

After lunch, Tom lay