He looks at the paper; he picks it up and shuffles it underneath another piece of paper. He looks at his screen; he blinks his eyes slowly, he types one letter, looks back at the paper, types a different letter with the same finger, looks back at the paper, looks at his screen, looks to one side, then looks down toward his shoes. He types another letter with the same finger.

I’m at the work booklet office, seated in one of the strange chairs you see below, seeking permission to work in Brazil:

The white posterboards, initially the subject of much wild speculation, turn out to be blank, white backgrounds for photographs taken toward the end of the session with your appointed bureaucrat.

He stands up and wanders toward a filing cabinet, does not open any drawers, then returns and sits. He addresses his colleague with a brief remark. Perhaps a collegial cheap shot, the sort of thing office workers say to keep things interesting? Actually, I don’t think so. This place is–sadly and extremely slowly–all business.

The young man standing in the photo introduced himself as an “internationalist” and he’s charged with making sure my colleagues and I emerge from the office with work booklets. He remains at the ready, available to obsequiously and cheerily respond to any questions or doubts the bureaucrats have. Here he comes behind me now.

The bureaucrat mumbles and the internationalist, after a longish pause, says “Hmm…” and he leans forward to examine a piece of paper on the desk. The print is tiny: 8 point max. All three of us look at the paper. Three or four sentences are exchanged and I look from my handler to the man behind the desk and back to my handler. I cannot possibly imagine what’s being discussed.

Apparently, the issue gets resolved, and the man does some more keyboard pecking and gazing blankly about the room. I approach minute fifteen in the chair when he holds up his thumb, which at first I think means I’m all set but soon realize he wants a thumbprint, which I happily give by pressing my thumb to a specially designed peripheral attached to his computer via  a USB cable. Next, he gives me an order, which I don’t understand. He takes off his glasses and stares at me until I realize I should take off my glasses, at which point he snaps a photo and I’m done!

A small amount of follow up with my internationalist made it perfectly clear that no amount of judgement or perspicacity was required on the part of the man behind the desk. In fact, he was copying some information from the tiny-printed sheet into a form and that’s basically it. Unsurprisingly, given the font size, his fellow bureaucrat incorrectly entered my colleague’s name, causing a whole issue that’s still unresolved over a week later.

Some Brazilians have this wonderful way of preparing you for what they are going to ask you or tell you. As in they begin a story by saying, “Let me tell you something…” Or preceding a question: “Let me ask you something…I want to ask you something…” To be clear, I’m talking about Brazilians speaking English in Brazil. For whatever reason, it’s very endearing, as if they are always letting you in on secrets or into some kind of club.

Later in the day, I tell a Brazilian about the work booklet office experience, and she says, “Let me tell you something…I’m going to tell you something about Brazil…I want to tell you…that people need jobs.” I nod knowingly, because we both…well, let me ask you something; I want to ask you if that doesn’t make perfect sense?

***Miscellaneous extras:

I won’t mention the book or author, because it’s too easy to take this sort of cheap shot, but I’ve been thinking about how maybe it’s easier, or more effective, to build tension when nothing is happening compared to when a lot is happening. In the midst of an action packed scene, we get these sentences:

F— and A— were paralyzed. Unable to take another step, they remained immobile for a few seconds, their eyes glued to the swarm of airplanes that kept battering the city.

To state the obvious: if you’re paralyzed, we can assume you can’t “take another step” and that you will remain “immobile for a few seconds.”

To me, prose like this isn’t a symptom of getting paid by the word. Well, maybe it is. But I think movies do such a better job with action that writers of books do all sorts of contortions to create excitement. I don’t know. I’ve written about books and movies before. 

I’ll end with this:

For what seemed an eternity A— plummeted through the dark. Finally an extended sheet of canvas broke her fall. The material buckled under her weight, leaving her faceup on what looked like a wooden platform.

Putting aside the use of “faceup” as one word, A– can’t see the platform, because she’s faceup on it, so the author here is expanding point of view to a sort of 3rd person omniscient with doubts, (it looked like a wooden platform) which is maybe fitting for 2019 but aesthetically, let me just tell you, it’s annoying.

(featured image of IMS Museum on Avenida Paulista)