The Baptism That Almost Wasn't

It was the day of Xande’s [Shun-gee] baptism and we had just arrived at the country house.  Nothing was ready.  Lu went into the kitchen and took over.  She put Mariana and me on the flowers and her father on chopping garlic while she and Dalva started to brown the chicken.  The kitchen was tiny and there was barely room enough for the two women to stand side by side.  A mound of chicken sat on a platter next to the sink and a giant pot sat on the stove.  “Look at this thing,” said Lu about the stove, scornfully.  It too was tiny, like something out of a doll's house.  “This is never going to work.”  


Later, on a brief break, I was standing with Marcelo, Lu’s younger brother, next to the pool.  In his mid-thirties with clear blue eyes and an easy manner, Marcelo is the Barbosa family member I know the least.  He and his wife, Fernanda, live to the north in Brasilia, the country’s capital.  The two of them aren’t in the family’s gem business and so don’t travel to the states as often as the others.

So there we were beside the pool, and just like guys do when they don’t know each other well but want to get started on the right foot, Marcelo and I began to share about our respective injuries.  I tell him about the slipped disc in my lower back and he tells me about the herniated disc he’s got in his neck.  Mine came from surfing, his from six-years as a national Judo and Thai kick-boxing champion.

What?  Excuse me? 

Marcelo, it turns out, has had an entire previous life as a professional athlete.  In short, the guy basically spent his teens and early twenties beating the crap out of people and winning trophies all over Brazil and Thailand.  Even more impressive perhaps than his accomplishments was how unaffected he was by the whole thing.  There was zero boast or challenge in the way he spoke about himself.  It was all just something he'd done.  

I could never do that, I thought.  If I were a Judo expert, I would make damn sure people knew about it.  I would have my titles emblazoned on my bath towels and I would refuse to acknowledge anyone unless they first addressed me as Judo Jack or Mr. Thai Box Champion Hannibal. 

The flowers arranged and the table set, the guests began to arrive.  The place was a buzz with Portuguese.  With still some time left, I slipped away to one of the back bedrooms for a quick nap.  We were out late last night with Beth, Veronica, Cintia and her husband Dalton, and I hadn’t slept very well.  We had gone to this family-style pizza place where white-aproned waiters flew around the room with trays of freshly baked, thin-crust pizza that they served dim sum style.  It was all you could eat and I’m afraid I did.  As much as I packed away, however, it was nothing compared to what Dalton ate.  Originally from Lithuania he was hands-down one of the largest human beings I have ever met.  Not in height or magnanimity necessarily, but in width and sheer brawn.  The guy was a massive, eastern European-Brazilian monster who didn’t speak a word of English.  After hello and a handshake that felt like a catcher’s mitt filled with rocks, he didn’t even try to communicate with me.  He didn’t care.  The man was there to eat, not make small talk with some guy he was never going to see again.  I liked Dalton immediately. 

At the end of the night, I pushed down a final slice of chocolate pizza followed by another two of banana, chocolate and cinnamon (I kid you not) and then tapped out.  Dalton kept going.  He wasn’t even on dessert yet.  The waiters were pissed because, even though it was all you could eat, the guy was pummeling their profit margin.  A half-slice of pizza disappearing into Dalton’s mouth looked as insignificant as a bi-plane going into King Kong’s.  An eight-ounce glass of beer looked like he was doing a shot.  And on and on and on it went.  Just watching him made me want to barf. 

“If a fight breaks out,” I said to Veronica, “I don’t care whose fault it is.  We’re taking Dalton’s side.”

I returned to the party dressed and refreshed and ready for another couple of hours of polite head nodding and incomprehension.  Actually, Lu’s family and a lot of the guests speak excellent English but would pretend like they didn't when I was around.  Oh, I was onto them all right.  

On the back deck I found Lu standing atop the wood-burning stove.  Still in her sneakers, sweats and tank top, she was straddling the giant pot of chicken and stirring it with an over-sized wooden spoon.  My heart filled to bursting, I grabbed my camera and thought, If anyone ever wants to know why I married this woman, let them see this.

Lu said that the kitchen stove wasn’t cutting it so she and Dalva had moved the whole operation outside.  “I love that about Dalva,” Lu would tell me later.  “She’s up for anything.”  

Lunch came off perfectly.  Lu’s Moroccan chicken was fall on the ground amazing, as were the salads, sausage, beans and mushroom tortellini.  Dessert and coffee were served and Uruguay, in the world cup match for third place, went up one against Germany.  All was well in the world. 

It was time now for the Baptism and everyone headed to their cars for the short journey to the chapel in town.  Amidst all the high-spirited commotion, Xande, dressed in white dress shirt and pants, tucked his little body in deep beneath the serving counter and announced he wasn't going.  

Can’t say we didn’t see that one coming.  Last week when his grandfather tried to explain to Xande what a baptism was, the little boy heard him out, thought for a moment and then exclaimed, “No one is going to pour water on my head!” 

Eduardo smiled sweetly and shrugged.  “What can you do?”

To be fair, Xande is six and just old enough to know that this big gathering of grown ups was all about him.  That’s a lot of pressure on a kid.  Also, from what I can tell, the Barbosa’s aren’t exactly the most observant Catholics in South America.  Nothing wrong with that except that it probably means that poor Xande has only been inside that chapel in town a few times; say 6 Christmas’s, 6 Easters and maybe 3 or 4 inspired Sundays at most.  And, lest we forget, churches are creepy places.  Even without the priests.  (Had to get that in there.)  So no wonder the kid balked.  It must have seemed to him like he was going to his execution.

Be that as it may, Grandma Ligia was determined this baptism was going to happen.  (Or there just might be an execution).  Immediately, a crack team of expert negotiators comprised of Xande’s favorite aunties and uncles, descended around the counter and, with their voices set to smooth jazz, they tried to reason the boy into coming out.  That went precisely nowhere.  Xande is a crafty little bugger and the moment he realized they wanted him to do something, he became stubborn as a mule.

The clock ticking and the peace process in shambles, Ligia pulled the negotiators out and sent them into town.  That was a scene.  Five adults, myself included, our asses totally handed to us by this child, walking away in disgrace yet trying to play it off like we were leaving of our own accord.  “All right, Xande.  We’ll be on our way then.  Join us…you know, if you want.” 

Ligia was down but she wasn't out.  She still had one card to play.  Dalva.  The one woman Xande can never refuse.  The two women regarded one another with a steely intensity as they passed.  It was game on.  Lu laughed.  “Oh, he’s toast now,” she said.

The baptism guests were strewn about the chapel steps and grounds in various states of boredom and repose.  They looked like the cast and crew of a film awaiting the arrival of a temperamental star.  People smoked, paced, checked their watches and sighed.  There was a lot of sighing.  Someone headed to the bar at the foot of the hill to check the score.  Germany was up.  Bad omen.   I made use of the time by running around and shooting coverage.   The light was brilliant.  The rooftop cross in silhouette against the clouds was amazing.  Worse case scenario, I figured, was that a few of us would come back tomorrow and do Xande’s bit as an insert. 

The inside of the chapel was spare and still.  A few guests seated amidst the makeshift pews of creaky wooden chairs prayed or simply sat in quiet contemplation.  Two women from town made last minute adjustments to the flowers on the altar.  The priest, a middle-aged man with a young, fleshy face and receding black hair, sat in his white frock and green vestment off to the side in a chair against the wall, his hands folded neatly on his lap.  He’s been through this before, I thought.  Xande is going to be fine.

The silver Honda arrived and the crowd on the steps tossed cigarettes and scattered.  The negotiators descended on the car to sing their praises of Xande but were just as quickly sent away by Ligia and Dalva.  We weren't out of the woods yet.  Everyone moved inside the chapel and took their seats.  A few minutes later, Xande, hand in hand with Lu and Marcelo, his loving (and beaming) Godparents, appeared in the doorway at the back.  No one dared breathe.  A lifetime passed as the trio made the long walk to the altar.  The priest, towering above Xande, opened his arms in welcome.  Then, in a moment that can only be described as miraculous, Xande let go of Lu's and Marcelo’s hands, stepped forward and was enveloped in the gentle man’s warm embrace and flowing robes.  The crowed burst into cheers and applause.  Houston we are a go!