Part IV

1971

October 4, Monday

Junior and Carlos are so excited they can barely contain themselves, and even our flight in the middle of the night can’t dampen their energy. They each doze for a bit but at different times, and I don’t get much sleep. The boys have been talking for weeks about our trip on an airplane, going to the beach and seeing the ocean for the first time and eating hamburgers; the possibilities are endless to them.

I just want to get past passport control and out of the Miami airport without the authorities suspecting that I’ve come here to stay long past the three months it says on my visa, escaping into the wilds of the United States and finding work, school for the boys, learning to speak proper English and earning a lot of dollars before I even think of returning to Brazil.

Of course I couldn’t tell the kids about my plan, because they might tell their friends, and their friends might tell their parents, and their parents might know where I work, and Chef Orlando thinks I’m just taking all my weeks of vacation. After several years in the kitchen cooking for the generals, working my way up from dishwasher to general assistant to prep to salad and dessert and then sous chef, no one would suspect I would leave it all behind for a chance to live in America.

I’ve dressed the boys nicely and I’m wearing my most stylish clothes, my paisley headband and gold hoop earrings, and a nice dress. Before landing, I go into the bathroom and re-do my eyeliner and lipstick. After they finish breakfast, Carlos takes Junior into the bathroom to wash his face and wet and comb his hair. I’ve filled out the landing card and have our passports organized in my chic handbag. Looking the part is half the battle. I don’t want the immigration officer thinking I’ve come to the US to wash people’s clothes, even if maybe I have.

The plane lands with a couple of bounces and we descend the metal steps to the tarmac, then we’re hit by a blast of cold air as we enter the airport. We wait in a long line to have our passports checked. When we get up to the front and the officer gestures to me to come forward, Junior is keyed up, that odd mix of too tired and restless. I mentally cross my fingers.

“Ma’am, what is the purpose of your travel to the US?”

I’ve practiced this, so I give him a big smile. “Vacation with my sons.” I beam down at them.

Junior starts jumping up and down. “Beach! Hamburger!” He’s practiced those words but I don’t want him using them now.

“Shhhh, querido.” I pull him closer to me and resist the urge to yank him by his shirt collar.

When I turn to look at the officer he smiles and stamps our passports. “Welcome to the US. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you, Sir.” I put our passports in my handbag and we proceed to baggage claim and out through customs. I stop at a currency exchange to get dollars. I feel like I can’t breathe until we step outside the airport, where the warm humid air feels liquid on my skin. We get a taxi to Miami Beach, where Joana says it’s cheap and safe. We’ll stay until tomorrow and find how to get a bus to North Carolina.

I manage to make the taxi driver understand we want to go to a hotel in Miami Beach, and he slows in front of a huge fancy building on the beachfront but I shake my head and make a sign with my fingers for smaller. He understands and continues driving north until we come to a row of small hotels. I pay him, and the boys carry our two suitcases along the sidewalk as I wonder which hotel to try. They are funny old curved boxes with 1930s lettering on the front, coral pink and aqua, tangerine orange, blue and white. There are old people sitting on the verandas.

I pick a hotel at random and we step into the reception area. An older lady sits behind the counter smoking a cigarette, her dyed hair shellacked into a bouffant. “Yes, sweetie?”

“One night please.”

She stubs out the burning cigarette in the ashtray and pulls down a key. I pay for the night and once in the room we immediately lie down on the beds and fall asleep. It’s late afternoon when Junior wakes me up, pulling on my arm and asking to go touch the ocean. We change into our swimsuits and cross the street to the expanse of sand. The boys splash and play and we sit on the beach watching the waves until the sun goes down.

After showering and getting dressed I take the boys to a restaurant for sandwiches and a coke. There’s a new lady on duty at hotel reception and I manage with gestures and writing on scrap paper to get directions to the bus station. The boys are excited about the next part of our journey but we all sleep well until the sun wakes us up.