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My fate as a Brazilianist is currently hanging in the balance. More accurately, it rests in the white-clad, superstitious hands of Roberto Carlos. The first time I heard the name Roberto Carlos, I had to look it up for a translation – a short, surreal piece by Marina Colasanti, which made an impression on my creative writing class. That’s a lie, actually; I’d heard of Roberto Carlos first a semester earlier, when I saw the film Pixote. But the reference was glancing, in any case. I gleaned that he was a prolific pop singer, looked up a few videos, winced, and got back to translating.
None of this led me to anticipate that Roberto Carlos would have a larger impact on my life in Brazil. After all, my academic interests in Brazil are focused on music 1927-1935, more or less, plus generous smatterings of literature and cinema. But it appears that I was wrong.
This is a true story: in my translation last fall, I felt the need to contextualize the reference to Roberto Carlos with a little footnote. I can’t find it in any version of the document now, but I swear that it read as follows: “Massively famous Brazilian pop singer, now considered passé.” (Don’t throw tomatoes, please.) I have since been made aware that there are probably several hundred thousand Brazilians who would beg to differ.
One of my current translation projects requires me to translate multiple songs of his. Now, let’s be clear. Roberto Carlos is a pop singer. Think torch songs. Lots and lots and lots of torch songs. Which are not renowned, in any language, for the profundity of their lyrics. Translation is a frustrating art; but I made the mistake of commenting to a friend that, if given the opportunity, I would have liked to go back in time and kill Roberto Carlos to prevent him from setting such terrible lyrics in vinyl and hence forcing me to translate them.
What followed was almost exactly like an intervention. “You don’t understand how important he is,” I was told. I acknowledged that he might be important, but I also thought that his music was terrible. A group of concerned Brazilians was summoned to see me, and over the course of about half an hour they proceeded to try to change my mind. When Roberto Carlos dies, they told me, Brazil will come to a stop. The Brasileirão could be happening, they said, and Globo would stop the game for a Roberto Carlos tribute. Rational people assured me that they watch the Roberto Carlos Christmas special (yes, this exists) every year. They compared him to Frank Sinatra (for the voice) and Bob Dylan (for being an inadvertent revolutionary). I maintained a skeptically arched eyebrow.
My footnote wasn’t that far off. For many Brazilians – especially the younger generations –, Roberto Carlos appreciation seems to be shot through with a profound sense of irony. But I saw something that went way, way beyond ironic appreciation. “Jesus Cristo, Jesus Cristo, Jesus Cristo,” one friend started singing. (Typical Roberto Carlos lyrics.) To my shock, everyone joined in. “Look up at the sky, see a white cloud passing by…” These are people for whom I have the utmost respect, in whose taste I had an (until recently unshakeable) faith, singing Roberto Carlos with apparent gusto. I’m still not entirely convinced that they didn’t plan it all for my benefit.
“You have to understand Roberto Carlos to understand Brazil,” I’m told. So I’m going to try. First order of business is a Roberto Carlos mix; and apparently he also has made films. God help me.
I’ll just say this. Dear Brazilians: I really, really wish that you all loved Noel Rosa as much as you love Roberto Carlos.
TRANSLATION – from Contos rasgados de amor, by Marina Colasanti
The Sweetest Water
He kept a mermaid in the bathtub. It wasn’t much upkeep, just the purchase of the fish she lived on. She was born tame; by the time she was caught in a shrimp net, she was already prepared to spend her days in a tiled world.
She sang. Just melodies at first. Which, under the influence of the radio he listened to in the living room, were slowly replaced by Roberto Carlos songs. She always sang quietly, though, so as not to bother the neighbors.
And so she passed the time – by singing, and by endlessly braiding and unbraiding her hair, which was now a pale gold. “I always thought mermaids were blond,” he’d said one day, bearing dye and hydrogen peroxide. And she, without even bidding her black locks goodbye in her reflection in the bathwater, meekly picked up the brush.
Just once in all the years they lived together did he take her to the beach. They saw it from the car, the scales of her tail hidden beneath a blanket; on her neck she wore the collar he’d bought to keep her from regressing to her animal instincts. He rolled down the window just a crack, to let the sea air in. But she didn’t try to flee. She turned on the radio and sat there watching the waves, flecks of sea-foam falling from her eyes.