Heliopolis by James Scudamore Read Free Book Online Page A

piece on it.’
    ‘It sounds gruelling.’
    ‘It isn’t as pleasant as it sounds. The gold exfoliation process is very abrasive.’
    Melissa calls herself a lifestyle journalist, but she seems only to write about the kind of lifestyle that very few—herself among them—can afford. Zé was keen for her to become a political journalist after college, but in her own words, she ‘got sidetracked.’ She tends to say that this is OK, because ‘Ernesto does the socially responsible stuff for both of us.’ It’s a consolation I sometimes offer myself when I contemplate the vacuity of my own work, so I can hardly blame her for it. Ernesto’s shoulders are so broad that everybody feels entitled to perch on them.
    ‘Abrasive or not, you look . . . nice,’ I said, trying not to let on how exciting it was to see her again. ‘If a little thin.’ Her blue-green eyes flash when she’s angry—mermaid-infested waters. ‘Don’t start on that.’
    When we lived together she would eat nothing for days, then command stacks of burgers and toasted sandwiches. She also can’t sleep alone with the light off and showers about five times a day, which means her hair is more often wet than dry.
    The wet hair is just one of the things that get me. There are others: her perfect teeth; her short, clear-polished nails; her white jeans; the sprinkling of freckles on her nose; the striped shirts she wears at home. Traditionally these were Zé’s cast-offs, but, lately, they’re Ernesto’s, which I like less, although his are too big for her to use as anything other than nightwear. I also love her continued devotion to the plastic watch she has worn since we were kids—a constant, tiny reminder of our shared childhood.
    ‘I don’t want to talk about me,’ she said. ‘Tell me about your day.’
    ‘Why are you acting as if I’m your husband? I haven’t even seen you for months. Where’s Ernesto?’
    ‘He’s away in the interior. Something for work. I don’t know.’
    Her lingering pause invited the question. ‘Is everything OK between you?’
    And that’s how it started. She was always going to get me in the end.
    Ernesto is an anthropologist. For years, he has been studying for his doctorate, the thesis of which looks into the motivations of the hordes of desperate migrants who come to the city each year looking for work, and their (usually dismal) experiences on arrival. He spends long periods of time in rural villages, amassing an ever-expanding quantity of interview material, and shows no sign of stopping. It’s as if he intends to keep going until he has heard the personal story of every single person who has either moved to the city or is contemplating doing so. When at home he divides his time between interviewing favela inhabitants, fulfilling the demands of his teaching post at the university and organising various community projects. His wife pines at home in her tower, and he stays away for days before returning stinking of sweat and the slums. But his commitment to the welfare of others is the bedrock of Melissa’s love for him, and she has fought many battles with her father on his account.
    He has never accepted a job working for Zé—not even indirectly, for the Uproot Foundation, which would suit him. At some point during his transformation from Spoilt Rich Kid to Academic with Troubled Conscience he came to the conclusion that he needed to make his own way in life, which infuriates Zé, because it means he has a son-in-law he can’t control. Ernesto’s self-righteousness works to my advantage, so I’m not complaining, but normally Melissa wouldn’t hear a word against it—which is what made last night so unusual.
    Normally, it goes like this:
    ‘You never see him,’ I point out.
    ‘His work is important,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t want to be the one to stop him doing it.’
    ‘What about his marriage? What about you?’
    ‘I don’t need saving. I have everything I could want. Thanks to