Roberto in Barcelona

Roberto and I have things in common.

We both live in the Western Hemisphere.

We both came to Barcelona to study Spanish.

We were a minority of men among women.

We’ve both read a little history.

He is afraid in the same way I’m afraid.

Roberto Pontes lives in Fortaleza, a Brazilian city about the size of Chicago, on the Atlantic coast. He’s a customs official and a military veteran. He’s single, sharing a city apartment and a weekend place with a longtime friend.

We met just as Brazil was about to elect Jair Bolsonaro, its ninth president since the end of the military dictatorship in 1984.

Bolsonaro scapegoats the vulnerable, ridicules women, promotes violence and blames Brazil’s problem on the ‘pretos’ and ‘partos’ (people of color). He pretend-shoots people with his fingers. In 2011 he said he’d prefer that his son die in a car accident than be gay.

Bolsonaro commands the police and the military with the benediction of religious evangelicals. He is a Trump-weight liar.

Our language classes in Spain were lively forums. Our young classmates leaned in to listen as both Roberto and I shared our dread over the rise of dictators.

One Friday the two of us went to lunch at a cafe near the school — the menu-of-the-day gets you a bottle of wine, first and second plates, a choice of desert and coffee. The sun came out and the food was exactly as promised but, as we sat there at Café Azul, we worried aloud.

It was easy to imagine two Germans sitting in a beer garden on a Friday in 1932, terrified that that crazy fuck might actually follow through on the evil he was selling.

The last time we saw each other, Roberto’s face was considerably swollen on the right side. In a recent text he said his dentist back in Fortaleza had looked at x-rays and had sent back an email saying he thought Roberto’s tooth could be saved when he returns home. There is hope.