Once Upon a Time in Rio

From a well-known Brazilian playwright comes a debut novel about three generations of a family whose kitchen contains the secret ingredient for happiness.

“This novel evokes the flavors of Brazil and will be...appreciated by readers interested in South American fiction.”

Auteur

Francisco Azevedo is a world-renowned scriptwriter, playwright, and poet and was a finalist for the Sao Paulo Prize in literature. Once Upon a Time in Rio is Azevedo’s debut novel. He lives in Brazil.

Texte du rabat

From well-known Brazilian playwright Francisco Azevedo, a heartwarming debut novel about three generations of a family whose kitchen contains the secret ingredient for happiness—sure to appeal to fans of Like Water for Chocolate.

Once upon a time there was some rice. Rice planted in the earth, fallen from the sky, and gathered up from the stone. Rice that doesn’t spoil, it came from far away, by ship with three exuberant young people filled with dreams…

Once Upon a Time in Rio is a spellbinding family saga beginning with José Custódio and Maria Romana and their search for a prosperous future. As newlyweds, José and Maria immigrated to Brazil at the beginning of the twentieth century, accompanied by a special gift. During the dinner preparations to celebrate their centenary wedding anniversary, their eldest son Antonio, already a grandfather, looks back at the lives of his parents, his aunt, his brothers, their children and grandchildren, as well as his own.

Antonio knows that family is a difficult dish to get right and that happiness must be cooked up day by day; however, what separates his family from any other is its possession of a secret ingredient for happiness: the sack of magical rice given to his parents on their wedding day. With the help of the rice, whose magic is as old as fire and time, Antonio’s family has been guided through the most trying of life’s tribulations.

Lyrically written, Once Upon a Time in Rio bares the fragile yet strong nature of the human spirit and with great insight captures the solace provided by loved ones in times of need. Already an international bestseller, this is a beautifully told tale about the wisdom of past generations and the inextricable ties of family.

Échantillon de lecture
Once Upon a Time in Rio

FAMILY IS A DIFFICULT DISH TO GET RIGHT

Me, here on the estate. Me, here in the kitchen, just past four in the morning. Isabel’s still asleep, and the sun is taking its time. Me here, an old man, eighty-eight. To the younger generation, the Eternal Grandfather, with no beginning or end, who came into the world with that wrinkled face. Me here in a white apron, chopping green herbs. I’m preparing lunch for the family. Will my strength hold out? 88: two vertical infinities. It’s a good age. And it will be a fine party. I’ve had plenty of practice.

Aunt Palma taught me to cook when I was young. Where has she gone now? Sometimes she doesn’t show up for quite a while. Sometimes I see her wandering the house with Mom and Dad and I don’t even need my glasses. They arrive at different ages, happy or worried, talkative or silent. It depends on the day, on what time I see them. Imagination? Senility? I lose myself. Do I? I catch myself having conversations with the boy who used to be me. Or writing out loud to myself. I talk to those dear to me who now are far away in time and space. Sometimes I’m afraid, I whistle in the dark. Then ­suddenly light. A movie! I project stories to myself. I see my siblings again in their childhood, quite clearly, jumping all over one another, running back and forth and rolling around each other like little puppies. I see my Isabel again, in love. I see my children again, when they were still close and they were mine. Vivid memories in every sense: taste, smell, sound, sight, and touch. I keep moving forward. Forward to the now—which I love!—and then to wherever it is my nose happens to be pointing and my eyesight reaches and beyond, where nothing can go but hope. I am past, present, future—three separate people united in one, the mystery of the Earthly Trinity. I’m confiding in you while you keep me company now, reading my thoughts.

An old man misses his mom and dad. It’s all been so long! An old man wants to be held, wants to be fed with a spoon that comes from far away with the sound of a little airplane, wants—once he’s had his bath—to be put to bed, comforted with a clean sheet and soft pillow. A familiar story, a lullaby, a goodnight kiss. The bedroom door left just a little open, with the hallway light on—that one reference point is always good. An old man feels the lack of a higher authority. Who will judge him with impartiality and wisdom? Who, better than he, will know, fairly, how best to examine the merits of the question? An old man’s a child with a different kind of energy. He’s no longer interested in running through the gardens, going up and down on the seesaw, back and forth on the swings. What he wants now is to race off into the sky, to release the creatures he has been collecting his whole life. All the creatures—wild and tame, useful and harmful. The heavy reptiles he still carries in his heart and the butterflies, fish, and little birds, all let loose up there! Aunt Palma used to say that an old man right at the moment of his death knows the most and least about himself. He is at once elephant and praying mantis. He is sequoia and wildflower, ocean and rain puddle, mountain range and grain of salt. She insisted that we know full well when the moment of that transformation occurs. The soul begins to give out all the sounds of nature: winds, waters, people’s footsteps on the gravel, blazing fire, crackling wood, varied breathing, and, all of a sudden, the quick beating of wings. There is the choir—the voices of animals. The old man’s soul growls, threateningly—the second movement of the concerto. The soul roars, howls, shouts, neighs, and moos. Then it buzzes, warbles, and twitters. The soul frees itself toward the infinite and then, yes, then—soprano, tenor, contralto, and bass—it sings the most beautiful aria of the most beautiful opera! As a child, I believed her piously. Later, as a man, I found it funny. Some time ago I began to believe her again.

It’s in the kitchen that I let loose, and release the animals. It’s in the kitchen that I travel without a passport, without a ticket, without an airport security search. The authorities want my fingerprints? They’re in the dough of the bread. They want my photo? I have several, head-on and in profile, with my parents and siblings and those who came later. Portraits that are spoken—out loud, the whole family talking at once. The riotous family. Holy family . . .

I need to concentrate. It’s vital. Why? Oh, what a question! Family is a difficult dish to get right. There are a lot of ingredients. Getting them all together is a problem—especially at Christmas and New Year. The quality of the pan hardly matters; making a family requires courage, devotion, and patience. It isn’t for everyone. The little tricks, the secrets, the unexpected. Sometimes it’s enough to make you want to give it all up. We prefer the discomfort of going on an empty stomach. Then there’s the laziness, the familiar lack of imagination about what we’re going to eat and that lack of appetite. But life—a green olive on a cocktail toothpick—always finds a way to excite us and reawaken that appetite. Time sets the table, determines the number of chairs and their places. And suddenly, like a miracle, the family is served. So-and-so, she turns out to be the smartest o…