Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Dust (3/3)

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Author’s Notes: Last chapter of this slice of life that I ended up enjoying writing more than I had imagined. It was supposed to have been posted a week ago, but my brain refused to cooperate with me.

Previously…

Right at that moment, a loud noise comes from inside Dalua's house, and I flinch. On the sidewalk next to us, a collective laugh echoes from the dominoes players. Seu Conrado celebrates his win with a small shot of cachaça, which he slams down on the table with great force, and then a strange moment of silence settles among us adults. The children are still playing, and the leaves of the trees sway in the wind. The dogs are chasing each other, and the chickens are dust-bathing or scratching the ground as if there were a tomorrow, and another day after tomorrow, and all the ones to follow.

Do they – the trees, the dogs, the chickens – know something we don't? Are the ways God speaks, as dona Terezinha said, easier for the nature around us to understand than for us?

I hope so. Because that would probably mean we're going to live.

***

As I'm still watching the chickens, they start fighting among themselves over some food. It seems the moment of optimism is gone.

"Well..." seu Conrado sighs. "We're going to die."

Yeah, the moment of optimism is definitely gone.

"For heaven’s sake, seu Conrado, don't say things like that," Eliana scolds him.

"But what am I supposed to do, lie? That’s just how it is.”

Eliana lets out a tearful sigh. Then, seu Antônio interrupts the moment: “I can’t believe Superman isn’t going to save us… He must know that this World Cup was supposed to be Brazil’s fourth title…”

And suddenly, the commotion starts all over again.

“Germany was going to win this year. Wanna bet?”

"How are we going to bet if we're going to die in a few days, you shrimp-head?"

“This World Cup really was meant to be our fourth title. I can feel it!”

"With a team full of bagres? That's just deluding yourself. Those players are worse than Wolf!"

Ignoring the insult aimed at me – since I'm not even at the table to defend myself – I turn to Dalua. "You guys take this very seriously, huh?"

“The World Cup or soccer in general? Yeah, to both questions.” She rests her chin in her hand and takes a moment to think. “It’s part of our identity. But I don’t know… The World Cup is changing; I’m not sure if there’s still a place for us there. Some people say we’re no longer the country of soccer, but I disagree with that.” She pointed at the kids, eager to steal the ball from the opposing team. "As long as they keep dreaming, we still are."

One of the younger boys, Zeca, manages to get the ball and starts running, but he's soon stopped by Dalua's sister, who kicks him hard in the shin, and he falls, whining.

"That's it, Eva, way to go!" cheers another boy.

"Yeah, I'll stick with the purity of the children's answer," Dalua comments, laughing.

The game goes on, with Pedro trying to calm things down and explaining that what happened was against the rules. Eva insists it was an accident, but the fight can no longer be stopped by normal means, forcing Eliana to step in and intervene in the match.

"But it's strange to think they might not be here to dream anymore," Dalua continues. "And then, what will we be? Will we be anything at all? Will our memory stay here, in the dust, even after we're gone?" She runs her hand through the fine, coppery sand in front of her.

I’m not quite sure how to answer. It terrifies me to think that things might have no meaning – it terrifies me, the very real possibility of dying without any memories. So I say what I want to believe: "I think so."

“That’s what I think, too. Because the opposite is true. If I am dust, then dust can also be me.” Seeing my confused expression, she explains: “It’s like… it has to do with patriotism, I think.” My grandma thinks that’s nonsense. Being a patriot, I mean. She says it doesn’t make sense to be proud of where you were born – because everyone loves their own land, and also because, of course, you’re going to defend and love it after you’ve already lived there. It’s not like it’s something you can choose. Does that make sense?”

“I’m following.”

“But I don’t know if I agree with her. Because that’s exactly it: I feel that if I were a neutral, impersonal soul wandering the Earth while God told me to choose a place for myself...” Dalua spreads her arms in a gesture of helplessness. "I feel like I would have chosen this country, even with all its problems. Because the sand here is everything to me. How silly! But that’s how I feel. I'm made of the sand from here, and it's also made of me. And when I leave, I'll turn into dust too and become one with it."

I feel my throat tighten. I imagine God telling me to choose a place in the universe. Could that have happened, in some other plane I don't remember? And was there – or is there – a purpose for all of this, for me being where I am? "That's definitely not nonsense, Dalua. Do you write poetry or something?"

“I used to. I wrote a few.”

“That’s great. Do you share them with someone? You should. I don't know, enter a contest, talk to a teacher..."

"There was a contest, once, at school. It was in May last year." She turns to me, with an ironic smile on her face. "Guess who won? The principal's niece! But not the polyglot one. The other niece, her other sister's daughter. Obviously she's not the principal's favorite niece for not having had the great luck of having a European father, but that doesn't mean she isn't also loved by her. And I know it was rigged. I heard teacher Chico complaining to teacher Hilda in the library, when they didn't know I was there. Teacher Chico said the judges didn't even read the other participants' poems. That made me so angry. I burned my little poetry notebook, and threw the ashes here in front of the house. I’ve never written anything since.”

I feel genuinely sad for her. “I’m so sorry, Dalua. I don’t know what to say.”

“The fact that you’re listening to me is already something. I hate it when people tell me I’m overreacting, that that’s just the way things are and I have to accept it! It’s like that with everything in life – you have to be close to someone in a position of power to get anywhere. Talent is never enough. That’s corruption, too. I understand that this must be something instinctive in human beings, always valuing those closest to us more. After all, even if you didn’t get to choose the woman who would be your mother, life only makes sense if you believe your mother is the best mother in the world, right?”

I take advantage of the pause in her fast speech to recall the aroma of cookies fresh out of the oven. “Yes, I think so.”

"Yeah," she continues, "there's no way to discuss that rationally. Maybe it's the same logic as patriotism. But some things should be rational and fair. My poem should have been read. I should have been seen, and instead they lied to me. And to a bunch of other people too. It makes me desperate when I think about it, that no one will ever give me a chance. Maybe it's even good that this asteroid is coming, otherwise I'd have to stay here and watch my own failure."

"Dalua, don't say something like that!"

"I know it's selfish." She shrugs, discreetly wiping away a tear. "But I'm not going to apologize. That's how I feel, and that's that. They already took my poetry from me; they're not going to take my sincerity too."

I sigh and take a few seconds to digest what she said. "They didn't take your poetry from you and you know that."

She stares at me, a little upset. "They–"

"They were corrupt and dishonest. But they didn't take your poetry. You just showed me right now that it's still very much alive in you. They only robbed you of the chance to win."

Dalua keeps staring at me, her brow furrowed.

I reach out my hand to touch the sand. "You may have burned your notebook, but you didn't destroy it. It's right here, where you left its ashes. You may have forgotten your old poems, but you'll always write new ones. I think it’s inevitable that you’ll do that. Am I right?”

As I wait for her answer, I suppress another thought that almost slipped out: if the asteroid really does wipe us out, the earth will truly recite her verses across the world when the sand from here spreads. Dalua might even find it beautiful, but it’s so morbid that it distresses me, and it bothers me simply because that won’t happen. It can’t happen. It’s not the end for humanity yet. I know that.

“Yeah, I think you're right,” Dalua finally agrees, wiping away another tear. Then she seems to be looking for something among the piles of books beside her, scattering atlases, fold-out maps, comic books, old notebooks, fashion magazines, fiction and school books, and a very thin chessboard. "Well, my grandma would disagree with all this talk. She’s very practical, and I think the world needs people like that to function, too. And it's precisely the people who make everything special for us, right? Them, and the land. Ah, I found my scrapbook. I wanted to show you– Oh, hey, Evinha!" Dalua exclaims as her younger sister hugs her tightly. "Weren't you playing soccer, girl?"

“They benched me,” Eva says, a little indignant. “Even though I didn’t kick Zeca on purpose. But then I saw you were crying, so I came to comfort you. Are you scared of the asteroid, Dalua? We’re not going to die. Superman will show up.”

Dalua lets out a long breath, giving a slight smile as she strokes her sister's curly hair. "It's the end of the human adventure on Earth, my little Eva. Our love in the last spaceship..." Then she turns to me. "Did you know that song is Italian? I could have sworn it was Brazilian. Who told me was my school principal, obviously. She thinks she's all that because her sister married an Italian, as if she had any credit in that. I hope they die the same way we do – her and her sister and her sister's husband and her polyglot niece and the other niece who won the poetry contest."

Eva breaks the hug and looks at her sister with a frown. "That was weird."

"I meant that we'll all turn to dust together. The president, the mayor, the senators, the city councilors, the rich businessmen, and us, the poor. Death will force us to unite."

“Stop rambling, Dalua… I already told you, Superman is going to deal with the asteroid. He’ll be back.”

I laugh. “Hey, Dalua, you said you preferred the purity of children’s answers.”

“Yeah,” Dalua concedes. “And that song is truly Brazilian...”

“I’m not a child, I’m a preteen,” Eva corrects me, chin held high.

“Oh, right, sorry,” I say, feigning a contrite tone.

Eva sizes me up for a moment before shrugging and running off to bother the poor chickens that were pecking around.

"Brat," Dalua murmurs affectionately, shaking her head. "Look, Wolf, here’s my scrapbook.”

The notebook is paperback, with a yellow cover and the name Adalúcia inside a white square. She starts showing it to me in reverse order, beginning with the last page, where there are several signatures from her school classmates, made on the last day of class last year.

“There are lots of signatures on my uniform, too. Every time the school year ends, we borrow markers from the teachers and sign each other's shirts."

Next are the song lyrics. Clearly, Dalua’s favorite singer is Djavan. The printed photo of him isn’t very high quality, but you can tell he’s a handsome Black guy with long hair. There are many transcribed lyrics, and they're beautiful. I can't understand everything, though, and I don't know if my Portuguese is starting to fail me now that I believe I'm not from here, or if it's just a matter of interpretation.

"Djavan isn't meant to be understood, he's meant to be felt," she retorts when I ask.

“So that means you don’t understand his lyrics either, is that it?”

She rolls her eyes. "It depends," she mutters quietly, but I can still hear it. "Which part are you having trouble with?"

"Here, in this song, where he says 'thank goodness I'm Flamengo'."

"Flamengo is a soccer team. He basically means that the fact that his team is unpredictable helps him be more positive about love. Is that all?"

I smile at her impatient teacher tone, but don't comment. "This part too. ‘For those who have no one to give themselves to, day is the same as night.’”

"Basically, not having someone to love and give yourself to makes the day as dark as night, without light, and things lose their meaning."

"Hmm, that makes sense." I keep looking at the lyrics, when I come across something that catches my attention. For those who love, to live is dreaming by day; to fly is human.

To fly is human...

"If we die– Oh, come on, Wolf, don't look at me like that. I'm just talking about the possibility, that's why I said 'if'. You're too optimist."

“And you're too pessimist.”

“Realist,” she corrects, as if that weren't the same argument all pessimists use. "As I was saying, this part of the lyrics is really cool. The fact that we love the people we love is what keeps our days from turning into nights. So even if Nightfall comes..." She smiles, proud of the pun she made with the asteroid's name. "We will have had many more days than nights."

"Well, most of us," I can't help but say.

"You may not remember with your mind, but your heart must remember. You’ve surely loved many people. You still do. Like… who do you want to give yourself to? Who makes your days truly feel like days? Who makes you grateful for rooting for a team that drove you crazy, because it taught you to fight for love? If the world ended and you had a spaceship, who would you want to be your ‘Eve’ and fly off into infinity with you?”

The floral scent seems to burn in my nostrils, in my throat, in my lungs and alveoli, exchanging molecules with my blood and pumping this feeling into my heart and throughout my body. “I…” I don’t know how to answer. There is someone; this can’t be a figment of my confused mind.

After a charged minute where I want to bang my head against the wall to make it work again, Dalua takes the notebook from my hands to show me another page.

"Look, I don't know what you're thinking, but don't take everything I say seriously, okay? My mother says I'm going to go crazy from overthinking, so I'm not a good influence. And forcing your memory probably isn't good for you. I'll show you the collage section now. Here are some images from school books and newspapers. There are a lot of pictures of plants here. And on this page, there are some people I like. I ask teacher Chico to print photos of them at his oldest son's print shop. Sometimes he won't let me pay, and I pretend to get mad. He's really nice."

She shows me photos of people she admires, with extensive texts with information about each one, such as Pelé, Ziraldo, Luiz Gama, Clarice Lispector, Carolina Maria de Jesus, and Luiz Gonzaga. There are also many non-Brazilians, like Nelson Mandela, Joan of Arc, Hypatia, Bob Marley, Frida Kahlo, Quino, Frederick Douglass, and Martin Luther King Jr.

“And of course, there had to be a page for Superman! The photo has these streaks because the printer acts up every now and then, and of course, seeing him in black and white is quite different from the vibrant colors he usually wears, but you should recognize him.”

"I don't know. If it weren't for seu Conrado's family, I wouldn't have even remembered he existed…"

"I doubt that. How does someone forget a guy who flies and wears tights and a cape? I'd say he's become one of the constants in the universe. Why would you remember that the capital of Australia isn't Sydney and not remember him? That doesn't make sense."

I bring the notebook close to my eyes, staring intently at the hero with his arms crossed in the photo. I try to feel something beyond a deep hope for him to show up soon, but what happens is completely unexpected: I recognize myself in him! The face I saw in the mirror after my shower, with wet hair combed back and still without my glasses, looks a little like his. I feel like laughing. I think even Emília and Mariana would mock me if they knew I was comparing myself to Superman. I shake my head, amused almost to the point of hysteria.

“You really don’t remember? It was amazing when he first appeared on TV. I’m sure I’d never forget something like that, especially if the alien hero in question had settled in my country. The aliens who landed in Minas Gerais left way too soon…” I can’t even ask Dalua about the hypothetical aliens who visited the state of Minas Gerais, because she immediately turns the page and continues: “And this here is Superman’s supposed girlfriend. She’s a very good and respected journalist in Metropolis, but I have to admit I only knew about her because of Superman – he’s always shown saving her on TV. So I asked teacher Chico’s son to look her up for me, and I really liked her. She’s a brave and ambitious woman, which is really cool. I think if she had been robbed in a contest, she would have set the judges on fire, not her poetry notebook. Her photo was one of the few that actually came out with good quality."

I can’t hear anything else Dalua is saying, let alone think straight. I don’t need to read the name written in cursive to know who it is. Lois Lane. Something flutters like a flag, trying to catch my attention. My heart races, and before the words can form in my mind, I know: it’s her. The scent my body insisted on remembering, the person I would want to spend the end of the world with.

And for that very reason, I need to go to her. I’m sure I know her; so she must know who I am. I remember our investigations, our jokes, the way she treated me – sometimes funny, sometimes painful – the way she made me feel alive, alert, hopeful. Our byline, Lane and Kent! I’m Clark Kent, a journalist, son of Martha and Jonathan Kent of Smallville. The cookies, the snow, the smell of coffee and pen ink, it all makes sense now.

But then… Dalua referred to Lois as Superman’s supposed girlfriend. Is that true? I feel jealous now. I picture him saving her, carrying her in his arms, flying with her, even kissing her in a hangar, and again, before heading off into outer space. I feel anger and even more sadness. I’d rather let go of those memories, and honestly, I don’t know why I remember them as if I were…

As if I were…

It can’t be.

"Wolf? Are you listening to me?"

I can't answer Dalua. I can't do anything but laugh. Just thinking about telling Lois this in the future is already hilarious. So, that time Superman disappeared, I lost my memory and ended up in Brazil. Then I remembered I’m Clark when I saw a photo of you, and that I’m Superman when I felt jealous of him. It's almost ridiculous. But there's no one else who would stir all of this in me. She's the one I want to give myself to, after all; the one who’s making my days truly feel like days.

And now it's time to put an end to this Nightfall once and for all.

***

I quietly call seu Conrado and dona Terezinha to talk in the back of the house. Dalua is leaning against a tree nearby, arms crossed, looking curious.

"What is it, my son? Did you remember who you are?" asks dona Terezinha, hopeful.

“I remembered where I came from,” I reply, because I can’t say I’m Clark Kent, not with Dalua listening. She’d ask too many questions. “I need to go back to the United States, and I know how to do that, so I have to go.”

Seu Conrado raises his eyebrows. "You're from the United States? Oxe! You don't even have a gringo accent..."

"Yes, I am. I'm in a real hurry, so I need to leave now. There's a lot I need to do. I just wanted to thank you for all the support before I go. I don't plan to make a big announcement to everyone, but please, tell them I said goodbye."

"But boy, aren't you going to have lunch?" asks dona Terezinha, worried. "I was just about to cook some beans for us. And my beans are really good, aren't they, dear?"

"They really are."

“Dona Terezinha, I ate so much for breakfast that I probably won’t be hungry until tomorrow!” I reply, laughing.

She doesn’t buy my excuse. “No, not at all. You’re way too skinny!”

"It's crazy that you remembered out of nowhere like that," Dalua comments, fascinated.

"Because you helped me. Thank you so much. One day, I'll come back to see all of you," I promise. "Seu Conrado, do you think Nuno would mind if I leave with his jersey?"

Seu Conrado clicks his tongue. "That boy has about four Bahia jerseys. He'd actually be happy that you're promoting his team abroad."

"Thank you. Send my regards to him and Marcos, please."

I hug seu Conrado with pats on the back, and dona Terezinha pulls me down to kiss my forehead, insisting all the while that I should stay to eat.

Dalua and I shake hands again, and I say, firmly: "Nightfall isn't going to destroy us, Dalua. You can believe me. You're still going to write many poems."

"There's no way you can be sure of that."

"Yeah, there isn't. But if I'm right, do you promise you'll keep trying?"

After getting her confirmation accompanied by a hesitant smile, I gather the courage to take a few steps. Seu Conrado and dona Terezinha are hugging and waving at me, and I realize how much I liked this place – these people. I really will have to come back here someday.

As soon as I’m out of sight, near the bushes and dry trees, I make a move to fly away. However, a growl stops me.

When I look to the side, Baiacu, Marcos’s grumpy mutt, is there, baring his teeth. He probably cut across to find me, and I was so distracted I didn’t even hear him.

"Looks like I forgot to say goodbye to you, huh? Sorry for the bad manners."

I lean down to pet him, and his growl quickly turns into a violent bite that would have done serious damage to a normal person's hand. He immediately backs off, surely because of the discomfort in his teeth, but soon approaches more cautiously, now trying to gnaw on my hand like a bone. After a few moments, Baiacu gives up, sits down, and stares at me in silence, narrowing his eyes as if he had known who I was all along. And maybe he really did, I think, laughing.

At last, I lift my flight of freedom to the top of one of the giant rocks in the landscape. It's truly beautiful from up here, with the whole world clear under the glorious sun that reigns over this piece of the world. My sandals will carry the dust from here with me, and that comforts me. I don't want to forget this place. I look at the shirt I'm wearing, and I feel a little more confident. After Superman stops Nightfall and things return to normal, he might just stop by a Bahia game. But first, it's urgent that he speaks to people – neighborhood by neighborhood, if necessary – encouraging them to have more hope and to be heroes in their own communities. If I disappear again, I don't want any city to fall into the kind of chaos Betinho described. That, I suspect, is something the whole world needs to hear and learn.

But for now, I'm here. I don't want this planet to need me, although helping makes me extremely happy. It's the one who needs humanity, not the other way around. I need people like seu Conrado, dona Terezinha and Dalua. I need nature and the chickens teaching me lessons about life. I need my parents, the warm cookies, and the Christmas snow in Smallville. I need the smells and sounds of the newsroom. I need Perry, Jimmy, and Cat. I need Lois – and I can't remember a time when I didn't need her, even before I met her. I need Clark Kent, and for those hours in this place, I needed Wolf.

I take flight toward Metropolis and make a sort of declaration, almost a prayer. I’ll be here for you, all of you. But there will come a day when you’ll be so happy that you won’t need any heroes. I promise.




"I'm serious, I've been looking for my spare glasses for an entire day and I can't find them anywhere. I have no idea where they are!"

"Seu Filipe, are you really worried about your glasses in the middle of the end of the world?"

"The worst part is Emília and Mariana, crying since yesterday because they didn't get to say goodbye to Wolf. Honestly..."

"Look, Betinho is back!"

"Betinho! Betinho!" Everyone crowds around the young man again. "What's new?"

"Easy, kids, don't scratch my motorcycle..."

"Alberto!" Dona Ana Andrade scolds. "What did you find out in town this time?"

Betinho pauses dramatically, and then finally says, excitedly: "Superman is back – and the asteroid has been defeated! We're not going to die!"

A joyful cheer echoed from the children and adults.

"You know what that means?" Seu Raimundo raises his voice, lifting his finger. "Pedro, my son... go get the pinga!"

"Is there still some left?" asks seu Antônio.

"I think just a little, Dad," Pedro answers his father.

"No problem," Betinho interrupts, showing the bags he's carrying. "I brought more!"

Another excited cheer echoes. The dogs bark too. The chickens peck peacefully, somehow always having known from the start that there would be a tomorrow. The leaves on the trees sway, and the hills and rocks witness the journey of that portion of humanity. And after the commotion, the dust settles, resigned to the same place, but no less satisfied for it. Until the next last human adventure on Earth, life goes on.





Glossary:

shrimp-head: A way of calling someone devoid of intelligence, since the shrimp's intestine starts at the head.
bagre: Literally "catfish", but in Brazilian soccer slang it's used to describe a useless player.

Songs mentioned: "O Que É, O Que É?" by Gonzaguinha ("I prefer the purity of the children's answer"), "Eva" by Umberto Tozzi, with lyrics adapted for Brazil by the band Rádio Táxi ("it's the end of the human adventure on Earth"), and "Boa Noite" by Djavan (“For those who have no one to give themselves to, day is the same as night”). There's also a song from chapter 2 that I forgot to mention: "Azul" by Gal Costa ("If by chance night falls, and the sky loses its blue...").

***

Me after finishing this chapter: Forgive me, Lord, for I have Mary Sue'd.

Thanks for reading!

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