PROLOGUE — A TRIBUTE FROM AN EPIGRAPH
The cloudy sky held the infamous mourning that inflamed the minds of the Moldoveanu family. Lord Mihai had passed away almost three nights ago, when Alexandru had to take over the company and migrate to another continent to reaffirm ties with his corporation's partners. With this loss, the family was in express melancholy; silence was more perpetual than usual.
The flight was long, from Eastern Europe to South America, containing twenty hours of pure mental restlessness. Lucian, the middle son, had his heart broken in half that morning when he was notified that his belongings were already organized and that they would leave in half an hour.
It was cold when they arrived at the airport that Sunday; however, even on the plane, the environment was freezing, the air was thin, barely breathable. His grandfather was a man of integrity, virtuous and dedicated to the three important aspects of life: religion, family, and work. He was a good husband, a present father, and a title of vigor to his acquaintances.
He was respected by his community, he was appreciated, and he was someone whose absence would be felt. Lucian spent the afternoon observing from above the small parcel of land between the continents and the excess of water, from that ocean which seemed to capture and sink his poor heart.
He briefly remembered their chess games on weekends; he would always lose just to see him with that characteristic expression of his, as if winning a board game made him return to his youth.
And how he wished so much that had happened. Lucian, like all the rest of his family, held back their tears for the sake of the Moldoveanu image and reputation, but this bitter, gall-like attitude condemned them to a moment of sober solitude.
Even among their own, the solid, firm barrier was an unbreakable structure that silently separated the affection between them. The funeral had occurred the day after his passing—a cardiorespiratory attack. He had come close to eighty-six years, but didn't reach it, missing by just one day.
Mihai had disappeared for one night and when he returned, he surprised his rigid family with a lucid drunkenness; he confessed to decades of dysthymia and lamented the distance that all that armor they wore had created between them.
They completely ignored him. Mihai had broken the vow before dying, to never drink, to never reveal his true thoughts.
Lucian had been devastated by his grandfather's frank and unregulated comments that day, but discovering his death the next day, seeing him hunched over his desk in his office, with a glass and too many pill strips to even think of counting, was truly a shock that altered his usual state of passivity.
When he had to announce to the relatives his grandfather's death and its cause, he certainly felt his ground fall away, as if it had never existed in the first place. The wake was quick, without many details; the family would not reveal how he truly departed. They could not betray the dogmas they carried as commandments.
The statements and memories at the pulpit carried a false, unbalanced, and dissimulated air; they created an over-image regarding Mihai Moldoveanu for those outside that vicious and devout circle.
Lucian was no different; he grew up in that environment and was thus a product of that state of omissions. And worse; he hadn't told everything. In fact, his grandfather had left a letter, a farewell, a something before departing.
However, he did not read it. What courage would he have to read it? Besides hiding it, it was proof that there would be no lighter tomorrow with the grace of his grandfather's young soul.
He was the extremities, he was the edges, he was the one who held the real mortality, what touches the meaning of being human in that family. But now, he was gone, and even with that farewell letter, it was as if he had left without saying goodbye.
For a brief moment, he let himself relax too much in his protest, in his persistence to observe the exterior of that airplane, as penance, and he slept.
When he awoke, the journey carried the sensation of being in lurking, the restart, an even greater distance from his land, from his history. As soon as he disembarked, his senses were taken by the cultural and environmental contrast of that Monday on another continent.
The heat was evident, with a warm breeze and a diverse aroma; in every corner, there was something to surprise him. The clothing was shorter and tighter than the custom in his country; the colors and shapes also varied.
Nothing was very similar or nostalgic, very unique and distinct from everything he knew. He knew the basics of the local language, but the little he understood didn't seem enough for an active listening that got lost in the natives' colloquial speed.
He felt displaced; however, he needed to find his way as soon as possible, because in that labyrinth of foreignness, he could get lost for good.
Fortunately, for Lucian's sake, fate didn't make them wait long for the person responsible for picking up the Moldoveanu family to arrive at the airport and take them to the city where they would actually live, indefinitely.
The exacerbated bureaucracy had been largely resolved by Alexandru, but there were still some loose ends to tie up.
As in Vlad's case, who secured a transfer as an exchange student at the local university, in addition to getting an adjustment in his schedule that added him to an extension course for foreigners, to learn Portuguese.
But it wasn't only Lucian's brother who got this schedule adjustment; Anya did too. Her Portuguese language and literature classes would be adapted; she would be part of an "exclusive" class of only foreigners, though it would still be at the school itself.
Lucian, however, wasn't so lucky. His father, after revealing the abrupt move to another continent, commented on the school where he had enrolled him, and that, unlike his siblings' institutions, he would have to choose some volunteer monitor from the school to carry out this task throughout the school year, in their home.
Despite this, Alexandru only emphasized that since it would be in his room, the lessons with the monitor, he didn't want it to be someone frivolous and/or disrespectful of the family's values.
Lucian nodded in silence; however, he understood well the subtext of that verbal minute, the universal and unbreakable laws of the family's unspoken rules. He understood well what kind of person his father did not want in his house, in his life.
It would never be in his nature to perform any action of that sort, but destiny had its ways of playing with people's fate, and it wouldn't be at this stage that it would be different.
The Sun hung in the trees with the brief blow of that fresh breeze which announced the night that was to come. Lucian felt in his core the raw anxiety for the unknown, for being in a land where he was a foreigner.
A stranger to the fauna that roamed the woods he glimpsed. When the sign lit up, he sensed something of the near future; the wide streets guarded a sea of unspeakable things. He could see little on that road; in contrast, the condominium was very visible.
Although it ascended like a star, as soon as he spotted the destination point, he felt that the mansion where he would live contained an austere air, and he foresaw what that implied.
It was more than exaggerated; the ostentation screamed with a sacred scorn those laws that the family wore. There was a hint of comfort in certain positions, but bordering on nostalgia only, because the rest of the decoration was intimidating with its rustic and feverish furniture.
His room was a planned suite, which seemed, well, as if they had been waiting for this. The mansion, despite everything, was new, almost as if it had been erected in a week, and he didn't doubt it.
Had they planned, possibly, Mihai's potential fall? Perhaps they expected the pressure to consume him soon and then planned the strategy of what to do; on a manila paper a to-do list was filled out, with a Moldoveanu mansion, to remain potent against adversaries and a fortress for their allies.
Lucian thought as he walked around his room, mumbling and memorizing the order of factors, the frequency of the air, and evaluating the resistance of the energy emerging from his soul.
His bed was opposite the window, which was unduly large, serving as a door to a suspended balcony, as if simulating an escape route from that claustrophobic environment. Opposite the room's entrance door, there were built-in shelves with his books, but they had many spaces begging for more, as if they lacked the life that place could not deliver.
The corner desk was located partly on the wall with the window, and partly on the remaining wall that divided with the shelves. There were two chairs; he was sure it was to accommodate the volunteer when they came.
Gradually, the thoughts subsided and the night welcomed him. His sister knocked on the door shortly after, just to let him know that his parents had placed a virtual order at some local restaurant, which would arrive soon.
And it seemed like such a short time before he had to go down for dinner; that's how he realized he was absorbed in his own automaticity. Taking a deep breath, he took notes to live in the present and try to enjoy the experience.
After a prolonged shower, getting used to the new climate of the place, he lay down and imagined worlds and their ends in sequence of first days of school. However, he let himself sleep, even without sleepiness; he needed to get used to that territory.
At six in the morning on a Tuesday, he woke up with the Sun in his large window, reflecting on his face, waking him from a much-needed sleep. He made his routine similar to the usual one, getting ready for the scheduled visit to the school; he needed to see it and choose the so-called one who would accompany him that year.
He tried to pretend to be accustomed to that dynamic, to dress as if he belonged to that world, so hot in the early morning hour. The staff Alexandru had hired in the meantime they were on the plane were already presenting themselves for work at the mansion, and with that in view, the driver took him to the institution where he would study for an indeterminate time.
The journey seemed slower, as if by being away from that environment, Sisyphus's stone remained at the top without him having to hold it. The path to his destination was pleasant; the trees seemed to shine under that warmed sunrise, the fauna was very much alive and wandered both in that multi-colored sky and on the earth like wanderers.
When he arrived at that new scope of his trajectory, he prayed mentally for something that would welcome him on that continent, that would make him not feel alone, something that not only managed to take him out of non-belonging, but also as a someone, who recognized a person in him, not just a foreigner.
He got out of the car, crossed the gate less austere than the one at his house, and headed, following the signposts, to the principal's office. He knocked on the door and a man with a greedy expression greeted him, telling him to enter.
He didn't know the language well, but the principal didn't mind; he seemed to tell the school's history in broad strokes. Maybe he understood it had almost a century of existence, that it was a natural champion in university entrance exams due to its great teachers, that its students were exceptional, but he wasn't sure.
He was sitting in silence observing the principal talk about a thousand and one things, when he suddenly stopped and handed him a sheet of paper; it looked like a schedule, maybe a school map?
Although confused, the principal stood up, saying the words too quickly, but he understood "volunteer" and "arrived" well. He opened the door and saw a boy. The principal said:
"This is Miguel, one of the monitors who volunteers in the Portuguese Language Project for Foreigners," and continued talking more things, incomprehensible and fast. The principal kept chattering and touched Lucian's shoulder, pushing him out: "Go on, follow him and enjoy the tour."
The door behind him closed with a loud sound, expelled by the principal himself. Probably, he wouldn't make friends on this continent either; if not even in his homeland was he well-liked, who knows how desired he would be as a stranger.
The guy who would guide him was a bit taller, with short, dark blond hair with pink tips and with the liberty spikes¹ in it, with grayish-green eyes, with ten well-exposed piercings, and even though he was in uniform, which was quite formal considering the school environment, his laid-back behavior was very evident, just like a punk; perhaps he was a scholarship student.
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¹ "Liberty spikes" is the common term for this punk hairstyle.