A goodbye to author Roberto Drummond 

It's a pity we can't talk by phone on Sundays any more.
It's a pity you can't come to visit Colorado with Bela B.
It's a pity you can't seduce your readers and fans
with one more novel or a few more articles.

Adelaide Bouchardet Davis

First part of a two-part article

An accidental friendship with Roberto Drummond—
the creator of Hilda Furacão 

In 1998, my friend from Belo Horizonte Ana Cecília Carvalho came to visit me where I live in Denver, Colorado. She brought as a present a book from a good friend of hers, Roberto Drummond, a novel that had become very successful in Brazil — Hilda Furacão. When she gave me the book, she remarked casually, "It's excellent! Roberto is simply great! You'll love it!" After checking the number of pages and type size, I put it aside, with my other presents, and thought "I'll take it to my room and later, when I have time, I'll take a better look."

I knew about Roberto Drummond, but I had never read any of his books before. That night I made myself comfortable in bed, adjusted the light, and started my passeio (stroll) through that now famous work of the Mineiro author, that writing magician, who became one of Brazil's most famous contemporary novelists.

Sometime after I had finished reading Hilda Furacão for the second time, I went to Empório Minas, the store on the other side of the city that sells Brazilian goodies. I needed some polvilho (fermented cassava starch) for my cheese bread. To be Mineiro, you know, is beyond being born in Minas Gerais—it's a state of soul. We leave the state but the state doesn't leave us. In a Mineiro's house there must be pão de queijo (cheese bread), so I started the search for my polvilho.

Besides food, the store also has a good selection of videos of Brazilian TV programs, and among them there was the Rede Globo miniseries Hilda Furacão. I didn't think twice; I got the four boxes with the videos and rented them for a week. My first thought was, "Does this miniseries have the same magic as the book? It'll be difficult!" The book is always better than the film or the miniseries. The magic of the reading is in the skill of the writer in passing to the reader the responsibility of participating in the story completely. The good writer leaves to the reader the task of imagination.

I arrived home, put the first video on to play, and the magic happened again. Hilda Furacão became real, she was there, beautiful and mysterious. She existed! The adaptation made by Glória Perez didn't destroy Roberto's work but rather showed in an even more romantic way the story of Hilda and everything and everybody that became part of her world in the 1950s and 60s. So for one week, I let myself sit for hours each day in front of the TV, letting the emotions flow in response to the story. Many laughs, much, much crying—a terrific trip. Perfect sound track! I could still sing some of the songs that were hits at that time.

I must make contact with Roberto Drummond, I thought. I must tell him what was happening to me. I was beyond the age to write fan mail to movie or TV actors, much less writers of novels. I don't know if the fact of being far from my country was creating such tumult in my life, or if it was all coming from that incredible story, but the truth is that something really different was happening to me and I needed, at least, to share it with the person responsible for setting in motion such a dither.

I called my friend Ana Cecília and told her, in a general way, what was happening. I said I needed to write to Roberto and would like her to give me his e-mail. She said I could write to the Estado de Minas, the major newspaper of the state, because he had a daily column there about, of all things, soccer.

I couldn't wait another day. I wrote a letter to Roberto by e-mail, not knowing whether or not he would have any time to deal with my letter, with such a tight calendar and living with growing fame, but in the middle of doubts and uncertainties I wrote and told him what was going on. I told him that after a few pages, it became almost impossible to put the book down. I said to myself: "I'll read up to the end of this page," and then "I'll read up to the end of the chapter," and then "I'll just keep reading."

Although I wanted to read every word, I didn't want to finish reading the book because it meant leaving that fascinating world of which I was feeling so much a part. The characters became familiar friends, and I was transported backward in time to Belo Horizonte during the 1950s and 60's, years that I remember so well, with streets that I passed through or places I had visited many times.

I told Roberto that it had become impossible to wait to read at night, so in any spare time I could find, I read a little more. My desire to re-read parts or to spend a little more time in some parts, stretched the time for me to be involved with the story. I didn't want to leave the time or place. When I finally finished the book, I became unbearably melancholic. I was feeling like I had been thrown out of my own home, against my will, with so many things still to be known and to be said.

I couldn't accept having to leave that wonderful world in this way, just because the book was finished. So I came back to the first page and started reading again. And as in all re-reading, I discovered corners and contours that escaped me the first time. And this re-reading happened a third, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth time. And each time the sensation of "being part of the story" was renewed.

I told him that with his book he stirred my memories, made me cry as a little child, and gave me back the Brazil I used to like and for which I have so much saudades (longing). And they are huge saudades of a time that does not exist any more and won't exist ever. It hurts inside, making a knot in the chest that makes me want to cry and implore the past to come back and allow me to live it again. And he needed to know that it was his responsibility because he shook my sensitivity in all directions. I told him he transported me to the Belo Horizonte of my childhood—Minas Tênis Clube, Marília de Dirceu square, Montanhês, the streets downtown, and the sinful red-light district.

Besides Hilda there were so many other well-known characters and each name brought back specific facts to my memory. José Maria Rabelo from Binômio—and I remembered the financial bank strikes and the fire that burnt the newspaper down; Alencastro de Carvalho—his daughter Ilka was my Portuguese teacher in Colégio Estadual in one of the best times of my life; José Aparecido de Oliveira—the example of a Mineiro politician; the Commandant and the roses in the ID-4, Santa Catarina street, so close to my house; Antônio Luciano—the owner of Belo Horizonte movie theaters, with his "stud" fame; the famous TFM (Tradicional Família Mineira—Traditional Mineira Family)—gosh! What a trip! He restored in me the pride and privilege of being part of Belo Horizonte's history and gave me the sensation of being a character in his book.

After sending the e-mail I talked to Ana about it and she said that Roberto called and told her about the beautiful letter he received from me and how enthusiastic he was to get a letter like that from a reader. She told me to call him because he would love it. One Sunday afternoon, I called. His wife answered the phone and I told her who I was. Then Roberto came to the phone—just like that.

The person talking to me from the other side of the world was not the "star" I had imagined, some sort of navel gazer. The voice was of a generous, timid man, that nice way of being a Mineiro available for a chat—a man of a humble kindness. I felt as if I was talking to an old friend that I hadn't seen for a long time, someone with whom I had had great affinity, a friend extremely amicable, sincere, and simple.

He had many things to tell me and we just continued talking and talking like two teen-agers. He told me about his writing, the success of Hilda Furacão, and the new book ready to be published entitled O Cheiro de Deus. I felt extremely happy being able to talk to him that day. That phone call began a friendship that would have a short life; not because we planned it that way, but because destiny would have it so.

Fifteen days passed, and when I came back from Aspen, after a short vacation with my husband, there was a note from the post office about a package waiting for me there —from Roberto. I went immediately to pick it up. It was a big package, and I went back to the car and opened it immediately because I couldn't delay my curiosity. I dove into that great package—filled with so many precious things. I was so touched that I started crying! And at the same time I laughed because Roberto wrote on the paper he used for wrapping the presents:

"Contents:

1—Letter

2—Hilda Furacão CD

3—Globo Magazine about Hilda Furacão

4—Quem Magazine

5—EM Culture—Estado de Minas

Attention Friends from the Customs: I'm the author of Hilda Furacão. Everything inside this package is a present to a friend in the U.S.

Roberto Drummond"

I put the CD in to play and opened the envelope with the letter inside and there was his "voice", and two handwritten pages.

Belo Horizonte, July-1-01

My dear (I never saw you but I already like you)

Adelaide Bouchardet Davis
 

Just today, six days later, your e-mail finally caught up with me; arriving, first, at Estado de Minas, where I came back after 11 years. I read it now, while I was waiting for the Brazil vs. Uruguay game, in Montevideo; a game that has taken away Brazilian's sleep these last nights. Among messages, many, many, about soccer, I discovered your e-mail and I "entrei em festa" (became excited) for everything you wrote related to Hilda Furacão, the book and the miniseries.

Hilda Furacão changed my life and knowing that someone of your competency (I already knew about you) read the book six times, and relived so many things, through what you were reading, is an honor and makes me really happy. I was already happy knowing about the translation of Hilda Furacão to Swedish (Hilda Storm) done by Ulla Gabrielson, and knowing that the book would be in bookstores in Sweden between April and May 2002; and then your e-mail came to make me even happier this moment. I'll keep it, surely; and I'll read it again.

I'm sending you the miniseries CD, one million and two hundred thousand disks were sold in Brazil. I'm also sending, as an homage for everything you wrote, the Globo booklet that was published when the miniseries was shown (it became a rarity in Brazil). I'm living counting down the days now for the release of my novel O Cheiro de Deus that will be in the Brazilian bookstores by the end of July. I'll send you O Cheiro de Deus as soon as it's released. I'm also sending the Estado de Minas and Quem magazine articles about the new book.

A big hug,

Roberto Drummond

PS1—Thanks for the reference about Bela B., without whom I wouldn't have written my books.

PS2—Brazil lost to Uruguay: 1 to 0 on a penalty.
 

It was as if he was here and we were talking about everything in another personal conversation. It was magic! And while I was enjoying all of what I was reading, seeing, and listening to, I was thinking how privileged I was. I came back home, read the articles in the magazine and the newspaper, read the Globo booklet article about the miniseries, and let the sensation of "going back to the old times" take care of me. Then I wrote to him about the emotions awakened by his airborne kindness. He phoned again, and even separated by such great distance, Roberto and I made a pact to cultivate our friendship.

So Early to Go Away 

On June 21, 2002, Roberto Drummond left the human scene forever leaving in all his readers and friends the bitter sensation of saudade. Nobody had time to say goodbye. He died of a heart attack, at daybreak. He was at home and was taken to the hospital Biocor. Ana Beatriz, his daughter, said that her father was showing symptoms of the attack for a while.

He was afraid that the doctors would prohibit him from watching the World Cup games so early in the morning. As an avid soccer fan, the World Cup, special to all Brazilians, was very special for him. The match of Brazil vs. England, which he never saw, made him anxious even though he believed that Brazil would win by 3 to 0.

Roberto Drummond leaves as orphans the 10 books he wrote and nourished with an infinite love and an exceptional respect for his readers. His closest friends and colleagues expressed their grief and noted how much they will miss him.

Clara Arreguy said to Superesportes: "Roberto Drummond's death steals a lot of poetry that the reporter knew, as no other, how to bestow on soccer. Passionate for the ball, for Atlético, for Belo Horizonte, for Minas, for Brazil, for Ferros, and for his countless muses, Roberto Drummond used to write his sports articles as a literary exercise, in the artistic sense of the word.

"Soccer, for him, was not just a sport. It was art, the expression of the culture and identity of a people… Roberto was an intelligent fellow worker, an amusing, but ethical crony. He was a professional that put passion in everything he did… Although he was extremely happy with the fact that the miniseries Hilda Furacão was now being shown in the U.S., he didn't have time to finish the book he was writing about the history of Clube Atlético Mineiro, his ultimate passion. With his sudden departure, Roberto, left many people grief-stricken in sports, literature, journalism, and politics. His happiness and passion will always inspire all of us in all those paths he sprinkled with poetry."

In Shizuoka, Japan, the sports writers, sent to cover the World Cup 2002 lamented Roberto's death. Tostão, the former player in the Brazilian tri-champion team in Mexico, sent these words to Estado de Minas: "We were good pals. Sometimes we met each other in Savassi and sat for a long time talking. When I started my career in Cruzeiro (the other famous soccer team in Belo Horizonte), he was the writer who praised me most. Besides losing an exceptional human being, Brazil lost a great writer."

Fernando Calazans, from O Globo said: "When he came back to writing the daily report about soccer, I greeted that happening in my column. He thanked me and sent me a copy of Hilda Furacão with a dedication."

Emanuel Carneiro, president of Rede Itatiaia de Rádio said: "Roberto was a reference point for our city. His manner, his clothes were a trade mark, as well as the newspapers he used to carry under his arm, walking through Savassi, his preferred place… He was Mineiro in his lifestyle, his way to be, his way with his friends. The loss is enormous; Minas Gerais has few national figures in literature; he was one of them and he loved it, he knew the value of this."

The last column Roberto Drummond wrote for Estado de Minas was finished in the afternoon of the Thursday before he died—July 21. He complained about a strong flu. The column was published Friday (July 22) and was entitled "Seja o que Deus quiser" (It's God's wish)—he wrote about his concern and the way he felt about the match between Brazil and England in the World Cup.

Roberto didn't see Brazil's victory against England; he didn't see Brazil's victory against Germany. He didn't have the pleasure of crying with emotion when Ronaldo lifted in the air the World Cup, the well deserved prize for the fifth championship of world soccer. Roberto didn't celebrate here, among us. But, I'm sure he was leading a group of angels and chatting with all the deceased soccer fans there with him now, about Brazil's phenomenal strategies.

I'm also sure that the great Heleno de Freitas received him with open arms and Garrincha, with his shy way, came to talk to the great Mineiro reporter. And all of them were there, watching on the big screen of life the Seleção Canarinho (for the Brazilian team) showing to the world that, at least in matters of soccer, nobody is more creative, more audacious, nobody plays as beautiful as our "boys from Brazil."

In July 21, 2002, at 6PM, I came back from my work with an enormous feeling of loss. I was hurting and my emotion was trapped in my throat. I wanted to say good-bye to Roberto, I wanted in some way to tell him what I couldn't say anymore in the call I had planned for the following Sunday. I decided to write a letter that he would never read, a letter that wouldn't have a recipient but that must be written for my own sake.
 

Lakewood, June 21, 2002.

My dear friend Roberto,

Your departure left suspended a series of things to be shared: the plans for you to come with Bela B. to Denver, Colorado, to visit my house and the Rocky Mountains; the news that I would send to you about my trip to Istanbul; our conversation about O Cheiro de Deus that, as I told you in my last letter (two weeks ago), I took with me to Turkey. I read it on the airplanes, seated at the airports, and in the evenings in my bedroom in the Parkside Hilton Hotel in Istanbul. I finished the reading on Sunday, June 16, my last day in that magnificent city.

At this moment the sensation of loss I have is extremely painful and it's difficult to believe, being so far away, that you left, like this, suddenly, without a good-bye, like a bird flying off.

I have that feeling of impotence that always assaults me when I lose control of some situation. I planned on calling you on June 23, Sunday. During the week I was working in Boulder, and every day when I was driving there and back, little things were reminding me about the phone call to be made: Judy Garland singing "Somewhere over the rainbow" (I have the same CD I took to you when I went to Brazil last October!), Eartha Kitt singing "Angelitos Negros" (the music that José Mojica sang to Catula in O Cheiro de Deus). Ah! And I would ask you again about which TV channel (in Spanish) is showing Hilda Furacão here in the States (my friend Sandra asked me and I didn't know for sure).

Today I was working in Boulder again and I was checking my e-mails. There was one from Rodney, of Brazzil magazine. He gave me the news that I was hoping never to receive—about your departure. I was in shock and started crying and saying to myself "It's not possible! It's not possible!" I was speaking in Portuguese and people around me couldn't understand what I was saying but they could see that something bad had happened. They asked me what was going on and I could just say "my friend, my friend from Brazil…"

I called my husband Jim immediately and told him. He couldn't believe it either and told me to check other sources. I told him that Rodney sent the article from a newspaper in Rio. Jim asked me if I wanted to come home, but I stayed, even though Stephen, the project engineer, said I could leave. I didn't want to be home alone at that point.

Márcio, my Brazilian friend that works in the same company, checked the Brazilian newspapers through the internet and all of them confirmed the news and even your picture was there on the screen. I spent the rest of the day in front of my computer, with my heart heavy and crying each moment. Ana Cecília also sent me an e-mail that shook me once more, confirming the reality.

I came back home listening to Judy Garland. I don't remember the road or how much time it took me to arrive home. Ana Cecília left a message on the answering machine. Geralda, another friend you met in UNA-BH, also left a message. Both of them were shocked and emotional. I talked to Ana Cecília and Nelson today—they went to say good-bye to you at the funeral.

I'm wondering if you received the last letter I sent before going to Istanbul—I hope so. You would like to know that your book is already in the U.S. I sent you the newsletter from Luso-Brazilian Books, NY, advertising O Cheiro de Deus. Did you talk to Gregory Rabassa about the translation for Hilda Furacão and O Cheiro de Deus? You were right, I think he would do a great job—he translated Jorge Amado, Machado de Assis, and many others.

As Elizabeth Geiser (a friend in publishing I told you about) said, if the book goes to an American publisher already translated, this is a plus. Elizabeth is coming to Denver. She'll be shocked when I tell her that you left; she won't believe—she used to say that you have "a great face". I told her everything about your work, about you, about the interview—she loved it and always asked about you when we met.

My dear friend, I'm totally confused. I want to say so many things and ask so many questions, even though my questions won't have answers and now you won't be able to read my own stories. But I need to write this letter—it's a catharsis for me. For now everything looks so unreal and it's as if the pain is locked inside me—a huge chain around my heart.

Your visit to Denver with Bela B. was already planned in my head. So many things to be seen, so many places to be visited. I'm sure you would love the place, the people, the vistas of this gorgeous state.

Jim and I loved Istanbul. It's impossible not to fall in love with that incredible place. Like Brazilians, the Turks love soccer and were fascinated by the World Cup and pleased to go so far!

About O Cheiro de Deus that I finished reading the day we were leaving Istanbul, I had so many things to discuss with you. One of them was the "sensation of being included" that I felt—being part of the Drummond family, being part of vó Inácia Micaéla's castle, being part of the "city of coughs and orgies".

After falling in love with Hilda Furacão, I thought you couldn't ever have the power of doing this with me any more—seducing my mind completely. But I need to confess that you did it. I read at night and commented with Jim during breakfast. It's one of the most incredible books I ever read (and I have read a lot!). I'm fascinated with the Drummond family portrayed in your book. I couldn't stop reading and commenting to myself (or to whomever was around) "What a genius!" Thank you for giving your readers one more precious work! There are so many things that I would like to say about the book, so many details I would like to clear up. Alas … some things go unresolved.

After so many years living here, this is one of the few times that I have become conscious about being so far from my land. I'm not talking about Brazil—I'm talking about Belo Horizonte, I'm talking about Minas Gerais. I have this huge sensation of loss. Today I'm missing being Mineira. My heart is missing the city where I lived for so many years, I'm missing my Marília de Dirceu street, the streets of Savassi and Santo Antônio. And as with numberless compatriots, my heart is really missing Roberto Drummond. Slowly I'm becoming conscious that you really left. The readers lost the novelist, the soccer fans lost the sportswriter, I lost a great friend. I'll miss you a lot, my friend.

It's a pity we can't talk by phone on Sundays any more. It's a pity you can't come to visit Colorado with Bela B. It's a pity you can't seduce your readers and fans with one more novel or a few more articles. You left so early! You could stay a little more (and if it was possible, forever). To make the pain hurt less, I like to think that this was a special moment for your career, for you who were doing what you liked the most in life—enchanting those who have the privilege to know your work. You owe me the autographs in all my books—you promised to do this when you came to visit.

I read again the first letter I sent to you. I read again the first one you sent to me. In my heart you didn't leave; you are on vacation having earned a deserved rest. Don't worry, my friend, we'll never forget you, but we'll miss you a lot.

A big hug that can't be given this time.

Adelaide.
 

I feel a tremendous frustration with the death of this dear friend. Some weeks have now past, but the bitter taste of the loss hasn't gone away—and maybe it won't ever go. I don't have his voice on tape. I don't have the autographs in my precious books. But I have the pictures I took when we met in Brazil, I have the letter and the mementos he sent to me.

They'll remind me that Roberto Drummond entered into my life, in a strange way and for a brief time, but it was enough to illuminate my feelings for my people and cultivate my taste for a new kind of literature. And, most important, he left books that will be his voice forever, a sweet melody to carry the fantasies of the soul.

Roberto Drummond—from sports 
reporter to novelist 

Roberto Francis Drummond was born in Ferros, Minas Gerais, in the Rio Doce Valley, December 21, 1933. He moved to Belo Horizonte (the capital of the State) when he was an adolescent and studied in Colégio Arnaldo. He said one day about Minas Gerais: "Here I'm home. Here I manage to carry out my proposal to be a writer. I'm in the environment of what I want to write. Here I'm happy to do what I want."

He started working in the 50's covering the student movement he was in; this movement opened the doors of journalism for him. He was invited to work in Folha de Minas newspaper (now extinct) by the journalist Felippe Drummond (a cousin he didn't know before) after asking if he could place an announcement in that newspaper, some coverage of an aspect of the student movement at that time.

He was also a reporter for the newspapers Binômio and Última Hora. Later he became the publisher of the magazine Alterosa. In the 60's he went to the newspaper Estado de Minas where he was a reporter and editor of the cultural section (Second Edition), writing also a column in the Sports Section.

He was a sports journalist during a big part of his life and was passionate about soccer. He cooperated, as a sports writer, with many newspapers and other media. He was a fanatic fan of Clube Atlético Mineiro (CAM), the "rooster team" (the rooster is the symbol of the team.) He used to say: "If there is a T-shirt black and white hanging on the clothesline during a tempest, the 'Atleticano' cheers against the wind." (black and white are CAM colors). As a reporter for the Estado de Minas, where he had a daily column in "Superesportes" he worked for more than 30 years; his articles, full of passion for the sport he always loved, were read not just by "Atleticanos" (fans of Clube Atlético Mineiro), but by all devotees of soccer.

His work is extensive. He always put a lot of his own emotions into his articles. About "emotion" he revealed in Quem magazine (5/25/01—Editora Globo): "I cry over anything—watching TV, writing, listening to music, and also watching soccer." Besides being a sports reporter, Roberto dedicated his life to writing and, as a writer, it was this emotion—that made him cry over anything—that gave his novels their special quality and produced such good reviews and prizes.

When he published his first book of short stories, A Morte de D.J. em Paris, in 1975, he used to classify his writing as "pop literature" and explained that this could be summarized as "unconventional literature, without intellectualism, without a link to traditional literature." For Roberto, literature happens all the time; it happens in the barzinho (young people's bar), inside the elevator, with the guy who didn't study, or with the waitress—none of whom are writers.

In an interview with J.A. de Granville Ponce, he was already reinforcing this by saying that it's necessary to incorporate those people's ways of speaking without "chewing" anything for anybody. It's necessary to have an open literature that allows many interpretations, as opposed to a closed literature, with everything well "chewed". For him the writer's role is to "bagunçar o coreto" (create disorder) for a traditional and corrupt society. "The writer must be a star, must give hope, must give support, create something new, produce a new man. There must be a literature of strife, a contest (struggle) literature, even if it's not making a direct attack."

In this interview with Granville Ponce, Roberto talks about himself and his dreams of being a writer since the time he was a boy. He said to the interviewer:
 

"I'm Mineiro. I was born in the Rio Doce Valley. I don't tell my age. I use to say that I'm 36 years old and I have a younger brother who's impressed because he's already ahead of me. I'm married, my wife's name is Maria Beatriz, and I have a daughter—for now, her name is Ana Beatriz. My father, Francisco Alvarenga Drummond, engineer, farmer. My mother, Ricarda de Paiva Drummond. When I was a child I used to say that I wanted to be a writer and it was as if I was saying that I wanted to be a robber, that I would kill someone, do you know? Everybody looked at me shocked and said that a writer was a crazy person.

"They said that there was a certain Carlos Drummond de Andrade, from the region of Itabira, close to my homeland, that was completely crazy. They said that he wrote a "thing" that said something like 'there was a stone in the middle of the way, in the middle of the way there was a stone' and he was killing Brazilian poetry. They also used to say that a writer is a crazy vagabond man. It took some time for me to be free of this. I finally became free doing therapy.

"When I was writing I felt a zillion diseases—my hand started to sweat, my heart jumped, I thought I would have an infarct, I thought I would die. This "tied me down" a lot. Finally I discovered that I could write without turning into a crazy vagabond. It took a lot of time to be able to be ready to write, do you know? Nothing came, I had a violent blockage. Nowadays I don't feel anything, I mean, I feel a tremendous happiness, but those symptoms that I used to feel I don't feel any more.

"I began writing when I was around 13, 14 years old. Always stories, or radio soap operas… But I was really tight, you know. I had a bunch of prisons. I had, for example, the Jorge Amado prison. I wanted to be a second Jorge Amado. Then I became free of Jorge Amado and I fell into another prison, Ernest Hemingway prison. I wanted to be exactly that way. I thought even that I should go to Vietnam, to some place where there was a war. I think I became free when I started therapy, when I started to find my true self, to accept myself the way I was. I saw that I was not Jorge Amado or Hemingway. For my misfortune or my luck, I was myself.

"I stopped studying when I finished high school. After this I started in journalism. I hit this phase when Mineiro journalism was really great. We exported many good professionals (to other parts of the country)… Here in Belo Horizonte I directed a magazine named Alterosa, which closed in 1964. I went to Jornal do Brasil, making good money. I used to live on Avenida Atlântica, with the window turned to the ocean, which was a marvelous thing for a Mineiro. But something was not quite right. I used to think that every single plane was going to Minas Gerais. It was terrible. An airplane that was actually going to New York, I used to think was going to Minas."

The Mineiro's soul spoke louder and Roberto went back to Belo Horizonte, leaving behind an offer for advancement in Jornal do Brasil, a position he had sought. He wanted to "go home".

With the story A Morte de D.J. em Paris, Roberto Drummond won the Prêmio Jabuti. This story was inserted in the book Os Cem Melhores Contos Brasileiros do Século, organized by Ítalo Moriconi, published by Editora Objetiva in 2000. In the preface to the section for "The 70's—Violence and Passion," Moriconi says, "the Brazilian writer of the 70's wants to jangle the self-satisfied choir". And Roberto Drummond did this as no other writer.

Besides the book published in 1975, Roberto Drummond had published:

 O Dia em que Ernest Hemingway Morreu Crucificado (novel, 1978)

 Sangue de Coca-Cola (novel, 1980)

 Quando Fui Morto em Cuba (short stories, 1982)

 Hitler Manda Lembranças (novel, 1984)

 Ontem à Noite Era 6^a. Feira (novel, 1988)

 Hilda Furacão (novel, 1991), translated to French, Swedish, and Spanish

 Inês É Morta (novel, 1993)

 O Homem que Subornou a Morte (short stories and chronicles, 2000)

 O Cheiro de Deus (novel, 2001)
 

Two of his books became extremely popular. One, as mentioned before, because it became a miniseries (Hilda Furacão—Rede Globo de Televisão) in 1998, through the adaptation of Glória Perez. The other because the author, then extremely popular, was releasing his major work—O Cheiro de Deus.

To be continued

The second part of this article contains an interview with Roberto Drummond as well as analyses of his books Hilda Furacão and O Cheiro de Deus

Thanks to: Estado de Minas, O Globo, Folha de São Paulo, O Estado de S. Paulo, Superesportes, Veja magazine, Quem magazine, Central Globo de Produções (booklet)

Thanks to: Jim Davis who edited the English text.

Adelaide Bouchardet Davis, born in Visconde do Rio Branco, Minas Gerais state, is a writer and professor of Portuguese at Denver University, state of Colorado. You can reach her via e-mail: addavis@du.edu   

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