Twenty After Midnight

My sudden urge to accelerate the world's destruction was connected in a way to the human shit stinking up the sidewalks and the fumes wafting from the slime pooled around the city's dumpsters, to the bus strike and the widespread despair over the late January heat smothering Porto Alegre, but, if there was a before and an after, a line that separated the life I thought I'd have from the life I ended up having, this line was the news of Andrei's death the night before, when he was robbed at gunpoint near Hospital de Cl nicas, just a few blocks from the Ramiro Barcelos neighborhood where I was walking. I had stopped so abruptly while trying to process that piece of information on my Twitter feed that my right foot, wet with sweat, had slipped in its sandal and my ankle had twisted, sending me crashing onto the hot sidewalk, my left arm jutting ridiculously into the air to protect my phone.

Near the site of my fall, a homeless woman rummaged through a dumpster, doubled over its edge like an ostrich with its head buried in the sand, black legs and bare feet poking out from her pink pleated dress. Hearing me groan, she slipped out of the container's mouth, lowered its lid, and walked toward me. I was already propped up on one of my knees, adjusting the strap on my sandal, when she asked if I was all right and offered to help. Only then did I notice that she was a cross-dresser with fine, curly hair covering her thighs and sculpted arms. I said I was all right, thank you, I just needed to sit down for a second. She watched me with interest as I eased myself onto the nearest stoop and, although she looked like she might want to lean over and help, kept a safe distance. Her beautiful face was covered in a thick icing of grease, and her smile, filled with white, straight teeth, seemed more improbable on her than the women's clothing she wore so naturally. I assured her that I was fine, and she didn't insist. Instead, she headed in the direction of Avenida Osvaldo

Daniel Galera is a Brazilian writer and translator. He was born in São Paulo, but lives in Porto Alegre, where he has spent most of his life. He has published five novels in Brazil to great acclaim, including The Shape of Bones and Blood-Drenched Beard, which was awarded the 2013 São Paulo Literature Prize. In 2013 Granta named Galera one of the Best Young Brazilian Novelists and in 2017 he was chosen by Freeman's as one of the international authors representing the future of new writing. He has translated the work of Zadie Smith, John Cheever, and David Mitchell into Portuguese.

"[Galera] writes with a heady, voracious energy captured in robust prose by Sanches. Masterfully picking away at the impotence and disappointments of this aging band of literary provocateurs, Galera presents a vision of failed promise of a generation and country." The New York Times Book Review

Like a well-made song in a minor key, Galera darkens his narrative with an honesty that feels cleansing. . . . [A] vibrant tale of a generation in crisis. Kirkus, starred review
 
"Galera s thoughtful, bittersweet novel tackles the ephemeral nature of friendship... a nuanced, complex portrait of millennial anxiety and anomie.   Publishers Weekly