From the Viaduct
The viaduct on Dr. Arnaldo Avenue is one of the most beautiful in São Paulo. Not for the aesthetic value of the structure itself, but for the view it offers of the city. Standing nearly 30 meters high, it even has a subway station beneath it. On one side, you can see the Pacaembu neighborhood, parts of Perdizes and Pompéia. On the other, Pinheiros, the Goethe Institute, and the wall of the São Paulo Cemetery. Below, the wide Sumaré Avenue runs. The place is more beautiful at night, and even better at dawn, when silence and artificial lights take over. The viaduct also serves as shelter for the needy and a meeting point for lovers. A platform for extreme sports enthusiasts and kite flyers. It's the ideal place to smoke a cigarette.
I had a fight with my girlfriend in the early hours of Monday to Tuesday, March 12. I decided to walk the long way back home, from Pompéia, where she lives, to downtown. I'd buy a beer and take advantage of the night's silence to ponder life. Maybe take some photos along the way.
I walked for 40 minutes—no bars, no souls, no photos. The urge to return to my girlfriend's house came. As I approached the viaduct, I hoped my phone would ring, that it would be her. I'll cross and then decide whether to go back or move forward, I thought. Maybe take a photo there. After the viaduct, there was the first bar along the way. I needed a beer.
Then I noticed a man standing in the middle of the viaduct. He was about 50 meters away, standing still, facing the Pinheiros side. Annoyed, as I wanted the viaduct to myself, I approached. At 10 meters, aware of my proximity, the man sat on the edge of the viaduct, his body facing the abyss.
"Man, don't do that," I shouted, as if I'd received an electric shock. The man, much calmer than I, just turned his head and said slowly:
"I'm going to kill myself."
"Don't do that," I repeated, now calmer, as if any misplaced word could push him over. He got down and stood in front of me.
He was a tall and strong man, with short, light hair. He looked like a descendant of Germans, those who live in the South. He seemed about 50 years old. Maybe less, I don't know. His face was marked. His light eyes looked at me with curiosity. He was a bit altered, though there were no signs of alcohol or drugs.
He was more interested in listening than talking.
"What happened to you, man?" I asked.
"My wife left me and took my kids. I don't want to live anymore."
"But man... I'll buy you a beer," I said, thinking I'd had a brilliant idea, wanting to leave that place as quickly as possible—I, who love the viaduct so much.
"I don't want to. I'm going to kill myself," he replied, indifferent.
I didn't quite believe it, as one doesn't really believe someone wants to kill themselves. In my disbelief, I thought that someone who really wants to die doesn't jump off a viaduct—that's movie stuff. I took the trouble to notice that if he jumped, he'd land on the central median of Sumaré, where there's some grass and dirt. Jumping onto the road would be more effective.
"My name is Tuca, and yours? What's your name?" I asked, to create some intimacy, like someone starting a long conversation. I extended my hand, which he shook weakly. I continued, trying to dissuade him:
"You'll find a solution to this, my friend. You'll do a lot of cool things in life."
"I don't want to anymore. She took my kids from me, won't let me see them," he said, motionless in front of me.
"Do you work? Do you have a job?"
"I do."
"Where do you live?"
"I live here, in Pompéia."
"Come with me, I'll take you home," I said, looking at the street, already searching for a taxi.
"I'm not going. I don't want to live anymore," he said, and for the first time, expressed sadness.
I didn't know what to do. The man didn't react. He stayed quiet. I thought he was waiting for something from me. That there must be some magic word to get him out of there.
"Look, I just fought with my girlfriend too. I'm not feeling great, but life has a lot of good opportunities. We can't give up," I said, seeking compassion. I was afraid of saying anything that might worsen the situation. I'd never prepared for a moment like this.
I returned to the subject of his wife—it seemed to be the only thing he was thinking about:
"Have you thought about looking for her, explaining the situation?"
"She disappeared, took my kids, won't let me see them," he repeated. Still motionless. I'll take a risk, I thought:
"But man, you're a young, strong guy. You'll find someone who brings you joy."
He didn't respond, looked away, seemingly disappointed with me.
At that moment, my girlfriend called and asked where I was. "Look, I'm on Dr. Arnaldo's viaduct with a friend," I said loudly, so both could hear. "I can't talk now, but tell him you love me," I asked, trying to hand him the phone, which he refused. "I'll talk to you later; it's very serious," I said to her and hung up.
"Are you sure you don't want me to take you home?" I insisted.
"No."
We remained silent. I couldn't take it anymore. He noticed. For the first time, he said something without me asking:
"You can go."
"But I don't want to leave you here alone."
"Go, go away, leave me alone," he said impatiently, to end the matter.
"Alright, but take care. You'll find your way," I said, giving up.
"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Go away," he said.
There wasn't much I could do. He was already unwilling to talk to me, and I respected his desire to be alone.
"Take care, my dear. You're strong," I said goodbye.
He waved his hand. I walked about 20 meters and looked back. There he was, in the middle of the viaduct. Standing, hands on the edge, eyes on the city. I felt relief: at least I'll leave him the same way I found him. I walked another 20 meters. Ashamed of my own curiosity, I turned back, as discreetly as possible, to look at him one last time.
I'm a photographer. With photography, I've learned that the most important images aren't captured by the camera but by memory. The act and time of raising the camera, adjusting the mechanisms, positioning the focus, framing, require the consciousness and reflection that the eye dispenses with. The gaze adjusts itself and reveals instantly. You don't need to be a photographer to collect images. Everyone has their album of intangible photographs, preserved in memory. Some of them we carry forever.
The man sat on the edge and, delicately, pushed the viaduct behind him. A short, deep sound followed. It was as if the Earth opened beneath my feet.
"Fuck, the guy jumped!" I shouted to the viaduct, to the asphalt, to the buildings, to the night.
I ran back to the spot where we had talked, as if I could still pull him by the arm. I looked down. I picked up the phone.
I called 190, the police:
"Hello, look, a man jumped off Dr. Arnaldo's viaduct and fell onto Sumaré Avenue, suicide attempt, you need to send someone quickly, he might be alive."
"Do you have a reference point?" the woman asked.
"Reference point? Sumaré Avenue, under Dr. Arnaldo, under the Sumaré subway, everyone knows it."
I gathered courage and looked down again. There was the body. Stretched out, motionless, head turned downward, shirt lifted, exposing his back, limbs with more folds than they should have. He fell right in the middle of the central median, cars passing on both sides of the avenue. I looked up, and it was as if time stopped. The whole city appeared enormous, threatening, and indifferent, enveloped in the silence that only the deep dawn can produce.
What to do? I need to do something. I grab the camera and immediately restrain myself. Taking a photo would be the most insensitive act someone could commit. But why the hell do I always carry a camera? Even when I go to the corner to buy cigarettes, I take one with me. Precisely because something can always happen. And I needed to do something, at least to believe that it hadn't all been a nightmare.
I took the camera. There was little light, and to have stability, I rested my elbows on the edge, in the same place from where he had jumped, turned downward, and took a photo. Burning with guilt, crying in despair, I took other photos. Always the same framing, with the coldness of varying the speed, afraid of blurring the image. Thirteen frames, all the same.
About fifteen minutes passed until the rescue siren broke the silence. The fire truck passed by the man without seeing him. I whistled from the top of the viaduct. The firefighters crossed the median. One of them approached the man and made a sign, which the others immediately understood. The one who was farther away went to the truck and got a white sheet.
I descended through a kind of gutter along the hillside, which forms huge steps, like a giant's staircase. I crossed the avenue carelessly and soon said to the firefighters:
"I saw him jump, I was talking to him, I saw everything."
As if he knew what I was thinking, surely used to this kind of situation, a firefighter answered the question I had asked myself:
"Stay calm, there was nothing you could have done."
The body was already covered with the white sheet. I looked up, and the viaduct seemed much larger and higher than it was. That enormous structure supported at the ends, defying gravity, with an entire subway station inside it, was more solid than ever. The viaduct had just revealed its most tragic purpose.
Originally published in Piauí magazine, issue #7, April 2007.