MÁRIO DE ANDRADE (São Paulo, 1893–São Paulo, 1945) is the author of the Brazilian modernist masterpiece Macunaíma: The Hero with No Character (first published in 1928).
MARCELO ARIEL (Santos, São Paulo, b. 1968) is a poet, essayist, and playwright. His books include Tratado dos anjos afogados (Letra Selvagem, 2008), Retornaremos das cinzas para sonhar com o silêncio (Patuá, 2014), Nascer é um incêndio ao contrário (Kotter, 2020), 22 clareiras e 1 abismo (Letra Selvagem, 2022), and Afastar-se para perto (Reformatório, 2024). He was the lead actor in and screenwriter of the experimental poetic documentary Pássaro transparente (2017), directed by Dellani Lima. With Scherzo Rajada, he provided the lyrics and vocals for the spoken word album Contra o nazismo psíquico (2013).
JAIDER ESBELL (Normandia, Roraima, 1979–São Paulo, 2021) was a Macuxi painter and activist. In 2010, he received a grant from the Brazilian National Arts Foundation to write his first book, Terreiro de Makunaima: mitos, lendas e estórias em vivências. In 2016, he received the PIPA Prize. In 2018, he self-curated his solo exhibition Meu avô Makunaima in Manaus, Amazonas. He curated the exhibition Moquém_Surarî: arte indígena contemporânea at the São Paulo Museum of Modern Art (2021), and his paintings were exhibited at the 34th São Paulo Art Biennial (2021) and the 59th Venice Biennale (2022).
ROSEANE CADETE FIDELIS/BETE is a Wapichana educator and historian from Roraima. She holds a master’s degree in society and borders from the Federal University of Roraima, and she defends the idea that history is made present in art.
DEBORAH GOLDEMBERG/CURATOR (São Paulo, b. 1975) is a writer and anthropologist. She holds a master’s degree in development studies from the London School of Economics. Her publications include Valentia (Grua, 2012), a novel about the 1835–1840 Cabanagem Revolution in Pará based on oral narratives by Indigenous leaders, and the young adult novel A brecha: uma reviravolta quilombola (Estrela Cultural, 2020), co-authored with Quilombola leader Arquimino dos Santos and Jefferson Gonçalves Correia. Both novels were finalists for the Jabuti Literary Prize (2012 and 2021).
IARA RENNÓ (São Paulo, b. 1977) is a composer, singer, performer, actress, and poet. She has released more than seven albums and collaborated with numerous musicians throughout Brazil. Her debut album Macunaíma Ópera Tupi (2008) was based on Macunaíma: The Hero with No Character. Her most recent albums Oríkì (2022) and Orí Okàn (2023) celebrate orishas.
AVELINO TAUREPANG is a respected community leader, elder, and farmer in Bananal, Roraima, a Taurepang village in the Raposa Serra do Sol Indigenous Territory. He is the grandson of Akuli, a shaman, storyteller, and guide who, between 1911 and 1913, shared myths with the German ethnologist Theodor Koch-Grünberg, whose five-volume study Vom Roraim zum Orinoco would inspire and provide Mário de Andrade with source material for Macunaíma: The Hero with No Character.
CRISTINO WAPICHANA/LAERTE (Boa Vista, Roraima, b. 1971) is an author, composer, storyteller, and lecturer. His children’s books include A Onça e o Fogo (Amarilys, 2009), Sapatos trocados: como o tatu ganhou suas grandes garras (Paulinas, 2014), A boca da noite (Zit, 2016), Ceuci: a mãe do pranto (Estrela Cultural, 2019), Chuva, gente! (Leiturinha, 2021), and Fogo, gente! (Leiturinha, 2023). He also participated in the anthology Nós: uma antologia de literatura indígena (Companhia das Letrinhas, 2019). He has been awarded the Peter Pan Silver Star and Jabuti Prize. His books have been included in the IBBY Honour List and White Ravens Catalogue and featured at the Bologna Children’s Book Fair. He currently resides in São Paulo.
Act 1—Visitor
There is an event to commemorate the ninetieth anniversary of the book Macunaíma: The Hero with No Character at the MÁRIO DE ANDRADE House, on Rua Lopes Chaves in São Paulo, currently a house museum. The house can be seen from the outside and is divided in sections, with a panorama of the ground floor and the second floor. In the living room, which is on the ground floor, a roundtable is taking place, with three invited lecturers, PEDRO, ARIEL, and LAERTE, seated at the table. The other characters are seated in the audience. In the room on the second floor, we see MÁRIO DE ANDRADE seated in a comfortable chair. Naturally, he is dead, but he appears to be taking a nap, in a state of transition between life and death, which is left open to interpretation. He hears people talking about him from a distance.
PEDRO (lecturing from the roundtable): As Raimundo Soares tells us, Macunaíma was wholly inspired by Vom Roraima zum Orinoco, a collection of myths by the ethnographer Koch-Grünberg, based on extensive field research, which he carried out in the early 1920s, in Roraima. Cavalcanti Proença proves that Mário de Andrade helped himself generously to these Indigenous myths . . .
MÁRIO: That same old story again? How many times did I tell everybody that I really did copy everything, horsefeathers! I even said how surprised I was that they thought I copied only Koch-Grünberg, when I copied everybody, sometimes verbatim: Capistrano de Abreu, Couto de Magalhães, Pero Vaz de Caminha . . . Ah, just so lazy.1 (MÁRIO goes back to “sleep” on the second floor.)
ARIEL (lecturing from the roundtable): Why can’t we come out and say openly that Mário was Black, that Mário was gay? We urgently need to talk about this.
MÁRIO (wakes up): Ooh, what do we have here? (Pays attention.)
ARIEL: There’s a function to recognizing that Mário was Black and gay. Because he swept aside a great deal of the academic assumptions that dominated literature. The poetry that precedes all that and the poetry that resides in it complete one another. What he did with Macunaíma was to create a myth—a trans-myth, but beyond that he transmitted being Black; he transmitted being gay as powerful subjectivities and sources of strength that we still don’t recognize today.
(MÁRIO wakes up, finding this discussion interesting. He starts listening and, gradually, takes in his surroundings. He realizes that he is in his own house but falls back asleep.)
LAERTE (lecturing from the roundtable): Had Mário gone there to have a conversation with the people, he would have written a totally different story.
IARA: But are you saying that Mário might not have written Macunaíma? That makes me uncomfortable, because it’s the book of my life.
LAERTE: I’m saying that he would have done things differently. The way he wrote it, dislocating fragments of our sacred stories and mixing them with other things until they formed something that doesn’t mean anything to us, it’s an insult—it’s a war cry!
MÁRIO: Now who might that be?
(MÁRIO gets up slowly, walks across the room, goes down the stairs until he reaches the hall and looks at the living room. At this point, the participants are watching the final scene of the 1969 film Macunaíma, by Joaquim Pedro de Andrade, where first Macunaíma and then Piaimã Venceslau Pietro Pietra swing above the pool. The room is dark for the screening. The CURATOR is next to AVELINO, who laughs and comments on the plot based on his knowledge of Taurepang mythology.)
AVELINO: Ah, Makunaimã isn’t going to die! Piaimã is the one who dies. But not in the tank where Piaimã throws children. He throws them to the other side of the Mountain and Old Lady Piaimã waits below and hits them with a club. When Makunaimã threw Piaimã, she thought it was a child to eat. But it was her own husband. Makunaimã is the one who threw him, Old Lady Piaimã saw and went to club him, then she said: “Uhhhh, I thought it was the prey, but it was my husband.” Then Piaimã dies! (Laughs heartily.)
(MÁRIO appears in the corner of the living room illuminated by the penumbra, a symptom of his dead-alive state. When they notice his presence, everyone is terrified, except for AVELINO, who does not recognize him. Lights.)
MÁRIO: Whoa, don’t be afraid. Please, make yourselves at home.
CURATOR (speechless): Mário, what a surprise! How are you?
MÁRIO: Wonderful! I certainly feel a lot better than I have over the last sixty years.
CURATOR: I’m happy to hear that!
(A perplexed silence settles over the room.)
CURATOR: Have you come to tell us something? We’re here for an event . . . about you! About Macunaíma, Makunaimã.
MÁRIO: I noticed. I’d like to hear more, hmm. There I was resting in peace for a long time and, suddenly, I hear you all discussing my work, accusing me of all kinds of things . . .
CURATOR: But you know, we all consider you a great genius.
MÁRIO: Yes, yes, but I heard people here saying that I should have visited the Indians to hear the Taurepang myths for myself. And that, had I done that, I would have written a different story.
LAERTE (impetuously): That is exactly what I am saying.
MÁRIO: So, tell me, what other story?
CURATOR (attempting to mediate): Just a second, let me introduce everybody here. After that, everyone can say what they think about your rhapsody. What do you think?
LAERTE: I’ll start. My name is Laerte Wapichana, and I’m an Indigenous author.
(The others sit down, normalizing the situation.)
MÁRIO: Ah, that is something new. I’d never heard of an Indigenous writer. How interesting. Please, tell me more.
LAERTE: I . . .
MÁRIO: Do you think I shouldn’t have written the rhapsody? Just because I’m not Indigenous?
IARA (interrupting): Mário, listen, I’m so overwhelmed! Before I say anything else, can I give you a hug? Macunaíma is the book of my life. The first time I read it, I identified so much I said, “That’s me!”
MÁRIO (chuckles): Ah, how amusing. You don’t really strike me as the trickster type. How could you possibly identify with him?
IARA: Because, Mário . . . Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m actually having this conversation with you! Mário, I’m just like Macunaíma, the daughter of people who were Black, White, and Indian all together, I’m free, I’m a Iara,2 an Icamiaba.3
MÁRIO: Ah, I understand.
IARA: May I sing a song I composed based on your book?
MÁRIO: Of course! I’m all ears.
JAIDER (long hair, painted with achiote): Look everyone, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I think it’s important for us to show respect to our elders. In addition to the departed, Senhor Avelino is here with us. He’s come a long, long way, and no one has introduced him yet. After all, this whole thing started on account of his grandpa—on account of Akuli!
MÁRIO: Ah, fascinating! You’ve painted your body with achiote, and those black spots are genipap, is that right? Who are you?
JAIDER: Pleased to meet you, Mário. My name is Jaider Macuxi. I’m an artist.
MÁRIO: Ah, many of my friends work with the plastic arts.
JAIDER: I know. But I work with just arts. I would rather do away with the plastic, which is destroying our environment. I’m not a big fan of that word.
MÁRIO: Destroying the environment? Since when are our environs under attack?
CURATOR: Everybody, we need to take it slow. Mário passed on to “the other side” in 1943. In the middle of the Second World War. All of the forest was still standing, and nobody could ever have possibly imagined . . .
JAIDER: What I mean is that I belong to art—which is not a school, not a church, not a political party. It’s a unique business that’s part of our world, and I’m in the eye of this wonderful hurricane, whatever it is.
MÁRIO: Bravo, Jaider! I can see that you and I are alike!
JAIDER: Hashtag “workingtogether!”
MÁRIO: What does hashtag mean?
CURATOR: Everybody, please, remember: 1943.
MÁRIO: My dear, a slight correction. I passed away in 1945, right after the end of the Great War.
CURATOR: Ah, Mário, you can’t imagine how much has happened since then. Really, now that I’m sitting here in front of you, I realize even more how your world was so radically different from ours.
MÁRIO: Well, I certainly am eager to catch up on everything. But, dear, is there really no wine at this event of yours? Or cigars for that matter? Do you really all come together like this, drinking . . . water?
(Laughter.)
CURATOR: We can get some! It’s because this is a cultural event.
MÁRIO: Of course, I love cultural events! I spent my whole life attending them, but always accompanied by a fine wine, which is the most important part!
CURATOR: It’s because, nowadays, these events are public.
MÁRIO: Public?
CURATOR: Yes, this event is funded by the government, through an OSCIP.
MÁRIO: OSCIP? What does that stand for?
CURATOR: Ah, forget about all that. It’s public. It’s basically the same thing!
ARIEL (goes off on a tirade, and the others don’t respond, as happens throughout the play): Except for the way they’re taking the earth apart, dismantling the state, and perpetuating the same old ways of maintaining privileges for the privileged, yeah, it’s the same thing.
MÁRIO: Here, at my home? This really is my house, you know?
CURATOR: We know, but your house is a museum now. A house museum.
MÁRIO: A museum? That’s wonderful! I love museums.
CURATOR: Yes, it’s fantastic. People can visit, get to know the place where you lived, and participate in workshops and literary events just like this one. To hear people talk about your work. For free.
MÁRIO: And do people come?
CURATOR: A few. Could be more, but some people come.
MÁRIO: Wonderful! I’m happy to hear that my home is being put to good use.
JAIDER: Right, so everybody, I’m going to introduce Senhor Avelino Taurepang, the grandson of Akuli Taurepang, who narrated the myths you read in the book by the German guy. I think it’s important for the two of you to meet. In fact, this isn’t happening by chance. It’s not a mere coincidence, not at all.
MÁRIO: What a pleasure, Senhor Avelino. Your grandfather was a grand storyteller, truly marvelous. Those myths piqued my imagination to such an extent . . . It was like diving into another world. Into your world. Truly a pleasure to meet you.
(Everyone looks at AVELINO, who takes a while to answer. JAIDER begins filming the event on his cell phone.)
AVELINO (shyly): If I may, my name is Avelino, I came here to participate in this event because Deborah, the curator, invited me. They asked me to come tell the stories about Makunaimã, and here I am.
MÁRIO: “Makunaimã,” interesting the way you pronounce it.
AVELINO: That’s because Makunaimã is big, just like Roraimã. Words that end with mã are big, so “Makunaimã.”
MÁRIO: Oh, and what a big mãstake I made . . . Macunaíma . . . Makunaimã. Good to know.
AVELINO: Exactly. Piaimã. Also ends in mã.
MÁRIO: Strange. The German guy, as you refer to Theodor Koch-Grünberg, had written down a spelling indicating an open accent on the second a. That’s why I made that oversight. Right in the title!
(Laughter.)
LAERTE: Some people say “Macunáima,” on account of the Northeastern influence in the region. Each group of people has their own way of pronouncing it. The Wapichana actually say Macunáima more.
MÁRIO: Northeastern influence? That’s curious. I love the North. I traveled to the region several times, to research folklore.
LAERTE: Right, Roraima is located in the North Region, but there’s an influence from the Northeast too.
CURATOR: In your day, Mário, people from the South of Brazil used to say “North” to refer to any place above São Paulo and Minas Gerais. Nowadays there’s a distinction between the Northeast and the North Regions.
MÁRIO: I see. But tell me, my dear Laerte, I recognize your voice. There from the Great Beyond I heard you saying: “Had Mário gone there, he would have written a different story.” Do you really think so?
LAERTE: I know so.
IARA: But would that have been good? After all, Macunaíma is our masterpiece!
LAERTE: Good for who?
ARIEL: That’s the crux. Foucault touches on this. Praising one discourse that pleases a determined social group because, deep down, it serves that group.
MÁRIO: Who is this Foucault? Sounds like a very insightful person.
(Laughter.)
JAIDER: He’s a shaman for the White people.
ARIEL: Exactly, a shaman. Which we call a philosopher.
MÁRIO: A Brazilian philosopher? There’s Brazilian philosophy now? That’s great news!
ARIEL: No, Foucault was French, but he conducted research in Brazil. When he came here, the first question he asked was, “Where are all the Black people?” European philosophers have always been interested in Brazil. Only Brazil isn’t interested in Brazil.
MÁRIO: Don’t tell me that still hasn’t changed!
ARIEL: It hasn’t changed. It’s gotten a bit better, but Brazil still doesn’t think, you know. Sure, there’s such a thing as Brazilian philosophy, but it’s really understudied and rarely taken seriously by Brazilians. The only consolation is that now there’s such a thing as Brazilian cocaine.
CURATOR: Fortunately, we have with us a Black philosopher who was born in a favela in the city of Santos.
MÁRIO: Ah, he must be extremely interesting! Who is he?
CURATOR: Allow me to introduce Marcelo Ariel, poet-philosopher. He has come to talk about why Macunaíma is Black at our event.
MÁRIO: So, you are a philosopher, and a poet! That’s wonderful. I recognize your voice now. You were the one who said it was important to talk about the fact that I’m Black and gay.
ARIEL: That’s right, especially in Brazil today.
MÁRIO: Ah, interesting. Tell me, why is this so important?
ARIEL: Because we need to talk about love and alterity, Mário. To tell the truth, rather than the idea that you were gay, I prefer the idea that you practiced a transcendental form of eroticism during your lifetime, and when you talked about love, your knowledge came from the practice of a freedom that’s increasingly rare nowadays. In any case, love will always be free. Love has no sex.
MÁRIO: That’s beautiful. I loved women as well. What you said is true and equally rare, unfortunately. Men will always be a plague in any given era.
ARIEL: About being Black, because it’s crucial to talk about our history, to go against the logic of whitening. I look at your photo there on the wall (Points to the classic photo from Modern Art Week.), and you look like a White aristocrat! They did the same thing to Machado de Assis, a Black man who was violently whitened over.
MÁRIO (laughs): I struggled with that, but I was always fully aware of who I was and where I was.
ARIEL: Nowadays, Mário, the best thing would be if you had gone to Modern Art Week with dreadlocks.
MÁRIO: Sounds dreadful!4 Is that some sort of tight dress?
ARIEL: African hair, Mário. Braids. Hair with volume.
JAIDER (shows MÁRIO a photo of Bob Marley on his phone): Here’s the guy who started the trend, Mário.
MÁRIO: Oh, how exciting! Who is he?
ARIEL: Bob Marley was a poet, activist, prophet, and Rastafarian musician from Jamaica.
MÁRIO: And suppose I had gone to Modern Art Week with these dreadlocks in my hair, what would that mean?
ARIEL: If it were taking place today, that would be awesome, you’d be bearing witness to your origins. You’d be showing pride in your ancestry.
MÁRIO: That’s why our artist walks around the heart of the metropolis with his body painted, even though he’s far from his village. I enjoy his irreverence. Where are you, Jaider?
JAIDER (comes closer, phone in hand): Over here, doing a livestream.
MÁRIO: A livestream? Is that what you call that box in your hand?
JAIDER: This right here, Mário de Andrade, is a cell phone. Pieces of metal that send signals to other people who have the same pieces of metal to receive them.
MÁRIO: Like a telegraph!
JAIDER: Exactly! Like bonfires that send smoke signals, telegraphs, telephones, cell phones. All the same thing.
MÁRIO: What’s a livestream then?
JAIDER: That’s something else: Here inside this little box, I’m recording you and sharing the video on social networks in real time.
MÁRIO: That’s very cannibalist of you! Oswald would have loved to see you devouring me like that! You’re one of us, no doubt about it!
PROFESSOR RUSS, PHD (enthusiastic): Long live Modern Art Week!
MÁRIO: I’m still not sure I understand how your social net works. I suppose it’s nothing like a fishing net.5 And the part about “real time,” well, I never imagined anything like that. Time is naturally so unreal.
JAIDER: Mário, this means that you’re being recorded, and thousands of people all over Brazil can watch you on their own cell phones at this exact moment.
MÁRIO: Does everyone in Brazil have one of those cell phones?
JAIDER: Almost everyone.
MÁRIO: In the past, very few people had access to the telegraph.
JAIDER: Right, and now there are more cell phones than people in Brazil.
MÁRIO: So the problem of inequality has been overcome then? That’s great news! I see a Black philosopher, an Indian who has mastered White men’s tools . . .
LAERTE (still confrontational): That’s relative. There are people who have cell phones but don’t have a place to live; people who have cell phones and don’t know how to write a message because they’re still semi-illiterate; people who spend so much on their cell phones that they can’t afford to go to the dentist or take their children to see a doctor.
IARA: And there’s still inequality with respect to women.
ARIEL: In the case of Black women, even worse!
MÁRIO: Yes, women’s rights . . . That is a cause that always seemed entirely legitimate to me. Are you a feminist?
IARA: I am.
CURATOR: Me too.
BETE: Me too.
MÁRIO: Yes, I remember the suffragettes, their victory in 1932. By now, voting must be mandatory for women as well, I imagine.
IARA: It is, but that’s not enough. We have other agendas now.
CURATOR: By the way, Mário, allow me to say that the sex scenes between Ci and Macunaíma were rather violent. That wouldn’t go over so well nowadays. They border on rape, don’t they?
MÁRIO: Ah, how curious. You think so?
PROFESSOR RUSS, PHD: If I may, Mário, it is an honor. I am a professor of comparative Brazilian literature at the University of São Paulo. I hold a master’s degree from the University of Toronto and a doctorate from Sciences Po, Sorbonne.
MÁRIO: Oh . . . I’m deeply sorry for your loss. (Bursts out laughing.)
(Everyone laughs, except PROFESSOR RUSS, PHD, who remains serious.)
PROFESSOR RUSS, PHD: I’m afraid I don’t understand . . .
MÁRIO: Pardon me, dear professor, but you’re far too serious. And I’ve always enjoyed making light of people who introduce themselves with titles longer than their own noses. My apologies, I’m just an old man. I probably went too far, but I am coming from the Great Beyond after all, and I’ve always been against the pomp of the academy.
PROFESSOR RUSS, PHD: I understand, Mário. Pardon the formality. You’re absolutely right. I only meant to comment on the topic of gender, which was the focus of the post-doctoral thesis I wrote last year, at the University of Illinois, funded by the São Paulo Research Foundation, with support from the Academic Union of Professors of Comparative Literature from Mercosur. In short, I just wanted to say that, in the context of your era, the representation of sexual intercourse between Ci and the character Macunaíma conformed to a standard. We could hardly expect our views of contemporary feminism to have informed your work so many years ago . . .
MÁRIO: Dear professor, I have to disagree with you as well there. I wrote those scenes that way knowing that they were brutal and dominating, because sex really is like that—it leaves its marks on us and makes us bleed. If you were to ask me whether I wanted a relationship like Macunaíma and Ci’s, violent passion, I would say no. But, if you were to ask me whether I’d ever had a relationship like theirs, well, I wouldn’t be able to deny it. And, if you ask me whether, afterwards, I wanted anything else out of life, I would have to say no.
(Laughter.)
BETE: Did you find love during your lifetime?
IARA (sings an excerpt from Macunaíma that she has set to music): Papa came and told me: “You’ll never find true love!” Mandu sarará, Mama came and gave me a necklace made of woe.6
MÁRIO: What a lovely question. Good evening. Who are you?
BETE: My name is Bete Wapichana. I’m a historian, Mário. An Indigenous educator.
CURATOR: Mário, Bete came precisely to give voice to Indigenous women during our event. She came from Roraima, home to Makunaimã’s people, just like Avelino Taurepang and Jaider Macuxi.
MÁRIO: And our Indigenous writer? You don’t live in your village anymore?
LAERTE: No, I don’t. I live in São Paulo, in the periphery.
ARIEL: The periphery is symbolically a giant village.
MÁRIO: But you grew up in a village?
LAERTE: No, I didn’t. My mother was a legitimate Wapichana, and she married a man from the Northeast who went to work on farms for colonizers who were occupying our lands. I grew up on those farms, milking the cows and fixing the fences. When it was time for me to go to school, we moved to the periphery of Boa Vista.
ARIEL: Periphery, land where they push Indians, poor Black people, and poor queer people to live.
MÁRIO: And so you came to São Paulo to take your muiraquitã7 back from the claws of Piaimã?
LAERTE (boldly): Yes, to a certain extent. I came here to take back the stories that they stole from my people. And to erase the stories they tell the wrong way about my people. We’re putting an end to that. Now we’re here, Indigenous artists, to tell our own stories.
JAIDER: There have always been Indigenous people telling our stories to White people. Viva Akuli Taurepang!
LAERTE: But now we need to master other techniques. Writing. Cell phones. Social networks. Lectures. We’re here at the forefront now.
MÁRIO: Ah, that is wonderful! So many creative artists! By the way, do you think our wine might be on the way? And I’m dying to smoke a cigar.
(CURATOR exits to look for wine and cigars.)
