“Ian.”
“Sorry?”
“You called me Iago again. It’s Ian.”
“Oh my God!” She laughs and shakes her head, and I think it’s funny because I know she’s not doing it on purpose. Actually, I’m enjoying the conversation. “Forgive me. But, well, I think this is what you need to know. Do you have any questions”—she pauses for a split second, checks the file with my name, and enunciates emphatically—“Ian?”
“What’s that over there?”
I point to a poster with an infographic of a pregnant woman titled HIV AND PREGNANCY: IT’S POSSIBLE.
“Ah, so you want to be a father someday?” she asks.
“Uh … no. Unless I adopt a kid with my future husband.”
She smiles, and I feel a comfortable warmth in my chest, because it’s not a condescending smile nor one with a judgmental undertone.
“Well, if at any point you change your mind and decide to have a biological child, it’s entirely possible to have one with proper planning, without the baby contracting the virus through either the father’s semen or the mother’s bloodstream. In fact, the treatment is very effective, as long as it’s followed to the letter. Just like every other treatment we offer here.”
It’s not that I had been seriously thinking about having children, but this information somehow makes me a little happier.
“And how do I get the medication?” I ask, changing the subject.
Maybe this is my biggest fear, more than the idea of dying in the near future. I’m not thrilled at the idea of depending on public services, let alone the public health system. Everything I see on TV says that nothing works, that lines go on for miles, that medicine is lacking, and that people are always at the mercy of medical professionals who are often not that concerned with the well-being of others. But this conversation shows me that maybe the news isn’t always right about health care.
“As I said, everything is very effective.”
“How effective?” I ask skeptically.
“Look: Sometimes we might run out of medicine for hypertension at our pharmacy, but in my eight years working here, we’ve never run out of antiretroviral medication.”
“Not even once?”
“Not even once.”
That sounds like good news, at least.
“Any other questions?”
“Not for now, but I’m sure I’ll have more in the future.”
“I hope you do. Well, I think that’s it, then.” She hands me a paper with an exam request. “This is for blood exams so we can confirm the serology, to get your viral load count and level of CD4, which are your body’s defense cells. When you exit, just stop by the lab on the other side of the hall to have your blood drawn. Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?”
I give her my cell phone number because I don’t want any health-care professionals calling my home, only to have my mom pick up and start asking questions.
She writes down the number and then shows me another, a four-digit sequence in her perfectly round handwriting next to my picture.
“This is your medical record number,” she says, pointing at 6438. “You can use this number for anything that requires an ID here, particularly for the meds at the pharmacy.”
“And do I start taking those today?”
“Not yet. First you need to consult with the doctor and do a blood test to determine your CD4 levels and viral load count, so we can track the medication’s progress and its efficacy in your body. I see you’re having your consultation tomorrow, but I’ll go ahead and schedule the next visit for …” She opens up a yellow notebook and checks the calendar. “Does next week work for you? What time of day is best?”
“In the afternoon is best, if that’s okay.”
She nods and writes down an appointment for two o’clock, five days from now, which works well, because it means I don’t have to skip class or make up a bad excuse, since I can come straight from school and just say that I was at the library studying late.
“So that’s it.” Fernanda gets up and reaches out for a handshake. I grab my backpack from the floor and put it on. “The road ahead won’t be short, nor does it have a clear end, but believe me when I say your life can be as normal as anyone else’s. The difference is that, from now on, you’ll be required to have regular blood work done and take good care of yourself, which everyone should be doing anyway.”
“Right,” I say, shaking her hand and heading toward the door, feeling the hot air rush in when I open it. “Thank you for everything, Fernanda.”
“Take care, Iago,” she says with a smile.
OUR LINGUISTIC ANTHROPOLOGY PROFESSOR is the type who just sits there with a textbook open in front of him for the entire class, pointing things out while he reads a few lines and thinks this is an effective teaching method for a university. Honestly, what the hell was I thinking when I decided that being a film major would be a good idea?
Sandra is sitting next to me, and she wants nothing more than to be anywhere but here. She tries to focus on her Kindle, which is propped behind the chair of the girl sitting in front of her so the professor can’t see what she’s up to. Not that he cares, of course.
Annoyed at all this dull blabbering—the seniors say all you have to do on the exam is write something complicated between quotation marks and attribute it to Lévi-Strauss, since rumor has it that the professor never checks whether the reference is real or not anyway—I get up and leave the classroom, the door groaning behind me.
Outside, dozens of students from other classes are chatting, sipping coffee, and smoking, some cutting class, others waiting for theirs to begin. The Institute of Art and Social Communication at Fluminense Federal University is right across from the most popular square in the city of Niterói, a place well known for its social gatherings abounding with beer, weed, cigarettes, and loud music. It’s a dangerous street, which means students learn quickly to walk in groups in and out of the main gate, even this early in the morning.
The campus’s walls are a kaleidoscope of different colors and art styles, covered in signs for film circuits, live stage performances, and art exhibits, as well as grafitti and artistic depictions of feminism and gender equality. Wood benches are spread out around the courtyard, and I sit down on one of them, checking my phone to see how much more time I have of this torturous class.
“Dear Lord, I didn’t think anyone was going to muster up the courage to leave.” Sandra comes out right behind me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lighting one. She’s five feet tall and one hundred fifty pounds, and she wears a thin layer of makeup on her face at all times, which makes her look radiant. Of course, the purple beret and red hair make her look like Judy Funnie from Doug. She’s a walking film major cliché, holding the cigarette with the tip of her fingers and doling out ironic comments and sharp opinions. “Want one?”
“I quit,” I say, trying to convince myself that burning some nicotine isn’t worth it. Sandra shrugs, puts the pack away, and sits down beside me, watching as I stare at my phone.
“Any news from the boy?”