ANAMNESIS by Ana Dalle Vedove (English Version) by Vento Leste

ANAMNESIS

Ana Dalle Vedove has been living and working in São Paulo for a little over 10 years. She got her first camera in 2008 and delved into expressive photography starting in 2018, when she joined Marcelo Greco’s study group, where she remains to this day. She received an honorable mention in the Sony-Fotografe photography contest (2010) and has participated in collective exhibitions.

ANAMNESIS

ANA DALLE VEDOVE

Rosa Brava Collection - Book III

ANAMNESIS

ANA DALLE VEDOVE

Rosa Brava Collection - Book III

Animae, quibus altera fato corpora debentur, Lethaei ad fluminis undam securos latices et longa oblivia potant.

Virgílio, Eneida, LV VI. 711-713

Yonder thronging souls

To reincarnate shape predestined move. Here, at the river Lethe’s wave, they quaff Care-quelling floods, and long oblivion.

Virgil, Aeneid. Book VI, lines 711-713. Theodore C. Williams. trans. Boston. Houghton Mifflin Co. 1910.

let me tell you the story of my insides. let me tell you why the air flowing out of me rips me apart.

let me tell you how my ears cannot bear the silence, why my hands do not stop and my nails do not grow. let me show you my body. for now my turn has come.

I look in the mirror. You’re behind me. Where’s the way out? You’ve locked it. You’ve locked it. And you’re coming towards me. You won’t stop. You lean against me. You won’t stop. I can’t believe it. Is this for real? How far do you intend to take this? Is this really happening? I give the command to move, but my limbs don’t respond. No sound comes out of my mouth; I can’t lift my arm. I’ve become a spectator. I watch myself from the outside. My body doesn’t belong to me. I open my eyes. Just darkness. I try to move again. A force holds me back. I’m going to scream, I’m going to run. I’m going to do something, I’m going to hit out. My mind moves, my body stays still. The seconds stretch out. There’s no end to this. Help me. Someone get me out of here. I need to remember every detail. I must not forget any of it. I need to capture everything, like in a photograph. This exact moment. This mustard dress, these red shoes, this lacy underwear, this pearl necklace. This mirror. I can’t scream. My father is outside, with a pink flower hanging from his suit jacket pocket. With a stupid smile, with that look on his face like he’s staring at nothing, together with the whole family. No one can see us together, you’d better stop it now. End it now, please. Let me out of here. And what if I don’t want this? I’d better want it, I’d better want it. “Uh-huh,” I’ve given in.

summer

I take a trip to the north coast with a college friend. We meet up with a fellow student who throws a Noah’s Ark themed birthday party in a hired white and blue boat. Everyone arrives in twos. Instead of animal costumes, they’re all dressed up as different urban tribes. Duos of funk fans, punks, otakus, emos, clubbers, metalheads and geeks. The select group includes advertising professionals, cultural event producers and some minor celebrities. There’s a lesbian hippy couple, both of them pregnant. Fueled by large quantities of MD, the party – which began in the morning – flows freely through the night. At dawn, the couples gather on the saloon floor. The music blares out, but nobody dances. I’m in the cabin with my friend, who’s fallen asleep. A thundering bang in the distance, then noises that get louder and louder. “It’s gunshots! Wake up!”. I shake my friend. I look through the crack in the corridor window. A man with a gun is shooting in all directions. He’s killing everybody one by one. He fires at the punk couple, the metalheads, the geeks and the funk fans. He searches the cabins for others. Not even the pregnant women are saved. I grab my friend’s hand. “Let’s go to the women’s bathroom –men can’t go in there”. We abandon our belongings and squeeze into a single stall. The shooter doesn’t find us. The shots have stopped. We stay absolutely still inside the bathroom for nearly an hour, listening to the whimpers and groans of the people still alive. We slowly venture out into the passageway. Horror has been stamped across the whole place. We walk around the bodies. There’s no time to cry. The shooter is lying on the deck, holding his gun, having shot himself. I look at the body. I shudder. I recognize those curls, that dark skin. It’s you.

The month is March, and the place, Ilha do Governador. I’m 11 years old and I’ve just landed in the marvelous city of Rio de Janeiro after two years in Buenos Aires. My father is a lieutenant colonel in the Air Force, and my mother takes care of the house. We’re a family from a small provincial town and we’re out of our element. My sisters say I’m spoiled. It’s true. I cry to get anything I want. Or almost anything. Yesterday, I saw my parents arguing about money. I heard them say my father no longer earns in dollars. That’s why they’re sending us to school right here on the outskirts of Rio. Even though our new school is named after a saint, the similarities with our old school in Buenos Aires end there. The tactel uniform is far more comfortable than the British-style school uniform we used to wear, but I’ll miss tying my tie every day. We don’t have nuns as teachers anymore, nor a school chapel. There are boys in my class now, and the teachers only show up every other day. At least the English prize I won last year has guaranteed me a place in the top year at the English language institute. I’m the only person of my age there, but that doesn’t discourage me. They also put me in a higher year at school. I always have an answer on the tip of my tongue, but I keep it to myself and don’t reveal my grades. The only thing I cannot keep up with is all the cursing and jokes, all of which I laugh at to hide the fact that I don’t understand them. Yesterday, I got a bra, the kind with padding, so no one will suspect that I’m not really “grown up” yet. I swapped my Tweety Pie backpack for a Kipling one, learned how to fold my uniform shorts, and stopped playing with Barbie, to be able to focus on boys. I enjoy the game of trying to get their attention, collecting notes and borrowed erasers. Even the most popular girls invited me to sit with them at recess last week. They love talking about boys, but they call Rayanne a slut because she made out with some boys at a funk party. I tell them I think the tongue-tied boy is cute. They immediately set everything up so I can sneak out and go to the movies with him. It happens. I discover the magic of what goes on when another person’s desires meet my own. I trust my own senses and longings. This game of mirroring adult life makes me feel really sure of myself.

My cousin is living in São Paulo and I move in with her there, the city where I feel free. Last year, in my final year of high school, you began commenting on my Flickr photos. Your profile was full of pictures of animals from the Atlantic Rainforest. The images, taken in your hometown, showed the technical precision of someone who had learned the craft with Araquém Alcântara. You used to say that Nikon was better than Canon, and you taught me how to use analog lenses in digital cameras. In your free time, you helped me solve my polynomial homework problems. After months chatting online, we met in person in a Cartier Bresson exhibition in São Paulo while I was visiting the city for the university entrance exam. You went to a public school and then got straight into the most competitive engineering college in the country. A misunderstood genius, you dropped out in your final year. A few months ago, you started another undergraduate course in São Paulo from scratch, at the same university I was at. We got into a relationship. I know you’re crazy about me, but you’re seven years older. I always say the age thing doesn’t matter, but I’m uneasy about it. I can’t bring myself to look in your eyes and say I love you. I don’t take you with me when I hang out with my friends and I don’t introduce you to my family. A few days ago, I made out with one of my friends. An unforgivable betrayal. But you still want us to stay together. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over. I want to be free.

The city is in the interior of São Paulo state. It has 70 thousand inhabitants, the same as for decades. The school preaches non-practicing Catholicism and takes in the families of tenant farmers and liquor mill owners. The year is 2008, and the teenage pregnancy epidemic fills all the girls with dread. The caretaker’s daughter has had to repeat a year because she got pregnant, and another girl started to panic when she didn’t get her period last week. Many of my friends have already been to see the gynecologist, but my mom prefers to say that the way to avoid getting pregnant is for the woman herself to set the boundaries with the men. Too late: I’ve already lost my virginity. I’ve had a boyfriend for over a year now. He gets top grades, comes from a good family, and is a regional horse riding champion. He has blue eyes and he’s in love with me. We haven’t had sex much since the first time. We live 20 kilometers away from each other, an insurmountable distance when you’re 15 years old. As well as my boyfriend, I’ve got lots of other male friends. I talk to you every day on MSN Messenger. I’ve even seen you at school but we’ve never talked in person. I like your cynicism and how you have a sarcastic quip at the ready for any topic. You always use short phrases and you never reveal any emotion. Once, you sent me a quiz about finding out what people’s sexual profiles were. Your result was “horny”; and mine was “coy”. Then you asked me if I’d ever looked at any porn sites. I lied and said I had, and you sent me a link. You asked me to look at the girl’s tattoo in the fourth photo on the right. The internet was slow back then, but it already had photos and gifs. I clicked on one and a pussy appeared, taking up the entire screen. Then I looked at others and saw breasts bigger than my head and positions I’d never imagined existed. This is what everyone’s looking at! Now I understand — I had had no idea. The girl’s tattoo was of a cat at the top of her groin: the nose was her clitoris formed; the open mouth of the kitten was formed by her outer lips. You ask if I’d consider getting that kind of tattoo. I laugh. No. I’d prefer something more discreet, on my back, at the top of my ass. I await your reaction. I know you’re imagining me naked. I don’t tell my boyfriend anything about these conversations. Especially the fact that I dreamed about you the other day: I went over to your house, and you fingered me until I came. It’s so good to feel men in my hands.

I’m 25 years old. I’m a postgraduate student at the top-ranked university in the country, where I’m part of a cutting-edge research group. You’re a well known scholar . You’re about to be nominated a Distinguished Professor and you’re the same age as my dad. You walk the corridors in a suit and you wear a scarf even on the hottest days. You recite Virgil in Latin in departmental meetings and you’re a master at intimidating people in public. You’ve never forgiven me for writing “incite” instead of “insight” in my text, when you asked me if I had been raised in a different first language, because my writing was so confusing. You always ask about my family and about my boyfriend and you say that I bring joy to the group with my feminine presence. Last month, in the middle of the meeting, there was a knock at the door. It was the departmental secretary. There was a bus driver protest in the campus parking lot. The meeting would continue, you said. It didn’t make any difference to you if the buses were suspended or not, but I depended on them to get home. I messaged my friends and managed to get a ride. I left the room in a hurry. That night, you emailed me asking if I’d got home safely. You emphasized that I could always count on you whenever I needed a ride. Now, for the past three months I’ve been writing an application for a research grant in Rome. That’s why we have meetings more often. During lunch hour last week, we went to a restaurant with outdoor tables to discuss the project. A fly started bothering me while I was eating. What I heard from you was that “flies are only attracted to good-looking girls”. I ignored you and started talking about how in Hippias Major, beauty is defined as a “beautiful maiden”. Then you asked me why I’d chosen an intellectual career. I bowed out of the conversation. I swallowed my unchewed piece of pork, blushed, and tried to change the subject. I called you “sir” and said that “some personal events” had caused me to focus almost exclusively on my studies when I was 15. On the way back, in your red Dobló, you said I had a rarely seen philosophical discernment. As we drove over the Pinheiros River Bridge, you complained about being burdened with academic duties and that I would be your last student. You mentioned you were worried about the onset of old age and your recent memory lapses. You said you were preparing for retirement in a few years’ time and that you saw potential in me to become your replacement. You said that if I kept up the good work, the job could be mine one day.

autumn

The city is cloaked in fog on my way to visit you. I am on my way home after a night shift, and you’re drunk after a night out with your friends. We dated for a month last year. After disappearing for a while, you sent me a message asking if I wanted to see you. I agreed. I arrive at your house. An outbuilding. All your furniture is makeshift. Zero conversation. We lie down on the mattress on the cold floor. The sex isn’t as good as I remembered. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. You’re on top of me. You swipe at my face with a single blow. I don’t move. I get another beating, harder this time. My migraine explodes. I see visual distortions in aura, a deep buzzing in my ear. I try to move, but I can’t. I try to open my eyes as wide as possible. I want to communicate my discomfort. The third beating comes. Aren’t you going to stop? Where am I? Who are you? What are you capable of? Maybe you’ve got a knife somewhere. You’re definitely high. You could do anything to me. I don’t want to die.

It’s 2004 and I’m 11 years old. In our house, we still sleep on mattresses on the floor, as the furniture from the move got lost in a port in some other part of the country. At night, from my bedroom window, I can see beams of light going from one hill to the next. They can’t be shooting stars, can they? In the daytime, the sky burns hot and the putrid waft of salty air corrodes the silverware we brought with us from across the border, with the stench of rotting flesh from Guanabara Bay forcing us to keep the windows firmly closed. Dona Amélia should have made lunch by now, but my dad will only be home at the end of the day. This is the house awaiting me after school. The weather is milder now but the sun in Rio is always scorching. In a bad mood because I’m hungry, I grab my things and join my sisters. We walk towards a white Quantum parked outside — hopefully far enough away for nobody to see me getting into that old can of rust. My sisters take long strides. I try to keep up with them, my backpack on my shoulders. I lag behind. I look down at the ground and focus on my steps. Suddenly, a deep voice cuts through me: “Wow, imagine when that one grows, up, huh?! Blonde, blue eyes — she’s gonna be fucking hot.” I say nothing. “Are you talking about me?”, I think, but I stay quiet. I barely have time to digest it. “Go for it, dude, just look at that ass, she can handle it for sure!”. You and your friends are high school students now, almost adults. You smirk at each other and laugh amongst yourselves. I clench my teeth. My fists become tense and my throat tightens. I can’t stop my face turning red. Better not to look at them. A girl should never stare. I quicken my pace. I want to run. I keep looking downwards, but I don’t see the step. I trip. Someone grabs my arm: “Are you ok?” It’s my sister. I nod and keep walking. I get into the back of the car and look into the rearview mirror, trying to meet my mother’s eyes. She often says: “You’re always so lovely”. I cannot allow myself to be angry. It was only a compliment. No one sees my eyes watering up.

At 13, we make lists about who we’ve kissed, the good kissers, and the bad. I’ve got used to hearing “I’d tap that!” whenever I’m wearing shorts. The other day, a boy grabbed my ass during gym class. On Messenger, I add people from school who I’ve never met in person. The more friends you have, the more popular you are, right? That’s how I met you. When you added me, you messaged me asking if it would be okay for you to jerk off while you thought about me. I didn’t know what that meant. It sounded offensive. I said some shit back to you, and you said you were only joking. I didn’t block you there and then because I was embarrassed not to have known what jerking off meant and I wanted to get my revenge by proving I knew more about sex than you. I can’t ask anyone. They’d think I’m dumb. I find my sexual bible on the Orkut community forums. Not only do I find out what jerking off means but I also learn that women can also masturbate. Yesterday, I read some tips from a woman about how to make myself cum. An entire universe opened up. Today, another add request popped up on Messenger. I didn’t recognize the email address. It must be a friend of a friend. I accept it. A guy starts chatting to me. Before a “hi”, or anything else, he asks me to turn on the video. I agree. When the camera loads, a few seconds go by before I realize what’s going on. I’d never seen a hard on before in my life. And there it is, so big it’s hanging down. In a state of shock, I block him as fast as I can. I press the button to disconnect my computer. My heart is pounding. I run to my room, terrified. I sit in the dark, hug my knees and rock myself back and forth in an attempt to erase the image from my head. All I have to do is forget what I saw and no one will ever know it happened. 1, 2, 3... Forget about it!

It’s been a few weeks since my boyfriend came over to my house. While I was getting ready to go out, he was messing around on my computer. My MSN Messenger was open and he saw the chat history of my conversations with you, all the provocations, the porn site, the sexual profiles. He forbade me from chatting to you anymore, and to redress the situation, he asked me for some naked photos as proof of my love.

In 2008, colorful phones with cameras and wifi have only just come out. Selfies and nudes don’t exist yet. I’m not even chatting to you anymore, but I still owe my boyfriend a proof of my love. One night when I have the whole house to myself, after showering, I wrap myself in a white robe and stealthily grab my father’s Cybershot. I need to act fast and leave no trail. I close my bedroom door and look at myself in the mirror. Because of my braces, I try not to smile. I like what I see, and it’s not difficult to get going. I take the first photo standing in front of the mirror with my robe open. For the second image I’m totally naked, with my back turned. I flex my ass and take one like a magazine cover shot. I zoom out as much as I can, so the lens distortion makes my ass look even bigger. Then I sit on the bed and spread my legs open. I take a photo looking upwards from below, to make my pussy look as big as the ones on the porn site. I hold the camera with my left hand, and with my right hand I make circular motions with my fingers. I take photos. I remember the techniques I learned on Orkut. I continue until I come. I wonder if it will show up in the photo. My hand still trembling, I delete the pictures I’m not happy with. I end up with around 30.

I check the time, then I transfer the photos onto the computer. I hurriedly send them to my boyfriend’s email. I delete all the images from the memory card and from the computer. I feel a mixture of transgression and anxiety. My boyfriend will jerk off to my photos. I have the power to control his climax. Mission accomplished.

I’m waiting to get feedback on my research application. I check my phone. A notification. An email from you. You tell me you went home early to read my project. You praise my English, but say that I still need to “finetune it” a little. You make a few comments about the text and emphasize the clear structure of my proposal. You also suggest adding another paragraph to include the expected research results. You end the message setting a time for our next meeting — Thursday at 11am. You ask me to have lunch with you after the meeting, as usual. You conclude by saying that you’re worried about getting lost “in my beautiful green eyes.” I go back to the beginning of the phrase. You say you’re worried about getting lost in my eyes. Beautiful. Green eyes. Yes. You say you’re worried about getting lost…You want the conversation to continue after the lunch. You want me to reveal the “secret of my 15th year”. All this, obviously, only if I want to. Obviously. As if I had any choice. As if you weren’t my direct superior. As if you would continue reading my work and mentioning my “philosophical discernment” after a no. As if the scholarship rules would allow me to easily change to a different professor. As if I didn’t rely on the scholarship to survive. As if a research residency in Rome weren’t at stake. As if you hadn’t sent the same invitation to a whole load of other female students with their “beautiful eyes”, whether green, blue, caramel, jabuticaba berry colored, or whatever.

“Ana’s photos have been leaked”

I’m in Rome. I meet Matteo, an archaeologist from Naples. We’re not exactly a couple, but we’ve been going out for three months. Sitting on the curb, we look at each other and chat under the trees as they sway from side to side in the wind. I’ve forgotten my coat, but I avoid asking him for a hug. He talks about having learned Spanish from an old girlfriend and tells me about his sexual adventures. It’s my turn to say something. My most recent adventure springs to mind. At a family wedding last year — September 2016. I recall all the details with an almost investigatory tone. The glamour of the decor, the number of guests. I tell him about the yellow dress I bought specially for the occasion, to match my pearl necklace. I tell him how drunk I got. How I threw up on the maid of honor’s carpet and passed out. I tell him how there’s parts of the night I can’t remember, but that I have flashbacks. I tell him I remember my sister sitting by my side as I regained consciousness in one of the bedrooms of the house. How, after all that, I went back down to the dance floor. How at the end of the night, while sitting chatting to the whole group of cousins, I asked where the bathroom was. I tell him how you leaned over and told me there was a bathroom nearer, behind the swimming pool. How you led me to a dark corner, away from the others. How, out of the blue, you tried to kiss me. How I pushed you away and shouted: “What the fuck are you doing? Are you out of your mind?” I tell him how I ran into the women’s bathroom. How I was taken by surprise when I left the stall and you were standing there with your pants open. How the bathroom door was already locked. How you came there and then. I tell him about all this the way people tell stories about casual sex, acting cool, like it was no big deal. Matteo’s wide-eyes stare straight at me, his trembling hand holding his cigarette, as he says to me in Spanish: “Ana, there’s no way what you’ve just described was a casual hookup, it was rape.”

winter

I’m in my apartment. It’s tiny. It looks a bit like the apartment in Santa Cecília, and it’s also similar to the one in Capote Valente Street. It’s a small studio with no dividing walls. It’s late at night and a noise jolts me awake. Someone’s knocking at the door and I don’t recognize the voices. The door is locked, I’m sure of it. I turned the key twice and closed the inner latch. There’s no way anyone could get in. But the noise doesn’t stop. The banging continues and gets louder and louder. They seem to give up. But then I hear: “I know you’re in there!”. I can feel my heart pounding, my throat seizing up, a cold sweat on my face. My body does not obey me, I’m totally disconnected. What’s going on? Is this a dream? I try to move but my arms don’t respond. A weight falls onto me. Seconds last for hours. I’m awake, so why don’t my arms respond? I’ve had this feeling before, it’s the shock. Now you’re inside my apartment. You lurch towards me with a pair of iron pliers. I open my mouth to scream. My eyes are wide open. With a single blow, you rip out my left canine tooth. Blood gushes out as a pain pierces through me from head to toe. I stay still, unable to move. You hold up my tooth like a trophy and say it’s all my fault. I was careless, and you were forced to pull it out.

I’m 15 or 16, and my boyfriend hugs me as he tells me what has happened. My photos have been leaked. There’s hidden smirks and dirty looks everywhere I go throughout school. They have all seen me naked. Was I fat? Now everyone knows that my boobs are really small. The scandal spreads like wildfire. Starting with the boys in the final year, it quickly reaches all the other years. It pops up in parents’ emails, and on the cell phones of all the school staff, from the janitor right through to the teachers. It spreads to the school priests, to other schools in the city, and to my parents’ coworkers, until reaching my parents themselves, and then finally, me. Dozens of strangers are now jerking off to my photos without my consent. None of my female friends utter a word to me. None of my male friends talk to me anymore. People avoid me as if I have a contagious disease. My sisters are far away. My mother sobs in my arms. And my father says it would be better to cut my hand off than to use it to commit sins. I’m forbidden to see or communicate with my boyfriend outside of school.

I spend months in forced isolation, writing, reading philosophy and trying to unravel the greatest mystery of all: Who leaked the photos? Was it you? How?

I’ve just broken up with you. A buzzing sound comes in through the window of the student residence in Butantã. The yellow metro line doesn’t exist yet, and nor do ridesharing apps. The night bus doesn’t stop here, and the taxi rank is deserted. I agree to spend one more night at your house to avoid putting myself in danger. The bedroom only has space for a single bed, a two door closet and a desk with your Nikon on it. The green carpet smells of the people who used to live here, and the walls let in every possible noise from the people renting next door. I fall into a deep sleep after hours of arguing. I wake up in a start. My dress has been lifted up, you’re not wearing any pants, and you’re on top of me with a hard on. Yes, you were fucking me while I was asleep. I move, pushing your shoulders away with my hands. “What the hell??” You don’t stop. You hold onto my wrists and say, wide-eyed: “Shhh. You don’t have to do anything. Just stay still right there while I finish off. You’ll never see me again in your life.”.

I’m in the university dining hall and an email from you appears in my inbox. I read the last sentence again. What can I do so you don’t “get lost in my eyes”? A taste of beans, fried chicken, and saltpeter invades my mouth. The waft of grease in the air is what I’m breathing in. My boyfriend’s lips move in slow motion as he talks nonstop opposite me, but all I can hear is the clinking metal sound of the trays and cutlery. I look back at my cell phone. Your email is open. I delete it.

“No! Please, Matteo, don’t exaggerate,” I refuted him.

Matteo said it was rape because he didn’t know that the bathroom door was only locked with an inside latch. It wasn’t as though you’d hidden the key.

Matteo said what he said because he didn’t know that I didn’t scream, that I didn’t hit out, that I didn’t say “no”. He didn’t know that I could have run away.

Matteo thought what he thought because he didn’t know me very well. I really am a slut. Capable of having sex with whatever: cousin, priest, wall. I have neither morals nor boundaries.

“It was no big deal!”

When you rubbed up against me from behind, I could have said no! It was no big deal!

All I did was fuck a cousin.

I could have left on my own, but I went home in the same car as you. And I let you come over to my house the next day. I made a point of getting on top of you and cumming while denying it: I wanted it. I wanted it.

I wanted it – nobody is capable of violating my will. It was me!

spring

It’s late afternoon. The strong sun lights up the swimming pool of an empty summer house. Even though the house is unoccupied, with no furniture and no trace of anyone living there, the water is clean and warm. I walk away from the group so I could have this adventure alone with you. The two of us are in the pool, making out, tickling each other and messing around, running and jumping in the water. I go to fetch a ball some distance away. When I get back into the water, I see that you’re with another woman. You’re messing around with her and it’s your turn to dunk her underwater. You push her down with increasing force and she flounders around to try and get back to the surface. Your arms become rigid, your veins bulging. There’s no indication whatsoever that you are going to allow the woman to come up for air. This goes on for a few minutes. I get scared. The guy I fell in love with is dangerous. I need to get out of here. I head quickly towards the edge. My movement catches your eye. The drowning woman has disappeared. You look up and see me. I let out a scream that shakes the windows of the house. There’s not enough time to get out of the pool, at this speed you’ll catch up with me. I have a pocketknife in my swimsuit. I take it out and press down so the blade slips out. I hold it behind my back with both hands and wait for you to come closer. I gather a strength I didn’t know I had. I strike out. I don’t want to kill you, but I need to. It must be done, I say to myself again and again. I strike your jugular with the first blow. Your arms still try to stop me. I rip into your throat until your limbs stop responding. A bright red blends into the water as your body sinks down.

I get on the bus that will take me from Butantã to my apartment in Perdizes. The morning’s cum leaks out of me. I’m disgusted by the smell of it stuck to my body. I wonder if the people around me have also noticed this rotten stench emanating out of me? I scratch my forearm with my fingernail. The bus ride has never been so long, even with no cars on the road as it’s Sunday morning. I look out of the window. You were fucking me while I was asleep. I’m still thinking about this when I get home. I get into the shower. The water from the shower merges with my tears. I sit on the floor and let the shower run. I don’t move. I want to wash, scrub, erase. I linger there. There’s no trace left. I won’t tell anyone. Delete, erase.

You’re taking part in a conference at my college today. You’re giving a lecture on regional integration in Latin America. I call some friends from a collective. We improvise slogans, gather more people and go to the entrance of the event. Be brave, I am not alone. We arrive, making noise.

Clenched fists.

“They shall not pass!”

It’s a large auditorium, and the audience becomes alarmed. You’re on the stage, microphone in hand. We march towards you. I’m on the front line.

I hadn’t seen you since the day after the wedding party. Now you look at me and start to trip up on your words. I carry on walking forwards. You’ve frozen on the spot. A hand’s breadth away. I stare straight at your face. I punch you as hard as I can. You fall to the ground. I continue hitting you in the face. Your glasses break, and I pick up a piece of broken lens from the ground. I raise my right hand with the shard of glass, and you grab my arm and hold it high. I want to cut you. You’re stronger. I scream. My hand trembles and gives way. I look behind me. The audience can hardly believe the scene they’ve just witnessed. A madwoman attacking the distinguished speaker.

I will not reply to your email.

I will not join you for lunch on Thursday, nor will I share “the secret of my 15th year”. It’s fine for me not to go to Rome, never mind my dream of being an academic.

What I will do is talk to my former undergraduate women professors and expose this case. They’re feminists, they’ll back me up and they’ll encourage me to report it. I’ll talk to the family lawyers. One of them will help me. Someone will introduce me to a former classmate who now works with women’s rights. I’ll talk to the head of department. He’ll do something about this.

That’s what I do.

The response I get is that the university regulation dates back to the time of the dictatorship and makes no provision for harassment. The response I get is that I need proof of “serious threat.”

The response I get is that the legal process is exhausting.

The response I get is that no judge could rule in my favor.

The response I get is that there’s nothing the department can do.

The response I get is that I should not post anything on social media.

The response I get is that I may lose my scholarship.

The response I get is that I’m on my own. I give up.

epilogue

you know, what happened at the wedding was rape. - Contact blocked.

On the bookcase in my room, I find your things. The analog lens, some Velvia 100 negatives with forest photos, a National Geographic photography guide. I want to get rid of anything that might remind me of you as fast as possible. I grab my cell phone, I’ll arrange a time to return it all. I look at the screen and there’s a message from your best friend.

He says he’s at the hospital with you. That you tried to hang yourself. He curses at me, calling me a slut for having been unfaithful and dumped you.

My eyes twitch as I read the message to the end. What??? You hung yourself? How? I Picture your thin, dark body, your scarred throat, struggling, unable to breathe. Where did you hang yourself? By what means? A rope, a sheet, a tie? Who came to your rescue? How did they stop you? Did you scream? Did they break down your door? I know you were depressive, but you never talked about suicide. And what the fuck kind of message is that from your friend? He’d always been a calm and easy going person. And now he’s calling me a slut? I can’t believe it.

I call repeatedly. Answer, you son of a bitch, answer! Wasn’t raping me enough? Now you want to kill yourself? “Hello?”

You never tried to kill yourself. You lied to me.

You manipulated me. You made up this story, thinking through every single detail. You pretended to be your best friend so you could curse at me. You faked a hoarse voice and slurred speech for an hour on the phone with me. You tortured me for my mistake. You got pleasure from my pain one more time.

“The girl from the photos”. That became Ana’s epithet. “Look, isn’t she that girl from the photos?” Everyone joined in with the judgement. I was condemned and made to hide away in a room until they all forgot about it. It was no use. Those were the looks I got when I started going out again. Everything made me remember. I withdrew from reality. I escaped into the arms of the unknown. I didn’t have the privilege of being able to flee. I had nowhere to turn. I won’t kid myself now. I listen to my body. I trust my instincts. I’ll get away, I’ll run. I’ll fight. Even without cause. I am indeed Ana from the photos. No one can take that away from me.

Dude,

It wasn’t easy finding your address after all these years, but I managed to get it. This book will be delivered to your door.

Did you know that in my final year of school I wrote an essay about what you did to me? I got the top grade. My character’s name was Isabelle and yours was Arthur. In the story, instead of being best friends, they were boyfriend and girlfriend. When Isabelle ended the relationship, Arthur sent out naked photos of her as revenge. That’s the retelling I went with, because it’s easier for people to understand. But in my mind, your betrayal was worse. Because I never intended for you to see those photos.

You intruded. You stole. You violated. You thought it through . You planned it all.

A few days before sharing them, you wrote in a Magic forum that you had those photos. Your trophy. You generated an audience, so all the kids were ready and waiting.

You became an idol. Nothing was done on impulse. You fucked with my head and my life.

Isabelle was also humiliated in public, but fate was kind to her. The aggression was a one-off. It had a beginning, middle, and end. Later, Isabelle became a successful writer, telling her own story, while Arthur spent his life brooding over his guilt amidst loneliness, compulsions, addictions, and illness.

What I didn’t realize, at the age of 15, was the real reason for the aggression. I didn’t think it had anything to do with me being a woman. Now I know. And you also know the rest of my story.

You were expelled from school, but you didn’t get out of my life. Your eyes tormented me through countless sleepless nights, nightmares, and dissociation. You reappeared in so many men I met. Over and over again I asked them not to bring up this memory, but they ripped apart the hole you had opened. I revisited that underworld every winter.

There is no forgiveness.

Together with the book is a gift for you. It’s the size of a fist. Sickly, misshapen, worn out. I don’t want to be a woman anymore. No more hysteria. Here it is. Didn’t you want to fuck me? Then go ahead, devour me. Get a taste of what it feels like to really connect with the feminine. Swallow the death produced by this organ that you poisoned.

The reflux will surge into your esophagus. While you sleep. You will try to wake up. our body will fail to respond. You will slowly choke in your own shit as it drains out of you. You’ll manage to open your eyes, your lungs will expand, but your heart will be still.

Ana

This is the third book published by Vento Leste for the Rosa Brava Collection.

The Rosa Brava Collection, which has Helena Rios and Marcelo Greco as its art directors, is dedicated to aspects of women’s lives.

Anamnesis

Images and texts. Ana Dalle Vedove

Concept. Ana Dalle Vedove, Andressa Ce

Editing. Ana Dalle Vedove, Helena Rios, Marcelo Greco, and Andressa Ce (collaborator)

Design. Ana Dalle Vedove, Helena Rios, Marcelo Greco

Image treatment. Estúdio 321

Copy editing. Juliana Monteiro, Luciana Dutra, Milton Mastabi

Translation. Sarah Rebecca Kersley

Graphic production. Helena Rios, Marcelo Greco

ISBN. 978-85-68690-25-3

Copies. 800 exemplares

Acknowledgements: Christian Haritçalde, Matteo Miriano, Matheus Mota, Stefano Beretta, Julia Amptala, Marina Caverzan, Mari Lupi, Leonardo Stockler, Lucas Pacífico, Leandro Rodrigues, Guilherme Marcondes, Nicole Falavigna, Rosana Grecchi and Milton Mastabi. All members of Grupo de Terça and d’A Barca. Especially Marcelo Greco for his patience and guidance.

This work was printed on FSC® Certified paper, a guarantee of responsible forest management, for Vento Leste, in March 2025. Typography. Adobe Arabic and Font Serif Variable; Core paper. Alta Alvura 150 g/m²; Cover paper. Supremo 250 g/m². Printing and binding. Leograf.

I - On the other side of the door

Juliana Monteiro, 2025

II - The cord that cuts us

Juliana Corsi, 2025

III - Anamnesis

Ana Dalle Vedove, 2025

Rosa Brava Collection

This is the third book published by Vento Leste for the Rosa Brava Collection.

The Rosa Brava Collection, which has Helena Rios and Marcelo Greco as its art directors, is dedicated to aspects of women’s lives.

Anamnesis

Images and texts. Ana Dalle Vedove

Concept. Ana Dalle Vedove, Andressa Ce

Editing. Ana Dalle Vedove, Helena Rios, Marcelo Greco, and Andressa Ce (collaborator)

Design. Ana Dalle Vedove, Helena Rios, Marcelo Greco

Image treatment. Estúdio 321

Copy editing. Juliana Monteiro, Luciana Dutra, Milton Mastabi

Translation. Sarah Rebecca Kersley

Graphic production. Helena Rios, Marcelo Greco

ISBN. 978-85-68690-25-3

Copies. 800 exemplares

In Anamnesis, the collection of texts is configured as an investigation into systemic practices of abuse against women, while the narrative formed by the images conveys more openly and intuitively how the physical body experiences such violence. The image of Persephone, used in structuring the plot, evokes not only the myth of silenced rape but also the figure of transition between the world of the living and the dead, allowing for the recovery of memories from past lives, erased by the waters of Lethe. Anamnesis is not just a recollection. It is a continuous remembering, forgetting, remembering. From involuntary returns of what had been denied, mental exercises of reconstructing the past are born. The book Anamnesis is a response. An expiatory object. A memorial of pain. A leap of consciousness. By making a private experience public, the author’s story dissolves into collective memory and approaches the dreamed-of “happy forgetting” described by Nietzsche: a psyche finally free beyond repetition.

Rosa Brava Collection - Book III