





































The Short Story  
“Sambista at a Bar Table Drinking Beer with Tears”1 

 
 by Flávio Moreira da Costa 

 
Translator and Commentary: Marco Alexandre de Oliveira 

 
 It ain’t so bad. It’s all in the stars. Better days are comin’. 
What? Huh? You wanna talk? Let me... Wait a sec’, now it’s my turn to 
talk. Hang on. Don’t get on my nerves. Let’s slow down. Trouble, pal, 
trouble, don’t go tellin’ me I got a mush brain – a mush brain, all mixed 
up, you hear, a jello brain, a mud brain. Where you can’t see ’cause 
you can’t understand. Things done piled up, my life’s a mess, not even 
two plus two makes sense, if it’s four or twenty-two, it all adds up to the 
same, I couldn’t care less, it don’t change nothin’.  If you don’t watch 
out I’ll shit, piss, and step on you. You tryin’ to pull a fast one on me, or 
what? Then why you laughin’ over there? That’s cool, but that’s only 
what you think, pal, I don’t gotta like it. And what I think is mush – 
mushy for a man. Or a woman. You ever noticed that it all begins and 
ends ’cause of them? Woman is man’s demon. I like’m a lot, I like 
screwin’ around, then I get hooked, real hooked, and end up cryin’ at a 
bar. A sambista’s fate? I dunno. I wrote some sambas here and there, 
but only one of ’em made it. I’m strugglin’, at least I was. For now, just 
takin’ it easy. Mush, mushy, a mess – what’s the use of bein’ sung by 
others if the samba’s already left me, it don’t belong to me anymore? I 
ain’t got no music inside. Woman is man’s demon, we come outta her 
and wanna get back inside of her. I really like – screwin’ around. A 
woman’s a woman. You see that fox over there? I’d do her good. Just 
for fun or ’cause I was hard up, I dunno, ’cause  what I really wanted 
was to do it with the other woman, the one who was my demon. I’ll tear 
her out from inside of me yet, you betcha. I don’t want my mush brain 
forever. It’s just a phase I’m goin’ through – the heartbreak phase, got 
it? That’s life, it’s normal. But try it. Go on, fall flat on your face, come 
see what’s good for a cough, that no syrup can cure. I’m laughin’, I’m 
cryin’. I laugh and cry, I ain’t got no shame. I laugh for no reason, in 
between, so I don’t cry. Then I drink and the tears mix with the beer – 
you ever drank beer with tears? It’s pretty bitter. No joke. Or do you 
think it’s stupid? I know, but it’s no use knowin’, the trick is to come out 
on top. Let it slip, it’s gone, you’re in a bind; we miss the train and lose 
direction. Today I’m a goin’ wherever my legs take me. Wobbly legs. 
My sorrows? You’re kiddin’! I’m so sorry, even the wind carries me 
away. If it’s to get out of this hell, we’re here for you. My spirit’s weak, 
it’s not that I like to take any shit, but I ain’t no hyena to be eatin’ crap 
and laughin’ like crazy. I’m available, but I’m employed, I ain’t no bum. 
Well at this point I musta lost my job: it’s been five days since I showed 
up. I just up and disappeared, disappeared completely, got it? I been 
searchin’, but I can’t find myself. Look, you wanna know something, I 

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never – no how – been like this before. I read on a truck today: “LIFE 
IS HARD FOR THOSE WHO ARE SOFT.” What am I gonna do? I’m 
soft, that’s all. She left me for down and out. I gave her what she 
wanted, but something musta been missin’. The cuddlin’ was good, too 
good to be true. All of a sudden, your will goes one way, your life goes 
another. Then, if you don’t catch yourself, you fall down and fall ugly. 
That’s what happened to me. I fell on all fours, I’m lyin’ around. Did my 
baby find somebody else? I don’t even know. But that’s cool, how did 
she get rid of me so easily, if I can’t get rid of her? Just see how it’s so 
complicated. You see? My head’s spinnin’ round and round. It takes 
two to tango; but also when there’s just one, the two of ’em end up 
fightin’, believe me. Am I borin’ you, talkin’ about myself? Don’t get me 
wrong, I just need to let it out. If you don’t mind, my friend, I’ll talk; if 
you wanna call it a game, that’s alright. I’ll play by myself, and strike 
out. You musta heard “Consolation,” my hit samba, didn’t you? You 
ain’t heard it? It goes like this:   
                         
  Look to the side 
  and say yes. 
  Look to the side 
  and say no 
  to these things 
  that happen 
  right in front 
  of you. 
  To this life 
  of give and take, 
  and this life 
  that’s already given 
  and taken you 
  who knows where, 
  my love –  
  la-la-la-la-la... 
 
 See? As I was sayin’, you already heard it on the radio, didn’t 
you? No, I only wrote the samba, somebody else recorded it. I 
managed to make a fortune, it was enough to buy a little house in 
Nilópolis – a small house for a poor guy like me. Where I lived with my 
baby up until last week. Now I’m afraid to go back, to find everything 
lonely. It’s what I always say, samba lyrics are one thing, life’s lyrics 
are another. The writing is different. As if somebody invented the 
words, put them in the dictionary and then thrown the dictionary away. 
Does that make any sense? Thrown away, just to confuse us. Samba 
is samba, life is life. And samba is soft for those who are hard. We’re 
kinda Durango Kid here, but we can still drink some more. Let’s have 
another beer, buddy. Life is hard for those who are soft. But it’s not 
soft; the writing is different, it’s another matter. I learned how to 

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compose samba but didn’t learn how to be composed in life. I think that 
’cause I didn’t make up my mind myself, I let others do it. Women, of 
all people. When women make up our minds, we end up losin’ ’em, our 
minds. And the women, too. Believe me. Oh, the pain! If heartbreak 
could kill, we’d already be at the funeral here. I’ll tell you what also: if I 
find that girl I’ll shoot her. It’s easier for me to shoot her than to shoot 
myself. Well if I shoot her, I’ll shoot myself as well. That rhymed. It’s 
complicated, ain’t it, buddy? Pretend you’re my childhood friend, I need 
a childhood friend, there are days we need a childhood friend. You 
hold on ’cause today it’s on me. Like in that samba: “today it’s on me.” 
What about Lupiscínio Rodrigues, you dig him? I always been a fan, 
there’s no bla bla bla, when it was hurtin’ deep inside, he would go 
right to shoutin’ for “revenge, my friend, I just want revenge” – wait a 
sec’, I think that one’s by Nelson Cavaquinho, ain’t it? Open heart, 
hangin’ out of his chest: “you’re gonna roll like the rocks that roll on the 
road.” Son-of-a-bitch, we know it ain’t gonna do no good, but somehow 
it’s a relief. If not samba would never been born, right? My house is 
small but now it’s huge and empty without her, I get lost inside. My 
sister’s a medium, a priestess in Nova Iguaçu; my brother’s in jail, 
something about politics, unions, and things like that. I’m alone, alone 
in the world. It ain’t so bad. I got nowhere to go, anywhere is 
anywhere, anything. It’s all in the stars. I couldn’t care less, I lost my 
woman, my job, my bearings, my way. Drinkin’, yeah I drink, I always 
drank – it’s just that this time I’m past the limit, I can’t stop. Five days, 
sleepin’ around town, in plazas, I even laid down on the sidewalk. “The 
last step... of life... my love” – Nelson’s right. You know he’s a saint? 
He’s the one who gave me a hand to record my samba. I recorded 
seven but only one of ’em was a hit: “Consolation.” At least it consoles 
me. Am I borin’ you? Drink some more to drown the grief. Who ain’t 
sufferin’ in this lil’ world God’s made, huh? It ain’t so bad. It’s all in the 
stars. Life’s a game and I missed out. A guessin’ game or a card 
game, it don’t matter. In the cards of life I only found one queen. Hey, 
looky there, that could make a samba: 
 
  In the cards of life, 
  I only found one queen... 
 
It could be a helluva hit. It’ll top the charts, it’ll be another 
“Consolation.” But – damn it! What’s the use, if my lil’ baby doesn’t 
come back to my shack. It sucks: samba is samba, life is life. You 
wanna leave? Wait, don’t go. Stay here ’cause it’s on me. Call the 
waiter. Waiter, another cachaça for us, make that two to even it out. 
You really gonna leave? Stay, man, aren’t you my childhood friend? 
That’s cool, if you wanna go, go, you gotta do what you gotta do. We’ll 
see each other around on the streets. If you show up in Nilópolis, just 
ask for Dentinho “Tiny Tooth,” who everybody knows. Peace out, take 
care of yourself. I’ll stay here by myself. By myself? Don’t worry I’ll deal 

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with whatever comes along. I still need gas. Later, man. The trick is not 
to get things confused. Leave it to me: 
 
IT AIN’T SO BALLAD. IT’S ALL IN THE GUITARS.      
                                                 
1 Flávio Moreira da Costa, “Sambista em mesa de botequim bebendo 
cerveja com choro.” In: Aquarelas do Brasil: contos da nossa música 
popular. Ed. Flávio Moreira de Costa. Rio de Janeiro: Agir, 2005. 311 
p. 
 
 
Commentary: 
Flávio Moreira da Costa is from Porto Alegre and lives in Rio de Janeiro, 
Brazil. In addition to being a journalist and translator, he is an internationally 
acclaimed writer and has published over 20 books, which feature novels, short 
stories, and essays. As an editor he has also organized several anthologies 
such as Aquarelas do Brasil: contos da nossa música popular (“Watercolors 
from Brazil: Short Stories of Our Popular Music” – 2006), which showcases the 
historical interrelations between literature and music in Brazilian culture.  
 
Included in the aforementioned anthology, “Sambista at a Bar Table Drinking 
Beer with Tears” (1978) is one of many short stories written by Costa that deal 
specifically with music as a significant theme. There are both implicit and 
explicit references to songs by renowned composers such as Herivelto 
Martins, Lupicínio Rodrigues, and Nelson Cavaquinho. The language of the 
story, a sad but humorous monologue about love and life, also represents the 
type of dialect that is characteristic of these and other popular carioca 
musicians, who traditionally come from the slums and hillsides of the so-called 
“Marvelous City,” home of samba and Carnival.      

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