June 12, 1978 | Monday
The morning of June 12, 1978, wasn't just Valentine's Day for most couples hurrying through downtown São Paulo; for Célia Regina, it was the day that would define the rest of her life. The São Paulo winter had arrived with a fine drizzle, that "land of drizzle" that still lived up to its name, covering the Edifício Itália and neighboring buildings with a damp, cold mist. Célia got off the bus at Praça da República at 7:45 am.
The biting wind coming from Avenida Ipiranga made her adjust her wool coat, a financial sacrifice her father had made so she would have a "doctor's appearance" for interviews. She walked with calculated steps, avoiding puddles that could stain her black patent leather shoes, bought the previous week.
As she walked, she felt the weight of the synthetic leather briefcase under her arm. Inside, there were not only documents, but the hope of leaving behind the days of dusty archives in São Bernardo do Campo. Célia wanted the glitz of the capital.
She wanted the sophistication of import offices, the sound of modern telephones, and the promise of a future that didn't just involve marrying and having children with an automotive industry worker.
Upon entering the Valadares Importer building, the impact was immediate. The lobby was lined with Carrara marble that reflected the light from the crystal chandeliers as if it were a mirror. The smell was an intoxicating mixture of high-quality floor wax, lavender furniture polish, and the persistent odor of pipe tobacco emanating from the reception area.
Célia stopped before the large bronze panel indicating the floors. 12th Floor: Valadares Importer S.A. – Board of Directors.
The elevator, with its golden pantograph doors, ascended smoothly.
The elevator operator, a gentleman in an impeccable uniform and white gloves, simply nodded when she announced the floor. The silence in the wooden cubicle was broken only by the creaking of the gears. When the doors opened, Celia felt a chill in her stomach.
The director's reception area was the epitome of 1970s elegance. Walls covered with rosewood panels, thick moss-green carpets that muffled any sound, and a row of modern design chairs.
At the center of it all, behind a glass desk, was Dona Ivone.
Ivone was the personification of the veteran secretary: reading glasses hanging from a gold chain, a perfect bun, and a gaze that seemed to scan the soul (and resume) of anyone who dared enter that sanctuary.
— Good morning. "I'm Célia Regina, I have an interview scheduled with Dr. Roberto at eight o'clock," said Célia, trying hard to keep her voice from trembling.
Ivone looked at her over her glasses.
"Dr. Roberto is still finishing reading the newspapers. Please sit down, miss. He detests lateness, but values quiet punctuality."
Célia sat down. In the corner of the room, a radio played soft instrumental music. She observed the movement. Black rotary dial telephones rang with a metallic, shrill sound, and other secretaries passed by carrying stacks of carbon paper and hanging folders. The predominant sound, however, was that of the typewriters. It was a rhythmic orchestra, an incessant tap-tap-tap that dictated the pulse of the country's economy.
Her hands were sweating. She knew that this was the most coveted vacancy in the building.
"Dr. Roberto will see you now. Please come in," said the receptionist Ivone.
Célia walked across the marble floor. The sound of her heels echoed, announcing her arrival. Opening the heavy imbuia wood door, she saw him. Dr. Roberto stood with his back to her, observing the traffic on Avenida São Luís. He was about 40 years old, with broad shoulders and a dark gray suit that screamed authority.
He turned slowly. His gaze was firm, but there was a hidden weariness beneath his eyelids.
"Good morning, Miss..." he consulted the paper on the table. "Célia Regina. Please, sit down."
"Good morning, Dr. Roberto. It's a pleasure," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady, sitting on the edge of the leather chair.
Dr. Roberto sat down opposite her and began to leaf through her documents. The silence was broken only by the ticking of a pendulum clock on the wall.
— I see you have excellent shorthand skills. The pace here is frantic, Celia. I deal with exporters, customs bureaucracy, and a schedule that seems to want to swallow me whole. I need someone who can be my eyes and ears. More than that, I need loyalty.
He turns his chair, turning his back to her, appreciating the city view through the building's glass — The world out there is full of people wanting what I have.
Celia held his gaze. There was a strange electricity in the room, something neither of them could yet name.
— I'm very organized, doctor. And I know how to keep secrets, if that's what you're asking. I learned early on that, in an office, what you hear doesn't get out the walls.
Roberto turns to her again, giving a half-smile, the first of that morning.
— I like your frankness. The salary is what was in the ad, plus benefits and a meal voucher for the restaurant on the ground floor. "Do you start now?"
Célia felt her heart race.
"Right now, if you wish."
After Roberto's brief smile of recognition, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands, assuming a more administrative posture.
"Before we put this Olivetti—the typewriter—to work, Célia, we need to formalize your existence at Valadares. I decide who stays, but Dr. Arnaldo, on the fourth floor, decides how you're paid."
He handed her a small handwritten memo on bluish letterhead.
"Take this to the Personnel Department. Ask for Mr. Alcebíades. He'll take your fingerprints and register your work permit. Without his stamp, you're just a visitor; with it, you become part of the company."
Célia took the paper, feeling the texture of the high-grammage paper.
"Excuse me, doctor. I'll be right back."
Upon leaving the boardroom, the contrast was immediate. If the 12th floor was the company's silent, carpeted brain, the 4th floor was its noisy stomach. As she stepped out of the elevator, she was hit by a symphony of sounds: the metallic clatter of stamps, the clinking of steel filing cabinets, and the murmur of employees queuing up.
The Human Resources Department smelled of old paper and stamp pad ink. It was the kingdom of Mr. Alcibiades, a man with thinning white hair and shirt sleeves held up by elastic bands to avoid ink stains.
"Next!" he shouted, without taking his eyes off a personnel file.
Célia approached the wooden partition and handed over Roberto's memo. The man read the note, adjusted his glasses, and, for the first time, looked at her with clinical curiosity.
"Ah, Dr. Roberto's new secretary." He gave a smile that resembled a tired grimace. "Girl, do you know what you're getting yourself into? The last one who occupied that anteroom didn't last three months. The 'Doctor' is like a Swiss watch; if you're a second late, he loses track."
"I am punctual, sir," Célia replied, maintaining the posture she had rehearsed.
"We'll see." "Work Permit, please."
Célia handed over the blue booklet, somewhat worn at the edges. She saw Alcebíades open the "Employment Contract" page, dip the stamp in the black ink pad, and press it with disproportionate force. THUMP. The sound sealed her fate.
"Sign here, here, and here." He slid a series of cardboard cards through her. "These are your registration forms. As of today, June 12, 1978, you are employee number 452. Time of entry: 8:00 AM. Time of exit: 6:00 PM... although we all know that the director's secretary only leaves when the sun decides to hide."
While signing, Célia observed the other women on the floor. They were simple girls, with standardized gray uniforms. She, however, had been instructed by Ivone that uniforms were not worn in the director's office; Elegance was in vogue. She felt both privileged and isolated.
Alcibiades took a small pad of special black ink and held Celia's right thumb.
— Relax your hand, girl. If you tremble, the fingerprint will smudge and the Ministry of Labor will complain.
The cold contact of the metal and the stickiness of the ink on her thumb were a shock of reality. She was being cataloged, numbered, and integrated into Roberto's machine. After wiping her finger on a grimy cloth the old man offered her, she received her work permit back.
— There you go, number 452. Go upstairs. Dr. Roberto doesn't like to wait, and his coffee break must be getting late. Welcome to the madhouse.
Célia put the document in her bag, feeling the symbolic weight of that fresh stamp. She went up the elevator no longer as a nervous candidate, but as someone who possessed a territory. Upon entering the reception area on the 12th floor again, Dona Ivone glanced at her.
— Have you gone through the Alcibiades ritual yet? Great. Now, leave your bag in that locked drawer. Dr. Roberto just ordered the first coffee of the day. The pantry is to the right. And remember: the cup should be lukewarm before you add the coffee, so as not to cause thermal shock to the drink. He notices these things.
Célia nodded, hung her coat on the coat rack, and walked towards the small kitchen. The game, now made official by paper and ink, had begun.