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, practiced at his apartment every week, and I could come over and listen to them play. 
There were three or four people--one was the janitor from the apartment house-and they played rather quiet music up in his apartment; they had 
no other place to play. One guy had a tambourine that they called a 
pandeiro
, and another guy had a small guitar. I kept hearing the beat of a drum 
somewhere, hut there was no drum! Finally I figured out that it was the tambourine, which the guy was playing in a complicated way, twisting his 
wrist and hitting the skin with his thumb. I found that interesting, and learned how to play the 
pandeiro
, more or less. 
Then the season for Carnaval began to come around. That's the season when new music is presented. They don't put out new music and records 
all the time; they put them all out during 
Carnaval
time, and it's very exciting. 
It turned out that the janitor was the composer for a small samba "school" --not a school in the sense of education, but in the sense of fish--from 
Copacabana Beach, called 
Farçantes de Copacabana
, which means "Fakers from Copacabana," which was just right for me, and he invited me to be 
in it. 
Now this samba school was a thing where guys from the 
favelas
--the poor sections of the city--would come down, and meet behind a 
construction lot where some apartment houses were being built, and practice the new music for the Carnaval. 
I chose to play a thing called a "
frigideira
," which is a toy frying pan made of metal, about six inches in diameter, with a little metal stick to beat 
it with. It's an accompanying instrument which makes a tinkly, rapid noise that goes with the main samba music and rhythm and fills it out. So I tried 
to play this thing and everything was going all right. We were practicing, the music was roaring along and we were going like sixty, when all of a 
sudden the head of the 
batteria
section, a great big black man, yelled out, "STOP! Hold it, hold it --wait a minute!" And everybody stopped. 
"Something's wrong with the 
frigideiras!
" he boomed out. "
0 Americano, outra vez
!" ("The American again!") 
So I felt uncomfortable. I practiced all the time. I'd walk along the beach holding two sticks that I had picked up, getting the twisty motion of the 
wrists, practicing, practicing, practicing. I kept working on it, but I always felt inferior, that I was some kind of trouble, and wasn't really up to it. 
Well, it was getting closer to Carnaval time, and one evening there was a conversation between the leader of the band and another guy, and then 
the leader started coming around, picking people out: "You!" he said to a trumpeter. "You!" he said to a singer. "You!"--and he pointed to me. I 
figured we were finished. He said, "Go out in front!" 
We went out to the front of the construction site--the five or six of us--and there was an old Cadillac convertible, with its top down. "Get in!" the 
leader said. 
There wasn't enough room for us all, so some of us had to sit up on the back. I said to the guy next to me, "What's he doing--is he putting us 
out?" 
"
Nao sé, não sé
." ("I don't know.") 
We drove off way up high on a road which ended near the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. The car stopped and the leader said, "Get out!"--
and they walked us right up to the edge of the cliff! 
And sure enough, he said, "Now line up! You first, you next, you next! Start playing! Now march!" 
We would have marched off the edge of the cliff--except for a steep trail that went down. So our little group goes down the trail--the trumpet, the 
singer, the guitar, the 
pandeiro
, and the