Next read revealed for the CBS New York Book Club with Mary Calvi (2024)

CBS New York Book Club, the votes are in!

Nearly 4,000 votes were cast for which FicPick #ClubCalvi would read for the rest of the summer.

"Tropicália" by Harold Rogers was selected the Readers' Choice. It was released last week, so get your copy now.

The CBS New York Book Club will have about five weeks to read "Tropicália." You can read along with us by joining our Facebook group, leading up to our book club show with Harold Rogers on Tuesday, August 29th.

Below you will find information on "Tropicália," including an excerpt. The book may contain adult themes. Atria/Simon & Schuster is owned by Paramount, the parent company of CBS.

Click here to learn more about the other FicPicks.

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"Tropicália" by Harold Rogers

From the publisher: In the heady days before a New Year's Eve party on the bustling sands of Brazil's Copacabana Beach, a family reckons with a matriarch's long-awaited return, causing old secrets to come to light in this debut that explores the heartbreak and hope of what it means to be from two homes, two peoples, and two worlds.

Daniel Cunha has a lot on his mind. He got dumped by his pregnant girlfriend, his grandfather just dropped dead, and on the anniversary of the raid that doomed his drug-dealing aunt and uncle, his mother makes her unwanted return, years after she fled to marry another American fool like his father.

Misfortune, however, is a Cunha family affair, and no generation is spared. Not Daniel's grandfather João-poor João-born to a prostitute and forced to raise his siblings while still a child himself. Not João's wife, Marta, branded as a bruxa, reviled by her mother, and dragged from her Ilha paradise by her scheming daughter, Maria. And certainly not Maria, so envious of her younger sister's beauty and benevolence that she took her vicious revenge and fled to the States, abandoning her children: Daniel and Lucia, both tainted now by their half-Americanness and their mother's greedy absence.

There's poison in the Cunha blood. They are a family cursed, condemned to the pain of deprivation, betrayal, violence, and, worst of all, love.

Harold Rogers lives in New York City.

"Tropicália" By Harold Rogers (Hardcover) $23

"Tropicália" by Harold Rogers (Kindle) $13

Excerpt : "Tropicalia" by Harold Rogers

Call me Daniel, I was telling the american girls. Mateus met them this morning and asked me to pull up, thinking I needed a rebound after his cousin dumped me. So the four of us were out here chilling under the hard sun, the sun mean like it was trying to scorch us into order. The turista girls shining pretty, soaked in the day's slow progress. Our kiosk watched by the bronze frozen gaze of Princesa Isabel, the statue the police were all posted under, cradling their machine guns like gifts for the people. Sweeping the beach with their military stare. But how could you sweat that? With the pigeons all plump, plopped weary on the calçadão cobblestones, with those malandra vultures circling their black spirals in the sky, with the kiosk cover band batucando nice?

Copacabana was bustling!

The muvuca all crowded around to hear the band go into País Tropical.

Eu moro! num país tropical!

And I couldn't help but think of my Leticia. Who wasn't mine anymore. Because she dumped me yesterday. For cheating. Or not listening. Or something.

Mateus was going, Daniel, ô Daniel!

What's up?

As minas wanna do things.

Oh yeah? Wanna go see the Christ?

Rachel got quiet and looked away. Olivia kinda mumbled something.

Mateus said in portuguese, Dude, an american family got killed there like two days ago.

How bout the Pão de Açúcar then? It's a hundred percent safe!

Corbinha's working.

Perfect. We can get in for free. How does that sound?

Rachel said, Sounds good to me.

That smile of hers!

…

We all boarded the bondinho.

Rachel said, So what is there to see up there?

For one, micos. These thieving little monkeys that live up there. They'll come right up to you and take food out of your hand. They're too cute.

Mateus heard that and said, São malandra demais!

Now I'm excited.

The bondinho rose higher and higher as the day wound down in the city around us. The sun dipped as we rose, floating over the dense forest that looked sinister as the day changed. Everything was looking sinister to me. But the sun enveloped Rio in a way where it really did look noble, like this city really was marvelous.

We walked down a big ramp into the shadowy grove where we could hear low chirps of birds and bugs and micos, buzzing together like a Pixinguinha samba. I could hear brusque quibbling not far off, and I knew those pesky germans had followed us. We walked until there was a clearing, looking over the hillside at the wide expanse of the Botafogo beach. The sun was dropping, coloring the few clouds in late day pinks and reds.

Rachel said, Woah, catching the view. Olivia was speechless.

I sat down on a rock and looked out over the abyss.

The city looked immense, and I was panged with pride by its enormity.

But we were loose up here, a deep drop if we slipped. Despite the thick trees and the natural hillside ledges, if you fell, you were probably f*****.

But then I saw something truly amazing. Perched there on the hillside, barely noticing our presence, was an enormous bird. With a bright red color and a huge curved beak.

Meu deus!

It flew off, wings beating against the air.

That's an Ibis, I didn't know they could get this high, Mateus said.

Is that a good or bad sign?

I don't know.

When kid showed up, Rachel was taking pictures of Olivia. Me and Mateus were leaning against the rocks, chilling. I heard some rustling in the bamboo, and who else would it be but the german boy? Looking at us like it was no problem he was invading the private space we'd made with our presence, like it was no problem he was altering our whole environment. No, he belonged here. No family trailing him. Alone.

He climbed out to the area adjacent to us where the rocks jutted out, dangerous and unstable. Kid being teimoso, precarious as hell. It was late and everything was getting dark. A big tree that grew from the abyss hung over us, draped in shadows, its mute branches twisted around like ominous warnings.

We all stopped, just watched him, tense. As if a snake had snuck up on us. And then his family showed up. His mom walked to the edge of the bamboo and started scolding him, motioning him to rejoin them. But he wouldn't even look at her.

I heard stirring from the dark tree.

I looked up and it was a mico! Against the blood red backdrop of the falling day, the sun crowning his head like a saint. Climbing out on the branch, chirping, squeaking, real cute.

I said, Look! And a gasp rose from the gathered group. The babaca father emerged carrying an H. Stern bag, but as soon as he saw the mico, he dropped the bag and pushed past his wife to get a picture.

The mico regal as the city on that high branch.

And then! sprouting like fruit from within the tree, six or seven of his subjects went to join their solitary king on the end of the branch, on the edge of the abyss. The whole court coming out to confront us like we had landed on their shores, unwelcome. They were nearest to the kid who was walking out closer and closer to the tree, closer to the abyss, close enough to where he could reach out and touch one.

The air around us congealed into a thick, hot tension. He swung his backpack around and started digging through it, his movements the focus of our collective gaze. With a nefarious look, he pulled out a banana. The banana glowing golden in the sunlight. Like a treasure for the micos. They stopped chirping and stared. We were silent. I wondered if maybe I had misjudged this kid, if he was about to offer some benefaction to the true residents of this mountain.

But no. He started waving the banana around taunting their attention, and then he fake threw it off the cliff as if he wanted the micos to jump for it and fall to their deaths. Those malandra micos didn't budge. Instead, the kid lost his balance, stumbled, tried to catch himself, failed, and we all watched as he tumbled over the cliff, becoming a fading amplification of ahh!

Copyright © 2023 by Harold Rogers from TROPICÁLIA published by Atria Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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