One of the most frequent topics in any conversation circle is about the strange names given to people by their parents, surely with the best of intentions or as a tribute, but forgetting that the child will carry that name for the rest of their life.
Sometimes the names aren't even strange in certain cultures but don't fit well in others, becoming a permanent label that the parents ignore. It’s cruel. As I am of Spanish descent, I’ve encountered names like “Generosa,” “Purificación,” “Jesus,” and so on, which don’t sound right in Brazil. The same can be said for other names from different ethnicities: Tsipora, Abraham, Salah... Political correctness says we shouldn't criticize this, but most people end up creating nicknames that will inevitably be adopted.
But what provokes the most comments are the invented names. Around 2005, I read an American book (I don’t remember the name) that addressed this issue in the United States and Canada, criticizing the use of the name "Roxane." It seems the problem is global.
In Rio Grande do Norte, a family became famous for having 18 children, whose names were based on the number of their births in French: the first was named Premier, the second Seconde, the third Troisième, and so on until the eighteenth, "Dix-huit." They even became famous politicians. But, honestly...
In the 1970 census, the IBGE found a "Cafiaspirina de Souza." If my memory serves me right, Bayer, the manufacturer of Cafiaspirina, even published an ad in the old and famous "Visão" magazine thanking the tribute but suggesting that people avoid doing that.
But the name that always comes to mind when this subject comes up is Bergonsil, which I first heard in Cambuquira (MG) in 1961.
Cambuquira is a small “spa town,” like its neighboring cities of Caxambu, Lambari, São Lourenço, and others, known for their natural spring waters, which were believed to be medicinal. The municipalities where these towns were located were included in the tourist circuit that could have casinos, leading to the development of hotel infrastructure and other facilities. When casinos were made illegal (in 1946), these towns already had reasonable tourist infrastructure, and at the time, doctors prescribed a "spa treatment" for 21 days for recovery or simply for detoxification, and families who could afford it went once a year, almost always at the same time and to the same hotel. In the end, everyone got to know each other.
In 1954, my father had a “bile attack” and the doctor prescribed a spa treatment. He chose the one he could afford. The most modest one was Cambuquira. My maternal grandmother went with him, and my mother stayed in Rio, working and taking care of the children. My dad recovered and liked what he saw.
From 1957 onwards, we started going every July. At first by train (1957 and 1958?), leaving Rio on the train to São Paulo, where we would change trains at night in Cruzeiro (SP) (or was it Queluz?) to a railway with steam locomotives, and some parts with a cogwheel track going up the mountain, with soot coming through the windows (people wore special clothes for travel, easy to wash, some wore lab coats). We passed through small towns like Passa-Quatro (MG?), São Lourenço, then Cambuquira early in the morning, and continued to Três Corações, Varginha, and beyond. After 1959 and 1960, we traveled by bus during the day, with the section from Caxambu to Cambuquira being dirt roads, and the unforgettable dust.
From 1961 onwards, we started driving by car. My father bought a ceramic-colored Volkswagen Beetle. But the stretch from Caxambu to Cambuquira remained a dirt road at least until 1965 (as I recall). Until 1960, we stayed at the Hotel Globo. In 1961, when we arrived, the hotel had no vacancy, I don’t know what happened, and we were relocated to the Hotel Empreza (which was better and more expensive).
The Hotel Empreza was owned by Afrânio (the brother of the owner of Hotel Globo) and “Frau” Elza, a German lady, the widow of the owner. Afrânio was considered a prosperous coffee merchant (the region still produces excellent coffee, said to be the best in Brazil, with special mention for the coffee from the nearby town of Machado). I was 14 years old at the time. The people I met there and later met again annually in July included a family from Volta Redonda (RJ) — a couple with two children. The mother’s name was Bergonsil, which intrigued everyone, including my mother, who was usually very discreet but even she commented on the strangeness of the name.
I also remember the Dagoberto Pereira Franco family (if I’m not mistaken, the wife’s name was Helvécia and the mother was Swiss), from São Paulo, with two children with whom I did many horseback rides. There was also the Helvécio (the same name as the woman from São Paulo), who played the guitar and lived in Laranjeiras, Rio, and the family of Seu Campelo, his wife, and their daughter Tânia, who was very beautiful and caught my attention. I also remember a family from the Leblon, with a daughter I thought was beautiful, and if I’m not mistaken, her name was Tassiana Ricarda. There was also Seu Calixto, a Portuguese businessman from the Estácio neighborhood (who owned a shoe store), with his wife and a very pleasant daughter. Another family I remember was Silvia from São Paulo, a beautiful and special woman, as well as a Portuguese man from Santos (SP), who had an American car (an Impala) with a license plate identifying him as a “commander,” traveling with his daughter and granddaughter, who later recognized me many years later in São Paulo, already a grown woman and beautiful. And there was Malu from Farme de Amoedo in Rio, traveling with her parents... Anyway...
But although everyone was curious, no one ever asked where Mrs. Bergonsil got that name from. Until one day it was revealed that the name was a tribute to her grandfather: Bernado Gomes da Silva. The whole hotel spent an entire day discussing the matter... I’ve never forgotten it.
In 1977, I lived on Rua Rui Barbosa in Rio, and I held a small gathering with friends and their respective companions. The topic came up, and everyone shared stories of strange names they had encountered, until I mentioned Mrs. Bergonsil. One of the people present started laughing. It turned out that Mrs. Bergonsil was his mother. He remembered the hotel and the group... It’s a small world...
Miguel Fernández y Fernández
consultant engineer and columnist
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