Red: A Love Story

by Nicole Collet

  “What happened, Marisa?”

  She stammered incoherent things—the nothingness, the stone saints mocking her pain, the plum tree and her feet dangling in the void. Unsure of how to react, he put his arm on the seat headrest, began a gesture, faltered and at last laid one hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey, Marisa, easy… easy…”

  “Sorry.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand and attempted an awkward smile. Weeping brought relief and also emptiness. She felt hollow, a ragdoll without stuffing in a struggle to stand. “It’s nothing. I think I’m just nervous with the coming college admission.”

  Marisa had a beautiful face, Marco noted, even with the sad smile… He noticed the scent emanating from her skin (vetiver?) and a birthmark half hidden on the nape of her neck—a small grayish form that reminded him of a diadem. Marco studied her turgid gaze, the pomegranate of her swollen lips, the pale face contrasting with hair darkened by rain. He thought of a sugar clump dissolving in water.

  What could he do to comfort her? Be a good listener, or try cheering her up, or… Without thinking, Marco leaned over to kiss Marisa on the cheek, and in that instant she turned to face him. His lips almost touched hers. They exchanged an uncertain look—she was fighting a sudden quiver, he was backing off in equal surprise.

  “Do you want to talk?” Marco quickly collected himself and, since she made a negative gesture, insisted: “Are you sure? Then I’m going to take you home.”

  “Please, no…” She became agitated. “I don’t want my mother to see me like this. Can I stay with you for a little while?”

  Marco hesitated. He needed to go home. Marisa assured him that he could take care of his matters and she would study in the meantime. Given her commotion Marco agreed, and Marisa called home to let her mother know she was having lunch with a friend. On their way to his apartment, the mute tension crept back between them. They took the elevator in silence, pretending to watch the floor-indicator panel. Tension brushed against Marisa. Marisa brushed herself against Marco. Marco did not avoid contact.

  When the two entered his apartment, Marisa stood by the door. The property, old and spacious, had high ceilings, varnished parquet flooring and plaster cornices. She absorbed every single detail, trying to identify Marco’s personality there. He obviously liked orchids: three vases adorned the coffee table with purple, yellow and blue flowers. What drew her attention, however, were the empty spaces. The furniture was scarce and—except for some normal wear and tear—almost impersonal, as if it had been transplanted straight from a store display.

  A set of brown leather sofas and armchairs gravitated around the coffee table designed with reclaimed wood. A pair of side tables carried a pair of white-shaded lamps. In one corner, a stainless steel floor lamp tried in vain to break the hard symmetry of the furniture. The few objects there told stories that instigated Marisa’s imagination: the small bronze sculpture curled up like a question mark, the green Murano vase, a framed picture of Marco smiling with the Golden Gate Bridge behind him. And there were also the jazz albums inhabiting the low rack spread across an entire wall. Hundreds of albums split into CDs, LPs and rare 33 RPM editions.

  It was interesting to watch Marco there, in his kingdom. In black jeans and dark-gray shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he followed the route between the rack and the hallway with an ease that suggested habit. First he turned the sound system on, then he headed for the office to drop his briefcase. Marisa, in the meantime, distracted herself investigating the music collection. John Coltrane, Miles Davis, an entire section dedicated to Ella Fitzgerald, Herbie Hancock, Bessie Smith… and classical composers, too, such as Satie, Debussy, Chopin, Bartók… On the radio played the delicate melody of The Pageant of the Bizarre by Zero 7, with verses about crossed-star lovers and a tempest at sea.

  Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads

  Great, hollow, bell-like flowers

  Rumbling in the wind

  Stretching clappers to strike our ears

  Marco reappeared in the hallway and told Marisa to leave her things on the coffee table while he fetched a towel for her. She thanked him and halted halfway to the table once she noticed the state of her notebook.

  “I can’t believe. The rain stained my notes.”

  “Big damage?” Marco turned around and came to stand before her.

  “More or less. The top of it is wet, but I guess I can still read it,” she replied, examining the pages.

  He offered to leave the notebook to dry in the laundry area and, as he spoke, reached out for it. They had never stood that close. There were shapes and colors and warmth. Presence. A fragrance of cologne with woody notes. Vetiver mixed with rain. His skin, feverish like arid land. Hers, still glimmering with translucent droplets that rolled from her hair to her shoulders. Their hands touched and their eyes met in a pause. And then, very gently, Marco’s gaze grazed Marisa’s lips. He grazed the full curve of ripe fruit with his eyes and then with his mouth, nibbling on the lip, tasting it on the tip of his tongue. Marisa nestled herself on him and mirrored his movements. She buried her fingers in the fine, soft locks of Marco’s hair, felt with a vestige of vertigo the fabric of the shirt hiding his flesh. She had longed so much for this moment. Her legs faltered…

  Full-lipped flowers

  Bitten by the sun

  Bleeding rain

  Dripping rain like golden honey

  And the sweet earth flying from the thunder

  The books cascaded to the floor, and Marco pulled her closer, his arms adjusting to her figure with such ease it surprised him. His body had its own reason. Something stirred deep down inside, something that had been restrained and now just broke the barrier… He didn’t know how Marisa could disarm him that way. Her kiss transmitted the sweetness of abandon that he desperately wanted to reciprocate. His hesitant, thirsty mouth expressed the dilemma between great doubt and even greater certainty. He froze all of a sudden. That didn’t feel right. She was his student, frail now, and he no longer knew what he was doing. Marco forced himself to back off as he registered with crystalline clarity Marisa’s face standing out amid a smudge—the music rack, the window, the vortex of gray sky.

  “I’m sorry… really sorry,” he said in a hoarse voice and looked away. “I’m thirsty. Do you want some water?”

  Marisa nodded, her legs shaky again. His taste lingered in her mouth and poured into her whole body. After a moment, she followed him at a numb pace.

  Marco practically burst into the retro kitchen fitted with white tiles and black Formica. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed the water bottle and, as he filled two glasses, almost made the water overflow from one of them. Marisa stood at the door and waited. Marco turned around with a startle, laying the bottle on the counter. In a reflex, he offered her a chair at the head of the six-seat table.

  After handing her a glass, Marco took the chair on the opposite end. When he spoke again, his voice sounded controlled—almost natural.

  “Do you have any exams this week, Marisa?”

  “Yes. Literature, don’t you remember?”

  He smiled, awkwardly, and she smiled too.

  “Of course… I mean, do you have an exam in any other subject?”

  No, fortunately, she didn’t. It seemed she had exams all the time in that school. She was going crazy. It was school in the morning, college admission classes in the afternoon and preparation for exams in the evening. Sometimes she resembled a sleepwalker and needed buckets of coffee to keep herself awake. Before that year, she didn’t even like coffee…

  Marisa shushed, aware of her own nervousness. It had been a mistake to insist in tagging along with Marco. He felt uneasy, and she didn’t intend to impose her presence any longer. She left her glass untouched on the table and stood up.

  “I’d better be going.”

  “I’ll give you a ride.” He rose in such a has
te that the chair protested with a shriek.

  Marisa insisted she didn’t want to disturb him; she could take a taxi. Marco insisted it was no trouble at all. The two returned to the living room and he helped her collect the textbooks from the floor. They barely looked at each other. Marisa balanced the books in one arm and hung her purse over the other while they headed for the door. Marco turned the key and laid one hand on the knob, pausing ever so slightly.

  She would never know what got her in that instant: watching him hesitate, she stroked his face. And with the gesture Marisa’s irises pulsed, turned into liquid and haze. In that moment there was him. Only him.

  “Don’t worry, Marco. I wanted that too…”

  An indecipherable expression veiled his countenance. His eyebrows remained still but the eyes stirred with a slight tremor. His lips, the upper with its well-drawn shape and the bottom fuller, parted in a reflex as he sucked in the air. One second. Two. Three. His hand released the doorknob, ripping the air, circling Marisa’s nape, bringing her closer.

  Marco sought her mouth with sudden voraciousness. The kiss was intense, then tender, then urgent… The books fell again to the floor, and the purse soon joined them. Marisa fastened her hands around his neck, reciprocating with fervor.

  Then Marco buried his face in her damp hair, breathed in its perfume, his eyelids half-closed, an odd intoxication. Inching back, he stared at Marisa.

  She laced her fingers through his and spoke to him with one gaze. He replied.

  That was how it all began.

  8. Rolling the Die

  They had a month and a half to go before the end of the school term: December 13th was officially the last day of classes, with the graduation party scheduled for the following evening. Marco wanted to wait. Nonetheless, it came to happen after one week, four furtive cups of coffee and a Sunday lunch that lingered in conversation through the afternoon. It happened naturally, like the rain that day and the sparkle in their eyes.

  It was Marisa and Marco’s first date in no hurry. He opened a bottle of Merlot and, while he finished preparing a vegetable tiella, the two shared family stories and memories. They talked about his large clan based in the countryside (two brothers, seven uncles and aunts, seventeen cousins, twelve nephews and nieces) and her kindred living in the city (second generation of French immigrants, two uncles, four cousins, no nephews or nieces). They talked about the first time he walked on the Champs-Élysées and the day she couldn’t go to the top of the Eiffel Tower due to a protest march.

  She told him of a lecture on the Buddhist Wheel of Life, he explained archetypes and the hero’s journey toward consciousness. Those topics were alternated with platitudes such as his microwave in need of replacement and the horoscope in the newspaper left on a chair (the Libra woman should have a surprise and the Scorpio man would face a family problem). In their conversation, a simple comment about the weather carried the colors of enchantment: the words didn’t matter as much as what lay between the lines—in that language known only by lovers, even the most trivial sentence forged kinship.

  “We could go to Alto Paraíso for Carnival,” Marisa was saying. “Do you know the place?”

  “Only through photos. It has waterfalls, right?”

  “It has the Valley of the Moon. One of the most beautiful spots I’ve ever visited. A stretch of rocks like lunar craters, with the cerrado tropical savanna around it and turquoise pools in the middle. The rocks have tiny green crystals embedded in them, which shine in the moonlight.”

  “Let’s go there, Mari. If you like waterfalls, we can also visit Lençóis da Bahia on Easter… Oh, you don’t know it? It’s a lovely town with colonial houses and…”

  Outside, the raindrops were rolling; inside, it was the notes of Chopin’s piano. Marisa inquired what was playing. Waltz no. 14 in E minor. Let’s dance, Marco. Ah, Mari, but I can’t waltz. It’s very easy, Marco, come here and I’ll show you… He stood smiley and awkward, she brisk and assertive. Position: one hand on the partner’s back (here, close to the shoulder) and the other away from the body holding your pair’s hand. Let’s go. One-two-three… And off they went whirling around the table, left-right-left, passing by the stove and the refrigerator, one step forward for him and another backward for her, now the cabinets and the counter, one-two-three…

  The Minute Waltz kicked in and hastened the pace, and suddenly they were spinning in the romantic Paris of the 19th century, he in a black tailcoat, bow tie and waistcoat, she in an airy raspberry dress with shoulders bare. They danced in a blue ballroom with a vaulted ceiling and walls where flourished gold-plated reliefs and multicolor rose bouquets. The notes hopped amid the scintillation of crystal sconces and chandeliers, one, two, three, twirling and twirling in blue golden crystal inside the rainbow abloom. In a given moment, the aroma of fresh basil spread in the kitchen: in São Paulo of the 21st century, lunch was ready. Marco removed the dish from the oven and lit up a candle to enliven the table.

  The two sat down contentedly and, while eating, talked about books and favorite authors, so many they even lost track. Marisa recalled La Petite Fadette by George Sand, which her father had read to her when she was little. Marco was surprised by the coincidence: the author was one of Chopin’s lovers. The conversation moved on to poetry and he headed for the office to fetch a book before dessert—which they would only savor much later anyway. It was a collection of visual poems by Augusto de Campos, and Marisa really liked it. Pluvial (the word falling like rain to become a river). Timespace: A time from space to space, a time, a space from time to time… They leafed through the book, one more sip of wine, one more kiss. Debussy and Clair de Lune in the air, the taste of grapes and something else, another poem, the time without time of a caress. Then it happened.

  Here are the lovers.

  Here they are with nothing but their bodies. Lovers relatives. Here are the lovers, with no relatives but their bodies…

  The bedroom submerged in dimness when Marco shut the curtains, blocking the sight of the lead-gray sky streaked with beads of glass. Marisa vaguely captured the rain sounds, the incandescent colors of the painting at the headboard and a flash of antique silver from the rectangular mirror across the bed. Next, all her senses were siderated by Marco’s closeness, his skin, warmth, scent. Embraces, whispers. One half-smile mirrored on their lips and multiplied in the mirror.

  Have you ever tried that, Mari? You can be whatever you want…

  A princess from a distant land. Kidnapped. At his mercy.

  Marco covered Marisa’s eyes with a blindfold and, in a fluid motion, guided her to the bed. She felt the silk of the spread on her back and his body next to hers. A faint aroma of aftershave lotion followed by warm breathing against her neck when he spoke in her ear: “You’re on a desert beach swept by a storm. The sand borders a forest. In the middle of the forest there’s a cabin. You’re a prisoner inside, at the mercy of a stranger. You don’t know how you got there and try to guess what your captor is going to do. You fear… anticipate… and can’t suppress a shiver when he touches you…”

  Marco’s hands grazed from her legs down to the ankles as he removed her sandals. Then they initiated an ascent to the waistband of her denim skirt that bordered the white bodice. His voice was like thick velvet and sometimes would punctuate the words with a stronger note.

  Words.

  The voice rustled in her ears, words grasping the senses, trailing the skin to make it vibrate like a musical instrument at each syllable, each meaning, letters entering her pores, hands-words stretched on her body, in the core.

  “You try to protest, but your captor covers your mouth…” Marco placed one hand on Marisa’s mouth, while the other advanced. “He unbuttons your skirt. His hands explore your body. Evaluating… the thighs… the hips… They play with your navel. Sprawl all over your stomach, your flank. They go down. And further… You feel chill bumps. You want more. He refu
ses it. His hands glide to your bodice neckline and pull the fabric. He lowers the straps. Little by little. Then the whole top at once.”

  At each word followed the action. Hands tantalized the blossoming skin. Marisa quivered. Fever budded where he touched and irradiated to every inch of her body.

  So that’s how it was. His touch.

  Marisa moaned faintly when Marco slid his tongue across her breasts, collarbone, shoulder. His teeth sunk softly on her neck, lingered on the earlobe.

  A whiff on the sensitive skin. Again the hand against the mouth.

  A whisper in her ear.

  “Inside, the cabin is hot. The rain pounds on the roof. Through a gap in the window comes a cool draft… the smell of wet ground and sand mixed with the scent of the man manipulating your body without permission. You feel exposed. Want to cover yourself but are afraid of crossing his will. You can’t do a thing when his hand descends to the last piece of clothing…”

  It was white and lacey. His hand insinuated under its smooth and coarse surface, slithering on the line above the pubis. Coming and going, coming and going.

  “The hand hooks in the fabric. It yanks it off. You’re naked. You feel the cooler air as you sense the stranger’s eyes caressing your whole body, each curve, each hiding spot…” Marco heaved, his breath a shiver on her skin. “You tremble from head to toe, chest rising, legs weak, a tingle up your thighs. He likes to watch you. Watch the desire on your face.”

  The hand that silenced her traced the contour of her lips. Two fingers were inserted in her mouth. Marisa let her tongue roll around them, sucked, tasted. One more instant. The fingers dismissed, his lips on hers. Firm hands that pinned her arms against the mattress. That groped her hips with hardly restrained hunger. The kiss, increasingly thirsty.

  And all of a sudden, his tongue was not enticing her mouth any longer. Now it travelled an impromptu path to her navel, dived in it, surrounded it, kept moving… The flattened hands on her thighs, a fiery touch on her sex. The tongue. The fingers: first one, then the other. The tongue on one part, the fingers deepened in another, retreating to deepen more. She circled her hips with a sigh, dominated by a liquid sensation that ran across her limbs, spiraled over her breasts and swirled low in her belly. Slow, fast, deeper and deeper.