Red: A Love Story

by Nicole Collet

  Marisa grinned too. It would be good to have company that evening. She would feel more at ease with those two than with some shark hitting on her. In a couple of hours it would be light outside and she could go home—her mother would be already asleep after watching half a dozen films.

  The girl approached Marisa and stood before them, introducing herself: Daniela. The three formed a circle and spent the next few minutes in small talk, until Felipe left them to speak with an acquaintance.

  Daniela was an art student in the third year of college and, just like Marisa, loved TV series. She argued that TV, not cinema, created true innovation. Cinema had been pasteurized in order to assure return of investment from a global audience. Television, on the other hand, could be daring. For example, the most amazing series of all times was…

  “Breaking Bad!” Marisa said in unison with her.

  “That’s it!”

  “Simply unbeatable.”

  “A work of art.”

  They smiled with complicity, and Marisa said: “I wish I were more knowledgeable about art. One day I’ll attend a course like you.”

  “Formal education isn’t necessary to appreciate art. References are important, but too much theory kills spontaneity and intuition.”

  Marisa stared at her with a doubtful expression and told a story. When she was fifteen, she had visited the MoMA with her parents to check out an exhibition featuring all sorts of installations. The family stopped before an assembly consisting of a dark-gray cleaning cart with colorful bottles, an electric-turquoise bucket and a yellow wet-floor sign. They observed all details and tried to interpret the work. They stood there for ages. The father thought it criticized the moral filth in the world. The mother believed it sang an ode to cleanliness. Marisa considered it a homage to pop art. They were at it when the museum’s cleaner showed up and took the cart away.

  Daniela laughed. The boundaries of art were blurred. In a museum somewhere in the world, there might be a gray cart in display referring to moral filth, cleanliness or pop art. She talked about performance artist Marina Abramović, who during three months occupied the atrium of the same MoMA where Marisa had her encounter with the cleaning cart. Marina would keep still and silent, seated opposite an empty chair. That summed her work: the artist’s presence. More than 750 thousand people spent hours in line just to sit on that empty chair and exchange a look with Marina.

  “People must have gone to the museum compelled by curiosity or to show off,” refuted Marisa. “It sounds like she wanted to do something eccentric so everybody would think she’s a genius. The woman decides to spend three months sitting on a chair without moving or opening her mouth, and that’s supposed to be art?”

  “It’s seemingly so simple, isn’t it? Now think of all the physical and mental discipline required for that. Especially mental. It’s easy to get dispersed, but she remained present there, with her body and soul. Thus people saw their own humanity in her. The artist became a mirror. Many people cried. Many returned. The most inspiring moment was when the love of her life, Ulay, sat on that chair. It had been more than twenty years since the two last met. Marina, concentrating to receive the next visitor, kept her eyes closed. When she opened them and recognized Ulay, he became her mirror…” Daniela paused and held Marisa’s hand. “You’re sad. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s nothing,” Marisa lied to her as well as to herself. “I’m already getting over it.”

  Daniela stroked her hand, and the two exchanged a look—in that instant, two mirrors gazing into one another. A dive into the same reflex, the soul imprinted on the iris glow. So many stories in there wanting to come out, and a silver drop falling onto the mirror of the lake—a tear? Marisa tried to find something to say but was at a loss for words. Daniela simply asked: “May I kiss you?”

  Marisa didn’t reply. The lips caressed hers. She kept still, eyes wide open. It felt strange to be touched like that by another woman. Soft. A drop forming circles in the water. So soft. Daniela broke contact, ran her fingers on Marisa’s cheekbone and hair. She drew her lips close again…

  Marisa heard someone clear their throat and snapped her head to find Marco standing next to her. The tin bear rolled the drum and the girl in the puffy pink pants spilled peals of laughter.

  Ba-dum-tisssh! Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah…

  15. After Hours

  “Can we talk?”

  Marco’s voice was hard. His eyes, mercurial. Marisa assented mutely while Daniela stepped back and peered at him with curiosity. Marco pulled the tab from under the glass and suggested they go to a quieter place. Still under the bear’s drumming, he paid for the check and exited the bar towing Marisa by the hand.

  Marco barely glanced at her as he climbed onto the Ducati parked across the street. Handing Marisa the helmet, he waited for her to mount and took off without as much as a word. She felt the cool wind on her face and his taut muscles against her body as they sped up along empty streets with a succession of buildings and intermittent lights.

  He rode faster than usual and the trip was a short one. Marco’s silence made her increasingly uncomfortable. When they entered the apartment, he moved straight to the kitchen and returned with two bottles of mineral water. He offered her one and emptied half of the other in one draught.

  Then Marco sat on the sofa with one ankle on his knee and one arm stretched over the backrest. He stared at Marisa for the first time since the two had left the bar.

  “Are you gonna stand there? Why don’t you sit down?”

  Each word transpired aggravation. She agreed and settled for the other end of the sofa with all dignity while repeating to herself she was free to do as she pleased. Marco had no say about it. If anyone there owed an explanation, it was him. The jerk.

  After a pause, Marco inquired what she was doing at the bar. Marisa shrugged. The quarrel began.

  It’s none of your business. I’m not allowed to ask a simple question? You didn’t answer my question, why should I answer yours? Marisa, enough of that. What do you think people do in bars? Who was that girl? A friend. Since when do you kiss your girlfriends on the mouth? Since I turned single.

  The two had reached a crossroad. At that point, they could take the path of mutual accusations, dig trenches and unearth resentments. It was a wide path. As they walked it the distance between them would broaden just like their deafness, until they lost sight of each other as they embraced the belief that being right was more important than being in harmony. And so each one would keep going on the opposite margin of the road, clinging to their own truth—flawed, incomplete, human truth.

  Marco and Marisa vacillated and, in silence, gazed at each other. Her irises burnt with an amber tinge, as if a flame throbbed behind the retina. His were darker, circled by bloodshot white. Marco let out a sigh.

  “I don’t own you, neither do I believe in cages, Marisa,” Marco said with a sigh. “I respect your decisions. You should go for what suits you best, but with consciousness, for a legitimate reason. Not out of anger.”

  “Who said I didn’t have a legitimate reason?” She jutted out her chin. “You’re so fond of your games and now want to play the moralist?”

  “This has nothing to do with morals. Exploring your sexuality is not a problem as long as no one gets harmed. You acted without thinking.”

  “Marco, just forget the lecture. I’m not interested.”

  He directed a sideways glance at the wooden floor, drumming his fingers on the sofa. Then he stared at her again.

  “If you keep throwing stones we’ll never come to an agreement. Is that what you want?”

  “You don’t have to worry about your professional reputation,” she assured in a calm tone, contradicted by the flash in her eyes. “I’m not reporting you to the school board. All I want is to forget what happened between us. Soon I’m gonna graduate, and I’ll never have to see you again—”
>
  Marisa bit her lip. Now he was getting to his feet and closing the distance between the two of them. She winced, perturbed by his composed countenance. She knew it was a mask but couldn’t read beneath it. Marco sat next to her as if trying to decide what to do.

  “I’ve said it already, I’m not telling anything.” Marisa’s voice sounded high-pitched. “What else do you want?”

  She nearly jumped when he leaned over to lay his parted lips on her neck, stroking the skin with a whiff. His long fingers drew invisible patterns across her collarbone, with the lightness of another whiff, and Marisa felt just like she would always feel under Marco’s spell: spiraling, spiraling, spiraling… She made an effort to collect herself and slapped him on the shoulder—she wanted to get back at him, hurt him too. Marco held her wrists, and she couldn’t counter his strength. His fingers closed around her flesh with an ease that only served to infuriate her. The ragged sounds of their breathing permeated the room.

  Marisa cursed, her face flushed, eyes sparking. She was immobilized under his weight. The wide chest crushed hers. The large hands pinned her arms against the upholstery. She struggled, attempting to kick him. The skirt of her dress slipped up, the neckline slipped down, and Marisa felt on her bare skin the texture of Marco’s clothes. They left in her an imprint of his warmth with a vestige of cologne. She weakened but resisted.

  “Let me go!”

  “I’m trying to calm you down,” he said unperturbed.

  “That’s all I need. You’re so pretentious…”

  “I don’t like to fight with you, Mari. Let’s make peace.”

  “… pretentious and controlling! If you think that… What did you say?”

  “Let’s make peace, my love…”

  And, with that, Marco sealed his lips over hers. Marisa kept her mouth tightly shut. He insisted: with the tip of his tongue he courted and taunted until she gave way to him. Sensing Marisa relax, Marco released her wrists and caressed her nape, flexing his fingers, barely touching her, touching just enough as to sow a trail of trepidations—small seismic waves here and there, minute volcano eruptions in the pores, and the imaginary lava winding all over the epidermis…

  “Marco… you get on my nerves…” she sighed as he began nipping at her ear.

  “I know.” He smiled against her skin. “You should set me straight.”

  “Hmmm, that’s what I’m going to do… sometime…”

  Marisa enveloped Marco’s neck when he kissed her again, and her caresses wandered on his back and on his hair until wrapping his nape. She felt Marco’s quiver on the palm of her hand and his dampened moan on her lips. The sensations intensified, as anger was still a memory in their cells. They devoured each other now, tongues nearing, inching back and entwining in a sinuous dialogue. The punishment of a bite on the lip mingled with the flirt inside the mouth.

  And then Marco pulled back and inhaled sharply, his gaze still cloudy over her body—the long legs revealed by the dress, the meandering line from the hips to the waist, the chest that heaved under the flowery pattern. He imagined his mouth on each of those flowers and then his fingers ripping them to attain other gardens. He ached to fill his hands with her shape, play at the threshold just to tease her. And feel those legs wrapped around him while he submerged in the satiny, moist, tight warmth and spent himself there to the last drop. The rhythmic sound of their bodies colliding, billions of atoms dancing and shuffling their scent—pheromones, fragrance, sweat, sap. Marco suppressed the urge to lift her skirt and penetrate her like that, half-dressed, the urgency impelling him to thrust hard, harder, the urgency of fusing into her and having her cry with release. To see her face blend a smile, a sob, a blaze at once transfixed on him and already enraptured by pleasure.

  Not now.

  With reluctance, Marco straightened up and helped Marisa sit. He held her hands.

  “What is it?” Her eyes widened, apprehensive.

  “We’ll continue this later.” His smile emerged, hovered for an instant and faded. “But we need to talk because it’s no good to leave things pending. I’ve learned that the hard way, and I don’t want to make the same mistake.” He pressed Marisa’s hand. “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have allowed anger to take me over. But in that moment I was in no condition to talk. Without realizing, you touched a wound. I’m sorry, Mari. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I looked for you everywhere… I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  “It didn’t seem that way.”

  Noticing Marisa’s wounded expression, Marco cocked his head as his eyebrows joined. He stroked her face.

  “Where did that come from, Mari? I stood across that bar like an idiot only to make sure you’d be okay… I thought about what you said and understand your suspicion. But Camila means nothing to me. I don’t know how she got my email. At first I replied to be polite, then I ignored her and she stopped emailing. Yesterday, for some reason, Camila left a box of chocolate in my pigeonhole along with a card for National Education Day. It was pathetic. I made up an excuse and returned it this morning.”

  “She bragged about it yesterday and I thought she’d made that up. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why would I tell you something that has no relevance whatsoever? To be perfectly honest, I had forgotten all about it.”

  Marisa told him about the email Camila had sent that evening, and Marco seemed surprised. He picked up his cell phone from the coffee table and slid his index finger on the screen. The message was brief: “This reminded me of you. I started reading The Selected Prose of Fernando Pessoa and would love to talk with you about it. Maybe one of these days after school?” Attached to it, the photo of a sunny forest and a quote by the poet: “Organize your life like a literary work, putting as much unity into it as possible.” Marco shook his head and pressed the trash icon.

  “Done,” he said, emptying the trash. “I don’t know what got her to start harassing me again, but I’m gonna keep my distance.”

  “She’s really trying hard, eh? It’s the last chance to hook you before the end of the year.” With her curiosity satisfied, Marisa was now indignant. “And what’s the deal with Fernando Pessoa and the forest? Are the trees supposed to provide paper for the literary work of your life?”

  “Beats me. Now let’s forget about Camila, okay? Mari, you’ve got to promise you will never spy on me again. You have no idea how much that affects me. My marriage was destroyed by mistrust. I want to build an honest relationship with you.”

  Marisa clarified she had seen him with Camila by chance. She apologized for checking his cell phone and, after some hesitation, asked if he wasn’t attracted to Camila.

  The question disconcerted him. He thought about the possibility, which had never crossed his mind until then. Granted, Camila was pretty, but her looks did nothing for him. It was rather like a photograph in a catalogue that you would flick through and soon forget. Camila bombarded him with questions and followed him in the hallway, making it almost impossible to get rid of her. She had asked for research help once and he gave her a print, but that was all.

  “To me, Camila is just a student like any other,” he concluded. “With you, things are different. And I’ll never cheat on you because I don’t accept cheating. If we were to see other people, it wouldn’t make sense for us to be together. The intimacy we share is unique. It belongs to the two of us alone. Dragging someone else into the relationship would violate that, and it’s not what I want.” Here, Marco stared at her with such intensity it alarmed her. “If you ever fall for another man, you’ve got to be honest and tell me.”

  “Marco, I don’t do to others what I don’t want others doing to me.” She sustained her gaze with equal intensity. “I hate lies and would never betray your trust. I know how it feels to be awake at night imagining the person you love in the arms of someone else, imagining they were together behind your back, cring
ing for having kissed a person who was just out of someone else’s bed. I couldn’t do that to anyone. Especially to you. But tonight I felt so insecure when you mentioned damage…”

  “Please, erase that. I wasn’t talking about us. You are the best thing that’s happened to me. But I don’t want to cause problems with your family and be an obstacle in your life.”

  “An obstacle? My love, I’ve never been so happy as I am with you.”

  Her eyes confirmed what she said. She put her arms around him. They remained silent for a moment, each with their own thoughts.

  “Thank you. I needed to hear that,” he whispered. “Everything will be easier once you’re no longer my student. We’ll figure a way of smoothing things out with your mom. With time, she’ll eventually get used to the idea.”

  “I hope you’re right…”

  At that point, Marisa blurted out her concern. Her mother was a difficult woman. Maybe she was like that because of her own father, an irascible colonel who had driven her two uncles away from home as soon as they turned eighteen. All severity reserved to the uncles, however, turned into complacence when it came to Marisa’s mom. If none of what his sons did was ever good enough, everything his daughter did was perfect. She grew up not knowing what it meant to be contradicted.

  At twenty, she was engaged to a senator fifteen years her senior. She obsessed with the perfect wedding and her willful ways brought the relationship to an end. The senator called the engagement off one week before the wedding and, a month later, Marisa’s mother learned he was with another woman. That carved a deep wound in her pride. She recovered upon marrying Marisa’s father, but then she dreamt of having a child and tried for five years to no avail. When she gave up, she got pregnant.

  “My mom spoiled me a lot. She wanted me to be like her. When I grew older, I rebelled and she started criticizing me. We had many ups and downs until things cooled off. But since my dad’s passing she’s been so neurotic. I don’t know how to be closer to her and I feel guilty for not giving her more support.”