Red: A Love Story

by Nicole Collet

  He emptied his glass and burrowed into the dance floor. Marco passed by Marisa at the very moment she turned to gossip with Valentina. A spectator pushed him against Marisa, and their arms touched. She turned in a reflex as he disappeared amidst the crowd. The only person in the group to notice Marco was Brian, who directed an appreciative look at him and concentrated again on the guitar player with the unbuttoned shirt.

  It took Marco long minutes to reach the redhead in black. When he eventually neared her, he realized she was a younger girl. Marco glanced at the thick crowd behind him and decided to linger by the stage. The trio came back twice for encores and left under a cloak of strobe light and smoke. While the DJ resumed his position at the turntable to launch a breakbeat set, part of the audience disbanded from the center aisle and Marco returned to the bar. Marisa, at that point, had retreated to the restroom with Valentina.

  Marco remained at the bar until the crowd began to thin out. It was almost two o’clock, and he toyed with the idea of returning to his hotel. He was starting to feel tired… His eyes wandered in the vicinity and suddenly he saw, on the mezzanine, the profile of a redhead in a green top. She was out of sight in an instant. This time, however, Marco knew he had found the Ukrainian girl.

  He dashed to the stairs and went around to the other side of the mezzanine. He peered at the faces coming and going, checked out the people seated on the sofas. At last, he saw Yarina chatting with a friend beside a vase of fainted roses. Then his attention was hopelessly drawn to a young woman in black leaning over the parapet.

  With the camera of his eye, he focused on her, he filmed her movement.

  Ballerina legs, short and tight dress, a chain belt. A masked profile and a hazel mantle for hair. Her hands joined behind the nape of her neck, lifting the hair in a wave for her to cool off. Light suffused over it and painted golden strands. The chains in her bracelets skimmed across the tribal tattoo, a stylized rose. It was new. It covered the birthmark.

  Yet he recognized her.

  11.Dopamine + Pheromone = Nonsense

  Time slowed down brusquely until it halted and everything around him went out of focus. In that instant frozen in time, Marco only had eyes for her. The sounds of the music and the crowd muted, the very air stagnated in a vacuum. Amid the silence that reigned, he could hear his own heart beating. It sounded in sync with hers: loud as a drum in an empty room, out of tempo, the rapid pounding merging into its own echo.

  Maybe it was just his imagination, Marco conjectured vaguely. Just his imagination. The ghost of her.

  He wanted the mirage to disappear. He blinked hard. The mirage persisted. And then he felt thirsty for her. Marco wanted to turn around and step away from the memories. Now wasn’t the time to look back; his life had just taken a new turn. But his feet remained rooted to the floor. His body refused to leave. If he had a drop of common sense—but no. Instead of pretending he had not seen Marisa, he stayed. He stared at her. He smiled without even realizing it.

  Someone laughed behind Marco, and Marisa looked in his direction. She brought one hand to her mouth to suppress a gasp when, in a flash, time and space compressed: the seven months and one continent that had interposed between them turned into dust. Marisa gazed into Marco’s eyes, and it was as if the two had never been apart. His smile remained the same, that smile unfolding springtime…

  The illusion, however, evaporated under the club lights. In its place, flimsy flowers shimmered on the wallpaper and dead roses exhaled mold. She no longer knew anything about Marco’s life and he knew nothing about hers. They were virtually two strangers now. And, as such, they stood there with the same awkwardness—two strangers on a high wire.

  Marisa found him more handsome than before. Lawrence of Arabia. His tan emphasized the heritage of his features and the veins in his muscular arms. The gray T-shirt with a V collar molded his torso and, underneath it, the leather belt showed partially on the low-waisted black jeans. She was exasperated at Marco for still affecting her. Exasperated at herself for still allowing him to affect her.

  Until then, she had hoped to see Marco again, if not for them to get back together, at least to cure her pride. Marisa pictured the scene, she all gorgeous with a male companion, irreducible while Marco crawled. Marisa had replayed the scene, adjusting lines with the accuracy of a professional actress. She would conquer fame in her debut. She would earn a round of applause.

  Pure foolishness, of course. Certain tremors never pass.

  She tried to articulate his name but couldn’t. She was dreaming—it must be a dream. Marco took a couple of steps toward her and touched her arm, as if to make sure she was of flesh and blood. Marisa shrunk away, her skin searing. The dark scar of memory, engraved in her body cells, ruptured and throbbed.

  Marisa turned to face him without releasing the guardrail. Her legs weakened as an automatic smile spread on her lips.

  “Marco, what a coincidence. What are you doing in San Francisco?”

  “I was at a congress in Los Angeles and decided to stop by. I’m leaving on Wednesday.” Hesitation. His incredulity persisted. “What about you?”

  His voice, which used to be so familiar, was now a gap—seven months and still the distance of one continent. Marisa mentioned the English course, told him she would go back to Brazil the following evening, and then kept quiet. She didn’t know what else to say. She had anticipated that moment so many times, and when it was finally real, she found herself speechless. No use in preparing yourself for anything, for life was fond of irony and would wait until you got distracted to fulfill your greatest wish. And when it got fulfilled, sometimes it was too late.

  He stared at her with such insistence she flushed. The admiration in Marco’s eyes was like a physical touch, and Marisa grasped the guardrail. She wondered how she’d react if he wanted to get back together. Just to think of it… No, she’d better forget the idea. She could never trust him. Marco had destroyed many things she cherished. Actually, Marisa thought, she was even grateful for that. She had learned her lesson from him.

  Dopamine, pheromones, neurotransmitters. And nothing else. Butterflies fluttering away. Then the clear sky. She smiled, more confident, and removed the mask.

  “How great to see you here, Mari.” Marco’s dark eyes glimmered as he searched hers. He raised his hand, as if to touch her face, and dropped it. “You look gorgeous. Are you here with someone?”

  “I’m with Valentina and some friends. They’re downstairs, but I’d rather stay here. It’s too crowded there.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed with an absent air, his eyes soaking into her. “How’s college?”

  “Awesome.”

  “And how did the physics entrance exam go?”

  “I made it by a close shave.”

  Both smiled. The seconds stretched as the two exchanged a captive gaze. People passed by, the music kept playing—nothing but shadows and muffled sounds. The two of them were not there, they were inside each other’s eyes. Marco was about to speak when Yarina crossed into view like a line of static. He had forgotten about the Ukrainian girl.

  She passed behind Marisa and stood by his side.

  “I’m glad I found you. Something came up and I didn’t have my cell phone.” Yarina acknowledged Marisa and turned to him. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Not at all.” Dissimulating his discomfort, Marco made the introductions: “Yarina, this is…” An infinitesimal pause. “My friend Marisa.”

  Marisa smiled out of politeness, while his words rang in her ears. My friend Marisa. My friend. Friend. It shocked her to hear that for the first time. Before, she was the girlfriend, but there hadn’t been time for him to introduce her to anyone: This is my girlfriend Marisa. She had jumped straight to the new status in the introductions. And, at that thought, Marisa couldn’t avoid a twinge of melancholy.

  She repeated to herself: nonsense, nothing lasts,
it’s best this way.

  Marco acted natural, but his responses were clipped as he spoke to Yarina. She laughed and poked his arm. Marisa didn’t hear any of it, paying attention only to body language. There was something going on between the two of them. She directed a side glance at Yarina, trying to guess what Marco saw in her. Although she looked ordinary, her eyes were pretty, Marisa granted with a stab of jealousy.

  Dopamine, pheromones, nonsense.

  Yarina’s smile radiated from her thin lips to the green in her eyes. Sparkling green. Marco smiled back, his profile cut out like an image superimposed onto the blurry crowd: the strong nose line, the eyebrows slightly arched to make his eyes larger, the mouth curving upward with ease. Yarina held his hand: an intimate gesture that lasted longer than necessary.

  Marisa turned her face away.

  The scar. The burning sensation invading her chest. No air. She wanted to leave. When Marisa opened her mouth to speak, she had no idea what to say. Anything that would take her away from that spot. Displaying weakness was out of the question, but watching Yarina flirt with Marco was torture. Why did she have to go through that?

  Because life, as a diligent mentor, applies certification tests.

  She needed to scream. She needed to think fast.

  Any pretext would do. The restroom. A drink. Friends calling her to the dance floor. And then Valentina showed up to save her.

  “Oh, so you’re hiding here.” She ignored Marco. “Richard is very interested in you and insists that you join us on the dance floor. Let’s go downstairs before he drives me crazy.”

  Marisa excused herself and followed her. The last thing she registered was Yarina’s laugh. She didn’t muster the courage to look at Marco—she knew he was laughing too. Valentina took her hand and led the way. As they descended the stairs, Marisa barely felt her own legs. She squeezed the friend’s hand.

  “Thank you, Val.”

  “No need to thank me... What the heck is Marco doing here?” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Whatever. Just do me a favor and forget that jerk.”

  The two met their friends at the bar and Marisa ordered another blue cocktail. She drank it in one go at the first chords of a remix. The Cure. Marisa laid the empty glass on the counter, cast a last glance at the mezzanine and proceeded alone to the dance floor. Soon the alcohol and the music pulsed within her like fever. She carried on dancing in a farther corner, until a voice called her.

  She turned around to face the bold letters: Resist! The next thing she faced was his delight.

  “Marie, this is unbelievable… it’s really you!”

  The stranger didn’t notice Marisa’s perplexity and confided: he had searched for her all over social media… how amazing, it was really her!

  Marisa eyed him at a loss.

  “You can stop pretending, Marie.” A grin spread across his face.

  “Pretending what?”

  “It’s me, Friedrich… Fred.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t think I know you.”

  He insisted she quit denying. He understood that before she had to pretend she didn’t know him because of her boyfriend. But now she was there on her own and… Fred couldn’t help himself and ran one hand on her hair before she could protest.

  “Wow, your hair is so long. It’s really cool. Did you use any special product on it?”

  “Well, I usually apply a colorless henna that gives it shine, volume, and—” Marisa shook her head, baffled. “Listen, you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

  “What?” he shouted as a drum solo swallowed up her words.

  “You’re mistaking me for someone else!” she shouted back over the drums.

  “Oh, am I? What about the night we spent together in that resort in Maui? Don’t tell me you forgot the insane things we did in my suite. The champagne, the bar counter, the bubble bath in the hot tub… then the bar counter again, the couch, the carpet… It was amazing!”

  What? Marisa had a hard time keeping track. Hold on. Bar counter twice, hot tub, couch, carpet… That was five times—a first-rate service. Marisa stared at Fred with sudden respect. Maybe she should consider… Maybe he was her type. After all, he seemed so adamant…

  She came back to her senses: “Will you stop that?”

  “If you really don’t know me, then why did you answer when I called your name?” accused Fred, his smile paling.

  “Because…” Marisa grew exasperated in that pause.

  It was hard enough to argue amid the loud music, let alone explain the name coincidence. Only one person in the world called her like that, and for a second she had thought… Well, Fred wouldn’t understand anyway.

  “Never mind.”

  “See, Marie? How could you forget that night? You seemed like a wild cat in heat. No woman has ever made me feel that way. Oh my God, the things you did to me…” He sighed. “You were screaming and scratching and having multiple orgasms…”

  Fred showed Marisa his arm, where a dark line stretched for a good couple of inches—a scratch scar. He seemed proud.

  It was too much for Marisa. She congratulated him for such a pleasant night, but the details did not interest her. And with that, she left him standing there and wove her way across the room, all the while dodging kicks and elbow pokes. The demented crowd jiggled in some sort of Saint Vitus dance, and an exalted punk gave her a mighty push as he rehearsed a pogo jump. Like a projectile, Marisa flew to the other end of the dance floor. She landed in the arms of a blond in a white T-shirt passing under the arches.

  “Whoa, easy!” he said as he opened his arms with a smile.

  Marisa hung on to him to steady herself, and the two wavered together. She apologized. He said that was a pleasure after a bad day. In the lapse that followed, Marisa became aware that his eyes were quite green and reminded her of foliage soaked in rain. He must be about twenty-five, not bad looking at all. The mass of his curly hair, ready to start a rebellion, gave him a teenage air of sorts.

  “Problems?” She reciprocated the smile as she straightened up.

  “I’d say so. I’m a programmer and just spent the weekend trying to fix the coding for an online game. It’s based on the movie Polar Fire, did you watch it?”

  As Marisa nodded, he hooked one thumb in the pocket of his jeans and narrated the catastrophe: Sam Parker, the game’s fearless hero, had only one day left to save the world.

  “Now picture the final confrontation scene: Sam finds the enemy’s hideout in the Arctic. The supervillain Ozymandias is about to blow up the Earth so mankind won’t spread its trail of destruction to the galaxy. Sam draws his Brügger & Thomet MP9, stretches out his arms and holds the gun with both hands… and then what happens?”

  “He fires.”

  “No! Sam twirls around and breaks into a tango.”

  “A tango?”

  Exactly. A hacker had sabotaged the game code, and he didn’t know how. It was maddening.

  “Each one to their hard nut, eh?” Marisa thought of Marco and let out a sigh.

  “Problems?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s not worth talking about it.”

  They exchanged a sympathetic look.

  “My name is Eric. You?”

  “Mari,” she answered in an impulse.

  “You have a distinctive accent. Let me guess… French?”

  “Brazilian.”

  Oh, how interesting. Brazil. Eric gazed at her in admiration. His green eyes conveyed warmth when he touched Marisa’s forearm. He told her the previous day he had left the office so late and so wrecked he slept in a hotel just to avoid the drive home. He needed to decompress. Would she care to dance?

  When Marisa agreed, a flash of inspiration hit Eric: “Let’s dance a tango, Mari.”

  “But I don’t know how to dance the tango. Do you?”

  “I gues
s so. I learned it from Sam Parker…”

  On the fringe of the dance floor, they improvised cheek to cheek in between laughs, making faces because in tango what counted was the attitude. They danced together that entire track and the next, which oddly matched their steps. When Eric held Marisa and she arched back, they stared at each other, suddenly serious, still panting. The two kissed. In that moment, the rhythm mellowed down with Thievery Corporation’s. Take My Soul. The room began to spin and spin in sync with the music. A long, long tingling…

  Guide me along

  This winding road

  Of truth and illusion

  Give me cure

  12. The Devil Laughs

  “What’s with the water?”

  Gina looked inquisitively at Valentina, drank a sip of mineral water and brushed the sleeve of her pinstripe suit.

  “It’s not a renewable commodity,” Valentina retorted in a heated tone, “and one day the world’s gonna end in thirst and filth as corporations privatize water. Why do you get a huge glass of water everywhere you go, without even asking? Think of how much water would be saved if people got it only when they actually asked for it.”

  “Well…” Gina thought for a second and exchanged a glance with Theodora. “This is designed to offer more for your money and beat the competition.”

  “Money? The glass of water is free,” insisted Valentina.

  “Exactly.”

  Around a table by the bar, Valentina continued her spirited conversation with the two women, while Richard and Brian sneaked out with a boy in a fallen angel costume. In the aisle, Marisa still danced with her new friend, a fact that could be interpreted in many ways according to different perspectives. To the people in the center aisle, the pair was just another anonymous couple. To Marisa, Eric was a pleasant consolation prize. To Eric, Marisa was a stereotype of tropical sensuality.

  Now to Marco, ironically, Eric was Richard. While Yarina burrowed into the restroom with her friend, Marco proceeded to get drinks. Upon arriving at the bar, he couldn’t help but scan the room for Marisa. He searched the fringe of the dance floor near the stage, not knowing for sure what he expected to find.