Red: A Love Story

by Nicole Collet

  He found Marisa amid a kiss. His eyes flared in tempo with the laser, the music hammering his temples and irrational thoughts thundering even louder in his brain.

  Then he lost sight of her.

  “Hey, if you’re not buying anything you’d better get out of the way,” said a guy at his back.

  Marco gave him a long stare. Without a word, he turned to wave at the bartender.

  The central aisle sizzled with a drum ‘n’ bass set. Pushing them toward the middle of the dance floor, the crowd closed in around Marisa and Eric. The two tired from the bedlam and decided to make a pause at the bar. Eric took her by the hand and the two threaded their way among the clubbers. They had hardly advanced a few feet when a man blocked Marisa’s way. In spite of his solid build, he had the air of a lost puppy, which made the watchword on his T-shirt look pathetic.

  “Friedrich!”

  “Marie, don’t do this to me, please. I can’t get you out of my mind. Let’s go somewhere else and relive that night. For old times’ sake.” He gestured helplessly. One of his rings, the one with the skull, flickered with a grimace.

  As he tried to get a hold of her arm, Marisa wrenched herself from him with an abrupt move. Fred, however, grabbed her wrist. She lost it: “Apparently you’ve had too much champagne in that hot tub and it affected your brain. Leave me alone. I’m not Marie!”

  “Mari, is there a problem?” Eric intervened.

  “Ah, what did I just say? I knew it!” The lost puppy had become a rabid Rottweiler. Fred growled: “Who’s this guy? You’re too good to be with me, but don’t have a problem being with him, huh? At least be a woman and stop pretending you don’t know me.”

  “Let her go!” Eric demanded, pushing him.

  Eric positioned himself in between the two of them and covered Marisa’s back. Fred planted both hands on his shoulders to get him out of the way. Eric reacted with a shove. Fred aimed a violent punch at him.

  “Eric, watch out!” Marisa yelled.

  Eric ducked. Fred’s fist full of rings landed on a man with his back to them. The furious guy lashed at Eric’s chin. The three tussled to the electronic beat. Boom-boom. A rapper tried separating them. Got into the fight. A crossdresser tried. Into the fight. Then a guy who was neither a rapper nor a crossdresser tried too. Boom-boom. The scuffling bodies merged into an odd animal of many legs, arms and fists. Bruise on the face and taste of metal in the mouth. Boom-boom. The animal grew and spat chains, feathers, neon necklaces, plastic cups. Boom-boom. A vase hurled from the mezzanine and withered roses raining on the dance floor. Boom-boom. Glass shards. Boom-boom. Blows, grunts, gasps to the electronic beat. Boom-boom-boom-boom…

  And the trail from hell spread in the Devil’s Lair.

  Red, yellow, blue, under crazed laser beams, pew, pew, pew. To the rhythm of Supergrass by DJ Marky, Carlito and DJ Addiction.” Drum ‘n’ bass, the perfect soundtrack for a good bar fight. You know I crave you, so come closer, yeah closer-closer, let’s get to the beat, yeah get to the beat-beat… Red, yellow, blue, pew, pew, pew.

  It looked like one of those movie scenes when a large bookcase thrown out of balance knocks over another, and another—and the only thing left to do is watch, in fascination and horror, as the whole library comes crashing down. Some ran away, others cheered. Violence, a virus: strifes on the mezzanine, smell of tension and acrid sweat, people rushing to the stairs. You’re finished, you bastard.

  Boom-boom-boom-boom. The DJ booth became a godforsaken territory, a Crystal Method remix adrift on the turntable. Steppenwolf with its Magic Carpet Ride… One, two, three, four… Let’s make the most of the night, floating in mystical delight, come with me baby in this magical ride… Cheek-to-cheek dance with no love. Dumbfound security guards. Jam-packed restrooms. In the gallery, the nurse rolled over the patient and dropped the syringe on the floor. A Carmen Miranda drag queen hid inside the empty coffin, her plastic fruit turban crushed with a hollow mourn. Across the room a stench of alcohol: punks plundered the deserted bar, pouring down a stream of bourbon on the counter and knocked-over stools. In the midst of confusion, the voodoo altar finally collapsed.

  Marisa shook broken bracelets off her wrists where black bruises would soon bloom. Eric… Eric! She attempted to pull him from the fight with two men. She clasped his arm, then his shoulder, her hands slipping, slipping… She was dragged away by the human tide that overflowed onto the street, blind to the bouncer gesticulating with a thousand arms. In the exit bottleneck, Marisa fell over a mound of overturned stools by the bar. The pain burnt when the spear of a splinter sank into her thigh. Desperate, she attempted to lift herself up, but the pile gave in to her weight. The wooden legs cracked and crossed to form an obstinate grid, trapping Marisa’s legs.

  “Somebody help me!” she cried into a vacuum. Boom-boom-boom-boom. Pew, pew, pew. The more she struggled, the more the grid tightened. For a long minute, Marisa remained dazed in the surreal ocean of fleeting feet and destroyed furniture. She tried to reconcile the brusque transition between such distinct moments: the calm and the storm… One, two, three, four… C’mon baby, the night is calling for this magical ride…

  She had plunged into the guts of a mad beast. She needed to get out. A man in a bat costume approached with his transparent wings flapping. Marisa managed to seize one wing. For an instant the iridescent fabric was her salvation, glistering between her fingers like a trembling butterfly, a magic carpet into the starry night. The crowd absorbed the man, and Marisa was left with a tatter in her hand. Trembling butterfly, it flew away, alighted on the ground and turned into a crushed carcass.

  The mass thickened toward the exit and now it almost brushed up against her. Soon she would be trampled, Marisa thought with horror. The wooden skeleton imprisoning her also worked as a precarious barrier, but not for too long. Help! Help! The electronic beat chewed up her screams. In a flash, she watched images parade in her memory. It was not the retrospect of her life though. It was the fire.

  The disaster at a nightclub in the south of Brazil earlier that year… Most patrons, students like herself. A flare ignited by the band released sparkles to the ceiling devoid of fire resistant insulation. In three minutes, the flames took the house. A nightmare of people stampeding blindly. Crying, falling down trampled. Dying. Security agents blocked the exit, for they thought patrons wanted to leave without paying. It was the third worst nightclub disaster in the world. Almost 250 casualties. So many corpses they had to be transported in ice trucks.

  And the whole time, the macabre symphony of the dead victims’ cell phones, ringing, ringing, ringing… Marisa had a click and groped for her purse. Straining to pull it amid the snarl, she finally managed to extract her phone. She called Valentina. Nothing. One more try. You’ve reached Valentina. Don’t wear fur. It’s cruel wearing the corpse of an animal that was skinned alive only for human vanity. This is my message, now leave yours… Marisa tried to explain the situation in a coherent manner and, with a heavy heart, put the phone back in the purse. Then a fierce bump shook her, and another, and another. She screamed.

  The crowd had spilled into the bar area. In panic, she fought to free herself, only to sink deeper into the quicksand of shattered wood. Two tears budded in her eyes.

  Someone gripped her arm and attempted to extricate her: Marco. But in vain. It still took him precious minutes to break the stools and release the pivot piece holding everything together. He had just released her torso when two drunk punks started a quarrel and wrestled on top of the counter—a Mohican with purple spiked hair, in jeans and vest; the other bald, dressed in black leather, an eagle tattooed on his head. The two tumbled over the stools, in a wheel of spikes and tattoos and boots. They wobbled up, ready to resume their fight, and suddenly paused.

  They eyed Marco. Then Marisa. Eyes glaring.

  Boom-boom-boom-boom.

  “We’ll get you, slut,” the bald one vociferated.<
br />
  The punks now joined against a common enemy. They were drunk with bourbon and a generic rage that clamored for a target. Any target. Their faces were ghostly masks with dark eyes and twitching mouths. With a battle cry, they forged a trail amid the crumbled tables.

  Grasping a piece of wood, Marco jumped in front of Marisa. She now stood six feet behind him. The attackers, sixteen feet ahead—fifteen, thirteen, ten, nine…

  “How about a chat with me first?” Marco defied.

  They were two against him, but no one would lay a finger on Marisa. Determination conferred him a blind strength that exploded from his brain into his whole body. A torrent of adrenaline inundated his veins.

  The purple-haired Mohican tripped, the bald guy behind him climbed onto the counter and glided over a pool of bourbon, seizing a broken bottle on the way. He fell over Marco and forced him to drop the piece of wood. Hands around throats, the two oscillated on dodgy terrain until Marco brought the bald punk to his knees.

  But now the Mohican closed in on him.

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Impressive vocabulary,” Marco retorted, clenching his fists.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  The punk lashed out with such furor he lost balance. He quickly recovered. Marco rebuffed him with a punch. The bald guy retrieved the bottle and lashed a frontal assault while the other applied a chokehold from behind. Marco struggled, the jagged glass nearly ripping his face. The three of them rolled to the ground with a crash of fractured wood. The Mohican stuck one knee on Marco’s chest. The bald man to his side raised the bottle in the air.

  A stool flew to the Mohican’s face. Marisa. She grabbed one more stool and flung it. The Mohican collapsed. Marco twisted his body and delivered a blow in the bald guy’s jaw, sending him against the counter. He hit his head. The eagle swelled with one goggle eye.

  There was no time to waste. Marco pulled Marisa and took her by the hand as both staggered away. With a quick exchange of looks, they dove together into the stream of people that gushed toward the exit. It was like spurting inside a lightning bolt, swimming in a broken wave. They gained the street, air, space. The two then ran and only stopped when they found themselves at a safe distance. Breathlessly, they rested against a wall, still squeezing each other’s hands. Far away, the sirens of police cars howled into the night.

  “Are you okay?” Marco asked Marisa, alarmed as he took notice of the injury on her leg and the bruises on her arms.

  Until then, adrenaline had numbed the pain. Now, the sight of blood on her torn pantyhose triggered a wave of nausea in Marisa. The cut began to throb. She grimaced and leaned heavily on Marco.

  “Take a deep breath, Mari.”

  She obeyed him.

  “Can you walk further?”

  Marisa nodded, fighting back the tears. Marco supported her weight and circled her waist with his arm. They started walking toward the avenue to get a cab. With her head down, Marisa let him lead the way. She watched the pairs of feet advancing in sync, her pathetic high-heeled sandals, his black leather shoes, the firm hand against her body. On the smoothness of the pavement, anonymous façades irradiated placid circles of light for blocks that seemed to never end.

  In a given moment, she realized he was raising his arm. Next, a yellow blur stopped by the curb. Marco helped her enter the vehicle and joined her on the passenger seat, giving an address to the driver. He then wrapped his arms around Marisa and finally relaxed.

  13. Nostalgia

  On the way to the hotel they remained quiet, Marisa with closed eyes and her head on Marco’s shoulder while he stroked her hair and watched the landscape through the cab window. In the eerie stillness of the streets, houses dozed off wrapped in a sheet of mist. They passed by the Golden Gate Park in the light of lethargic lampposts, and the howling of a dog pierced the white air that smelled like pine and salt flower. Soon they arrived. In the warmth of the room there was silence, the gentle dimness from the bedside lamp—and the two of them.

  Exhausted, Marisa collapsed in the blue armchair by the window. Marco grabbed a tonic water from the minibar and filled two glasses. They drank avidly, then stared at each other unsure of what to say. So many words. Or nothing… Marisa’s cell phone emitted a beep and she averted her face with a startle. She reached for it in her purse and, finding many missed calls from Valentina, phoned her friend. They talked for a few minutes. Valentina told how she had searched for Marisa in the club and finally left, thinking Marisa had managed to escape in one piece. Not finding her outside, Valentina tried to go back inside, but the bouncer wouldn’t allow it.

  Marisa, in her turn, told what happened to her without much detail. She said goodbye, claiming to be exhausted, and did not mention Marco. Before putting the phone back in her purse, Marisa decided to send a short message to Mrs. Stevenson. As she finished typing, Marco approached her: “Who was that? Richard?”

  She hit the Send key and raised her eyes, puzzled with the question. Then she understood. Marisa began laughing, and her laughter became hysterical. She let the cell phone slip onto her lap. Her laughter faded and her eyes filled with the weeping she had suppressed.

  Kneeling before her, Marco held her hands.

  “Hey… don’t be sad. It’s over. Everything is fine now.”

  “Don’t pay attention to me, Marco. I’m just emptying my chest. I was so scared. What frightened me the most was the frailty of everything, you know? All of a sudden, everything changed…”

  “Things change, Mari. I’ve never seen such a havoc either… Look, I have something that will help you relax.” He sighed. “Actually, I think I could use some too.”

  Marco caressed her cheek and pushed Marisa gently against the chair backrest. He reached the chest of drawers, inspected one of the compartments and came back with a homemade cigarette in his hand. He sat on the edge of the double bed while lighting it up, and explained it had been a gift from a friend who lived in town. For the next few moments, the two smoked in silence and enjoyed the quietness in the room. It was like a balm, away from the crowd and the fierce music. Away from the screams.

  When they finished smoking, Marco offered to take Marisa to the emergency room for her leg to be checked. Marisa thanked him but declined, she only needed a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. She would get a cab and go home. Marco insisted she stayed until she recovered: there was a clean towel and a robe in the bathroom, she could shower and afterwards he would take care of her injury. Marisa hesitated and finally agreed.

  They exchanged a look, and the air around them grew denser. Now it wasn’t that evening’s incident that consumed their thoughts. It was the waking memories that brought to surface desire, feelings, non-spoken words. Marisa bowed her head and, not knowing what to do with her hands, returned the cell phone to the purse. She forced herself to rise from the chair and dragged her feet to the bathroom.

  She heard Marco’s voice behind her: “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Marisa slowed down imperceptibly and, nodding, locked herself in the bathroom. The prolonged showering relieved her restlessness and her sore muscles. She slipped into the hot water’s embrace and rubbed herself with the soap at leisure, washing off that evening from her body and feeling her clean skin. The flower of the skin. Her hands pressed her own flesh, sliding, sliding, climbing mounds, lingering in concavities… Now they were no longer her hands but his, like in the past… Marisa closed her eyes.

  She lost track of time—she could have been there for one minute or one hour. Once finished, Marisa wrapped herself in the white robe and made a turban with the towel to cover her wet hair. Running her hand across the mirror, she traced a clear circle that showed her reflection. She stared at her own image with incredulity. Was it all a dream? Was she really there with Marco? Life could be strange sometimes. Suddenly she felt like laughing. Her laughter stifled as the mirror steamed up, blurr
ing her reflection. Her eyes blurred too, and she dried them with a quick gesture.

  Back in the room, Marisa found Marco seated on the bed texting. His gaze darted to her and rapidly steered away as he interrupted his message. With a constrained expression, Marco left the phone on the nightstand and massaged the nape of his neck. He sighed, paused, and all his attention turned to Marisa. The almost black eyes registered every detail of her, from the face flushed by the warm water to the pale skin near the collar line, from the figure that the robe hid to the hands and legs it exposed. Marisa felt vulnerable to his proximity. She pretended to busy herself with the robe belt.

  “Aren’t you gonna shower?” she asked with false ease.

  “Yeah, I’m taking a shower now. Try to rest. Wanna listen to some music?”

  “Good idea. I miss Brazilian music. Do you have anything by Céu?”

  Marco handed his MP3 player to Marisa. She scrolled down the screen, surprised at the playlists.

  “You still have my selections?”

  He gave but a smile and disappeared into the bathroom. Marisa soon heard the water running behind the closed door. She picked a track, fitted the player onto the speakers and curled up in the armchair. Shutting her eyes, she was lulled by the lyrics of Legend, about a misbehaving prince turned into a frog.

  She dozed off with a heavy head, all the while acutely aware of Marco’s presence just a few feet away. So near and so far. His wash was quick, and Marco came back with a white towel wrapped around his waist. Marisa woke up to the sight of his tanned torso. Against her will, she found herself admiring his strong arms and the trail of dark hair that started on the chest, shadowed his well-defined abdomen, and advanced underneath the towel…

  He stood next to her with a vanity case in his hand. Helping her get up from the chair, he led Marisa to the bed in order to tend her injury. Listless, she sat down with her back against the pillow and her legs stretched. She tightened the turban, closed the robe and kept her hand flat on the collar. Marco sat beside her and in a second undid everything, removing the half-collapsed turban and opening the robe at her thighs.