Red: A Love Story

by Nicole Collet

  Marco held her hand, which she retracted impatiently. On his face there was discourage. But what did Marco expect? she asked herself with bitterness, and all of a sudden became exasperated. That was life, period. And Marco failed her again. They were two ships meeting in the ocean and then following their separate paths.

  Just two ships in the night.

  In her memory flashed the scenes that composed their story. The first time they had a cup of coffee, that afternoon with silver in the mirror and on their bodies, the strolls in Downtown, the graduation evening, the dreamed picnic in the park. And then Marco in this room from the present, lying by her side as if they had never been apart. But there were the blooming cherry trees to denounce the illusion—the cherry trees they would never see together.

  She made a point to leave. He put his arms around her. She tried to resist but gave up, the inert hands did not obey her, and her eyes closed as a knot tied her throat. He wanted to say the world but had to repress the words. Wanted to say that when he looked at her, he saw a soulmate. That her tenderness brought him comfort and made him happier than he could possibly express. That her qualities would fill pages and pages but fit in one single word.

  Adorable.

  He would not impose on her the same situation he’d imposed on Lorena. You have destroyed my life. He made a promise not to ever hear those words from Marisa’s lips. It was hard enough to forgive himself for Lorena, for something he’d done in a moment of blindness. With Lorena, he had been obstinate. Later, he couldn’t handle what his own obstinacy sowed.

  He wouldn’t do that again. He couldn’t live with it.

  His heart sunk into melancholy. Fractured, always fractured. Marco closed his eyes to breathe in her perfume and retain that tiny fraction of Marisa, just a little longer—and at each second his sorrow grew heavier. Her perfume was air. And in his chest it became lead. Heavy metal, the poison of lost memories.

  Marco also remembered.

  The first Sunday lunch in his kitchen, seated at the table, so beautiful in a white bodice, her hands eternally playing with her hair in an unconscious tic (she did that when she was anxious or excited). The rosy mouth on the glass, the rosy mouth chatting away with no worries, and all of her filling the kitchen with her gestures, laughter, voice.

  “Last year I attended a lecture about Buddhism, Marco. To me, reincarnation makes total sense. We come into this world to learn, and keep changing bodies until we perfect our soul and complete the learning process. What I found the most interesting is the absence of the concept of sin. If you make a mistake, it’s your responsibility to improve yourself and you simply delay your learning process.”

  “So what’s to be learned?”

  Marisa thought for a moment while he finished preparing the tiella. She followed his hands with a distracted gaze and chewed her lip. Finally, she answered: “I think each of us comes into the world with a personal challenge to overcome. It can be arrogance, weakness, greed, fear. Anything. But ultimately I think we come into the world to learn to love. Because love is the greatest virtue of all.” She made a pause to admire the green-yellow-red layers he was crowning with a dab of olive oil, and then smiled. “It looks delicious. If you keep doing that, you’ll find the way to my heart through my stomach and I’ll never leave you…”

  And then—then one day the kitchen was empty again.

  Marco opened his eyes and found Marisa’s. She pushed him softly, and this time he didn’t retain her. The hours remaining were not enough and never would be. It made no sense to postpone the inevitable. Marco retreated to fetch his jacket on the back of a chair. He reached Marisa when she was opening the door and offered her the jacket. She ignored the gesture.

  “Don’t worry, Marco. I’ll grab a taxi in front of the hotel and soon be home. I won’t feel cold.”

  Without another glance, Marisa left. Before her unfolded a monotonous succession of doors and pale sconces. As she walked away in the carpeted hall, the thick stripes on the wallpaper shattered in an explosion of iron bars.

  No. It wasn’t freedom.

  It was wreckage.

  18. Denial

  We’re just ships in the night

  No more pretense or ties

  Just ships in the night

  Sinking goodbyes

  In the night

  In denial

  Die

  19. Full Circle

  Books, CDs, LPs, notebook, tablet, MP3 player, valise, family relics, abstract painting, Woody Allen DVDs, clothes (include ripped jeans and Armani suit), shoes, soapstone pot, resignation letter, moving company, storage, donations, car sale, tenant for apartment, power of attorney, work visa, Candomblé priest for reading the future in whelk shells…

  No, the Candomblé priest was a joke.

  Marco left his suitcase by the door, dropped the backpack on the coffee table and stretched his sore body on the sofa. He had gone on vacation without expectations and had returned with his hands full. The plans for opening his school postponed indefinitely, maybe forever. His mind now in turmoil. His heart fractured again. Air, lead, poison. Marco closed his eyes.

  He thought of the cells in an organism regenerating until the complete renewal of the body. And one day everything woke up anew and paradoxically the same. Marisa was the same, he was the same, and yet the two were different persons from those meeting the previous year. If he were to be honest, he would have to admit the first time he’d relinquished her due to guilt and—yes—fear. The paralyzing fear that one day Marisa would be Lorena and walk away to leave him with a collapsed world in his hands—and the doubled, tripled guilt of hurting her precisely because he didn’t want to hurt her.

  Her wound reopened. The cut throbbed in him too, it throbbed to the same pulsation, with the same intensity. Because there was the same cut in him, exactly in the same spot, like a black mirror, like a sad Siamese twin. Wound: an island amid the healthy skin, red and sticky, sending infection to the blood current, infecting everything. Dirty river. Venom. The phantom pain of an amputated limb.

  He couldn’t stand to go through that again.

  The first time had already been such an effort, for he needed to fight not only his own will but hers too. It would have been easier if Marisa was the one breaking the bond. Every time she called, it was an ordeal to remain firm in his decision. Every time he hung up, doubt haunted him. When he slept she visited him in his dream. When he woke up, she wasn’t there.

  He couldn’t stand to go through that again.

  Living with the doubt of what could have been. This time around something within Marco resisted with all might the idea of being away from Marisa.

  He wanted to happen with her.

  Unfold.

  Unwrap life and its gifts.

  Each ordinary moment, each surprise.

  Exist.

  Every day.

  With her.

  But.

  Sharp blade.

  Such a short word and fierce cut.

  But.

  What could he offer to Marisa? Literary quotes, theories. A valise full of useless accessories. And an existence away from everything and everyone—an existence she might come to hate. Marisa loved the sun and the beach. She obviously wouldn’t adapt to Canada. From afar everything exuded the perfume of adventure. Up close there was the stench of adaptation: cold weather, lack of family and friends, uneasiness to communicate in another language.

  Pessoa said language was the true homeland, and indeed it was—like a soft blanket, motherly food, comfortable shoes. Marisa would have none of it. Then what?

  He had already watched that film. It was as predictable as a Pavlovian experiment. You conditioned a dog with a bell before feeding, and soon the animal would salivate every time it heard the bell. The same happened to people. If you put them in an unpleasant situation, they started associating
you with unpleasant feelings. Marisa would associate him with the cold, the loneliness and her frustrations. And would hate him for that. So it was best that she hated him now without the burden of a broken dream.

  He took out the MP3 player and portable speakers from his backpack. He searched for the playlist. Why, he didn’t know—maybe fleshing the wound to the bone would help him get used to it. Marisa’s selection resumed playing from the point where it had been interrupted. Still Portishead. Revenge of the Number. Verses about deceit and loneliness, profanity and silence, an unbearable silence in the throbbing wound…

  Marco pressed Pause. He needed peace and quiet to think. A list of pros and cons would help him evaluate the situation with more clarity. So he took a sheet of paper and drew a circle, dividing it into four numbered parts. In one of the sections he wrote Brazil and in the next Canada. Then Marco repeated both words in the remaining spaces, now adding a name to each.

  Marisa.

  Much to his surprise, the pen ran without hesitation as he wrote. Once he was done, Marco studied the equation he’d created. Four quadrants, nineteen lines. The result, a question mark. But he ought to make a decision soon. The clock was ticking. With no compassion.

  Thirst, headache. He headed to the kitchen for some water, taking the sheet with him. He left it on the counter while helping himself, took a sip, put the glass down. Tangled up in his thoughts, Marco knocked it over when he reached for the paper sheet. All the water spilled, and he quickly grabbed a cloth on the counter. That was when he heard an incisive noise and saw it. He dropped the cloth with a startle. For an endless moment, Marco stood with one hand in midair and his eyes locked to the counter.

  Next to the sheet of paper lay the ivory die.

  Collecting it with caution, Marco examined it and frowned. He must have seized it along with the cloth. Marco shrugged and threw it back to the counter.

  The die hit a jar twice and bounced back to the edge of the paper.

  A sudden gust of icy cold air. A chill. He retrieved the die and the sheet, then sat at the table placing the piece of paper before him. With one hand, Marco drummed his fingers on the tabletop. With the other, he held the die. At last, he left it in a corner. The ivory cube, however, seemed to watch him with inscrutable eyes.

  Marco tried to tuck it away in a drawer—he was unable to complete the gesture. He remained with the die stuck between his fingers, searing his flesh. Until he uttered a sigh and surrendered. Marco cupped his hands in a mechanical motion, afraid of the number to be revealed. His whole body was shaking.

  A phrase echoed in his head before he closed his eyes. Sartre: The sole power of the past lies in the future.

  And with his eyes closed Marco breathed deeply. Even deeper. He remained like that, perfectly still with the ivory cube nestled in his hands. Inhaling, exhaling, until the inner turmoil gave room to… nothing. There was nothing in that infinite space. Just him and his breathing, the here and now, truth and peace. Forget about the past, forget about the future, here and now happiness. His shoulders relaxed, his hands turned limp, and the die fell on the paper sheet. Marco’s eyelids fluttered open. The circle and the ivory cube started to slip into focus.

  Then something happened.

  He averted his gaze from the table, without checking the result. A slow smile spread on his lips, and all of his exhaustion melted away at once. There was so much to do: the future was just beginning. He returned to the living room and put his jacket on: in his hand, the cell phone and car keys. Impatiently, Marco waited for the elevator and, with growing impatience, reached the street.

  Already activating the cell phone, he strode on the sidewalk like a king. Marco kicked a puddle just for fun, saluted the street sweeper in an orange uniform, and smiled at a tall rubber tree rustling in a garden bed. He felt a tingle of excitement. He felt suddenly invincible.

  Free.

  Like a mantra, Marco went on reviewing. Books, CDs, LPs, notebook, tablet, MP3 player, valise, relics, painting, DVDs, clothes, shoes, pot, resignation, movers, storage, donations, car, tenant, power of attorney, visa… Maybe.

  But.

  Double-edged sword.

  A chance for atonement.

  But.

  The certainty of three words.

  I love you.

  On the avenue, a thunder roared. Then came the rain.

  Red is the bed where extremes are born. Blood flower dispersing its petals in the wind of time. Dusk, dawn, eclipse, sunray. Shadow and light.

  The first color captured by the eye.

  The last feeling to remain.

  Red.

  Appendix: Poems & Works

  In order to avoid copyright infringement, I have created my own lyrics for this novel. I love music and used it to comment, reinforce, contradict or ironize scenes, so I invite readers to listen to the tracks mentioned here. I myself listened to those songs a million times while writing and rewriting scenes. “Anemone” by The Brian Jonestown Massacre sets the mood for this book. “La Femme d’Argent” by Air, although not included in the story, is an integral part of it: it got my writing juices flowing, and I’ve listened to it countless times while hammering at the keyboard.

  All quotes are from Brazilian works and public domain material. Here is a list of works quoted, as well as all original Brazilian titles, for credit and reference:

  Part 1: White

  7. Tropical Rain

  “Storm Ending” by Jean Toomer in Cane (1922)

  8. Rolling the Die

  “Pluvial” (“Pluvial”) by Augusto de Campos in Viva Vaia

  “Tempoespaço” (“Timespace”) by Augusto de Campos in Viva Vaia

  “Eis os Amantes” (“Here Are the Lovers”) by Augusto de Campos in Viva Vaia

  11. Close Encounter of the Third Kind

  “A Verdade Dividida” (“The Divided Truth”) by Carlos Drummond de Andrade in Contos Plausíveis

  12. Duet Story

  “Se te Agarro com Outro te Mato” (“If I Catch You with Another Man I’ll Kill You”) by Sidney Magal in Sidney Magal

  16. The Graduation

  “Hesperus: a Legend of the Stars” by Charles Sangster in Hesperus, and Other Poems and Lyrics (1860)

  17. Behind the Peephole

  “Ain’t Nobody’s Business” by Porter Grainger and Everett Robbins (1922)

  “Canção do Dia de Sempre” (“The Everyday Song”) by Mário Quintana in Canções

  “O Seu Santo Nome” (“Its Sacred Name”) by Carlos Drummond de Andrade in Corpo

  Part 2: Black

  1. A Well Stares at the Sky

  Philosophy in the Bedroom by the Marquis de Sade (1795)

  Part 3: Red

  2. The Light Inside Your Eyes

  “Rio Vermelho” (“Red River”) by Cora Coralina in Poemas dos Becos de Goiás e Estórias Mais

  “Dream-song” by Walter de la Mare in Peacock Pie (1913)

  5. The Kashmir Lounge

  “The Wind and the Moon” by George McDonald in Good Words for the Young (1872)

  14. Nostalgia

  “Lenda” (“Legend”) by Céu in Céu

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Wattpad for offering such a wonderful platform to connect writers and readers, and every Wattpad community member who honored me by choosing to read my story in its unpolished form. You gave me invaluable feedback, incentive and support. Without you, I would never have been able to fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a writer. You know who you are, and some of you have become dear friends, too. My heartfelt gratitude goes out to each of you.

  I am immensely grateful to Something or Other Publishing for materializing my dream and making me so proud of my book. To Wade Fransson for believing in RED. To Andrew Doty for beautifully editing it and for his infinite patience with my quirks. To Eleanor Le
onne Bennett for her feat of capturing my story in one gorgeous cover that I absolutely love. To Michael Schindler, Christian Lee, Valerie Simons and Rachel Abou-Zeid for teaching me and helping me to spread the word. To Jake Russell and James Monroe for wrapping up my work with their special touch. You all make an awesome team, and I feel blessed to have you by my side.

  Thank you, my good friend and talented writer Gwendolyn Valerius, for your great contribution in the initial copyedit and for your suggestions for improving this story.

  Marcelino Freire, word magician whom I so much admire, you honored me by reading chapter one and opening my eyes.

  Writer and editor Gavin Wilson, you gave me support on Wattpad and are such a nice guy. And Bronwyn Hemus from standoutbooks, your advice counted.

  My dear Abeera Dilawar, I could not have done it without your Urdu translation.

  Carlos Adolfo Schmidt, you helped me cross quite turbulent waters while my novel was in the making. Your generosity is much appreciated.

  Myla Cyrino, Carlos Aguena, Isabela Meirelles Tavares, Yolanda Bastos, Andrea Moraes, Laura Aguiar, Stephen Kanitz, Renata Fontana, Cristina Silv, Lorena Salgado, Rosângela Maschio, Margareth Procópio, Regilene Danesi, Sigrid Shreeve, Márcia Grande, Schirlley Azevedo… you were my “victims” by reading my manuscript in its embryonic stage. Thank you for allowing me to perform a little literary BDSM on you. I know you’re not submissive by nature and only did it for love.

  Last but definitively not least, thank you so much to my wonderful family and friends for always being there for me. I love you. You are my harbor in this world, you fill my life with color and make it worth living.

  A Word from the Author

  Thank you for reading RED. I hope you had a good ride. If you enjoyed it, please consider posting a spoiler-free review online. The events in the ends of Parts 2 and 3 will be our little secret…