Laura giggled conspiratorially and said, “You do?”
I didn’t know what she was up to. Laura sidled up to Mike and said with a grin, “Guess who JT’s got a crush on?”
“Who?” Mike asked excitedly.
“Holli!” She whispered giddily.
Potter looked at me a little confused, “You know, Holli has a brother who looks just like her.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said barely able to look at them, wanting to scratch the moustache right off my face.
I glared at Laura, feeling powerless, buttoning up my resentment.
After a few hours Steven said, “Let’s break for lunch.” Laura whispered a complaint about the Subway sandwiches that Gabriel had bought to keep the three-day shoot on budget. Steven looked at the foot-longs on waxed paper, then led us quietly by our elbows out of the hotel room, motioning us to follow him down the steps and cobbled path toward dining tables outside. He stopped beside a plot of freshly bedded tulips and said, “I’m gonna treat you to lunch today.”
“Oh thank you, Steven. It’s just that JT gets really wiggy. I try to keep him away from corporate food. It doesn’t have to be ornate, just not crap, y’know?”
The host sat us down on the patio in a yellow rose garden directly across from Leonardo DiCaprio, who did not look up from his newspaper as we arrived. The sun was hot, and I was starving. I looked down at the sparse menu. “I’m gonna have the roast beef sandwich,” I said, enunciating.
“You don’t eat roast beef, JT!” Laura exclaimed.
“I do today,” I said defiantly.
“JT wants the roast beef, then roast beef it is!” Steven said signaling for the waiter.
Mariela patted at the wax with her manicured fingers and blew on it gently. It turned opaque and peeled at its edges as if it were a ripe scab, then she gracefully ripped. The underside revealed white pearls at the stems of the uplifted hairs. My vision blurred as she pulled, and I heard my short gusts of breath from far away, as if they weren’t my own. Mariela worked methodically. She left a mound of hair on my pubic bone, low and clipped. I marveled that I could relinquish complete control to a stranger, yet I still struggled with Laura over how JT should look and behave. Every time I complained, Laura tried to make me see what I was getting out of being JT (the equivalent pay of my shifts at the Thai restaurant, beautiful clothes from the fashion shoots, fantastic dinners). She would say, “I always look at things this way: am I getting paid for this opportunity? If I am not getting paid, am I learning from it or enjoying myself? You have a combination of all three!” I would look up and pout. It had happened too fast. I hadn’t realized when I first impersonated JT that I would be signing my life over to being him. Now I was trying to take it back.
Mariela lotioned and powdered my raw skin. She went over the pubic line again with fine tweezers, weeding out the surviving hairs. Finally, she slid her palms over one another, and with a light clap, exclaimed, “Muite bon!”
I opened my eyes. “It’s done?”
As I walked out of the salon, my spine straightened and my head lifted. I felt as if the fat on my pubic bone, that fat which every woman has, was dissolving. My stomach groaned again, but I decided that I would eat later. I needed a Brazilian bikini to go with my wax.
As I walked down the long shaded avenues, I spotted a sign with an animated green bikini bottom. Inside the cool shop the ceiling fan pumped rhythmically a little off its axis. The saleswoman was about my age, tan with chestnut curls that wound around the nape of her neck.
She looked up from her crossword puzzle and said, “Oi.”
“Oi,” I replied.
The bathing suits were stretched over round metal rods like skins over drums. I went to the first rack and scanned it until I found a black bikini, with splotches of grey. I grabbed it off the rack, suddenly feeling very dizzy.
“Mais grande?”
She looked at me and said, in perfect English, “I think that is the only one I have. But it will fit you.”
I was relieved that she spoke English, but also disappointed. I suddenly felt like a clumsy, very white American tourist. I held onto the counter.
“Why don’t you try it on?”
“I’m afraid it’s too small.”
“You waxed?”
I nodded.
“Then there is nothing to fear. Go in there to try it on.”
I kicked off my white flip-flops and wiggled out of my clothes. I slowly glanced up at myself in the mirror. I had that brittle after-flu feeling as if my body might shatter. I flexed my newly formed Capoeira muscles and weaved my legs into the skinny bottoms. It had double straps on the sides. I looked at the back, where a tiny V tucked out of the expanse of my pale behind. The floor was cool on my bare feet.
I tried to snap the bikini further over my crack. I viewed my profile and tightened my stomach.
I remembered the first day I stepped into the Brazilian Cultural Center. I had wanted to look like the bristling women who kicked and vaulted around Marcia. Capoeira sculpts each body slightly differently, but everyone ends up with broad shoulders, muscular round butts, and jutting thighs. Capoeiristas wear white, narrow polyester pants, gusseted in the crotch, which gives everyone, man or woman, a little extra bread in the basket. The group I watched held their pants up with brightly dyed cotton cords, denoting one’s growth and skill. On top, they wore cotton T-shirts with the Abada logo. I’d never seen so many strong, confident, beautiful women gathered in one room. Everything about Capoeira both attracted and intimidated me. I vowed that I would learn to assert myself with kicks, protect myself with ducks and dodges, and impress others with aerials. I could hardly believe that I was here on my pilgrimage: it was the beginning, perhaps of my new life.
“So?” the sales girl called.
“I’ll take it.”
I walked to the beach straight down from the store, veering towards the rocks. I wore the black bikini under a woven red and orange sarong that the saleswoman had explained could be used instead of a towel. I picked a spot of sand above everyone so that I could watch people, and better regulate who watched me. That was one thing that being JT had taught me: how to watch. The beach was like a marketplace, the calls of different vendors rising and mixing together. Each vendor had a particular style to his hawking, some musical and reeling, some sneaky and almost lude. I pulled out my phrase book (inserting it inside another book so as not to advertise my naivete) to find out that they were selling green coconut, salty pastries, grilled shrimp with garlic, beer, soft drinks, and caipirinhas. They carried sunblock and coconut oil tied to broom handles, dangling like golden fruit, heaved stacks of cigarettes and tiny black cigars, lugged coolers full of popsicles and fruit cocktail with whipped cream, and waved towels emblazoned with the Brazilian flag. Against a backdrop of ocean, the silhouettes of the luxuriously oiled sunbathers vacillated in the heat. In the distance an oil rig rose and fell like an insect caught in honey. I felt beads of sweat forming on my upper lip, in my pits, and in the creases of my freshly waxed groin. Soon I would bury everything in the sand and swim.
The shrimp griller passed close in front of me wearing a dirty soccer jersey. He winked, holding his tray straight above his head. It shielded his face, and he purred something in Portuguese. I mumbled in Portuguese, “Nao, nao. Obrigada.”
I looked to my right to see who would be mocking me if I got up to go swimming. A young man was doing calisthenics next to the boardwalk in the shade of palms. His muscles were knotted and wiry. He must have done this routine every day. A little envious, I wondered how many reps it would take to get abs like that. And what does he think of me? I’m not his type; I’m too pale and boyish for him. I glanced left to an older woman, sun-wizened, in an orange halter bikini. She’d arranged her matching high heels beside her on her blanket, where she sat reading a pulpy magazine. I thought I knew who she was just by her coiffed hair. She had maids to make her lunch, and grown children. What does she think of me? My mind was beginn
ing to spiral . . . What did Steven Klein think of me back at the photoshoot, with my “scab and lacerations” wig and my made-up face? He thought JT wasn’t doing the look justice. The props didn’t have emotion on their own. It was the wearer’s job to imbue them with feeling. I wasn’t doing that for him, or for JT.
I’d wanted so badly to please him during that shoot, to give him what he wanted, but I couldn’t loosen up. He told me to take a five-minute break, and I wandered into the kitchen, where a few production assistants were hanging out smoking pot and drinking rum. I had a few hits, hoping that it would help. I went back out to the brightly lit living room where we were shooting and backed up against the wall, feeling like a discovered rodent, frozen and unsure which way to run. I dragged my feet along the wall. My moustache twitched. I tried to hunch into a tough pose for Steven. I was confused. What did he want? I felt myself edging away from the light with jagged steps. They are all looking at me, waiting for me to do something interesting. I began to feel more and more queasy. Before I knew what I was doing, I took a mincing step back and puked my roast beef sandwich into a wicker garbage can. I handed my moustache, soaked in vomit, to Mike Potter, and Steven clicked way, delighted to finally get some action.
It would be time to swim soon, and I was still trying to get used to the idea of having such a bare ass. As I contemplated buying a pair of shorts, a beautiful woman walked by and sat down in front of me along with an entourage of five men, whom I hoped were her brothers. She was tall with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Her hair was clipped in tight curls. She had caramel skin, amber eyes, and golden hair at the crook of her back and on her arms. A dark wiry treasure trail wound its way up her belly, which stuck out softly. She wore long beaded earrings and a lavender crocheted bikini. The idea of a swim blew away in the salty breeze. I could never show my ass in its current state to such a beautiful woman. I wrapped the red and orange sarong tightly around my waist and propped my head up on my elbow, pretending to focus on my book. To my astonishment, she glanced back at me.
The men rolled a joint. They were oiled up, galloping around her in their bold Speedos. Maybe they were performers, and she was the master of ceremonies? An itinerant bartender passed by with a styrofoam cooler, calling out “Skol-a-skol-a-skol.” The group bought beers all around. One of them rubbed his chest with a frosty can. Perhaps that was her boyfriend? She popped her beer, then turned her head slightly and again, to my utter disbelief, she raised her can to me. How should I respond? I sat up, trying to look natural. She glanced back again. She was subtle, barely turning her head. I thought to myself, this is what it’s all about. I came here, to Rio, for this moment. I decided to take a swim. I stood up, making sure I didn’t let my hand go for my wedgie. I stretched and started to take assured long strides past her and her brothers. They nodded slightly as I passed. I walked into the water without hesitation. I gripped my feet into the shifting sand, letting the icy water envelop me. I dove in, feeling the waves pulling at each other. As I came up again, I felt cleansed. I swam past the breakers, letting my head bob up and down. Finally, I paddled back in, shaking a little.
My body went slightly numb. I felt transformed. I walked past the woman again. She smiled.
Suddenly, someone on the boardwalk whistled at my backside. Another asshole, I thought. The beautiful woman glanced back. He whistled again. I couldn’t help it; I reluctantly turned, too. He was a powerfully built black man with dreadlocks. He wore tight jean shorts and a fanny pack; his legs were thick as tree trunks. He smiled, his eyes glowing intensely with sex. I turned my head and pretended as if I hadn’t noticed him.
“Oi,” he had a scratchy voice, and he said in stilted English, “Little One, I picked you out because of your white skin.”
I thought, can’t you see I’m busy? Fuck off.
He went on, “Eu sou Capoeirista.”
I recognized that word. I was still mistrustful but dropped my guard slightly.
“I am not from here, either,” he said.
Like I care, I thought.
He continued, “I am from the South, de Grupo Abada.”
That was the group I was meant to meet up with! I looked at the white fabric he cradled in his arms. It was a pair of our pants, the logo Abada embroidered on it. Incredible.
I asked, “Do you know Marcia Cigarra?”
“Marcia! The Cicada? Marcia is one of my sisters!”
“I’m her student,” I said, not quite believing the way things happen sometimes.
“No! Qual serendipidade! You come for the games? From Sao Francisco?”
I nodded.
“My name is Gororoba. I am going to teach a class tonight as a guest. All the Americans who stay at the Hostel Internationale will be there. Allow me to introduce one of my students, Batatina.” If I’m not mistaken, his name means “little potato.”
A man-cub, about seventeen, came shuffling from the boardwalk, kneeled and extended a paw toward me, “Batatina, plasir.”
By this time the beautiful woman and her brothers had smoked their joints and crushed their beer cans. They were dusting the sand off of their behinds and stretching. She glanced back at me and nodded one last time; one of her brothers gave me a thumbs-up. Suddenly, one of her entourage threw a beer can at her feet. She broke out in full grin and lunged for his ankles. She grappled him down and mock kicked him. When finished, she put her hands on her hips. She gave Gororoba and me a quick playful smile then turned. I marveled at the confidence in her eyes.
ROME
IN THE CUSTOMS LINE at the Rome airport, I bent over our bags and ripped off the tags. “Should we replace them with JT’s name?” I was hush so that the people waiting in front of us wouldn’t wonder what was going on. Laura said, “Good idea, we’ll do it next time,” as she lathered sunscreen on her nose and cheeks.
Within a week of our American-European book tour, we settled into our roles as big and little sister. Our schedule was packed with events: readings, book signings, photo shoots, and dinners with people JT had become close friends with over the telephone and through email. A few days into the New York leg I had my first live interview. I had flailed during each question, while Laura, ever the “handler” as she had been nicknamed, charged to fill in the answers, prefacing them with “JT once told me . . .”
After doing a photo shoot with Mick Rock, we went back to our hotel room. I was flossing my teeth as Laura shaved her legs. I realized that we had reached some intimacy and new understanding of each other. I slipped on a plaid night-gown and sat down on the tiled floor. Laura put on pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with the Harold’s End logo from the Los Angeles reading. She always wore T-shirts with quirky sayings like, “Fame is not sexually transmitted.” She slid down onto the tiles next to me and said, “This is like an arranged marriage, where the couple really falls in love. You are so perfect for this. And I can see you blossoming and growing into yourself. You have such a sense of self already.” She traced the lines of grout where they intersected.
“No, I don’t,” I contested.
I thought back on the day. We met Mick Rock in the Chelsea Hotel. He had sat me on a giant gold-leafed hand in front of a large speckled canvas. The stylist had bound my eyes and hands with fuchsia-silk netting. I watched Mick through a hot-pink web, as he squinted through his shaded glasses. He popped two tablets of Vitamin C, mixing them with a bit of water on his tongue and letting them bubble. Taking off his jean jacket and throwing it on a chair, he did a few whirls bent over, stretching out on his back. Mike Potter came over and sat down on his knees, arranging a row of bottles and brushes. He embossed the words “virtue” and “sin” on my hands. He then dusted my cheeks with rose blush, pulling my long blond wig to one side of my head.
Mick took a Polaroid. Pulling up the strip of fabric from my eyes, he showed me the proofs, saying in his British accent, “There’s contradiction here—it’s a fantastic image.” I looked down, feeling self-conscious that my thighs looked too big in my khaki pants. M
ick roared, “Let out your discomfort, JT! Do what you need to do here! Scream! Release it!” We put the eye-patch back on. I opened my mouth, and adjusting my voice to a lower octave, I began to growl like I was gargling with salt.
“That’s it! Let it go, JT, whatever it is! Reclaim yourself!”
Raising my voice, I searched for a more comfortable pitch, trying to prolong the sound. My voice cracked and my heart beat with a thud in my ears. I hit some stride, finding myself screaming incredibly loud. I thought, I must be breaking through something. At least a few blood vessels.
Stopping and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, Mick knelt over the chair, showing me a Polaroid of these shots. He had taken it through a fish-eye lens from above. My hands were pulled taut. “I think we’ve got something,” he said.
“When I was young I had no idea who I was.” Laura tugged on her crocheted hat, and continued. “There were points when I was so aimless, when I thought I’d just kill myself. But when I look back on all that has led up to now, there was always an inkling of my truths. And there was always something leading me to this place. It was like a tree branch I would follow, and the leaves and fruit grew around me. Life felt stark and brittle when I took a wrong turn, like the branch would break underneath me. And my out was always suicide. Now I feel us blossoming. We are on the right path. Don’t you think?”
I didn’t know. I said flatly, “I don’t feel like any of it has much to do with me.” And wondered to myself, why was I doing it then?
“It has a lot to do with you. People are responding to you. They can’t not. This is you.” Laura traced one whole tile with her finger. “No matter what soil you throw on top of it or how you dress it up, it’s you. They are responding to you.”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” I mumbled.
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