Perfect Days
Page 8
In the afternoons, Clarice would work on her screenplay. Her fingers raced across the keyboard as if she were afraid she might forget something. Pretending to read, Teo would sit on the bed watching her write. He enjoyed observing those moments. A whole other world was being created, with characters, actions, endings. He liked this idea of multiple possibilities.
Once or twice she asked him to leave the room, because she wanted to read the text out loud. Teo understood that artists had their eccentricities and superstitions. He wandered through the small wood watching the parrots and chatted with the dwarfs at reception. To avoid raising any suspicion about Clarice’s habits, he was always armed with news (“She said she’s never felt so at home writing and is thinking about putting the hotel in the acknowledgments of the screenplay”) and feigned specific interests: he now knew that the hotel had seven chalets, as well as smaller rooms. He also knew that the lake was natural, that the water wasn’t good for bathing, and that it was more than fifty feet deep. A child had almost drowned in it.
Teo never let Clarice read the newspaper or watch TV. He had taken the batteries out of the remote, as he thought it better for her not to know what was going on in the outside world: complete isolation would help her finish the screenplay. Besides, it was important that she distance herself a little from reality so she could think about him. Without the distraction of soap operas or the violence of the news, she’d have more time to better consider the relationship they were building.
In the evenings they ate soup and watched the films he had brought. Clarice loved Little Miss Sunshine and, full of praise for Teo, said it had given her ideas for how to improve her own screenplay.
Before going to bed, she’d revise the pages she had written that day, while Teo read in bed. When he finished the detective novel, he had a go at the collection of stories by Clarice Lispector. The bloodstain on the cover had been impossible to remove, so he’d covered it with some craft paper and sticky tape he’d got from reception.
After a shower, Clarice would lie down next to him. They’d talk a little more, drowsily now. Then he’d cuff her to the bed and get up to turn off the light—the switch was by the door. Teo had moved the bedside table away ever since he’d had a nightmare in which Clarice had woken up in the middle of the night and started beating him over the head with the lamp.
• • •
I brought you a present,” he said. He showed her the bag.
He’d gone into town to buy personal hygiene products—they were almost out of toothpaste. He’d taken the opportunity to call Patricia and Helena. From what he could tell, Clarice’s communication with her mother was punctuated by long periods with no contact. It was the only explanation for Helena’s enthusiasm when he called.
He helped Clarice sit up, removed the cuffs and gag, and handed her the dress. He’d seen it in a shop window: vibrant colors, soft material. It was expensive, but he’d wanted to see her in it. He asked her to put it on.
It was a Tuesday. They’d been together a week. It was raining hard outside. She came back from the bathroom looking beautiful, and he knew she liked it, even if she looked exhausted. All women liked presents. Clarice mumbled a lackluster thank-you that irritated him.
“You don’t understand that I feel really happy with you, do you?”
She didn’t say anything.
“I don’t like seeing you like this, my little rat.” He took her hands. “I know all this might seem a bit absurd, but you have to understand. The last few days haven’t been that bad, have they?”
She started to speak, and each word appeared to require great effort.
“The problem isn’t you.”
She pulled away from him and half closed the bathroom door to change back into her pajamas. He wanted to ask questions, but the urge died in his throat.
Clarice climbed back into bed. With a cotton pad, she removed her black eyeliner. (Even though she never left the chalet, she made herself up discreetly every morning.) Then she folded the pad and, with a sigh, turned to face Teo.
“This place is my getaway. The hideout where I come to get a distance on things and live in my own little world, you know? Nothing against you, honestly. But I don’t think it’s a good idea that you stay here with me anymore.”
Breno had cast his long shadow over the conversation. Teo was disgusted by her ex-boyfriend. It was obvious that he was still in Clarice’s thoughts. He didn’t need her to confirm it in order to be sure.
“It’s been a great week, Teo, but I need to be alone. I need to finish the screenplay.”
“Please, don’t insist.” He hated having to have the same old conversation. “You can ask for whatever you want. But you know that’s off the table.”
They sat there in silence. She began to cry.
“In exchange for the present, I want to make a request,” he went on. “Leave things as they are for a few more days. You keep writing, here with me; without thinking about it, without judging. Just live. I promise it’ll be great.”
She closed her eyes and dried her tears on the cotton pad. Then she went back to the bathroom to remove her lipstick and touch up her dignity.
• • •
On the Saturday afternoon, Clarice committed a faux pas, and Teo saw her embarrassed for the first time. They were in the chalet watching 12 Angry Men. She said her mother would love the film and asked Teo when he had seen it for the first time.
“It was my dad’s favorite.”
Clarice smiled, getting up to go to the bathroom.
“You don’t talk much about your dad, do you?” she said, then immediately realized that the question had been inappropriate. “I’m sorry, I . . .”
He shook his head. Seeing Clarice standing in the bathroom doorway like that—sleepy, wearing a large T-shirt with a black and white photo of John Lennon on it, holding her toothbrush—he knew it was time to let down his guard and talk about it with her.
“My father’s dead. He died in the car accident that left my mother paraplegic.”
In another conversation, he had talked about Patricia’s condition, but then they’d skipped on to a different subject.
“It happened six years ago. My father was a supreme court judge. We lived in a penthouse in Copacabana, overlooking the sea. He and my mother had a busy social life and were always invited to posh parties and outings on yachts. My surname’s Avelar Guimarães. I don’t know if that rings a bell for you.” She didn’t react, so he added, “It was in all the newspapers. My parents were coming back from a trip down south in my father’s Pajero. The Vectra I drive used to be my mother’s.”
“Were you with them?”
“No, I’d stayed at home because I had school.”
He hesitated. He’d never talked to anyone about it. Not Patricia, or even Gertrude.
“At the time, the police were investigating corruption and organized crime with connections in the judiciary. There were lots of people involved: lawyers, judges, public prosecutors—”
“And supreme court judges, of course.”
“A public prosecutor is supposed to have called my father. He said their scheme had been uncovered. A lot of people had been arrested. They were all in a panic, and he was one of the bigwigs. No one knows exactly what happened. My father was driving when he received the call, somewhere near Santos. My mother was in the passenger seat. According to the newspapers, he was so thrown by the call that he lost control of the car. He hit a retaining wall, the car flipped and rolled down the hill, and he was killed instantly.”
“Gee, I—I’m really sorry. Didn’t your mother ever tell you what happened?”
“I’ve never asked. She’s suffered enough. At any rate, I’ve got my version of the facts,” he said. “I knew my father well. He was a cold man, very proud and rational. I’m not saying I knew he was corrupt. But I know how he would have reacted in a situ
ation like that. I know what he felt when he was accused, about to be arrested . . .”
Teo considered himself to be like his father in many aspects.
“When a man is ashamed of himself and finds himself unmasked, there aren’t too many choices, Clarice. Suicide is the only way out.”
10
What did you think of the screenplay?”
They were in bed, ready to sleep. Teo had finished reading the unfinished text on the Sunday but hadn’t said anything. He was waiting for Clarice to ask his opinion. He’d noticed that she was easily shaken by what other people thought and said. It was an interesting chink in the self-sufficient image that she had projected in the beginning.
Faced with telling the blunt truth or a lie couched in praise, he resorted to euphemism.
“I like it, but I see certain problems. I don’t think the argument is well written. In the screenplay itself, I can see that you write well and think you could have put together a better argument.”
She wanted more details. Teo mentioned problems with continuity and small logical incongruities. He praised the dramatic tone of the tire-changing scene.
“What did you think of the end? I still haven’t written it, but it’s going to be what’s in the argument.”
“It’s all a dream, right?”
“I don’t come out and say it, but it’s implied. Carol doesn’t die. And the suitcases suggest that she’s going somewhere. Viewers have to deduce the rest.”
“I like open endings,” he said. “But I’m not sure it works in this case.”
“The question isn’t the open ending but playing with the medium. Cinema represents reality, but it isn’t reality. I want to explore the nuances, you know? In one scene, the character dies. In another, we find out that none of it took place, it was just a wish, an impression—”
“Okay, but I don’t think it works in your story.”
“You’re too rational. There’s a film by Michael Haneke where the character winds back the actual film so that things go the way he wants them to. He controls the story. It’s fucking amazing.”
“Fine. So you want to use metalanguage in the film.”
“I’ll write it, and then you’ll agree with me,” she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and curled up under the blanket. “Good night.”
He smiled, happy that Clarice was determined to convince him. The screenplay itself hardly mattered.
• • •
On the Wednesday, before she even said good morning, Clarice asked for a cigarette. Teo was relaxing in the armchair, reading Sobotta’s Atlas of Human Anatomy. It was an ugly, rainy morning—perfect weather for a lazy day in the chalet. He hadn’t gone for his daily run and was waiting for breakfast time. Clarice asked for a cigarette again.
“That was the last one yesterday,” he said.
“I get irritable when I don´t smoke.”
“Vogue menthols. I’ll try to get some for you when I go into town, my little rat.”
He focused on the book again, as he didn’t want her to feel like she was in charge of the situation. He’d read a study on relationships according to which women weren’t attracted to men who were too available or submissive. They preferred the mysterious, self-sufficient ones. He went to lengths not to sound groveling.
“Why do you call me ‘little rat’?” she asked after a few minutes.
“It’s just a nickname. Because of your teeth.”
“My teeth?”
“I like them,” he said. “I hope it’s not a problem.”
“It isn’t.”
He knew she wouldn’t mind. He wanted to come out and ask her a direct question but decided to be subtle.
“Have you had any other nicknames?”
Clarice closed her eyes, as if she were going to go back to sleep. He had hoped she’d explain the “my sonata” in the messages from her ex-boyfriend. It was inevitable that they’d end up talking about Breno. They’d been together for more than two weeks, and his name hadn’t come up.
The day before, Teo had gone into town. He’d talked for almost half an hour with Patricia, who was depressed and anxious to get Samson’s necropsy results back. His call to Helena had been shorter. She thanked him for the call but said she wanted to speak to her daughter the next time.
Teo felt pressured. Breno’s repeated attempts to get back together with her (the guy was being downright inconvenient and had sent her more than eight text messages), Laura’s messages . . . he wasn’t sure if Clarice was into men or women. It was all very confusing.
Clarice seemed more at home with him by the day. She’d make silly remarks, tell him her thoughts on things and her ideas for screenplays. He especially liked her expansive gestures, the way she could tie her hair up in a few seconds, her inexorable air of superiority, and her characteristic laugh, with her tongue touching her teeth.
Nevertheless something was still niggling him. And this discomfort made him even keener to broach certain topics. He went as far as to rehearse the question So where did the nickname sonata come from? But he knew the answer wouldn’t come easily.
“Have you had any other nicknames?” he repeated.
“Yeah.” She got up and went to wash her face in the sink.
“What were they?”
“They used to call me Button Nose at kindergarten, after the Monteiro Lobato character. And Magali, from the Turma da Mônica comic strips, because I love watermelon. I think that’s it.”
The pealing of a bell announced breakfast. Teo pulled on a jacket, unable to continue the conversation. He said he’d be back soon.
He put the cuffs on Clarice and asked her to put on the gag. “You can choose between the one with the harness and the padded one.”
She argued that it wasn’t necessary, that she wouldn’t scream. She was cuffed to the bed and couldn’t do a thing. Teo insisted. Before putting it on and padlocking the harness, he asked what she wanted to eat. She wasn’t in a friendly mood.
“I want cigarettes.”
• • •
The rain had stopped, which made Teo less keen to hurry back to the chalet. He strolled around the property, since the benches were all wet. On days when Clarice was in a bad mood, he avoided being around her. He suspected she might have some sort of bipolar disorder, that it was pathological.
Nevertheless he was satisfied. From a tender age, he’d felt out of place, an uncomfortable creature among people to whom laughter came easily, people with nothing there, no intellectual ambitions, no loftier thoughts. It had been a shock to realize that it was normal to be moved by Christmas, to call up old friends on their birthdays, and to show the neighbors that your eight-month-old has finally learned to say “da da.”
He was repulsed by the notions of normality exemplified in the evening soaps. It had been difficult to adapt. Reality didn’t make concessions. And then, just when he finally felt sure of himself, Clarice had come along to bring some sense to it all—or to break the sense he’d created for himself. She had repositioned him in the world. Teo still looked down on the human race, but at least now what he felt for it was a kind of disinterested pity. Finally, he was in love.
Moved by gratitude, Teo drove back into Teresópolis on the Thursday. He bought some moisturizer for Clarice’s wrists, which were irritated by the handcuffs, and tampons, as her period had started. He phoned Patricia, who merely repeated the gripes of their last conversation. She was so caught up in her own misery that she didn’t ask about Clarice. He didn’t bring up the subject either, as he was in a hurry to hang up.
When he turned on Clarice’s cell, he found two more messages from Breno. The desperate tone of the last one, sent only a few hours earlier, was funny:
I CAN’T BEAR THIS ANYMORE. I MISS YOU. YOUR COLDNESS HURTS. WHY CAN’T YOU TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON? WHY WON’T YOU TALK TO ME? LET’S GIVE OURSELVES
ANOTHER CHANCE AND START ALL OVER AGAIN. YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY SONATA. FROM YOUR WOODY WHO LOVES YOU.
He wanted to delete the message, but it was all so outrageous that he had to reply:
FORGET ME. I DON’T WANT TO BE WITH YOU ANYMORE.
He should have followed up with a FUCK OFF, BRENO! but sending another message would have shown more interest than he wanted to. All this harassment from the ex-boyfriend had exhausted him. He didn’t call Helena that day.
At the shopping center, he had a pistachio ice cream. Seduced by chokers and rings, he walked into a jeweler’s. He wanted to get Clarice something special. A pearl necklace in the window had caught his eye, but it was too expensive. He asked the saleswoman to show him other items.
It’s funny how one idea leads to another. He had entered the shop determined to buy something meaningful but simple. As the saleswoman was showing him other, cheaper options, he had another idea.
“Do you have engagement rings?”
• • •
Night fell. The cicadas were screeching in the dark. The smell of wet earth wafted through the half-open windows, and a breeze ruffled the curtains. As soon as Clarice came out of the bathroom, she asked if he’d bought cigarettes.
“They didn’t have any,” he lied.
He’d found Vogue menthols at a delicatessen in town and had bought two packs, but on his way back to the hotel, he had decided to make Clarice stop smoking. Without her noticing, he would cut the cigarettes out of her routine. A gradual process. In the beginning he’d have to invent excuses and put up with the abuse that came with abstinence, but he’d be successful in the end.
She didn’t complain and just shook her head. The previous day’s irascibility had been replaced by melancholy resignation.
Teo suggested they go for a walk. The night was beautiful, in spite of the cold. It was one o’clock in the morning, and the other guests were asleep. She put a jacket over her black dress and wrapped a scarf around her neck. They held hands as they walked. With slow steps, they headed down the slope, following the curve of the lake. She walked with her head down, but she didn’t look sad, just distracted. She barely seemed to care about the revolver in his waistband.