Perfect Days

by Raphael Montes

  “You’ve had girlfriends, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “I want to read my book.”

  “I’m just trying to talk. What’s the problem with telling me if you’ve ever had a girlfriend?”

  He ran his eyes over the pages. “I had a girlfriend,” he said. “Once.”

  “Did she have a name?”

  “Leticia.”

  “How long did you go out with her for?”

  “Not long.”

  “How long?”

  “A few months.”

  He wasn’t lying. He had been involved with Leticia a long time ago. He was fifteen, and all his classmates were talking about girls, girls’ butts, kissing. He’d wanted to be a part of the group too. Leticia lived in São Paulo and was a little chubby, a little nerdy, and a little clingy. Ideal at the time. They met on the Internet and chatted about films, music, and everyday subjects. She thought he was special, more intelligent than the rest, which was great for him.

  It hadn’t taken Teo long to realize that Leticia felt something more for him. He fed her illusions, not to be mean but out of the need to like someone. To pretend he liked someone. It was a novelty for him.

  It had lasted five months. Leticia would send him daily messages on his cell, asking where he was, how he was, and what he was thinking about. Although they had no physical contact (they never actually met in person), she seemed determined to take over his life. She wanted to share secrets, give advice, get intimate. She wasn’t content just being his online girlfriend. Women always wanted more. Teo’s natural reaction had been to back off. Ignored messages, monosyllabic replies, excuses that he had to go to bed early. Until it completely derailed.

  “Why did you break up?” Clarice insisted.

  “Because it wasn’t working.”

  “Were you two-timing her?”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Men always do that.”

  He shook his head, exasperated. “I don’t two-time, Clarice,” he said, and went back to his book.

  • • •

  She came out of the bathroom and walked over to the bed, naked, a white towel wrapped around her head. Teo was distracted, and when he saw her like that, it rattled him—Clarice had always changed behind closed doors. He tried to act naturally.

  She picked up the phone and handed it to him. “Why don’t you order some wine for us?”

  The bottle of wine was delivered a few minutes later in a bucket of ice, along with a bottle opener and two plastic glasses. She watched him serve it, smiling, hands on hips, with welcoming eyes.

  “Are you a virgin?” she asked.

  She clinked her glass against his and took a sip. A drop escaped her lips, ran down her chin, split into two, and continued over the curve of her breasts. Two ripe oranges.

  Teo didn’t answer. He could barely think. Pink nipples.

  “If you’re attracted to me, I want you to know that I want to go to bed with you,” she said finally. She wiped up one of the drops of wine with her finger and put it in her mouth, sucking her cheeks in.

  He shook his head. “It can’t be like this. I don’t want it to be like this.”

  “Don’t be silly. Couples fuck.”

  “I—”

  She shushed him with an index finger on his lips. It was still moist with saliva from her mouth. Teo blinked, trying to memorize every inch of the image. Clarice was perfect: her tongue timidly touching her teeth, the stars tattooed on her shoulder were more vivid on her naked body, so white.

  “Aren’t you going to drink?”

  “I am,” he said. He took a gulp of wine and took a deep breath, the perfumed air filling his lungs.

  “I know you’re a virgin,” she said. She sat on his lap. The glasses clinked again. “But I’ll teach you everything.”

  “I’m not—”

  She leaned over and gave him a little kiss on the lips. It lasted a few seconds, and she nibbled at his lower lip. Teo pulled back, anesthetized, his mouth tingling. Her hipbones jutted out beneath her slender waist. For an instant, he wanted to tear off the towel, throw her onto the bed, and fuck her. He stared at the harmony of lines that converged, like streams, at her vagina.

  As if reading his thoughts, Clarice let the towel slide off her hair and straddled him, pulling his pajama shirt over his head. He moaned, shuddered, panted. He placed his hands on her breasts, feeling their softness, their aroma, their shape. Clarice reached over for the handcuffs on the bedside table. She ran the cold metal over Teo’s broad chest, scratching him subtly with her fingernails. She tilted her head. Moist kisses on his neck. Her tongue made circles around his nipple as she slipped the cuff onto his right wrist. Smiling, she allowed Teo to be hypnotized by her curves. She was trying to close the other cuff on his left wrist when he stopped her.

  “You’re not going to do that,” he said.

  He shoved her away violently and stood up, the handcuff dangling from one arm.

  “Teo, come back here.”

  He got the key from the table and unlocked the handcuff.

  He tossed it to Clarice. “Put it on yourself,” he ordered. “Attach it to the bedpost.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Just do it.”

  He sat in an armchair studying her light, almost aerial movements. It took Clarice a few minutes to cuff herself to the bed, hands above her body. The chain between the cuffs was short and almost wasn’t long enough to make it around the post.

  “What are we going to do now?” she asked in a sensual voice.

  He was still on fire. The contact with her skin had been indescribable. He got up and paced nervously around the room. She was saying something, but he tried not to listen. She moved her arms, spread her legs, but he refused to look. The image was inviting. Dangerous too. He needed to breathe, he needed to think, he needed to . . . He exited quickly, leaving Clarice behind in the Wonderland Motel.

  15

  Teo bit into a potato chip and ordered another shot of cheap whiskey. The place mirrored his state of mind: the tiny bar smelled of frying oil, and a drunk was spending his coins on shots of cachaça and Raimundo Fagner songs on the jukebox.

  Clarice’s invitation had disturbed him, confronting him with images as obscene as they were painful. Most men would have taken advantage of her there and then. He felt honorable but also like an idiot.

  I know you’re a virgin, she had said, as if it were blazoned across his forehead. It was an open wound. Clarice was attractive to all men. What did he have to offer her? She had made the invitation knowing he wouldn’t take her up on it. She was clever, astute in a primitive way.

  He was a prisoner, so close to happiness, but strong bars prevented him from reaching it. He had Clarice naked on a motel bed, but he didn’t have her completely. There were parts of her to which he’d never gain access. At the end of the day, he was the one with his hands tied.

  He gulped down the whiskey and ordered cachaça. He upended the little glass quickly: one, two, three shots. His cell vibrated in his pocket. On the screen it said HELENA. He put it on the table and waited for it to go to the answering service. A butterfly fluttered quickly past. It did something pretty in the air, near the lightbulb. It flapped its little yellow wings covered in brown spots and did another somersault.

  He threw down his fifth shot, feeling the alcohol slide down his throat. The frisky butterfly was beginning to make him feel queasy. He thought he might toss the potato chips back onto the greasy plate on the table. Or onto the butterfly, depriving her of all her colorful yellow and brown, making her beige. The color of vomit.

  He placed his hand on the empty glass, readying himself for the attack. Then in one quick movement, he trapped the butterfly under the glass. It thrashed about, its wings clicking against the walls of its prison. Teo pressed the mouth of the glass to the table, mak
ing it impossible to escape. That was his life. Twenty-two years old. No escape.

  He ordered more whiskey. What Clarice didn’t understand was that having her near him was already enough. He didn’t need caresses or kisses or sex. All he wanted was that she be his, like a book of photography on a coffee table.

  He liked seeing the butterfly in panic. It was comforting to share what he was feeling with someone. The butterfly couldn’t accept the loss of its freedom. It hadn’t expected to be incarcerated in glass to the sound of “Bubbles of Love.” The rustling grew, and he took it as an answer. Clarice was under his control, but she wasn’t really under his control. For that, handcuffs, gags, and Thyolax were useless. He needed to surprise her. Surprise her as she had surprised him with suggestive words, unexpected looks, and caresses. He needed to make a mark. Could he do it?

  He lifted up the glass and let the butterfly do its acrobatics in the air. Yellow and brown. The insect was surprised by its freedom, and now it liked him. That was how it worked: surprise and gratitude went hand in hand. The butterfly liked him, and he liked it. He was filled with courage and wanted to remain so.

  The butterfly fluttered away at a height that was beyond Teo’s reach. He waited for it to come closer again, but it was ungrateful, flitting here and there, flapping its wings, avoiding him. Teo waited for it to land on a nearby table, then smashed it with a closed fist.

  • • •

  He went back to the motel room. Clarice’s sylphlike silhouette was drawn in shadow: arms above her head, legs crossed, head hanging to one side. It was an uncomfortable position to sleep in, but she was asleep. He stroked her belly. Soft skin, tiny freckles. He pulled her to him. Her body flopped back; he moved forward. Her steady breathing was replaced with short gasps. He tugged on her hair and sniffed her, giving in to lust. Armpits turned him on. Hers were perfect and offering themselves up to him.

  “Teo, you’re drunk . . .”

  He slapped her—not to hurt her but to tell her to be quiet, to swallow her words. He got the padded gag from the suitcase and put it on her. Her hands were still cuffed to the bedpost. Legs and stomach. An orchestra of clanging metals started up. He took off his shirt, stepped out of his trousers, tossed his clothes onto the floor. Human, vulgar, shameless. It felt good.

  He lowered his head and ran his hot tongue around her groin, leaving a trail of saliva on her belly and thighs. He nipped at her skin as if wanting to tear off a chunk. Sex came with a dose of pain—he knew from the films he’d seen. He rubbed his nose, mouth, and eyes on her, exploring, blowing, inhaling, probing. Hands on her waist, nipples, lips. Everything about her was small and slender, his Lolita.

  Dizzy from the alcohol, he pulled off his underwear. His erect penis stood in a nest of hair. He was sorry he hadn’t groomed it, but what the hell. He mounted Clarice, holding her legs apart forcefully. She retreated in spasms, skin flushed, blood vessels dilated. The handcuffs jangled against the bedpost. For the first time, it felt reciprocal.

  They twisted around each other, bathed in sweat. Violent banging against the bedpost. His hairy chest against the gag in her mouth. Clarice came and went like a piston. Teo panted, choked, kept going. He dominated, ravished, surprised.

  He came with muffled grunts, then lay back on the bed to rest. He took off Clarice’s gag, kissed her on the lips, and unlocked the handcuffs too. She lowered her head and massaged her sore wrists, staring at the door. Then she burst into tears and began to punch the mattress, arms and legs flailing.

  Teo grew alarmed. He asked her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. It was as if she were having an epileptic fit. He cleaned himself up in the bathroom and went to get a syringe.

  16

  The car tore up the highway. Teo drove quickly, gripped by an effusive happiness. Clarice was asleep in the passenger seat, without cuffs or the gag. Before setting out, he had stowed the suitcases in the trunk and returned the engagement ring to her finger. She was more beautiful like that, a bride-to-be.

  He rubbed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the effects of the alcohol. He was still a little dizzy, but his pride trumped his queasiness. His shame at having undressed in front of her had morphed into a boldness that told him to keep going. Slowly, Clarice was opening up to him; she liked him. It was natural—she didn’t have anyone else. He nourished her, gave her love and attention. The least he could expect in return was a subtle form of affection, which would soon grow stronger—he was certain. At the end of the day, even hippie feminists succumbed to real men.

  Good sex was an exchange. Before having sex with Clarice (something he had imagined was unpleasant for any woman), he had gone to the trouble to satisfy her. Her expression, somewhere between fear and ecstasy, had been proof of his conquest. Clarice was another person now: she didn’t drink too much, she didn’t smoke, and she wrote better. They had evolved together. There was something magical about what they were doing: packing bags, following an itinerary laid out in a screenplay. They were probing fiction and building a new reality, their own reality.

  He took Clarice’s hands and kissed them. Her pale fingers were cold and deserved some new shine. He decided to buy her some nail polish along the way. Dark colors to pay homage to Caetano Veloso, who was singing “Tigresa” on the radio as if he’d composed the song for Clarice.

  The traffic was flowing smoothly against the landscape of mountains and wide meadows until, near the town of Itaguaí, just past Rio, orange cones funneled traffic into a slow-moving line. Roadwork, he imagined. He was eager to get to Ilha Grande, and the delay annoyed him. A little farther along, at mile thirteen, the situation became clear: at a highway patrol post, police officers in vests were controlling the traffic.

  Teo glanced at Clarice: she was wearing tight jeans and a bright yellow blouse; she was pretty but looked tired. He took her hands and shoved them brusquely between her thighs to hide the handcuff marks on her wrists. A subtle scratch near her mouth betrayed the use of the gag.

  He reduced his speed and got in the line of cars in the left-hand lane to pass in front of the police barricade. There were lots of cones, lots of officers, and lots of nervous drivers on the roadside looking for their documents. For some reason, the sight reassured him. He was certain he wouldn’t be stopped; he was free of the men in uniform. The next instant an officer waved him over.

  Teo considered accelerating out of there. Instead, he rolled down the window.

  “Where are you headed?” the officer asked.

  “Ilha Grande.”

  There were another five cars stopped there. Some drivers were sent to the police post.

  “Has something happened?” asked Teo.

  “Driver’s license and ownership papers, please.”

  He reached for his wallet, trying not to let his hands shake, and smiled.

  “Are you on vacation?”

  The officer’s eyes invaded the car. They came to rest on Clarice before returning to his documents again.

  “Yes. My fiancée and I are going camping.”

  The passing seconds drew his nerves taut. The officer glanced back at Clarice.

  “She takes medicine to sleep,” said Teo. “She gets carsick.”

  “Can I have a look in the back?”

  “No problem.”

  When Teo got out of the car, his legs buckled under the weight of his body. He leaned discreetly on the hood, trying to calculate how many hours earlier he’d given Clarice the Thyolax. Four, five? She could wake up anytime. Especially if she heard strange voices.

  The officer had a superficial look around the trunk, which relieved Teo somewhat. He didn’t have a license for the revolver; nor would he have known how to justify the products he had bought at the sex shop. He imagined the two pink Samsonites would convince the officer that they were just a couple going to Ilha Grande for a vacation.

  “That’s a lot of suitcases. How long are yo
u going to stay for?”

  “You know women—they always overdo it. We won’t be staying long, as we have to be back for Christmas with the family.”

  “What’s in the glove compartment?”

  The officer’s question, made so emphatically, made Teo feel as if he were going to faint. In the glove compartment was the toiletry bag containing the ampoules of Thyolax and the syringe. He went ahead of the officer, opened the passenger door, and leaned into the car, only inches from Clarice. He held out the toiletry bag to the officer, who gave it a perfunctory glance and then turned his attention to the doctor’s satchel behind the seat.

  “Can you open that, please?” he said

  Teo turned the numbers on the satchel until he reached the combination and wiped his forehead on his shirt. For a second, he wanted to confess to killing Breno, tell the officer where the body was and what he’d been forced to do.

  The officer poked around inside the satchel and held up Breno’s glasses. “These yours?”

  Teo didn’t know how communication between the police worked, but it occurred to him that they might have put out a bulletin with a recent photograph of Breno. If so, the glasses would be the easiest detail to recall. Why hadn’t he thrown them away?

  “They’re my fiancée’s.”

  “And who’s this?” asked the officer. Luckily, Breno wasn’t wearing glasses in the photo on the licence in his wallet.

  “A friend.”

  “‘Breno Santana Cavalcante,’” the officer read. Hearing the name come out of the officer’s mouth made Teo see himself in prison. He saw Clarice in a rage, shaking her finger at him in court, repeating Now who’s wearing the cuffs?

  “He left his wallet at our place. We’re going to meet him on Ilha Grande,” explained Teo. Was this the moment when he’d be told he was under arrest? Or was it still too early to confirm his involvement in the disappearance?