Cancans, Croissants, and Caskets

by Mary McHugh

  “Welcome to the Copacabana, lovely ladies,” he said with a charming but slight Portuguese accent. “We have been looking forward to your visit.”

  When Janice, our actress hoofer, got out of the car, he ignored the rest of us and moved in on her like the ocean caressing the shore. “And you are?” he asked, taking her hand and kissing it.

  “Janice Rogers, Señor Ortega,” she said, pushing her blond hair back from her face. “Your hotel is magnificent.”

  “As are you,” he said, unable to take his eyes off her.

  A woman who had been standing in back of Ortega stepped forward and put her arm through his. “We are so glad to have you here this week,” she said. “I’m Maria and will be your translator while you’re here. I hope you will allow me to help you with anything you need.” She was a slender woman in her early thirties, her hair in tight braids all over her head, her skin a pale brown. Her English was flawless, with no trace of an accent.

  She gently pulled Miguel away from Janice and asked, “Which one of you is Tina Powell?”

  Tina, a magazine editor and our fearless leader, held out her hand. “I’m Tina,” she said. “We are grateful to have your help, Maria. None of us knows Portuguese, so we will rely on you.”

  Miguel tore his gaze from Janice to Tina and kissed her hand too. “We will do everything we can to make your stay here a pleasant one,” he said.

  Tina introduced him to Gini, a documentary filmmaker, Mary Louise, our only housewife hoofer, and me. He guided our group into the imposing lobby of this incredible hotel. Everything about it was grand. The lobby was huge, and the marble floors and columns gleamed in the afternoon sunshine.

  “After you get unpacked and rested and have some dinner,” Maria said, “I’d like to take you to one of my favorite places in Rio. I don’t want to tell you much about it because I want it to be a surprise. It’s a typically Brazilian experience.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” Tina said. “See you later, Maria.”

  We got our keys at the desk and went up to our rooms.

  When I saw the suite I would share with Gini, I was really impressed. It had a huge sitting room with a balcony and a view of the beach, an iPod dock, a widescreen TV, a fully stocked minibar, and Wi-Fi. There was a sleek modern bedroom with abstract paintings on the walls, an enormous, pink-marble-tiled bathroom with a bidet, a separate shower and bathtub, and a little kitchen dominated by an espresso machine. Gini and I grinned at each other when we saw our home for the next week. “Sure beats New Jersey,” she said.

  She went out on the balcony. “Oh, Pat, look at that beach! Acres of sand and water just waiting for us to dive in. Want to go for a swim?”

  “Do you think it’s safe?” I said, worrywart that I am. I try not to be one, but it’s no use.

  “Unless there’s a demon undertow waiting to drag us out to sea, never to be heard from again, I think we’re fine,” Gini said, throwing one of the ten silk-encased pillows on her bed at me.

  “I’ll go ask the others if they want to come with us,” she said and left the room.

  I unpacked and put my clothes in the drawers and closet. By the time Gini got back into the room, I had slithered into my two-piece, black bathing suit, which, I have to say, really showed off my dancer-slim, flat-stomached, terrific-legged figure. Tap dancing will do that for you.

  “Way to go, Pat,” Gini said. “That bikini is perfect for you.”

  “Come on, Gini,” I said, embarrassed. “You’re the one with the big boobs. Are the others coming?”

  “No, they wanted to rest for a while.”

  “They don’t have your energy, Gini,” I said. “But then—who does?”

  “Too little time, too much to do,” she said, putting on her own swimsuit, which proved my point. “I want a swim first.”

  We threw shirts over our suits and grabbed some sunblock, dark glasses, and towels and headed for the elevator.

  As we walked out onto the beach, which was crowded with sun worshippers, we felt overdressed. Others on the beach wore string bikinis and thongs that were so tiny, our swimsuits felt like granny gowns by comparison. The sun blazed down on us. It felt like it was about ninety degrees, so the thought of the cooling ocean was enticing. The sand was gleaming white and clean. We dropped our towels near the water’s edge and ran into the sea.

  The tide was going out, so we had to push our way through the shallow waves for a short distance before it was deep enough to swim. The water was cool, not icy cold the way it is on Cape Cod at home. I swam out to where it was deeper, taking long strokes, not having to kick my legs very hard because the sea pushed me along. It felt glorious.

  Gini caught up with me before long. Her style involved shorter strokes and faster leg movements, just like her personal style on shore. We swam along together in the salty water, looking up occasionally, long enough to smile at each other.

  Gini turned over on her back and kicked her legs. “Is this great or what?” she said.

  I rolled over onto my back too and did the backstroke.

  “How did we get so lucky, Gini?” I asked. “We’re in Rio, getting paid to be here, and swimming off one of the best beaches in the world. We must be doing something right.”

  “Maybe God likes dancers,” she said. “Maybe he wishes there were more of us, so he does things like this to encourage others.”

  I’m not always sure there’s a God up there helping us along, but I felt too blessed to argue with her.

  “Race you back to shore,” I said, turning toward the beach.

  We kept even until the very last lap, when Gini passed me with a burst of energy, ran up on the sand, and flopped down on her towel. A trio of tanned teenagers interrupted their Frisbee game long enough to admire her.

  I shook myself when I came out of the water and spattered droplets all over my competitive friend. “You always have to win, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Second best is no good,” she said, drying her red hair.

  “You should know,” I said. “You’re definitely a winner, Gini.”

  She made a face and said, “I wish. But I keep trying.”

  I lay back on my towel to soak in some sun when a man and a woman stopped in front of us.

  “Are you two of the Happy Hoofers?” the man asked.

  I squinted and shaded my eyes as I looked up at him. He was dark-skinned and sexy-looking, with a gorgeous body. So many good-looking men in this city. It was almost enough to turn me into a heterosexual. Almost.

  The woman with him was wearing a barely visible top and a thong. Her large sunglasses made it hard for me to get an accurate idea of what she looked like, but her lips were sensual and shiny.

  Gini spoke first—of course. “We are. Who wants to know?”

  The man held out his hand. “I am Otavio. I used to be the bartender at the hotel. This is Yasmin. She still works at the hotel—in the accounting department.”

  Yasmin looked at us over the top of her Ray-Bans and said, “I’m glad to meet you.” She didn’t really look all that glad.

  “What can we do for you?” Gini said. Her manner was not friendly. I was surprised because Gini is usually open to all comers.

  “Nothing,” he said, starting to move away. “I just wanted to introduce myself to you in case you wanted to see anything in Rio. I work as a guide now.”

  “Thanks,” Gini said, “but Maria has planned our schedule while we’re here.”

  At the mention of Maria’s name, Otavio’s smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. He grabbed Yasmin’s arm and pulled her away. “Enjoy your visit,” he muttered, clearly not meaning it.

  When they were out of earshot, I said to Gini, “What was that all about? You weren’t your usual warm and sunny self.”

  “I don’t know what it was about those two,” Gini said, sitting up. “There was just something about them I didn’t like. And did you see his face when I mentioned Maria’s name?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I wondered about
that. He definitely doesn’t like her.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out when we meet Maria later for our mysterious trip,” Gini said.

  “You’ll be too busy taking pictures to ask her anything, if I know you,” I said. Gini was devoted to her photography and was amazingly talented with her camera.

  “Well, I’ll try to find out about those two between shots,” Gini said.

  I picked up my towel and lotion. “Let’s go back,” I said.

  We met our gang and Maria in the lobby.

  “Please be our guests for dinner in the Palm Room,” Maria said, gesturing toward a restaurant that was lush with greenery. “Afterward, would you like to see a side of Rio that very few tourists ever experience?”

  “Always,” Gini said.

  “Meet me here at seven,” Maria said. “Wear comfortable shoes. And be sure to bring your sense of adventure.”

  Pat’s Tip for Traveling with Friends: Always bring earplugs, in case your roommate snores.

  Chapter 2

  Magical Mystery Tour

  After feasting on partridge with acerola fruit sauce—divine!—we regrouped to meet Maria. She led us out of the hotel to a white van with the hotel’s logo painted on its sides.

  We drove through the main streets of Rio. Looking through the traffic, we saw a beautiful, modern city. People in bright summer clothing strolled the busy streets, vendors hawked their wares from sidewalk stands, and high above the city on Corcovado Mountain, the statue of Christ the Redeemer spread its arms in a timeless, benevolent gesture. After about fifteen minutes, our driver turned onto a narrow, dark street paved with cobblestones and stopped in front of a rather seedy little house. Its chipped paint and dusty windows contrasted with the gleaming glass-and-steel structures closer to the beach.

  Maria led us into the building and down some stairs to a large basement room, where a half dozen women in white were dancing barefoot, swaying, their eyes closed, as a muscular, dark-skinned man provided a hypnotic rhythm on a colorfully decorated drum. Mesmerized, we sat on wicker chairs to observe the scene.

  As we watched, one of the women went into a trance. The room was still as her body shook and she fell to the floor. For a while she was motionless. Then she rose up, opened her eyes and beckoned to Maria.

  Maria walked toward her as if she were hypnotized, as if she had no choice.

  “Your name is Maria?” the psychic asked.

  “It is,” she said, her voice a monotone.

  “You are in great danger. Someone wants to kill you.”

  “Who?” Maria asked.

  “I do not know. But I feel the presence of evil around you.”

  “You have to tell me who wants to kill me,” Maria said, panic in her voice.

  The mystic closed her eyes and fell to the floor again. She opened her eyes and looked at Maria.

  “You have taken something that belongs to this person. You must give it back.”

  She slumped over, her head in her lap, and was silent.

  Maria questioned her. “Who is it? You must tell me. What do I have that I have to give back? Help me.” She shook the woman, who was limp and unresponsive.

  Maria returned to our group, shaken and pale. Mary Louise, our mother hen, pulled a chair over for her to sit on and knelt beside her.

  “You can’t believe anything she said,” she said. “She doesn’t know you, Maria.”

  Maria shook her head. “These people have special powers. They can see things nobody else can. I believe her.” She looked around at the rest of us, fear in her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I brought you here because I thought it would be different from anything you would see at home, but I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this.” She gave a short laugh.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear anything one of these mystics would tell me, but I could see that Gini was practically bursting to interact with them. As a documentary filmmaker, she’s always looking for new subjects to explore. She had already made a prize-winning film about Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, and I could tell she sniffed another unusual experience in this cellar in Rio.

  Tina gave Maria a glass of water. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Janice, who was always up for anything that came along, obviously wanted to be beckoned by one of the women in white.

  The drums beat again, softly at first, then louder and stronger, rhythmically, hypnotically, and the women in white moved their bodies back and forth, their arms reaching up, their eyes closed, their heads turning from side to side.

  A tall woman in the center opened her eyes wide and motioned to Gini. “Come,” she said in Portuguese. Gini grabbed Maria and dragged her to the middle of the floor in front of the mystic. Maria obviously didn’t want to go back there, but she was our translator so she followed Gini.

  “I see you in India,” the woman said. Gini gasped. She had just returned from India with her boyfriend, Alex, attempting to adopt a little girl she had met while filming a documentary on orphanages in New Delhi. Gini leaned forward to hear the mystic’s next words.

  “You left something there that is very precious to you,” the psychic said, covering her eyes with long bony fingers. “You must go back and get it.”

  “Will I be able to do that?” Gini asked through Maria.

  “It will be more difficult than you are anticipating, but you will be successful eventually.” The woman turned away from Gini, and her eyes widened when she looked at Maria.

  “You . . . ,” she said. “You . . . ,” and she fell to the floor.

  Gini put her arm around Maria and led her back to us. “Don’t pay any attention to her,” she said.

  “You paid attention to what she told you, didn’t you?” Maria demanded.

  “Well, of course. I want to believe her, but I—”

  Maria grabbed Gini by the shoulders. “How did she know you were in India?”

  “Oh, they probably have hidden microphones around the room, and they heard me talking about it before,” Gini said.

  I knew Gini hadn’t been talking about her little girl in the Indian orphanage this evening, but I kept my mouth shut. How did the so-called mystic know? I mean, with all the places in the world to mention, why did she pick India? Listen, I don’t believe in all this mystical stuff, but I had to admit things happen all the time that we can’t understand. I try not to let that sneak into my therapy, but it’s not always easy.

  Janice didn’t wait to be summoned. She walked up to the nearest mystical lady, whose face was gaunt and pale, and put her hands together in a pleading way. Her face is so beautiful, it’s hard for people to resist anything she asks. Her perfect complexion and her blue-velvet eyes are very hard to resist. She never consciously uses her beauty to get what she wants, but almost everyone responds to her.

  The psychic stared at Janice and said something to her in Portuguese. Janice realized she needed Maria and beckoned to her. Janice pointed to the translator, and the woman repeated what she had said.

  “What did she say, Maria?” Janice asked.

  “She asked if you would have a drink with her,” Maria said, trying not to laugh.

  I was close enough to hear this exchange, and I did laugh.

  I should explain that I live with a woman I love very much—her name is Denise. I have always been attracted to women, though I tried to deny it for a long time. When I finally accepted this truth about myself, I found peace. Denise and I have been happy together since we met on a cruise in Russia.

  The whole idea that this mysterious, mystical, eerie experience should turn into a drink invitation tickled me.

  Janice looked startled at first, and then she smiled.

  “Maria,” she said, “please thank her for me and tell her I’m busy tonight.”

  Maria repeated the message in Portuguese. The woman looked disappointed, but she put her hands on Janice’s face and said in English, “Beautiful. You will always be lucky.”

  None of u
s wanted to leave, but Maria gathered us up and led us back up the stairs and into the waiting car that took us to the hotel.

  She walked with us to the elevator and said, “Meet me in the bar for a drink in an hour. It’s beautiful late at night, and I’d love to know all of you better.”

  We went back to our rooms and finished unpacking.

  An hour later we came back down to the bar, which lived up to Maria’s description. Long and gleaming, with comfortable stools and elegant little tables near a grand piano where a man played soft, soothing music, it was the perfect place to relax and talk about our first day in Rio. We sat down at a table near the piano.

  “I’m so glad we have Maria as our guide,” Tina said. She was wearing a pale blue silky top and pants that made her blue eyes even more beautiful than usual. “She obviously knows Rio well and can take us to fascinating places like that weird house with those women in white. That was great.”

  “I loved it,” Janice said, her blond hair swept back off her bare shoulders, “but I have the feeling that Maria doesn’t like me all that much.”

  “She thought you were trying to steal her boyfriend—the hotel manager, Miguel,” Gini said. “He zeroed in on you right away, and I saw the look on her face when he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Oh, come on, Gini,” Janice said. “He was just being polite.”

  “Yeah, right,” Gini said. “Miss I’m-nothing-special. All men react to you like that. It’s the only reason we keep you in our group. We get more applause with you there.”

  Janice dribbled some of her margarita on Gini’s hair.

  “Wonder where Maria is,” Mary Louise said. “It’s been an hour and a half since we left her, and she was right on time this afternoon.”

  “We should call her room,” I said. “Maybe she got involved in something and can’t get away.” I pulled out my phone and dialed. There was no answer.

  We listened to the music and enjoyed the quiet of the late evening when a plump little bald man who worked behind the main desk hurried over to our table.

  “Are you the Happy Hoofers” he asked, an anxious expression on his face.