by Todd Grimson
Track said, “Go to the airport and get on the first plane. Either come here or go to Dad down in Brazil. Can you hear me? It sounds like you’re in a nightclub.”
“I’m here at Code’s. He’s making a demo of a song based on a sample of some stuff I said while we were having sex.”
“Just get to the airport, Lisa. Get the fuck out of there, OK?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
PART 2
I descend
until
I touch the depths
black reflected in black black light
pollen in the dark
HAROLDO DE CAMPOS
ONE
Martinho Vidal’s initial impression of Dr. Nova’s daughter was that she was spoiled, a typical American rich girl, she seemed sullen when she got off the plane and stayed sullen, pouting, all the way in the car, driving through Rio to the house in the wealthy hill district of Sao Conrado, a house provided by the company and from which Dr. Nova was usually absent, as now.
Lisa looked out the window, but whether she was interested in what she saw or not, it was impossible for Martinho to tell. He wanted her to like him, but he was uncomfortable with her so far, which made him resent her a bit, for he was used to being liked. He was forty-eight years old, thickened some by the years, thirsty now, sweating when the traffic stopped, wishing he had taken off his jacket before he’d gotten in the car. It was a nice Mercedes, a company car. He sounded the horn—for no reason, but then afterward the cars in front of him began to move.
“You came here once before, yes?” As soon as he said this he felt foolish and irritated; he knew he was repeating himself, fishing for more of a response from this bored little bitch.
“I was here before, a few years ago,” she said, turning to him. “I saw many things … that I did not really understand.”
What did she mean by that? She struck him as the kind of girl who would like to be mysterious, to try to make herself interesting, and he didn’t like her, she was the same age as his own daughter, but Solange was far more mature.
“You must be hot,” he said. “Why don’t you take off your jacket?”
Black leather. Underneath: a short skirt.
“All right.”
Martinho could smell her, smell her body and the leather, some trace of perfume, as she moved around, slipping out of it, baring her arms. He looked again, unable to believe his eyes. God in heaven, she was tattooed. Like a whore. She was trying to look brazen, but she noticed his attention—so she was not yet completely without shame. Was it possible her father knew about this? No, it was not. Poor Dr. Nova. Even great men had their crosses to bear. She was a pretty girl, too. Tragically disturbed. There was probably a history of therapists and tranquilizers, special schools and lies and suicide attempts.
He became solicitous, almost without knowing it, feeling sorry for her now. He talked about Rio, the Botanical Gardens, and Copacabana Beach, more as a soothing ointment than to inform. She seemed to be listening to him. She would be alone at the house, with the cook and the maid, for three days, until Dr. Nova arrived; he was tied up in the laboratory in the jungle, way north, near Boa Vista. Special plant alkaloids, that’s all Martinho knew. This poor creature. He wondered if she had a disease.
Once inside the gate, the air immediately felt cooler. It was shady, there was water spraying up out of the fountain, and when they got out of the car they were greeted not only by Celina, the black Bahian woman Martinho’s age who ran the house and whom Lisa recognized (they hugged), but by another American girl he knew from the research site, a redhead, Martinho could not remember her name. “Caitlin,” she introduced herself. Well, she was obviously here to show Lisa around, she could translate and ease the strangeness.
They went inside. It was a beautiful house. Yes, Martinho gathered, the tentative plan for tomorrow was still for Solange and some of her friends to accompany Lisa Nova north a couple hours up to Buzios, a beach famous for its perfection, “if that sounds agreeable—?” This Caitlin was professionally friendly and very organized, he could tell. He wouldn’t know whether to tell Solange to expect her along or not. Caitlin must have just arrived herself this afternoon.
Martinho was relieved. He had anticipated having to hang around here, maybe even sharing dinner, so as to keep Lisa entertained. Now that this seemed unnecessary, he found himself wishing to linger nonetheless. Celina’s cooking was excellent, and his curiosity about all of these people was aroused. When it seemed Lisa was going to her room, maybe to take a short siesta and a shower before the evening meal, Martinho excused himself and left, not before stopping to exchange a few words with Celina on the way out. Yes. In the Mercedes, sans his jacket, taking off his tie, he turned the key in the ignition and once again took his pleasure in the fineness of this automobile. Then he thought about other things. His own family His life, with its myriad cares.
TWO
In the shower, the water splashing her full in the face, on the top of her head, Lisa finally acknowledged, accepted, the full strangeness of the impressions she had imbibed, the sights and sounds and atmosphere that inescapably meant she was in a foreign country Everything was different now: She was in Brazil.
She was so tired, so sapped of all vitality and energy for the moment, not only from the travel … usually she traveled well, changing time zones and weather didn’t bother her, but … something else was troubling her, against her will she felt the pull of whatever spell Boro had put on her. Whatever he wanted of her, it was distant, she could forget about it for hours at a time … still it remained, some claim on her, the visible symbols manifest in the tattoos of the jaguar, the cross, and the heart.
One new symptom, it had started in New York, she was sure she wasn’t imagining it or exaggerating—she felt herself constantly simmering with lust, she could resist it, but she wanted to come off with whomever she came in contact with, even the ugly ones, sometimes it seemed like anyone looking at her could tell. On the drive from the airport she’d considered fucking Martinho Vidal, and then seeing Caitlin, her red hair, Lisa’d immediately imagined them locked in a fervent sixty-nine. She was in heat, and it was a torment, it wore her out. In the shower it didn’t take her long, if she moaned it didn’t matter, she had to, it would have to keep her for a while. She had a fever. She was turning into an animal. Now she was hungry, all that mattered was getting some food. She cursed Boro, she hated him, knew he was influencing her from afar. Drying herself, walking into her room, she saw that there were freshly cut flowers, beautiful pale yellow blossoms next to the bed.
In New York, Track said that if it was all true, it seemed to him the key lay in the story of the white jaguar. Where one could go with that, he wasn’t sure.
They had walked to the Strand bookstore, and Lisa got bored and went outside after a while. It was too stuffy in there. She sat down on a step across the street, and a black man walked by with a boa constrictor wrapped around his neck. He smiled at Lisa, so did his blond girlfriend, and Lisa wanted to go to bed with the whole menage, the serpent too. A stab of heat shot up from her ultrasensitive clit, so that there on the street, bare legs under her cotton dress, in the sultry air, she involuntarily gasped, and later had called up an old boyfriend, Rudy, hoping he could come over and fuck her, soothe this restless desperation of the flesh.
Now, dressing in new clothes, Lisa felt temporarily calm, looking forward to the simple pleasure of eating when hungry, resolving to learn more of the language this time, and tan but not burn.
The house was on the side of a hill, above the beach, with a beautiful view—Lisa sat out with Caitlin on the deck. A maid served them iced drinks, with crushed lime slices and cachaca, and Lisa took a good-sized sip, quite prepared to get moderately drunk. Why not? Her father wasn’t here.
The Sao Conrado neighborhood is south of Ipanema and Copacabana, patrolled by a private security force, lots of nice houses with views … but, not too far from a huge favela, crazily jumbled and jammed-toget
her shacks and alleys, such poverty always nearby. At night one would hear gunshots. There were favelas like this all over Rio, improvised shantytowns no one could tear down, always growing, full of malnourished children and ghetto blasters and young hoodlums, it all came back to Lisa as Caitlin explained why Dr. Nova had been delayed.
“What do you do?” Lisa asked.
“I’m a botanist.” Caitlin smiled.
“So … you work in Boa Vista, usually?”
Caitlin said yes. Maybe she too was feeling the sugar cane liquor’s effect. Lisa no longer felt lust for her; she liked her better as a result. It crossed her mind to confide that she had killed someone by drawing an X across a photograph of that person, but she refrained. She was a murderess. It could be neither contemplated nor forgotten. She hadn’t decided what she should think. At last, here came the food. A Bahian recipe, with coconut milk, coriander, and shrimp.
THREE
The blue water came up to midthigh. It felt magnetic to Lisa, as though it possessed properties she had never been able before to perceive. One hundred fifteen miles from Rio, along the Costa do Sol, the beach was quiet, idyllic, all of that. Somebody in the party had a rich parent to have a weekend house here.
Even though Lisa thought Caitlin was really not all that interesting, she would have liked it if she’d come along. But it was never a question. Caitlin brought her two swimsuits to choose from, had coffee with her, and then Solange and her friends came along and off Lisa went.
She did remember Solange. They had hung out together some when she’d been here before. The others—Tavinho, Marisa, and then, greeting them here, Flavio, Jorge, and Bianca—seemed new, all good-looking, healthy, and tan, all with at least some English, though in ordinary repartee they unselfconsciously chattered in Portuguese.
In the stylish home here where they changed, Lisa asked Solange to come into the bathroom for a moment, and felt only slightly shy about the trimming of her pubic hair. The Brazilian swimsuit didn’t cover very much, and she felt naked, but they would all be as naked as she.
Tavinho was attracted to her, she could tell. He was a couple years younger, a student, tight young body, serious despite his smiles. He rubbed sunscreen on her. She asked him to.
Flavio and Bianca were a couple—Bianca looked like a model, and seemed stupid or stuck-up. Flavio was the rich kid. Jorge complained about something, Lisa couldn’t quite catch what. Solange was interested in him, they flirted, Solange was enamored of him, playing it cool. He had obviously pumped iron, but he wasn’t gross. He stared at Lisa more openly than the others did. Solange, in English, explained that Lisa had made a film. She had actually seen it, it turned out. Lisa felt a new affection for her father, finding out something like this, that he’d actually shown off her work.
Marisa was political. Lisa liked something about her, instinctively, but sensed in return some disdain. In the unbelievably clear water, Lisa thought: This is a vacation. The cloudless azure sky, the white sand—this was what people worked all their lives for. She walked through the little waves, Tavinho tagging along. Maybe she’d fuck him. He thought she was a sophisticated, avant-garde little New York bitch with an attitude, and he liked this, it appealed to him a great deal. She could read his mind. This made for the illusion that he was sincere.
He had spent two years at Stanford, he told her.
“Que bom” she said, mocking him, flirting with him. He was sweet and his English was good, a young Montgomery Clift type. She splashed him. Tavinho splashed back, and followed her when she swam out a bit, you could look down through the turquoise and see the sand and shells and rocks and unconcerned fish, the only worry was if her skimpy swimsuit would survive.
“What does the jaguar on your arm mean?” he asked, brave now that they were away from shore. Some scuba divers surfaced, fifty yards or so away.
“It gives me power,” Lisa said, realizing for the first time that this might be literally true. They swam parallel to the beach. You couldn’t swim in Rio. The water there was all fucked up. Tavinho (Solange had mentioned, earlier) was going to be an astronomer. Or a physicist? One of these.
Back around the ice chest, with a blue and yellow umbrella for vague shade, they drank cold beers and ate shrimp off toothpicks, shrimp that had been soaked in some sort of peppery vinegar solution. Bianca had been topless for a while, but now she put on a lavender T-shirt over her smallish breasts. It looked like Jorge had a pretty big unit there within his wet black bikini-style trunks. Solange ran a finger along his thigh. He still seemed in a bad mood, or perhaps constitutionally sulky as part of his concept of machismo; Lisa couldn’t tell. The other males seemed more enlightened than that. The cold beer tasted good, especially with the shrimp. Marisa was without a partner, unless Tavinho had been hers; in any case, she didn’t seem to mind. Now Marissa took off her top and leaned back, narrowing her eyes against the sun.
Tavinho dared rub an unsolicited ice cube on the back of Lisa’s neck, and she let him, it felt good. She turned to him and smiled. Flavio said, “Don’t go back to the city tonight. Stay here. There’s room.”
Flavio’s house (his father was a big industrialist in Sao Paulo) was made of rose stucco, with vines and flowers and a terrace overlooking the rocks and sea. Lisa was impressed. Inside, a large screen showed Elvis Presley, the sound low, with Portuguese subtitles. It was one of those musical numbers where nothing quite matched, he lip-synched badly while one saw saxophones and trumpets, hearing only strings and a Hawaiian guitar.
Out on the terrace, the help served drinks: Flavio wanted everyone to have Coca-Cola and Jack Daniel’s, “to Andy Warhol imperialism,” he said. Jack Daniel’s had been Warhol’s favorite brand of booze. It made you confident, Warhol had said in one of his books, Lisa recalled. She’d been very interested in him for a while.
Because she’d been drinking, Lisa said something later about wanting to see how poor people lived here, even if this was a touristy kind of thing to do. But, being female, it would be harder, she thought.
“You want to see the favelaV Jorge said. “What do you think it is? It’s shit.”
Solange said, “They’d want to rob you. Even during the day it isn’t safe.”
“If you know someone, it’s not a big thing,” Tavinho said. “Especially during the day, when the sun’s out. I’d go with you.”
“Sure you would.” Flavio smiled. There was something soft about him. He had blond curly hair. Everyone else was dark.
The maid’s name was Giulietta. There must have been a cook someplace, but you didn’t see her. Giulietta brought more drinks, and Flavio argued with Marisa about something.
Tavinho explained, next to Lisa: “It’s daime. Have you heard of it? It’s like LSD. You extract it from the ayahuasca vine.”
“Have you taken it?” Lisa asked in the shadows.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I might do it sometime—Flavio says it makes you understand nature. It, ah, tells you things you can’t find out any other way.”
“And Jorge?”
“He says it makes you lose your will.” Tavinho’s tone was amused. Lisa imagined he knew his friends pretty well. “I’m sure your father knows all about it,” he said, modestly enough.
It was twilight. All of them were half dressed. Bianca complained that she was cold. No one paid any attention to her. Giulietta brought out some plates, and then linen napkins, silverware.
They ate at about nine o’clock.
Bianca asked Lisa if she had met many film stars. She was very interested in Madonna and Drew Barrymore. Only Tavinho and Solange were not smoking cigarettes.
Lisa realized, looking into her nearly empty drink, now mostly melted ice, that she had to have her cat shipped down here, she needed him. She wondered, with great seriousness, if there were many obstacles to this, and if it was in Caz’s best interest.
When it was time to go to sleep, she was paired with Solange. A half hour later, when she thought Lisa was asleep, Solange crep
t out. Lisa was in a room right off the terrace, which extended around two sides of the house. She could hear the ocean. It seemed to her that all the alcohol had left her mind; she felt wide awake. Solange had gone the other way, into the house, presumably to seek out Jorge. Lisa went out into the violet shadows, the ocean louder now. The cool air felt good. Her skin was slightly tender; despite the sunscreen, she had a minor sunburn. On the terrace, barefoot, she listened to the waves.
In the dark, she saw a figure, male. She stopped, remained still. He was looking at her. Her breathing slowed. The darkness was purplish and charcoal gray. Then, without being able to really see him, some rhythm, some chemical, some invisible signal told her this was Tavinho, and his silence, his stillness, struck her as beguiling.
“Tavinho,” she finally whispered, her voice coming out low and hoarse. He made some movement, maybe a nod, yet still did not speak. She knew it was him.
“Como vail?” he said slowly, teasing her now with his use of Portuguese.
“Que bom,” she replied gravely, and they were in complete accord. He stood up and came closer, taking his time. Then they embraced, somewhat formally, gracefully, and began to kiss. They kissed.
FOUR
On the way back to Rio, they had a slight car accident. It was the other car’s fault, and nobody got too upset about it. They all got out and stood around for a few minutes. Lisa couldn’t follow the conversation. The driver of the other car was a tall black man who didn’t seem inclined to be pushed around, but he was reasonable, very handsome, Lisa had on sunglasses and she felt like she knew him. He glanced at her several times like he also possibly recognized her. She felt embarrassed, her lips bruised and puffy, her muscles sore from swimming and fucking.