Narcisa

by Jonathan Shaw

  As they drift off down the beach, they pass me right by, as if I’m invisible. They sense from my devilish goatee, crooked gold teeth and jailhouse tattoos that I’m negligible, an unprofitable equation, a phantom. A gypsy. Invisible.

  I call the guy over, pay for the coconut, then walk on; a scarred, downbeat old ghost shadow, moving along past clusters of healthy, bare-chested young men playing soccer in the cooling evening sands. My eyes scan the lively beachside kiosks, where the living still sit at tables beneath swaying palms, drinking in the pastel summer sunset; lovers and friends sharing idle words at the sea’s edge at day’s end; sounds and shapes and spirit whispers working their dark, healing magic in my bad old gypsy ghost blood.

  I’m home again, and, like a ghost, I’m nowhere, at ease in the comfortable cloak of my own invisibility. Details light up like tiny pinball machine bulbs in my road-weary, dusty old brain, carving themselves into the expanding collage of the evening; a tiny blue and white fishing boat rolling by beyond the wave-line, dusky black boatman standing at the helm like an afterlife spirit guide across River Styx. Final remnants of sunset burn across rolling breakers, like distant funeral pyres, waning, surrendering to the salty spell of tropical night. Huge dancing seabirds dip drunkenly over the water, white as sailors’ dreams.

  Drawn to a sound of familiar music under a cluster of chattering palms, I stop again, thinking, remembering . . . Déjà vu . . . The sounds float soft on a gentle wind as nostalgia envelops me like an old lover’s embrace. A group of elderly men with battered instruments stand in a circle by the crashing waves, constructing gentle bossa nova prayers to the sea.

  Taking a seat by the kiosk, I watch the humble couples dancing unashamed beside the sand; rough, working-class people, clinging to each other like timid children, lest the force of emotions carry them right off the solid ground beneath their sailing feet.

  My gaze fixes on a stout, full-faced young Negress, crazed eyes laughing with mystic African exuberance as she gyrates around a wrinkled, weather-beaten old fisherman a full head shorter than she. Seems I’ve been sitting, observing the world like this forever. Waiting. I know I look like an outsider. Not a tourist or a foreigner. Just . . . different. Untouchable. Apart. Marginal. That’s how they always saw me here, if anyone ever saw me at all; a predatory shadow. Crooked, swindly, antisocial, unapproachable; dangerous.

  I never meant to scare people off; it was just this thing I had. As a kid, I wanted to fit in, and I tried to in awkward little ways. But they could always see right through me. Like a ghost. When I tried to smile, people would check their wallets. Today, I know it’s better like that. Keeps the rats away.

  I sit back, watching the timeless parade of Copacabana whores parading past in giddy, giggling droves. The running of the putas, there they go, holding those proud, round asses out in that special Carioca way, like sharpened cats in heat. I wonder how they manage to move in three directions at once and still walk straight.

  I sit for a long while like that, taking in the night, breathing in the humid seaside air, watching and waiting, scribbling random thoughts into the beat-up little pocket journal that hasn’t left my side since the day I got out of prison.

  Suddenly, the image of her face comes flashing like lightning across eons of time, blasting straight into my awareness; a short-circuit electric-chair explosion of childlike joy-fire-passion, freezing my blood to cement in my veins.

  And the world screeches to a halt.

  6. THE DAKINI

  “WE ALWAYS RECOGNIZE THE PEOPLE WHO WILL CHANGE OUR LIVES. AS THOUGH WE’RE KEEPING APPOINTMENTS MADE BEFORE WE WERE BORN, OR IN FORGOTTEN DREAMS.”

  —Justin R. Smith

  Her crooked Mona Lisa grin lights up the night like a flashing straight razor, and it’s on. Our eyes meet, and I know I’m fucked. Hooked. Done for.

  Trapped like a bug in those eyes, my stomach turns to ice.

  For a millisecond, I picture Luciana with her blazing teenage eyes of mischief and boundless, untamable life. But twenty-something years have gone by, and Luciana is old now, over forty, like me.

  I know in the core of me that I know this one, somehow. No one else could ever look like the feral young creature hovering before me. Insane, brilliant eyes of supernatural liquid crystal vision, popping like an acid-dream cocaine overdose, a burning hellfire infinity of bottomless want; the excruciating, longing vision of a haunted, abandoned child; a hungry ghost, staring me down from an exquisite cracked porcelain ivory-white face. Long, brown hair, thin, delicate arms and endless legs, impossibly high cheekbones, and big, bulging brown alien eyes.

  She stands there, dressed to kill, to wound, maim, rape and destroy, facing me down like an old-time gunslinger pirate; sizing me up, melting my brain with flamethrower eyes of rapid-fire doom and redemption. Eyes that could knock the fucking planet off its axis! And she’s looking straight at me! Oh shit! I know her!

  In a flash, I take in the whole picture; a long-boned, gangly juvenile delinquent stance. High buckskin boots. An aura of savage elegance and danger; boyish frame wrapped in a handmade patchwork denim gypsy skirt hanging low on slender hips with unearthly perfection. Delicate shoulders curved in a lazy, defiant slouch under a thin purple shawl. Translucent white skin; deep blue veins running like ice-cold subterranean rivers in forbidden lands of extraterrestrial dreams.

  At once, I know it in my heart, without words to explain it to my mind.

  She’s a vision, some kind of crazy man-eating angel!

  She turns and wanders away.

  I stand and follow, staggering like a zombie around the musicians.

  “Com licença, senhorita . . .” I hear my voice croak in the long-lost Portuguese of a misspent whorehouse youth.

  She spins around and fixes me with a stun gun of eyes, cocked like twin shotgun barrels.

  “Where you from, hein?” She looks me up and down, scanning me, turning me inside out, paralyzing my soul with shameless laser precision.

  I know that look . . . Danger.

  I swallow hard. “Eh, sou cigano . . . Gypsy . . .” I stammer with a gold-toothed rigor mortis grin. “ . . . Sabe . . . Anywhere’s home, y’know . . .”

  “Cigano? Gyp-say?” She smirks back with undisguised predatory interest. “You one of de gyp-say peoples? Na moral?”

  “Uh-huh . . . Buy ya a drink?” I gesture toward the table.

  “I don’ like drink no alco-ol, mano . . .”

  “Um água de côco então?”

  She shrugs. We sit. The caboclo brings over a pair of côcos. He opens them with two deft machete strokes, reminding me of the flashing twin swords of my heavenly protector, Ogum. I notice he’s wearing a medallion of São Jorge too, just like mine. Saint George. Ogum. Another Son of Ogum. Um filho de Umbanda, like me.

  The shiny green coconut descends into my hand like a prize. He hands us a pair of straws and we drink. She sits studying me across the table with those intense, lively eyes; sizing me up, reading my body computer, right down to my DNA.

  In a sudden gesture of surrender, she speaks. “Se for o diabo, cara, pode qualquer parada comigo, tá ligado. If you de devil, man, you can do whatever you wan’ with me, only don’ hurt nobody else I know, cuz they got nothing to do with it, only me alone, got it?”

  I don’t get it, but I nod. Whatever. Devil? I’m used to crazy chicks who don’t make much sense. Truth be told, they’ve always been my specialty.

  Our straws gurgle in unison as we finish our côcos.

  She grins, showing her crooked teeth, like a baby cat. “Okey, pronto, Cigano, next? Let’s walk, move de leg, anda logo, vai vai, go!”

  I get up. We walk off down the beach path together.

  Her name is Narcisa. As we stroll along, the sound of the breaking waves lends a dreamlike percussion to her weird, melodic speech. She talks on and on, waxing soft and eloquent, and incomprehensible. Out of nowhere, she begins talking about Sacred Geometry and weird paranormal visions; and something enigmatic about myster
ious hybrid human-extraterrestrial royal bloodlines or something.

  “Is many thing I see in these world, Cigano,” she whispers. “But is de kinda thing what only I know about. Nobody else ever can get it . . .”

  I nod. I like her; like that she calls me “Cigano.” Gypsy. The same casual nickname they gave me on the streets here, back when I was a wayward, abandoned runaway, bastard kid. Cigano. A stranger. An outsider. A homeless, rootless, no-name nobody, haunting the beaches and zigzaggy roads of Rio de Janeiro, a million years ago.

  I watch Narcisa as she talks. She reminds me of the kid I once was. Sharp and fast, just like me. I’ve only known her fifteen minutes and she’s already given me a nickname. My old apelido! How does she know so much?

  As she chatters on in her hypnotic, slang-laden, singsong chant, I feel that funny sense of déjà vu again, as if I’ve always known her.

  “ . . . Oiii, Cigano . . .” Her voice crashes into my musings with a strange, random question. “ . . . You ever been inside there, hein?”

  “Huh? Where?” I look at her, puzzled.

  “Pay attention, bro!” She frowns and the world turns dark. “In de Academia Brasileira de Letras. You ever go inside de building there, hein?”

  I shrug, shaking my head, fascinated, bewildered.

  The Brazilian Academy of Letters building downtown? Why’s she talking about that place? I passed right by it today . . . How would she know I’m writing a book? Coincidence? Did she see me scribbling in my notebook back there?

  I get that wave of déjà vu again; some odd telepathic subtext underlying her speech. It turns weirder as we move along the shore, her lilting, childlike chatter floating in the air like a strand of the night’s gentle winds, weaving a spell.

  “Futuristic archeology!” says Narcisa. “Check it out, Cigano, de inscription outside de Academia building! It e’say, ‘Ad Immortalita Tem.’ That’s Latin, brother, got it? You know de meaning of it, hein, Cigano?”

  I shrug again, waiting for her to tell me.

  Without telling me, she giggles and goes on. “ . . . An’ de Loja de Maçonaria. You know it? Porra, cara! I gone inside these place one time . . .”

  “Huh? The Masonic lodge? E daí? What about it?”

  “I break inside in de night, Cigano, got it?” Her voice drops an octave, confiding her special secrets in a frenetic, childlike whisper. “Caralho! I discover too many thing about de Freemason e’society. Hah! I e’study de secret Rosacrucz book I steal from there, an’ I read all about it!” She pauses for a moment, as if unsure of something.

  She looks around, then goes on. “I think may be they don’ wan’ de young girl know all de secret thing, so I gotta make e’special care ’bout who I e’say all these kinda business. These peoples no just de normal human being, you know. De antropologia secreta e’say about how them breed together with de lizard peoples, e’star peoples, long, long times ago, before de Babylonia civilization times, got it?”

  I don’t quite get it, but my head nods, needing to hear more.

  7. FUTURISTIC ARCHEOLOGY

  “SHE’S MAD BUT SHE’S MAGIC. THERE’S NO LIE IN HER FIRE.”

  —Bukowski

  She grins and goes on. “Lissen, Cigano. Is like these: all de e’same mestizo bloodline peoples is de president an’ king an’ queen an’ princess an’ bank master an’ corporation boss, all de big power peoples on de earth his-tory, from beginning to modern times, got it? Is too much crazy e’sheets going on in de world what de peoples don’ see!”

  She stops and fixes me again with those big, intense lazer beam eyes. “I can e’say it to you all about de secret earth his-tory, mano. But is just one thing is really secret. You wanna know it, hein, Cigano?”

  I shrug and smile.

  She smirks and goes on. “De secret, de real big segredo is there is no-oo secrets, got it?”

  I get it. Sort of.

  As we shuffle along, the weird maze of Narcisa’s thought-world seems way beyond my means to navigate or comprehend. But I go with it. She takes my arm and we walk on, moving along in perfect sync, as if we’d been traveling that same beach path together for eons. I can’t believe my good fortune. I’ve fallen right into the orbit of some oddball kindred soul, and on my first night back; a fascinating, vibrant young beauty; a wayward, lusty spark of genius.

  “Ei, Cigano!!” She’s tugging at my arm like an impatient child. “Let’s go an’ do something real crazy now! Right now, cara, go, go!”

  I say nothing, waiting to hear her idea, waiting for the adventure to unfold.

  “ . . . You like it de young pretty geer-ool, hein, Cigano?”

  I nod.

  “Okey! Perfect, Max! So you an’ me we gonna go now an’ meet some other young pretty girl, an’ then we gonna make it, how do you e’say it, de party! You know someplace we can go an’ hang out tonight, bro, hein?”

  “I’m staying over in Catete.”

  “Perfect, Max! Hah! When we go you place, I gonna show you all my poetry an’ drawing, an’ some other crazy thing I discover in my researches!”

  When I ask her to elaborate on her mysterious “research,” she starts talking about Russian poetry, of all things . . . What? Another coincidence? How could she know my people came to Brazil from Russia?

  “ . . . You wan’ me e’say to you all about de Russian poesia, hein? You e’speak these language, de russo, hein, Cigano?”

  “Uh, not really . . .” I stammer. “It’s Romani, not Russian . . .”

  “How many you gyp-say peoples they got in de Russia, hein?” She asks questions, not waiting for an answer. “You look e’same like de russo peoples, so maybe you come from there, I thinking, hein? I wan’ go there too. So lissen, bro, you gonna take me with you next time you going over there, okey, hein?”

  I smile to myself as she rambles on, jumping from one random topic to another, like a crazy acid-eating grasshopper. I get the distinct impression that this strange, charismatic girl is putting on some kind of act; showing off her eclectic cultural repertoire, as if she desperately needs to let someone, anyone, into her hallucinatory, solitary little world; wanting to be a part of something, anything.

  “I can tell you more! All bout de arquitetura, an’ de secret sacred estrutura of de buildings, Cigano! Everything in de world is about de numero, see? Is all about de equation, formulas, numeração secreta, got it?”

  I don’t get it. I look at her, a standing question mark.

  “Crowwwn crowwwn crowwwn, ha ha!” Narcisa cackles. “De Masonic peoples know all de secret numerologia, an’ they design all de thing same way in all de building. They build everything to confuse de peoples, for make them think they sit inside one box, an’ really they go an’ sit in de other box, got it?”

  I don’t get it. Narcisa keeps going, oblivious, giggling at her own odd words.

  “You know, I travel all round these whole country, hein, Cigano, an’ every different city an’ all de town, e’same e’system I see, always. Hah! I just come today from de mountain. Visconde de Mauá, know it?”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “They got de secret portal there for travel to de other dimension.” She grins. “My father, he come from there, I think. He was de e’smuggler by de Bolivia border in de Mato Grosso, know it? Or maybe was my uncle, I donno, some guy who e’stay with my mother when I was little geer-ool. Whatever. Don’ matter about de dead peoples. Thank you come again! Hah! From my most early memory, I all de time go travel with these guy. I see it where they grow all de cocaina, got it? Hah! My father, de guy he gone to prison there. I think maybe they kill him or something. Whatever. Maybe he know too much bout de peoples’ secret business.”

  For some reason, I ask her to tell me about her mother.

  “Minha mãe!?” She spits on the ground. “Porra! Essa porra é doida, mano! Hah! She complete crazy! She take me all around de country. She was de young hippie girl when I borned, got it? Maybe thirteen year old, whatever, an’ she carry me round
like de little hippie doll, de little pet monkey! Hah!”

  “So where’d ya grow up, Narcisa?”

  Even as the words leave my mouth, I already know it’s a stupid question.

  She laughs. “Grow up? Hah! I grow up on de long-distance bus, bro! These e’stupid retard woman, she got in a big fight with some e’stupid boyfriend an’ he try kill her. An’ then, no more travel, she just go away an’ live in de e’stupid military city, Resende. Know it? After then, she e’start talk all de day with de Je-sooz! Hah! I e’say fock these e’sheet, mano. Fock you, Je-sooz! Fock you, e’stupid military brainwashing place, an’ I go! Get de fock out from there, got it? Go! Hah! Next?”

  “Where’d ya go after that?”

  “Nowhere, bro. I just go an’ e’stay in de mountain, together with de nature. Bird an’ bee. River an’ tree. Ever’thing good. But I don’ never encounter too much intelligent life in de country, an’ so I e’say, bor-ing! Next? Then I come de Rio.”

  “So where do ya live here?”

  She just laughs as she tightens her grip on my arm and points to the ground.

  “De only place to live is right here, mano. Right here an’ now, got it? You know, Cigano, I don’ got de e’same cultura like all de peoples here, you know, with de home, de family, de job, de routine an’ all these kinda thing, got it? Bor-ing!”

  “So whaddya do for money? Ya work?”

  “Work?” She spits the word out like a curse. “Hah! My only job like de house pet for de rich peoples, you know? Like a little poodle dog, or maybe de cat, play with de mouses, whatever, ha ha . . . But I am a pretty good little animal, so long de peoples nice to me an’ don’ talk alotta e’sheet in my head an’ make all de rule an’ regulation for me. I don’ like all these kinda e’sheet, no no no! Peoples make too much pressure on me, brother, I gotta go! Got it? Thank you come again! Next?”