“I wanna man to take de care of me. All de time!” Sure she did! That’s all she ever wanted! A Knight in Shining Armor! Santa Claus! Daddy! A husband! A high dollar, full-time trick! “I don’ wan’ e’stay alone! Nunca! Got it?”
Suddenly, I got it. Narcisa’s unquenchable need for attention had the power of a hardy tropical weed breaking through a brick wall.
“One thing I’ll tell you, Cigano . . .” Doc interrupted my unhappy musings. “Like most goddamned Jews, that Israeli boy must have been extremely well-off! My goodness, the way he flew back and forth to Rio every month just to see her, and always staying at the most expensive hotels in Copacabana, always at Narcisa’s beck and call. My God, how do these dirty Hebrews manage to control so much of the world’s capital?”
Doc continued ranting about “dirty, money-grubbing Jews.” I said nothing as he painted a sickening picture of long-distance phone calls, emails and weeklong visits; days and nights of merciless emotional blackmail, mental torture, drama, fistfights, infidelity, breakups, death threats, drunken, stoned-out partying and cruel, frigid, sexless mind-control power plays.
“ . . . Ahhhh, I had to go to the delegacia in the middle of the night more than once to negotiate with the police and get them both out of jail after she destroyed the Jew’s five-star hotel rooms in Copacabana!” He beamed at me, as if expecting me to hand him a medal or something. “And there were some terrible incidents, believe you me! One time, at the Copacabana Palace, of all places, she actually threw a television out the window, right into a swimming pool full of people! My goodness! Can you imagine such a thing? She could have maimed someone! Well, sir, there was quite a fuss over that little incident, I’ll tell you . . .”
As Doc prattled on, I had to stifle a grin, despite a growing knot in my gut.
“ . . . The poor fellow couldn’t speak a word of Portuguese, of course, didn’t have the slightest idea how to make an ‘arrangement’ with our police here. But he always paid in the end. All the same, I was the one who had to get out of bed in the middle of the night to go and sort things out for them. They always called on me, every single time there was trouble. And there was always plenty of trouble, believe you me, whenever that silly Jew came to visit. And do you think either one of them ever thanked me or offered me a centavo for my troubles?”
Assuming it was a rhetorical question, I shrugged.
“Pooh . . .” Doc snorted like an old woman. “After he went away, Narcisa would stop by my office several times a day, begging to use the computer to read all his silly emails. You know one can never say no to her, of course! That word’s simply not in her vocabulary. Well, sir, sometimes there would be more than twenty emails. The Jew was really taken with Narcisa! I’m sure you know how charming she can be, at least whenever she wants something! Ha!”
I had to look away as he poked at me with his mad eyes, like a spiteful old queen.
“ . . . She never wrote him back, though, of course. She would just use the office phone to call him collect when she wanted money sent. And never so much as a ‘thank you’ to me, naturally, much less any sort of gratuity! Ha! Well, sir, eventually, my employer put an end to the calls because of all her shouting and vulgar language. I’m certain you must know what a foul mouth that one has. Narcisa was absolutely brutal to her young suitor!”
After another portentous pause where I had to avert my eyes again from his foul gaze, Doc sighed. “Ahhhhh. I honestly can’t imagine how even a Jew could ever put up with that sort of treatment long enough to actually marry the little trollop! My God! Aren’t there any girls in New York? Seriously! I couldn’t believe how he kept coming back to visit her like that. He must have spent a fortune in airfare alone! Not to mention all the other money he threw away here, all the expensive presents, always dining out at the finest restaurants, hotels, excursions, rental cars and all the rest! Never once invited me to join them, of course . . .”
Doc scrunched up his nose, describing the frequent brief visits from Narcisa’s well-heeled Prince Charming. She would always be left alone again, though, he said, at the end of another weeklong honeymoon whirl, reliving those same old stinging childhood wounds.
I could see a pattern. Narcisa, left all alone, abandoned, again and again, flaunting all the expensive trinkets the gringo bought her under the noses of every jealous hooker in Copacabana, generating more envy and resentment, before trading them off, one by one, for drugs.
As soon as she turned eighteen, Doc said, they were married in a simple civil ceremony. She got an expensive emergency passport issued at the airport, then packed off with her fancy new husband, off to gringo-land.
Everything I was hearing suddenly explained all those mysterious weeklong disappearances . . . Of course! Narcisa must have been with her mark! She just couldn’t wait for her big chance! How not? Marriage would be her magic-carpet ride out of here! The gringo was a living, breathing, walking, talking escape hatch from the dirty old pista. From Rio. From her past. Her life. Her ghosts and demons. Herself.
Following a whirlwind monthlong honeymoon in Tel Aviv with her new husband’s respectable family, it was off to the Land of the Free: America.
After that, Doc had lost contact with her.
Having found out all I could, for better or worse, I made up an excuse to bid the Dickless Old Cushion farewell. I stood up and got out of that nasty little roach-hole in a hurry.
That was the last I would see of Doc for quite some time.
Over the months to come, the mystery of Narcisa began falling into some kind of linear order in my consciousness. Like they were broken artifacts in a ghostly archeological dig, I pieced the clues together into a perfect jigsaw puzzle timeline of fuzzy, half-forgotten events. Again and again, I kept going back to our last week together, remembering how nervous and antsy Narcisa had been in the days before she’d flipped her lid and split. It all began to add up as I thought about what had been happening all along, right under my nose . . . And all this time I was so sure she’d just taken off on the road with some other young chick or something!
Sweet Narcisa! My prodigal, bug-eyed Alpha Centaurian Space Goddess, run from an impoverished provincial backwater to Copacabana, seeking a shiny new path along her long, hard road of earthly exile. And now she’d done it at last, manifested it all.
A banker named John Gold.
John, as in Trick. Gold, as in All That Glitters.
Only Narcisa could pull off such a perfect poetic sting! Yes. When it came to the hustle, she was never just a mere garden-variety hooker.
Narcisa was Art Personified!
20. CAPTAIN SAVE-A-HO
“HE THAT WOULD EAT OF LOVE MUST EAT IT WHERE IT HANGS.”
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
After that day, I didn’t hear from old Doc again.
Narcisa was a ghost, haunting the shadows of my memory. When she didn’t return to Rio, over time, like a ghost, the image of her started to fade. I began to forget her. Finally, I accepted the loss of Narcisa and let her go. I got on with my life.
If I ever thought about her at all anymore, I just pictured her destroying her fairy-tale marriage, then limping off to die somewhere out in the world, without a trace.
I couldn’t see it going any other way for someone like her.
I mourned Narcisa’s passing, and then I moved on. But, in some illusive, forgotten little corner of my soul, I always lingered behind with my fuzzy, faded memories of her, visiting them, from time to time, in an improbable little dreamworld where we’d once shared a few half-forgotten hallucinations. At times, I tried to reconjure the image of my long-lost, lovely little friend; mostly when I wandered the dirty old streets of the Prado Júnior red-light district, down at the ass end of Copacabana, late on hazy pre-Carnaval nights.
It was well past midnight on such a long, foggy summer evening when I stumbled across Narcisa again; almost a full two years after my fateful lunch with Doc, and more than three years since I’d first met her a lifetime ago.
>
I’d been out on the prowl, rambling through the familiar prostitution jungle of Copacabana’s furtive underbelly. The zona. The ho-stroll; whores out looking for trade, and lonesome, wandering men out looking for company. Clusters of snappy-eyed teenage garotas standing in shabby yellow streetlight shadows. An army of horny, fugitive ghosts, occupying the lazy late night air, lounging on corners of narrow streets leading up the hill to the other world. The hidden world. The world behind the surface: the world of the favelas, where cocaine is king, and skinny, gun-toting slum boys with thick gold ropes hanging against bony brown chests stand leering at an angry moon; shadowy figures covered in rude tattoos, ruling the deadly ghetto alleys behind the tall white buildings of the Avenida Atlantica, while the other city sleeps.
Watching the cars creep by in the tired, muggy, late-night heat, I edged the old Yamaha to the curb. I got off and walked along, smoking a cigarette, passing the outdoor tables crowded with gringos and whores; bars little Ignácio used to cruise like a hungry young wolf, skimming tips from saucers, a tiny, fleet-footed shadow, scanning the chairs for a dangling purse to dash off into the night with. Up the darkened side streets, drunken gringos stumbling out of short-time hotel doorways, feeling warm and fuzzy after an hour with a bright-eyed mulatto hooker, were always easy to pluck as groggy chickens.
Reveling in a humid stew of memories, I lingered awhile in front of the old Holiday Bar. I was chatting with a cute little whore with fiery black eyes and a razor-sharp red-light grin, when, over her shoulder, I spied a familiar shadow.
I did a quick double take.
Narcisa!
She stood out through the humid mist like a blurry white icon.
It sure looks like Narcisa . . . Fuck! It is! It’s her! It’s gotta be!
There she was. Standing all alone, huddled in a ratty, torn purple bomber jacket. Leaning on a parked car on the greasy old sidewalk in front of the whorehouse. She was shaking, and seemed to have been crying.
I couldn’t believe my eyes . . . Holy shit! It’s really her!
As I wandered over to where she stood like a statue of Pride with its head hung low, I realized she didn’t even recognize me.
She didn’t seem to notice much of anything going on around her. Edging closer, I could see she looked all strung-out; dirty and disheveled, shivering there in her own dark little world, mumbling to herself, demented and emaciated; defeated, humiliated by life.
As my eyes met hers, I could see that the girl I’d known before was gone. This one was different. Older. Crazier. Down-and-out. Almost four years after first meeting her, Narcisa was finally shattered. Lost, abandoned and burnt-out.
But she’s alive! Thank God!
I stepped up, smiling. “Narcisa! What are you doing here?”
Silence.
Blank-faced, she stared back for a fuzzy eternity. Finally, she let out a long, weary sigh. “What it look to you like I do in these place, hein?”
I stood before her, grinning like a farmer.
As her answer registered, she spoke again in a meek little tone.
“Oi, Cigano. Is good to see you, bro.”
“You too, baby. Ya look great!” I lied.
She rolled her eyes with a crooked little smile, but said nothing more.
“Well then,” I leered, “I guess if you’re, uh, straight up selling it out on the pista here, I’m gonna get to be your next lucky customer.”
“I can’ charge you for de programa, Cigano . . . You my friend . . .”
I laughed. “Well, if yer giving it away, wrap it up and I’ll take it, amiga.”
“You know better, Cigano! I gotta get de grana tonight. Narcisa need money. I got, how do you e’say, de e’spenses. Real high de e’spenses for me now . . .”
I nodded. Having smoked plenty of crack myself over the years, and having seen it take so many others for the long, hard ride to hell, I knew all about Narcisa’s “expenses.” One look at the pemature wrinkles and dark bags under her sunken eyes told me the whole sad tale. Still, I wasn’t going to let her go.
I heard myself speak again. “All right then. Bora nessa!”
“How much you gonna give me, hein, Cigano?”
“Whatever it takes to keep you around for the night, Narcisa. We got some catching up to do, né?”
She nodded and hugged me shyly, gratefully, melting lopsided into my arms as we staggered over to the motorcycle together.
I didn’t know it then, but that was going to be “It”—one of those larger-than-life, destiny-defining moments that hit you and your world can never be the same.
I was just happy to have found her . . . and sad for Narcisa at the same time. As we got to the bike, I stopped. Turning around, I looked into her eyes and told her she was still pretty.
She cocked a skeptical eyebrow at me. “You e’same like de abutre mãe, Cigano, you know it?”
“Whaddya mean, baby?”
She shot me a shy little Mona Lisa grin. “For de mama vulture, her own baby always de most beautiful one of all de bird, got it?”
I got it. I felt blessed and flattered by the sudden casual acknowledgment; an offhanded nod to our oddball spiritual kinship.
So she knows it too, even after all these years . . . Fuck! I guess love really is blind . . . Deaf and dumb too . . . Yep . . . Good old Captain Save-a-Ho . . . That’s me.
I had no choice but to take Narcisa in that night.
As if following the dictates of a predestined script in some eternal cosmic drama, an unavoidable little play whose outcome was written on some vaguely familiar, faraway star, Narcisa had no choice either; no other option but to follow me home like a hungry stray mutt.
21. FATEFUL REUNION
“EVERY PARTING GIVES A FORETASTE OF DEATH, EVERY REUNION A HINT OF THE RESURRECTION.”
—Schopenhauer
After a long, passionate fuck, we kicked back on my sofa together.
Just like old times. But the whole thing felt different now. Narcisa was different.
I studied her face in the shadows of the room, like someone trying to decipher the secrets of the universe . . . She’s changed, poor baby . . . Totally wrecked!
Somehow, though, Narcisa was even more attractive to me than ever before. She looked almost angelic now, in some deep, untouchable, soulful way.
I couldn’t bring myself to press her for any account of the last two years of her life, and none was forthcoming. I just sat there beside her, caressing her knee in the dark, musky, after-sex languor of the moment.
The lazy sound of the overhead fan stirring the air, Narcisa settled back against my chest, as if it was the only safe place left in the world. I ran my fingers through her long, greasy brown hair, petting her like a big, beautiful, feral cat.
Finally, I broke the spell. “It’s been a long time, baby.”
Silence.
“Na moral, meu. Puta saudade,” I murmured. “I missed ya, y’know . . .”
We sat in silence for a long time more. Then, finally, Narcisa began to tell me about the events that had brought her back to Rio—back into my arms.
“I miss you too, Cigano . . . I miss Brazil . . . I miss de Rio . . .”
“When’d ya get back?”
“To Brazil, maybe one or two month . . . I think . . .” She gave a confused little look, then went on in a husky, childish tone, almost a whisper. “ . . . Maybe is three or four month, whatever . . . I donno . . .”
I could see she was lost in time and space, struggling to find herself. I’d been there. I said nothing. She sat beside me, just breathing. It was a moment that could last forever. I was in no hurry.
After a while, I invaded the silence again. “Why didn’t ya call?”
Narcisa shrugged, as if only just then daring to ask herself why she hadn’t been in touch. “I wanna call you, Cigano . . .” She sighed.
I felt her firm white skin trembling, twitching like a street cat with fleas.
“ . . . I only come back de Rio for couple
days now, you know . . .”
I played dumb. “Where were ya?”
“For long time, I e’stay de Nova York . . . An’ then I was in São Paulo for couple month after. But I don’ got you phone number. Don’ got nothing. I loose it all my possession, first day I come back, loose ever’thing in de street in São Paulo, an’ then I don’ got no money or even de documento, pasaporte, nothing no more! Nada! I just e’stay homeless on de street long time there, like de beggar . . .” She trailed off.
Silence.
“Fock!” She cried out, as if suddenly remembering what had transpired. “They teef me! First focking day I get to de e’stupid São Paulo! Filhos da puta!”
“What were ya doing in São Paulo?” I asked, bringing her back
“I fly to there from de New York City, Cigano . . .” Her tone sounded pained, as if recounting the details of a nightmare.
Narcisa stopped talking again and reached over to light a cigarette.
Silence. I watched her, saying nothing, waiting.
Finally, with a sad little moan, she inhaled, then sighed out a long cloud of smoke. “Porra, cara, I still got it de new cell phone an’ de money, American dollar, all de pretty clothes from New York. I go out for drink de wine with some punks an’ then I pass out on de e’street, an’ when I got up, bum, they teef it all my thing! Que merda! An’ then I gotta e’stay in these focking e’sheet place! Porra! An’ I e’stay an’ e’stay an’ I e’stay there, bro . . .”
She contemplated her cigarette, as if debating if it was safe to say more.
“So what happened then?” I prodded.
“Nada.” She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “I just get tire of de São Paulo, so I e’say fock these place, an’ then I come back to de Rio, go. Next?”
“How’d ya make it all the way up here from São Paulo?”
“Hitchhike . . . Porra, que azar . . .”
She fell silent again, brooding, smoking her cigarette down to the filter.
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