Narcisa

by Jonathan Shaw

  I knew my latest victims would survive and continue to thrive, as rich gringos always did. They’d be fine . . . But not Narcisa . . . My poor little friend is dying . . . And she’s counting on me not to give up on her! And I’ll keep that fucking promise, or die, or go back to prison trying! What do I got to lose?

  I told myself I was still strong enough to deal with the devil, that I could afford to compromise the integrity of my tattered old soul, just one more little time.

  Just for today, the ends still justified the means.

  They always would, for me, when it came to loving Narcisa.

  53. STRANGE PHYSICS

  “THERE IS NO PAIN COMPARED TO THAT OF LOVING A WOMAN WHO MAKES HER BODY ACCESSIBLE TO ONE AND YET WHO IS INCAPABLE OF DELIVERING HER TRUE SELF—BECAUSE SHE DOES NOT KNOW WHERE TO FIND IT.”

  —Lawrence Durrell

  Later that evening, Narcisa was back at my door again, knocking like a timid ghost. When I opened up, she breezed in past me like a wave, then plopped her long, glowing white electric eel body down on the couch.

  She looked up at me, grinning. “So what’s de plano, Cigano?”

  I knew what the plan was . . . Fuck fuck fuck! Money money money! Smoke smoke smoke! More more more! Go go go! Perfect, Max!

  Her big feet dangled over the sofa’s edge. She kicked off a scuffed old pair of plastic shoes I hadn’t seen before. Picking one up, I stood examining it, like a work-weary archeologist holding a petrified dinosaur turd.

  “You like it these sapato, Cigano? I just today find them again!”

  “Found ’em where?” I asked, turning it over in my hands.

  She smirked with pride. “These de old e’shoe I leave at de Casa Verde before I gone away to New York. I use to love these one. My husband he buy it to me in Ipanema. They was de very e’spensive import high heel fashion e’shoe, you know?”

  I looked at the shoe again. There was no heel, just five centimeters of worn-out rounded plastic at the back . . . What’s this little maniac going on about now?

  “I am de footwear engineer, got it? Now they de original, authentic Narcisa design e’shoe! Hah! I modify it these e’sheet from de high heel e’shoe myself!”

  “How?” I mumbled, without interest. My mind was on other things as I sat down and fondled her firm white leg . . . Sex sex sex . . . Go go go . . . More more more!

  “From de mathematical walking, bro! What other way to do it, hein?”

  “Mathematical walking?”

  “Lissen, Cigano . . .” She sighed, like someone trying to explain algebra to a German shepherd. “One night I go walk from one end of Copacabana to de other side, got it? An’ then, boo! No more high heel! She all wear out! Hah! But is so-oo much more comfort-able now! An’ check it out! You wanna see what e’strange?”

  I nodded as she took the shoe from me and hefted it in her hand.

  “Lookit, mano, see de way de left-e’side heel, she wear off double more faster than de right-side one! Is de very e’strange mathematic, hein, unusual physics, hein, Cigano?”

  She handed it back for my inspection.

  I examined the shoe more closely, as if it might somehow contain the answer to some deeper mystery of Narcisa’s soul.

  “How it can be these kinda thing, hein?” She grabbed the shoe out of my hand again and held it aloft like a trophy. “I no cripple geer-ool, mano, never go walking sideway like de crab, hein? De pressure on de e’shoe e’suppose to be e’same for left or for right foots, no?”

  She fell silent as I moved closer, drinking in her mad presence like a vampire, waiting for her to speak again. I was a hungry dog watching its master, salivating, waiting to be fed . . . More more more!

  “Is de working of de Shadow Peoples, got it?”

  “Shadow People? Whaddya mean, baby?”

  “I see it, bro! These focking vultos can do anything! They change de direction of de materia, de fisica, got it? Is de very e’strange physic.”

  I raised a curious eyebrow.

  “Lissen! All de time, is de very e’strange thing with all my e’speriments, Cigano! But I can’ never e’say too much about these to de other peoples, or they gonna e’say I maluca. One time they even go lock me up in de crazy house!”

  “What? When?”

  “Yeh, mano! When I first come back from America, Cigano! Was horrível! Was these e’stupid Doc’s fault, bro! Fock! He make de plot for deceive me, e’say to me he gonna take me e’shopping, an’ then he give it de e’secret note to de taxi driver an’ e’say him take me to de crazy house! Is horrível these place, Cigano! De medico even more maluco than de crazy peoples! They gimme de crazy medicine, an’ I just e’stay there in a big white room, drooling like de focking zumbí! Fock! An’ de guys who work in there, they molest me while I knock out from all de crazy drug. But they never can keep me inside there! Hah! No way! Know why?”

  I stared at her, waiting for her to go on.

  “I make it de ex-cape, these why! Hah! Out de focking window, go! Get de fock out! Thank you come again! Next? Crowwwn crowwn! So-oo e’stupid these focking Doc! An’ who de fock these e’stupid medico, hein? These peoples so focking ignorant they keep de window open in de crazy house! E’stupid! Hah!”

  Narcisa fell silent, remembering.

  Finally, she spoke again. “After these time, I don’ never e’say no more nothing to any peoples about no focking thing no more. Nunca! No more never again Narcisa talk about my e’speriment to nobody! You de only one, Cigano. De only one what understand Narcisa, who ever wanna lissen me. So I e’say it to you now these thing cuz is too many de e’strange happening what I seen, belief me . . .”

  I looked at her, curious, fondling her knee, listening as her voice dropped to a whisper. She looked around the room as if Doc might be sitting in a corner listening to her deranged secrets, holding a tape recorder, gathering evidence to put her back in the bug-farm.

  “When I e’stay de Love House, inside de room, Cigano, when I go an’ e’smoke de crack in there, all de time I can e’smell it . . .”

  “Huh? What smell, baby?”

  “De odor of de enxôfre. How do you e’say it, de sulfur! An’ I listen to de voices too, e’screaming with agonia. I can hear it all de hell peoples e’scream an’ cry inside de inferno! Arrrggghhh! Horrível!”

  I remembered those haunting sounds. Typical crack-induced audio hallucinations. As she talked on, I could feel myself getting hard. The scent of Narcisa floated in the air like a command. I watched her lips moving as my hand drifted to her thigh. Drooling with lust, I wanted to fuck the demons away, wanted to fuck her back to sanity.

  “Whaddya think happens, Narcisa?”

  “I know wha’ happen, Cigano! These what I try an’ tell you! Porra! Pay attention, cara! All de time I see it these big focking shadow!”

  “A shadow . . . ?”

  “Yeh, mano! I see it when she go an’ move de thing around, you know?”

  I knew. Shadow People. Sleep deprivation. Crack psychosis.

  I kept quiet as she rambled on. Listening absently, nodding. Stroking her rock-hard stomach with one hand as I caressed her long brown hair with the other, and then I was gone. It didn’t matter what she was saying. She may as well have been talking about the Paraguayan economy; marketing strategies for plastic birdcage liners; the history of the Burmese teakettle.

  Whatever.

  I sat there mesmerized, watching her lips moving. I was lost, drunk, sucked away into her insane magnetic field, trapped under the weight of a mad, compulsive passion and desire . . . Those amazing, babble gummy pink lips . . . Her yellowed ivory teeth, moving, talking . . . The texture of her perfect milky white skin . . . That wild animal female stench . . . Fuck!

  “Hah! Someday, Cigano, I gonna go an’ catch it!” She whispered on as I lifted her skirt and pulled off her panties. “Never mind!” She moaned, raising her butt up from the sofa. “Someday soon I gonna discover all about these e’strange physics! An’ then I gonna catch them up, the
se focking Shadow Peoples!”

  “How ya gonna do that, baby?” I mumbled, working myself into her.

  “Simple, bro! I just gotta keep e’smoke these e’sheet! Hah! These way I gonna be able see more faster, e’same speed like these focking fantasmas. An’ after I found out all de secret of these crazy physic, then I gonna be finish with my e’sperimentation, got it? An’ then I can e’stop e’moke de e’stupid crack forever. Thank you come again! Next?”

  Stroking in and out, drooling like a happy old dog, I held her tight, feeling her taut, warm skin . . . Playing her ribs like an accordion, my hand behind her, moving all over, up and down her spine, her buttocks, cupping that perfect hard-apple ass-cheek in my palm, smelling her dirty, musky brown hair, breathing her in, her consuming feral essence, the texture and color and smell and taste of endless need and want, inhaling Narcisa like a big, long hit of crack, holding her deep in the core of my soul, all lit up like a fucking casino, coming, coming! Fu-uck!

  “Finish now, Cigano! Finish, anda logo, cara, finish finish, go go go go . . .”

  What? Narcisa was talking in that wild, frenetic singsong growl.

  “Go! Hurry up an’ finish, fast, Cigano! Go go, fast fast, Cigano go go go!”

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  “Finish it, go, mermão, you taking too long time now, go go go! Finish up, go, hurry up, fast, fast, faster, you gotta finish up now, go! You gonna give it to me de money now, okey, Cigano? Yes? Hein? Okey? Hein?”

  Yes yes yes!

  “Sim? Okey! An’ you gonna take me up to de boca now, yes? Gonna give it to me de moto ride to de favela up in Santa Teresa now, sim? An’ then you gonna get it for me de very most very best crack for e’smoke tonight, yes? Okey? Hein?”

  Yes yes yes! Fuck! Fuck! I’m nodding, agreeing, complying, conceding, relinquishing, surrendering, dying, selling my fucking soul for her sex, her essence, her need, her want . . . Yes yes yes, anything! I’ll take you to hell! Purgatory! The nuthouse! The crackhouse! The zoo! Whatever! Wherever! Anywhere! Everywhere!

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  “Ebaaah! Yaa-aasss!” She howled with delight. “Let’s go now, Cigano, go go go, hurry up now go, go, finish now, an’ then I gonna go do it my es’perimentation! Finish now! Go go go go go!”

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  “Arrrrggghh!! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I rolled off her with a primal scream exploding up from deep in my churning lungs.

  Narcisa was already up on her feet again, getting dressed as I lay there, screaming, climaxing, dying. “Arrrrggghh . . . Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck . . .”

  I fell back, panting, staring up at the ceiling like a drunken fish at the bottom of a cloudy aquarium . . . Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

  As my breath began to slow down, I could hear the mellow, lethargic chant of night birds. Their songs faded, little by little, giving way to a new, truculent morning song of day birds. It was like an invisible aviary changing-of-the-guard, as the first light peeked through the shutters, glowing like a giant oven warming up outside my window.

  Narcisa stood there, fully dressed, staring at me, watching, waiting for me to take her up to the deadly war-zone favela. Her voice was charged with excitement as she chattered away about this fantastic new spot she’d found, where they had the very best crack in Rio.

  I stood up.

  Like an obedient soldier setting off to battle, I suited up and followed that perfect, bouncing, happy ass as it marched out the door.

  54. IN THE GHETTO

  “I CAME INTO A PLACE VOID OF ALL LIGHT, WHICH BELLOWS LIKE THE SEA IN TEMPEST, WHEN IT IS COMBATED BY WARRING WINDS.”

  —Dante

  A flaming red sunrise loomed over the bay. The scent of night rain and garlic invaded my nose, waking my soul to a new morning’s magic.

  A short, olive-skinned paraíba was sweeping at the sidewalk as we emerged onto the street. Squinting into the copper-toned dawn, I started the bike and we rode off into the crisp morning air, sprung like caged pigeons into the world of day,

  Riding along, I grinned into the early-morning scenery, a swirling alphabet soup of alien poetry, passion, lust and surreal zombie movement. The world was fine and pristine, unfamiliar and new; a spinning, mad collage of indelible details and impressions, as we sped, tumbling through the neighborhood, flashing past lazy wooden doorways framed by lush green vegetation; crooked little trees growing from the crumbling, ancient stone walls. Lights and shadows of insect-buzzing daybreak; humid, septic smells of another long, hot, sleepless summer day, a rapid-fire jumble of crazy freeze-frame life.

  Flying up the steep cobblestone road, up, up, into the topsy-turvy heights of the antique colonial bairro of Santa Teresa, we buzzed past an abandoned, bullet-ridden police cabin and a little corner padería. The smells of fresh-baked bread and coffee followed us into impossible hairpin curves, bouncing over the twisting, bumpy roadway as we blasted around a pair of wobbly old yellow wooden streetcars rattling along their rusty, uneven iron tracks.

  Narcisa pointed the way as we approached the entrance to the favela, shouting directions in my ear. We turned into a sudden half-hidden turnoff, then cut between a pair of decaying old Portuguese mansions, emerging onto a narrow, dusty dirt path, leading down into the slums.

  Everything changed as we followed the claustrophobic maze of steep blind alleys. Down, down we went, into a purulent stew of teetering hillside shanties and undignified, sweaty, piss-reeking, garbage-strewn lives; teeming, dark ghetto rat-paths of vile humanity, crawling with gun-toting bandidos—anonymous teenage soldiers of endless undeclared wars between the populous prisoner communities of thriving drug trade commerce, a shadowy, sprawling underworld limbo of seething vice, random violence and sudden, ignoble death.

  No turning back.

  Everywhere I looked, the pitted, unpaved road was crowded with scrawny, bare-chested little slum-monkeys, swaggering teenage soldiers of the war zone, all armed to the eyebrows. Their whistling eyes followed us along like creeping cats as we squealed rubber downhill into another long, precarious series of slanting, winding depths of vibrating shantytown dwellings.

  I steered onward, surrounded on all sides now by an infinite jumble of raw humanity; it was another world, another reality, a sinister, throbbing, hallucinogenic netherworld of sewage and garbage and dirt. Poverty and crime flared all around us like the smoking flames of Hades, a crooked urban nightmare, piled up in chaotic rows of miserable shacks; haphazard, ramshackle structures, all stacked atop one another like tipsy phantoms, towering up to the heavens, blotting out the sky, obscuring every trace of the other city we were just in, only minutes before.

  Everything looked distorted, crooked, bent, broken beyond any hope of repair or redemption. Crooked people. Crooked houses, crooked dogs, cats, babies. Hungry, crooked bovine eyes, following, watching. Cold, inscrutable looks, like insect machinery, all bearing down, staring at us, silently judging, measuring, weighing, calculating, summing us up for value and vulnerability . . . Waiting for one fucking wrong move, and life could end right here, right now. Just like that. The End. Game Over, right here on a litter-strewn dirt path by an open sewer.

  Another motorbike whizzed past with a fat teenage girl on the back holding a dull black 9 mm pistol. The rider slowed down before us, just long enough for his passenger to pass the heavy gun to a very small child standing in the dirt.

  As we lurched forward behind them, I felt a queasy wave of paranoia and dread spreading across my brain like a slow, fetid sewer flood. I glanced around, feeling anxious and out of place, like a gringo, a foreigner, a stranger in my own city. Breaking out in a sticky sweat, I battled with a dark premonition that, at any moment now, every living soul in that reeking, unhappy underworld would run out of their hovels, armed with machetes and dull, rusty knives, to slaughter us like pigs.

  I was succumbing again to the usual sleep-deprived morning hallucinations. Gruesome images of imminent deat
h invaded my brain like a nervous swarm of hornets.

  One wrong step here, and it’s all over!

  Underfed, mangy mutts were barking all around us. I took a long, deep breath and swallowed hard as Narcisa rose up on the seat behind me, her hands resting on my shoulders, steering me along through another roughhewn brick and dirt network of cramped, sweaty garbage-strewn alleyways. Her skinny finger pointed left and I turned left, piloting up another steep, narrow path, where hollow-eyed children no larger than dolls sat on the ground, staring at nothing. As we passed, they just sat there, blinking in listless bewilderment, as if wondering why they’d ever been born into such a hopeless, miserable shithole.

  Another wave of irrational fear hit me.

  These favelas are all different today. This is a bad place! We don’t belong in here!

  Then, I reminded myself it was cool. As I rode on, getting my bearings, breathing in and out, acclimating, I remembered everything was all just as it should be there. We were just there to buy drugs. Legitimate business. I felt my neck muscles relax.

  “Pare aqui! E’stop, e’stop, turn in these beco, Cigano!” Like a drunken pirate barking orders from a crow’s nest above my head, she directed me into another tangle of dark, serpentine alleyways.

  I hit the brakes at a curve, burning rubber, then gunned the throttle into another twisting, narrow bequinho. Her spindly finger waved in front of me, pointing like a tattered Jolly Roger flying in the smoky, humid mist. “No! Don’ e’stop in here! E’stay de way you going! Aqui! Aqui, cara! Go! Turn up these way now, Cigano, go go! Pare aqui! No no, no here, keep go on, go go!” Twisting around behind me, she piloted me along like a horse. “Cuidado, mermão! De policia, they can see us from de e’street above, got it?”

  I got it as Narcisa’s voice sounded in my ear like an air raid siren, a soundtrack of doom. “Fica ligado, Cigano! Cuidado! Go! Go! Anda logo porra, vai, vaiii-iii!”