I wasn’t buying it. I glared at her with cocked shotguns in my eyes.
Using all her paranormal powers of manipulation, she promised not to disturb me again. She swore. She cried. She pleaded and cajoled, staring at me with such an expression of heartbreaking sincerity that, reluctantly convinced, I handed her the cash.
At that ungodly hour, it seemed like money well spent.
As she got up to leave, I gave her one last cold, warning look.
She reassured me again with a warm, winning smile. “I promise it to you already, Cigano . . . Juro! By everything e’sacred!”
Without another word, I watched her snatch the guitar to take with her. As she headed for the door, she turned around and assured me she was just taking it to the park to “practice.” I grinned and gave her a happy thumbs-up.
What else could I do? I was just glad to be seeing the last of her and her infernal Noise Machine—even knowing all she’d do was drag it around with her, a narcissistic little fashion prop. I pictured her down on the street with the guitar, banging it, bashing and scratching it, crawling in and out of the bushes to smoke as she envisioned herself a rock star on the stage of her own dementia. Still, I didn’t care. If her grand musical delusions would afford her one little moment of pleasure, I was all for it. More important, I had her sacred vow that she wouldn’t wake me again.
As I closed the door behind her, her final words rang in my ears like a celestial choir. “I promise, Cigano, I no gonna wake you no more! Juro, cara! Por tudo que é sagrado! By everything e’sacred!”
In that blissful state, hovering like a dizzy fruit fly, somewhere between denial, wishful thinking and total mental collapse, it never crossed my mind to question Narcisa’s sacred oath.
As I dove back into my soft, sweet-smelling pillows, I was too burnt-out to consider that, for the single-eyed, obsessive old Crack Monster, there’s nothing sacred in Heaven or on Earth.
I was a couple of hours into a deep, golden slumber when a series of short, insistent tapping noises woke me.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap.
What the fuck? It was the urgent sound of a fugitive, the desperate staccato flutter of a condemned soul seeking solace . . . What now?
Tap tap tap tap tap tap.
As it went on, I felt like I was being kicked in the head by Narcisa’s big black boot.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap.
Again and again! Fuck!
Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap!
Goddammit! Bitch! Shut the fuck up!
Wounded and disheveled, I scrambled down from the loft and yanked the door open.
As I stood glaring at Narcisa’s pimply face, I wanted to clobber her. But something in her posture, her whole demeanor, stopped me cold. She stood before me in silence, radiating a slow aura of humility. Something I’d never imagined her capable of. It threw me off.
I stood frozen in the doorway, staring at her, paralyzed, disoriented, puzzled . . . What’s wrong with her? She looks totally cowed.
Meek as a mouse, she slithered in past me. Then she stopped in the middle of the room and turned, groveling like an actor in a Greek tragedy, her head hung low in a dramatic posture of abject surrender.
It was a convincing show of contrition. But I was awake. I could feel the anger rising in my skull like a wave of bloody vomit.
Fuming, I snarled and raved. “What th’ fuck is wrong with you!? Gimme yer word? Fucking liar!” I ranted on, working myself up into a frothing, mindless rage.
Prolonged sleep deprivation will do that to you.
Narcisa must have known it too. She scurried over to the corner, bent her knees and crouched down low, cowering, covering her face in shame.
That’s when I noticed . . . Wait! Where’s her guitar? She came in empty-handed! Fuck! It’s gone! Arrghhh! Shit! This oughta be good!
She started mumbling, grumbling. “Urucubaca! Aza-aar! Puta má sorte! Bad luck, bad luck, bad luck, very bad luck . . .”
“What th’ fuck are you babbling about, ya crazy little witch? And where’s that fucking guitar, ehh?”
She whimpered and whined like a whipped puppy. “A policia, Cigano! Maior azar! They catch-ed me e’smoking in de praça . . .”
“What?”
“Yeh, mano! They e’sneak up from behind an’ sock me on de head, an’ then they take away all my drugs an’ my pipe, an’ they teef my gui-tarr! De gui-tarr you give to me, Cigano, de e’stupid police take it awa-aay! An’ now they wan’ de money for give it to me again!”
I stood staring at her in cynical disbelief.
“I am sorry, Cigano, so e’sorry! I am e’stupid e’stupid!”
Narcisa was pouring it on so thick, I knew it had to be a hustle . . . It’s a scam, another fucking lie! Still, I was taken aback. I’d never seen her acting contrite like that, subdued and repentant. Submissive. It was phenomenal.
She’s groveling! Apologizing! What the fuck? She even said “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t really care about some cheap guitar. But it was still kind of a shame, another little loss. I thought back to that magical “spirit music” when we were coasting down the hill.
Shit! Maybe she could’ve even learned to play it someday.
“My guitar-rrr!” She wailed on. “They take it away my new guitaa-arrr!! Filhos de mil puta piranhas!! Son of a thousand bastard whoore!”
Without another word, I handed her the cash.
Hanging her head low, Narcisa slunk back toward the door. I stood staring in disgust as she shuffled out into the blazing summer heat of another day of torment.
I knew the guitar would never be seen again, and the money would be smoked up in a matter of hours. I didn’t care. As the door slammed behind her, I was focused on one thing only: going back to sleep.
“Good riddance, ya fuggin’ freak-show! You can stick th’ money, th’ guitar and th’ fucking cops up your ass . . .”
Muttering, I crawled up to the loft bed and kissed the pillow like an old lover.
67. THE SHADOW PEOPLE
“IMMORTAL BEINGS HAVE BEEN COMPARED TO STARS, THESE ARE EXISTENCES THAT LINGER ON LONG AFTER THE DEATH OF THE THING ITSELF.”
—Zeena Schreck
After losing her guitar to the Crack Monster, Narcisa began talking about an optimistic new plan; a geographic escape this time. A change of scenery.
What she really needed now, she insisted, was to get away from it all and just go smoke her stash “somewhere else.” Somewhere, anywhere off the beaten track; far from people and all the hassle and danger they represented.
She was still convinced that Doc was following her wherever she went. She may have been paranoid, but I knew the bastard really was stalking her. Even before Pluto clued me in on his lurkings, I’d heard the frightful tone of obsession in the old freak’s voice when he’d called. I suspected he was up to more sinister doings than he let on. I could feel it in my bones. But, not wanting to add to Narcisa’s angst, I dummied up.
Still, Narcisa sensed the need for a hideaway. God knows, she’d already smoked nearly everywhere in her relentless search for the Perfect High. From the bathrooms of fancy tourist restaurants in Copacabana, to the dingy crack hovels up in the favelas, surrounded by jittery, bug-eyed bandidos, she spent her life sucking on the blazing stem. I pictured her cowering in bushes all alone in the shadows of statues to dead war heroes on deserted military bases; in abandoned buildings, decrepit alleys, cheap flophouse rooms, park benches and jungle caves up in the hills; hiding in rocky seaside coves, crouched down under overturned fishing boats on the moonlit sand; in the cemetery late at night, surrounded by blazing Macumba candles and howling spirits of the dead. Ensconced in the shadows of her escalating madness, battling against the four dreaded enemy winds of hell, Narcisa had really tried it all, looked and searched everywhere, sought high and low, in her never-ending crusade; her Quest for the Perfect High.
All, alas, to no avail. She just couldn’t get no satisfaction.
Everything had beco
me a surefire buzzkill for poor Narcisa. To make matters worse for her, I’d finally banned her from smoking in my apartment. I didn’t want her doing it around me anymore. I was in fear for my own sanity.
Seeing her in that state had become a painful reminder of the time I’d first been exposed to an otherworldly being. Some memories are best left undisturbed. I was just a child when I’d had that terrifying glimpse of spirit possession. The last time I’d seen Narcisa in the grips of the Crack Monster, it had all came rushing back—the dark memory of watching in horror, my soft young neck hairs standing on end, as a spirit took over an old woman’s body.
It was at this low-rent, piss-reeking dive my mother used to drink at in the Rua do Catete. I’d watched, paralyzed with fear, as a chubby old Negress spat out a stream of ferocious African garble, then toppled from her seat, shaking, contorting like a decapitated chicken on the dirty marble floor. Something had looked right at me from her possessed bloodshot eyes that day; something inhuman that chilled my soul right down to its shivering, quivering core. That memory had haunted me the rest of my life.
Lately, I saw that same dark occult presence in Narcisa’s eyes as she smoked. I could see her shape-shifting, morphing, mutating, being charged with a mute, frigid horror from seeing all sorts of ghastly invisible things. Things I couldn’t perceive, but I knew were there; horrible, unspeakable visions from some hellish dimension, like the row of eyeballs she always talked about, watching her every move, peering down right into her soul from a crevice in my ceiling.
Then there was my statue of Ogum; the colorful painted plaster figurine of São Jorge: St. George, sitting on his shining white steed, spearing a lance into the dragon. The icon sat in a little shrine on my bookshelf; a symbol of my battles against temptation, my own daily victory over the Curse. It terrified Narcisa when she was high. Whatever infernal entities possessed her had a powerful aversion to my beloved spirit guide and protector.
The last time she’d been smoking in my place, she’d sat on the floor, glaring up at my Ogum with a tormented look of hate and fear, hissing like a vampire in the presence of the cross.
That had done it. Ever since that day, I’d told her to beat it when she was using; to go smoke that vile, demonic shit somewhere else.
Her mind unraveling, desperate for a new refuge, Narcisa decided to take the bus across town to the Parque Lage.
The stately old colonial park lies nestled in the heart of the Jardim Botanico, Rio’s magnificent, rambling botanical gardens. Sitting among verdant acres of lush tropical jungle, the grounds stretch high into the hills beneath the right armpit of the giant white statue of Christ the Redeemer, Corcovado. With the Cristo Redentor towering above, its placid gardens and shady garden trails are home to a thriving centro cultural; a haven for local artists, poets, musicians, beatniks and bohemians.
Back when I’d first met Narcisa, she was always dragging me off to visit her favorite place. She’d spend whole days there at the Parque Lage, sitting by a stream, laughing and chatting with her friends.
Now it was just another place to smoke. All the poets, artists, musicians and seekers who had once inspired her hungry young mind there were nothing but another bother to her now. Boring, annoying talkers.
Poor Narcisa! Back when I’d first known her, she’d been so different . . . What happened to her? She used to be so outgoing and alive . . . She’d always adored hanging out with people, with strangers, friends, anyone, everyone. Narcisa would sit around for hours on end, debating about philosophy, politics, art and poetry, always on fire, exchanging radical ideas and learning new things, exploring and questioning, meeting new people, forever testing the limits in her marvelous, innocent quest for experience.
Back then, she’d been in love with life, fascinated with everything, like an excited kid with a sparkly new toy; outgoing and outspoken, always interacting with the world, shaking things up, seeking out wild new adventures. Now all she wanted was to hide away from human society; to be all alone with the Crack Monster.
Just before she left, concerned for her safety, I tried asking about her stalker. “Hey, Narcisa, have you still been seeing that old Doc guy following you around town?”
“Dickless? Hah! E’stupid old e’sheet! No way, cara! Por que?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering, because, ya know, ya kept saying how you thought he was watching you all the time, I was just curious.”
“Menos, Cigano! What de fock happen to you? You forgotted I am de crazy geer-ool, hein? Hah! Don’ listen to de Narcisa talk!”
I bit my tongue. I wanted so badly to tell her what I knew, but I couldn’t. Poor Narcisa already had enough trouble.
Getting off the bus by the entrance to the Botanical Gardens, Narcisa lit a cigarette, then trotted toward the gate. She didn’t stop to smell the roses. She didn’t stop for anything. Narcisa was on a mission for the Crack Monster.
She scurried past the regal old colonial mansion, with its tall marble columns. Ignoring the clusters of people she’d used to hang out with there, she moved ahead like a nervous shadow. Narcisa wan’t interested in singing, laughing or playing chess with her friends anymore. Now Narcisa had no friends.
Keeping her head down, she trudged forward, deep into the bush, under the indifferent cement gaze of Christ the Redeemer. Finally, coming to a remote jungle cave, she crept inside and made her way deep into the musty darkness. Then she flicked her Bic and found a place to sit. But there was a problem.
Later that day, she told me all about it.
“Soon I go sit in there, Cigano, I get de pipe an’ take one big puxa, an’ then, boo! I look an’ he sitting right there, watching me!”
“What? Who?” I wondered out loud, envisioning Doc.
She shrugged a casual grin. “Um escorpião . . .”
“There was a scorpion in there? So what’d ya do then?”
“Nada, bro. He just look me an’ I look him, an’ is all okey. We both sit an’ look de other one, an’ ever’thing cool, you know? I go an’ blow some e’smoke for him too . . .”
I looked at her. “Ya got a fuckin’ scorpion high?”
“I wan’ e’study de reaction, you know, make de e’speriment, got it? But then ever’thing get worsted, Cigano! They all come like a big explosion, de morcegos! Arrrggghhh!”
“Morcegos? I was dumbfounded. “Bats? Really?”
“Yeh, mano! Hundreds of bat, Cigano! They all come fly out from back of de cave, squiking an’ flipping de wing like de little vampiro! I e’say, ‘Out! Get de fock out, go go!’ an’ then I run out, go! Afffff!”
Narcisa hiked on, in search of a new spot. Coming to the end of the trail, she stopped and looked around . . . Perfect, Max! Solitude! She shimmied up into a tree and climbed all the way to the top. Then she loaded her pipe and fired up again.
“But is ever’where de e’same focking conspir’cy, Cigano!” Her frantic eyes grew wider. “Fock! No place I go any e’safety for me! I can’ even e’smoke in peace way up high on de biggest tree! Even all de way out there, all de time some focker come to molest me!”
“Who th’ fuck bothered ya up there?”
“De macaco, Cigano!”
My jaw dropped. “Monkeys?”
Her big brown eyes bugged out of her face, boring into me like a pair of giant screws, fastening my brain to that surreal moment. “Ya-ass! So so many de e’stupid monkey, Cigano! An’ then they all go an’ attack me!”
“Wha—how?”
“They all e’standing around in de trees, bro, an’ they e’start e’scream at me, an’ then they all go an’ throw de tree branch an’ de fruit, an’ even de rock! Fock! These focking monkey very agressivo, more worst even than de human! Porra! I gotta get de fock out, so I climb down real fast go go! Out!”
I sat looking at her, unable to comment, afraid to laugh.
After an awkward little silence, tears welled up in her big tormented eyes. Then she spoke again, in a sad, throaty little whimper that broke my heart. “
Is no place no good for Narcisa e’smoke no more! No any place, Cigano, got it? Ever’body bother me ever’where I go! These why I don’ wan’ e’stay live in these e’sheet world no more.” She started sobbing.
I took her in my arms, like a frightened child, trying to soothe her. “It’s okay now, baby, don’t worry . . . shhhhh. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
“Uuuaggghhhh! Is never gonna be okey, Cigano! Nunca! What else more I can do now, hein, Cigano? What to do?”
I didn’t know what to say. But Narcisa was weeping, whining, waiting for an answer.
Confused, I stammered the first thing that came to mind. “Maybe . . . maybe it’s not just the people, or the places you go to . . . ya know?”
I could feel a darkness creeping over her. Narcisa stopped crying. I felt her stiffen. But I’d already taken the leap. Now I had to fall.
I blurted it out. “ . . . Maybe it’s what you’re doing that isn’t working for ya anymore . . . Did you ever stop to think of th—”
Narcisa pulled away fast, wiggling out of my arms like a snake. She twisted around and sat across from me, hissing, staring at me as if she’d just swallowed a cat turd. I was a bug. An asshole. An enemy. I’d just said the stupidest, most offensive thing she’d ever heard.
“Menos, Cigano. Meeeenos! Shut de fock up now, hein! Talk less! De less you talk now de better, got it?”
I got it. I shut the fuck up.
68. HELL’S BELLS
“I SHALL TELL YOU A GREAT SECRET, MY FRIEND. DO NOT WAIT FOR THE LAST JUDGMENT, IT TAKES PLACE EVERY DAY.”
—Albert Camus
Days later, we were sitting on my sofa when Narcisa fixed me with a glazed look. In the odd little childlike voice of that creepy spirit entity, she drawled a weird question.
“Have an’body ever die for you, Cigano?”
Before I knew what was happening, she stood up, strode across the room and scrambled up onto the window ledge. She stood there on the windowsill, teetering five floors above the hard, cold pavement below.
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