Narcisa

by Jonathan Shaw

  The little vignette reminded me of Narcisa and myself.

  She was the donkey and I was the boy.

  To pass the time, we sat down on the cold dirt floor and played a few monotonous games of chess on the little portable set I’d brought her.

  I frowned as she won twice in a row. “How’d ya learn to play so good?”

  “I teach it to my own e’self, Cigano. I play de game all my life.”

  I looked at her. “All yer life? Como assim?”

  “From when I about two year old.” She shrugged.

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Whatever, bro! I donno exactly how many year old was it, okey? What is it matter, hein? Is irrelevant . . . But de Xadrez, she pretty e’simple, got it?”

  I didn’t get it. I told her I didn’t see it as such a simple game.

  “E simples, sim!” She insisted.

  Then, with a confident smirk, she started to explain the game of chess for me—as only Narcisa could.

  “Okey, so lookit, bro . . .” She held up the king, her mad eyes bugging out of her head like a pair of trembling dragon eggs about to hatch. “These one, he de most weakest one, got it? He only can take de one little step at a time, like de cripple man, de beggar, got it? De rei, he really de most retard one of all de army! Hah!”

  She must have read the question marks in my eyes as she continued explaining the mysteries of chess.

  “ . . . But these king, Cigano, he also de most important soldier. Cuz he de onliest one who got any value, de lone one what really worth any e’sheet. But he no got just de human power. He represent de real Power, de complete Power!”

  She stopped and looked at me, cutting down into my soul like a jeweler’s torch with those big soulful, bulging bughouse eyes. “Treasure!” She breathed the word, revealing the Secrets of the Universe.

  I shook my head and grinned, thinking of how everything really was like a big game of chess for Narcisa; her own life-sized struggle for Power and Treasure. Narcisa always had to win; and usually she did, being expert at all things involving conflict. Argument. Debate. Mind control. Scandal. Blackmail. Strategy. Revenge. Sabotage. War. She could never bear to lose a game or an argument, no matter how wrong she ever was. Logic and fair play were just boring, irrelevant trivia.

  I recalled the way she’d always invent her own weird nonsense words to win at Scrabble. The one time I dared challenge the point, she’d ended the game by turning the table over in my face. I smiled, thinking of all the little letters flying through the air that day, like shrapnel in her endless battle with the world.

  But Narcisa was more than just a sore loser. Her indomitable pride saw to it that she simply never conceded failure. That was her trick. No surrender. Ever. Even when she lost; especially when she lost. As I thought about it, I realized that Narcisa’s inability to submit was the real reason she could never get free of her addictions. Because she appeared to be constitutionally unable, or just fiercely unwilling, to take the critical first step by admitting defeat and asking for help.

  She’d been to the AA and NA meetings with me over the years, but even those fleeting moments of grouchy, halfhearted compliance had always turned out to be a far cry from any real surrender. Narcisa just couldn’t let go of the delusion of her own supremacy as the omnipotent ruler of her fucked-up little universe.

  “Who cares to admit complete defeat?” The AA twelve-step book begins, inviting hopeless drunks and addicts to look at the wreckage of their lives with unflinching self-honesty; never an easy task for an alcoholic or a drug fiend—even a weak, defeated one standing at death’s door. But how could someone like Narcisa possibly admit defeat? It just wasn’t in her nature.

  How many times had she shuffled into those meetings with her head hung low in shame and remorse, vowing to never take another drink, another hit of weed, another step toward the Crack Monster? Only to find herself right back in its clutches again, because she’d gotten cocky and let her guard down after only a few days of grouchy, begrudging abstinence.

  Narcisa seemed completely ignorant of the dangerous occult forces conspiring against her.

  How could I help her? I couldn’t, I realized. No one could, not unless something inside her changed.

  How many well-intentioned fools like Doc and her estranged husband and her mother had already beaten their heads against the brick wall of Narcisa’s ironclad resistance? They’d all tried to bend her to their wills with their half-assed schemes and shortcut “cures”—only to find themselves so frustrated, disappointed, injured and resentful, they’d eventually become as insane and irrational as her.

  I could see the danger of falling into that sort of downward spiral of gnawing self-pity and self-righteous anger myself, but, somewhere deep inside, I truly abhorred the idea of trying to dominate another human being. That was probably the only thing that kept me from just tying Narcisa up and hauling her off to the loony bin myself. Mostly, though, I knew it wouldn’t work; not for a real addict like Narcisa. She was too proud to change; too skilled at the age-old art of opposition.

  As the evening deepened, she beat me again and again, game after game, smirking at her unchallenged superiority. Finally, she grew bored. We put the chessboard aside and sat there in the dull little hovel, looking at each other in stultifying, dumb-faced silence.

  I could feel a familiar clammy tedium creeping in on us. Once again, I was in checkmate in Narcisa’s big game. No move was safe. There was nothing more to do. Like that willful old donkey outside her window, Narcisa wouldn’t budge. She wouldn’t come back to Rio.

  Never one to admit her fears and risk losing face on the battlefield of life, she couldn’t verbalize her ambivalence, of course. But I could smell it crawling all over her. She was still licking her wounds from the horrific, demoralizing beating she’d taken in Copacabana.

  And those painful memories, together with the doubts and suspicions Doc had planted in her mind, kept Narcisa’s feet rooted to the dreary dirt floor of her shack, like a stone-faced monument to Defiance.

  95. OPENING THE WOUND

  “WE ARE HEALED OF A SUFFERING ONLY BY EXPERIENCING IT TO THE FULL.”

  —Marcel Proust

  As Narcisa sat there, scowling in silence, I could see the fear working at her like a lone termite, gnawing away in the back of her brain.

  We sat and sat and sat on that cold dirt floor, till we were both bored to delirium.

  Finally, restless and edgy, I stood up and smiled. “Lissen, Narcisa. If you’re still all stressed-out about that shit that went down last time you were in Rio, I just wanna tell ya, I got yer back now, an—”

  “Menos, Cigano! Just shut de fock up about these e’sheet! I don’ wanna talk about these focking thing, got it? Menos!”

  I got it. I bit my tongue. But I needed to convince her she’d be safe.

  When I tried again, she averted her eyes, growling. “Menoo-oos! No more you e’stupid talk, Cigano! I don’ wanna listen all these kinda depressive e’sheet, got it?”

  I got it. I shut up.

  Time crawled by like a cold, lonesome cockroach climbing the dirty wall of her shack. Narcisa sat there frowning, pouting in mute dissatisfaction, seething with disgusted, pent-up rage; and still she wouldn’t give an inch.

  I could feel it. I was being shut out again, maneuvered into checkmate; out the door, out of her confidence, out of her life again. I knew it so well: that cold, dark, clammy, empty feeling, freezing my guts, choking my heart.

  My blood ran frigid and bleak and blank, and then I was back, standing in gloomy shadows of the past; a helpless little boy, silhouetted beside a hazy image of little Narcisa, watching her mother being stabbed in a frenzy of bloody chaos. I could feel it all, the suffering of her whole life experience. Her world. Her disease. Her Curse. My Curse.

  Pain enfolded my soul like the mouth of a giant, slobbering walrus as I slipped away, falling down into the wound; back, back in time, like little Narcisa. Little Ignácio, a tiny five
-year-old ghost, standing in the foggy night. Smell of eucalyptus disinfectant and garbage and blood. Shaking in the winter cold, shivering in a pair of tissue-thin pajama pants, holding a dirty, ragged old teddy bear. Little Ignácio, paralyzed with fear, watching as the White Ambulance of Death screams off into the night, spinning colored lights flashing like a demon Christmas tree, disappearing into the distance . . . taking his momma away forever.

  It was no use trying to pry anything out of Narcisa. I knew better than to talk anymore. There were no more words. As the night lingered outside like my dying mother’s weak, final curse, I did what I’d learned to do long ago: I shut down. I shut down and shut the fuck up.

  Shaking my head, drowning in a swirling mist of pain, resentment and gut-wrenching, recurring horrors, I sat back down and stared at the wall, watching the cold, lonely cockroach of time crawl by, saying nothing.

  After a dark, heartless eternity, I heard a car approach . . . What now? Then a shout, a male voice in the darkness, calling out, calling her name.

  “Oi, Narcisa! Sou eu! Monstro! Vem, vamo’nessa, gatinha! C’mon, let’s go, kitty cat, we gonna go drink some wine, baby! Party! I got some good weed!”

  Narcisa jumped up, grinning like a dog with two dicks.

  “I gonna go with my friend now, Cigano!” She ran for the door, shouting to me over her shoulder. “Gotta go! Hah! Thank you come again!”

  I sat there on the floor, reeling in shock, saying nothing, staring at her.

  She turned around and faced me with her hands on her hips, glowering. “Lookit, if you wanna come an’ party with us an’ be e’social to my friend, you can come too. But I no gonna e’stay an’ sit all de night here with you an’ look you make de long face like e’stupid old monkey, got it?”

  I got it. My stomach froze up and died as my eyes wandered over to her cot. The pack of condoms peeked out at me from under the thin mattress like a scorpion in its nest. Not my brand. I swallowed hard . . . Shit! She hadn’t even cared enough to hide them.

  I got up and followed her to the door. I stood looking at her. Incredulous. Wordless. Wounded. Shutting down again. But there was more. With Narcisa there was always more. More disappointment. More betrayal. More pain.

  “Melhor é você voltar pro Rio já, Cigano! Vá embora! Anda logo, vai, vai!”

  Each word struck me like a frozen fish hammer blow to my churning guts.

  Just-you-go-back-de-Rio-now-Cigano-go-away-now-go-go!

  Fuck! This isn’t happening! If this coldhearted bitch says another fucking word, I swear I’ll get out my knife and cut my fucking throat right here and now!

  I didn’t move.

  Narcisa glared at me. Then she took an ice pick to my soul.

  “Lissen, Cigano, I got a new life now in these place, okey? Got de new boy friend, bro! What de fock I e’suppose to do when you go away an’ leave me alone, hein? I no gonna e’stay all alone an’ just wait for you come back!”

  I will die! Freezing to death! Frozen arctic barren desolate Dead Sea Black Pit of Death! Cold! Her dirty black heart is cold as a prehistoric glacier!

  “You no wanna take care of me no more, porra, so I come an’ e’stay here! These my place now, my peoples, my life! Go back de Rio, mano, go! Vaza, vai!”

  Cold as the fucking grave!

  I ran out into the road behind her. Standing in the darkness. Smell of pine and eucalyptus and cold, desolate winter night. I could hear myself shouting, crying, screaming with all the hurt and rage and indignation of a throwaway child. A bastard child. An abandoned child.

  “I only left cuz ya dumped me! Ya dodged me and insulted me and pushed me away and treated me like dirt, Narcisa, till I couldn’t fuckin’ take it anymore! You’re th’ one who ran out on me, just like you always done! And now yer doin’ it again!”

  I was that battered little orphan again, howling against the frozen, empty, uncaring, unblinking stars, spitting, crying, raving in pain, cursing, bellowing into the cold, merciless, meaningless darkness of the Wound.

  “ . . . And I still come back! Ride all th’ way down here with a bag of presents, just to see you and bring ya home! Well fuck you, Narcisa! Santa Claus is dead! Finished! G’wan, go out and play with yer new victim now, ya bloodsuckin’ whore! This time I’m done with yer shit for good! Finished, got it!?!”

  She shouted back, spitting flaming daggers of venom. “Hah! You wanna see me, Cigano? So now you seen me! What? You think you the boss of me cuz you gimme some cheap focking presente? Well, I don’ wan’ nothing of you! Nada! Now I gonna go out with my real boyfriend, de one who e’stay with me here an’ now, got it?”

  I got it. Like a knife in my heart. I could feel my soul going cold and numb. Dying. Shutting down as Narcisa dug the blade in deeper.

  “Why you make all these drama, like de little gee-rool, hein? Vaza fora, porra! Beat it, Cigano! Just get de fock out, go! Maybe I see you around some time, hein? Bye bye, Cigano, thank you come again, bye bye, bye bye bye!”

  Still shouting, she jumped into the car and it sped off down the road.

  I stood there, seething in mute anger and dread, watching the flickering red smear of taillights disappear into the night like the White Ambulance of Death.

  Everything went quiet. Silent and cold as a cheap, concrete tombstone.

  I stood in the dark, empty road for an eternity. My blood froze, then boiled again with anger and hate and despair, my heart sinking into a foul, bloody swamp of shit. And then there was nothing. Nothing but little Ignácio, standing all alone in the dark again, surrounded by silence and whispering echoes and ghosts.

  Feeling numb, I got on the bike and rode off into the night, alone.

  Running for my life again. Shutting down. Brokenhearted. Again.

  96. SISTER MORPHINE

  “LIFE IS A PROGRESS FROM WANT TO WANT.”

  —Samuel Johnson

  As I sped down the dark, lonesome highway, frenzied thoughts raced around and around in my head, like swarms of angry hornets.

  Going back to Rio! Just like that! Twenty-four hours was all it took for it all to turn to shit this time! Why? I never felt so close to her as I did today up on the mountain . . . She opened her heart to me, like she never did before. Because she missed me! I know she did. She missed me, as much as I missed her. I could feel it. It was real! So what just happened? Suddenly, she turns on me like a rattlesnake!

  Why? She took me to the top of the mountain and told me her secrets, opened up to me! And then she dashes me into the pit! What does she want, anyway?

  Insects fluttered in my headlights like a biblical plague. I rode on through the night, barreling away from Narcisa like a homeless robot on automatic pilot, lost in a nightmare stew of dismal feelings and reflections. Questions.

  I looked to the road for answers . . . What the fuck does she want?

  The road looked back in silence.

  No answers. Riding along, I could feel tears running from my eyes and across my face, drying in the foul, answerless wind of the long, empty, silent road.

  Back in Rio again, I tried to resume my old life. Life before Narcisa.

  There was no old life. No more life. No more colors in the sights, no music in the sounds, no passion in the girls I brought home every night and fucked robotically, monotonously, mechanically, just going through the motions; warm, nameless, anonymous bodies I tried to console myself with, and invariably failed.

  My friends tried to cheer me up, telling me she was an evil bitch, a hopeless crack whore, a lowlife criminal scumball, that she wasn’t worthy of my concern, that I was better off without her. They invited me to party after stupid, boring, tedious party, introducing me to all kinds of faceless little chicks.

  They meant well. But everything looked useless and ugly, stifling and dead.

  It was no use anymore, and I knew it. The accumulated weight of the month I’d spent away from Narcisa’s savage spell had drained me of all power to resist her silent siren calls. I could hear her whispering
to me all the time now, even in my sleep, with that voice that wasn’t a voice, but a living, breathing presence.

  “You don’ wanna get involve with me, Cigano. If you go down these road together with me now, you can never go back! Never never never, got it? Come back an’ get me now, Cigano, come back come back come back go go go!”

  I was at a fork in the road. Waking up alone on that haunted sofa, shaking in cold sweats in the dismal winter shadows, crying, moaning, worrying, obsessing, thinking about Narcisa, I knew I was caught in a trap. And I knew she knew it too.

  Bitch! She knew! Deep inside her dark, deadly core of harm and hurt and suffering and abandonment and betrayal, the miserable little bitch knew! And when I went to get her, she knew she really had me! Like a cat you’ve left alone for too long, she snubbed me as punishment for ever trying to get away from her in the first place.

  As the days passed like a long, dreary funeral procession, I knew that, deep in the heart of me, I had to have Narcisa back, at any cost.

  Whatever ideas I’d ever had about pride, integrity, self-respect, dignity, recovery, sanity, boundaries—all that shit—I knew they were going right down the toilet now, one by one.

  One good flush from Narcisa always did it.

  I didn’t care.

  Just before dawn, I strode into the all-night pharmacy in Copacabana, where I used to know a guy. Roberto was another Brazilian Rom, an old-time Carioca gypsy who’d been working there since I was a kid. We’d done some “business” back in the day. Roberto was still doing business there.

  I shuffled up to the counter. “Sar san tu!” I smiled, greeting him in the broken Romani of my youth.

  Roberto recognized me right away. “Ignácio! Mixztô, prala!” He graced me with that crooked gold-toothed grin I used to know so well.

  A warm Roma hug and a rough-bearded kiss on either cheek. After catching up a bit, I told him what I wanted. Not that I needed to. He nodded and winked.