Then the mother turned to Marisa: “I thought you were already asleep, and then I heard you—”
“I’m on the phone.” Marisa concealed her impatience, while the mother frowned and pursed her lips.
“With Valentina, is it?”
“Yeah. I have a question for her before finishing a physics exercise.”
The mother looked at the book on the desk, made an analytical pause and appeared to be convinced. The muscles on her face relaxed, although uneven lines still showed on her forehead, which remained slightly creased.
“I’m going to bed. I don’t know why, I feel so tired today.” She cast another glimpse at the room, as if expecting to catch a silhouette hidden behind the curtains. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
The door closed. Marisa waited for a moment and resumed her consultation: “Bol—?”
The door reopened, this time at half capacity, and the mother squeezed her head through the gap.
“Before you go to sleep, take that plate to the kitchen and throw the leftovers in the bin so not to attract bugs,” she instructed like a general, indicating the jabuticaba skins. Then her tone mellowed: “If you’re hungry, I just baked some bread for tomorrow.”
“I will, and thanks.”
The mother retreated with a nod. Marisa listened to her footsteps trailing off in the hallway and concluded that the night watch was complete.
“Bold?” Marisa repeated anxiously to Valentina.
“Yeah.” She yawned on the other end. “You pick a suggestive quote and go straight to the point, no detours.”
Boldness was not one of the main traits in Marisa’s personality—at least, not that sort of boldness exhibited by her classmate Camila, with her cleavage waving at all men that passed by. Still, Marisa researched other quotes by Sartre and eventually found one that seemed viable. She wrote a short message (straight to the point), took a deep breath and sent it.
Minutes later, she received a text message from Valentina.
On a second thought, don’t send anything compromising. If the teacher doesn’t like it, you’ll find yourself in a tight situation. Now I’m going to bed. Hugs, Val.
Her blood pressure plummeted, and Marisa felt like the most inadequate of all creatures. She thought of a cheap hotel with a sad bathroom disguised as a bedroom: the porcelain fixtures replaced by third-rate furniture, a thin layer of paint on the tiles, and a reminiscent faucet by the bed beside a moldy painting from the dollar store… Her hands grew sticky, her blood turned into cold water gagging in creaky pipes. That was what she got for going against her own nature. She wasn’t bold. Why hadn’t she just sent a quote about the being-in-itself or something? Oh, no, she had to listen to crazy Valentina and send that quote…
Marisa hurried back to her mailbox and, in utter distress, tried to cancel the message.
Of course she didn’t succeed.
4. This Is the Text
The next morning, when the two met in the hall, Marco walked past Marisa in a hurry and nodded without stopping. She entered the classroom with simmering thoughts and couldn’t concentrate on anything. As she completed trigonometry exercises (she got them all wrong), Marisa kept asking herself: hadn’t he read her message yet? Or maybe he had, and found it annoying? brusque? conceited? disappointing? exasperating? foolish? gauche? hilarious? infantile…? Oh dear. She could go through the whole dictionary and would never know.
The next-to-last class was literature. Marisa pretended to pay attention to the exposition, all the while scrutinizing Marco to see if he looked at her in any different way. He remained perfectly neutral. In truth, Marisa had the impression Marco hardly looked at her. As the class neared the end, she thought of going to the front of the room to probe his reaction. Why not? The situation couldn’t get any worse.
Soon he gathered his belongings and prepared to leave the classroom. Marisa stared at him, uncertain, throat dry, heart pounding. She had only a few seconds to make a move. Marco had already closed his briefcase and was drawing away from the desk. In a flash, Marisa stood up and advanced amid the chairs, while furiously trying to come up with an excuse to approach him. Desperation suggested the perfect question: he had mentioned the sensation caused by the Modern Art Week of 1922 for breaking paradigms, which included the fact that composer Villa Lobos wore one shoe and one slipper at the event.
Very well, what was the meaning of that slipper? The mismatched footwear could signify, for example, either the fusion or contrast between the cushioned art of the elite and the spontaneous art of the streets. It would provide a good pretext to extend the conversation should Marco be open to that. Good job, Marisa! She had barely congratulated herself, though, when a mule at full gallop seized her carrot: Camila. Within one second, the girl monopolized Marco’s attention. Indignant, Marisa hesitated, returned to her seat and watched the scene.
Camila was an older classmate nicknamed “Edible” by the other students because of her curves and the habit of wearing provocative clothes to enhance them. Edible always found an excuse to attend literature classes (like now) in some low-necked top, which served as a shop window to her pale bosom and the scandalous golden pendant anchored on it. So she, her cleavage and the pendant asked Marco why composer Villa Lobos had showed up at the Modern Art Week with a shoe in one foot and a slipper in the other. And as Camila spoke, she seductively tossed her long and brown hair—hair that would have been pulverized should irate stares possess minimal pulverizing power (for Marisa addressed the girl such a stare upon hearing her question).
Laughing, Marco explained the fact was interpreted as an affront to the audience, when in reality Villa Lobos had worn the slipper due to an inflamed callus. Marco left the room followed closely by Camila, who remained by his side like a guard dog and now was asking… Marisa couldn’t hear the question because the two vanished into the hallway. Shortly afterwards, the physics teacher entered the room and grunted his way to the board as usual. Camila returned a little later, which earned her a lecture that offered Marisa a small consolation.
Nevertheless, Marisa remained furious. She only didn’t know if she was more furious with herself or with Valentina. Taking advantage that the teacher had his back to the students, she texted her.
Marco is acting weird with me. Why did you have to give me that stupid piece of advice?
Seated on the chair next to hers, Valentina tried without success to pay attention to class. As soon as she heard her cell phone beep, she read the message and, concealing a smile, typed.
Don’t be melodramatic, Ma. I warned you not to send anything compromising.
Yeah, you warned me AFTER you had advised me to send something compromising, countered Marisa.
Calm down. If what you showed me was all you’ve sent, it’s no biggie, wrote Valentina.
It may be no biggie to you, Marisa retorted, typing with a heavy hand. But Marco… I have no idea what goes on in his head.
You know what, Ma? I thought what you wrote was kinda cool.
Suspicious, Marisa gave her a sidelong glance. Valentina raised her eyebrows, shrugged and reciprocated it with an innocent look.
Val, you’re a liar. Now you’re trying to slip away.
Seriously, Ma, it was cool. Read it again and analyze it.
Marisa didn’t need to read it. She knew it by heart: Marco, I like this phrase by Sartre from Being and Nothingness: “To caress with the eyes and to desire are one and the same.”
Valentina could say whatever she wanted, it was no use. The more Marisa thought about it, the worse her embarrassment. Marco taught them classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so the following day there would be no literature class for them. Luckily. That way, maybe Marco would forget about her message and things could go back to normal. Maybe, who knows, in the meantime some major event would take place to divert his attention? Like a fire in the school or a nucle
ar war…
Nonetheless, if Marisa believed she could avoid an encounter with Marco that Wednesday, she was mistaken. The two bumped into each other in the hallway, and this time Marco paused to talk to her. Here, it’s important to remember Einstein’s wise words: time is relative. It varies according to the rhythm of one’s heart.
In that moment, time unfolded in slow motion before Marisa. It could have accelerated to the blink of an eye, given her anxiety at finding herself suddenly face to face with Marco. Surprise, however, rendered Marisa dumbfounded, and all time could do was reduce its own rate while she remained in suspension.
Marco’s attention fixed on her face. Marisa caught the hint of a smile spread throughout his countenance. No neutrality remained there. The mouth then displayed the row of white teeth; the eyes softened. Marco searched her face with an eloquence Marisa couldn’t decide if it was amusement or curiosity. Or both. Without realizing it, she blushed.
Marisa drew her gaze away from his face as she followed the hands opening the black leather briefcase and producing a printed copy. Marco extended a couple of stapled sheets to her, and Marisa stared at the upside-down letters, which in her eyes resembled tiny ants carrying secret messages on their humps. Next, she lost herself in another eternity while contemplating the dark hands that neared her body, preceded by white sheets of paper…
Then two girls approached Marco.
Time jerked back into its habitual march, suddenly pervaded by the hallway rustle, by the grayish sky framed in the window, by the cold lights on the ceiling.
“This is the text you’ve requested,” he said, filling her hands with paper before turning to her classmates.
With the sheets clutched in her hands, a perplexed Marisa levitated away in the corridor.
She hadn’t requested anything from Marco.
5. Signs, Bonbons and Siderodromophilia
Later, during gym class, Marisa and Valentina exiled themselves in the restroom to escape the torments of a volleyball competition. Marisa finally had a chance to show the print Marco had given her: an excerpt with the phrase she had used in her message. While Marisa handled it with the reverence of someone holding a sacred talisman, her friend snatched it and began to read.
If Valentina possessed an undeniable virtue, it was objectivity. Her parents’ divorce, when she was still a girl, embedded in her a visceral skepticism only surpassed by her sympathy toward all minorities. At the time of the separation, it came to light that her father had another woman. More than that: he had another family. Valentina never forgave him. She often said you couldn’t count on anyone and uncertainty was the only certain thing in life.
To illustrate her point, Valentina mentioned the case of English suffragette Emily Davison, who, at the 1913 Derby, in defense of women’s right to vote, leaped onto the racetrack and was trampled by King George V’s horse. The next day, the big sensation reported by the press was not the accident that claimed her life, but the outsider horse winner of the race.
From her father whom she so passionately rejected, Valentina had inherited the prominent nose with a Catalan profile, the exuberant mouth and intense eyes, dark-brown like the curls that floated out of control around her face and down to her shoulder. From him, she had also inherited assertiveness and obstinacy. Being one of the few students immune to Marco’s allure, Valentina could deliver an unbiased analysis of the case at hand. Or so Marisa hoped.
In the deserted lavatory, the only witnesses were the white sinks on the granite top and the mirror where some girl had drawn with lipstick a mysterious letter D inside a heart. The air carried a light pine smell, and from time to time the cries of students in the patio broke like a wave, rising, falling and curveting through the window. Under it, as they sat on the white ceramic floor, Marisa and Valentina confabulated.
“He’s sending me a message in between the lines, Val.”
“There you go again,” Valentina reproached her. “Marco advised you the same way he would any other student. You can’t keep imagining hidden motives in everything people do. You need facts, concrete evidence.” Since Marisa started to protest, she silenced her with a raised index finger: “A print about existentialism does not qualify.”
At each of her words, Marisa would grow impatient and disagree, shaking her head.
“You don’t understand. The text includes the full quote by Sartre from Being and Nothingness that I sent to him. And what does it say following the phrase I used? Desire is expressed by the caress as thought is by language. Can’t you see? First it was the smile, now it’s the caress.”
“Which means you found something in a text about nothing.”
Valentina scratched her head, sighed and raised both hands flat, as if to physically prevent Marisa from committing a terrible, terrible mistake. To reinforce her words, she held Marisa’s shoulders: “You’re gonna drive yourself crazy if you keep trying to find encrypted messages in this text. You’re gonna drive me crazy. Please, don’t do that. I almost miss Palamedes and the war…”
“What about when he asked me to have a cup of coffee with him, huh?” insisted Marisa. “The way we clicked was amazing. You weren’t there to see how he looked at me. He repeated my name several times and leaned toward me while we talked.”
“So what?”
“Those are signs, Val.”
“Says who?”
“Why, behavior experts. Did you know 93% of communication is nonverbal? There’s the body language, tone of voice and other clues to suggest interest. Like, for instance, touching…”
Hey, hey. Marco had actually touched her? Valentina’s curiosity rose above the icy waters of skepticism: now she wanted all the details. Marisa explained he had laid one hand on her shoulder when arriving at the library—and then she started braiding a lock of hair, lost in the memory of the conversation that had ensued. To which Valentina rolled her eyes and made an O with her mouth, in a mix of amusement and exasperation.
“Will you stop it already, Ma? The problem is, when a person falls in love, everything becomes a sign that requires interpreting. Oh, he looked at me. He loves me. Oh, why didn’t he talk to me? He loves me not. Oh, he had a cup of coffee. Blah-blah-blah. Then you try to decipher every tiny gesture, as if the most mundane things had a hidden meaning. Let’s be objective. Marco felt like having coffee and invited you out of politeness. He lives by himself, right? He probably wanted company for a chat. End of story.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yeah. Besides, getting involved with a teacher is a recipe for trouble. Let’s assume (and note it’s only an assumption) that something happens between the two of you. Then someone finds out. First, there will be big-time complications at school, meetings of the board of directors, memorandums, drastic measures. Then your mom will be summoned for a ‘talk.’ Can you imagine Ms. Adélia’s reaction when she learns that you got involved with a teacher? She’ll go berserk and chain you to the foot of your bed.”
“Thanks a lot for predicting my future.” Marisa grimaced. “I didn’t know you had a degree in psychic abilities.”
“I don’t need to be a psychic to foretell your mom’s reaction.”
Marisa reached into her purse and produced a couple of bonbons, offering Valentina one. Sugar always helped keep spirits high. The chocolate melted in her mouth in a comforting way, and Marisa contemplated philosophically the pink cellophane wrap.
She had known Valentina for four years now, since her friend had been expelled from another school for challenging the history teacher in protest against a grade she deemed unfair. Valentina solemnly approached his desk during class and placed a box before him as she said: This is what I think of your evaluation. The teacher opened the box to find inside a pile of dog poop.
Valentina was transferred to Marisa’s school, and since then they’d spent countless hours talking about everything from the meaning of life to
the best waterproof mascara to wear on the beach. In spite of a certain inclination to eccentricity, the friend proved herself precise in her judgments about life and cosmetics.
“Maybe you’re right,” Marisa admitted, quite crossly.
“Elementary, my dear. I’m always right. Now we need to find you a guy so you forget that teacher once and for all.” Valentina paused to savor her chocolate. “By the way, how do you like the book?”
“The one about paraphilia?”
“Yeah.”
Well… with the cover black like the abyss of human sexuality, the title red like sin, and a certain flair for Greek, the encyclopedia held words as unprecedented as bizarre. Right under the letter A, the bulky adstringopenispetraphilia combined in its syllables the male organ, a medium-size string and a bunch of pebbles for geological pleasure. Its distant relative agalmatophilia promoted romance with statues and found a correlate in pygmalionism (p. 305). Desert islands, aliens, ghosts, all had a guaranteed spot in the encyclopedia, and not even the Milky Way had escaped the wandering hand of sexual deviation.
Clinical cases abounded too. The teenage girl diagnosed with knismolagnia, who had suffered the embarrassment of climaxing during an innocent tickle session at school. The retired sergeant who obtained pleasure only when he wore his wife’s panties. The incompatible couple of balloon fetishists—in the throes of passion, he wanted to pamper the balloons, whereas she enjoyed popping them with her stiletto heel.
In Marisa’s opinion, the most curious example was the normophilic patient who casually found out he was a pervert after reading a medical journal. A civil servant and religious man respectful of laws and moral principles, he had to treat his excessive normality: a paraphilia too that was. In order to cure him, a colossal dose of pornographic magazines and videos was prescribed. The treatment, however, inadvertently degenerated into pictophilia.
Red: A Love Story Page 4
