“What about the couple with the statue?” Valentina exclaimed with disgust.
“Statue?”
“Oh, you haven’t reached that part yet, so I won’t deliver any spoilers. Suffice to say during a train ride they do all this crazy stuff with a statue and an avocado.”
Marisa listened attentively and began folding the cellophane wrap with methodical gestures.
“Hmmm… It’s a typical case of pygmalionist siderodromophilia with dendrophilic tendencies,” she diagnosed, carefully spelling out each word. Then she dropped the cellophane paper with a naughty expression. “Do you know there’s a sex shop near the library? We could stop by when I return the books.”
“Oh, don’t tell me it’s the Lost Paradise.”
Yep, confirmed Marisa. Valentina then told her it was the hottest sex shop in town. The store carried exclusive products, and its owner, a retired anthropologist, travelled the world collecting tribal mating artifacts. Marisa promptly pictured what those devices would be like. Valentina, with an ironic chuckle, told her the store sold inflatable serpents covered in gold dust. Inspired by the creatures of the Amazon jungle, they became such a hit in orgies that people kept comparing their snakes and even forgot to use them.
Marisa wanted to see the mating artifacts in person. Valentina preferred the erotic snakes. Amid laughter and chattering, they planned a visit to the shop. Their enthusiasm was well-justified: the Lost Paradise, indeed, held many surprises in store. More than they would have imagined.
6. Strategic Pause
On Thursday Camila circled Marco again and glued to him in the hallway. Marisa began to harbor serious suspicions of La Edible’s intentions: now it was no longer a matter of insinuations, it had become a frontal assault. At the end of classes on Friday, on her way home, Marisa saw Camila and Marco on the corner of the street. He was saying something and she smiled mesmerized, playing with the golden pendant in an obvious attempt to draw attention to her cleavage.
Unable to refrain her resentment, Marisa hid behind a newsstand and watched them. Camila had already repeated one school year and, in Marisa’s opinion, she was simply dumb. What good were all those curves without a brain? Yet Marisa had to admit, against her will, that the other girl was pretty, with her lean body, long hair and big brown eyes. Camila personified the stereotype of seduction men seemed so keen on. And Marco apparently fell for that stupid, primary game.
Men are such idiots, thought Marisa. It was pathetic how biology spoke louder than reason. No, not speak, no: biology yelled and tap danced, while reason moaned and crawled in agony. When a man was around cleavage, hormones boiled in his brain and he could only think of procreation. Guys out there even attended classes to learn the shortest route between their hands and a woman’s underwear. They claimed to be “pickup artists.” It was cruel but true: the masculine world valued easy exuberance, not substance.
As for easy exuberance, Marisa couldn’t prevent her eyes from roaming over Marco’s figure. She paused on the back pockets with one of his extracurricular endowments that brought joy to the school girls… Irritated, she steered her gaze to the sleeve of his shirt. Despite Valentina’s advice, Marisa couldn’t resist Marco. Why him? After all, there were millions of men in the world. But why not him? She had never felt such an affinity with anyone as with Marco. She admired his knowledge, sense of humor, easy ways… his smile, his hands… (Here, Marisa let out an ambiguous sigh, half romantic, half annoyance: a sigh of annoyed romanticism.)
Very well then, Valentina had hit the last nail on the coffin of her hopes: all Marco meant with his coffee invitation was an amicable conversation. The proof stood right there across the street. Marisa wanted to leave but couldn’t stop looking at the pair on the corner. Now Marco spoke again in that assertive manner of his. Now Camila fidgeted again with the damn pendant… And now… the fatal blow: Marco retrieved a bunch of papers from his briefcase and handed it to Camila. So he did that for all the girls.
Feeling betrayed, Marisa aimed a poisonous stare at the pair and inadvertently leaned forward. She knocked over a pile of knitting magazines with a merry woman on their covers. They landed with a plump, and now eighteen women with their knitting needles smiled at Marisa from the ground. The old newsvendor glared at her as if saying: Aren’t you gonna fix that mess? Marisa gestured an apology and recoiled behind a wall of newspapers. Since she didn’t move from the spot, the man grunted and knelt down to retrieve the magazines carpeting the sidewalk.
Marco and Camila interrupted their conversation to observe the old man talking to himself. Marisa, from behind the cover of a finance publication, took a peek at the two. Marco indicated the newsstand with a motion of his chin. Camila shook her head. Marisa froze: Marco rotated his body to face the newsstand… he took one step… another step… and began crossing the street.
Her heart fussed like a frightened bird. He would follow a diagonal route and, upon reaching the newsstand, he would see her. Marisa’s first impulse was to run. The second, to hide under the newspapers. The third (a flash of reason), to pretend she was reading some article. Yes, of course, that was it… Marisa stared at a headline about the Federal Reserve and feigned deep concentration. She fervently promised the Almighty never to be daft again if she escaped that one with her dignity intact.
Her cell phone ring, a techno version of The Doors’ Break on Through, almost gave her a syncope. She retrieved the phone quickly from the outer compartment of her purse. It was a call from her mother. Marisa thought of turning the device off, but she had already ignored the mother’s previous call.
She answered in a whisper.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I had tried reaching you before and left a message, did you listen to it? I wanted to ask you to get some olive oil on your way home. I need it for lunch.” Her voice carried an edge of impatience. “Where are you?”
“At the newsstand,” Marisa replied as she monitored Marco’s advance from the corner of her eye.
“Then hurry up, otherwise you’re going to be late for your afternoon classes. You know which olive oil, don’t you? Don’t get the light one, as it has no flavor…”
“Uh-huh. Light.” At each step he took, her heart thundered.
“… and bring passion fruit for juice too. Ripe.”
“Sure. Ripe.”
The mother didn’t notice Marisa’s distraction because she was distracted herself, waiting for the propitious moment to approach a subject of the utmost importance.
“Do you know I met a very distinctive young man at church? Lucinda’s son. His name is Tato and he’s studying law. He’s so pleasant and responsible. I thought maybe you could come with me to mass on Sunday. He’ll be going too.”
“I have to study.”
“But it’ll be just for an hour…”
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Mom, the connection is breaking… Mom? I can’t hear a thing…”
Marisa turned the phone off with a pang of guilt. Lately the mother had been impossible to handle, always trying to shove her into the arms of the first “good catch” that happened to materialize. It was as if the mother didn’t know what to do with her and sought reinforcements. Unfortunately, the two of them didn’t share the same tastes—her mother seemed to have a fascination for dorks.
But right now a more pressing matter demanded her attention. Whoa. What was going on across the street? Hmmm…
Camila moved forward, hooked a very long arm to Marco and held him back. She then brought her face close to his, sibilating something that made him draw back and smile awkwardly. The Messalina wanted Marco all for herself, thought Marisa, outraged. Once more, the chin-head dialogue. (Oh, heavens, was that ever going to stop?) Marco muttered something and Camila finally recoiled the serpent’s arm. Then he aimed again for the newsstand and took one more step…
This was not the
place for Marisa to discuss her own faith or the existence of God. But the fact is, before traversing the street, Marco asked the newsvendor if he needed help. The old man said no. Marco hesitated and rejoined Camila. They exchanged a few words, and he seemed ready to take off when the ophidian arm retained him once more. Marisa huffed. Luckily, the two parted soon after that.
When the enemy was gone, Marisa marched from behind the newsstand with an imaginary knife clenched between her teeth. She marched away with her dignity intact and a mood more bitter than the newsvendor’s. Seriously, men deserve the Nobel Prize of idiocy. She couldn’t believe Camila’s boldness and Marco’s endless paper supply. She couldn’t believe, above all, her own idiocy.
Another week passed, and Monday brought one more gym class. Marisa and Valentina sought refuge in the usual lavatory when Marisa announced she had finished reading the paraphilia book. Valentina proposed skipping the last afternoon class so they could go to the library and the sex shop. Marisa hesitated, but the friend’s scientific rationale persuaded her: no class in the world could compete with the Lost Paradise. Thus, later that day the two of them made a quick visit to the library and proceeded briskly to the sex shop.
“I’m so excited!” said Valentina when they arrived. “I read on the Internet that the store owner suffers from this priapism thing: when he gets it up, it doesn’t go down… Can you imagine?”
“Where on earth do you dig up that sort of information? It’s gross,” Marisa protested, pulling a face.
At the store, the two found a number of bizarre items sure to make lots of people’s hair stand on end. Besides the tribal artifacts, there were all sorts of publications, films, toys and intimate jewelry (hypoallergenic). Not to mention a vacuum penis expander made with German technology, which was just plain scary.
The inflatable dolls offered a special chapter in the store’s inventory. Commercialized with exclusive distribution, they were ordered from an American company and sent to an Italian artisan in order to receive the finest finishing that would make them stand out from the crowd. Their silky texture invited the touch, and their complexion was so fresh it could even fool an inattentive user.
As the Lost Paradise’s flagship, the inflatables offered the portability their heavy silicone counterparts lacked. They used to be exposed at the entrance of the store, until a depraved customer ran away with a doll that served as a model in a re-enactment of the film When Larry Ate Sally (the store owner, besides being priapic, had a soft side for romantic comedy). The thief dashed on the avenue with the doll under his arm—naked as it came into this world, covered solely with a red miniskirt flapping like a flag.
After that, the inflatable collection migrated to the back of the store. Valentina and Marisa had to forge their way through shelves and counters to reach the dolls. They were arranged in varied poses against a painted scenario reproducing the Garden of Eden. Valentina quickly turned sour at the sight of them. While Marisa admired the collection, Valentina approached the clerk and filled a form before returning with a triumphant expression.
“What was that?” Marisa asked.
“A complaint form. They have a suggestion box.”
“And about what did you complain?”
Valentina pointed to the inflatables with evident disdain.
“Can’t you see what’s going on here?”
Marisa gave her a quizzical look. She couldn’t find anything wrong with the lot: a serpent coiled on an artificial apple tree and half a dozen female dolls (blonde courtesan, futuristic beauty, etc., etc.) around a bared-chest, Latino macho-style doll in tight leatherette pants. All ready to start an orgy and be dispatched nonstop to the seventh circle of hell. But to Valentina, naturally, the circles of hell hardly mattered.
“Marisa, Marisa. You’re so heedless.” Her admonition linked to a rally-style discourse. “Do the math. They release several female dolls and only one male doll. This is typical of the segregation minorities suffer on a daily basis. Don’t female and gay audiences have equal rights when it comes to variety?” She gesticulated, taking an imaginary stand: “As Anaïs Nin wrote in her book In Favor of the Sensitive Man, eroticism is one of the pillars of self-knowledge, as indispensable as poetry!” Then she checked her cell phone and suddenly worried. “Oops, gotta go or I’ll be late for my dental appointment.”
Valentina left quickly, but not without first addressing a glare of reproach to the clerk. Marisa still remained in the store for another half-hour. Without someone to share impressions, though, the whole thing became a bit pointless and Marisa decided to go home. At the exit, she fished in her purse for the MP3 player, adjusted the earbuds and selected a Doors remix (Infected Mushroom). Jim Morrison began singing Light My Fire.
She was about to move away from the store when she saw an enormous silicone penis that a clerk had just placed in the display window. Marisa leaned over to study the large triple-ended article: with its greenish color and red bulges, it looked like a cross between a stegosaur and an alien. She perused its instructions card. Horrified but unable to stop, Marisa read it wide-eyed, then frowned, read on with even wider eyes, and grimaced.
At that point, her peripheral vision captured the motion of a silhouette coming out of the store and—without knowing why—she straightened herself up. The moment lingered in suspension when her eyes met Marco’s.
Now, rather than having his jacket on, he carried it in his arm. Marisa’s gaze ran from his square face to his light-gray T-shirt and jeans, trailed the jacket folds, and at last reached his hand holding a white shopping bag with the store logo. Finally, her eyes moved up, all the way back to the initial point. The two stared at each other without dissimulating their surprise—he still hesitant at the sex shop door, she completely baffled beside the gigantic triple-ended phallus.
And Jim Morrison always singing.
Marco moved his head in a short nod and walked away with a long stride. It was rush hour, and Marisa saw him burrow in the adjacent avenue amidst the crowd going back home. For a moment, she observed the unruly procession streaming in all directions. Then she turned back to the card. Her interest in the stegosaur-phallus, however, was (so to speak) extinct.
7. Tropical Rain
It was tempting to confide to Valentina the encounter with the literature teacher at the Lost Paradise. Marisa usually told her everything but this time had scruples. In the way Marco had looked at her, Marisa captured something she knew too well herself. Something that should be respected: susceptibility. The next day in class, every time the two exchanged a look, it betrayed complicity for one shared secret and curiosity for another unrevealed. Marisa tried to guess what hidden desire had led Marco to the store. He speculated the same about her.
October drew to an end, and that Tuesday was a typical springtime rainy day, still irresolute amid the last breath of winter and the neighboring summer showers. After classes, as Marco drove along the street, he spotted a silhouette in a lilac dress walking with bowed head on the sidewalk. He rolled down the window pane, and thick drops spattered on his face when he called Marisa to offer a ride. She rushed to the Lexus in a mess of notebooks, handbag and clothes clinging to her body. Her relief for escaping the rain lasted just long enough to become uneasiness: in the confines of the car, the window panes grew foggy with steam and tension.
After the encounter at the Lost Paradise, after the dissimulated looks in the classroom, here they were squeezed in a metal box. Just the two of them. Suddenly embarrassed. They talked about the weather and Marisa complained she had forgotten to bring an umbrella that day. Marco turned the heat on and opened the glove compartment, where he kept tissues. She muttered a thank you, picked up the tissue box and dried herself. The conversation dimmed out. The rain pattered on the car’s silver-gray hood. Traffic dragged painfully.
“Did you do the vocational test?” Marco asked after a few minutes.
“No, I… forgot…”
It dawned on Marisa the extent of the apathy hidden inside her. In truth, she no longer cared about college or the future. Since her father’s death, she had already quit dance classes and the choir. As she couldn’t quit school altogether, Marisa numbed herself with studying to forget life had no meaning. Her soul perched on a plum tree like Pierre Anthon, silently shouting nothing mattered. Life was a parade of platitudes, wake up in the morning and brush teeth, say hi to the porter upon leaving the building and upon returning, finish one set of homework just to begin another and another, long for the future, get disappointed with the future, have meals, dress for the weekend, sleep and wake up again, until the day waking up was no longer an option. And in the meantime, everything a person loved the most ran out between their fingers until all that remained were empty hands.
The suffocated pain rose to surface. First a contraction in the chest, then the jolt in the throat and a burning sting in the eyes. She’s there again. For the first time. Walking with her mother on the path paved with cement and dry leaves. They stop before a rectangle of fresh grass with a black granite tombstone. She reads in the inscription what she refuses to accept. The name and the dates. So that’s it. From an entire life, all that’s left. She’ll never see her father again. Never again. The sky darkens, the pine trees bow in the wind, and the horns on the street come from afar—from a world to which she no longer belongs. The mother hugs her in silence, bleakly. Marisa cries. She looks at the sad saints watching the graves and promising eternal bliss. She’s angry. Angry at life for robbing her of a most loved one and then continuing without him, angry at the father who had left her behind, angry at herself for not being able to save him. Angry. She swears not to shed another tear.
She almost kept her word.
Marco grew disconcerted when he saw her wipe away a teardrop. He tightened his grip on the wheel as he glanced sideways at Marisa. Better to keep quiet so not to make her uncomfortable. She was biting her lip, restraining herself. He relaxed… but soon she sobbed, and that first tear multiplied into many. Marco parked in the first available space.
Red: A Love Story Page 5
