Red: A Love Story
Page 21
The gate had already been blocked with the security ribbon.
Marco ran the last yards to it and, almost out of breath, called the airline employee: the flight… the flight to Los Angeles… could he still board? He had been stuck in traffic… terrible traffic… She anchored an appreciative gaze on his face and resisted the temptation of fixing his hair. Then she smiled, shaking her head.
“This afternoon the Federal Police conducted an inspection of the airplanes,” she informed. “Several flights went out of schedule and some had to be canceled. The takeoff runway is jammed.”
“Excuse me?” Marco blinked, bewildered.
“You’re lucky. Your flight has not been canceled, but it’s going to be two to three hours late,” she clarified, always smiling.
Marco thanked her and turned around, now in slow motion, while the girl continued to stare at him. He walked away with his head suddenly empty, leaving behind a trail of discarded thoughts: suitcase, check-in, aftershave lotion, boarding gate. His steps led him to the bookstore, where he purchased the first crime novel to fall into his hands. He had brought along Coldness and Cruelty, a highly complex study by Gilles Deleuze on the works of Sacher-Masoch, but he doubted he would be able to read a single line of it now.
He proceeded to the VIP area, planning to have a cup of tea and read his bestseller in a peaceful corner. The spacious room held cream-colored granite floors, lights built into the ceiling and a crowd of passengers that, like him, waited for their messed-up flights. Marco passed by a central area with green armchairs and a counter destined for notebook users. He kept going straight to the buffet when a miracle happened: he neared the massage chair right when its occupant stood up to leave.
Making himself comfortable, he selected the Smooth massage mode and plugged earbuds into his cell phone. He searched for a relaxing track and found Above Ground by Norah Jones. Perfect. Marco sighed and shut his eyes for a moment.
Ahhh…
One last flash of light danced inside his closed eyelids, tracing forms and filling them with an invisible paintbrush. The forms flickered in a blur and, at each flicker, a new landscape was drawn.
Sunlight, moonlight
Twilight, starlight
Gloaming at the close of day
Elf-light, bat-light
Touchwood-light and toad-light
And the sea a shimmering gloom of grey
And a small face smiling
In a dream’s beguiling
In a world of wonders far away
3. Serendipity
A welcomed surprise. That’s how serendipity is defined: you look for one thing and find another by chance. But you must keep an open mind and allow fate to flow… and to surprise. Serendipity: such a fashionable word, perhaps because it translates that magical instant when Lady Luck knocks at the door. That instant of suspension when the mind puts in check its conditioning to the cause-effect principle—thus having a glimpse of the hand of God.
Serendipity bears a grain of magic cleverness. Sometimes it comes disguised as a dwarf carrying a pebble, whereas in fact it is a giant silently moving a mountain to change the landscape. Sometimes it hides in plain view, and one day you discover serendipity where you never dreamed it existed. What if a much of a which of a wind? e. e. cummings would ask. But then what if a why if a whiff of a flick?
So much for God, serendipity and bikinis.
Or maybe not.
Marisa set off to shop and drop. She dropped but never really shopped, because she couldn’t find her precious bikini. Frustrated, with sour mood and swollen feet, she brought home only a leopard-print scarf purchased as a consolation prize. Upon arriving, Marisa saw that her mother was out and headed straight to the bedroom. Carrying with her, unbeknown, a small token of serendipity inside the shopping bag.
Ah, Miami! Well, Miami. Marisa selected an MP3 to get in the mood (Quando te Veo by Mo’ Horizons, a duo with German blood and Latin penchant). She shoved a mint into her mouth and danced her way to the computer. Hmmm, Latinos with mysterious eyes and sculpted bodies…
Baila, baila morena
Dame de beber de tu fuego
Quiero arder en tu cuerpo
Porque cuándo te veo…
She drifted and drifted in the ocean of pages… Baila, baila morena… Social media and email… Con la espuma del mar… From click to click, route diversions… En tu piel voy a pasear… Stores, travel blog, BDSM site with lots of photos… Porque cuándo te veo…
Hmm, BDSM. That four-letter acronym for rituals of discipline, submission and sadomasochism translated into images of fetishes as far as the imagination would venture. They mingled to create new forms or remained true to tradition, such as bondage, the millennial art of tying up your partner for maximum pleasure…
Marisa did a very long detour before returning to a beachwear store.
Then she heard—beep! Someone had initiated a chat on the neighboring browser tab. It was her best and very excited friend. Subject: the usual.
Valentina: how are preparations goin?
Marisa: so so. still no bikini. u?
Valentina: all set. countdown mode :)
While Marisa steered the keyboard, she jumped from one tab to another, checking out beach hats or her email inbox. If she heard the beep, she’d click on the chat window. Marisa and Valentina discussed hats, caps, and bandana color codes for preferences in bed (found on BDSM site). And then…
Marisa: wait, i got email. omg.
Valentina: what is it???
She had to reread the incoming message. It was so unexpected, at first Marisa couldn’t quite absorb it. In disbelief, she shook her head and quickly typed.
Marisa: did u check ur mailbox?
Valentina: no. why?
Marisa: wait a mo. ill call u right away.
When she picked up the cell phone, Marisa found the notification for a voice message and accessed the message service. She waited impatiently to hear the recording in the hopes it might bring good news. It didn’t.
Meanwhile, Marisa read the email for the third time.
Dear Marisa,
I tried contacting you over the phone but was unable to reach you. I am sorry to inform you that your English course has been canceled, as it did not meet the minimum number of students required.
Your credit card charges were reversed. We still have several summer courses that may interest you, though. Please check out our website for more details.
I apologize for the inconvenience. Should you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.
All the best,
Priscila Fontes
Courses Coordinator
www.newhorizon.com.br
Marisa didn’t waste time. She went to the school website and, as she scanned the pages, she called Valentina.
4. Wear Flowers in Your Hair
“Miami. Born in 1896, this is the only major city in the United States founded by a woman: Julia Tuttle. When a harsh frost destroyed the plantations in Northern Florida, she sent to the head of the Standard Oil Company, Henry Flager, a basket of juicy oranges from the region where today lies Miami. She thus persuaded him to extend the railroad from the state’s central area to the south, creating there a sumptuous hotel and a town. Miami’s name derived from the local Indian tribe living around Okeechobee Lake, which the natives called Mayaimi, ‘Big Water.’ The city features the largest cruise port on the globe, and many pirates, such as Black Beard, buried their treasures in the area. On firm ground, it offers more than 800 parks, including the Everglades swamps with their unique ecosystem—not to mention a paradoxical snow skiing club. As for the sunny island of Miami Beach, where suntan lotion was born in 1944, it shines with the largest collection of art deco buildings in the world. Elected the best city in the United States for finding a new love, Miami is…”
“Let it go, Ma. I don’t even know what this leaflet is still doing here. Get rid of it.”
“But I like Miami,” whimpered Marisa, shuffling a grimace and a smile. “It’s all your fault! You filled my head with dreams of South Beach, the sex museum—”
“Forget it. All courses in Miami are filled up.”
The two of them released the leaflet at the same time. It planed gently, oscillating to the right and the left, until landing on the rug with a discreet ahh.
“Why did my mother need to seize such a bargain?” Marisa threw her hands up. “We’ll never find a course for such a good value in another school. Everything seems to cost twice as much! ”
“Yeah, your mom talked to mine and both insisted we get something in the same price range. Bummer.”
“Can you imagine that my mom proposed we go to Disney World if we can’t find anything suitable?” Indignation stirred every muscle on Marisa’s face.
“I know. What an indecent proposal. My mom suggested the same after the two spent over an hour on the phone,” said Valentina. “I liked it better when they wouldn’t speak to each other.”
She had come to Marisa’s place so they could find a solution to The Vacation Crisis. She had taken charge of Marisa’s notebook and, logged into the school website, analyzed the options available. Orlando, the world capital of theme parks… No. Fort Lauderdale, “The Venice of America,” a sailing paradise with more than a hundred marinas… No. Tampa, home of the Republican National Convention in… No, no.
They had been browsing for the past two hours. Valentina wouldn’t give up and kept evaluating the school branches. Jacksonville, an important golf destination… No. Saint Petersburg, nicknamed “The Sunshine City,” with an average of 360 sunny days per year… Yes, yay! … and a refuge for retirees… No, dammit. That was getting impossible. There must be an alternative. Valentina reread the long course list like a maniac.
Marisa, sitting by her side on a foldable stool, leaned her chin on her hand with an air of deep boredom and melancholy. With her free hand, she tried to pull out a loose thread from her top. Her face suddenly brightened up: why didn’t they try out that link to courses in other states? They could change their plane tickets, or else travel to Miami and then get a flight to another city. There were always last minute deals. Valentina cheered up too—finally there was a light at the end of the gloomy Disney World tunnel.
And in that light, the situation soon turned out more favorable: Seattle, Boston, New York, Dallas, Atlanta, San Francisco, Los Angeles. Once they have combed out the list, the girls elected Los Angeles, New York and San Francisco, in that order. The first two choices were all filled up. What was left was San Francisco. Next to the name of the course starting on July 8th, a link in red letters warned: Last openings, register now! Valentina and Marisa exchanged a look. They clicked.
Open, Sesame: and the door to paradise opened.
Later they went out to celebrate at a bar, drinking and blabbering like Ali Baba must have done at the sultan’s party. The Vacation Crisis had been averted! How lucky they were, what a relief! Miami, its beaches and water sports were history. Now the focus was the West Coast metropolis, exponent of the green movement and hometown of indie band LoveLikeFire (What happened to you, la-la-la-lah). Exhilarated by their choice, they turned on Marisa’s tablet and read the page of a popular travel portal:
“San Francisco. Founded in 1835, the city was originally named Yerba Buena due to the presence of wild mint, or ‘good herb,’ in its territory. It’s one of the most visited tourist destinations in the world, with the iconic cable cars on the slide of its slopes, the picturesque Victorian houses, and the fog brought by the Pacific Ocean, which bathes most of the city. Its postcard is the Golden Gate Bridge, stretched out for almost two miles, such a long structure that its paint job never ends: as soon as it’s completed, it’s already time to start it all over again. In the 19th century, San Francisco staged the Gold Rush and attracted many Chinese immigrants to work in the mines of the area. The city was hence the cradle of the denim jeans and Chinese fortune cookies—the latter being actually introduced by a Japanese citizen. In San Francisco flourished the counterculture of the beatniks in the 1950s and of the hippies in the 1960s. Today, spread across 43 hills, this progressive city embraces cultural diversity, technology, art, ecology, and liberal customs.”
“Sweet!” the two girls exclaimed in unison.
5. The Kashmir Lounge
The veil of the night fell slowly over San Francisco. As the rosy sky began to swoon, the city lights woke up little by little and the temperature changed. All it took was for the sun to set, and the Pacific blow would claim the streets all to itself, with its icy breath that shook teeth and made window panes grow pale. It came in a rush, sneaking unceremoniously into coats, tickling the tips of noses and biting heels. In despair, not few pedestrians sought shelter in the nearest cafe.
Up above, the Airbus A322 coming from Los Angeles pierced the clouds in the fiery sky, preparing to complete flight 940. Instructed by the flight attendant, passengers kept their safety belts on and their chairs in the upright position. The local temperature, according to the captain, was mild: 55º Fahrenheit, or 13º Celsius. The aircraft flew over the lit-up structure of the Bay Bridge and Alcatraz Island, skirted the Golden Gate Bridge and executed a U-turn over open waters, setting off to the runway by the bay. Minutes later, it landed perfectly on time at the San Francisco Airport. It was 7:45 pm.
On the other side of town, Marisa watched the nightfall spectacle through the bay window in the living room. The glass panes were already becoming hazy when she backed off and studied the room perfumed with flower potpourri. Before the home theater wooden armoire, a huge beige sofa waited patiently for the next movie session. The coffee table, upholstered with the same suede, filled the role of faithful squire and transitory home for two boxes of assorted chocolate.
Marisa smiled to herself. It seemed like everything was ready for Saturday night. Judging by the roasted pork and cherry pie aroma that escaped the kitchen, her hostess had prepared a special dinner for her husband, who would soon be back. After the meal the couple usually socialized with two Siamese cats on the sofa, watching TV all night long.
Her hosts made a funny couple, thought Marisa. A large lady, Mrs. Stevenson was a woman in her sixties, short blonde hair, rosy cheeks and blue eyes full of sparkle. Mr. Stevenson was her opposite, a pale, small and circumspect man, with snow-white hair and timid gray eyes that tended to stray away. She liked comedy, he liked drama. They always ended up watching reality shows.
Wrapping the leopard-print scarf around her neck, Marisa smoothed out her new pair of jeans and buttoned up the red jacket she had bought in a sale that afternoon. She picked up her shoulder bag.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Stevenson!” Marisa said as she descended the staircase that led to the street.
“Goodbye, honey. Have fun!” replied the hostess, her hoarse voice coming from the back of the house.
The English course was finally over, and not a moment too soon. For the past couple of weeks, Marisa and Valentina almost drowned in a radically immersive marathon, with practical and theoretical classes that extended from morning to evening. The immersion had continued over the previous weekend, with the usual sightseeing routine under the teachers’ supervision: visiting Alcatraz in a guided tour; taking a cable car ride to Fishermen’s Wharf to eat fried fish, watch Pier 39’s sea lions and buy I love San Francisco T-shirts; exploring the exotic gardens of the Golden Gate Park and the De Young Museum, with a promenade on the sands of Ocean Beach in the end; and, of course, driving along the Golden Gate Bridge for a strategic stop at the hill on the other side—along with a group of Japanese tourists—to admire the stunning scenery of the bay, with the metropolis backdrop a
nd the silver waters crisscrossed by sailboats… click, click, click. And take lots of pictures.
Now, on their first free Saturday, the girls were determined to make up for the lost time: they still had the weekend to raid the city before they left for Brazil on Monday. Valentina was staying at a flat in the Castro with a gay couple, not very far from where the Stevensons lived in the Mission. So the two friends agreed to meet at the subway station on 16th Street, halfway between their temporary homes.
Marisa stepped onto the sidewalk and shivered when the wind disheveled her hair. Turning on the MP3 player, she adjusted her earphones and crossed the backstreet with Victorian houses squeezed in the middle of the block. The whispered lyrics by Belgian group Hooverphonic told the story of a girl in a space capsule who found a cowboy on the moon. The slowly orchestrated basis of Plus Profond. set the rhythm to Marisa’s steps and transformed the landscape into film: traffic lights changing into green-yellow-red; pedestrians in transit on the sidewalks, in and out establishments; live window paintings of store clerks, waiters, clients who laughed, talked, circulated, yawned; cars that passed by, stopped, took off. A kaleidoscope of movement… A girl in a space capsule and a cowboy on the moon.
Slowly she grew
Till she filled the night
And shone
On her throne
In the sky alone…
The queen of the night
Meanwhile the passengers of flight 940 disembarked from the Airbus A322 and moved through a succession of tunnels covered in glass, gliding walkways, and stairs. A man in a brown jacket gesticulated as he spoke on his cell phone. A girl in a yellow jumper dropped a teddy bear on the floor, and her mother paused to collect it. Some in a hurry, others slower, they advanced unremittingly until all had reached carrousel number 7 in the baggage claim section. There, they waited for their suitcases like an assembly of clad flamingos, with their telescopic necks distended to the maximum at each piece of luggage materializing on the carrousel curve. It was 8:05 pm.