Red: A Love Story

by Nicole Collet

  Marisa walked for ten minutes and found Valentina waiting for her in front of the subway station. Her friend, dressed in purple velvet pants and an extravagant orange sweater, was reading the Variety section of The Bay Guardian.

  “There are several bars and clubs close by,” Valentina announced, showing her the newspaper.

  “Let’s go eat something. We’ll decide what to do over dinner,” said Marisa as she dropped the MP3 player into her purse.

  The two wandered in the vicinity until they reached Valencia Street, where a small Thai restaurant decorated with typical lanterns captivated them. The luminous sign above the door informed the place was named Suriya, and a wooden elephant statue greeted them at the entrance. The girls picked a table by the window, tasted a Thai beer and checked out the menu.

  Twelve miles away, Marco was leaving the airport with his friend Jeff. As far as looks went, the two men couldn’t have been more different. Marco smiled placidly, tanned skin, ripped jeans and a white tank top. His friend maintained a rigid posture, pale in his black trousers and light-blue shirt. His blond hair was stiff with gel, which seemed to have plastered his blue eyes to make them stiff too.

  “How was LA, Marco?” Jeff asked while maneuvering his black SUV.

  “Great. I did some very interesting networking at the congress. Then I went to a party in Venice Beach and visited Carmel. The usual. What about you? How is the remodel of your apartment going?”

  “It’s a nightmare. I’m camping in the storage room. The contractor opened a hole in the wrong spot, the painter left more paint on the floors than on the walls, and the electrician vanished from the face of the earth without finishing his job.”

  Jeff shook his head and laughed to avoid weeping. He paused at the parking exit and tuned the radio into Paul Black’s Down on Me fast-paced blues. Singing under his breath, he sped into the night.

  In the meantime, on the other side of town, the girls waited for their food and ordered more beer. Valentina reached into her purse for The Guardian and scanned the Variety section, while Marisa entertained herself trying to read the upside-down words.

  “Hmm, let’s see. Bars, clubs… indie rock… electronic music… Latin beats…” She ran her index along the text columns. “Oh, there’s a bar five blocks away that looks interesting: Kashmir Lounge… tonight, reggae and Arabic fusion music.”

  “Let’s go!” Marisa blurted out in a sluggish voice.

  The black SUV rolled smoothly on the freeway. Inside the vehicle, the air freshener spread a smell of tutti frutti that enveloped their laughter as Marco and Jeff revisited old stories. The two had met through mutual friends during Marco’s PhD in San Francisco. Jeff was an electrical engineer crazy about bossa nova and jazz. He and Marco hit it off over a shared Miles Davis album.

  “I’m starving,” Jeff said at one point. “Where are we gonna have dinner? I suggest a classic restaurant in Chinatown. Best Peking duck ever. There’s also a new Indian in the Mission.”

  “I’ll leave the choice to you.” Marco brushed off a lock of hair from his forehead and uttered a sigh. “Anything but Mexican food. And later, drinks are on me.”

  They decided for the classic in the good ol’ Chinatown of pictorial red flags and shops stuffed with Oriental statuettes on perpetual sale. On their way there, however, a slight problem arose. As known, Chinese restaurants are designated according to a set of a dozen or so keywords, scrambled and randomly combined two by two: golden, red, jade, imperial, temple, garden, palace and so on. Thus are born names such as Golden Palace, Red Dragon and Jade Temple. Which can also turn into Jade Palace, Golden Dragon and Red Temple. Jeff couldn’t remember the name of the classic restaurant even if his life depended on it. In the end, he and Marco headed for the Indian restaurant. Traffic flowed with ease, so they soon arrived at the Mission. Dropping the car in a parking lot, the two strolled along the sidewalk. The restaurant was located on Valencia Street.

  Five blocks ahead, Marisa and Valentina took great delight in their exotic meal. Crispy kratong tong pastries, pumpkin curry, and black rice with coconut ice cream. Marisa told the joke about a man who would repeatedly shout the name of a woman, thinking she was deaf, when in reality she had already answered all of his calls, and he was the one deaf. Ah, ah, ah, ah! Hysterical, so hysterical. Ah, ah, ah, ah! The girls hit their third round of beers.

  Block after block, Marco and Jeff walked past ethnic restaurants, bars, Hispanic food markets, laundromats, convenience stores with neon signs on their windows. They came to a halt one block away from the Suriya and disappeared through a door finely carved with arabesques. A half-hour later, they started on their opulent chicken biryani and malai kofta dishes and washed down with Indian beer.

  In the meantime, Marisa and Valentina paid the check and stepped arm in arm onto the street. They walked two blocks and… Ooops… Wrong way. They turned around and kept going, tripping here and there. That’s how they came to pass twice by the restaurant where Marco and Jeff were dining. The girls gesticulated and laughed hysterically at a joke now told by Valentina.

  (In his evening off, James, the butler, returns quite late to the mansion and tiptoes inside. Milady calls him and he obliges, tail between legs. She motions for him to come closer. “James, remove my shoes.” Caught by surprise, James hesitates. “But, Milady…” She reinforces the order, and he obeys. Then she asks him to remove her dress. He reddens and begins to sweat. “But… but, Milady…” And she repeats in a soft voice: “James, please. Remove my dress.” He complies. Her necklace, pantyhose and bra follow. When it comes to Milady’s panties, James is very reluctant. She insists, though. “James, please… please. Remove my panties.” And gone are the panties too. At last, Milady says in her usual phlegmatic tone: “Now, James, I want you to promise me that you will never wear my clothes again.”)

  By the time Valentina finished the joke, she and Marisa had made their second pass in front of the Indian restaurant. Marco and Jeff were seated at a table farther in the back. Nevertheless, through the window framed by a curtain of transparent beads, Marco caught a glimpse of the duo: the top of Marisa’s head, her profile, and then an orange sleeve that waved like a windsock in a gale. He frowned, intrigued, and thought he was seeing things. The fleeting image paraded before his eyes like the trail of a dream.

  Outside, the two girls trotted happily among hasty pedestrians. Valentina applauded that no man had hit on them on the streets since they arrived in town, to which Marisa replied that Americans were definitely reserved, to which Valentina retorted that reserved was not the word but rather civilized.

  “Whatever, it’s just weird not hearing anything on the street. It’s like there’s something wrong with you,” said Marisa.

  “Can’t you see what’s going on? It’s the Latino macho culture that does this to women,” Valentina roared with fire in her eyes.

  As if they guessed the subject at hand, two Mexicans across the street waved at them: ¡Hola, guapas!

  The two girls cracked up. They were still laughing when they finally reached their destination, a club with a slim peacock blue frontage, a glass door and a large rectangular window. As soon as they entered, a cloud of sandalwood incense surrounded them.

  How could the Kashmir Lounge be described? If an animal, it would be a rare bird. If a country, the Wonderland. And so on and so on. Perhaps the best way to define it is: a gate to another dimension. Past the threshold, an unaware visitor would immediately land on the Summer of Love of 1967—just like that, nonstop flight. In the square room, Indian lamps flickered among Oriental tapestries. The bar stood to the right, and a few tables were crammed near the entrance. In the back, a low platform served as a stage. The central portion of the room doubled up as an auditorium and a dance floor. So far, so good. Now the patrons…

  A psychedelic, blinding profusion of kurtas embroidered with tiny mirrors fluttered around the room, matched with lon
g hair and faded jeans. In the same vein, the four members of the band (two Jamaicans boasting dreadlock plantations and two Arabs with taqiyah caps) sat cross-legged onstage playing guitar, flute, sitar and tabla. The sounds that emanated from the platform created an indescribable amalgam of Bob Marley and Cheb Khaled. Depending on the point of view, it could be deemed pure genius or the undigested leftovers of a second-rate restaurant.

  While the audience chanted ooohmmmm in tune with the band, a girl in an I Dream of Jeannie costume circulated in the room distributing bonbons wrapped in multicolored cellophane. They were magical bonbons, she explained, giving one to Marisa and another to Valentina. Why magical? they asked, and the girl smiled behind the transparent veil that covered the lower portion of her face. She was about to say something when a group approached her asking for bonbons, and the question remained unanswered.

  Marisa and Valentina exchanged a look and shrugged. Both unwrapped the bonbons, examining them with interest. Small and spherical, they exhibited a peace symbol in pink icing. They seemed like regular milk chocolate but left a funny aftertaste. Definitely not the sort of item found at the posh candy stores in town.

  The two lingered at the bar drinking beer and watching the show, which after all didn’t turn out too bad. The music, in fact, proved to be irresistible. Soon pairs of shoes lay in the corners as bare feet glided everywhere to better connect with the telluric energies from the flooring.

  Then something happened. All of a sudden, enraptured by the collective trance, Valentina and Marisa removed their shoes too and let the slithering rhythm carry them away. In reality they removed more than just their shoes. Marisa, feeling hot, got rid of her jacket and kept a light top on. Valentina yanked off her sweater to reveal solely a black bra, and that’s what she kept on.

  “Hurrah!” she whooped with a spin.

  Along with the crowd, the two whirled and threw their arms up in a psychedelic epiphany: it was the Summer of Love and everything was in harmony with the Cosmos—oh, yes, and the fusion of reggae and Arabic music was the most transcendental thing in the whole universe… how come they’d never listened to anything like that before?

  Standing on the sidewalk, Marco and Jeff observed the scene.

  “What the hell is that?” Marco asked his friend.

  He hadn’t spotted Marisa, or he would be really puzzled.

  “I have no frigging idea,” said Jeff.

  “Wanna go inside?”

  At that moment, the music stopped for intermission and the audience started dispersing toward the bar. By the stage, a man with a long blond braid continued to dance, unperturbed. He jiggled like a faun… or a rabbit, it was hard to tell. He would bend his elbows close to his sides, forearms raised and hands pointing down, mimicking paws. He’d hop and twirl; then would stand on one leg, perfectly still, and move his head like an Indian dancer.

  Jeff scratched his chin and hesitated for a second before answering: “Nah.”

  Chuckling, he and Marco moved away. They headed to a sports bar across the street.

  Inside the Kashmir Lounge, Marisa and Valentina took a seat at one of the tables. Flushed and euphoric, they fanned themselves with the drink cards. A girl in a lilac tie-dye dress with a cowboy hat paused before them. She beamed: “Don’t you feel awesome tonight?”

  And they both beamed back: “Yeah!”

  6. A New Day

  She felt like crap. The daylight hurt her eyes with the force of a thousand spears. Marisa blinked a few times, trying to adjust her sight to the brightness. Then she covered her ears to silence the time bomb set in her brain. It did not work. Tic-tac, tic-tac. Another attempt. Hmmm. Tic-tac, tic-tac. The problem, she reasoned, was her overeating the night before. She shouldn’t have ordered dessert.

  “C’mon, honey, breakfast is ready!”

  It was Mrs. Stevenson calling her again. Oh, God. Just the thought of food. But maybe a cup of coffee would exorcize the Thai demon that had possessed her stomach. She tripped out of bed, put on a sweatshirt and pants, and zigzagged to the bathroom to make herself presentable. The next stop was the kitchen. As Marisa entered the living room, she covered her mouth and almost jumped back when her helpless nostrils were assaulted by a lethal mix: food smell and the flower potpourri Mrs. Stevenson insisted in scattering around the house.

  Marisa held her breath and ran to the kitchen. There she found the hostess frying blueberry pancakes while her husband read the newspaper. The cozy room featured white appliances, cherry wood cabinets and, in the center, a square table set with jars of jam, butter, a bread basket and a thermos bottle. Potted violets and voile curtains adorned the window. The two cats, rubbing up against Mrs. Stevenson’s legs, meowed nonstop, their upward tails flowing around her like silent interrogation marks.

  Marisa saluted the couple and bent down to pet the animals, which usually were quite affectionate. This time, though, their affection had been sequestered by the mound of pancakes growing on the cooktop. Mrs. Stevenson glanced over her shoulder and asked if Marisa had a good time. Making an effort to ignore the time bomb and the Thai demon, Marisa summed up her evening while helping herself to a double coffee. Then she sat at the table with Mr. Stevenson, who, wrapped in a checked robe, concentrated on the Sports section of the newspaper. He raised his eyes from the page.

  “Oh, the Kashmir Lounge. It opened in the seventies. The crowd there is… interesting.” With that, he enigmatically took a sip of coffee and returned to the newspaper.

  Mrs. Stevenson, on the other hand, sprinkled words in Marisa’s ears with the same liberality as she sprinkled berries over the pancake dough. At one point, she wiped her hands absented-mindedly on her yellow apron, decorating it with a large purple stain. It resembled a Rorschach test.

  “Such a shame you’re leaving. There are wonderful places around. Lake Chabot, Point Reyes, Yosemite… Well, at least you can enjoy the weekend. Didn’t your classmates want to join you girls?” Since the cat climbed on the chair to steal a pancake from the table, she brandished the skimmer: “Smokey, get off that chair now! Bad, bad boy!”

  “They’d rather go back to Fishermen’s Wharf, Mrs. Stevenson. Valentina and I decided…”

  Marisa interrupted the sentence to fish for the phone ringing in her pocket. It was Valentina, the very one and only.

  “Good morning, America! Ready for more?” Without waiting for a reply, she announced: “Richard and Brian are taking us to a fetish fair. Do you have the Guardian…? Great. Read the article on page 15. We’ll be stopping by at noon to fetch you.”

  A fetish fair. Marisa recalled the website she had visited before the trip. She hurried to grab the latest edition of the Bay Guardian on the kitchen counter, opening it to the mentioned page as she spoke with Valentina.

  The fair’s description conjured suggestive images: A showcase of products and services for the boldest erotic fantasies on the planet. Gastronomy, music, role playing and over 50 exhibitors. The Leather Dream Fair promises to bring to town unlimited possibilities of pleasure. Moreover, its grand closing party will be the perfect excuse for test driving the fair’s arsenal.

  Marisa chatted a little longer with Valentina and hung up. Then, suddenly thrilled, she attacked the pancake on the plate before her and finished reading the article.

  Two miles away, at a hotel in the historical Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, Marco enjoyed breakfast in bed. His room was located on the upper floor of a Victorian mansion, with a bay window offering a view of the hills in the distance. Decorated in antique style, it sported mahogany furniture, cream wallpaper with green stripes and pleated curtains the same color. An oval mirror, a blue armchair and a frosted glass chandelier rounded the time travel.

  With the food tray on his lap, Marco nibbled the last piece of toast and emptied a glass of orange juice. Then he put the tray aside and stretched himself from head to toe like a cat. He smiled contentedly, caressing his
stomach under the white T-shirt. It was wonderful to indulge in the luxury of escaping routine. At home, before he rushed to work, he would usually have a fruit and a cup of coffee while standing by the kitchen sink. Truth was he had always cherished his sleep far more than the morning rituals.

  He zapped through the channels on the small TV set on top of a dark wooden rack. Along with the minibar fitted under it, the TV was the only modern item in the room. Oh, and there was the phone too: Marco stretched his arm to reach it on the nightstand and dialed Jeff’s number. He wanted to check if his friend had survived their evening out in one piece—judging by Jeff’s hoarse voice and cranky tone, there was not much left of him.

  “I haven’t drunk like that in a long time,” Jeff grumbled. “What happened at the bar?”

  “A girl made you a man.”

  His friend silenced on the other end of the line. A burst of hammer blows could be heard in the background. Then the vigorous scratching of sandpaper.

  “Don’t kid me,” he said. “What happened yesterday? When I try to remember, there’s this blank.”

  “You really wanna know? I warned you to go easy on the drinks, you drowned yourself in alcohol and I had to take you home in a cab. For some obscure reason, you wouldn’t stop singing La Marseillaise.” Marco averted his gaze from the TV and contemplated the blue sky in the window rectangle. “At some point you’ll have to explain to me this morbid association between whiskey and the national anthem of France. But enough of that. It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we go to Monterey?”

  “I can’t leave. I don’t trust this painter. Right now, he’s fitting all cabinet doors back on.”

  Marco looked at the TV again, switching channels and pausing on a news program. He frowned and asked why the painter had removed all the cabinet doors. In response, Jeff exhaled a never-ending sigh.