by Retha Powers
At the corner a mean-faced old woman sits in the shade. She stirs a moist cornmeal mixture with clawed hands. Undaunted by her gruffness, the fruit seller throws a friendly greeting into her lap. She nods and keeps stirring. The fruit man pauses. The woman ignores him. She deftly coaxes bits of mix into round acaraje balls with a huge metal spoon. He rifles through his fruit, testing the ripeness of the sugar apples. She flicks the acaraje into a big metal bowl of hot oil. The flames flare. The fruit man hands her a chunk of jackfruit. She hesitates. He insists. She takes it with a spare-toothed smile. He goes on down the road. She leans back and pops a piece of fruit into her mouth. Her eyes wander up to the balcony, over my shoulders, and land on my face. She cuts her eyes at me. I feel a quick flush of embarrassment. My lips lift into a smile and I turn away.
A light breeze blows me back into the apartment. Just as I reenter the living room, a lizard falls off the ceiling and plops on top of my suitcase. It sits frozen and disoriented. I wait for it to wander off. It finally slinks to the floor and waddles away. I roll my suitcase down the long hallway. Then I hesitate. A spider scurries across the closed door. My suitcase slips out of my grasp. I nudge the door open with my toe. Delight explodes in my chest. The walls are exactly as I remember them: clumsily painted in glowing layers of yellow and orange. I drag the suitcase to the middle of the room and sit on it. My eyes roam over every crack and corner. A wounded cockroach staggers through the doorway. I jump to my feet. The cat tumbles in after it. It pounces and jumps and bats the roach with its paws. The roach rustles its wings and stumbles. In a gulp, the game is over. The cat has the creature clamped in its jaws. Get out, I say. The cat stares at me, roach legs wiggling in its mouth. Out, I repeat and point to the door. The cat streaks out of the room. I slam the door behind its swishing tail.
The walls beckon me, vibrating with memory. I spread my fingers and approach the timeworn surface. I bend my knees into a squat and press my palms flat against the cool plaster. My fingertips dip into crumbling holes until they find the familiar grooves. There carved beside the socket are three English words, spelled in Portuguese: AI LUV U. Bilingual love. The doorbell rings. My heart drops into my gut. I fall to my knees and push my ear against the door. With stilled breath, I listen. I can hear the cat tearing through the house. I can hear the little girl downstairs screaming at her big sister. Then I hear the sounds I’m searching for. The creaking of hinges. The drag of wood against marble floor. The front door is opening. Laughter rings through the house. I suck my teeth and bang my fist on the floor. The door slams shut. It is a woman’s voice. It is not you.
From beneath the door a determined line of ants marches across the floor. I crush a few out of spite. I watch the ants take stock of the death and, briefly, panic. Then, as I am untying my shoelaces, they cut a path around their comrades’ corpses and resume their journey. I tug off my boots and crawl beside the insect trail. I follow them all the way across the room until they disappear into a crack in the wall. I free my feet of my socks and wiggle my toes. My jeans are next. Sweat seeps from my pores as I peel the heavy fabric off my sticky skin. I lean over my suitcase and click open the locks. In my underwear, I straddle it and wrestle it open. Tightly rolled bundles of summer clothes burst from inside. I finger through shorts, halter tops, mini skirts, until a small orange-and-red sundress jumps out at me. In seconds, the dress is dripping from my shoulders and I am fanning myself with its hem. I slide my hands to my hips and look around. I’m here, I think, I’m really here.
Buried at the bottom of my suitcase is a box heavy with gifts. My host rips it open, her eyes wide in anticipation. She hugs the cheese and chocolate to her chest, squeezes the batteries in her fist. She skips into the kitchen for a knife. My eyes leap to the door. Jesse went back to the States, she yells from the kitchen. She returns with a tray of crackers. In the middle of the tray is the new block of cheese, glowing like a golden treasure. We sip mango juice and breathlessly tell tales of life. What we’ve written, who we’ve spoken to, who we never want to see again up. Under the table my legs jiggle nervously. The one person missing from her report is you. My heart feels as if it would burst. Are you seeing someone? Are you safe? Are you here? I wonder if she can see the questions beating under my skin. I don’t dare say your name. She looks at me, eyes shining, and lapses into silence.
Well, I say, stretching lazily in the chair, I’m going to make my rounds. In the pizza shop they are happy to see me. They think I’ve grown fat and white. You need sun, they tell me. How is brother, sister, mother, daughter? I ask. The little one is tall now, with long long legs. She smiles shyly and disappears downstairs when I ask her about school. You, I don’t mention. Instead I order a nice cold suco. I want to ask if you’ve been in. Have they seen you laughing? Do you look healthy? My meal comes. I fish the pork out of the beans while telling them about the snow. While I eat, they look at photos of my paintings. They ooh and ahh appropriately. After I’m full, they clear the table. I linger at the bar a moment watching the owner swish the cutlery clean. We pass around smiles and gentle glances. Next time you come to town, you stay with us, they say. Of course, I respond, but for now, I’m going to town for ice cream.
I let the weight of gravity pull me down the hill. My eyes greedily drink in all the details. The gleaming eyes of brown children, the short shorts and bare toes, the discarded dolls and mangy dogs, the art spilling out of shops onto sidewalks. And the faces, endless faces of people I don’t know, yet whose features I remember. The homeless woman I once saw masturbating in front of the record shop. The painter who walks around in black rags and a metal mask. The shop owner’s son who dresses like an American. And me, who am I to them? A rich Americana? Carlos Capoeira’s girlfriend? A fool?
When the square comes into view, I freeze. My heart loses its mind and forgets its rhythm. I take a deep breath and instruct it to beat. I count for it, and concentrate on lifting one foot after the other. Every cell in my body knows I am entering your domain. I may find you on the stairs of the church. You may be sitting, legs splayed, slurping a pineapple Popsicle. What will I do then? What do lovers say after a year apart? How do I break the silence?
I walk past all your favorite hangouts. My breath squeezes from my lungs in spurts. I feel faint as I discover each place vacant. Not only aren’t you there, but neither are your friends. No one. Where is everyone hiding? I walk on, past the craft shops and the restaurants. Past the museum, the church, and the bus stop. Past the street vendors and the Baianas posing for tourist photos. I take the elevator down to Cidade Baixa. The road to the market is chaotic. Cars careen around corners, streaming past pedestrians without pause. I scurry across the street with a throng of daring boys. Adrenaline pounds in my ears. The men at the market are selling jewelry today. They approach me, arms dripping with shell necklaces. I smile in their direction, seeing nothing. My eyes are glued to the fountain where you taught me to shamelessly tongue in public.
I approach the capoeira circle and hide behind a pole. If you are there, I want to see you first. I want to be invisible. I want the delicious pleasure of catching you unawares. All the usual players surround the wooden stage. The tall one with cinnamon skin and freckles. The short one with knife-sharp features and an intimidating stare. The skinny one with the rubber bones and dominating smile. But you aren’t there. I back away quickly. I’d rather suffer in silence than ask them for information. American Express, they called me last year. This year is none of their business.
I take a seat outside the dirty wharf restaurant. Your voice is humming a capoeira song in my head. I savor the scene: the fishing boats, the blinding glare of the sun, the raspy-voiced gossip rattling behind me, the laughter of children splashing in the sea. We sat at this same table the last time we were here. I told jokes. You laughed with your mouth full of your favorite fish. Today reminds me of that day: clear, blue, impossibly sunny. Come back to me, you’d whispered when I left. I have, I say out loud in English. Where are you?
; On a whim, I decide to go to the beach. I get to the bus stop just in time to wave down a speedily approaching bus. The bus screeches to a stop. I hold on to the door and climb into the too-high stairwell. I fish a bill out of my pouch and push through the turnstile. As the ticket taker is counting out my change, a skinny street kid jumps on. He lowers himself to the ground and slides under the turnstile. Ten more little men burst on behind him. Be careful, you told me once, when you saw street kids harassing me for my crackers. I refuse to show fear. Their rough voices and hungry eyes bounce all over the bus. I clasp my pouch in my fist and pretend not to notice them. They can’t steal what they can’t see. I have no pockets full of jingling change. No food for them to beg from my fingers. Besides, they aren’t looking for prey today. They tumble into their seats, talking in husky voices too adult for their frail frames. The last boy clutches a brown bag, waving it in the air before plunging his face into it. Glue sniffers, I think, and a tiny feather of sadness flutters in my throat.
The bus driver presses the gas pedal, and sound explodes from the back of the bus. The plastic seats are drums; the kids beat and beat and beat. A charged rhythm emerges, a crazy samba fills the air. I drape my arms across the seat back in front of me and rest my head in the crook of my elbow. The pounding vibrates through the metal seat frames, into my bones, into my blood, into me. They chant lyrics of love and longing with breathless exuberance. Each voice strains to be louder than the other. Passion is this moment and every moment I have spent in this crooked seaside city. The kids break into laughter before the song ends. The ocean bursts into view. I shut my eyes and the sea embraces me. Tightness seeps out of my body; a sensation of safety slips under my skin. The bus hurtles down the hill, whips around the bend, and jerks to a stop.
The beach is full today. The thin brown girls are wearing colorful bikinis. So are the fat women. So is everyone, wearing their skin as if it were a suit of clothing. I lean on the wall overlooking the beach and peer at the men below. I imagine you among them, ripping through ferocious repetitions of sit-ups, taking your turn at the parallel bars. Oi, a voice behind me calls out. I turn and see a young man I don’t know. Aren’t you Carlos’s girlfriend? he asks. I am, I say. You’ve cut your hair. Yeah, I smile. A pause rests between us. I am embarrassed to ask. Have you seen him? He’s not at the beach today, he says, I don’t even know if he’s in town. Thanks, I say, and wave good-bye.
I go down on the beach anyway and sit in the sand. I shade my eyes and stare at the sea-lined horizon. I imagine you walking to the water. You touch your hand to the surface and make the sign of the cross over your body. Then you jump in and disappear into the waves. I close my eyes and follow you into the ocean. Behind my lowered eyelids, I see droplets of water covering your face. I feel the waves pushing me against your body. The saltwater taste of our first kiss invades my throat. I remember you whispering and tugging at my bikini bottoms. I was afraid someone would see us, but you taught me not to care who was looking.
My eyes fly open and I look around self-consciously. At the water’s edge, two little boys play capoeira. You were once one of those boys, dreaming of being a big man, the best capoeirista Salvador has ever seen. Today, what do you dream of? Are you dreaming of me?
I imagine you sitting next to me in the sand. You’re wearing your yellow swimming trunks and grinning. You hand me a coconut. I swallow the cool liquid and sigh as it slides down my throat. You nudge me softly. Do you want to taste my coconut? you ask. Sure, I say. I gasped when the coconut water glided over my tongue. It was perfect. The sweetest I had ever tasted. Take it, it’s yours, you said. You placed the perfect coconut in my lap. A gift. As I greedily sipped, you whispered, remember I don’t do this for anyone.
I sit with your ghost until the sun sets. Then I stand and brush the sand off my dress. The scent of urine clings to the stone stairs. I climb them without breathing. At the bus stop, a tall apartment building towers over the street. My friend once lived there. She’s in Amsterdam now. She’s returned home. I have returned here. Not home. Looking for you. Darkness winds through the city. The bus carries me back to Pelourinho. Pelourinho, where the day merchants are closing their shops. Where the night merchants have come with their steel poles and wooden countertops and blenders. They set up their booths and stir up their concoctions as I head home in my dirty dress with sand between my toes.
When I pass by the doorway of a lit shop, I trip and stub my toe on a loose cobblestone. As I am checking my toe for blood, I hear an exclamation of excitement. Then I hear my name. Hola, says the shop owner with a wide grin. You came back! Just arrived today, I say. Oh Salvador has been blessed, he whispers and kisses me on both cheeks. He offers me a glass of the local intoxicant: cane liquor, lime juice, and sugar. I refuse. You are too beautiful to say no, he says and disappears into his shop to search for a glass and alcohol and ice.
I hear an eruption of laughter. Without turning I know it is you. A sudden spear of fear rips through my chest. Some survivalist instinct tells me to hide. Slinking behind a panel of paintings, I obey. I peek into the street. Between the divide of door and frame, I can see pieces of you. A flash of white teeth, a brown nipple, one wide foot. You grin and joke with your friends. Doubt sweeps through my body. How much has changed in a year? Can I handle the history you’ve created in my absence? Do I still want you? Do you still want me?
My body turns on me. Without my permission, my fingers grip the wall. My stomach locks up. My limbs refuse to step into the light. My heart will not be regulated. The shop owner returns, rattling my drink in his hand. I must turn my back to you or reveal the truth to the shop owner: that I am a grown woman, crouched behind a narrow wooden door, terrified of your freckled face, hiding from your laughing eyes. I face the shop owner with a smile, my pretenses firmly in my possession. He comments on something. I nod, pretending to listen. Out the corner of my eye, I see you swagger by. I let out a nervous breath and you disappear. My body collapses against the wall. The shop owner asks after my health. I’m fine, I insist. Maybe a light sunstroke. I just need to get home.
As I walk away from the shop, cramps rip through my stomach. The pain suffocates all sound. I climb the hill with my hands pressing on my belly. Whispering to my aching gut, I will myself home. When I enter the darkness of the apartment, the cramps subside. I shut myself in my room. A gasp of relief escapes my lips; I am safe. Safe? What is safe? Invisibility? Discovery? I cover my face with my hands. Confusion seeps through my fingers. I thought I wanted to see you, but I have seen you and all I want to do is hide. Can we skip this first moment? Can we just be together again? No questions, no fears, just our union, alive again.
I throw my dress onto the bathroom floor and step into the shower. As the cold water draws chill bumps to my skin’s surface, I imagine you lying in bed waiting for me. I remember the time you called to say you were doing a work. You made a deal with the orishas. No alcohol, no sex. If you gave them seven days of celibacy, they would fix your knee. I asked them to give me you too, you whispered. I smiled. I knew it was a lie, but I hoped it was true. The fervent prayer of a weak heart. I wanted some powerful force to steal away my choices, some mystical god to rob me of my will and bind me to you. If we can’t have sex, you’d better stay away from me, I said. For seven days, Mommy? you whispered, I can’t. Three days later you were ringing my doorbell. We laughed, but I said I was going to make you keep your promise.
When you put your hands on me, I gave you a canvas, remember? You protested that you couldn’t paint. I told you it was a good day to learn. We painted that day. And it rained and rained. We went to bed early and slept deeply. The next morning I saw that you had painted a blue shark and a strangely shaped, rainbow-colored object. This is you, I said, pointing to the shark. This is my heart, I said, pointing to the object. See those things sticking out, that’s my protection because you’re trying to eat me alive. Oh God, you said, this woman is always running away from me.
I step out of the shower and gr
ab my towel. You are fucked up, I say to my wet reflection. My mirrored eyes look back at me with pity. I once joked that I was going to take you home with me. You looked at me without blinking, no trace of mirth on your face. You don’t have the courage, you said. Those words ripped me apart. I dragged my eyes away from your gaze. I tried to hide what you already knew: I was full of love, but empty of conviction. No courage. Pushing the memory away, I dry myself off. I rub oil onto my pale body, muttering about fear and regret and mistakes.
Back in the bedroom, you invade my thoughts again. You are wrapped in my orange sheets, sleeping heavily while ants march around the bed. We didn’t last the seven days. On the fifth day, I went to bed early. You stayed up talking to the neighbor. Even in my sleep I was waiting for you. When you came to bed I pulled you toward me. You wrapped your arms around me and kissed my collarbone. I nuzzled against your neck, not ready to leave my sleep behind. Your hands crept over my hips, up my torso, under my tank top. They danced over my breasts, teasing me awake. You only have two more days, I mumbled, are you sure you want to do this? Yes, you whispered. They will be disappointed in you, I said. I know, but you won’t, you said and rubbed your fingers across my nipples. I squeezed your thigh between my legs and rolled on top on you. Mommy, you whispered. And we shared breath for the first time in a week.
Our abstinence made this night sweeter than any other. You licked my palms and kissed my wrists. My teeth gripped your neck, your shoulder, your chest. I wanted to go deep. You groaned and gently pushed me off you. Your lips found my back. By the time you reached my waist, I was whimpering. My hips pressed against the mattress. Weight, heat, and moisture gathered between my legs. Your mouth would not stop moving. I could feel you smiling against my skin. Your knees pushed on my inner thighs. I slid them open and welcomed your tongue. Wider, Mommy, you whispered, and I obeyed.
