by Martin, M.
Not one to chase too closely, I grab my shirt and make my way past the pool with a single hand wave to that woman who still bears no name. I hope to find the real Rio and its attainable women who lie beyond the hotel. You don’t capture the real feel of Rio inside the Fasano; the city comes to life only once you escape the double-glass doors and step onto the cobbled-marble sidewalks and the zippy roadway that runs along the beach.
Rio of today is nothing like it appeared when I first visited a decade ago. Gold-speckled apartment blocks fortified with wrought iron gates no longer have the barbwire-draped ornamentation or multiple armed guards. Today, there are only sleepy guards in security booths crowded with portable TVs. Overgrown trees with branches that reach from the sky to the sidewalk shade the congested streets leading from the beach. I pass the rainbow canopies of gay bars where beady eyes are best avoided, and then the corner café with its orange plastic chairs, shiny Formica tables, and chatty waitresses who serve coffee that jolts the heart and the only sugar-free acia I’ve found in Rio.
From the leisurely residential streets of Ipanema, grandmothers carry plastic bags of groceries with granddaughters in hand, appears a cluster of hardware stores where workers rush in and out next to grocery conglomerates with flashy logos that mean something to local eyes. Here, Ipanema succumbs to more downtrodden Copacabana that was once the most fashionable part of the city. Here, you’ll find the more dated apartment blocks where the elderly linger by propped-open doors, and faded hotel towers disappoint first-timers above a few American bars that are the Brazilian version of a strip club. Back in the day, you could find the most beautiful women in the world literally dancing to eat, but these days, the economy has left these places to aging drunks and drug addicts to operate.
For those who want a little action, the beaches of Copacabana are where to go, especially around the Orothon Palace that’s enveloped by the ladies of the night as well as the prettier ones who gravitate by day to the strip of sand directly in front of the hotel. While I’m not one to pay for sex, I always find it fun to go for a swim and take in the sights in these grittier urban parts that remind me of that old Rio I once knew. Ipanema guys are a softer bunch than the steroid-fueled gym Barbie’s who preside over the beaches of Copacabana. You don’t want to carry much or stand out on this strip of sand than I already do with my English skin and eyes, across the wide sidewalk that’s far less congested than the one back near the Fasano. The sand is painfully hot as I tiptoe around the clusters of locals sprawled toward the sun, and I make a direct line for the water.
The crush of people who clog the beaches in late afternoon can be overwhelming, most bringing coolers full of canned drinks and bags full of food to share with friends. Even the water can be crowded, a shoreline packed with those who lack air conditioning at home and clog the entry points. Despite its brownish color this afternoon, the warm water washes my body clean of its sweat, airplane staleness, and a layer of Rio dirt that sticks to you almost any time you walk through the city.
Heads bob in the water as women, men, and even children stare at a white man in these parts, wondering what he’s doing in this section of the beach if not for sex. Not for first-timers, this part of Rio can still intimidate those not familiar with the ground rules. First, don’t even look at a woman if she’s with another man—at least when he can potentially see you doing so. You never, ever make the mistake of chatting up a girl younger than eighteen, even if you and she are thoroughly up for it. Lastly, you never, ever dare bring a woman from the beach back to your hotel.
As I sit on a ledge of sand closest to the water, the beach feels like the grittier Rio I knew of old, with its familiar vendors hawking those puffed peanut-flavored rings, fancy ice cream bars, and mate that are all staples of the Brazilian beach. There, in the distance, our eyes meet over no fewer than three women and a child building a sand castle precariously close to the waves. She stares without so much as a blink walking in my direction with her black swimsuit cinched tight in its wetness to her thighs, which curve in an almost immoral angle making them seem like they were built by God for grabbing.
She inches closer as if blown by the wind. Her black eyes pierce, entrancing mine with her mocha skin and curly exotic hair dripping on the ends. A smile erupts even before a word. She sits next to me passing a touch of her foot over my sandy ankle as wave’s crash and crowd’s hum around us.
“You Americano?” she secretes from her fleshy pout with glaringly white teeth of which I can see only a trace as I fantasize about the taste of her perfectly drawn lips.
“Englander.”
My direct gaze says, I’ll fuck you right here on the beach if need be, and it’s definitely going to happen; I’m going to get inside you. Her eyes struggle against the sea breeze as a single strand of hair beckoned by my perverse thoughts shoves itself into her mouth; her generous fingers tug at it but only push it in more, deeper, as we gaze into each other’s eyes that feel as though we’ve sunken into each other’s souls.
“You sleep at Hotel Copacabana?” She references the posh hotel down the beach where most businessmen stay, and most Brazilian girls like her, only venture into once they are married or rightly dressed for a private client.
Her question gives away her intent, a cash deal negotiated with a guy she would probably do without even being paid.
“No, Marriott, da.” I point to the nearby hotel. Her sexy exoticness fades in just a single question as a look of disappointment echoes across her face. She inches a bit farther away and ponders my fallen value.
My instinct is to continue to flirt and watch the salesmanship of a prostitute give way to the more primal desire of a girl who’s obviously into a guy. However, I also realize that leaving the situation without a room or intent to seal the deal would have her following me off the beach or causing some sort of commotion that I would not likely win given her home-beach advantage. Despite her knowing she cannot make money off a guy like me, she lingers with her eyes as we savor the passing light of the sun retreating to half-brightness beyond the staggered skyline of Copacabana.
Realizing that our meeting is almost over, she firmly places her soft palm on my upper thigh in a clumsy last-ditch effort. I pull away with the tide and along with it, a fantasy that just isn’t meant to be this day.
Then Rio and its women became secondary as the purpose of my trip, and life swept in on my second day that lasted forty-eight hours, thanks to one hellish all-nighter, courtesy of my firm’s partners in London. The very purpose of me being in Rio was to sort out quickly whether our venture capital company should continue with our offer to buy out a Brazilian-based advertising company. My partners didn’t appreciate that I was three days in and had gained so little insight into the financials of our acquisition prospect so far. Usually, a deal is either good or bad based on things you dig out of financial statements from larger accounting firms well in advance of such a visit, which usually comes shortly before the final deal negotiation.
However, accounting isn’t as transparent in Brazil, and sometimes that equates to a better value for buyers. Other times, it’s simply a hack deal only discovered once you’re on the ground. My job is to sift through the numbers looking for inaccuracies, and then shift to the profit forecasting looking for ways to make even more money. This time, everything was off, from the in-house accounting to the lack of earnestness of the local management. It literally felt as if their last twenty-four months of accounting was made up at the last minute by the owner, who seemed to have second thoughts about bringing on an international partner for what was really a domestic online advertising agency that would never reach outside Portuguese-speaking counties.
When I work, I vanish, in mind and physically, into the job that takes every moment of my attention and makes everything else in life secondary. It’s only at the end of the project that I look up, often realizing that life has moved on and sometimes without me. To my inner consolatio
n, I did not miss any beach time, as it had been a hellish two days of Rio weather with almost unbearable heat that made leather loafers and even a thin summer suit unbearable. Add to the equation the wall-unit air conditioner in the accountant’s office I was working out of, heaving with an asthmatic wheeze and blowing lukewarm air as I sweat through my white shirt and even my boxers, which began to weep through my suit pants.
As I’d look out of my downtown window, I could see everyone struggle with the heat. Through their windows, I saw bankers working in undershirts and an older woman sitting in only her bra attempting to air out her blouse as her grandmotherly arms waved in the wind. The inside of my own window was constantly wet with humidity even though it was entirely rain-tight. Without a view of the mountain or crashing shoreline to console my thoughts, for a while this inner Rio felt like hell on earth.
It is late evening as I make my way back to the Fasano, and now I’m one of those overdressed businessmen I always scowl at on my first day for interrupting my vacation fantasy. And to the rooftop without interruption, I make my way to the bar, which is as packed as I have ever seen it. It’s brimming with tightly packed families eating plates of Brazilian hamburgers, that lonely gay man who now has a similarly tan fellow in tow, and that American woman in full fedora and flip-flops captured in the waning afternoon sun. This is often my frustration with the Fasano, a rooftop with not nearly enough loungers or chairs to accommodate a half-filled hotel, let alone a sold-out one.
“Can I get a passion fruit caipirinha, please?” I say to the barman.
As my lips move, I feel a single bead of sweat unleash from my upper lip as the barman nods. I can tell a thirty-minute wait is inevitable. I walk over to the glassy ledge by my dear American friend who is deep inside her laptop. As I edge closer to look, I see her typing a mile a minute in some sort of software program with a glass of rosé in front of her and a half-eaten bowl of nuts. A single seat sits in front of her, but in all honesty, I’d rather stand than endure the non-conversation we shared on the first day.
Whether it’s my mood or not, the crowd seems livelier than on the first day including a gregarious Russian man chewing on his unlit cigar like it’s taffy. Next to him is his waif model girlfriend who looks at him only when her wine glass is empty or the bill arrives.
“Un caipirinha de maracujá,” the waiter mouths off in a louder-than-expected voice as he holds a full tray of drinks including mine. He sets the drink on the American’s table in front of the lone empty chair, which he tries unsuccessfully to turn toward the sea.
“May I take this chair, madam?” he asks.
The American looks up as if startled from mid-thought despite her fingers having been long inactive.
“Of course, no problem at all. Just let me …”
“Absolutely not, I’m totally okay standing at the bar. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say.
Her gaze rises to meet mine. Her eyes, a mossy green color, and a stare so deep I can’t tell if it’s interest or disdain.
“No, please, I insist. Plus, I heard you don’t want to miss the sunset,” she says.
As I maneuver around her back, I try to conceal my back with its long trail of sweat through my white shirt. I quickly plop into the cushioned lounger and attempt to swing it away from her table.
“That’s really not necessary,” she says in response to my repositioning.
“And not really possible,” I joke. “I’m afraid you’re now stuck with me.”
A giggle emerges as she stares at me, differently today.
“We should really do this again,” she says, closing the lid of her computer and setting it on the table before pushing the heavy sunglasses atop her head. “I’m Catherine.”
She reaches out her hand as I put my drink back on the table next to her computer. I quickly try to dry my hand on my sleeve before extending it toward her. My full palm, still moist from the iced drink, envelopes her soft flesh while her pinkish nails, perfectly manicured, brush over my wrist.
“I’m David, and it’s truly lovely to share a table with you, Catherine.”
Her stare is intense. I can see in her eyes the reflection of the setting sun behind me that has enveloped the sky in a fiery orange hue with a reddish tint along the horizon.
“And you’re from New York, I take it?”
“Yes, I live in Manhattan. I work in publishing.”
“So you’re a publisher or in ad sales?” The conversation gains a metronomic beat with each back and forth.
“No, I’m editorial. Actually I’m a bit of everything these days, which includes writing, editor, part-time Photoshopper, and the whole sort.”
“Which means you need a vacation?”
“Well, sort of. Actually I’m here on assignment, and I figured it could be a bit of both in lieu of handing it off to one of our freelancers.”
“Brilliant, and here you are enjoying the best of both worlds.”
At the bottom of my drink, I figure this is where our conversation ends. I lean forward to make my exit trying to conceal my sweaty shirt that’s blotchily soaked front and back.
“Sir, duas bebidas mais, por favor.”
To my surprise, she abruptly orders a round of drinks.
“I ordered you another drink … I hope that’s okay?”
“Actually, I’m a bit embarrassed to even be sitting here like this,” I say as she raises her left eyebrow, giving her a teacher-like sexiness that I hadn’t noticed before.
“A hot and poorly air-conditioned office got the best of me, and to be honest with you, I wasn’t expecting to be up here long without changing.”
I point at my shirt, and she lingers in a stare as the waiter places two more drinks in front of us on our table.
“What do you do for work?” she asks.
“Do you want the long or short version?” I ask without pausing for an answer. “I’m essentially a risk analyst for a venture capital company based in London.”
“And that means?”
“That means I try to keep my company from making bad acquisitions. When new companies see me, they think I’m part of a group that’s buying their company, but really I’m there to determine if it’s actually a good deal, and if it’s not, how to get out of it as quickly as possible.”
I pull my collar looser, and she studies the horizon as an awkward pause lingers. This is usually why I avoid the explanation of what I do to women.
“So you’re on the road a lot?”
“Almost constantly, but that’s part of what I love about the job. I’m constantly in flux and learning, whether it’s about a new client or an entirely new city that I’ve never visited. Like Mexico City, it’s a place you’d never necessarily think about traveling to, and yet, it is a most incredibly vivid and real city.”
“What’s it like? I’ve always been fascinated with Aztec history and the whole Cortés conquering Tenochtitlan thing.”
Catherine’s focus isn’t what I’m used to from women; she listens to every word, and then continues the conversation instead of redirecting it to whatever is occupying her own mind.
“Actually, the whole Aztec history is downplayed simply because the colonialists preserved so little. But you find bits of it here and there. Plus, there are these incredible buildings from the seventeenth century. A friend of mine is an architect, and he just converted this building that has these folk art murals on the wall that just humble you, and he lives in this place. Then there’s this outrageous food scene you never really hear about and the art.”
“Yes, the art is supposed to be amazing. There’s that new museum and all, right?”
“Exactly. Wow, you really know your stuff,” I say. The remark echoed in my mind as well as in my words. “I hope I’m not boring you with all my stories.”
“No, I really enjoy it, actually. I’m a writer, so I love he
aring a good story. So you are based in New York?”
“Actually, I’m based in London, but spend most of my time on the road.”
She makes me worry whether I’m saying the right things as I feel a droplet of sweat roll down my neck, across my chest, and along my stomach like a marble.
“Just take it off, already. You’re in Rio for Christ’s sake,” she says as if she’s said it before. “And Lord knows you’re definitely not shy.”
The suggestion catches me off guard. She backtracks in a verbal stumble.
“I mean, you’re dying, right? It is Rio you know, and you’re sitting five feet from a pool, so I would assume queen’s etiquette dictates that is acceptable.”
I feel a smile of relief widening across my face as I jump to my feet and struggle to remove my white shirt. She looks off in the distance as if to provide me a moment of privacy. The sensation of air on my bare chest makes my nipples tense and sends a bolt of blood to my dick that I try to conceal with my shirt in front of my trousers.
“I must admit, that’s like a sentence being lifted,” I proclaim, plopping back into my lounge chair.
“You seem the type who’s more comfortable with their shirt off anyway,” she jabs.
“Actually, I would have kept it on if you hadn’t insisted,” I deliver back.
Her responses gain a sort of momentum as she inquires on endless superficial details about my life with little contribution about herself. She seems the commitment type even if she doesn’t utter a word, but with each sentence, she becomes more attractive to me in her own flirty way, even in this city of more exotic women and easier prospects.
She recites all the lines of a woman who is trying to maintain her distance, even though I know the attraction that must lay just beneath the surface. She’s the type of woman who would never waste her conversation. From the glass reflection behind her, I can see the sun falling to a lazy half-mast, just about to plunge behind the clouds off Ipanema.
“Here, grab your drink and come with me,” I say abruptly as I point to the glass ledge next to the pool that juts out over the Ipanema horizon.
