Nick Nolan

by Double Bound (Sequel To Strings)

  Their conversation paused while a white-and-red Coast Guard helicopter roared by, sounding like something out of a war movie.

  "I'm really proud of you," Arthur said at last.

  "Why?"

  "Because a year ago you wouldn't have had any idea what you wanted, and now you're able to voice your dissatisfaction. You're taking a risk by being honest, and it's very healthy."

  "But you're not listening to me."

  "Of course I am. I've heard every word you've said. I've even heard what you haven't said."

  "Then what do I do?"

  "What do you think you should do?"

  He shrugged. "Don't know."

  "Have you tried talking to him about how you feel?"

  "Yeah. But it didn't go so well." He smiled.

  "What happened?"

  "We got into a fight. And then we had the gay sex."

  Arthur laughed at their private joke. "And your gay sex, it still manages to captivate the two of you?"

  "Oh, yeah."

  "Such is the life of a horny teenager." He laughed. "Jeremy, what you're describing is the very fabric of human relationships. There's nothing unusual about the ebb and flow of your feelings for Carlo. In fact, I'd bet that his feelings probably do the same for you, on a different scale."

  "But this is different, Arthur."

  He sighed. "How?"

  "Because there's someone"--he paused--"I have feelings for."

  Arthur's stomach fluttered. He was used to seeing Jeremy with Carlo, but could he numb himself to the idea of Jeremy in yet another man's bed? And to announce this on the eve of their departure only faded further his already diminishing vision of a smooth trip. "Have you been seeing someone?"

  "Nope...kind of." He shook his head. "Sort of."

  "And this someone you are or aren't seeing...you have feelings for him?"

  He nodded.

  "And have you told this person?"

  He looked up. "Kind of."

  "Oh, baby." He reached over to take his hand. "What're you gonna do?"

  "Don't know," he replied. "Maybe the feelings'll go away."

  "They could, or they might not. But do you think this guy feels the same way about you? That could make all the difference."

  "I'm pretty sure he does," Jeremy told him with a twinkle in his eyes. "But as long as I'm with Carlo, there's no way he's gonna let anything happen between us."

  "He sounds like a good guy."

  A grin lit up his face. "He's the best."

  "Then I'd like to meet him sometime--that is, if things work out that way."

  "You'll be the first, Arthur. If things work out."

  "So how're you going to make it through this trip tomorrow?"

  "I'm not sure...but I'll do whatever I need to because it's so important," he said as he stood to leave. "It's funny that when I'm with Carlo, even when he bugs me it's like he's all that matters. But then when I'm alone, sometimes I can't stop thinking about him, about this other guy."

  "You sound confused, old buddy."

  "I am confused, Arthur. You don't know how ripped up I feel."

  Chapter 14

  Katharine had considered chartering a jet for them, but when she learned how long the plane would be detained by Brazil's customs agents while the aircraft and its passengers and crew and contents were searched, she changed her mind. It was simpler, they all agreed, and in many ways safer to take a commercial flight--in first class, of course. So their flight to Rio de Janeiro on TAM Airlines was long but uneventful, with the exception of a nearly two-hour layover in Panama City, where they explored the small, old-fashioned terminal and marveled at the foreign look of the travelers, as well as the lush, green tangle of vegetation beyond the huge glass windows. Then all were herded back into the 757 for the final leg of their trip.

  Finally, at a little after five o'clock in the evening, the plane landed.

  They taxied for a bit before bumping to a stop; then the pilot, in his exotic accent, welcomed them to Rio before granting them permission to disembark.

  "Get me off this thing!" Carlo announced, unbuckling his seat belt. Then he stood to retrieve his carry-on from the overhead.

  "I'm sleepy," remarked Jeremy as he grabbed his own bag. "How long a ride do you think it'll be to the hotel?"

  "No idea," Arthur answered, "but hopefully our car is already waiting for us. We'll just play it by ear." He felt the strap of his own bag bite into his shoulder. "But we need to get through customs first, and that's never quick."

  After ducking through the plane's open door, they trudged up the long gangway toward the terminal.

  They found the electronic information board, checked for their flight number and its corresponding baggage carousel, then followed the signs down the long, broad concourse toward the bustling baggage claim. There they squeezed in next to the revolving contraption amidst the wild variety of people, who chattered in their unintelligible tongues on their cell phones, or to one another.

  Arthur, in the meantime, had slipped into Marine mode: Like some Department of Defense automaton, he assessed the mustachioed security guards--menacing in their camouflage and sunglasses--by their posture and the position of the rifles in their hands. Then he surveyed the exits, as well as the overall condition of the terminal structure, scanned for bland-faced pickpockets or anyone else who looked the least bit sinister, while his ears strained over the hubbub for any unusual noises.

  Finally, they watched their succession of suitcases tumble down the baggage chute onto the groaning conveyor. They had barely grabbed the handles of their luggage and were wheeling them toward customs when they heard a voice booming,

  "Tylers? Tyler party? Tylers?"

  The men turned to see a lanky, ebony-colored man dragging an empty metal cart behind him. "Tylers? Tyler party?"

  Jeremy started to raise his hand but Arthur stopped him. "Wait until he gets closer."

  The man had nearly passed by when Arthur caught his attention. "We're the Tylers," he said softly.

  "Dom Fabiano sends me," he told them in a halting baritone. "I will take you to the hotel."

  "We would appreciate that," Arthur answered. "Thank you."

  "I am Flavius," he said as he began stacking their bags onto the cart. "The car is waiting through here." He pointed to a double-door exit, the front of which was blocked by a soldier.

  "But we need to go through customs." Arthur pointed in the other direction, to the long counters and their lines of zombie-postured travelers inching along with their cargo.

  Flavius laughed. "You come," he said, and then began pulling the loaded cart.

  "You follow me. Please."

  They trailed the man toward the twin metal doors. As they approached, passports in hand, the soldier, instead of examining their documents or even acknowledging their presence, backed into the door's push bar and swung it wide.

  Moments later they were blinking against the fading brutality of Brazil's evening sun.

  "Jesus, it's hot!" Jeremy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before fixing his aviator sunglasses back onto his face.

  "When we get back to the hotel we can change into shorts," Carlo suggested as they followed Flavius across the parking lot to an idling white Denali.

  "Which hotel, please?" Flavius asked as he pulled open the tailgate.

  "The Copacabana Palace," said Arthur as he helped him with the bags.

  After they were settled into the refrigerated interior of the vehicle, the silent driver-

  -a broad-shouldered man with a sunburned bald head--pulled into traffic.

  The hotel-lined, pothole-strafed avenue running alongside the ivory sands and sparkling waters of Ipanema Beach was jumbled up with vehicles of all sorts: big, dirty buses and Vespa scooters and blue Nissan taxis with yellow tops, and smoke-spewing dirt bikes and beat-up Ford pickups and old-style Volkswagen Beetles that fought each other for holes in the traffic; while shirtless boys with skin the color of dirty pennies threaded their
way through the vehicles on their rickety bicycles, and work-weary Cariocas on the teeming serpentine mosaic walkway dodged street vendors and girls in bikinis and old people hobbling and fat-assed, or fat-bellied, American tourists.

  Then they rounded a curve and he saw it: high above the city, overlooking Rio's half-moon bay. He stood on a towering, conical rock that looked as if it had been molded by God's hands specifically for the purpose, that gargantuan Savior of Mankind with his arms outstretched, as if being measured by Titans for yet another cross; his benevolent face gazing down onto the people and the hotels and apartments and favelas of Rio de Janeiro like a figure atop a wedding cake, ready to topple onto the champagne glasses.

  Something about it gave him the shivers.

  "Arthur, what is that?" Jeremy asked, pointing to the figure.

  "It's called Christ the Redeemer, or Cristo Redentor."

  "Oh, my God, it's huge!" exclaimed Carlo. "Why'd they build it?"

  "I honestly don't know."

  "Excuse me, sirs," Flavius cut in, "but Cristo means freedom to everyone in Rio--

  freedom from Portugal, like he is freedom from death to the rest of the world."

  "Can we go up there?" Jeremy asked.

  "We're only in Rio for one night, and we need to go out to the island tomorrow at noon, so I'm not sure." Arthur paused, thinking. "But I guess we could go afterward, before we head home."

  "I want to see it up close," Jeremy said.

  Arthur saw the excitement on his face. "Then we'll make a point of getting up there--that is, if Carlo wants to, also."

  Carlo shrugged. "Sure, it looks cool. But I've gotta find my cousin first."

  The car slowed as they pulled into the portico of the Copacabana Palace, and a small army of porters swarmed them. "This looks like the kind of place my aunt would pick," Jeremy noted sourly as his door was opened by a solemn man in a blue uniform with a matching visored cap.

  Indeed, the hotel did reflect Katharine's luxurious, yet somewhat predictable, taste.

  Instead of resembling the sort of tropical resort they all had been anticipating--

  palapa roofs and swaying palms and meandering lagoons with thrumming waterfalls and swim-up bars--this place looked more like a Manhattan co-op with whitewashed walls and rows of windows barred over with iron filigree. And it was even worse on the inside: glimmering chandeliers and thick, dark carpets and ominously carved antiques and people so stiff they looked like mannequins. The hotel was lovely--no one would dispute that--but it looked...boring. Like the Bushes and the Cheneys might stay there.

  After they checked in at the desk, they were shown to their sprawling two-bedroom suite overlooking the beach.

  "So what did you boys want to do tonight?" Arthur asked as he hung his suit bag in the closet.

  "Can we go out somewhere?" Carlo asked, unzipping his case. "Maybe to a gay club or something? The boys here are supposed to be amazing."

  "I could go for that," Jeremy agreed. "I looked online before we left, and there were a couple of clubs not too far from this place. I hear they can get pretty crazy."

  Arthur shrugged. "I'm wiped out from the flight, but if you'll give me a chance to nap, I can probably muster the energy to be your faithful bodyguard tonight."

  * * *

  By early evening, they were showered and dressed and ready to have dinner at the hotel's restaurant, but the white tablecloths and multitudes of silverware at each place setting, not to mention the white-coated servers standing stiffly at attention, scared them off. Instead, they asked the concierge--a statuesque cocoa-skinned woman with green eyes who spoke English with an intoxicating accent--where to eat and play, and she gave them articulate instructions, as well as a knowing smile.

  So they made their way from inside the vault-like walls onto the teeming evening streets of Rio, where they ambled and looked and pointed and investigated amidst the chattering, chain-smoking locals.

  There they happened upon one of the many Brazilian churrascarias that cater to tourists, and after succumbing to the friendly encouragement of the comely hawker out front, they enjoyed a meal of various barbecued meats, along with chubby empanadas and aromatic rice and strangely seasoned vegetables and sweet fried plantains.

  Together they gabbed, they ate and they soaked up their exciting surroundings.

  Jeremy's eyes never stopped sparkling.

  Carlo was charmingly flippant.

  Arthur laughed like he hadn't in years.

  It was grand.

  Then with one facet of their appetites thoroughly sated, they headed off down the crowded boulevard to quell their darker, more prurient hungers.

  Chapter 15

  They passed teeming sidewalk cafés and glaringly lit storefronts and haphazardly stocked clothing shops and towering hotels.

  And then, just as Arthur expected, he noticed how the buildings started looking more disheveled with each block they walked, until they came to a section that looked downright ramshackle; and instead of people looking as if they had somewhere to go, he saw more and more people just standing around. Watching them.

  "Wallets," Arthur warned under his breath, and then spotted, with relief, their destination across the street and up half a dozen buildings.

  The Popsicle blue neon sign advertising Club Torneira looked as if it had been hizzing through Rio's steam-drenched evenings since the 1950s. And the peeling pink plaster of the facade, along with the sight of one of its windows boarded up, heightened Arthur's watchdog senses. But according to their concierge it was a favorite of gay men--she insisted the club offered an engaging cabaret show--so he took a deep breath and yanked the filthy door handle and ushered the boys inside, where a grim, baboon-shouldered bouncer took the appropriate dinheiro from them.

  The place was filling up; he saw there were only two tall tables still available, so he placed a hand on each of the boys' shoulders and steered them quickly across the dance floor toward the table closest to the stage. Then once they had pulled themselves up onto their stools, he took a moment to appraise the crowd, assessing how rough it was, and to see if there were any potentially dangerous characters.

  And although he did see a number of men, and a few women, who made him wary, most everyone in the club looked like they were there for the same reason: to be entertained.

  "Dude, I haven't seen cigarette smoke this thick since my mom was alive," Jeremy remarked as he waved his hand in front of his face.

  "I thought some drag queen set her weave on fire backstage," answered Carlo with a fake cough.

  Arthur saw the cocktail waiter approaching. "What do you want?" he yelled, because the sounds of people hizzing and juzhing in Portuguese had risen suddenly.

  "I'm buying!"

  "Beers!" they proclaimed in unison.

  Arthur squinted suspiciously from one to the other.

  "It's not my first," Jeremy confessed.

  "Mine, either," Carlo added.

  "Three beers, please," he told the waiter, holding up three fingers. The man returned moments later with their order of Skol Beats. Arthur handed over the money, and then they all clanked their strangely shaped bottles together.

  The house lights dimmed and the crowd hushed, and then some deafening music was cued.

  Over the loudspeaker, a male voice pronounced a string of complicated-sounding words; then the crowd exploded with applause.

  "What did they say?" Jeremy yelled to Carlo.

  "Please welcome the internationally famous performer Rosa Caveira and her exquisite lover Paolo--or something like that."

  Big, sappy orchestral music blared and crackled its way through a lengthy introduction, while a white shaft from the spotlight sliced through the darkness and cigarette smoke. Then the sparkling magenta curtain lifted to reveal a woman posed dramatically on a spray-painted gold metal stool.

  " Eu não sou daqui," she sang in a breathy baritone, Marinheiro só

  Eu não tenho amor

  Marinheiro só.

&n
bsp; Her posture and mannerisms communicated an almost comical degree of sadness, as well as profound, utter exhaustion.

  Eu sou da Bahia

  Marinheiro só

  De São Salvador.

  She pushed herself off her stool and steadied herself, and Arthur thought that without the stool she probably would have toppled over-- she looked that drunk.

  He also noticed that her scarlet-sequined dress hung on her as if she'd lost weight recently and no one had yet been able to alter the waist. But her long platinum wig and makeup were flawless, and her face appeared to be both ancient and ageless at the same time, no doubt a result of multiple visits to her plastic surgeon--or maybe she employed the old duct-tape-around-the-back-of-the-head-from-ear-toear-under-the-wig method of rolling back the many difficult years.

  He thought this was what Mae West had looked like-- lying in state.

  And then a beautiful young man, not even half her age, dressed in a tight-fitting sailor's uniform appeared from the wings and stepped slowly toward her.

  She turned to him melodramatically.

  Marinheiro só

  O marinheiro, marinheiro

  Marinheiro só

  Quem to ensinou a nadar.

  The accompaniment became even more swollen, and during the interlude the boy circled her appraisingly--as if, hilariously, his eyes couldn't get enough of her. He then put two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them, and after the tips were both glowing he placed one in her mouth, while the other dangled thuggishly from his plump, rosy lips.

  She drew on her cigarette, then blew out a waft of smoke through the lyrics: Marinheiro só

  Foi o tombo do navio

  Marinheiro só

  Foi o balanço do mar

  Marinheiro só

  Lá vem, lá vem.

  The sailor caressed her cheek before snatching the cigarette, then stomped it out on the floor along with his own.

  Marinheiro só

  Ele vem faceiro.

  The young sailor pulled his shirt over his head to unveil his musclestacked, sun-kissed torso--his abs buckling and unbuckling as he gyrated to the music, his nipples as big as sliced pepperonis.