by Ellen Levy
—Quero, he says, accepting both.
You point him to the bathroom and you go to the kitchen and start the water boiling on the red enameled stove in the red enameled pot. And when it’s ready, you knock on the bathroom door.
—Come in, he says.
You crack the door and shout over the water, Your coffee’s ready. I’ll leave it here.
—C’mon in, he says.
—I’ve showered already, you say, as if his were an ordinary invitation.
—C’mon, he says. It is not a question.
And because you do not want to seem a prude, because you want to be polite, to please your guest, because you are curious, because showering seems clean, not really dangerous, not like accepting an invitation to go to bed (you have not yet heard that most accidents happen in the bath), because you find yourself committed to a course, the momentum of your trajectory built on small decisions that made sense at the time somehow carrying you forward and it seems harder to change direction, to stop the unfolding of events that you see unfolding, and maybe anyway, you hope, it won’t turn out so bad after all, how bad can it be really—a world warmed, a forest felled, a shower —and you wouldn’t know how to stop this anyway, not now, and besides you do not want to look ridiculous, alarmist, silly, naïve, so you do as he asks and strip outside the shower stall, saying, I’ll take one when you’re done, but when he emerges from the shower, you do not have a chance to get in before he grasps you, turning you away from him, his chest to your back, his hips to your soft ass, your face to the bathroom door where a full-length mirror hangs. You do not see what he is doing but you feel him behind you pulling apart the fleshy cheeks of your ass, trying to shove his cock into the narrow opening of your sphincter, and you say, No, and you say, I don’t want this, No, but he is not saying anything at all, and the only face you’re looking into is your own, in the bit of mirror before you, its length engulfed in steam; your eyes are the last thing you look into before he forces your head forward, bent over, your torso soft and floppy as a rag doll’s, and you try to relax, to give way, to accommodate what he wants to do to you, hoping that it will not hurt too much if you let him do what he wants to do. And pretty much that is all you remember.
Except this:
When he is done fucking you up the ass, he tells you to clean yourself, he’ll wait outside, and you get in the shower that is still running and scrub. Your soft ass. Your face.
When you come out, he is gone. You are not sorry.
Only later will you discover that a small gold necklace is missing from your closet, and understand as one does in retrospect that he has taken it, as if in payment for services rendered.
Across the hall Zé is making his famous rice, and Nelci is there. When there is a knock on the door, some minutes later, I think it is Nel, locked out and returning from Zé’s, but it is Linda instead, an American journalist from Maine. I invite her in, offer her juice and coffee, a shower, a seat.
—How are you? she asks, taking a seat. What’s up?
—Have you ever had anal sex? I ask.
—Why do you ask? she says. Linda is matter-of-fact, a little affectless and flat, and our conversations often have this strained and effortful quality. But she is older, twenty-seven or twenty-eight, a professional, a woman who has known a lot of men, and I feel I can confide in her, figure out how to feel about this new fact.
I tell her what has happened. I tell her that I just have. I try to sound sporting, to sound game and hip. I do not want Linda to think I am unsophisticated about sex. That I am naïve.
—Oh, Ellen, Linda says, her voice gentle with pity, her face strained. That’s what they do to animals.
It is her tone that makes me choke up. I do not know what to say.
—Are you okay?
I shrug.
She is sitting on the couch and I am seated on the floor, my back propped against the low coffee table. She comes to crouch beside me and pets my hair over and over.
—Oh, honey, she says. Oh, honey.
Her voice has never sounded so gentle, and I begin to cry. I feel stupid all over again. Crying, I let her rock me back and forth; I listen to her coo into my hair.
—It’s gonna be okay, she says. You’re gonna be okay.
When Nel comes in, Linda takes her aside and tells her what has happened and after that Nel treats me carefully, gently, the rest of the afternoon. She asks if I’d like her to get me a suco in the port, if I need anything. She suggests we go to the island that weekend. I tell her that I’d like that. And after that we don’t mention it again.
And is it rape if you let it happen, if you simply fail to identify with the girl in the mirror, if you believe that being wanted by any man, even a man who hates a girl like you, your rapist, is more important than what you want, the only thing that gives you value, his wanting you? Is it rape if you do not know that your body is lovely—developed or undeveloped—that it does not require improvements, slash and burn, aerobics, diuretics, laxatives, calisthenics, tightening, tucking, silicone? Is it rape if you think of this, the way boys want to touch you, as a part of growing up, of getting on with it, if your sister has told you that sex with a man is what distinguishes a woman from a girl, the only sure way to prove that you’re grown up, so you let boys touch you any way they want? Is it rape if you think that some man’s wanting is the only way to lay claim to the vast tracts of skin that are you, but that still, even at twenty-one, don’t seem yours? Is it rape if you say only No, Don’t, and try not to cry when a man whose last name you will never know shoves his cock past the delicate pink ring of your sphincter, forcing you forward, like a rag doll, bent in half, floppy and numb, your body numb? Is it rape if you feel guilty? Is it—was it—rape, or was it simply a failure to identify, a failure of heart, a failure of education, a failure to muster the necessary courage, a failure to master the rudiments of Western philosophy that led you to misconstrue that Cartesian formulation and believe that because you are female cogito ergo sum does not apply to you, that philosophy is differently formulated for girls like you, that for you, it’s not cogito ergo sum but more like desiderabile ergo sum: I am desired therefore I am.
Is it—was it—rape?
It doesn’t really matter, does it? Definitions change after all with the times. And rape, not so very long ago, was merely a term for an administrative district in Sussex, a certain amount of land, a jurisdiction, just another name for territory.
Itaparica
For those who lived in Salvador, the island of Itaparica was a defining presence; romantic and promising, it informed our days the way remarkable buildings do great cities—the Tour Eiffel or the Empire State. It was something your eyes went to in the white heat of midday, when the new high rises and the body in the cardboard box on the sidewalk and dark shop windows and beggar boys left you drained. You could see, most any hour of the day, tourists and locals alike leaning on a balustrade facing out to sea, looking out toward the disk of land in the shimmering bay.
It was easy enough to get to Itaparica, but somehow I’d never gone. There were always errands to run, groceries to buy, calories to walk off, dinner to make, all those tasks on which we spend our days. And in truth, I was reticent to visit the island, afraid I’d be disappointed. It was the idea of it that I loved, the possibility of paradise that I wanted to preserve. I liked to imagine its fishing huts and thatched roofs, uncut forests, sweet springs, open beaches —I needed to believe that it was out there, waiting for us: a place I could imagine was better than this, than where I was, we were.
That weekend, Isa invited us to spend a few days on the island of Itaparica at the house of her boyfriend, Marcos. On Saturday morning, the three of us caught a ferry in the lower town and rode out to the island, watching the city grow small behind us.
At the ferry launch on the island, we caught a bus that took us deeper into the island. From where the bus stopped and let us off, it was about a mile walk along a beach to Marco’s house. The beach w
as a parenthesis of sand, parallel to the mainland, terminating at the far end in a murky band of river. We walked along the cream-colored beach for a mile or so before we came to a narrow, deep stream, which we must wade through to reach the road to Marco’s house. The water, a current of dubious origin and considerable stench—some twenty feet wide—smelled of raw sewage and dead fish and Isa complained that it would make us sick, going through this. I trained my eyes on the road that ran up from the beach on the other side of the water, trying to keep my imagination in check as I slipped one foot in front of the other, tentatively testing with the ball of my bare foot the soft indeterminate mass beneath it.
Once on the other bank, we walked up the gravel road, away from the beach. Walled houses rose on either side of us. When we reached a wooden door set in the side of a high cement wall, Isa pulled out a key and opened the lock. The wall we passed through was ten feet high, at least, and its rim was capped with the jagged stubs of broken bottles in brown and green, like tiny crowns or teeth. On the other side was an enclosed garden. Marcos stood at the grill, at the far end of a flagstone path that dotted the lawn from the gate to the back of the house. He was dressed in blue shorts and a white knit Izod sports shirt, turning the meat when we arrived.
As soon as we were inside the wall, Isa began to swing her sack impatiently. She crossed the lawn, her chin raised, with an air of studied indifference.
—Mar-cos, she called plaintively, in a bored sing-song. We’re here. He turned from the grill to face us.
—Hey, he called. Isa draped her arms around his neck and kissed him briefly. Then she let her arms fall away and began to murmur petulant complaints about having had to cross the river, which she was sure was full of sewage, in order to get to his house. She told him that he should build a bridge. He told her that they would talk about it later. His tone was quiet but warning. And Isa fell silent. She frowned but said nothing.
—Welcome, Marcos said, extending a hand to me. I’m Marcos.
—Elena, I returned.
—Elena, he repeated, shaking my hand. That’s fine.
He was older than I expected, maybe thirty-five, and plain. I was surprised that he was neither tall nor handsome, but a small man with a mop of straight brown hair like an overturned bowl. I’d have put him at about five feet six; though trim, he gave an impression of stockiness. He seemed gentle and serious in that moment. And it seemed to me that he was the first grown-up I’d met in Bahia. I liked him and found myself pitying him a little. He nodded to Nelci and began to joke with her when Isa cut in. She said she was tired and wanted to shower. She went in and we followed.
The house was two-story, large and modern, white stucco. João, Marco’s friend, opened the sliding door for us and invited us in. He was good looking, with a DA haircut, a tan, taut face. He was small and wiry and reminded me of guys from the fifties, innocent hoods. He joked wildly with us, grinned a lot. Moving quickly, always in motion, like a monkey. He will spend the weekend making obscene jokes about chickens and cooing at Nel, Te amo, Te amo, I love you, I love you, and making kissing sounds as she passes by. He was wild and wired and a little scary, but I liked him, his antic desperate humor.
—Do you like to eat chicken? he asked me, grinning, as later we all stood around the grill watching Marcos work his magic on the meat.
—Sure, I said.
He burst out laughing. Did you hear that Marcos? he said. She likes to eat chicken.
—Para, Isa said. Cut it out, Marcos.
Nel frowned and rolled her eyes. He means, Elena, do you like to fuck them. “Eat” is a colloquial term for fuck.
I turned to João and said, Ha ha. Very funny.
João laughed and laughed, thrilled now that I got the joke.
—Fool, Nelci said. Bobo.
João turned to Nel and made kissing sounds. Te amo, he said, Te amo. Why do you scorn my love?
Marcos looked at João, and João laughed, then he looked at the sky and whistled.
At night, alone in our room, I asked Nel, Does he really fuck chickens?
—He does, Nel said. Really. Guys like him will screw anything.
The next morning, Marcos showed us around his store. Furniture modeled on suburban ranch homes from the sixties. He had gotten rich from this. Rooms full of things no one was using. Marcos was not a bad man, but he did not seem to care for what lies beyond his walled garden. Isa came to him, rarely the reverse. He wanted her to move in with him here, but she said she would go crazy, with nothing to do, no one to see.
The store had all the elements necessary to make a home, but it wasn’t one. I looked around in the dusty gloom and felt sad for all of us. For Isa, Marcos, Nel, João. I could not imagine anyone making a home from this.
When we returned from the island, I did not hear from Chequinho again and I didn’t expect to. If he had called I would have hung up. But I would have liked to have had the chance to hang up. I concentrated on errands, on cooking classes. I tended to the little monkey, though he rarely let me pet him now; he glared at me, like an enraged tenant confronting a lousy landlord. I shopped. I bought a broad cotton hammock in the praça where I had bought the monkey, one day on my way home from cooking class. I made lists of things I needed. Weight goals. Calories eaten and burned.
I went out in the late afternoon each day to buy groceries, needing an excuse to go for a walk. I bought manioc root, fat plums, and yogurt in squat, plastic, half-cup buckets. It felt good to be out in the street. It felt good to walk the dimly lit aisles of the grocery. To give my money and receive the brown paper bag, to hold this to my chest, my arms bowed out as if in an embrace.
The bag was loaded with a tin of guava paste, a tenderloin roast wrapped in white paper, a plastic sack of bleached rice, water crackers in cellophane, tomatoes, pale green grapes. Returning from the market, I wondered if the boy had been careful. I lowered my arms, peered over the lip of the sack, saw only crackers and yogurt, and worried that the fruit was squashed. Shadows of trees twitched in the breeze.
At home, I unpacked the bag into the fridge and even before I was done putting away the groceries I opened a container of yogurt, and began to spoon it into my mouth. I was tired and hot and sad and lonely; Nel was out somewhere or maybe at Zé’s, and I thought this food might revive me. Cheer me up. It was something to do anyway for the next five minutes.
I squirted diet sweetener into the plain yogurt and a measured tablespoon of guaraná, a powerfully caffeinated seed from the Amazon. My latest diet scheme. High protein, high caffeine, low calorie. Then I walked to the living room and stretched out in the hammock.
I had just settled back into the broad cotton cloth, carefully holding my yogurt aloft so as not to spill it, and was leaning back—exhausted, dispirited, the room stale and too bright, barren, lacking personality because (I’d begun to suspect) I did. I thought of Barbara’s rooms with their pale blue light, their rattan, the mandolin, woodcuts and Levi-Strauss, and I was lifting the first spoonful of yogurt to my mouth when the mico sprang from the far end of the hammock into the small plastic container of yogurt in an act of remarkable acrobatic hubris.
Without thinking, I screamed and grabbed him in my fist and flung him, hard, hard, against the floor, pissed off. When I looked down, he was just lying there, perfectly still beside the hammock. His little gray tufted body deflated, flat.
—Oh my God, I said. Oh my God.
I was afraid to get out of the hammock and crouch down to look. I could already see that he was dead, crushed because he wanted to eat. Poor stunted thing. He never grew, as the monkey vendor said he would. And it occurred to me that maybe he didn’t eat the fruit I had given him because he wasn’t weaned, craved milk, needed another kind of nourishment than what I offered.
I kneeled down and stroked his still body. He looked so sweet. Alive his eyes had seemed accusing. I felt sick. It wasn’t the monkey I wanted to kill after all, but the girl. The girl who’d checked into a too-expensive hotel, who was no good
at repartee in any language, who had not mastered Portuguese, who was pale, overweight, too self-conscious to lie on a beach; the girl who desired nothing except to be less than she was, to lose.
I wanted to be rid of the girl who went shopping nearly every day for food so that she could stick to a pointless Hilton Head diet, that diet book being one of the few books she had brought with her from the States. I wanted to kill that girl I once was, the girl it seemed then I would always be.
And then it began to rain. Drops spattered my hands and the stretch of carpet beneath the open window. Drops fell on the furry unmoving side of the mico. I looked out at the sky, which was pale and cloudless, and realized that the drops were tears.
When the monkey stirred, groggy, he roses unsteadily to his four paws and crawled away from me, leaving me alone, crying in a little patch of sunlight for everything.
Ilhas
I’m surprised by how little I recall now, as I wade back into the middle of that year, how memory grows less and less clear after Chequinho’s visit to my apartment. What I remember are islands, bright patches of memory, reminding me of the island conservation scheme in the Amazon, the studies done to see whether small isolated patches of forest could sustain life in the midst of development’s ravages. Of course, they could not. Can’t. My own self-development schemes were beginning to take their toll as well; in memory, my days grow patchy, islands of brightness in a sea of unremembered hours. Strange, radiant.
This much I remember:
I remember meeting Rogeirio—another Rotary scholar, a Bahian ten years older than I, who was slated to leave for the U.S. in a few months’ time—in the port at Barra at an ice cream café I had passed often on my walk to the beach but never entered. A Rotarian had proposed I meet Rogeirio after I gave a speech to their club in Salvador (“speech” a lofty word for my modest recitation, which I had memorized word for word and repeated like a parrot).
