Red: A Love Story Page 12

  “We can take your mom out on the weekends, and then the two of you will spend more time together, Mari.”

  “That’s the problem. My mom obsesses with finding me a perfect husband. The failed engagement to the senator made her suspicious of older men, and I fear her reaction when she learns about you.”

  “She could change her mind once she realizes you’re happy and it’s a steady relationship.” He smiled and added: “I’ve always been good at charming my girlfriends’ moms.”

  Marisa’s face remained somber.

  “My mother is stubborn, Marco. If she doesn’t approve of something, that’s it. She didn’t like my ex Louis because he’s Jewish. My dad attempted to appease her, but she wouldn’t leave me alone.” Marisa shook her head at the memory. “One day, at a family lunch, my uncle Carlos took my side and said she was prepotent. They quarreled, and my mom wouldn’t speak to him for almost two years. Two years. She only got back in touch after my granny’s funeral.”

  “We’ll find a solution.”

  Marco didn’t allow his uneasiness to show. He had his own reasons to worry—but those he kept to himself.

  16. The Graduation

  Springtime dwindled and December reached the summertime threshold with a scent of warm rain and the end of high school. The 13th was a lucky day: when the last class of the year ended, major relief jump-started students back to life. Extra assignments still waited for those who needed to improve their grades, and the course for college admission would continue for another few weeks. But for now, for a brief intermission, no one worried. The class had already planned a trip to Cancun for celebrating, lulled into a sunny daydream with stretches of turquoise water and seas of tequila.

  In the evening following the end of classes, a Friday, the school’s Rotary Club promoted its traditional graduation party. Marisa had no intention of going, and twisted and turned to dodge her mother.

  “What happened to the long blue taffeta dress? What you’re wearing is so plain.” The mother studied her in disapproval and pursed her lips.

  “The blue dress got stained,” Marisa said cautiously, smoothing her black minidress. “But this one will do.”

  The simple, sleeveless model featured details in silver thread that sparkled as she moved, accentuating her figure and her legs, elongated by high-heeled sandals. It matched the sapphire necklace and earrings that had been her father’s gift for her birthday the previous year.

  “I’m not so sure,” the mother insisted in a sour tone. “Black is such a depressing color. I can’t believe you ruined that blue dress. It was so elegant.”

  Marisa hated the taffeta gown her mother had bought for her. Right now, though, she didn’t want to keep talking, or an argument could erupt. When her mother was upset, any word, even the most innocent, turned into an elephant paw on a minefield.

  With the excuse that she didn’t want to be late for the photo session at half past six, Marisa picked up her purse and said goodbye. She then initiated a marathon: she took a taxi, got off at the party venue, ensured her appearance in the graduation photo book, sneaked out, slipped into another taxi, slipped the wig on, and proceeded to meet with Marco at the Jardins area.

  Marisa passed by mansions and upscale buildings, bars and restaurants exuding a deliberate casualness perfumed with money. She disembarked before an impressive façade in the shape of an inverted arch that seemed to float above the glass-walled lobby. Similar to the profile of a ship covered in copper plates, the place was an architectural landmark in the city. Spherical windows dotted its six floors, and the entrance door at the side, as imposing as a cathedral’s, opened up to a lobby with impossibly high ceilings.

  Once in the atrium, Marisa had the impression of crossing the bottom of the sea as she passed by designer furniture disposed like coral clusters in the wideness of clear water: black and white chaises lounges, here a sculpture of Saint George and the Dragon in a niche, there an anemone of flecked flowers. The reading area, delimited by a semicircular bookcase, boasted red fan-shaped armchairs and a gigantic navy blue puff that spread like a sleeping shellfish on sandy marble. Up above, the rooftop water mirror undulated in crystal reflections.

  Marisa’s thrill at meeting Marco intensified with the singular beauty of the hotel, which not by chance had been baptized the Unique. It was strange getting together with Marco away from Downtown—a thrill mixed with disquiet. They should be safe, for the school crowd would stay at the graduation party until late. But what if an acquaintance happened to show up at the hotel? (Marisa lowered her head and glanced at the executives, tourists and models circulating in the lobby.)

  She neared the bar in the back featuring a concrete wall with gleaming shelves that piled up high, guarded on each side by a golden statue. One way or another, Marisa went on thinking, she had scored good grades and the school term was officially over. Freedom was almost within grasp for Marco and her. A future with no more secrets or guilt. Only one dark cloud still hovered on the horizon: her mother’s reaction once she learned about Marco. Better not to think about that now.

  One, two… eight, nine… fourteen, fifteen… She counted sixteen shelves in the bar before taking the panoramic lift that, immersed in a faint haze of light, took her straight to the rooftop. There, a vestibule wrapped in dimness led to a corridor fitted with translucid onyx of yellow veins. The stone emitted diffuse clarity like an ethereal tunnel.

  C’mon closer

  Close the gap

  Jazz up over

  C’mon closer

  As she proceeded through the corridor, Marisa discerned the whispered singing of a deep house track. Come on Over by Neolectrique. With soft notes of guitar, the music grew louder toward the restaurant, where a brunette in an impeccable blue dress waited. When Marisa mentioned the reservation under the name of Mr. Fares, the hostess grinned.

  “Oh, yes, Marco.” She pointed to the far end of the restaurant. “He’s waiting for you on the terrace.”

  Marisa advanced through the long room in half-light, throwing a glimpse at the large windows that leaned over the Ibirapuera Park right across the street. Once the water mirror was transposed, the room expanded onto the elevated deck beside a rectangular swimming pool with submersed red lamps, which drew fairy circles of color in the water. On the opposite side, pairs of white loungers lined up under lanterns and square parasols. At that point, a flutter of butterflies and jazzy notes overflowed in her heart…

  Marco idled on one of the loungers, his shoulders relaxed, one leg folded and the other stretched. He too wore black, with a new shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders. She rehearsed a sideway approach and, without making any noise, covered his eyes with both hands. Marco inhaled deeply—vetiver—and smiled. Marisa lifted her hands, sitting next to him. She pressed a kiss on Marco’s lips and then on his neck.

  “Hmmm. I like it. What cologne is that?”

  “Acqua. I decided to go for a change. According to the ad, this fragrance is gonna emphasize my virility and give me an irresistible aura of refinement.”

  Marco’s playful expression vanished when he took his time to admire Marisa, pausing on the curves shaped by the dress and on her mouth. For a moment, he envisioned the two of them in a room of the hotel, where he would be able to yank off her dress and lipstick. He flirted with a change of plans but forced himself to dismiss that thought. Tomorrow they would have the whole night for themselves.

  “You look stunning. It’s a shame you must hide under that wig.”

  “Psst… I’m a spy in a secret mission and I have some top secret information. Next spring we’ll have that picnic under the cherry trees, with a special cheesecake just for you.” A pause, another flutter of butterflies. “Hey, Marco, did I mention I love your company?”

  “I love yours too, Mari Hari.” He stroked her hand. “And your cheesecakes.”

  She took those words with laught
er, looped her arm in his, peeked around. The flickering glow of white candles poured onto the deck center, and a dotted line of lights followed the plant beds on the sides. An island in the heights, the terrace floated amid the urban forest with its neon towers and lit-up windows twinkling in the distance.

  “This is beautiful.”

  “It’s one of my favorite spots in São Paulo,” he said.

  “You are like one of those Russian dolls that hold another doll inside, and another and another. I didn’t know this side of you.”

  “Which side?”

  “Your eclectic tastes. Traditional bistros, transvestite bars, trendy restaurants.”

  “I like places with a personality. They can be simple or sophisticated, modern or old-fashioned, it doesn’t matter.” He traced her jawline with the tip of his finger. “I’m happy you’re here with me. Speaking of which, this calls for a toast.”

  Marco picked up a champagne bottle from an ice bucket on the side table. He uncorked it and pulled a linen napkin, uncovering a couple of black crystal flutes. He poured the golden liquid into them and offered Marisa one of the glasses: to your future, Mari, drink it all in one go for good luck. They toasted, and the echo of crystal blended into the music. Finally vs. Love Story by Kings of Tomorrow and Layo & Bushwacka. The music about worlds colliding and the march of time and the beginning. Finally.

  And we gazed and dreamed

  Till our spirits seemed

  Absorbed in the stellar world

  And we sailed over seas

  Of white vapor that whirled

  Through the skies afar

  Angels our charioteers

  Radiant, Marisa did as he said. When she reached the last drop, the glass clinked, surprising her lips with a cold metal kiss. Marisa widened her eyes. She tipped off the flute, and the ring rolled onto the palm of her hand, platinum lace embroidered with diamond, ruby, tourmaline, emerald…

  She felt her throat blocked and her eyes cloudy with a veil that for an instant made the world waver out of focus. She wavered with the world, muttered his name and couldn’t voice anything else. Marco dried the ring with the napkin, sliding it onto Marisa’s third finger.

  “I was leaning toward a solitaire, but thought these colors go well with you. Do you like it?”

  “A lot… thank you, my love. You didn’t have to do that.”

  Marisa placed a kiss on the palm of his hand. Marco caressed the lacey finger and covered her hand with his.

  “Of course I had to. Don’t cry.”

  “It’s just that I’ve never received such a beautiful gift from a boyfriend. And your gesture—”

  “Shhh, you deserve it. Now let’s go inside. We can’t take too long to dine.”

  The waiter brought the champagne to their table by the window and, as they drank, Marco and Marisa enjoyed the view of the park. Just like the city, it hosted a diversity of ethnicities, from the native jatobá to the Australian eucalyptus, and huge trees dressed up in Christmas lights poured their reflection onto its lake.

  Echoes of classical music reached the restaurant, and the dance of the waters began: the fountain in the lake projected jets that rose, dropped down and entwined, changing colors. Suddenly a thunder dampened the music. And, as if someone had pressed a button, the whole scenery blurred under the cape of a summer rain. In the park, commotion burst. In the hotel, those on the terrace stampeded into the restaurant amid exclamations and laughs.

  Marisa glanced at them and turned to Marco.

  “This will be my first Christmas without Dad,” she said pensively. “Although I still miss him, today for the first time I could picture the possibility of being happy again. Now I realize the pain was the last thing my dad left for me, the last memory. I got attached to it for that reason. It was the only stable thing remaining in my life, the only thing no one could take away from me. The pain was mine. Since my father’s passing, I’ve been carrying around a weight. This morning I looked at myself in the mirror and knew straight away something had changed: the weight was gone.”

  “Consider that everything in the world is energy, Mari. Quantum physics has already demonstrated that, when you reach subatomic particles, the physical contours separating things are no longer visible: all is part of the same sea of energy. Your father just shifted into another form. He continues to exist and, most importantly, he continues to live in your heart. What’s left is the longing, which only time can cure. But I’d like to help you get over it.”

  “You’ve already helped me and are still helping me, Marco. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know where I’d have ended. I was devastated when we first met. Many times I pretended to be fine but deep down…”

  “I know. I know you.”

  They gazed at each other, communicating silently. It was as if they had lived together their entire lives. And in a way they did, in dreams and thoughts.

  “I wish I could reciprocate all you do for me, Marco.”

  “You do reciprocate, more than you think. I am the one in debt with you.”

  His words lingered between them. The waiter brought them bread, moved away, and the echo of the words still persisted.

  “How come, Marco? You give me all the loving and support.”

  “I’m not sure if it would be the same with another woman. You bring out the best in me, and I want that to surface more and more because it brings me peace. By giving me your love, you give back to me my own love, which I thought I was no longer able to feel.”

  Marisa reached out over the white tablecloth to hold Marco’s hand. As she did so, she admired the ring on her finger with new awareness. Marco sometimes wouldn’t speak out his innermost.

  “Your ex-wife did hurt you a lot, didn’t she?”

  “Certain wounds take time to heal. Sometimes they never mend completely.” He got lost in a pause. “When I look back, I understand Lorena. We were too immature. To make matters worse, we lived in turmoil. But a part of me still can’t accept what happened. I always think that, had I behaved in another way, maybe we could have been happy and…” He shook his head without finishing the sentence.

  Marisa stiffened and released his hand. She folded her arms, and behind them there were clenched fists. She felt the ring’s texture against her palm—a ring whose meaning she could no longer interpret. It seemed suddenly hollow and brittle, an empty shell. Fear seized Marisa, for she felt she was being emptied herself.

  Noticing her reaction, Marco leaned over the table, his gaze trying to reach her where she had sought refuge.

  “What is it, Mari? Why are you suddenly angry?”

  “I hadn’t realized you were still so attached to your ex-wife. Maybe you still love her? You need to seek the answer in your heart with utter honesty. Not only for my sake but for your own.”

  “Give me your hand.” His tone revealed apprehension.

  Marisa shook her head and kept her arms crossed. She could have remained quiet and pretended it was nothing. Pray all would be fine and, above all, act pleasant. She used to behave that way. It had never led to anything.

  “I prefer to have everything in the open, Marco, no matter how brutal the cut. It’s better than living a lie. You know how it was with Sérgio. A lie. I don’t ever want to go through that again. Even if I wanted, it wouldn’t work. One day the house of cards goes tumbling down anyway.”

  “Give me your hand. Please.” When Marisa finally stretched her hand out, Marco cradled it between his. “I know exactly what it’s like to live in a crumbling house of cards. I don’t want that either. I’m not implying I’d still want to be married to Lorena. What I wish is to have prevented so much pain. When I got involved with her, I had no idea of the problems I might cause.”

  “I’m sorry if I got you wrong. I guess I have my own traumas.” Marisa sighed. She wanted to help him and didn’t know how. “After all, what problems are you talk
ing about? I know you two dealt with a lot of friction and arguments were escalating.”

  “To say arguments were escalating is an understatement. Our marriage turned into hell. We said horrible things, hurt each other way too much. The contradiction is that, while we argued, there was hope. One way or another, we still cared about the relationship. Lorena still cared. Then we silenced. She stopped complaining. I clammed up in my resentment. There’s nothing worse than feeling lonely when you are with someone, Mari.”

  “But for sure something else was going on?”

  Marco would rather not go into details. He distanced himself. Contrary to the usual, his voice droned.

  Lorena’s family didn’t approve of the marriage and broke contact with her, stirring all sorts of tension. The irony was they rejected Marco because he possessed no wealth. A year after the divorce, he and his brothers inherited their uncle’s coffee farm. That alone would not be enough to appease Lorena’s family, but time has passed, the road was paved and the city expanded to the farm perimeter. The year before the last, they split the property into lots and sold it per square foot to a luxury condo.

  He still recalled the last time he had coursed the coffee plantation with his brothers, under the deafening song of destitute cicadas fleeing the urban offensive. Their shadows stretched in the sunset and streaked the path as tiny white flowers waved goodbye in the breeze: goodbye to childhood memories. The next day the bulldozers took it all down.

  Every gain came at a price.

  After investing the money, Marco settled in a comfortable situation. He studied for his PhD and, for now, taught for the enjoyment of it and to test new educational methods. He wanted to found his own school. If it were today, Lorena’s family wouldn’t have any problem in accepting him. During the marriage, though, the situation was different. Lorena became increasingly frustrated and unhappy. The few relatives who still kept in touch fed lies. Marco blamed himself for not having sufficient maturity to give her support the way she needed. He just wished he could have avoided what happened later.