On Saturday, Marisa woke up one hour earlier to study and went to school for her practice exam, an entanglement of cruel physics formulas that got her more dispirited than hopeful about her performance. When she got back home with Valentina, she immediately sensed something wrong: the TV was off. In the apartment hovered a dense silence, so dense it was like a living creature breathing within the four walls. The mother sat on the usual blue sofa- this time, reading the Bible.
"Very nice," she declared, wounded, closing the book. Her mouth, no longer used to smiling, curved downward like a waning moon in a somber sky.
"What was it?" Marisa looked around and frowned. "Did I forget the light on by any chance?"
"Don't you have something to tell me?"
The mother's brown irises sparked for a moment while she tapped her fingers on the brown Bible resting by her side. Toc, toc, toc... From the kitchen came the sudden sigh of the pressure cooker and a waft of lentils. Marisa sighed too.
"Why don't you say what the problem is at once? Did I leave a wet towel on the bed? The milk outside the fridge?" she asked.
Toc, toc, toc...
Valentina looked from one to the other. Tension crept into the room under the vigilant eye of a congregation of Czech crystal miniatures. Marisa grew impatient and crossed her arms. A dramatic pause ensued, with welling eyes and a certain calculus exaggeration when the mother raised the accusing finger at her.
"I heard that yesterday you were in the lobby making out with a man old enough to be your father. What the heck is going on, Marisa?"
Marisa eyed her, discomfited. How had the mother found out about her secret? Then it dawned on her: Ms. Rosaura! she thought, furious.
"Who told you that? Was it the gossiper neighbor from the ground floor?" Marisa pretended to be offended. "That's an exaggeration. I wasn't making out with anyone. A school mate gave me a lift and kissed me goodbye on the cheek, that's all."
"So Ms. Rosaura was exaggerating, huh?"
"For Christ sake, Mom. That woman is senile," Marisa ventured, but she could see the skepticism all over her mother's face.
"Do you think I'm stupid or what?" she vociferated, red with indignation. "What have I done to deserve this? I try to give you a good education and this is what happens. You're really a lost cause."
Valentina stepped in, assuring her it was all a misunderstanding. The mother's thin eyebrows joined in a scowl and she hissed:
"And you. You're a lost cause too!"
"Will you stop it already? I can't stand your criticism anymore." Marisa became exasperated, now as red as her mother, while Valentina paled. "What if I am involved with an older man, what's the big deal?"
"What's the big deal? I want to know who's this man you're seeing."
"It's none of your business. You're gonna drive him away like you did with Louis."
"You bet I'm gonna drive him away, mark my words."
The mother stamped on the rug flowers and rolled her hands into fists. The speech that Marisa knew by heart unfolded. The mother talked about the ex-fiancée who had cheated on her and practically abandoned her at the altar. She reviewed the stab on the back, the humiliation, the shattered heart. Moreover, there was the selfishness of men, carnality, the stench of cigar mixed with cheap perfume. How could Marisa be so naïve that she didn't realize an older man would only want to take advantage of the situation? She needed a nice boy her own age, preferably catholic.
"When are you going to forget the senator once and for all? It's not like that." Marisa stiffened with a sting in the pit of her stomach... nausea, nausea, nausea... "The way you talk, you must really think I'm incapable of winning someone's affection through my own qualities. I'm a lost cause, right? Well, you're wrong, not even close. He loves me. And he doesn't cheat on me like Sergio, whom you thought to be so nice."
The mother vacillated for an instant but wouldn't take defeat.
"Oh really? Who can tell for sure? Then answer this: what does a pipsqueak like you have to offer to an older man besides easy fun? He'll soon leave you for another woman, that is, if he hasn't already found himself a bunch of mistresses. You know nothing, girl. You'll end up in a bad situation. A very bad situation-"
"I bet you're crossing your fingers for that to happen, aren't you? Just to prove yourself right. You're rigid and never look beyond your own navel... You want me to be like you, want to choose my boyfriends. You're trying to live my life instead of taking care of yours. And you always got to have things your way, of course. That's what happened after Dad passed, right? Everything needed to be neat and over as soon as possible, because you hate to wait. How could you exclude me from my own father's funeral?"
Marisa's eyes clouded with tears. The last time she saw her father alive was right before she'd left for camping on Easter: If a mosquito ever bites you, my dear, do not kill it or else ten more will show up for the burial, he had said.
Her father was like that, a born comedian, and his own life ended with the irony of a joke. He was hit by a car on Holy Thursday, in an intersection near home, while returning from the newsstand. The crossword magazine flew from his hands and landed next to a manhole. The ambulance immediately came to his rescue. Pedestrians watched the scene surprised by its readiness, until they realized it was the very ambulance that had hit the victim. Marisa's father, however, did not benefit from such fortunate coincidence and died on his way to the hospital.
During that extended weekend, she had gone camping with Valentina and her friend's uncles who lived in the countryside. There, in the paradise of native forest and waterfalls where they had burrowed, the cell phones were dead and Marisa forgot to turn hers off. She returned one day before her friend, by bus, with the discharged phone in her backpack. Marisa was content when she arrived home. Then the mother told her. In shock, Marisa asked why she hadn't waited for her to bury the father. There was no answer. The mother simply took her to the cemetery...
Now the mother cried and yelled. Her voice changed, as if she had a wounded animal trapped in the throat:
"I called a million times to let you know about your dad's passing and there was no way to reach you. I didn't wait to bury him simply because I couldn't stand to look at him and imagine the accident... How do you think it was for me, waiting for him to come back home for dinner and receiving the news of his death? While you were bathing in waterfalls, I was submerging in the bureaucracy of death. Do you think you were the only one in shock? I wanted to spare you-"
"Spare me? You didn't even allow me to say a proper goodbye to him. How do you think I felt? I go on a trip and when I return Dad's no longer here, just like a ghost, no closure whatsoever. All I wanted was to touch his face for the last time and you've robbed me of that," Marisa retorted, trembling.
"I did my best... Do you think this whole thing is easy for me? You're out of control and I'm unable to deal with the situation... Unable!" She snuffed and went on, in a plaintiff tone: "I know very well you've always loved your father more than me. But if he were still alive, things would be quite different."
They stared at each other with their breathing ragged by the avalanche of resentment. To the mother, it was a shock that Marisa couldn't understand that she tried to protect her, had always tried to protect her. Now more than ever. Her girl. To Marisa, it was a melancholic relief that the situation had reached the inevitable confrontation she feared so much. At least there was no doubt left to consume her.
The mother judged the daughter ungrateful for not perceiving her loneliness. The daughter judged the mother an increasingly distant figure, unable to accept her freedom. They exchanged a look, each of them on the opposite margin of the road, each with her own armful of hurt and incomprehension. And as they exchanged that look, they begin to lose sight of each other. On the surface simmered indignation. In the depths, an immense pain.
"You're right. Things would be quite different if my father was alive." Marisa said. "He accepted me instead of criticizing me all the time."
"I only want what's best for you. You'll stop seeing that man, do you hear me? As long as you live under my roof, you ought to abide by my rules. I will not allow you to be crushed like I was..."
"That's it! I don't want to go on like this, fighting all the time. You're unable to accept me for who I am and respect my opinions. It's beyond your control. Only you can't decide for me. I'm no longer that child whose hand you held before crossing the street. If I'm wrong, then I'll face the consequences. But I know I'm not wrong. Maybe it's best if I get a job and leave for good. I don't like to leave you by yourself, but you're the one digging this up." Marisa turned to her friend and took her by the arm. "C'mon, Val, let's go. I refuse to keep listening to this."
"Where are you going?" The mother sniveled, suddenly alarmed. "Come back here, Marisa! You're the only thing I have left in the world now..."
Marisa stomped out with a slam of the door. In tears, she headed with Valentina to her friend's place. When they arrived there, Valentina's mother gave her a cup of seven herbs tea and a crystal to keep negative energies away-not that it helped much. The two friends then went to Valentina's bedroom and, behind the closed door, Marisa complained about her mother, grieved over her father, and reiterated her love for Marco. Why things had to be so complicated? Marco was the sun that painted the rainbow in the opaque sky with his pranks and the hair falling over his forehead to make him look like the boy that still lived within him eating jabuticabas from the tree. She learned so much from him, about books and life, about herself. Marco had given laughter back to her. She wanted to erase from that heart the scab of bitterness that surfaced when he got distracted and the mask slipped off... If she must stand against her mother to be with him, it no longer mattered.
She cried on Valentina's shoulder and, having finally calmed down, called Marco. He grew alarmed and told her he needed to think.
Marco vacillated.
It was all happening again: the past. That predator whose eyes were two precise points with the gloss of a black mirror, positioned close together for better aiming the prey. Its mouth accumulated several rows of teeth as sharp as blades and, when it opened, it shredded and laughed.
The past had a peculiar sense of humor.
A middle ground with Marisa was impossible. Even knowing the risks, he had allowed things to go too far. He jeopardized his reputation and plans for the future. But that he could handle. The worst was that now Marisa might see her family life crumble as a result of his irresponsibility. He wouldn't be in peace with his own conscience if that happened-not again. None of it made any sense. He needed to be rational.
Rational.
He had been married and divorced once: Lorena had taught him the toughest lesson. At the time, he lived in the intoxication of his first love. Impulsive and inexperienced, he didn't know contention. Or fear. Marisa was still too young to know what he knew today. Did he really want to drag her into that? Did he have the right to do it? When he thought of Lorena at that age and the shattered dreams she made a point to throw in his face. You have destroyed my life. That's what she said in the heat of an argument. Then she apologized. She said it again and apologized once more. And once again. Until apologizing lost its meaning. You have destroyed my life.
Scenes from his marriage pulsed in the memory. The beginning of the forbidden passion. All the conflicts surrounding their union. And the trauma that precipitated the end. It was incredible, he thought, the myriad of small and big reasons that would put an end to a relationship. Divergences. Jealousy. Unfaithfulness... Small and big sources of pain, which the law coldly labeled as irreconcilable differences. He had tried to overcome his remorse and also forgive her. Didn't succeed in either one. The heart was a piece of glass cracked by guilt and hurt. When he looked through its lens, the world emerged distorted. Broken. He was aware of it and there was nothing he could do. An exposed chip would be easily polished, filled, mended. Not that internal flaw.
Maybe it would be best if he and Marisa went their separate ways. He was no good for her. If they continued together, what were the prospects? Marisa already lived in a distressed relationship with her mother, which his presence only aggravated. This was the moment for them to consolidate a bond. The last thing he wanted was to cause a rupture between mother and daughter. Then Marisa wouldn't bear the pressure and would feel compelled to move in with him-a bad start on itself, as he could attest from his own experience. Marisa ignored what had really happened in his marriage. He, on the other hand, couldn't forget. Fairy tales did not survive frustration. With time, Marisa would miss her family and he would carry the guilt. They would drink from the cup of estrangement and have accusations for dinner.
And soon Marisa would be ready to fall into another man's arms, probably someone younger. It was always like that, right? The natural cycle of things. Flowers blossomed, their petals and leaves fell off, dried out, soaked in the rain, dried out again, until they brittled and turned into dust and into nothing. What remained were the fossiles of nails and hair, pain and thorns. The ending of sunken romance did not change much, in literature or real life. It had been like that with Lorena, sooner or later it would be the same with Marisa. He no longer carried illusions in his baggage. The world was full of Madams Bovary.
Or was it?
His brain said one thing-perfectly sober, sensible, centered. His heart-that same one dazzling his thoughts since he had first noticed Marisa in the classroom, that unrestrained, unreasonable, unstoppable heart-said something else. And what had he seen? At first, just a girl-woman with a pretty face and a braid, one small and pale hand raised. When she said omission was a form of action, a tremor hit him. Without knowing, Marisa no longer spoke of literature. She spoke of broken glass and a man who had retreated from life without realizing. She spoke of him, Marco. From that day on, he began to observe Marisa. He captured on her face the fragmented impressions of a mosaic, which he assembled day after day: sweetness, sadness, amusement, irony, interest, apathy, life, death. All overflowing from within her. And then, as if a blindfold had slipped off his eyes, he recognized in Marisa fragments of himself...
The brain. The heart. In a perverse logic, the more he struggled and resisted, the more entangled he became in that sortilege. Until the only thing left for him was surrender. Gosh, was he tired, so tired of feeling that way, fractured. The brain. The heart. In response to one and the other, Marco helped himself with a shot of whiskey. Soon a comforting warmth coursed through his veins, clearing his mind, making everything simpler. Dissolving the melodrama. Yes, that was it. Life shouldn't be taken so seriously. What was again the title of that film by David Mamet?
Things Change, he muttered to himself.
Marco took another sip, hesitated and emptied the glass. He glanced at the kitchen table in search of the pack of cigarettes-the companion for coffee, port wine and disquiet-and his gaze fell upon the ivory die sitting in a corner. He stared at it. Grabbed it. Rolled it.
The Three turned up.
A coincidence?
He was prepared to follow in that direction. He looked at the orchid he'd left to air on the windowsill. A rare Selenipedium, Marisa's present for his birthday. She had brought him the flower on a Saturday, when they dinned in the apartment and spent the night rolling the die. They didn't sleep much because Marisa had to go home to be with her mother and study. When he woke up the next day, she was sobbing with her face hidden in the pillow.
What is it, Mari?
Happiness. Fear of losing him.
Approaching the window, Marco touched the orchid's red petals. If he intended to go ahead, standing with water around his knees wasn't an option. He needed to take the plunge. Marco reached for his jacket on the back of the chair and took out the cell phone from the pocket. He searched for Marisa's contacts. With no further hesitation, he selected the number.
___________________________________________________________
Now what, Marco?
Next you have inner demons and some kinky steam stepping into the scene. Brace yourself!
Towards the end of Part 2, you will understand why Red. There's a huge surprise too.
Part 3 goes back to normality. The action really takes off, and you should LOVE it! :-)