When Marco finally returned from the bar, Marisa had already ravaged three nails to perfection and was preparing to attack the fourth. She dropped her hand and aimed a microscope-like eye at him, investigating the white clothes with no rips or blood stains (check), the hands, arms, neck and face intact (check), the impeccable hair as usual (check). Marisa cheered up, then frowned. Marco was not only back in one piece but barely hid his satisfaction.
"What's up? Why did you go back there?" she asked, anxiously fiddling with one jagged nail with the tip of her thumb. (She needed a file badly or she would go crazy.)
"I couldn't forget my good manners, could I? I had to say hello to Belvedere. I even took a picture of him and Jane for the school blog. You know, to posterity."
"Marco! You're nuts!" Marisa kept feeling the jagged edges. (Where could she find an open drugstore to get a nail file?)
"Not me. I gave him the cold sweats for a few minutes, suggested fraternization and, in the end, 'changed my mind' and said it would be best to post a photo with the whole board of directors. Anyway, that should teach Belvedere to stay away from our bar."
Upon seeing Marco, the director had choked on a piece of steak and turned redder than the tomato flower decorating his plate. And the secretary, as white as the plate itself, stood up switching between grayed-out grins to Marco and black punches on her lover's back. At that point the piano player, who was performing Sinatra's classic My Way, sang the lines about biting off more than one could chew and eating it up and spitting it all...
Marco cracked up, and Marisa couldn't help but laugh too (nothing like some comic relief in a disaster film... speaking of disaster, where again could she find a drugstore to get a file?) They walked around the corner to get the Ducati, and she proposed going to Marco's apartment. He refused. He wouldn't hide just because that jerk of a director had decided to spend the evening out with his mistress. Marco knew another bar in the vicinity where they could go now.
Marisa slowed down to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk.
"I don't think it's such a good idea, Marco. If Belvedere happens to pop in..." (A nail file! Pleaaaase!)
"By now our friend must be asking for the check, ready to go back home with his tail between his legs. Besides, the place is safe. It's located in an alley and, trust me, Belvedere would never set his delicate foot there."
"Are you sure?" (Do you think Marco would have... Ah! She must have a file in her purse... hmm... wet.)
"Wanna bet?"
There they went. The bar presented itself with modesty: a few tables around a pillar and, in the back, a counter flooded with black light. Although the white walls were naked, the owner had taken care of adorning the tables with plastic flowers in small, colorful buckets. It looked like the décor of a children's party. The big star there was a jukebox that, with the soft luminescence of a dream, played old hits by tacky Brazilian idols. Around it, exuberant women with big feet, boobs and hair were chatting.
It was a transvestite bar.
Marco and Marisa indulged in the luxury of choosing one of the four tables aligned on the sidewalk. To the sound of Sidney Magal's If I Catch You with Another Man I'll Kill You, a slinky waitress in a skintight uniform took their orders. Two vodkas and tonic with lots of ice, please. And one order of fries, so no one gets drunk. Oh, of course, and a nail file.
The two of them amused themselves imagining what Breno Belvedere would do now that his affaire had been unveiled. Maybe, Marisa speculated, the director would try to save his face by pretending he was at the bar with the secretary to talk about work.
If I catch you with another man, I'll kill you
And send you some flowers before fleeing
Marco got extreme. Inspired by the lyrics of the song, he concocted a Nelson Rodrigues sort of tragedy, in which the shrew found out about her husband's infidelity while having a drink with a girlfriend at the piano bar. In shock, she squeezed too hard the catchup bottle over her order of fries, and a red lake poured onto the pale mound of intertwined forms that looked like a pile of bones. She envisioned the corpse.
With a vengeance, the shrew sent her sons off to their grandmother's (they didn't know a thing about Nelson Rodrigues anyway) and proceeded to plot her husband's death in a paradox of calculation and culinary passion, by adding ground glass to the bastard's tropeiro bean stew. The director agonized slowly. His innards bled as much as his wife's heart: the shrew called him a cheater, then hugged him and begged him not to leave her. Until in a paroxysm she spat on his face and yelled that he made her sick to her stomach.
They say I'm wrong
But whoever says it has never loved
Marisa' also gave her contribution to that gastronomy-floral drama. After dispatching him to the Otherworld with her macabre delicacy, the shrew posed as an inconsolable widow and, for the deceased's funeral, purchased the most expensive carnation wreath in store. Then she eloped with the gardener, an ardent young man with whom she had been having an affair, as the director was no longer able to please her (he couldn't get it up) and for quite a while the couple had been living more like little siblings than spouses.
The widow and her lover traveled to the Caribbean to enjoy an illicit honeymoon. Once there, however, the young man met the waitress from a local spa, a fake blonde with oblique eyes and hard flesh who bewitched him with her slink. The shrew noticed all the glucose going on, and spiced up with an extra measure of ground glass the Creole-style shrimps for dinner. Once everything was in place, she tried to decide which flowers were the most appropriate for a gardener's funeral.
They say I'm violent
But a hard rock
Can be destroyed by the wind
When Marisa and Marco saw the waitress place a bucket of plastic daisies on the neighboring table, they exchanged a smiley look.
"Very nice. Still, our story has a discrepancy," said Marisa, nibbling on a potato stick.
"What's the problem, Mari? The plot has drama, catharsis and redemption."
"Yet the lyrics refer to a man catching his wife with another guy."
"Poetic license."
"No, sir. Things need to be accurate. Your turn."
He emptied his glass and thought for a minute.
"Okay. The shrew, disillusioned with men, those useless cheating bastards, decides to have a sex change surgery and later winds up in a torrid affair with the spa waitress. Then, one day, she catches the girl in bed with another man, prepares a special dish for her, etc.
"I don't like this take."
"Hmmm. Yeah, it's a bit contrived," Marco glanced at a ghastly drunkard that stumbled into the bar. "Okay, I'll tell you what. Belvedere's ghost appears to the shrew in full splendor... I mean, horror. It's a moonless night, pitch-black sky, the air eerily still, the hooting of an owl. The whole setting spells out terror. The widow blacks out instantly. She falls to the floor stiff as a board, her heart gives in. Few people attend her funeral because, at this point, she's already earned a reputation, having even been nicknamed Black Widow. The director's ghost, for old times' sake, visits her grave at the cemetery, leaving a bunch of purple carnations on her tomb. Then, he escapes to the afterlife realm—"
"Good move, Marco."
"—where he has an affair with the spirit of the waitress murdered in the previous version."
"You've spoiled it all over again."
Marco stared at her gravely.
"I think you're jealous of the waitress, Mari."
"Which one? The girl who had a ground glass overdose or the girl who served us this second-rate vodka here?"
Marisa looked at the waitress with bleached hair and very long red nails, who was now talking to the bartender. Her breasts looked like they were about to perform a somersault right out of her white low collar.
"Does it make any difference?" asked Marco, following her gaze.
"Hmmm... nah. Either girl would merit a seal of approval by Nelson Rodrigues."
Meanwhile, the urban fauna was circulating in the area. Here, on this side of the street, a couple of students hurried to the movie theater and a lady of the night winked at a lonely wanderer. There, on the other sidewalk, a noisy group of play actors headed for an Italian restaurant. Further away, a transvestite with platinum blonde hair tried to entice clients with her Marilyn Monroe contours squeezed into skimpy clothes.
A man of strong build that sort of guy who lived at the gym, passed by her in a tank top that emphasized his phenomenal biceps, triceps and pectorals. The transvestite approached him with curvaceous words, but her baritone revealed her true anatomy (a woman imprisoned in a man's body, with an inconvenient five-inch appendix).
Outraged, the man rebuffed her. The transvestite retaliated with her fake Prada purse and an outburst of insults. She called him a closeted sissy. The man gave her a slug in the face and stormed off in a huff. Astound by the action of those phenomenal biceps, triceps and pectorals, the Marilyn Monroe from the tropics wobbled, floated and landed her tender fanny on the harshness of the pavement.
The forceful union of silicone and asphalt was not amicable: the diva stood up with her dignity not only hurt but quite sore. She cursed, put her wig back in place and straightened up on the curb. Soon after that, a black sedan stopped by her side, having a well-groomed gentleman behind the wheel. The two of them talked briefly and the transvestite climbed in the car.
Marco and Marisa exchanged looks as the sedan disappeared on the avenue. That was sooo Nelson Rodrigues. They made a toast to the writer and asked for the check. When Marco presented his credit card, the waitress apologized for the malfunctioning wireless device and asked him to pay at the cashier. He went inside to settle the check and Marisa waited at the table, glancing around—across the street, a blue neon sign flickered already in the afterhours mood.
At that time the bar was virtually deserted. The jukebox began playing Stop Taking the Pill, and the chords mingled with a couple of beeps from Marco's cell phone. Marisa stared at the phone on the table. Who would be contacting him that late? She picked it up and saw the notification of an incoming email. Without a second thought, she ran one finger on the screen. Marisa went utterly pale when she read the name of the sender.
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A bit of background information: Nelson Rodrigues was a famous Brazilian journalist and playwright. His stories always displayed disfunctional families that looked quite normal and well-adjusted. As the narrative progressed, all the sordid details would surface.
Another side note: poet Augusto de Campos was one of the creators of the vanguard concrete poetry movement. Concrete poetry (or visual poetry) was born in Brazil in the 1950s and... it's really cool! It uses typography (diferent font types, sizes and colors), creative layout and blank spaces to enhance or complement the textual message. One example: the poem Garbage-Luxury ("Lixo-Luxo") has the word garbage formed by the repetition of the word luxury.
And Carlos Drummond de Andrade is considered one of the most important Brazilian poets. He's affectionately refered to as "Drummond" in Brazil.