In the empty hotel room, Marisa was also lost in memories. Not of her first week but of her first year in Toronto. In December, she and Marco flew to Brazil for spending Christmas with their families in São Paulo and celebrating New Year on the coast at Paraty. It was on New Year's Eve that Marisa had a presentiment: This is my last night with Marco.
The thought stemmed when she said three words he didn't hear. Distracted, Marco raised his eyes to the sky, where fireworks drew fleeting galaxies while hordes of people dressed in white ambled along the beach. Some set off fireworks in an early commemoration, others jumped over seven waves following the superstition or tossed roses in the water for Iemanjá, the goddess of the sea.
In a couple of hours it would be New Year. Marisa felt an invisible hand crushing all her bones. Inside, she crumbled. The flight back to Toronto was scheduled to the following evening—but now that thought haunted her and she no longer knew if she would embark with Marco.
Marisa admired his profile bathed in dancing reflections, now fiery flowers blossoming, now a rainfall of hissing stars. As he watched the sky, Marco displayed that boyish expression she knew so well and had grown to love. His tanned skin, accentuated by the white T-shirt and shorts, evidenced the Italian and Lebanese heritage in his features. A dark lock of hair slipped to his forehead, and Marisa straightened it in an impulse like she had done many times.
Marco smiled and offered her the cup in his hand. He waited for Marisa to drink, finished the champagne in one go and left the cup by the backpack at his feet. Sweeping Marisa in his arms, Marco lifted her in a twirl, the white skirt of her dress floating in the blazing night. When his mouth sought hers, it still retained the effervescent taste of champagne.
Marisa closed her eyes. The air smelled like smoke, salt and perfume, and around them a multitude of voices mingled with the rumble of the waves. A group of racing children almost bumped into them, swift little ghosts leaving behind the echo of rustle and chuckle. Marco lowered Marisa to the fine sand, laughing. His laughter pierced her like a blade.
"Shouldn't we go to the pier?" She shrank away from him. "Geraldo must be waiting."
During a boat ride in the bay that afternoon, Marco decided to rent a boat to celebrate New Year away from the crowd. The pilot, a native named Geraldo, was indeed waiting for them by a twenty-two-feet-long speedboat with the name Brisa painted on its silver flank. Minutes later, Marco and Marisa sat on the sundeck above the cabin with legs dangling in the air and the wind in their hair as the engine roared into darkness. The town of Paraty with its colonial buildings dimmed out behind them. Ahead, the line between sea and sky blurred under a pale half-moon and the veil of stars.
Contemplating the islands coming to view left and right, Marisa ruminated the three words she had said on the beach. The three words Marco didn't hear.
I missed this.
They hit her with the fury of a tempest over her well-tended garden. Admitting how much she missed Brazil implied admitting what she had denied for months: she no longer wished to stay in Canada. Yet it was there that Marco had built his life. To her, Canada wasn't home and would never be. Brazil was home. During the holidays, she felt alive again. Now the imminent departure filled her with death.
Her death had been furtive. It accumulated in her innermost little by little with tiny grains, particles of dust, shards, barbs, growing into a jumble impossible to disentangle. One day Marisa woke up to realize she was living Marco's life rather than her own. She had the impression of fading day after day, losing substance and thinning, a shapeless shadow in half-light. Marisa questioned: what was her reason for being, what was she good for, what did she desire besides her relationship with Marco? After all, who was she? At times, when Marisa looked in the mirror, she dreaded not finding her own reflection.
I can't fade away.
I can't.
From that night in Paraty, what remained in her memory was the island dominated by a hill covered in Atlantic Forest, Geraldo warning them to beware rip currents, Marco with a flashlight on the trail uphill while a bossa nova song played on the boat.
Better to be happy than sad
Happiness is the best thing ever
It's like light in one's heart
To make a beautiful samba, though
You need a load of sadness...
The lyrics died in the distance, giving way to the rhythmic sound of their footsteps on the trail and the chirps of crickets pervaded with the smell of crushed leaves. They walked for fifteen minutes through a tunnel of trees that ended on a beach shaped like the half-moon in the sky. Describing a quarter-mile curve, it was lined with tropical almonds along the sand and rocks on its corners.
The two of them sat barefoot on a towel spread near the water and Marco retrieved a couple of individual bottles of champagne from his backpack, giving one to Marisa. Uneasy, she glimpsed at the landscape—still unsure as to stay or depart.
"To us," Marco toasted.
"To us," she forced herself to say.
When he inquired about her New Year's resolutions, Marisa couldn't find an answer, only excuses. She asked about his. Marco adopted a mysteriously content air and said the trip to Brazil had made him conclude it was time for a change. Marisa almost dropped her champagne, hope a painful wound in her chest. It was plain that Marco wouldn't move back to Brazil and she never dared ask him to quit his career in Toronto. Had he changed his mind?
Marisa hesitated before euphoria bypassed certainty. She feared the fall if her hope flew too high and, without realizing, clutched the bottle in her hands.
"I wanted to make a surprise," Marco announced. "I've been promoted director of education."
Seconds dragged as she emerged from her shock. To compensate for the enthusiasm she didn't feel, Marisa congratulated him profusely. Marco talked and talked, oblivious to the blows each word lashed at her. He made plans to purchase a bigger apartment where she could receive family and friends. Maybe in The Beach, on the banks of Lake Ontario, to remind her of the beaches she loved.
Marisa didn't have the courage to rob Marco of the sparkle in his eyes. Hers, so ephemeral, died out for now it had been decided. Their last night together.
Pushing Marco gently so he would lie down, Marisa sat astride him and removed his T-shirt, her hair cascading around him when she leaned to kiss his forehead, eyelids, temples, lips. She laid a path of kisses from his chest to the trail of soft hair that stretched down the hard flesh of the abdomen. She wanted to pleasure him, feel his body close to hers so to never forget. Once she finished undressing him, she teased him with her hands and her parted lips. Marco threaded his fingers in her hair, eyes hazy, hips moving against her face when Marisa took him in her mouth. The movements surged in a crescendo, his grip tightened and he emitted a low moan as spasms rippled from his body to hers.
She drank every drop of him – his taste, his scent, his presence. The tension preceding the climax melted into lethargy. Marisa crawled across the towel, lay next to Marco and, hugging him, suppressed her tears.
"You look sad, Mari."
"I'm just lazy."
"Wanna take a dip?" Marco half-lifted himself to scan the sea. "This part of the beach looks safe."
Marisa nodded, stripped off her dress and they waded amid the waves. She repeated to herself she should enjoy that moment with Marco because everything was perfect: the gentle breeze, the firmament scintillating with diamond dust and the two of them holding hands in the sea. Wherever Marisa looked, though, all she saw was the night splitting in half: the moon a white scimitar tearing the sky, the half bottle of champagne left on the sand, the relationship fracturing after midnight, and she herself split in two, the one half that loved and the other that reasoned—I can't fade away.
Being there with him was a painful exercise, a bittersweet one, for every gesture signaled proximity and a farewell. She bode farewell to Marco and their union, the shared habits and her own self as part of his life. Marisa had the sensation their ties were already ripping and squeezed Marco's hand. He dove at once, splashed her and she protested, giggling despite her consternation. They always did that—it was their ritual. Marco girded her in a tight embrace, his body heat emanating from the wet skin bristled by the breeze. Marisa fastened her hands around his neck and her legs around his waist, pressing her hips against his. Before midnight struck, she wanted to be one with him in that perfect moment. She didn't want to think about tomorrow.
"Let's save it for later. The salty water will get you sore," Marco murmured in her ear. He released her, pausing. "Keep your legs around me and float."
The starry sky unfolded before Marisa when she let herself go in the water. Then her eyes met Marco's. His hands slid along her flanks and she arched to offer him her breasts, which he accepted in a slow caress. Marco supported her waist with one hand and, with the other, explored the interstice between her thighs. He inserted one finger there, advancing and retreating as Marisa undulated her hips and a liquid fire undulated within her.
Marco's motions accelerated, and the calm waters where Marisa floated turned into a sea of turbulent waves that raised her higher and higher. She heaved and emitted a moan, shaken by a tremor. She almost touched the firmament and got scared—scared that, if she abandoned herself to the ultimate wave, she would sink into her own darkness, her fear, her pleasure maculated with guilt. Tomorrow Marco wouldn't smile like now. She didn't deserve what he was giving her.
Blindly Marisa swam away from him, from sadness, from remorse. She was aware she couldn't run from what lurked inside her but kept swimming regardless. Marco called her, she didn't stop. Marisa distanced herself and, all of a sudden, a sharp tug dragged her away. She struggled disoriented. To her horror, she finally understood—a rip current. Marisa turned against the current in a reflex. Marco called her again with a note of apprehension that fueled her despair. She struggled until she had no strength left.
Marisa could no longer hear Marco. Silence involved her, time froze. Underwater it was quiet and dark. In her mind, she saw a shiny black surface reflecting tiny white flowers. A hearse by a grave. A picture of the future.
This would be her life without Marco.
She turned limp. Down, down, down to oblivion. So this is how it all ended? The first kiss, the secretive nights, the emptiness of separation, the bliss of their chance meeting—all ending in the barrenness of that instant. Time became a whirlwind of reminiscences. She and Marco on a rooftop surrounded by distant lights in the evening of her graduation. The ring he slipped on her finger. Their first dinner in Toronto, their joy, their thrill.
The echoes from the past dispersed abruptly. The black hearse and white flowers dissolved into the starry sky. Strong hands grabbed her chin and air invaded her lungs.
"Don't panic. Everything will be all right."
Marco towed her, following a diagonal line across the current. However, in spite of his efforts, they were still moving toward open waters. No, everything would not be all right, Marisa thought as she prayed quietly. An eternity elapsed, maybe a few minutes, until the breeze made her shiver and Marco's panting blended with the crash of the waves. He carried her in his arms and, lying her on the damp sand, pressed her thorax.
She stopped him and Marco studied her ashen face.
"Are you okay?"
"Tired."
"Are you sure? You were underwater for no more than a few seconds, but that's enough to... You didn't breath in water, did you?"
Marisa shook her head and he stretched beside her, cradling her against his chest.
"Sorry, Marco. What I did was stupid."
"What came over you?" He grew exasperated. "You could have died."
You could have died too, Marisa realized. And stuttered:
"Please, hold me."
They remained like that for a long time. As the two breathed in unison and Marisa listened to his heartbeat, she felt comforted and happy.
This would be her life with Marco.
Marisa felt ashamed of even considering the possibility of breaking their bond. It dawned on her how lost she was, clueless about what to do with her life. This was the problem affecting her relationship with Marco and she would have to sort out that situation.
"Let's go back to the hotel," she said. "I want to forget what happened."
He didn't move.
"If we leave now, Mari, our only memory of New Year's Eve will be a ruined evening. You could have drowned and were granted a second chance. Look around you. We're here. Together."
Marco helped Marisa to her feet and led her to the water's edge. Splashing her gently, he rubbed off the sand from her body. She copied him. Clean, they danced to the sound of the waves. In Marco's gaze, Marisa caught a reflection of beauty: her own beauty, for it was what he saw in her.
With his gaze, Marco told her to have faith in herself and in the future. He had told her that many times before, in many ways. In her distress, however, Marisa failed to comprehend. She promised herself to never let go of him and cherish every moment they had together. That would be her New Year's resolution.
"We're only missing the fireworks," Marisa regretted, remembering how much Marco liked them.
"Not really."
He pointed down. The water sparkled with shooting stars darting in all directions: as their feet shuffled, luminous plankton danced around doubling the stars in the sky. Up above, the half-moon beamed her perpetual smile.
Marisa had no idea what time it was. It didn't matter.
"Happy New Year, Marco." She whispered and, pressing her cheek to his, spoke a little louder to make sure he heard it: "I love you."
"Happy New Year, Mari," he whispered back, and in his eyes shone the myriad of stars. "I love you."
There it was. A vow. Two hearts. Three words to seal what three words had almost destroyed. Marisa hadn't felt this close to Marco in a long time. As she kissed him, a thought crossed her mind.
I missed this.
She returned to Toronto determined to find a direction for her life and maintain the harmony with Marco. She failed. To her dismay, a vocation didn't depend on one's decision, it rather revealed itself—and there was no way of forcing a revelation. Marisa remained lost. She got a job as a waitress in a café and soon quit due to the manager's sexual harassment. Marco wanted to report him, all she wanted was to forget. But having hardly restarted her job search, Marisa sank into a gentle depression that, over the weeks, turned virulent. Marisa distanced herself from the college mates and stifled her sadness in household chores. She needed to fight the shadow spreading within her.
The apartment began to obsess her: it was the only thing over which she had control in her life. It ought to be kept scrupulously clean and tidy in order to erect a barrier against the disruptive world outside. Cooking not only nourished and remedied the relationship with Marco but also proved her ability to build a home. Between those walls there was no anguish, uncertainty or wait. The fruit of her efforts showed, shiny and immediate, restoring her sense of purpose. Marisa arranged every object at a precise angle as though to correct her own route at the point where she had drifted away.
Sometimes Marisa halted to caress the spines of the Brothers Grimm collection given by her father when she was still a child—it was her talisman, a reference of stability. The confident girl she once was lay in those pages. Marisa searched for herself in them, in the fairytales where the princess lived happily ever after with the prince. She redoubled her efforts so the enchanted kingdom wouldn't collapse.
Depression turned into a persistent taint that Marisa was unable to clean. In the wake of her impotence, the tyranny of perfectionism settled. It no longer sufficed to clean once a day, it was vital to luster everything she touched for it to shine like a mirror. In a vicious circle, if a food particle fell on the kitchen floor, Marisa had to scrub it all uniformly; afterward she needed to wash the cleaning cloth, disinfect the sink and polish it again. There was no end to it.
Marco got annoyed when new quarrels arose, now centered on the use of coasters, on the impeccable smoothness of the bed cover, on her refusal to leave home unless everything was immaculate. He then silenced. One day he announced they would be returning to Brazil once the school year ended in June. Her obsession subsided, and Marisa allowed herself to hope the homecoming would mend the bond between them. It was a cautious hope permeated by doubt.
That night on the Paraty island, in spite of her hope, Marisa also had a lapse of doubt as she headed back to the boat. While she was still in Brazil—energized by her resurrection, so to speak—her New Year's resolution seemed clear, fluid, easy. The day by day challenges in Toronto didn't intimidate her at the distance because the present moment was filled with love and optimism. But now Marisa recalled when the boat crossed the night toward the lights of Paraty. She had noticed the heavy clouds gathering in the sky, stooping over the hills, obliterating the stars. The moon no longer smiled, paled out behind an opaque halo. A halo of mold.