We change the subject when Cesar, a friend from the beach, arrives. The party is still going as the evening progresses. Malu spends the night going from group to group, talking to everybody, making everyone laugh and interact to each other. However, from time to time, as usual, we exchange looks, strokes, caresses. I can’t deny we have a strong connection. It’s like a magnetic field is always bringing us together.
By the end of the evening, I take her home, as I usually do when we go out together. I don’t like letting her go back by herself, especially at night. Malu’s absent-minded and always this close to let something happen to her because she’s not paying attention to any prospect of danger. We are pretty high on beers and capirinhas – a Brazilian national drink. Lucky us we live close to the beach, so we can walk home.
We walk through the neighborhood streets, holding hands, laughing and talking. Halfway through, she let go of my hand and hold me by the waist. Her soft and warm body makes her even more desirable to me.
“You didn’t even give me a gift, Rafa,” she says making a funny face.
“Your gift is at my place. I wouldn’t take it to the beach so you could lose after drinking too much, would I?” I reply, making her laugh even more.
“I’d never lose anything that came from you.”
We enter her building and take a lift to the seventh floor. There, I watch her while she gets down in front of her door, holds the doormat up, and takes a key from beneath it.
“What the hell?”
“What? My key…”
“Under the doormat? Fuck, Malu! Someone can find this key and get inside!”
“Better than taking it to the beach and losing it. Where was I supposed to keep it if I didn’t take any purse?”
“At the same place you kept your phone?” For the first time, I realize she doesn’t have any purse and her cellphone isn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe she lost it? “Where’s your phone?”
“Right here.” She sticks her hand in her cleavage and pulls out her phone, which was hidden between her breasts. That vision wakes up my whole body and makes my breath even heavier.
“I don’t want you keeping your key down there anymore. You must take it with you. If you don’t have any purse, hold it in your hand until I get there. I’ll keep it in my pocket for you. Or ask anyone else you trust.”
“You’re too bossy. You don’t even kiss me but want to give me orders?” I can’t tell if it’s her daring tone, her raised eyebrow or the vision of her in that white dress. Maybe it’s mixture of all of that with a lot of caipirinhas that impels me take her by the waist, hold her in my arms and press her against the wall, stealing a passionate kiss from those red lips.
Waiting for no permission, my tongue invades her mouth, provoking, punishing and arousing her desire. I can feel her pressing her body against mine even more, throwing her arms around my neck, kissing me back.
I can’t tell how long we stayed there, lost on each other’s lips, until a low moan coming from her throat tells me it was time to stop what we’re doing. The next step would be going to bed and I know Malu has no experience. She told me that herself and I’m the right person for anybody’s first time. I move my lips away from hers and realize that I was holding her hair really tight and that her body completely pressed against mine.
“Don’t you ever leave your fucking key under the doormat again, Malu. Do you hear me?” My voice sounds low, irritable by the fact she’s not worried about her own safety, and hoarse by all the excitement from that kiss. She smiles and nods in agreement. I let go of her and take the key from her hands. When I open the door, I push her inside, handing the damn key back, strongly recommending her to close the door and lock it after I leave.
“Bye, Rafa.” She says good-bye leaning against the door, her lips swollen by that kiss.
“Happy birthday, nut-head.”
Chapter three
“My life used to be whisky, tears and cigarettes.”
Pink
Malu
When I arrive home, slamming the door after passing, I see my eyes on the mirror, surrounded by mascara smudges and puffy for crying so hard. That is the last time I shed tears for them. This bond is definitively broken after what happened today.
Going back home is always extremely hard. I don’t even know if I can call going to the house of those who brought me into the world as going home, since that big house has never been a real home for me. The Honorable Judge Eduardo Figueiroa Bragança and socialite Mrs. Lucia Bragança, a.k.a. my parents, are not the definition of real parents. They’ve been married for many years in a sort of family agreement, once they’re belong to the elite of our small hometown high society.
My parents’ house is a mansion that, for me, feels more like a dungeon. Impeccably arranged with everything exactly in the right place, that house is extremely oppressing for a free spirit like myself. My parents are cold, indifferent, distant. The only kisses and hugs I remember came from the nannies or housekeepers who, surreptitiously, tried their best to give me a normal childhood. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so physically needy nowadays. I’m a tactile person, someone who likes taking, touching, holding, speaking through my hands and very fond of human affection.
When my brother, who’s two years younger than me, was born, I believed that finally I’d have someone to whom I could give all those things exploding in my chest. I figured he’d be someone to share feelings with me and be my friend. My mistake.
Eduardo Jr. – God forbid calling him Du, Dudu, Edu or any other nickname, which would mean the end of the world for him – is almost a small replica of my parents. He used to study very hard and, by the age of fifteen, he was admitted in one of the most applied to colleges in the country. All he wants is being a judge like my father, while I hate law and dream of studying and living from my art. Obviously, the perfect couple wouldn’t allow that. I had to come to Law school, with grades barely making through the semester and skipping more classes than watching. I feel trapped like a convict on the death row, who can’t catch a glimpse of solution to that problem.
In big city, I live in one of my parents’ properties and, obviously, they support me financially so I can graduate and, in the future, follow a career they’ve chosen for me.
Concurrently, I paint. As no one pays me a visit, I turned one of the bedrooms in an atelier where I spend hours and hours of my day finding happiness. I paint faces, landscapes, abstractions which come to mind while I sleep. As I must report my expanses and my parents would never allow me to spend money with dyes, canvases or brushes, I work at a bar in the evenings, waiting tables from Thursdays to Sundays, using the rest of the week to paint or, when I managed to get up early, to go to classes. I earn good money with tips, which allows me to invest in my art materials.
For obvious reasons, after some time with this busy life, my body has started to complain, as does my heart. I spend more time depressed than feeling good about myself, but I try my best to hide all the things that make my soul ache. Cigarettes are my major daily companion, and canvases, where I pour my heart in. However, for everyone else, I make a point of always expressing joy and not letting anyone see my pain.
The only one who knows me too well to let my feelings to pass overseen is Rafa. We’ve already been friends for four years, but he knows me better than I know myself. He hates my job at the bar, because he thinks the guys may take advantage of me, as if I were a fragile flower, something I’m not. I’m more of a Maleficent than a Snow White.
He knows about my love for the arts and my hatred for Law school. After some conversations about it, I managed to gather the courage to tell my parents that I’m changing majors in college. Rafa has already graduated and, without him there to support me, I know I can’t go through with Law school.
I wander around the house and go to my bedroom. Looking at a large mirror hanging in the wardrobe door, I see through that gloomy track of dark tears on my face, a purple bruise on my cheek. When I take off my checked long-sleeved shirt, I can see my pale skin ornated with tattoos, as well as the finger marks left by a tight grip. I also take off my jeans, standing only in my underwear in front of the mirror, to see the belt marks on my legs.
I close my eyes, but I can still hear their cries and curses. Tramp, bum, whore, those were some of the names he used to refer to me. I look at myself in the mirror, not recognizing that painful image standing in front of me. Tasting the blood in my mouth, I promise myself that this is the last time he mistreats me like this. I’ll never let him hit me again, physically or verbally.
Then, I go to the bathroom, seeking comfort in a hot shower, knowing that this is what I need to gather strength to act. I take about thirty minutes in the shower, allowing water to run through my long-dyed hair while I think about what I’m going to do next.
I get off the shower and call Tito, the manager at the bar where I work.
“Hi, Malu,” he says picking up.
“Hi, Tito. Sorry for the short notice, but I can’t make it tonight.”
“Are you still at your parents’?” he asks me, sounding truly worried.
“No, sweetie, I’m back already. But I’m not feeling well. I’m going to take a painkiller and lie down. Maybe I’m just tired after a long trip.” I reply hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions. I hate lies and I’d never be able to hide anything from him. Tito is probably fifty-something but sounds like a sixteen-year-old boy. Surfer, jokester and a good company, he’s a wonderful person and always treats me with the utmost respect. He gave me a job even though he knew I had no experience in bars besides drinking.
“So, rest, Little Malu. I’ll take care of everything here.”
I thank him and hang up, promising to take care of myself. After drying body and hair, I untangle my hair in front of the bathroom mirror. My hair is now platinum blond with dark roots, and long as never before. Before I have the chance to think, I take some scissors and cut them at neck length, pouring all my frustration on those long locks. I look back at my own reflection and realize that now my hair is uneven. My eyes, puffy and red for all the crying, added an even sadder look to my appearance. Damn.
Then, I go to the living room wrapped in my towel. I grab a whiskey bottle and I pour a generous dose on a glass, lighting a cigarette right after. Turning on some music, I sit down on the balcony chaise.
Amy Winehouse’s melancholy voice gets me lost in my thoughts until I’m brought back by the noise of the front door being opened and of someone calling my name.
“Where are you, Malu?” Rafa is the only one, besides me, who has the key to the apartment. I gave him a spare key when he started complaining about me shutting down from everything else when I paint, and he was left outside ringing the doorbell without being heard.
“Balcony,” I replied taking the glass to my lips and making no mention of getting up. I watch him carefully, realizing he’s even more handsome today than he ever was. Almost twenty-four years of age and working for a large Law firm, he barely resembles the boy I met on my first day of college. He is a man now. His body is stronger, improved by a blue shirt and jeans pants. His short hair and shaved face make him look all grown-up. The only things that haven’t changed are his intoxicating perfume and tanned skin. Rafa loved being outside and outdoor activities.
“I went to the bar and Tito said you were not working today. How did the conversation with your parents go?” He asks turning on the balcony lights while I take a drag from my half-finished cigarette.
“I need to move out,” I say without facing him. I don’t want to move a muscle, because my whole body hurts.
“Holy shit, Malu! What’s that on your face? What happened to your hair?” he asks clearly sounding alarmed. I reach for my uneven locks of hair while a single tear escapes from my eyes.
“I also need a hairdresser,” I reply turning my eyes back to the balcony skyline view. He comes closer, sitting right next to me. After he takes the empty glass out of my hands and puts out my cigarette, he holds me in his arms and lifts me up.
“Come on, I’ll take care of you,” he says in a low voice, taking me back inside the apartment. I snuggle up against his chest, allowing myself the relief of knowing that I’m not alone. Not completely.
Chapter four
“What defines us is how we rise after falling.”
John Hughes
Rafa
Finding Malu in that state feels like a punch to the gut. She is a complete mess: unevenly cut hair, swollen face, puffy eyes and a considerable purple bruise on her cheek.
I take her to her room, which looks like it was struck by a tornado: clothes everywhere, a suitcase thrown in a corner, a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. I take her to bed, help her wear a T-shirt from her closet, taking off the wet towel she was wrapped in. She lies down curled in a fetal position and I cover her with a comforter. While she rests, I pick up her stuff from the floor, hang the wet towel and sweep off the hair from the bathroom floor. When everything is finally organized, I take off my shoes and lie down next to her on the bed, holding her in my arms.
Beyond desire, Malu brings up tenderness in me in a way nobody else can. Deep inside that strong and vibrant woman, there’s a little girl hidden, who hardly ever shows up.
Just the thought of what may have happened makes my heart bleed. She left home to visit her parents with no bruises on her face or anywhere on her body. Unfortunately, I must wait until tomorrow to find out.
I let my hand walk through her left arm, the one she uses to paint, caressing it lightly. When I reach her thin wrist, what I see brings a smile to my lips. There, pending on her hand, is my gift for her nineteenth birthday, which she hasn’t taken off since. Touching her wrist, I feel the cold metal from the bracelet from which two pendants hang. The first one is a silver paint palette with a small golden brush to remind her of never giving up on the art she loves so much. The second one is a joke of the fact she doesn’t believe in love: an adorable silver frog wearing a tiny golden crown representing what she usually says about men: there’s no prince charming – all men are frogs in disguise. I smile at the thought of, year after year, she hasn’t taken that bracelet off. That’s something representing our bond, which may be something beyond friendship… we’re almost a family, even if it’s a dysfunctional one.
Little by little, the sound of her breath becomes constant, indicating that Malu has fallen asleep. I get lost on the strawberry perfume on her hair, the soft touch of her small body close to mine and the constant movements of my thumb on her wrist. In a couple of minutes, I fall into a deep sleep.
****
Both the sunlight and a smell of coffee wake me up. I open my eyes to realize that I’m not on my own bed, but on Malu’s. I get up in a sudden jump, wear my pants, which was lying on an armchair, and follow that wonderful smell.
I expect to find Malu still a bit down, with tears in her eyes, but the woman who greets me in the kitchen is totally different. Her hair, cut in a complete uneven fashion, was wavy to hide the bad cut. Her face, wearing heavy makeup, doesn’t show any sadness or bruises. She’s wearing a short sleeved blue dress which let part of her arm tattoo exposed, as well as the black rose covering her left ankle and feet.
“Morning, honey.” She greets me with a peck on my lips, as she usually does, and a coffee mug.
“Morning,” I say, taking a sip. “How are you doing?”