Seven Days in Rio (20 page)
Martine spoke softly but had the voice of a tenor. Our eyes met as she looked up from the schedule of flights she was studying on her computer screen, and I could almost see her thinking, “Yes, in answer to your question, Mr. Cantor, I still have a penis.” Instead, she said politely, “Okay, Mr. Cantor, with your kind of ticket I have no seats for the direct flight back to New York, but there is room on a flight to Miami early tomorrow morning, with a connecting flight to New York that gets you home by early evening.” I had an immediate desire to inquire about Suzanne, as if Suzanne and I were long-lost lovers and Martine was the go-between who would tell me how she was faring and what kind of life she was leading after our breakup. I guess this was just my way of dealing with my lingering upset about Suzanne calling me a pig. I could easily have bonded with Martine about Suzanne’s unjustified cruelty, but I have learned to practice restraint in foreign countries, where there are all kinds of powerful underworld gangs, religious fanatics, and sometimes even arcane laws against slander. I didn’t want to start up any kind of vendetta against Suzanne that might have resulted in a price being put on my head.
I could tell that Martine was beginning to have feelings for me, which I knew I wouldn’t be able to reciprocate. I quickly agreed to the flight change and decided to go out onto the Copa and take the first halfway decent-looking hooker I came across back to my room. Horniness is like hunger. It can catch up with you quite suddenly if you miss a meal. With all the turmoil over Suzanne and the excitement of running into John Joneszzzz, I had neglected my own needs. By the time I got to the beach I was overcome with an insatiable urge. But I had to exercise restraint for fear of stumbling into another debacle with a woman who refused to take money for sex.
I was back to where I started. Several Tiffanys in tiny string bikinis passed by, negotiating the sandy beach in their stiletto heels. “Pssst… show me your vagina,” I hissed, recalling the most tried and true methods of seduction. One of them turned back and nonchalantly pointed her finger at her cunt, whose labia were visible beneath the thin material of her bikini. As I soon found out, this Tiffany’s name was Marguerita. She accompanied me back to my room for a quick fuck. After she was done, she even helped me pack when I told her I was leaving the next morning. It wasn’t the best sex I’d ever had, nor was Marguerita affiliated with any of the Brazilian psychoanalytic institutes. However, when it was over I realized it was the one time I had successfully consummated the act of sexual intercourse during my whole odyssey in Rio. Was it Eliot who famously said, “not with a bang but a whimper”?
Tiffany could tell I had been through the wringer, and she would have made herself available for a little chat, since the deed itself had been accomplished in a relatively short space of time. Brazilian hookers, unlike their American counterparts, are not clock-watchers. But it would have taken some time to go into everything, and I wanted to conserve my remaining
reality
so I could buy something for my mother at the airport’s duty-free shop.
After Marguerita left, I opened the shades and looked out at all the scantily clad Tiffanys on the beach. The sky was clear, but for the first time during my vacation I noticed large gray clouds looming on the horizon. I don’t know if I was projecting, but those clouds reminded me of China. There was something about the cumulus formations that evoked her Asian ancestry, combined with her fearsome ability to kick up a storm. I felt a twinge of love and affection for her, combined with irritation at the way she had abused her authority. She was very proud and I knew she would never recant, but I wondered if her talents might not be put to better use if she became a hooker who listened to her clients’ problems rather than a therapist who fucked her patients. My eyelids were getting heavy, and as I dozed off I began seeing my whole vacation in Rio play out before my eyes, like I was having a near-death experience. I fell into a deep sleep, and if it hadn’t been for the wake-up call from the concierge’s desk, I might have missed my flight.
Shaken from the depths of my slumber, I groped for the phone. I immediately recognized the voice at the other end. “Suzanne, is that you?” I cried. But before I had a chance to say anything else, she hung up. For a moment I entertained the thought that she might be coming back up to the room to finish what she had started, maybe even pretending to be a whore and consenting to take some money just to consummate the act. But no such luck. Suzanne would not be making an appearance. Perhaps I’d experienced a moment of temporary insanity and she hadn’t called at all.
The trip to the airport was uneventful. The road leading to the main terminal was lined with Tiffanys who raised their skirts and blouses to display their goods, but I was a hardened sex tourist, and the sight of hookers showing off their wares was no different than looking at the Arche de Triomphe or any other stale tourist attraction. I was looking forward to getting home.
Besides exploring China’s pussy, I hadn’t done any real analytic work for some time, and I knew that the trip to Rio would be real grist for the mill. I was even toying with the idea of calling China in Vancouver to see if she could refer me to one of her colleagues in New York, since she already knew so much about my case. I didn’t pause for a moment when I went through customs and the inspector asked me if I had purchased any goods in the country. I certainly had, but I figured in this case discretion was the better part of valor. If I told the truth and said I had purchased many girls, I might be mistaken for a slave trader and wind up missing my flight.
I was originally assigned a cramped seat in the middle of my row, but the attractive Brazilian woman sitting at my side batted her eyelashes at me flirtatiously as she relinquished her aisle seat. She was obviously a whore, and probably figured the deferential treatment might make the trip pay off. After lift-off the stewardess came around to take drink orders. She was tall, dark, and attractive, her skirt provocatively short. When she bent down to ask me what I would like, I noticed the gold nameplate on the breast pocket of her blouse. “Tiffany,” it read.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank Adam Ludwig for his editorial guidance. Adam is like a pilot coolly navigating turbulence with acute intelligence, patience and a recognition of the imminence of disaster. I would also like to thank Eric and Eliza Obenauf. Getting published by Two Dollar Radio is a cutting edge experience. I learned about Mark Danielewski’s
House of Leaves
from reading Eric’s blog and I look forward to finishing it before the copyright for
Seven Days in Rio
runs out. With regard to commas, suffice it to say that Eliza doesn’t agree with those who argue, “if in doubt leave it out.” I can’t exactly thank my wife Hallie Cohen for our endless “discussions” about writing. I would like to take this opportunity to tell her that it’s not so bad to use an object instead of a subject pronoun.
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Francis Levy Seven Days in Rio