The Pleasure Quartet (8 page)

‘Cheers,’ I responded, cautiously knocking my short, thick tumbler against the far more fragile looking white and black chocolate-coated rim of her long-stemmed martini glass filled with icy pink liquid. A strawberry bobbed precariously close to the top. I took a large gulp of my caipirinha, She downed her dubious strawberry, hot pepper and basil concoction nearly in one.

‘Now,’ she said, as soon as we had set our glasses back on the table, ‘let’s get down to it. There’s just a year to the Ball in Iceland, and much of the work has been put in motion. We need you now, for the finer details. Not right away, but within the next few weeks. I suppose the cold will be a shock,’ she added, looking around at the other patrons sitting near us, all of them in skimpy outfits, ‘but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it there. It’s a beautiful place. Stark, bleak. We’ll leave this to you, of course, but I expect that the performances will be very different from the last, to suit the atmosphere.’

I picked up a piece of bread, smeared it with a thick coating of butter and bit into it, stalling for time so I could gather my thoughts.

‘Summer?’ she said after a pause, filling the silence between us. ‘Is something wrong?’

She looked at me again, with a concerned, searching expression on her face.

‘Is it Antony? I know there’s something going on between you two and if that’s bothering you, we can sort out a way to keep you apart. Send him back to London, maybe.’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘It’s not Antony.’

‘What happened with Vincent, on the boat? The rope? I’m so sorry about that. I got carried away. Andrei was furious with me . . .’ Her face flushed, and she twirled her empty glass in between her fingers.

The waitress materialised alongside the table. ‘More drinks?’ she asked.

I was about to say no, thank you, we would wait for the food, but Aurelia ordered another round of the same. At this rate, I would be stumbling back to my apartment later.

Our main courses arrived. I quickly abandoned my knife and fork and picked up a pork chop with my fingers, sucking the sweet and sour sauce from each digit greedily once I had finished gnawing every scrap of meat off the bone.

‘Tell me,’ she said, putting her knife and fork down. ‘Whatever it is that you need, I am sure we can work it out.’

The waitress appeared again to check if we had finished and Aurelia waved her away. ‘Not yet,’ she said, hovering a protective hand over the remainder of her mashed potatoes.

‘The truth is,’ I told her, ‘I’m not sure what I want to do anymore. I’ve loved my time with the Ball, I really have. And I’ll be forever grateful to you and the Network for the opportunity,’

‘You can spare me the platitudes, Summer, and just tell me how you feel. I know you’re grateful, and all that.’

She reminded me of Lauralynn, in that moment. My oldest friend, and never one for beating about the bush. I hadn’t been in touch with her or her partner Viggo since arriving in Rio, not even to let them know where I was. I felt a stab of guilt, thinking about it.

‘I think I need a break,’ I blurted out at last. ‘From everything.’

She nodded.

The waitress came back and cleared our plates away. We had both finished every last mouthful, even mopped up all of our respective sauces with bread.

‘Will you return to London, then? Or some other part of Europe? Another tour, perhaps?’

I had deliberately put my music career on hold since joining the Ball. Hadn’t been in contact with my agent or even picked up an instrument in months. I was even considering selling my Bailly, the violin that I loved most, for sentimental as well as practical reasons. It just wasn’t necessary to have that kind of money sitting in something that I wasn’t going to play. I would rather see it used by someone who would love it as much as I had than sitting in storage until it deteriorated for want of proper care.

‘No,’ I told her, ‘I don’t think I will. Go back to Europe or my music career, that is. I think I need a break from that as well.’

‘I thought joining the Ball was your break from music?’ she interrupted, a smile playing on her lips.

I sighed. ‘I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense,’ I said, ‘and maybe I’m just being contrary. But it’s all tied up together for me. Music, playing the violin, bleak climates . . . the sort of sex that makes me lose my mind, like the erotica the Ball specialises in. I can’t have one without the other.’

‘What’s next for you then, sweet, contrary Summer?’

I watched a young boy of about ten in bright orange-and-green swimming shorts walking down the street with a beach ball under his arm. His eyes were obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses that were far too big for him. He was barefoot, and sauntered along past the restaurant as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

‘Nothing. I think I’m just going to sit on the beach and do nothing.’ I would probably have to leave Rio, because life here would eat through my savings. But I had enough in the bank, and a diminishing stream of royalties coming through from my old albums which were ticking over, so I wouldn’t have to worry about working for a few months at least. And then I would figure something out. Maybe I could learn Portuguese and work in a local juice bar.

‘The Network is willing to continue to take care of you, financially,’ she said.

‘Oh no,’ I insisted, putting my hand up. ‘You’ve done enough for me. I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary. Really.’

‘I’m not doing you a favour,’ she said. ‘We do the same for everyone. It’s pretty straightforward. Once a Ball employee, always a Ball employee. The Network is buying your discretion. Not quite to the level that you’re used to, perhaps, since you’re no longer being reimbursed for work, or working expenses. But you’ll continue to receive an annual stipend. And there’s no point arguing about that, as I have your bank details and will be making the deposits whether you like it or not. You can stay in the apartment here, so long as you look after the place. The rent was paid up front and there’s another few months on the lease. We won’t be needing it for other staff any time soon.’

‘Thank you,’ I told her. ‘You’ve been so good to me.’

‘It’s been a pleasure.’ She reached over the table and squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t fall out of touch. I mean it. And any time that you want to come back, there will always be a place for you. Travelling with the Ball, or staying put, in any city that you like, we’ll find something for you to do.’

We ordered dessert, and one last round of drinks. I opted for a simple lemon sorbet, which came served with orange-flavoured, paper-thin crisps, and Aurelia chose the far more decadent devil’s food cake, a rich chocolate fondant with a firm exterior and glossy, melting-soft pudding within. She leant across the table and fed me a spoonful.

The sun was setting by the time we finished and the sky was streaked with vivid stripes of red, purple and gold. Aurelia paid the bill and we gathered our things.

‘Your dress!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll change back into my own stuff.’ My damp shorts, vest and bikini top were stuffed inside the towel in Aurelia’s beach bag, and probably still wet.

‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘We’re flying out tomorrow, and I won’t be needing a kaftan in Iceland. Besides, it suits you better than it ever did me.’

She asked for a plastic bag so I could carry my clothing home.

We embraced on the steps, and turned in opposite directions to walk to our respective lodgings. I wheeled back again, one last time to wave goodbye. Aurelia was still standing there on the step, flirting with the waitress. She had a white card in her hand, probably like the one she’d given me the first time we met, with her Network contact details written on it. Probably recruiting another dancer, I thought. Trust Aurelia to make the most of every opportunity. The Ball wouldn’t miss me. Of that I was sure. I was by no means indispensable.

She looked up and noticed me watching her, and raised her arm in a final gesture of farewell.

I carried on walking. I felt light, as though a load had been lifted from my shoulders. If I had been wearing proper shoes, and had a bra on, I would have lifted my feet quicker and run all the way home, just for the pure joy of it.

What would I do now? I could do anything that I liked. I would start to explore South America, I decided. I’d been too busy working to see any but the closest sights. I hadn’t even been up to see the statue of the Christ that overlooked the city. I was too off-put by the big crowds of tourists that swarmed there during the day, and had been too lazy to get up and go first thing in the morning when it would be quieter. I noticed a paraglider sailing past on the winds above me, coming down to land on the beach. Maybe I would hang-glide over the statue instead, see it from the air.

It was time I started taking more risks in life, the way that I used to when I was younger. I resolved to be bolder, more spontaneous, to not waste the time that I had left. I would start by walking past the juice bar and asking Raoul out on a date.

His booth was closed, the green shutters pulled down and padlocked.

Raoul could wait until tomorrow. I had all the time in the world to make the most of Brazil.

I rose uncharacteristically early and spent the day exploring the Tijuca National Park on foot.

‘Don’t wander from the trails,’ the taxi driver told me as he dropped me by the main gates. He threw his arms open wide. ‘There is a favela inside. You walk in the wrong place, you get shot. You should not go alone. Take a tour.’

‘I’ll be careful. Thank you.’

I tipped him and began walking up the tar-sealed road until I found a likely looking path that veered off to the side and then followed that, hoping it wouldn’t lead me to the centre of a coca plantation or a gang headquarters. Within minutes, I was surrounded by forest, lush and green. The raucous bird calls and the density of the trees blocked out any sign that I was in the middle of a city. I strained my ears for the sound of passing cars but heard nothing.

The further I walked, the rougher the path became, until I had to duck and dive through overgrown bushes to continue and was certain that wherever I was headed hadn’t seen human contact in months. My forearms were covered in long red scratches and my mouth was dry. I had only brought with me a small bottle of water that was already perilously close to empty and a packet of dehydrated bananas to snack on. But the uphill walk was stretching my legs and taxing my heart, lungs and muscles in a way that I hadn’t experienced for ages and so I ignored the danger and carried on walking.

Finally I reached the summit, and looked out. I was on the top of a mountain, and surrounded by a handful of other curious-shaped granite peaks, like a handful of worn teeth in the mouth of a giant. I thought I recognised Pedra da Gávea and Pedra Bonita, and saw humans moving across the tops like crawling insects, then swooping down as the hang-gliders took off from the summit. My blood pumped in my ears in empathy with them. The risk-taker in me loved the thought of being airborne, but in truth I had never been great with heights, and stood well back from the edge, one hand clutched onto the face of a nearby rock for support.

I made my way down again, and rushed to the café at the base of the park’s entrance to buy a can of lemonade from the overpriced and limited selection aimed at the tourists who arrived in hordes to view the park from the safety of convertible jeeps. A young waiter with a diamante stud pierced through one ear pointed me in the direction of the bus stop. ‘That way,’ he said in clear, accentless English in response to my halting guidebook Portuguese. The heat had dulled my appetite, which was fortunate, since it had also turned my dried bananas into an unappealing ball of mush. I peeled one away from the rest and gnawed at the end of it cautiously, before tossing the remainder of the packet into my backpack and rummaging around at the bottom for the rest of my real, tucked into the fraying seam of my bikini top.

The first bus to arrive was of the cheaper, non-air-conditioned variety, which I had been warned not to use as they were allegedly often flagged down and the occupants subjected to armed robbery. I got on it anyway. The bus took a less scenic route than my taxi driver had, driving down motorways and past characterless shopping malls that seemed so out of place in comparison to the sea, mountains and forest that made up the rest of Rio. It was as though they had been dropped from the sky like concrete asteroids and never moved.

I changed buses at an anonymous junction and got on an even busier coach headed for Ipanema. This one too was full of locals, most standing like I was and jostling against one another in the packed aisle, abs tightened and arms loose and relaxed, manoeuvring their bodies like surfers as the vehicle screeched and jolted, tossing the bus’s occupants backward and forward with each sharp acceleration.

By the time I finally arrived at Ipanema beach, I was hot and sweaty and could not have cared less about the crowds sitting en masse on their sun loungers or worried in the slightest about finding a private place to change into my bathing suit. I deposited my backpack on the sand and stripped off in full public view, pulling my singlet over my head, quickly removing my bra and then stepping out of my shorts and knickers. I had my bikini on in a flash, but not quickly enough to avoid hearing a few wolf-whistles aimed in my direction. I ignored them, and ran to the sea.

The water was blissfully cool lapping against my parched skin. I waded in through the breakers and dived under, wetting my hair and washing the dust and grime from my face and then flipped over onto my back and floated, aimlessly making pictures from the white clouds that streamed through the blue sky overhead.

The burning, dry heat of the day had dissipated, replaced by a humid, sultry afternoon. I hadn’t eaten properly since the fruit that I had snacked on at breakfast, and was probably dehydrated from my earlier walk. So when the strains of violin music reached my ears, I first thought that thirst and hunger had sent me into a trance, and I must be dreaming. But the sound continued. The chords of a pop song, I thought, although I couldn’t put a name to it. The musician was doing a reasonable job of the piece, but their instrument needed a tune. I ducked under the waves, trying to block out the sound. It brought back too many memories. But in the end, curiosity got the better of me. I opened my eyes and searched the shoreline for a violin player among the darting volleyball athletes and stretched-out tanning bodies, but couldn’t distinguish anyone with an instrument. Whoever was playing wasn’t following any partition, so had some degree of talent, although evidently unschooled. I paddled back to shore, wrapped myself in my towel and followed the stream of notes, annoyed that my reverie had been broken.