Away from Home (31 page)

“Chinese Merchant. Chinese Merchant.” Very small, skimming lightly and whirling across the catwalk, the Chinese Merchant came, his head entirely shaved and his face and head covered with shining gold paint. His hands, too, were painted gold. On his shoulders was a bamboo pole, and hanging from it were an exquisite birdcage with bright-feathered birds in it and a basket of flowers. His gown was thickly embroidered in wondrous colors, all glittering, and from the bamboo pole were fluttering scarves of chiffon in pale shades of every color, pink, blue, green, yellow, violet. There was so much applause that he had to walk across the catwalk twice.

“Every year he is a Chinese Merchant,” the girl said. “But each year he is dressed even more beautifully.”

There was a woman who called her costume Ninotchka, dripping great, silver fox tails, dozens of them, even a headdress of fox furs, like the rays of the sun. “That
fantasea
cost a hundred thousand cruzeiros!” the girl said, smiling as delightedly as if the owner were planning to sew all the fox tails together afterward and present them to her.

“It must be very hot,” Margie murmured.

“Ah, but how beautiful!”

There was a woman pretending to be a bird of paradise, covered in a brief costume of bright feathers, feathers springing from her head, her bare legs entirely painted silver. She stopped in the center of the catwalk and posed with a bird attached to her wrist. Everyone applauded.

It was over. The catwalk was raised slowly and disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling; the judges were deliberating. Margie’s heels hurt from trying to keep her balance on the narrow wooden railing. She jumped down and rubbed her foot. The judgments were confusing; it seemed as if everyone had won something or other. The first prizes were a trip to New York and a trip to Paris. I wonder which one I’d like, Margie thought. I think Paris. I’m so far away from home now, nothing else seems strange. I’m going to feel this way for years and years—maybe for the rest of my life.

“Let’s go and beat the crowd,” Neil said. The people had begun to dance again, but many of them were leaving, evidently with the same idea Neil had, and the mass was visibly thinner. Margie looked for Helen and Bert and finally saw them looking for her. None of them really wanted to go, and yet they did not want to stay and dance any more either. They all knew this was the climax of Carnival, the last and greatest ball, the last night they would be caught up in this madness. There would be other things; parades, die-hard parties, street dancing, the dwindling smoke of a firecracker, but this had been the explosion. They were exhausted, their costumes were soiled and damp and even torn, Helen had lost a string of her beads, but they were somehow reluctant, now that it was all over, to take off these rags and say it was over for good. These were still not quite rags; they were still the clothing of a Bahiana, a bullfighter, a Greek athlete, a Greek boy; and until they were actually in the hand and flung away they still carried magic.

They looked for Mort but he was gone. Margie wanted to stay a little longer until they found him, she felt that everything would be spoiled if he was not there too.

“Oh, come on,” Helen said. “Mort isn’t a little boy. He can take care of himself.”

Margie felt a stab of resentment. How smug Helen was! Everybody in his own place, according to his own function, two by two, Noah’s Ark. And Mort the bachelor off with a girl somewhere, perhaps in an all-night café, if there was one during Carnival, or perhaps even on the beach making love. She wondered if he would be making love to a girl, on all that gritty sand, and if it were a girl he had known for a long time or one he had met only tonight.

Neil drove to the Sinclairs’ apartment house and parked his car alongside the beach. The sky was already light. They all got out and stood there watching the sunrise, streaks of pink and gold above the blue line of the sea. There was no one on the beach at all, not a soul, nor on the sidewalk. The sand looked very pale and clean. There were the goal posts for the
futebol
team on the sand, and in the distance the glowing outlines of the hills. The sun hit all the windows of the apartment houses on the long crescent of beach. A milkman came by with a wooden wagon drawn by a brown horse. He took some bottles of milk into an apartment house.

An ancient taxi struggled up to the curb behind the milk wagon, and Mort jumped out and reached in to pull out a slender girl dressed as a tigress. She was shaking her head.

“Look,” Mort said, pointing at the milk wagon. “There’s breakfast.”

He ran to the milk wagon and helped himself to two bottles of milk, carrying them in his arms fondly as if they were newborn twin babies. He came over to the others smiling a big smile. “Good morning.”

“Good night,” the tigress girl said in Portuguese. “I don’t have your strength.”

“This is Lucia,” said Mort. “Helen and Bert. Margie and Neil. Lucia doesn’t speak English.”

Neil was looking fixedly at the Brazilian girl, a sad, tired expression on his face. Then he smiled at her. “That’s a pretty
fantasea
.”

“Thank you.”

Mort opened the milk and began drinking it and passing it around. “First-quality water,” he said, “with a new flavor thrill
milk
flavor. Guaranteed to contain not over two per cent milk. Especially recommended to allergic patients, Hindus, Brahmins, and untouchables.”

A policeman, dressed in khakis and a sun helmet, emerged from the alley between the two apartment houses and looked at them suspiciously. Then he made a decision and marched resolutely over to Mort.

“Did you steal this milk?”

“Steal?” Mort said, his eyes opened wide in innocence. “I was going to buy it.” He took a handful of paper money out of the pocket of his shorts. “I am waiting for the man to come back.”

“I will take the money,” the policeman said.

“Oh, no. I will give it to him. It will be too much trouble for you.”

“No trouble, Senhor.”

“Thank you, no, Senhor. It would be very sad if you lost it.”

“I will not lose it.”

“You might. I will put the money on top of the wagon, here, so the man will find it when he comes back.” Mort put the two empty bottles on top of the paper money so it would not blow away.

The policeman backed up a few paces and looked at the money with the empty bottles on top of it. Then he looked at Mort. Mort waved at him and smiled. The policeman glared at him. Mort walked back to the others on the beach and then he turned to look at the policeman. The policeman was fingering his gun and he looked as if he could not decide whether or not to arrest Mort, and if he did arrest him what he could arrest him for. Mort smiled innocently and sweetly.

“He’s angry because I won’t let him steal the money,” he said.

“Look at the sunrise!” Helen breathed. “Oh, Rio is so beautiful!”

It was very quiet. The only sound was the thudding of the waves on the shore, and once the milkman’s horse stamped his hoof. The sound rang out in the quiet street like the fresh clang of a faraway triangle. Margie felt she could sit here on the sand all day, never moving, watching the white surf and listening to it. But already the sun was becoming hot. The milkman came out and drove down the street.

“Good night,” the girl named Lucia said. She started to walk away.

Mort jumped to his feet. “I’ll walk you home.”

They watched Mort and the girl walking down the deserted street. The girl was walking very quickly, almost like a real tigress, her step light and silent. She looked very slim and long-legged and stealthy, an animal of the night who knew all these winding streets by heart, and to whom no real harm could ever come. Margie didn’t like her.

“We have to go home,” Helen said. “I’m asleep.” She stood up, shaking the sand out of her shoes.

“I guess it’s all over,” Bert said.

Margie stood up too, holding on to Neil with one hand while she brushed the sand off her clothes. Then she brushed the sand off him. She peered into his face. “Look at my poor husband. He’s so tired he’s getting depressed. Don’t look so sad, love.”

Neil gave her a weak smile. He did not say anything.

“I’m going to sleep for a week,” Helen said.

“That’s what you think,” said Bert. “Wait till the kids come in about two hours from now.”

“I’ll bet you forgot for a while that you
had
them,” Margie said, smiling. “The party’s over.”

“And the circus begins,” said Bert. He was trying to look long-suffering but he really looked proud.

“Good night.”

“Good night. Thank you.”

“Thank
you
.”

“Good night.”

CHAPTER 15

There is a grayness that settles down over a city after a holiday is over, no matter what the season of the year. In America, after New Year’s, everyone who is rich enough goes away to a sunny place for a winter vacation, to escape. Those who cannot, wait longingly for the sun to come to them. February is the shortest and the longest month in any hemisphere. In Rio, when Carnival is over the city settles down for the grayness of Lent. The people who work in São Paulo and other cities, who came to Rio for Carnival, go home again. In São Paulo the offices open at seven in the morning. It is not like Rio; it is the city of business people, of one-hour lunches, of bars and restaurants that close at ten.

In Rio, after Carnival, the poor return to their slums and their memories. The new middle class of white-collar workers return to their offices, waiting for hours in the early mornings for overcrowded trolleys and
lotaçãos
. The
cafegistas
, who lie on the beach all day and sit in the cafés all night, call their doctors for vitamin injections or get one at the drugstore, and then they feel strong enough for the beach again. The American wives go back to the Golf Club. The Brazilian wives go back to their dressmakers, their hairdressers, their games of cards. It is very hot.

After Carnival was over Mort Baker found a furnished apartment and moved into it. Margie and Neil Davidow decided to have separate bedrooms, as they had planned before Mort came to stay with them, and Neil moved into the vacated guestroom. Leila Silva e Costa and Helen Sinclair went back to the
favellas
to visit their protégée, Maria, and found themselves confronted by an angry priest. The priest told them he had discovered all about Leila’s sin of giving birth-control information to Maria, and they were never to be allowed to come to the
favellas
again. Leila had brought with her a large box of food and clothing for Maria and her children, including her own children’s discarded Carnival costumes (Maria could use the material to sew something else). She gave the box to the priest to give to Maria.

She was neither ashamed nor angry nor embarrassed; she was philosophical. She shrugged and smiled. “I only wanted to help,” she said, as she steered her car down the difficult road away from the
favellas
. “I am sorry it’s over.”

“I am too,” Helen said. She felt subdued. The result of the whole incident was so extreme, it wasn’t fair. She wondered what would become of Maria and her children, whether anyone else would befriend them and bring them food, whether they could get along all alone. “I need a drink,” she said. “Let’s go to the Golf Club.”

Leila opened her purse and tossed a small package out the car window. “I think I will go home now,” she said. “Perhaps Carlos will call me. I told my maid to tell him I had gone to the
favellas
. Will you come with me?”

“My children are at the Golf Club. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“All right. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“I am too.”

Leila drove her to the gateway of the Golf Club and they kissed each other on both cheeks, very formally but warmly. Helen waved until the car was out of sight and then she walked down the driveway that led to the clubhouse. Julie and Roger were in the swimming pool, with Mrs. Graham watching them from a canvas chair. They waved at her and splashed about vigorously, showing off for her.

“I’ll wait for you upstairs and we’ll have lunch when you’re ready,” she said.

Mil Burns was sitting at a table on the veranda with a middle-aged woman. Helen had not seen Mil for a long time and she found herself quite happy to see her.

“Come over and meet my mother,” Mil said.

Mil’s mother was a large, formidable woman, an image of what Mil would be in thirty years. There was a strong family resemblance, but next to her mother Mil looked somehow rather delicate, and much younger than usual. They were both drinking whisky sours. “My mother, Mrs. Penny. Helen Sinclair,” Mil said.

“How do you do.”

“How do you do,” Mrs. Penny said. “Have a whisky sour. What is it you’re not supposed to drink in this place? Ice? They have no ice in them.” She gestured at the waiter. “Well, how do
you
like Brazil?”

“Very much,” Helen said, sitting down at their table.

“You’ll change,” Mrs. Penny said. “I’ve been here only two weeks and I hate it. It feels as if it’s been two years. That Carnival—my God!”

“It isn’t always that way,” Helen said.

Mil’s mother drained her whisky sour. “We’re going home, thank God. I’m taking my daughter out of here.”

Helen turned to Mil in surprise. “For a visit or for good?”

“My mother’s a little drunk,” Mil said. She smiled weakly. “I thought I’d go home with her for a couple of months. It’ll be good for the kids.”

“My grandchildren are going to grow up as good, wholesome, hundred per-cent Americans,” Mrs. Penny said firmly.

The waiter brought new drinks. “It will be a relief to get home,” Mil said. “I miss it. That wonderful Chicago snow! I’ve had enough of the Good Neighbor Policy.”

“And the cockroaches!” Mrs. Penny’s face contorted in outrage. “
This
big! The first night I was here there was one in my room. All those legs—you should have seen it. Disease carriers, that’s what they are. I chased it with a copy of
The Ladies’ Home Journal
, but it ran under an armchair and I couldn’t get at it. I was so frightened out of my wits I couldn’t sleep. Damned thing. It came back the next day. I got kind of used to it, the damned thing. I named it Hercules. But I fixed Hercules.” She smiled mirthlessly. “I used to put a little bit of food inside the waste basket every night so the cockroach would go in
there
instead of climbing up my arm or something while I was asleep and biting me to death.”