Rock Star (48 page)

Thank God she’d finally come home. It was only for two weeks, but that was better than nothing.

Luiz hadn’t come with her. They’d debated for months about whether he should, and in the end they’d both decided it was best for him to stay in Rio putting the finishing touches to their second album. He wanted to do some remixing, and make sure everything was perfect.

It hadn’t been an easy year. When Luiz first blurted out the news that he was married, Rafealla felt her safe new world collapse. The one person she loved and depended on had been lying to her all along.

‘I didn’t lie,’ he’d stated vehemently.

‘Of course you did. We’ve been living a lie.’

‘No, Rafealla.’ A Brazilian shrug. ‘You never asked me.’

‘Screw
you
, buster,’ She’d shouted, exploding with fury. ‘What do you think this is? A game? A joke? Well, it might be to you, but I don’t find it very funny.’

She’d taken Jon Jon, and two hurriedly packed suitcases, and descended on Tinto, Maria, and their seven children.

Tinto was philosophical. ‘Have you asked him to whom he’s married? Have you found out when this took place and why? Does he love the woman? And if so,
why
is he with you?’

Good questions, every one of them. And she had a right to know. Storming back, she confronted him.

Calmly Luiz explained things. Being born in the
favela
did not give one much hope for the future. Observing his brothers and sisters he realized he was caught in a trap, and there was hardly any chance of getting out. At fourteen he was roaming the streets with the rest of his friends, occasionally robbing a rich tourist, or stealing from one of the big hotels. At sixteen he was sleeping with the tourists – in the long run it was more lucrative than robbing them.

‘One day I met a woman,’ he shrugged noncommittally. ‘An older woman. She offered me an escape.’

‘And you took it?’

‘Yes, I took it.’ His handsome features darkened. ‘And so would you if you’d had my life. I was eighteen years old and she was fifty-seven. A Brazilian woman, not rich, not poor. She took me out of the
favela.
She bought me clothes, paid for my music lessons, and made sure I learned good English.’

Rafealla felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. ‘Where is she now?’

‘In a nursing home. She’s been in this place for several years. Now it is
my
turn to take care of
her.
I won’t divorce her, she does not deserve that. She’s dying, Rafealla. When she goes I am free. Until then . . .’

There was nothing she could do about it, except try to understand and reluctantly admire his loyalty. She moved back in with him, much to Tinto’s relief, for their career as a singing duo was really taking off.

When the American soul superstar Bobby Mondella came into town and asked to meet them, Tinto was in heaven. Especially when they all hit it off so well and became friends. Tinto immediately imagined a glowing future in America.

Rafealla loved Bobby. He was like a big brother – the other side of Rupert, who was so very English. Bobby represented the black side of her, and she could listen to his tales of Hollywood and New York and life in the fast lane forever. She sensed he was a troubled man finally coming to peace with himself. His music was sensational, and she was thrilled he enjoyed performing with them.

When the accident happened she was as shocked as everyone else. She and Luiz rushed to the hospital as soon as they heard, but they were not allowed to see him – nobody was. Armed men guarded his hospital room, and one night he was secretly flown back to America.

The headlines screamed the news:

SUPERSTAR IN DRUNKEN FALL!
BOBBY MONDELLA – BLIND DRUNK!

Rafealla couldn’t understand it. Bobby hardly drank anymore, and he never went out onto his terrace, claiming a bad case of vertigo. She also wondered about the woman he’d said was staying with him. Where was
she
when it happened?

Combing the newspapers, Rafealla could find no mention of her. The stories merely stated that Bobby was drunk and alone when the accident took place.

Several times she and Luiz tried to contact him in America, but all they received in reply was a form letter –
Bobby Mondella thanks you for your good wishes
. . . et cetera.

Eventually they stopped trying.

*    *    *

‘Isn’t it odd,’ Odile said, after an enormous turkey dinner, ‘that Eddie Mafair has never tried to get in touch with you.’ They were sitting on the bed in Rafealla’s room, just like old times.

‘Why should he?’ Rafealla replied defensively. ‘We
are
divorced, you know.’

‘Really?’ Odile said sarcastically. ‘I had
no
idea.’

‘Shove it, missy.’

‘No,
you
shove it,
star.
’

Rafealla giggled. ‘I’m glad you realize I’m famous.’

‘Sure. In bloody South America,’ Odile said good naturedly. ‘Nobody’s heard of you here, so don’t start getting big-headed.’

‘They will,’ Rafealla said confidently.

‘Yes, and then I bet Eddie Mafair will come running. He’ll probably sell his story to the
News of the World –
‘My Life with Rafealla’. What a hoot!’.

‘You’re obsessed with Eddie.’

‘Merely curious. I know you too well, and there’s more to the Eddie Mafair story than you’re telling. For instance, how come he’s never tried to see Jon Jon? He’s his father. It’s not normal.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Holy shit! I’ve got it! After all this time I’ve got it!’

‘Got what?’ Rafealla asked warily.

‘You must think I’m the world’s biggest idiot!’

‘Only some of the time,’ Rafealla commented dryly, reaching for a cigarette even though she’d promised Luiz she would give it up.

‘Eddie,’ Odile half-whispered, ‘is not Jon Jon’s father, is he?’

Rafealla felt the blush of truth suffuse her face. She fixed Odile with a steely glare. ‘Don’t
ever
say such a thing.’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Odile persisted. ‘I
know
it’s true. You don’t have to confirm or deny, because
I know.
Your expression gives you away.’ She shook her head in amazement. Jon Jon doesn’t even
look
like Eddie. I can’t imagine why I didn’t guess before.’

‘If you say one word of this to another living soul, I will
never
speak to you again,’ Rafealla warned her fiercely.

Odile’s blue eyes were serious for once. She took her friend’s hand in hers. ‘We’re almost blood sisters, aren’t we?’ she asked earnestly. ‘You can tell me anything and your secret is mine.’

In a way it was tremendously therapeutic to confide in Odile. After all these years of holding everything in she let it all pour out. The hot, sticky night in the back of a limo with Kris Phoenix. Eddie’s lies and beatings, and finally her brutal discovery of his homosexuality. For good measure she even told Odile about Luiz’s marriage.

Odile listened quietly, and when Rafealla was through she hugged her close. ‘You should have trusted me before,’ she said. ‘I might not have been able to do anything, but I could’ve helped you beat the stuffing out of that bastard Eddie.’

‘It’s not his fault. I forced him into a marriage he didn’t want.’

‘Listen to yourself. You’re always making excuses for people. You’ve got to stop it, and toughen up.’

‘Is that an order?’

‘You bet. Now I’m telling you, don’t go rushing into anything with this Luiz character.’

He’s not a character, Odile,’ she corrected. ‘He’s a warm and caring man, and I love him very much.’

Odile raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Don’t forget, I’ve seen his picture on the album cover. He’s a good-looking, probably horny as hell,
married
man. So watch out – don’t go falling into any more traps.’

Rafealla laughed. ‘You’ll have to meet him.’

‘I intend to. Rupert is getting his orders. No South of France this summer. We’re coming to Rio – I can’t
wait
to see you in action!’

Two weeks with her family was enough. They were wonderful, but smothering. Her mother still treated her as if she were a scatty teenager, and Rupert drove her crazy with his teasing.

She was used to her independence – besides, she missed Luiz desperately. And at the end of the fortnight, Jon Jon was anxious to get back to his friends.

Leaving Heathrow Airport was a wrench. Once they were on the way it was easy.

*    *    *

‘Marcus Citroen is
very
interested,’ Tinto said excitedly, pacing around his office.

‘Who?’ Rafealla asked coolly, although she knew exactly who Marcus Citroen was – how could she ever forget?

‘Marcus Citroen owns Blue Cadillac Records in America,’ Tinto said, practically jumping with joy. ‘Blue Cadillac is one of the big fish.’

‘I thought it was a car,’ she said uninterestedly.

Luiz glanced at her quizzically.

‘He’s coming into town for Carnival. He does so every . year,’ Tinto continued.

‘How nice,’ she murmured.

‘And he wishes to meet you.’

‘We’ll meet him,’ Luiz decided. ‘It is time we began to think of the American market.’

Tinto cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know how to say this, so I will come straight out with it. Rafealla is the one he wishes to meet. Blue Cadillac are not interested in a duo.’

‘Well, then, I’m not their girl,’ she said staunchly. ‘They’ll just have to search elsewhere.’

‘Rafealla—’ Tinto began.

‘End of story,’ she said, imperiously tossing back her long hair.

Tinto turned to Luiz for support. Luiz merely shrugged.

‘Is that all the business for the day?’ she asked briskly. ‘For if it is, we’re going swimming. Want to take the day off and come with us, Tinto?’

The disappointed manager shook his head.

Hand in hand they left his office, strolling along the street to Luiz’s red sports car, a present from her to him on his recent twenty-sixth birthday.

People turned to scrutinize them. They were local celebrities. To the man and the woman in the street they represented youth and glamour.

A secretary on her lunch break timidly asked Luiz for his autograph, thrusting a magazine at him with his picture inside.

He smiled and requested her name.

Rafealla watched the girl blush, and the way she gazed at Luiz as if he were a king. ‘That female wants your body,’ she murmured teasingly as they walked away.

‘Ah, but it is taken, my
carioca.
’

‘Don’t I know it!’

Somehow they didn’t go swimming. They went home and spent a lazy afternoon in bed making love. Jon Jon was away for the weekend, so Friday night drifted pleasantly into Saturday morning without any disturbances.

Rafealla awoke early and thought she would surprise him. Cooking was not her forte, but she could manage a delicious concoction of scrambled eggs, tomato and bacon. Wearing nothing but an oversized tee-shirt, her hair braided, she set to work in the kitchen, singing softly to herself.

Luiz slept naked. He walked into the kitchen without benefit of clothes, his body bronzed and hard, his black hair tousled.

‘I think I love you,’ she said, staring pointedly between his legs.

Responding appropriately, he embraced her from behind, his hands exploring under her tee-shirt.

Soon the scrambled eggs were history. Who needed food when they had each other?

Bobby Mondella

1986

‘Mr Mondella?’

The voice came from far away.

‘Mr Mondella, are you listening to me?’

What kind of a dumb remark was that? He couldn’t do anything else
but
listen. He was lying in a hospital bed bandaged from head to toe, trussed up like a chicken waiting to be roasted. Even his eyes were covered. They’d given him morphine, but he could still feel the throbbing, unremitting pain.

‘Mr Mondella,’ the doctor said in a serious voice. ‘Can you
see
me?’

‘I will when they take the goddamn bandages off,’ he mumbled.

‘They are off,’ the doctor said. ‘You can’t see me, can you? can YOU . . . CAN YOU CAN YOU . . .

*    *    *

He sat up in bed with a jolt, the sweat pouring off him. Recurring nightmare number one. Jesus Christ, he couldn’t even sleep without reliving the horror of that fateful night one year ago.

I’m blind
, he thought hopelessly.
I’m fucking blind. And nobody gives a damn.

With a shaking hand he reached for the bottle of bourbon, kept beside his bed at all times. The table lamp went flying, crashing to the floor with a dull thud.

‘Shit!’ he screamed, full of pent-up frustration.

The girl he’d hired a week ago came running into the room. Her name was Sara, and she had a sweet voice. Better than the others he’d employed. There’d been a procession of personal assistants – none of them stayed long and they’d all driven him crazy. Before Sara he’d had a man look after him. A brother who’d ripped off his clothes and brought women to the house in the middle of the night so he could hear them making love. Son of a bitch.

‘Are you all right, Mr Mondella?’ Sara asked anxiously.

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

No, baby, I am not fine. My life is totally fucked up and what I really want to do is end the whole fucking ball game. Because, hey – I don’t think I can take it much longer.

‘Get back to bed,’ he said roughly.

‘No problem. I’m awake,’ she replied in a soothing voice. ‘Let me clear up this mess.’

He could smell her. A womanly musk mixed with a light scent. The last female assistant he’d had – an ex-nurse – smelled of disinfectant and disdain.

‘Don’t worry about the mess,’ he said. ‘Just get me another bottle.’

‘It’s the middle of the night, Mr Mondella,’ she said pointedly.

More frustration burst forth. ‘So fuckin’ what? Do you think it makes any difference to me?’