“I don’t want your money,” I said, and rolled to face the window.
It had been days, possibly even weeks, since I’d gone outside. I couldn’t let go of the apartment, even just for an afternoon, for fear that Marta might grow roots in our bedroom and reorganize the air so that I could no longer breathe. She had called that morning from a pay phone to say the buses were delayed because of the rain. I could hear the commotion in the background—the anxious stir of late commuters rumbling like a wasps’ nest. She wouldn’t be in until noon.
You left, and, in the silence of the apartment, I knew you were right. I needed to get out. The only problem was, I didn’t have an umbrella. Somehow I’d remembered to pack a garlic press and an English copy of Anna Karenina, but I hadn’t brought any rain gear with me. I found a pair of rubber sandals and a shower cap, one of those transparent plastic caps that come in hair dyeing kits, stuffed inside the side pocket of a suitcase. I riffled through the closet hanger by hanger searching for a suitable outfit. I didn’t want to wear anything I owned. It all felt drab and old, already used. I emptied half my clothes onto the floor when your white linen suit appeared from the back of the closet. You had placed it there after your first day of school, I remember, because you were afraid that it would lose its dry-cleaned crease.
Initially I thought, Let me just try it on, and I did. The shoulders were too broad, the crotch too low, the sleeves and pants too long. It shouldn’t have worked. But when I looked in the mirror, I was captivated. I rolled the sleeves and trousers to reveal the silk mustard lining. It was as though I’d grown a new nose and needed to touch my face to make sure it was real. I fitted the shower cap over my head, tucking my hair inside, and put fifty reais in my (your) pocket. I walked out the back door before I could begin to think of reasons why I shouldn’t.
As I stood sheltered under the apartment entrance, the rain sprayed like the edge of a waterfall. So much water had collected in the streets, the gutters formed rivers that sent clumps of black leaves the size of small animals streaming down the current. I contemplated each step to the street, testing the slipperiness of the entry’s brick path. It took only seconds before the suit was completely soaked through.
I was the only person walking on the sidewalk—others had huddled under awnings and gas station canopies waiting for the rain to stop. The safest route was upstream on Avenida Brigadeiro, away from the park. I saw a car attempt to drive up the hill, his tires spinning over the rushing rainwater, then turn around and go the opposite direction. But I kept walking, and walking, my feet squishing in the rubber sandals, until I decided to stop at a corner pub that advertised cold beer and soccer.
* * *
—
I’ve thought many times about how I should explain this part of my story to you. I could let it unfold as it did: that I found a seat in the middle of the bar. The wet linen got pressed between my thighs and a cool trickle slid down my spine. The place was empty, save for a table of four men drinking amber liquor and playing cards, and a woman in the corner sitting by herself.
I could tell you about the bartender, how he watched the soccer game on the television while mindlessly wiping the tiled bar. He was young, couldn’t have been older than twenty, and wore a delicatessen hat that looked like an upside-down paper boat. When he turned to ask my order, I saw a momentary glimmer of confusion. I took off the shower cap and put it on the bar. He smiled.
“O que você quer?”
“Brahma,” I said.
He brought me a large bottle in an ice bucket and a small plastic cup that was cracked with wear.
I could tell you about the men and their matching straw fedoras, or the soft rock music that whispered over the stereo, or the faint mix of fried yucca and damp fur that wafted through the air. Or I could skip all of that, as it’s inconsequential compared to what I saw when I saw the woman, the one who was alone, like me, reading a book on the other side of the bar.
I could trace her features with one pencil stroke: a round face that curved into full lips, a proud nose, and her hair, a dark lioness of curls. She acknowledged me with a subtle glance up from her book and offered a wave. I waved back. It felt as though I had already studied her cheeks and the shape of her eyes. I had sculpted and resculpted her shoulders and the curves of her fingers. But how, if I hadn’t seen her before? I couldn’t explain it then, and I can’t explain it now. I felt I already knew everything about her, as though I had imagined it all before.
I saw my own face reflected in the bar mirror between two liquor bottles: a strand of wet hair curled against my forehead; mascara smudged under my bottom eyelashes. I poured myself a glass of beer and drank it down, then went to the bathroom to clean up. When I returned, the woman had moved to the stool next to me.
“We need to catch up to them,” she said and tilted her head toward the men. I could smell the mix of sharp vodka and sweet orange juice coming from her glass.
“I agree,” I said.
She told me that her name was Celia. She said, “I’m Celia,” and tucked her hair behind her ear as if to give me a better look. She was born in São Paulo, though she explained that this didn’t fully answer my question “Where are you from?” She had lived in the backseats of cars, in hotels, in big houses, and in closets, in countries all over the world. She’d learned English in London, where she’d spent a few years stage acting.
“Where am I from?” she repeated back to me. “Really, my home is the theater.”
The bartender came over to offer her a fresh cocktail napkin and a drink. She perched gently on her elbows, spread her eyes wide, and asked for two drinks: one for her and one for me. He melted away, then rematerialized with everything she’d asked for, plus a bowl of chips. Normally this kind of coquettishness would have made me uncomfortable. Even before you and I got married, I’d struggled to find the competitive femininity that my girlfriends possessed, the kind that got them to the front of a long line or a free drink at the bar. But with Celia, the display, her colorful dance, seemed less for the bartender and more for me.
“Do you live in this neighborhood?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I live in Perdizes.”
She picked up my shower cap and stretched the elastic band over her head so that it looked a jellyfish bulb, iridescent and smooth, and her locks were the drifting tentacles.
“Nice hat. Is this an everyday look?”
“It’s for the rain,” I said without any intended irony. What would I say if she asked why I was wearing an ill-fitting suit?
She didn’t ask. She took the drink the bartender had brought her and pressed the wet glass against her cheeks.
“Is this a regular bar for you?” I asked.
She looked at me, her skin wet with condensation, and forced a laugh.