Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [39]
I was not, however, sure I would ever learn to negotiate the Brazilian labyrinth of dating and namoro (which could best be translated in English as “courtship”). I met Mauro, a friend of a friend of Luzia’s, when we all went to the mountains for the June São João festival. The trip was wonderful, with bonfires, dancing, and good food, but Luzia’s friends—I wasn’t sure. They all meditated before meals—that was fine—but, their idea of meditation seemed to involve connecting with invisible lightning that periodically zapped their chakras. I felt no zapping. It appeared to me that nearly all Brazilians were spiritual at the same time they were secular, so if Candomblé or Catholicism didn’t work for them, they went for Pentecostal or New Age. These friends of Luzia were New Age. They all wore crystals.
Mauro was one of these friends. He was tall and Italian-looking, with a sculpted jawbone. Luzia told him of my interest in Celtic literature and history, so he began chatting with me, asking me about druids and stone circles. We took long walks at sunset. He was a great dancer.
A few days after our return to Salvador, Mauro asked me to lunch at his family’s middle-class apartment. Their maid served us an ample meal. All was going swimmingly until his mother began talking about the twelve-year-old boys from the nearby favela who kept stealing food and toys from her shop.
“I complained to the police,” she said, “and Grace of God, the boys aren’t coming anymore. The police went into the favela and shot them.” She raised her hands in thanks. “Grace of God,” she said.
I declined dessert.
Later Mauro and I retired to his bedroom, the only private place in the apartment where we could sit and talk. He showed me the books he was reading on Egyptian history, Celtic druids, and the powers of pyramids. At some point in the conversation, Mauro leaned over and began kissing me. This proceeded for a time until he stood up, extended his hand to me, and said, “This won’t work. I feel strange with my mother around.” Then he said something I didn’t understand, but decided to ignore, thinking I could ask Luzia about it later.
We left the apartment together and got into Mauro’s car. He drove to a place nearby that was surrounded by a high wall. A gate opened as his car approached, and he drove up to a glass window. He and a man behind the window spoke for a time and then we drove inside. I could not see the man inside the kiosk, and it seemed that the window was designed so he could not see me either.
The door closed behind us, and we drove to a garage, where the door again automatically opened as we approached and closed behind us. I was growing increasingly confused. In the garage was a narrow stairway, which we ascended. Mauro opened the door, smiled, and stood aside for me to enter.
I walked into a gilt room. It boasted a mirrored ceiling, a round bed, a small fridge, large sink, and an open bathroom where I could see the edge of a large beautifully tiled shower.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a Love Motel. That’s what I suggested at the house, and I thought you agreed. We couldn’t make love there, not with my mother around.”
“Right,” I said. I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You used a different word. I didn’t understand what you meant, Mauro.”
“Really?” Mauro sat beside me. “Do you want to make love?”
“Um, no. Not now. I’m sorry, Mauro. You probably had to pay for this, didn’t you?”
To Mauro’s great credit, he stood up immediately and extended his hand once more.
“Yes,