Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [42]
Mauro looked at my hand. “What? You can’t just go like that.”
“And what about Luzia? She’s middle-class. She associates with the ‘simple’ people.”
“She shouldn’t either. Luzia is an actress. No one can control her.”
“I see. Thank you for inviting me to dinner, Mauro.” I headed toward the door of the restaurant. Mauro followed me and stood in the doorway.
“You can’t leave like this! How will you get home?”
“I’ll take a bus. Like most the people who live here.”
I walked to the curb and caught the first bus that came by. I had no idea where it was going, but it had to be better than where I was. I sat on the bus, and the woman sitting beside me touched my arm. “You’re crying,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, “yeah, I guess I am.” I turned to the window and stared at my distorted reflection on the dark glass.
nine
rain
A month or so later, I was walking along a quiet road in central Salvador, looking for a certain shop. Two large men fell in step behind me. They began muttering insults. “Whore! Daughter of a big bitch. How about I fuck you, whore?”
After a time, I grew so annoyed that I turned around. “Don’t you dare say such insults to me!” I shouted at them. “Just because I’m a foreigner and you think I don’t understand doesn’t give you any right. You wouldn’t say that to a Brazilian woman. Give me the same respect!” Then I stomped into my shop.
When I came out, the men were still there. I crossed the street to avoid them, but they crossed as well. They rushed upon me. One of them grabbed my arm. They began to drag me into an alleyway. My response was so swift it surprised even me. I dropped to the ground and rolled onto my hands, a capoeira angola move that they were certainly not expecting, one that came to me without conscious thought. With one leg, I kicked one of the men in the groin as hard as I could. Then, with the other leg, I kicked upward and smashed the other’s collarbone. I felt it snap. Then I sprang to my feet and ran away. Fast. The entire incident lasted less then ten seconds.
As I ran, expanding the distance between us, I felt an overpowering sense of exhilaration, joy, and exuberance that made me almost bound as I fled. It was adrenaline and power, sheer unadulterated power. I tried to tell myself that this was bad, that I should be feeling some compassion for those guys, that any violence was wrong, but even as I scolded myself, I giggled and pranced.
Afterward, I tried to analyze this exhilaration, to excuse it in some way, but I really couldn’t. The pride continued as a bubbling undercurrent, and at practice I had to crow about the incident to our teacher and some fellow players. The other players joked and teased that they would have to be careful of me now.
“That’s good,” said the teacher. But he didn’t smile, and he didn’t really even look pleased. He did, however, begin to include me in the group of players he took to the other rodas in the city.
I became aware that, because of the strength of my daily practice and the lethal potential of capoeira, if I were in a conflict with someone, unless they had a weapon or knew capoeira themselves, I would likely win. I learned that this was not the kind of confidence people expected in a woman, and that if one had it, it gave one a great advantage. For example, I was walking down the street one day when a man leapt in front of me, prancing toward me in an aggressive manner. I was carrying my berimbau, something most tourists who visit Salvador buy. “Capoeirista!” he mocked while slapping his hands toward my face.
I continued to walk directly toward him. When we came level, I placed one foot on the side of his knee and sharply pushed. Not hard enough to break his leg, but enough to hurt. Then I smiled at him.
“Fuck!” he said and backed away.
What I did not understand was how to balance this newfound power with caution. This confidence protected me