and, for a while, forgot about that marvellous, murderous thing called Love.From Maria’s diary, when she was seventeen:
My aim is to understand love. I know how alive I felt when I was in love, and I know that everything I have now, however interesting it might seem, doesn’t really excite me.
But love is a terrible thing: I’ve seen my girlfriends suffer and I don’t want the same thing to happen to me. They used to laugh at me and my innocence, but now they ask me how it is I manage men so well. I smile and say nothing, because I know that the remedy is worse than the pain: I simply don’t fall in love. With each day that passes, I see more clearly how fragile men are, how inconstant, insecure and surprising they are…a few of my girlfriends’ fathers have propositioned me, but I’ve always refused. At first, I was shocked, but now I think it’s just the way men are.
Although my aim is to understand love, and although I suffer to think of the people to whom I gave my heart, I see that those who touched my heart failed to arouse my body, and that those who aroused my body failed to touch my heart.
She turned nineteen, having finished secondary school, and found a job in a draper’s shop, where her boss promptly fell in love with her. By then, however, Maria knew how to use a man, without being used by him. She never let him touch her, although she was always very coquettish, conscious of the power of her beauty.
The power of beauty: what must the world be like for ugly women? She had some girlfriends who no one ever noticed at parties or who men were never interested in. Incredible though it might seem, these girls placed far greater value on the little love they received, suffered in silence when they were rejected and tried to face the future by looking for other things beyond getting all dressed up for someone else. They were more independent, took more interest in themselves, although, in Maria’s imagination, the world for them must seem unbearable.
She knew how attractive she was, and although she rarely listened to her mother, there was one thing her mother said that she never forgot: ‘Beauty, my dear, doesn’t last.’ With this in mind, she continued to keep her boss at arm’s length, though without putting him off completely, and this brought her a considerable increase in salary (she didn’t know how long she would be able to string him along with the mere hope of one day getting her into bed, but at least she was earning good money meanwhile). He also paid her overtime for working late (her boss liked having her around, perhaps worried that if she went out at night, she might find the great love of her life). She worked for two years solidly, paid money each month to her parents for her keep, and, at last, she did it! She saved up enough money to go and spend a week’s holiday in the city of her dreams, the place where film and TV stars live, the picture postcard image of her country: Rio de Janeiro!
Her boss offered to go with her and to pay all her expenses, but Maria lied to him, saying that, since she was going to one of the most dangerous places in the world, the one condition her mother had laid down was that she was to stay at the house of a cousin trained in judo.
‘Besides, sir,’ she said, ‘you can’t just leave the shop without some reliable person to look after it.’
‘Don’t call me "sir",’ he said, and Maria saw in his eyes something she recognised: the flame of love. And this surprised her, because she had always thought he was only interested in sex; and yet, his eyes were saying the exact opposite: ‘I can give you a house, a family, some money for your parents.’ Thinking of the future, she decided to stoke the fire.
She said that she would really miss the job, as well as the colleagues she just adored working with (she was careful not to mention anyone in particular, leaving the mystery hanging in the air: did ‘colleague’ mean him?) and she promised to take great care of her purse and her honour. The truth was quite different: she didn’t want anyone, anyone at all, to spoil what would be her first week of total freedom. She wanted to do everything – swim in the sea, talk to complete strangers, look in shop windows, and be prepared for a Prince Charming to appear and carry her off for good.
‘What’s a week after all?’ she said with a seductive smile, hoping that she was wrong. ‘It will pass in a flash, and I’ll soon be back at work.’
Saddened, her boss resisted at first, but finally accepted her decision, for at the time he was making secret plans to ask her to marry him as soon as she got back, and he didn’t want to spoil everything by appearing too pushy.
Maria travelled for forty-eight hours by bus, checked into a cheap hotel in Copacabana (Copacabana! That beach, that sky…) and even before she had unpacked her bags, she grabbed the bikini she had bought, put it on, and despite the cloudy weather, made straight for the beach. She looked at the sea fearfully, but ended up wading awkwardly into its waters.
No one on the beach noticed that this was her first contact with the ocean, with the goddess Iemanjá, the maritime currents, the foaming waves and, on the other side of the Atlantic, with the coast of Africa and its lions. When she came out of the water, she was approached by a woman trying to selling wholefood sandwiches, by a handsome black man who asked if she wanted to go out with him that night, and by another man who didn’t speak a word of Portuguese but who asked, using gestures, if she would like to have a drink of coconut water.
Maria bought a sandwich because she was too embarrassed to say ‘no’, but she avoided speaking to the two strangers. She felt suddenly disappointed with herself; now that she had the chance to do anything she wanted, why was she behaving in this ridiculous manner? Finding no good explanation, she sat down to wait for the sun to come out from behind the clouds, still surprised at her own courage and at how cold the water was, even in the height of summer.
However, the man who couldn’t speak Portuguese reappeared at her side bearing a drink, which he offered to her. Relieved not to have to talk to him, she drank the coconut water and smiled at him, and he smiled back. For some time, they kept up this comfortable, meaningless conversation – a smile here, a smile there – until the man took a small red dictionary out of his pocket and said, in a strange accent: ‘bonita’ – ‘pretty’. She smiled again; however much she wanted to meet her Prince Charming, he should at least speak her language and be slightly younger.
The man went on leafing through the little book:
‘Supper…tonight?’
Then he said:
‘Switzerland!’
And he completed this with words that sound like the bells of paradise in whatever language they are spoken:
‘Work! Dollars!’
Maria did not know any restaurant called Switzerland, and could things really be that easy and dreams so quickly fulfilled? She erred on the side of caution: ‘Thank you very much for the invitation, but I already have a job and I’m not interested in buying any dollars.’
The man, who understood not a word she said, was growing desperate; after many more smiles back and forth, he left her for a few minutes and returned with an interpreter. Through him, he explained that he was from Switzerland (the country, not a restaurant) and that he would like to have supper with her, in order to talk to her about a possible job offer. The interpreter, who introduced himself as the person in charge of foreign tourists and security in the hotel where the man was staying, added on his own account:
‘I’d accept if I were you. He’s an important impresario looking for new talent to work in Europe. If you like, I can put you in touch with
