A very old friend, younger by years but plenty of history between us, just Begged me for more stories! Can you believe it? It’s Just what I want to hear, my darlings, and it only takes a bit of encouragement for me to shift into gear, drop what I am doing, and prattle on with my memoirs. Don’t you love what those French words add to your tastebuds…
Must admit, the Brasil saga comes to mind, not just because it was the last real and deeply touching adventure I had, but also because there is something about those people in general, and Alcir in specific, that sticks like gum that has perma dried under the theatre seat. It’s there for eternity, all its dirty, messy, germ laden mass, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
When I met Alcir, I was definitely in my prime on all counts. (shall I post pictures sometime?) I was feelin my power, and was quite attractive. Now What i attracted was another story, as I have frequently wondered ‘What the What?’, when it comes to that issue…. just What is it that brings in the strange and neurotic, the needy and the distant, and the occaisional unclassifiable ? He was one of the last.
I had a friend named Steven. He was relatively new in town, strange and a little Other, yet a Mensa member, and he was entertaining at a time that i had lots of energy for casual entertainment. I had a great house, kids coming and going, a little cottage industry making jesters and jack in the boxes, and life was quite lovely.
Steven was one of those lost boys, misunderstood, yet not demanding in any unwanted way. He wasn’t my type as a Guy, but he was amusing. So after sharing the occasional dinner with him, it was the night He had agreed to cook dinner for Us. Me and my two younger daughters. Shana was at college, and Tod was in his own cabin on the acreage I rented. Sweet.
So it’s nine o’clock, and the door knocks, and there stand two fellows, one i recognize, one i don’t, and they’re both drunk off their jolly well asses. I neglected to tell you that he Had called from the bar, and asked to bring this new fellow home, and I sort of shrugged an OK. Whatever, just get over here and do what you’d said you’d do…..
So they both do this weird Asian bow, and it was only later that I realized it was because I was wearing a kimono, which I was really into at the time…. kimonos were available by the hundred pound bale out of Honolulu, and I had been buying them for a store I was partners in. So Ok, these funny giddy fellows tumble in with a Frozen Chicken, and proceed to start dinner. Oh this is going to be interesting…
I am introduced to this Latin guy, and I really didn’t look at him that much. It was only later I saw those Eyes, that indian hair, that brown skin and the devastating, white toothed grin. He was different, but I really didn’t pick up on it til he stood looking at this framed picture i had over my stove. There was no window there, and I had always gazed at it as I cooked, as tho it were a portal into another realm. It was one of those reverse paintings, where they paint on the back of the glass, and then arrange these Irridescent Blue Morpho Butterfly wings, to make the sky and sea. Gorgeous, and I have a huge collection of them now.
So this fellow, with an unusual accent that I didn’t recognize, stands there and says… in his winsome Desi Arnez way….. “WHAT eeeez theees wooooman doooing weeeeth theees in her keeetchin? I have grown up loooooking at theeees very sceeeeene. WHAT eeeez Theeeees wooooman dooooing weeeeth theeees theeeeng?” It was a scene of Pao d’Asucar, or Sugar Loaf as we Americans call it. Palm trees, the rolling hills of Rio, the whole bit….
“Oh!…. you’re a Brasilian? “… came my rather startled response. I’d never met a Brasilian.
“Yessss…. What ?….. deeed yoouuu theeenk I waz a stoooopid Mexicaaan? They don eeven care eenuf about theees countreee to learn the language.”
Ouch. Later I found out that he was frequently mistaken for Mexican, which insulted him… I mean how many Brasilians visit the Mendo Coast? and oh ya… he spoke Five languages, and came from an old aristocratic family. He had studied in the most prestigious school in Brasil, in Rio, where when you graduate from High School, you have learned the equivalent of two years of College. He spoke French, Spanish, English, Brazilian Portuguese, and several Indigenous dialects.
I looked him over a bit more at that point…. High tech expensive sports shoes… Varnet sunglasses…. a very expensive diver’s watch. His hands were gorgeous. And his eyes. Wicked Intelligence sprang out of them, and they were dark, huge and wrap around, with a certain slanted corner to them. Oh yes, he was different alright. His voice was deep, and had that sort of powerful texture that Jose Ferrer has…. or some black actors. Brazil is a combination of the Portuguese sailors who moved on in, the Black Slaves they kidnapped to do their dirty work, and the Indiginous tribes who to this day just want to be left alone. He seemed Portuguese, with refined European feature, but the skin, hair and eyes seemed Indian, (his Grandmother was Indian, and he had Her eyes)… and somehow I do believe a little of black had slipped in, although the aristocratic families are always in denial. His eyes…. his voice….
Through the evening, he constantly made us laugh. He was hip, made lots of puns with a language that wasn’t native to him, double entendres galore. And…. at times when no one else was looking, he would stare at me across the room. Staring? like boring holes in my temples, blasting a message into eyeballs, past the forebrain, and down into lizard brain land. He was not subtle per se, but in a non verbal sense he was, for there were no gropings or obvious come ons. Just that deadly stare across the room.
I silently mouthed “…stop that..!”…. and he smiled.
Ok….. back to work. Mmmmm it’s fun remembering….. Encourage me, encourage me, and i shall continue my stories for You!
notesfromthelovewars 