How to Be Single (17 page)

“I don't understand: why do you call it a samba school?” I asked loudly, over the drums.

“Each neighborhood has a school where they drum and do samba. Each school picks a song that they're going to do at Carnival, and then they compete with all the others.”

“So they're kind of like neighborhood teams?”

“Yes, exactly. This one is my samba school. And in a few minutes they are going to present for the first time the song they'll be competing with at Carnival.” Flavia looked down to where the masses of people were and suddenly smiled. “There's Marco!”

Marco looked up and saw Flavia and waved. Flavia turned to me, a tough smirk on her face. “I don't mind that he's here,” she said, trying not to seem at all happy. She motioned for him to come up the stairs. “I better go and make sure the bouncers let him up.”

I looked over at the drummers and tried to find Anna. This was her samba school, too, and she was going to be drumming with them tonight.

The song they were playing stopped, and the drums began again, slow at first, it seemed, to get everyone's attention. People started to move toward the center of the room, the whole space newly energized. Frederico turned to us and said, “Come, let's go on the dance floor.” Georgia, Frederico, Alan, and I made our way down the stairs. The drums were now at full speed and the whole space was pulsating, jumping, in united celebration.

We all began dancing. Well, Frederico and Alan began dancing. Georgia and I sort of wiggled around a bit, trying to shake our asses as best as possible, but the samba is really not a dance you can fake. Then the dancers paraded out. There were dozens of them, and the crowd parted, making a wide lane for them to dance through. They were all wearing their “team” costume: red and white sequins. The women came out first, in tiny red skirts and high, high heels, dancing so fast, their lower bodies moving so rapidly, it seemed that they were vibrating in some kind of sexual ecstasy. Their arms were flying around, their legs were whirling, and their asses were shaking so fast they could have whipped butter.

Following the young gorgeous women, in their tiny skirts and their bikini tops, were the little old ladies. They were also dressed in red and white, but their outfits were knee-length skirts, short-sleeved tops, and hats. They came out in a single line and formed a frame around the young women, or more accurately, a defensive perimeter against any wolves who might come in and devour these beauties whole.

They danced like women who had seen it all. They no longer needed to shake their asses and wave their arms around, though I'm sure they had done their share of that. Now, they more paraded about. I don't know what the rest of their lives were like, and I'd hate to imagine how difficult they were, but I knew that at this moment, they were in the midst of celebration. They were red and white peacocks strutting and prancing for everyone to see, proud of themselves and their neighborhood and their song.

Georgia, Frederico, and Alan had meanwhile gone to get beers. As they were waiting in line, far away from the dance floor, Frederico leaned over to Georgia and said, “You don't need to look for someone to kiss you, beautiful Georgia. I would be happy to make love to you any time you ask.”

And at that, engaged Frederico kissed single, horny Georgia, as Anna's dear brother Alan laughed and drank his beer. Frederico was sexy, young, Brazilian, and gorgeous. Georgia's revenge fantasy had been to come to Brazil and steal someone away from his wife. Now Georgia had her chance; Frederico was the male Melea and he wanted her. Georgia, new to dating, still instinctively understood one of the cardinal rules of being single:
We ladies have to have each other's backs.

So Georgia gently pushed Frederico away and said they should get back to the party. It was then that Georgia answered the question of who was looking out for the women in Rio—and sadly, the answer was her. Then she turned back to Alan and put her finger right in his face. “And you. Shame on you. You're her brother.”

We all met up when we rejoined Flavia and Marco on the balcony. The queen and king of the samba school were now dancing down the center of the madness, the man in a crisp white suit and a white hat, the woman in a red gown and a crown. People were swirling flags around them as they danced separately, and then together, hand in hand.

Just then something flew into the air from down below. I didn't see what it was, but Flavia grasped her face and stumbled a few steps backward. Caroline was right there, holding Flavia's arm and asking what happened. On the floor near Flavia was a full can of beer. Someone had thrown it up toward us either in wild abandon or with a more malevolent intent. Either way, Flavia was the one who ended up getting hit in the face. Caroline sat her on a chair, and I watched as tough, deep-throated Flavia scrunched her lips up in a smirk and tried not to cry.

Everyone was trying to figure out what the hell happened, as Flavia's eye started to swell up. Caroline had gone to get her some ice, and Georgia was rubbing her back. Anna was now there, and when she saw what had happened she got down on her knees and started to stroke Flavia's hair. But Flavia just leaned over and picked up the offending can of beer and put it to her eye, to stop the swelling. Marco stood there a little helplessly. This woman, whom he barely knew, was hurt but he wasn't quite sure what to do or what his role should be. So he just sort of paced around, running his fingers through his hair. After the shock wore off, Flavia told everyone that she was fine. Anna suggested it was time to leave, and we piled into the minibus—Georgia, Flavia, Marco, Alan, Anna, Frederico, and myself.

So, considering it was Rio and it was three in the morning, the only reasonable thing to do was go to Pizzaria Guanabara, a local restaurant. As we walked in, I saw grown-up men and women, completely sober and well dressed, all gathered civilly eating pizza as if it were eight at night, some with their children.

We all sat down and talked and tried to make Flavia laugh, while she iced her puffy eye. She was a good sport in the truest sense of the word, not a trace of self-pity. Looking at her, I felt I had learned something else about how to be single:
There are some nights you might have to take a can of beer to the face. That's just the way it is, and it's best not to be a wimp about it.

Flavia started to fold herself gradually into Marco, leaning into him as he put his arm around her. He had found his place, encouraging her body to nuzzle against his and draping his arm around her, letting her feel protected. She may be the toughest, coolest girl in Rio, but she had been wounded, ambushed. No matter how many girlfriends were around to help at that moment, nothing would beat the feeling of a strong chest against her cheek and muscular arms enveloping her.

Later, when we dropped them off at Flavia's house, Marco helped her out of the van, and put his arm around her sweetly. One more thing about being single:
On the unfortunate night when you're the one who gets the can to the face, you never know who might be there, ready and willing to comfort you.

When Alan finally dropped us off at the hotel, the only ones left were Georgia and me. Georgia looked at Alan and said, one last time, “Shame on you.”

“You're having sex with a fellow swami?” Ruby asked, confused. She and Alice had been summoned by Serena to a diner on Twenty-fourth and Eighth, and frankly, they all felt a little embarrassed. Not because of Serena's admission of swami sex, but because Serena looked like one of those Hare Krishna people that you never even see anymore at the airports—and everyone was staring at them.

Ruby added, “Didn't you just take a vow of celibacy?”

“And didn't you have sex before taking your vow, like—never?” Alice asked, not very tactfully.

“I hadn't had sex for four years.”

Ruby looked at Serena with great sympathy. Alice kept interrogating the witness.

“So, you have no sex, take a vow of celibacy, and now you're having sex?”

“It's not like that,” Serena said, defensively. “I fell in love. I could have fallen in love with someone I met at a coffee shop, or at a class at school—I just happened to fall in love with someone I met being a swami. This is big, it's a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

The ladies didn't know what to say to this. They were still trying to ignore the fact that everyone was staring at Serena.

“Well,” Ruby said, “I guess priests and nuns fall in love all the time.”

Alice took a sip of her Diet Coke. “And it's not like any of this is real, right? It's kind of a make-believe religion, isn't it? No one is going to tell you that you've sinned and you're going to hell or anything?”

“Hindus don't believe in hell. Just karma.”

Alice picked at Ruby's french fries. “So if you break your vows, do you believe that in the next life you would come back as an ant or something?”

“More like a hooker, probably,” Serena said, guiltily.

Alice laughed. “It's true, you'd probably come back as a dirty street whore.”

Serena wasn't amused. “I called you guys because Julie is gone and I have no one else I can talk to. I made this really big commitment and I think I made the wrong choice.”

The ladies sobered up.

Alice asked, “Have you asked him how he feels?”

Serena put her head in her hands. “He feels guilty. He feels terrible.”

Ruby jumped in. “Does he want to leave the church? I mean, temple, or whatever you call it?”

“He's not sure. He said this has never happened to him before.”

Alice grabbed two french fries and stuffed them in her mouth. “If it really is love, you two should forget everything and go for it. It's love, for God's sake. That's a miracle. Nothing else matters.”

“But it doesn't really mean anything. There are lots of people who fall in love and can't make it work. In the Hindu religion they talk a lot about how this whole world, this existence is an illusion. I'd probably fall in love with
anyone
who was the first person I slept with in four years. He's been a swami for eight years. How can I talk to him about this when there's no guarantee it will work out? Falling in love doesn't mean anything.”

Alice hoped Serena had a point. She hoped being in love didn't mean anything. She hoped respect and kindness and a little Brad Pitt would win the day for her and Jim. Maybe being in love is just infatuation and passion and no one should make a big life decision based on that.

Ruby thought about all the men she thought she was in love with, with whom she had fantastic sex, and with whom it didn't work out. They all meant nothing to her now. Serena was right. It is an illusion. Before the words got out of Ruby's mouth, Alice had said them.

“Maybe you shouldn't do anything drastic right now. It's still so new, you have no idea what's really going on with you two. You don't want to get ahead of yourself.”

Serena nodded her head, relieved. “You're right. You're right. That's a good plan. I should just wait.”

They sat in silence, somewhat satisfied that at least this problem could be solved. Ruby took a sip of her coffee and glanced out the window. She saw two thirteen-year-old boys dressed in hip-hop clothes, pointing at Serena and laughing. Ruby looked away quickly, pretending she didn't see a thing.

Back in Rio

The next morning, I woke up to see Georgia lying on her bed, staring at me.

“I'm going to hire a prostitute today.”

“And good morning to you.”

“Why not? I don't have to be at the airport until eight. I have lots of time.”

And with that, she opened the Prostitute Book to a page she had earmarked and picked up the phone. She dialed without hesitation. In a very businesslike voice, she asked if she could see Mauro at one o'clock that day. She gave the address of the hotel and our room number, agreed to the price of five hundred dollars, and hung up the phone. We sat in silence for a moment.

Then she burst out laughing. “I can't really go through with this, can I? I'm a mother, for Pete's sake.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “No, you can't. I'm glad you've finally come to your senses. Call them back.”

And then Georgia gave it a second thought. “No, actually, I think I will do it. I want to know if I could enjoy having sex I've paid for. And besides, we
are
in Rio after all…”

I couldn't believe it. Georgia was actually planning on having sex with someone she hired. I was mortified, nervous, irritated, and—I'll admit it—slightly impressed.

At noon, Georgia and I started getting ready for her “date” with Mauro. We had agreed that I would be there when he arrived so we could both check him out before she was left alone with him. I was partially hoping that she would chicken out at some point before he showed up. This did seem a bit insane. But until then, we carefully decided what she should wear. After looking through her suitcase full of sundresses, shorts, high heels, and evening wear, a decision was made: jeans and a t-shirt. For some reason, we didn't want her to seem too eager. I wanted her to wear something that, if for some reason the mission was aborted, she wouldn't feel silly in. I mean, what's worse than sitting alone in your hotel room in some skimpy negligee after you've just sent a male prostitute home without sex? Jeans and a t-shirt felt right to us both. Because after all, isn't that what the five hundred dollars is for? So she could have sex and not have to worry about how she looked?