Authors: Karen Haber
“Just like old times,” I said, and kissed her deeply. Her swimsuit was a triangle of netting and it came off with a gentle tug. Mine offered little resistance.
We moved deeper into the water and cut the g-field. I slipped my hands between her legs, brought her up and over me and the two of us were locked together in that blue-green world, floating dreamily as we moved toward blissful consummation. Afterward, we clung together, gasping for breath, listening to the drumming of our pulsebeats as they slowed.
“It’s so good with you,” she whispered.
“That’s because we only see each other every five years.”
“You’ve gotten cynical, Julian.”
“Just realistic.” I stroked her cheek. “But maybe we should give it a try—”
She pulled back, only half joking now. “You and me? Oh, Julian, not now. Maybe we could have, years ago. But no. You’re a cherished friend, and I’m glad we came together again. But let’s just stay friends.”
I was a bit hurt, and a bit relieved. She gave me a cool, moist kiss and said good night. I did not suggest that we schedule a reengagement.
Although both Paula and Katarina Otulji had invited me to accompany them on their investigative rounds, I begged off, eager to be alone and free to go and observe where I chose.
It was the decade of hunger riots and each day there were demonstrations by the poor. They marched, a ragged, desperate, defiant mob, to the outskirts of the moneyed districts where the wealthy Cariocas hid in tall, white buildings guarded by dogs and men c doob, with guns. The police used tasers, guns, and clubs to beat back the crowds. Each day, people died in the crush, in the screaming dusty pandemonium.
“Estamos com fome!”
they cried in hoarse, exhausted voices.
“Estamos doente!”
“Socorro!”
“Esta fudido.”
“Dinheiro! Onde fica o dinheiro!”
Their cries of hunger, of illness and misery, were appalling. I began to despise my role as observer and eavesdropper and nearly turned away. Then I saw them. Clean, neatly dressed people moved slowly through the crowd speaking in low, reassuring voices, laying on hands in an attempt to calm the rioters. Somehow I knew that these were Better World volunteers, vainly attempting to stop the bloodshed. They were risking their own lives while trying to save others. They were trying to help in the only way they knew how.
I held my breath, wishing that my brother were there to help the miserable poor. Then I caught myself. Oh ho, I thought. Hold on, now. Was I starting to pray to St. Rick? Would Lemanja be far behind?
Despite the attempts of the Better World volunteers, the mob would not be turned away. A woman began screaming in a high, ragged voice, the crowd surged forward, and then the police moved in swinging their batons.
After each riot came the street sweepers and the medics, counting corpses. For the many consumed by hunger and hysteria, the greatest mercy seemed to be a quick death. Modern medicine has an arsenal of drugs to deal with pain but none yet cured starvation and poverty.
Hope was a different matter, and I discovered that it could be a potent drug in its way, despite the contending forces of disease, malnutrition, and political corruption. Oddly enough, my brother was responsible for teaching me that lesson. My brother and Star Cecilia Nicolau.
I saw her for the first time at an evening gathering in Botafogo. It was at an outdoor amusement park and bar complex bordered by leafy green trees and lofty palms. She was dressed in a flowing white gown that somehow emphasized the slim lines of her body and her golden tan. Oblivious to the people and street noises around her she was leading a group of perhaps thirty-five people through an elaborate ritual prayer that seemed to consist of an elaborate circle dance followed by a group embrace.
The bodies swirled in and out, in and out, feet beating a complicated rhythm as hips gyrated, heads nodded, faster and faster. They all moved in perfect syncopation, all possessed by the same silent beat that they alone seemed to hear. I found my toe tapping to their movement, to the thump of their feet against the bare, compacted soil.
I couldn’t take my eyes from the woman in white: while in frenzied motion she managed to give a graceful cast to everything she did. Twirling, laughing, jumping around the circle, she was filled with infectious joy. If she had looked my way I would have joined her in a moment.
This group seemed to be a macumba-inspired crew that had now given over its worship and rituals to “Saint Rick” of the Better World, or Mundo Melhor, as it was called here. Their songs told of his goodness and exalted his righteousness. As I watched the dancers whirl, their elegant leader began to chant an invocation in a resonant alto voice, and the Portuguese implant I had received whispered to me that she was praising Rick’s name and asking that the god Exu protect him cu p, and th and honor him.
The ritual ended with a great round of clapping and laughter. Then the celebrants slipped off through the darkness. The woman in white vanished into a sleek pavilion behind the bar and I followed her.
I knocked but there was no answer. Knocked again and then, growing impatient, tried the lockpad. The door was open and it swung easily on greased hinges. I stepped inside, into shadow, and became aware of unusual sounds.
They were intimate, moist, unmistakable. A woman was moaning softly, almost an animal purr that, as I listened, climbed toward a roaring, gasping climax.
I started to back out of there but in the darkness became disoriented and stumbled over something that emitted a great metallic screech as I kicked it.
The sounds of lovemaking stopped abruptly.
“
Porra!
” a woman said crossly. “
Me deixa em paz
.”
My implant cut in immediately, translating: “Dammit! Leave me in peace.”
It was unmistakably the voice of the priestess who had led the celebration outside. But she didn’t sound very holy now.
“
Disculpa
,” I said, struggling to form the Portuguese syllables properly. “
Voce fala ingles?
”
“Yes, yes, of course I speak English.” Now she sounded impatient but curious, too. “I went to school in the United States because my parents had no faith in Brazilian academies.”
And then she stood there, naked and golden, holding a lamp by a silver chain.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Julian Akimura.”
“American, yes? My name is Star Nicolau, Julian Akimura.” She stepped into a pair of jeans, zipped them up, and shrugged into a thin white shirt. “What do you want?”
That was many years and many miles ago. I stood across the room from Star that night as the light snapped and popped in her lantern, and I watched her dress and felt the first faint stirring of what soon would become uncontrollable passion. But I didn’t know it then and I assumed my discomfort was due to the singular way my arrival had interrupted her lovemaking.
“I’m studying Better World,” I said wanly.
“Not a CIA snoop?” She peered at me, half-amused, half-angry. “No, no I don’t think so. Your face is too kind. You were one of those tourists watching us, weren’t you? Yes, I think you were the one, the only one, who looked eager to join the dance.”
“So you did see me.” I smiled.
She gave me a sly, catlike glance that seemed to take my full measure and find me worthy. “Oh, yes, of course.”
“Tell me, how do you know of Better World?”
“When I was in the States last year I began to hear about this group and I was fascinated. I went out to New Mexico and spent some time at Better World, But I had to return here because my mother was not well. I brought the Better World spirit back home with me.” She slid on a pair of tall brown leather boots with pointed heels and sealed them just below her knees.
A tall figure loomed suddenly, one of th cly,th e other celebrants. His dark hair was wild and he looked as though he had just thrown on his shirt and pants. Eyes cast downward, he nodded at me as he strode past, but he and Star exchanged a cryptic look before he bolted out the door.
She seemed quite unperturbed and continued to cheerfully interrogate me: How long had I been in Rio? Did I like it? What had I seen? Where had I eaten? Did I know about Better World? Had I ever met Rick? And Alanna?
Her voice sharpened over that name and I began to suspect that Star Nicolau had a bit more than mere spiritual interest in my brother.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m quite well acquainted with Better World and with Rick. In fact, he’s my twin brother.”
I stopped, horrified. What had I done? Whatever could have possessed me to reveal my intimate relationship with Rick to this attractive stranger? Was I hoping to draw her closer, to use my brother as a bridge between us?
As I stood there, mute and red-faced over my blunder, Star moved closer to me and took my hand.
“I don’t think you wanted to tell me that, did you?” Her smile was both sympathetic and smug. “Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone. But what are you doing here?”
Briefly, I explained the mission of the task force.
“So,” she said. “You’ve come to watch us and report back to your brother’s enemies.”
“It’s not quite like that—”
“No? Then explain it to me. You are his brother,” she said. “Yet you stand against him and Better World.”
“Well, yes.”
“That would never happen in Brazil,” she said. “If one brother were venerated as your Rick is, and a different brother chose to turn against him, the family would never forgive the traitor. They might even stone him to death.”
Her glance was sly and I wasn’t sure if she was joking.
“So tell me,” she said cozily. “I would like to know more about Alanna. Why she is so close to Rick.”
“Alanna is our—cousin,” I said, a little clumsily. Something warned me not to tell Star the total truth. Not yet, anyway.
“Cousin?” Star squinted at the lantern and shook it: the flame within flared, then died back. “You mutants must have huge families, don’t you?”
“It’s a complicated story. A complicated family.”
“I’m sure.” Star waited, but I had stalemated her. She would get no more information out of me. She stared, frowned, stared some more. Finally, she began to pace the room. Her boot heels were loud against the floor.
My treacherous imagination substituted her naked body for the jeans and work shirt she wore now. The more I tried to forget what I’d seen the more I wanted to touch her, to lick and tease those small, dark nipples, to have those strong legs wrapped around me, to penetrate and possess this woman completely.
She smiled playfully. “Well, Julian, why don’t you tell me this complicated story?” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the doorway as though she intended to block any retreat I might attempt.
I concentrated on the triangle of golden flesh revealed at the neck of her blouse and thanked the assembled deitie cemb, then ds that she hadn’t yet tried to seduce the information out of me: I never would have had a chance of resisting. Instead, I crossed my arms, mirroring her actions. It’s an old psychological ploy, intended to indicate commonality. A useful tool when what you want to do is say no.
“Nothing I can tell you,” I said casually. “It’s really Rick’s story, anyway.”
“A twin never has his own singular story,” Star said. “You know that.” She sighed deeply. “I was drawn to your brother as soon as I saw him.”
Jealousy pricked me. “That’s Rick. He’s like a magnet.”
“And which pole is your cousin Alanna? Positive? Negative?”
My voice was level, but inwardly I was seething wildly with desire and confusion. I had to get away from this woman before I did something else foolish. After all, I was no lustful boy, inexperienced and naive. But I didn’t trust myself alone with Star.
“Let’s go back to your hotel for a drink,” Star said. “I’ll drive, unless you can teleport us there.”
“You’re talking to the wrong brother.”
Her smile stirred me mercilessly. “Am I?” Her dark eyes flickered over me. “I’m not so sure.” Swinging her keys, she led me out the door and we squeezed into the tiny cab of her skimmer truck. All during that long, long ride through the streets of Rio I stared out the window at the passing street lamps and concentrated on the white-hot pressure of her leg against mine.
When we arrived at the Parc Imperium Hotel, everything was quiet and the bar was closed. I was astonished to see that it was four in the morning. The desk clerk yawned as he handed me my room key. I turned to Star, reluctant to let her go. “We could have a drink in my room—”
“No, I think not. It’s late.” She kissed me quickly on both cheeks. “Good night and good morning, Julian Akimura. I will see you again.”
“But wait,” I said desperately. “How will I find you?”
“I’ll find you.” She winked and danced away, out of reach, out of sight.
“Damn.” I was confused and disgusted. Things had become astonishingly messy for me in no time at all. What did I really feel for Star? Was it lust fueled by fraternal competition? No answers. No clues. The lobby was empty. The elevator flung me upstairs where my lonely room awaited.