RED: A Love Story [Featured List]

Part 1: White 8 - Rolling the die

They had a month and a half to go before the end of the school term: December 13th was officially the last day of classes and the graduation party was scheduled for the following evening. Marco wanted to wait. Nonetheless, it came to happen after one week, four furtive cups of coffee and a Sunday lunch that lingered in conversation through the afternoon. It happened naturally, like the rain that day and the sparkle in their eyes.

It was Marisa and Marco's first date in no hurry. He opened a bottle of Merlot and, while he finished preparing a vegetable tiella, the two shared family stories and memories. They talked about his large clan based in the countryside (two brothers, seven uncles and aunts, seventeen cousins, twelve nephews and nieces) and her kindred living in the city (second generation of French immigrants, two uncles, four cousins, no nephews or nieces). They talked about the first time he walked on the Champs-Elysees and the day she couldn't go to the top of the Eiffel Tower due to a protest march.

She told him of a lecture on the Buddhist Wheel of Life, he explained archetypes and the hero's journey toward consciousness. Those topics were alternated with platitudes such as his microwave in need of replacement and the horoscope in the newspaper left on a chair (the Libra woman should have a surprise and the Scorpio man would face a family problem.) In their conversation, a simple comment about the weather was colored with enchantment: the words didn't matter as much as what lay between the lines-in that language known only by lovers, even the most trivial sentence forged kinship.

"We could go to Alto Paraíso for Carnival," Marisa was saying. "Do you know the place?"

"Only through photos. It has waterfalls, right?"

"It has the Valley of the Moon. One of the most beautiful spots I've ever visited. A stretch of rocks that look like lunar craters surrounded by vegetation, with turquoise pools in the middle. The rocks have tiny green crystals embedded in them, which shine in the moonlight."

"Yeah, let's go there, Mari. If you like waterfalls, we can also visit Lençóis da Bahia on Easter... Oh, you don't know it? It's a lovely town with colonial houses and..."

Outside, the raindrops were rolling; inside, it was the notes of Chopin's piano. Marisa inquired what was playing. The Waltz no. 14 in E minor. Let's dance, Marco. Ah, Mari, but I can't waltz. It's very easy, Marco, come here and I'll show you... He stood smiley and awkward, she brisk and didactic. Position: one hand on the partner's back (here, close to the shoulders) and the other away from the body holding your pair's hand. Let's go. One, two, three... And off they went spinning around the table, one, two, three, passing by the stove and the refrigerator, one, two, three, left-right-left, one foot sliding in the twirl, now the cabinets and the counter, a step forward for him, a step backward for her, once again the refrigerator, one, two, three, one two, tree...

The Minute Waltz kicked in and hastened the pace, and suddenly they were spinning in the romantic Paris of the 19th century, him in a black tailcoat, waistcoat and bow tie, her in a green dress with bare shoulders. They danced in a blue ballroom under a vaulted ceiling, in a scintillation of crystal sconces and chandeliers. The walls with gold-plated reliefs flourished in multicolor rose arrangements. One, two, three, one, two, three, whirling and whirling in blue golden crystal, inside the blooming rainbow, until the aroma of fresh basil spread in the kitchen. In Sao Paulo of the 21st century, lunch was ready. Marco removed the dish from the oven and lit up a candle to enliven the table.

The two sat down contentedly and, while eating, talked about books and favorite authors, so many that they even lost track. Marisa recalled La Petite Fadette by George Sand, which her father had read for her when she was little. Marco was surprised by the coincidence: the author was one of Chopin's lovers. The conversation moved on to poetry, and he headed for the office to fetch a book before dessert-which they would only savor much later anyway. It was a collection of visual poems by Augusto de Campos that Marisa really enjoyed. Life (the repeated word forming a labyrinth)... A time from space to space, a time, a space from time to time... They leafed through the book, one more sip of wine, one more kiss. Debussy and Claire de Lune in the air, the taste of grapes and something else, another poem, the time without time of a caress. Then it happened.