RED: A Love Story [Featured List]

Part 1: White 12 - Duet story

When Marco finally returned from the bar, Marisa had already ravaged three nails to perfection and was preparing to attack the fourth. She dropped her hand and aimed a microscope-like eye at him, investigating the white clothes with no rips or blood stains (check), the hands, arms, neck and face intact (check), the impeccable hair as usual (check). Marisa cheered up, then frowned. Marco was not only back in one piece but barely hid his satisfaction.

"What's up? Why did you go back there?" she asked, anxiously fiddling with one jagged nail with the tip of her thumb. (She needed a file badly or she would go crazy.)

"I couldn't forget my good manners, could I? I had to say hello to Belvedere. I even took a picture of him and Jane for the school blog. You know, to posterity."

"Marco! You're nuts!" Marisa kept feeling the jagged edges. (Where could she find an open drugstore to get a nail file?)

"Not me. I gave him the cold sweats for a few minutes, suggested fraternization and, in the end, 'changed my mind' and said it would be best to post a photo with the whole board of directors. Anyway, that should teach Belvedere to stay away from our bar."

Upon seeing Marco, the director had choked on a piece of steak and turned redder than the tomato flower decorating his plate. And the secretary, as white as the plate itself, stood up switching between grayed-out grins to Marco and black punches on her lover's back. At that point the piano player, who was performing Sinatra's classic My Way, sang the lines about biting off more than one could chew and eating it up and spitting it all...

Marco cracked up, and Marisa couldn't help but laugh too (nothing like some comic relief in a disaster film... speaking of disaster, where again could she find a drugstore to get a file?) They walked around the corner to get the Ducati, and she proposed going to Marco's apartment. He refused. He wouldn't hide just because that jerk of a director had decided to spend the evening out with his mistress. Marco knew another bar in the vicinity where they could go now.

Marisa slowed down to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk.

"I don't think it's such a good idea, Marco. If Belvedere happens to pop in..." (A nail file! Pleaaaase!)

"By now our friend must be asking for the check, ready to go back home with his tail between his legs. Besides, the place is safe. It's located in an alley and, trust me, Belvedere would never set his delicate foot there."

"Are you sure?" (Do you think Marco would have... Ah! She must have a file in her purse... hmm... wet.)

"Wanna bet?"

There they went. The bar presented itself with modesty: a few tables around a pillar and, in the back, a counter flooded with black light. Although the white walls were naked, the owner had taken care of adorning the tables with plastic flowers in small, colorful buckets. It looked like the décor of a children's party. The big star there was a jukebox that, with the soft luminescence of a dream, played old hits by tacky Brazilian idols. Around it, exuberant women with big feet, boobs and hair were chatting.

It was a transvestite bar.                                              

Marco and Marisa indulged in the luxury of choosing one of the four tables aligned on the sidewalk. To the sound of Sidney Magal's If I Catch You with Another Man I'll Kill You, a slinky waitress in a skintight uniform took their orders. Two vodkas and tonic with lots of ice, please. And one order of fries, so no one gets drunk. Oh, of course, and a nail file.

The two of them amused themselves imagining what Breno Belvedere would do now that his affaire had been unveiled. Maybe, Marisa speculated, the director would try to save his face by pretending he was at the bar with the secretary to talk about work.