RED 2: A Trick of Mirrors [#Wattys2017]

4. Before Midnight

In the empty hotel room, Marisa was also lost in memories. Not of her first week but of her first year in Toronto. In December, she and Marco flew to Brazil for spending Christmas with their families in São Paulo and celebrating New Year on the coast at Paraty. It was on New Year's Eve that Marisa had a presentiment: This is my last night with Marco.

The thought stemmed when she said three words he didn't hear. Distracted, Marco raised his eyes to the sky, where fireworks drew fleeting galaxies while hordes of people dressed in white ambled along the beach. Some set off fireworks in an early commemoration, others jumped over seven waves following the superstition or tossed roses in the water for Iemanjá, the goddess of the sea.

In a couple of hours it would be New Year. Marisa felt an invisible hand crushing all her bones. Inside, she crumbled. The flight back to Toronto was scheduled to the following evening—but now that thought haunted her and she no longer knew if she would embark with Marco.

Marisa admired his profile bathed in dancing reflections, now fiery flowers blossoming, now a rainfall of hissing stars. As he watched the sky, Marco displayed that boyish expression she knew so well and had grown to love. His tanned skin, accentuated by the white T-shirt and shorts, evidenced the Italian and Lebanese heritage in his features. A dark lock of hair slipped to his forehead, and Marisa straightened it in an impulse like she had done many times.

Marco smiled and offered her the cup in his hand. He waited for Marisa to drink, finished the champagne in one go and left the cup by the backpack at his feet. Sweeping Marisa in his arms, Marco lifted her in a twirl, the white skirt of her dress floating in the blazing night. When his mouth sought hers, it still retained the effervescent taste of champagne.

Marisa closed her eyes. The air smelled like smoke, salt and perfume, and around them a multitude of voices mingled with the rumble of the waves. A group of racing children almost bumped into them, swift little ghosts leaving behind the echo of rustle and chuckle. Marco lowered Marisa to the fine sand, laughing. His laughter pierced her like a blade.

"Shouldn't we go to the pier?" She shrank away from him. "Geraldo must be waiting."

During a boat ride in the bay that afternoon, Marco decided to rent a boat to celebrate New Year away from the crowd. The pilot, a native named Geraldo, was indeed waiting for them by a twenty-two-feet-long speedboat with the name Brisa painted on its silver flank. Minutes later, Marco and Marisa sat on the sundeck above the cabin with legs dangling in the air and the wind in their hair as the engine roared into darkness. The town of Paraty with its colonial buildings dimmed out behind them. Ahead, the line between sea and sky blurred under a pale half-moon and the veil of stars.

Contemplating the islands coming to view left and right, Marisa ruminated the three words she had said on the beach. The three words Marco didn't hear.

I missed this.

They hit her with the fury of a tempest over her well-tended garden. Admitting how much she missed Brazil implied admitting what she had denied for months: she no longer wished to stay in Canada. Yet it was there that Marco had built his life. To her, Canada wasn't home and would never be. Brazil was home. During the holidays, she felt alive again. Now the imminent departure filled her with death.

Her death had been furtive. It accumulated in her innermost little by little with tiny grains, particles of dust, shards, barbs, growing into a jumble impossible to disentangle. One day Marisa woke up to realize she was living Marco's life rather than her own. She had the impression of fading day after day, losing substance and thinning, a shapeless shadow in half-light. Marisa questioned: what was her reason for being, what was she good for, what did she desire besides her relationship with Marco? After all, who was she? At times, when Marisa looked in the mirror, she dreaded not finding her own reflection.