Bossa Novas, Bikinis, and Bad Ends Page 2

  The tide was going out, so we had to push our way through the shallow waves for a short distance before it was deep enough to swim. The water was cool, not icy cold the way it is on Cape Cod, where my family took me as a child and is still my favorite place to vacation. I dove in and swam out to deeper water, taking long strokes, not having to kick my legs very hard because the sea pushed me along. It felt glorious.

  Gini caught up with me before long. Her style was shorter strokes and faster leg movements, just like her personal style on shore. We swam along together side by side in the salty water, looking up occasionally long enough to smile at each other.

  Gini turned over on her back and kicked her legs. “Is this great or what?” she said.

  I rolled over onto my back, too, and did a slow, lazy backstroke.

  “How did we get so lucky, Gini?” I asked. “We’re in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil! Getting paid to sleep in a gorgeous suite, and swimming off one of the best beaches in the world. We must be doing something right.”

  “Maybe God likes dancers,” she said. “Maybe He wishes there were more of us, so He does things like this to encourage others to take up dancing too.”

  I’m not always sure there’s a God up there helping us along, but I felt too blessed to argue with her.

  “Race you back to shore,” I said, flipping over and swimming toward the beach.

  We kept even until the very last lap, when Gini passed me with a burst of energy, ran up on the sand, and flopped down on her towel. A trio of tanned teenagers interrupted their volleyball game long enough to admire her.

  I shook myself when I came out of the water and spattered droplets all over my competitive friend. “You always have to win, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Second best is no good,” she said, drying her red hair. “At least, it’s not as much fun.”

  “You should know,” I said. “You’re definitely a winner, Gini. I wish I were more like you.”

  She made a face and said, “Watch what you wish for, Pat. But I keep trying.”

  “Let’s just lie here and not try to do anything,” I said.

  “As if you could,” Gini said.

  “Watch me,” I said.

  I lay back on my towel to soak in that life-restoring sun when a man and a woman stopped in front of us, casting a shadow.

  “Are you two with the Happy Hoofers?” the man asked.

  I squinted and shaded my eyes as I looked up at him. He was dark-skinned, sexy-looking, with a gorgeous body. So many good-looking men in this city. It was almost enough to turn me into a heterosexual. Almost.

  The woman with him was wearing a barely visible top and a thong. Her large sunglasses covered most of her face and made it hard for me to get an accurate idea of what she looked like, but her lips were sensual and shiny.

  Gini spoke first—of course. “We are. Who wants to know?”

  The man held out his hand. “I am Lucas. I used to be the bartender at the hotel. This is Yasmin. She still works at the hotel—as an accountant.”

  Yasmin looked at us over the top of her Ray-Bans and said, “Actually, I’m the only accountant. I’m glad to meet you.” She didn’t really look all that glad.

  “What can we do for you?” Gini said. Her manner was not friendly. I was surprised because Gini is usually open to all comers.

  “Nothing,” Lucas said, sensing her hostility and starting to move away. “I just thought I’d introduce myself to you in case you wanted to see the sights in Rio. I work as a guide now.”

  “Thanks,” Gini said. “I don’t think so. Maria has planned our schedule while we’re here.”

  At the mention of Maria’s name, Lucas’s smile vanished, and his eyes narrowed. He grabbed Yasmin’s arm and pulled her away. “Enjoy your visit,” he muttered, clearly not meaning it.

  When they were out of earshot, I said to Gini, “What was that all about? You weren’t your usual warm and kindly self with them.”

  “I don’t know what it was about those two,” Gini said, sitting up. “There was just something about them I didn’t like. Did you see his face when I mentioned Maria’s name?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I wondered about that. He definitely doesn’t like her.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out why when we meet Maria later for our mysterious trip,” Gini said.

  “You’ll be too busy taking pictures to ask her anything, if I know you,” I said. Gini was a professional photographer. She truly loved taking pictures. She took photos and videos wherever we went. I was always amazed at how unusual her shots were. She was brilliant at finding a different angle, a different perspective, a fresh new way of looking at things. I guess that’s why she wins prizes with her documentaries.

  “Well, I’ll try to find out about those two between shots,” Gini said.

  I picked up my towel and lotion. “Let’s go back,” I said, putting on my shirt.

  We took showers and dressed for dinner in silk pantsuits.

  We met our gang and Maria in the lobby. It was even more elegant at night, with the chandeliers glowing and only one person behind the main desk.

  “Please be our guests for dinner in the Palm Room,” Maria said, gesturing toward a restaurant that was lush with greenery. “Afterward, as promised, I’ll take you to a side of Rio that very few tourists ever experience.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Gini said.

  “Meet me here at seven,” Maria said. “Wear comfortable shoes. And be sure to bring your sense of adventure.”

  Pat’s Tip for Traveling with Friends: Always

  bring earplugs, in case your roommate snores.

  Chapter Two

  Magical Mystery Tour

  At dinner in the quiet, softly lit, luxurious dining room, with its tables set far enough apart so that guests could talk without being overheard, we feasted on partridge with acerola fruit sauce—divine!

  “What’s in this sauce?” Mary Louise asked the waiter. “What’s acerola?”

  “Oh, senhora, it’s a berry.”

  “What kind of berry? I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”

  “It tastes like a combination of apple and cherry,” he said. “I don’t think you have it in the States. It’s found mostly in Central and South America. It’s especially good with partridge, I think.”

  “It’s marvelous,” Mary Louise said. “Thank you.”

  The waiter was pleased. He loved answering questions about the food he served, and he especially enjoyed answering Mary Louise’s queries. She so obviously loved food and cooking.

  “I’ll certainly miss this food when we get home,” Mary Louise said. “Back to roast chicken and baked potatoes.”

  “Your cooking is wonderful,” Tina said. “You’re way beyond roast chicken.”

  After dinner, we met Maria in the lobby. She looked stunning in a white pants suit and turquoise earrings. She led us outside the hotel to a white van with the hotel logo painted on its sides. We drove through the main streets of Rio. As we wove through the traffic, we saw a beautiful, modern city. People in bright summer clothing strolled the busy streets, vendors hawked their wares from sidewalk stands, and high above the city on Corcovado Mountain stood the statue of Christ the Redeemer, His arms spread in a timeless, benevolent gesture. After about fifteen minutes our driver turned onto a narrow dark street paved with cobblestones and stopped in front of a rather seedy little house. Its chipped paint and dusty windows contrasted with the gleaming glass-and-steel structures closer to the beach.

  Maria led us into the building and down some stairs to a large basement room. On the stone floor, a half-dozen women dressed in white robes were dancing barefoot, swaying, their eyes closed, as a muscular, dark-skinned man provided a hypnotic rhythm on a colorfully decorated drum. Mesmerized, we sat on wicker chairs to observe the scene.

  As we watched, one of the women went into a trance. She stood out from the other women in the room because her head was clean-shaven. Her face was thin, her cheekbones p
rominent. I could not stop looking at her. The room was still as her body shook and she fell to the floor. For a while she was motionless. Then she rose up, lit a cigar, opened her eyes, and beckoned to Maria.

  Maria walked toward her as if she were hypnotized, as if she had no choice.

  “Your name is Maria?” the psychic asked.

  “It is,” she said, her voice a monotone.

  “You are in great danger. Someone wants to kill you.”

  “Who?” Maria asked.

  “I do not know. But I feel the presence of evil around you.”

  “You have to tell me who wants to kill me,” Maria said, panic in her voice.

  The mystic handed her cigar to another woman nearby, closed her eyes, and fell to the floor again. She swayed back and forth, then opened her eyes and looked at Maria.

  “You have taken something that belongs to this person. If you don’t give it back, you will be killed.”

  “You have to tell me more about whoever it is who wants to harm me,” Maria said, shaking the mystic’s arm.

  The woman slumped over, her head in her lap, and was silent, unreachable.

  Maria returned to our group, shaken. Mary Louise, our mother hen, pulled a chair over for her to sit on and knelt beside her.

  “You can’t believe anything she said. She doesn’t know you, Maria. She’s just making all that stuff up. It’s her job to be dramatic like that.”

  Maria shook her head. “These people have special powers. They can see things nobody else can. I believe her. She knew my name. There was no way she could have known my name.” She looked around at the rest of us, fear in her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I brought you here because I thought it would be different from anything you would see at home, but I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this.” She gave a short laugh.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear anything one of these mystics would tell me, but I could see that Gini was practically bursting to interact with them. As a documentary filmmaker, she’s always looking for new subjects to explore. She had already made a prize-winning film about Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, and I could tell she sniffed another unusual experience in this cellar in Rio.

  Tina got Maria a glass of water. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I will be,” she said, but she didn’t look at all sure of that.

  Janice, who was always up for anything, obviously wanted to be beckoned by one of the women in white. She tried waving at one of them, but nothing happened. They ignored her. That was probably the first time that ever happened to Jan.

  The drumbeat began again, softly at first, then louder and stronger, rhythmically, hypnotically, and the women in white moved their bodies back and forth, their arms reaching up, their eyes closed, their heads turning from side to side. My own body began to sway. I couldn’t help it.

  A tall woman in the center opened her eyes wide and motioned to Gini. “Come,” she said in Portuguese. Gini grabbed Maria and dragged her to the middle of the floor in front of the mystic. Maria obviously didn’t want to go back there, but as our translator, she was forced to follow Gini.

  “I see you in India,” the woman said. Gini gasped. She had just returned from India with her boyfriend, Alex, attempting to adopt a little girl she had met while filming a documentary on orphanages in New Delhi. There was no way this woman could possibly have known that. Gini leaned forward to hear the mystic’s next words.

  “You left something there that is very precious to you,” the psychic said, covering her eyes with long bony fingers. “You must go back and get it.”

  “Will I be able to do that?” Gini asked through Maria.

  “It will be more difficult than you are anticipating, but you will be successful eventually. You must keep going back there until your wish is granted.” The woman turned away from Gini and her eyes widened when she looked at Maria.

  “You . . .” she said. “You . . .” and she fell to the floor.

  Gini put her arm around Maria and led her back to us. “Don’t pay any attention to her,” she said.

  “You paid attention to what she told you, didn’t you?” Maria demanded.

  “Well, of course. I want to believe her, but I—”

  Maria grabbed Gini by the shoulders. “How did she know you were in India?”

  “Oh, they probably have hidden microphones around the room, and they heard me talking about it before,” Gini said.

  I knew Gini hadn’t been talking about her little girl in the Indian orphanage this evening, but I kept my mouth shut. I must say, though, I was curious. How did the so-called mystic know this? I mean with all the places in the world she could have mentioned, why did she pick India? Listen, I don’t believe in all this mystical stuff, but I had to admit that there are things that happen all the time that we can’t understand. I try not to let that sneak into my therapy, but it’s not always easy. There often seems to be some other force at work that I can’t explain.

  Janice didn’t wait to be summoned. She walked up to the nearest psychic, whose face was gaunt and pale, and put her hands together in a pleading way. Her face is so beautiful, it’s hard for people to resist anything she asks. Her perfect complexion and her velvety blue eyes are very hard to resist. She never consciously uses her beauty to get what she wants, but almost everyone responds to her. Must be nice.

  The psychic stared at Janice and said something to her in Portuguese. Janice realized she needed Maria and beckoned to her. Janice pointed to the translator and the woman repeated what she had said.

  “What did she say, Maria?” Janice asked.

  “She asked if you would have a drink with her,” Maria said, trying not to laugh.

  I was close enough to hear this exchange, and I did laugh. Who would have expected that?

  I should explain that I live with a woman I love very much—her name is Denise. I have always been attracted to women, though I tried to deny it for a long time. When I finally accepted this truth about myself, I found peace. Denise and I have been happy together since we met on a train in Spain the Happy Hoofers were hired to dance on. Her son, David, lives with us, and I couldn’t love him more if he were my own son. He’s a sensitive, loving, brilliant boy who brings so much joy into my life.

  The whole idea that this mysterious, mystical, eerie experience should turn into an invitation for a drink from a mystic attracted to Janice delighted me.

  Janice looked startled at first, and then she smiled.

  “Maria,” she said, “please thank her for me and tell her I’m busy tonight.”

  Maria repeated the message in Portuguese. The woman looked disappointed, but she put her hands on Janice’s face and said in English, “Beautiful. You will always be lucky.”

  Janice smiled and touched the woman’s face, “Obrigada, senhora.” That was one of the few Portuguese words I knew. It meant “Thank you.”

  None of us wanted to leave, but Maria gathered us up and led us back up the stairs and into the van waiting to take us back to the hotel. I could tell she was still shaken by what the psychic had said to her, but she did her best to pretend she wasn’t.

  “So what did you think?” she asked us. “Were you convinced that those women had magical powers?

  “Well, I’d sure like to know how she knew about Amalia in India,” Gini said. “That was spooky. But I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Thanks for taking us there, Maria.”

  “You’re welcome, my doubting one,” Maria said. “I sincerely hope she was wrong about someone wanting to kill me.” She shivered involuntarily.

  “Of course she was,” Gini said. “Why would anyone want to kill you?”

  Maria didn’t say anything for a minute. “Well . . .” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but she shook her head and said, “I can’t imagine.”

  Why didn’t I believe her?

  We arrived at the hotel. Maria walked with us to the elevator and said, “Meet me in the Piano Bar for a drink i
n an hour. It’s beautiful late at night, and I’d love to know all of you better.”

  We went back to our rooms to unwind a bit.

  “Did you believe those mystics, Gini?” I asked.

  “Well, I have to admit, she blew my mind when she brought up India, Pat. How on earth could she know about that? I said there must have been hidden mikes in that room, and maybe there were, but I don’t remember talking about Amalia and the orphanage while we were there. Did I?”

  “I’m pretty sure you didn’t,” I said. “That surprised me too. But you seemed so calm about it.”

  “I just didn’t want to show how shaken I was,” she said.

  “Well, let’s hope she was wrong about someone planning to kill Maria. I’d like to get through this week without anybody being murdered.”

  Gini nodded. “It certainly seems to happen a lot when we show up,” she said.

  “Are you ready?” I asked. “Let’s go downstairs.”

  We went down to the bar, which lived up to Maria’s description. Long and gleaming, with comfortable stools and elegant little tables near a grand piano where a man played soft, soothing music, it was the perfect place to relax and talk about our first day in Rio. We sat down at a table near the piano, where our friends had already gathered.

  “I’m so glad we have Maria as our guide,” Tina said. She was wearing a pale blue silky top and pants that made her blue eyes even more beautiful than usual. “She obviously knows Rio well and can take us to places like that weird house with those women in white. That was great—except for the part about someone planning to kill her, of course. That was spooky.”

  “I loved it,” Janice said, her blond hair swept back off her bare shoulders, “but I had the feeling that Maria doesn’t like me all that much. I don’t know why.”

  “She probably thought you were trying to steal her boyfriend—the hotel manager, Miguel,” Gini said. “He zeroed in on you right away. I saw the look on Maria’s face when he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”