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 Soldade

        "Who is he?"
        Wesley Tucker was looking at a young Carioca man whose purple shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel.
        "He used to be my boyfriend," Rosita said in perfect English.
        "His name is Luis."
        They were in a bar at Copacabana Beach drinking daquiris at a table. Luis stood at the bar, talking to his compadres and glancing over at the couple from time to time. It made Tucker nervous.
        "He doesn't look very happy," he remarked to the girl.
        "Ignore him," Rosita said, lifting her drink.
        "Maybe we should go somewhere else."
        She stared at him. "Are you afraid of Luis?"
        "Finish your drink," he said. "I have a bottle in my hotel room."
        Rosita shrugged and gulped the rest of her dacquiri. Tucker was glad she spoke good English. His Portuguese was awful, even though everyone joked that the language was just Spanish spoken badly. He had met Rosita on his first day in Rio. She was a dark-eyed mulatto beauty with shortish streaked hair and a quick smile. Tucker was a freelance travel writer and photographer touring Brazil to gather material for a magazine article. In every city he visited he liked to find a pretty girl to keep him company. For a little money the girls served as translators and he usually tried to seduce them. Rosita Machado was different than the others. She seduced him before he had a chance to make his pitch. She was fascinated when she discovered that he was a journalist and asked him endless questions about his job. She was both intelligent and a passionate lover, a combination that Tucker found irresistible. The fact that she was only twenty posed no problem. In Brazil middle-aged businessmen often had concubines her age. It was considered a mark of distinction and machismo.
        They went to his hotel room and made love. Afterward, Rosita padded around the room barefoot and naked, examining his word processor, cameras, clothes and other possessions. She had the curiosity of a primitive jungle native making contact with her first white man. Tucker remained in bed watching her with a smile. He felt a certain happy satisfaction to realize that he was the one who had made contact with this strangely beautiful creature. She reminded him of a lovely tropical bird soaring through the rainforests he had seen in the Amazon region.
        "Tomorrow morning I will take you to see Sugar Loaf," she announced.
        "I have to work tomorrow," he said.
        "Then I will come with you."
        He climbed out of bed and began dressing. "I want to go alone. You're too much of a distraction when I'm taking photographs."
        "But you will need a translator," she said.
        He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "You go to the beach tomorrow. I'll see you in the afternoon when I'm finished." Rosita looked disappointed until he gave her some money.
        "Buy something nice for yourself," he said.
        She smiled and wrapped her arms around him. "You are a very generous man."
        "I'm a prince," he laughed. "Now get dressed so we can go somewhere to eat. I'm famished."
        "I know a good restaurant," she said.
        "You always know a good restaurant," he teased, slapping her on the ass. "Hurry up before I starve."
        The following night they sat on the small patio of his hotel room, lazily watching the waves roll into the beach below. People were gathered around a few little wood fires burning in the sand and the sultry night air smelled of smoke and salt water. Tucker sipped his drink and glanced at Rosita, who seemed half-asleep in her chair. The scene had a dreamy perfection that made him smile in delight. Rio by the sea-o, he thought to himself. It was so much more comfortable than Sao Paolo, which he had detested. Sao Paolo was nothing but a frenetic labor camp while the Cariocas knew how to slow down and enjoy life. Tucker made up his mind to stay in Rio for the remainder of his time in Brazil. His magazine article would focus on the good points of this wonderful city. Of course, Rio had poverty like every city he had seen. But even poor Cariocas seemed much happier than the average Brazilian in other areas of the country. And nearly every slum neighborhood in Rio had marvelous views of scenic tropical beauty from one spot or another. He had taken dozens of photographs that day and the backgrounds seemed to transform the ugliness of the shanties into a picturesque quaintness.
        Rosita suddenly roused herself to speak. "I saw Luis at the beach this morning. I think he has been following me."
        "Why would he follow you?" Tucker asked.
        "He is a jealous beast," she said. "He used to beat me for looking at other men."
        "What did you say to him?"
        "I told him I belonged to you now. I said you were an important man who would have him arrested if he did not stop bothering me."
        Tucker laughed at her spunk. "Good for you."
        "I do not think he believed me," she said. "He smiled and said he would see me again."
        "Is he dangerous?"
        "I told you he beat me. If we went to the Amazon, he would not follow us."
        "We've already had this discussion before, Soldade."
        It was a nickname he had taken to calling her lately. The Brazilian word had a subtle meaning that was difficult to translate into precise English. Paradoxically, it described a sad nostalgia for things that had never been experienced. Also nostalgia for things that never existed and possibly never could exist. Rosita felt soldade about the Amazon. She longed to "return," even though she had never been there in the first place. She claimed she could clearly see herself walking through the Amazon rainforest as if it were a memory, not fantasy. She pleaded with Tucker to take her to the Amazon, but he wouldn't comply.
        "There is no Amazon left," he would say. "They chopped it down to make cattle ranches for McDonald's hamburgers." It was true to a lamentable degree, but Rosita refused to believe him. In any event she couldn't "return" to the Amazon and so she was sad in the peculiar way known as soldade. Tucker wondered if the theory of parallel universes could explain this curious emotion. According to the theory, each time a person chose A instead of B, another "self" took path B in a separate universe. Perhaps Rosita's other self had once visited the Amazon jungle and that's why she felt nostalgia for the place. Tucker had experienced deja-vu himself when he first saw Rio. Parts of the city looked strikingly familiar to him, which was odd since he had seen no photographs in advance. Had another self visited Rio in a parallel universe? Was some other Tucker back home in Chicago at this very moment while he gazed at Copacabana beach?
        At times these notions had a powerful effect on his mind, imbuing everything he saw with an aura of uncertainty. This was especially disconcerting since his job was capturing the reality of a place in words and pictures.
        Rosita laughed when he confessed his misgivings. "You think too much," she said. "It is making you loco."
        "Maybe you're right," he said. "Or maybe I'm just getting old."
        "You are still young."
        "I'm old enough to be your father," he said.
        "My father is dead."
        "You haven't spoken of your family until now."
        "I have two sisters and a brother. They live with my mother."
        "How often do you see them?"
        "I left home to live with Luis when I was eighteen. My mother hated him."
        "I'd like to meet your family."
        "We do not talk," she said, looking away. "I send them money when I can afford it."
        He touched her on the cheek. "Don't be sad. I'm here with you."
        "And you will take me to the Amazon?"
        Tucker grinned at her. "You never give up, do you?"
        She leaned over and kissed him softly.
        "I'll make a compromise," he said. "Tomorrow I'll let you take me to Sugar Loaf."
        "But I have seen Sugar Loaf many times," she pouted.
        "Not with me," he said. "I'll take many photographs of you."
        "You will put them in a magazine?"
        "Only a few. But you will be the beautiful girl from Rio de Janeiro and thousands of men will dream of you each night." Rosita shivered as her face lit up. "I will be very famous!" she cried, throwing her arms around Tucker.
        She was so easy to please he felt a twinge of guilt for misleading her. She wouldn't be immortalized like "The Girl from Ipanema" in the song, but a lot of men would dream of her if he managed to sell the article and photographs to a popular travel magazine such as Conde Nast.
        At four in the morning Tucker woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Rosita lay beside him, breathing softly in her sleep. She was thin and looked fragile like a little girl. He got out of bed and wandered to the patio in his underpants. There were still a few people on the beach, but the fires were out. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nostrils. A few minutes later he jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
        "What is wrong?" Rosita asked.
        "Nothing," he whispered. "Go back to bed."
        "Come with me."
        "I'm not sleepy." He looked up at her. "Go back to bed." She ignored what he said and took a seat. "Are you unhappy?"
        "Leave me alone, Soldade."
        "I do not understand."
        He tossed the cigarette into the street below and gritted his teeth. Why didn't women understand that a man needed to be alone sometimes?
        "For the last time I'm telling you to go back to bed," he said.
        "Why?"
        "Goddamn it!" he shouted.
        She ran into the room and fell on the bed. A moment later Tucker heard her sobbing. It was always the same old game, he thought. She would cry herself to sleep and tomorrow I would have to make it up to her. What a boring ritual! If she had only stayed asleep like a good little girl, the whole mess could have been avoided. He lit another cigarette and listened to Rosita sobbing.
        At six she was asleep when Tucker ordered breakfast through room service. She woke up when the meal arrived with a knock on the door. They ate in silence until Tucker could stand it no longer.
        "Are you going to be mad at me all day?" he asked.
        She set down her cup of coffee and said something in Portuguese that sounded like a curse word.
        Tucker smiled and said, "What does that mean?"
        "You are a beast like Luis," she said.
        "I didn't beat you."
        She glared at him. "You beat me with words."
        "I'm sorry, Rosita. When I can't sleep, I have to be alone."
        "Then I will leave," she said, standing up.
        He grabbed her by the arm. "Don't be ridiculous. Sit down and eat your breakfast."
        She pulled away and plopped down in her chair with a sulky look.
        "I promise I won't do it again," he said. "You know I would be lost in Rio without you."
        By noon all was forgiven. Tucker bought her a new dress which she wore on the trip to Sugar Loaf. Rosita dragged him around by the hand , talking incessantly, stopping occasionally to give him a quick kiss. He shot two rolls of film, mostly of her posing like a fashion model. She was happy again and her happiness was contagious. Watching her laugh and dance around, he experienced a magic moment when he thought he might actually be in love with her.
        After lunch, they walked hand in hand through the bustling streets of Rio. At one point Rosita led Tucker into a deserted alleyway where they kissed and fondled each other.
        Tucker looked up and flinched when he recognized Luis approaching. The young man stopped in front of them and said something to Rosita in Portuguese. His face hardened and his eyes glittered with anger when she responded in Portuguese. Tucker stepped closer to speak and Luis pulled out a switchblade knife. Rosita screamed and Tucker saw the blade flash toward him. He thrust out one hand to block Luis' arm and felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. Luis dropped the knife and ran. Tucker sank to his knees and clutched his bloody shirt. He let out a strangled gasp and Rosita screamed again. She lowered him onto his back on the pavement, shouting for help.
        Tucker's field of vision blurred at the edges. For a moment he had the sensation of floating in water. It seemed like he was drifting in the ocean at Copacabana beach, gazing up at a cloudless sky. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of soldade. He wondered if he was actually in Rio or remembering a place he had never seen. He closed his eyes and pictured himself on the snowy streets of Chicago. He could almost feel the icy wind sweeping off of Lake Michigan. An instant later his mind went blank.