Kitabı oku: «The Right Kind Of Wrong Girl», sayfa 2
Chapter three
“My life used to be whisky, tears and cigarettes.”
Pink
Malu
When I arrive home, slamming the door after passing, I see my eyes on the mirror, surrounded by mascara smudges and puffy for crying so hard. That is the last time I shed tears for them. This bond is definitively broken after what happened today.
Going back home is always extremely hard. I don’t even know if I can call going to the house of those who brought me into the world as going home, since that big house has never been a real home for me. The Honorable Judge Eduardo Figueiroa Bragança and socialite Mrs. Lucia Bragança, a.k.a. my parents, are not the definition of real parents. They’ve been married for many years in a sort of family agreement, once they’re belong to the elite of our small hometown high society.
My parents’ house is a mansion that, for me, feels more like a dungeon. Impeccably arranged with everything exactly in the right place, that house is extremely oppressing for a free spirit like myself. My parents are cold, indifferent, distant. The only kisses and hugs I remember came from the nannies or housekeepers who, surreptitiously, tried their best to give me a normal childhood. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so physically needy nowadays. I’m a tactile person, someone who likes taking, touching, holding, speaking through my hands and very fond of human affection.
When my brother, who’s two years younger than me, was born, I believed that finally I’d have someone to whom I could give all those things exploding in my chest. I figured he’d be someone to share feelings with me and be my friend. My mistake.
Eduardo Jr. – God forbid calling him Du, Dudu, Edu or any other nickname, which would mean the end of the world for him – is almost a small replica of my parents. He used to study very hard and, by the age of fifteen, he was admitted in one of the most applied to colleges in the country. All he wants is being a judge like my father, while I hate law and dream of studying and living from my art. Obviously, the perfect couple wouldn’t allow that. I had to come to Law school, with grades barely making through the semester and skipping more classes than watching. I feel trapped like a convict on the death row, who can’t catch a glimpse of solution to that problem.
In big city, I live in one of my parents’ properties and, obviously, they support me financially so I can graduate and, in the future, follow a career they’ve chosen for me.
Concurrently, I paint. As no one pays me a visit, I turned one of the bedrooms in an atelier where I spend hours and hours of my day finding happiness. I paint faces, landscapes, abstractions which come to mind while I sleep. As I must report my expanses and my parents would never allow me to spend money with dyes, canvases or brushes, I work at a bar in the evenings, waiting tables from Thursdays to Sundays, using the rest of the week to paint or, when I managed to get up early, to go to classes. I earn good money with tips, which allows me to invest in my art materials.
For obvious reasons, after some time with this busy life, my body has started to complain, as does my heart. I spend more time depressed than feeling good about myself, but I try my best to hide all the things that make my soul ache. Cigarettes are my major daily companion, and canvases, where I pour my heart in. However, for everyone else, I make a point of always expressing joy and not letting anyone see my pain.
The only one who knows me too well to let my feelings to pass overseen is Rafa. We’ve already been friends for four years, but he knows me better than I know myself. He hates my job at the bar, because he thinks the guys may take advantage of me, as if I were a fragile flower, something I’m not. I’m more of a Maleficent than a Snow White.
He knows about my love for the arts and my hatred for Law school. After some conversations about it, I managed to gather the courage to tell my parents that I’m changing majors in college. Rafa has already graduated and, without him there to support me, I know I can’t go through with Law school.
I wander around the house and go to my bedroom. Looking at a large mirror hanging in the wardrobe door, I see through that gloomy track of dark tears on my face, a purple bruise on my cheek. When I take off my checked long-sleeved shirt, I can see my pale skin ornated with tattoos, as well as the finger marks left by a tight grip. I also take off my jeans, standing only in my underwear in front of the mirror, to see the belt marks on my legs.
I close my eyes, but I can still hear their cries and curses. Tramp, bum, whore, those were some of the names he used to refer to me. I look at myself in the mirror, not recognizing that painful image standing in front of me. Tasting the blood in my mouth, I promise myself that this is the last time he mistreats me like this. I’ll never let him hit me again, physically or verbally.
Then, I go to the bathroom, seeking comfort in a hot shower, knowing that this is what I need to gather strength to act. I take about thirty minutes in the shower, allowing water to run through my long-dyed hair while I think about what I’m going to do next.
I get off the shower and call Tito, the manager at the bar where I work.
“Hi, Malu,” he says picking up.
“Hi, Tito. Sorry for the short notice, but I can’t make it tonight.”
“Are you still at your parents’?” he asks me, sounding truly worried.
“No, sweetie, I’m back already. But I’m not feeling well. I’m going to take a painkiller and lie down. Maybe I’m just tired after a long trip.” I reply hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions. I hate lies and I’d never be able to hide anything from him. Tito is probably fifty-something but sounds like a sixteen-year-old boy. Surfer, jokester and a good company, he’s a wonderful person and always treats me with the utmost respect. He gave me a job even though he knew I had no experience in bars besides drinking.
“So, rest, Little Malu. I’ll take care of everything here.”
I thank him and hang up, promising to take care of myself. After drying body and hair, I untangle my hair in front of the bathroom mirror. My hair is now platinum blond with dark roots, and long as never before. Before I have the chance to think, I take some scissors and cut them at neck length, pouring all my frustration on those long locks. I look back at my own reflection and realize that now my hair is uneven. My eyes, puffy and red for all the crying, added an even sadder look to my appearance. Damn.
Then, I go to the living room wrapped in my towel. I grab a whiskey bottle and I pour a generous dose on a glass, lighting a cigarette right after. Turning on some music, I sit down on the balcony chaise.
Amy Winehouse’s melancholy voice gets me lost in my thoughts until I’m brought back by the noise of the front door being opened and of someone calling my name.
“Where are you, Malu?” Rafa is the only one, besides me, who has the key to the apartment. I gave him a spare key when he started complaining about me shutting down from everything else when I paint, and he was left outside ringing the doorbell without being heard.
“Balcony,” I replied taking the glass to my lips and making no mention of getting up. I watch him carefully, realizing he’s even more handsome today than he ever was. Almost twenty-four years of age and working for a large Law firm, he barely resembles the boy I met on my first day of college. He is a man now. His body is stronger, improved by a blue shirt and jeans pants. His short hair and shaved face make him look all grown-up. The only things that haven’t changed are his intoxicating perfume and tanned skin. Rafa loved being outside and outdoor activities.
“I went to the bar and Tito said you were not working today. How did the conversation with your parents go?” He asks turning on the balcony lights while I take a drag from my half-finished cigarette.
“I need to move out,” I say without facing him. I don’t want to move a muscle, because my whole body hurts.
“Holy shit, Malu! What’s that on your face? What happened to your hair?” he asks clearly sounding alarmed. I reach for my uneven locks of hair while a single tear escapes from my eyes.
“I also need a hairdresser,” I reply turning my eyes back to the balcony skyline view. He comes closer, sitting right next to me. After he takes the empty glass out of my hands and puts out my cigarette, he holds me in his arms and lifts me up.
“Come on, I’ll take care of you,” he says in a low voice, taking me back inside the apartment. I snuggle up against his chest, allowing myself the relief of knowing that I’m not alone. Not completely.
Chapter four
“What defines us is how we rise after falling.”
John Hughes
Rafa
Finding Malu in that state feels like a punch to the gut. She is a complete mess: unevenly cut hair, swollen face, puffy eyes and a considerable purple bruise on her cheek.
I take her to her room, which looks like it was struck by a tornado: clothes everywhere, a suitcase thrown in a corner, a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. I take her to bed, help her wear a T-shirt from her closet, taking off the wet towel she was wrapped in. She lies down curled in a fetal position and I cover her with a comforter. While she rests, I pick up her stuff from the floor, hang the wet towel and sweep off the hair from the bathroom floor. When everything is finally organized, I take off my shoes and lie down next to her on the bed, holding her in my arms.
Beyond desire, Malu brings up tenderness in me in a way nobody else can. Deep inside that strong and vibrant woman, there’s a little girl hidden, who hardly ever shows up.
Just the thought of what may have happened makes my heart bleed. She left home to visit her parents with no bruises on her face or anywhere on her body. Unfortunately, I must wait until tomorrow to find out.
I let my hand walk through her left arm, the one she uses to paint, caressing it lightly. When I reach her thin wrist, what I see brings a smile to my lips. There, pending on her hand, is my gift for her nineteenth birthday, which she hasn’t taken off since. Touching her wrist, I feel the cold metal from the bracelet from which two pendants hang. The first one is a silver paint palette with a small golden brush to remind her of never giving up on the art she loves so much. The second one is a joke of the fact she doesn’t believe in love: an adorable silver frog wearing a tiny golden crown representing what she usually says about men: there’s no prince charming – all men are frogs in disguise. I smile at the thought of, year after year, she hasn’t taken that bracelet off. That’s something representing our bond, which may be something beyond friendship… we’re almost a family, even if it’s a dysfunctional one.
Little by little, the sound of her breath becomes constant, indicating that Malu has fallen asleep. I get lost on the strawberry perfume on her hair, the soft touch of her small body close to mine and the constant movements of my thumb on her wrist. In a couple of minutes, I fall into a deep sleep.
****
Both the sunlight and a smell of coffee wake me up. I open my eyes to realize that I’m not on my own bed, but on Malu’s. I get up in a sudden jump, wear my pants, which was lying on an armchair, and follow that wonderful smell.
I expect to find Malu still a bit down, with tears in her eyes, but the woman who greets me in the kitchen is totally different. Her hair, cut in a complete uneven fashion, was wavy to hide the bad cut. Her face, wearing heavy makeup, doesn’t show any sadness or bruises. She’s wearing a short sleeved blue dress which let part of her arm tattoo exposed, as well as the black rose covering her left ankle and feet.
“Morning, honey.” She greets me with a peck on my lips, as she usually does, and a coffee mug.
“Morning,” I say, taking a sip. “How are you doing?”
She takes a deep breath and turns around to face me with a smile. I know she’s playing strong and I’m proud of her for not letting that event take her down.
“I’m doing fine. I need your help…” she begins walking towards the living room, follow by me.
“I wanna know what happened, Malu. And don’t even begin by saying it was nothing.”
She lets her head down, takes a deep breath and nods in agreement.
“I did everything as planned. I went there, explained that I’m not happy so I want to change majors, that there’s no way I can get through this shitty course they want me to take.” She begins her narrative, and I don’t interrupt her. “First, the Judge yelled at me. He said his money doesn’t grow on trees and I’m going to finish to course one way or another. When I said I wouldn’t, he jumped over me saying he wouldn’t take it.”
“Did he hit you?”
“Yeap. He gave me thirty days to find an apartment I can afford with my own money, since I’d never be able to afford a place like this. He suspended my allowance, my tuition and everything else. Oh, and he also said I’m a whore who doesn’t belong to that family anymore.”
“You’re not a whore” I replied feeling irritated.
“The first virgin whore in history” she says laughing and I help but laughing of her sense of humor. “If you had had sex with me, at least there would have been some truth in it.”
“You deserve more than some guy with relationship issues.”
“Save it, Rafa. Who says I even want a relationship? I’ve told you already that I don’t believe in any of this eternal love shit.” She shakes her frog bracelet to remind me of where she stands.
“If you didn’t believe in it, you wouldn’t still be a virgin.”
“I must stop hanging out with you. All the guys who want to bang me are afraid of being punched by you.” I can’t help but laughing of what she’s saying. “I don’t know of one single relationship that has worked out or of a love story that has lasted forever. This is soap opera material – or movies, for that matter. Love is a son of a bitch invented for delusional fools.”
“What should I do with you, Malu?” She’s the most honest person I’ve ever met.
“How about helping me figure out my life? I don’t know what to do. After my life is settled down again, I’ll find some hot cutie to take me to bed and solve this inconvenient issue.”
“Damn it, Malu.”
“Damn you what? I’m sick and tired of this shit. I know you hold your horses because of that. You think I don’t feel your little buddy all agitated when I’m around? This way, when one of us is need of a more intimate care, we may turn to each other as we already do when we need someone to talk. You won’t have to search for skanks on the streets anymore.”
“Foul mouth.”
“Stubborn.” She smiles and I can’t help thinking about everything she just said. “Well, but before pleasure, I must decide what to do. I have to move out from this apartment.” She looks around with sadness. I know how much she likes this place, where she’s been living for so long.
“You can stay at my place…”
“No way” she doesn’t even let me finish.
“But Malu…”
“Rafa, no. You have your own life. I don’t earn a lot at the bar, but I can always ask Tito to let me work more hours.”
My face shows how unpleased I am at the same time I try to think of a way of finding her another job. Suddenly, an idea emerges.
“Let me take a look at your atelier.”
“What? Why?”
“Just because. Come on, move this pretty ass and open the mystery room door. I want to check it out.”
She unwillingly leads me to the bedroom she keeps locked out, as if she’s hiding a big secret there. When she opens the door, the smell of paint and thinner hits us. She walks in and opens the curtains, while I wander around surprised at what I see.
I thought there would be average paintings. For what Malu has told me, she’s never taken art classes and everything she knows, she’s taught herself or learned by watching videos on the internet. She uses her sixth sense to lay on canvas what’s on her imagination. However, to my surprise, her work seems really good. Of course, I’m no art expert, but to the best of my little knowledge, I could see great potential. I head to a pile of paintings in a corner: landscapes, people, a boy on a surfboard trying a maneuver, half the face of a sad woman with black tears running through her cheek. Those paintings bring up different feelings for me. I immediately reach for my phone in my pocket and call Hellen.
Hellen’s a friend of my parents who owns an art gallery. By the age of fifty, she possesses an incomparable sincerity. She’d be able to take a look at Malu’s production and evaluate if we could get anything for it.
“Have you ever shown anyone these paintings? Like, selling or something like that?” I ask Malu while I wait in line.
“No, never” she replies, to which I shake my head turning my attention to the phone.
“Hi, Hellen. Rafael Monteiro here. How are you? I’m great. Sorry for bothering you so early, but I need your professional opinion. A friend of mine has some paintings and today she’s finally agreed to show me. I’m no expert, but I thought them quite good. Could you take a look and give us an expert opinion? She has to decide if she’s still going to pursue a career in arts and we’d really appreciate an evaluation from a professional. Sure, I’ll text you the address right away. Looking forward to hearing from you. Thank you.”
“What was that?” she asks looking confused.
“Hellen owns an art gallery. She’s stopping by in a couple of minutes. Apparently, she’s been looking for a new artist to exhibit in her gallery for about months now, since the one who was booked decided to leave everything behind and move to Paris.
“Exhibit?” Malu sounds strangely scared.
“What? Isn’t that the goal when someone paints?
“Oh… I don’t know.” She looks at me apparently lost. I pull her closer to hug her.
“What about this? Hellen stops by to take a look at your paintings and tell us if you have a chance of turning this into a career. Then, we’ll see what to do about the house situation. When your grandparents died, haven’t they left you and your brother some sort of trust fund?
“I suppose so, but the Judge has always told me I could only get access to it by the age of twenty-seven.”
“Do you have any paper attesting that?”
“I don’t know” she looks at me, takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I don’t even know what a paper like this looks like. What kind of shitty Law student am I?”
I look at her and can’t help but laughing of her frustration.
“Come on, my dear foul-mouthed girl. Show me where you keep your papers and I’ll search for it.”
Chapter five
“And maybe I wanted to give up, but maybe, just this once, I should move on.”
Ana Carolina
Malu
All that fear that I hadn’t felt when facing the possibility of starting over hits me now that Rafa has called that art gallery woman. Holy shit! I’m not ready to show anyone my amateur artwork. It’s hard enough to have him wandering around and touching my stuff, let alone having a stranger here.
Feeling my whole body trembling, I go to my bedroom where all my papers are. I feel stupid for not having any idea about my rights. At least, I’m organized regarding my paperwork. I come back to my atelier to find Rafa standing still, looking at one of my paintings on an easel. Curious to know what’s that he’s looking at so closely, since the easel was facing backwards, I get into the bedroom holding a folder in my hands and stop right next to him. Hum… shit.
“Where did you find this?” I ask, putting the folder over a stand, suddenly feeling shy.
“In that corner over there.” He points to some paintings which were leaning to a cupboard. I don’t even remember putting them there.
The painting he’s looking at is a self-portrait in watercolors. It’s a nude, wherein I’m lying down on a canopy bed with red satin sheets, displaying an uneven Chanel haircut style in my natural color: black. I had my breasts exposed and my hips covered by a thin almost-transparent fabric. Beyond the red sheets, the spotlight was on my tattoos: colorful flowers on my right shoulder, a sentence in an infinity shape on my wrist and a rose starting from my left ankle going all the way down to my foot.
My face had a serious look, with languid eyes and parted lips. It’s definitely a sexy portrait, but I’ve never considered sharing it with anyone.
Without saying a word, I come closer and lift the painting up to put it back where it was.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Putting it away. You were not supposed to see it.”
“Why not?”
“Just because. I haven’t painted it for showing publicly. There are some things that are personal.”
“That’s your most beautiful piece. It’s sexy, sweet, inspiring. You must show her” he says in a low voice, which makes me stop midway. I lean my head down and he comes closer, holding my arms from behind.
“No… I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me feel… exposed.”
“It’s beautiful, Malu. If there’s one painting, she should see, that’s the one. You must share your art with others.” He says precisely the one thing that would be able to convince me at the exact moment the doorbell rings. He takes the painting off my hands, put it back on the easel and, holding my hand, walks towards the front door.
A petite old lady with blond hair up on a bun is standing at the door. She’s wearing a beautiful green dress, low heel shoes, and an elegant handbag. Her makeup is impeccable and, when she sees Rafa, she opens a welcoming smile and hugs him, who, in turn, leans down to kiss her on the cheek.
“What a pleasure to meet you again, my dear. You’re using your hair short now, so handsome” she says making him smile.
“That’s my pleasure, Hellen. It’s been many years since we’ve met in person, hasn’t it? You still remember me with long hair.”
“Actually, last time we’ve met in your father’s place, your hair was neck length, and you were still rebelling against adulthood conventions.”
Rafa laughs loud and hard before inviting her in. She stopped right in front of me, measuring me from head to toe. Shit. I should be wearing something more… adequate? She then smiles.
“And who are you?”
“Er… Malu.”
“How exotic. Just Malu?” she asks me, making me feel a bit embarrassed for not introducing myself properly. If the Judge could see me now, my manners would make him pass out.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Maria Luiza Bragança, but nobody calls me that. Just my father.”
“Nice to meet you, Malu. Hellen Torres.” She shakes my hand and pulls me for a hug. After greeting me, she turns back to Rafa. “Is your girlfriend the artist?”
“We’re not dating”, I reply quickly, before she gets things the wrong way.
“Malu is a friend of mine, Hellen. She’s leaving Law School because painting is what she really likes. I’ve found a whole world of paintings in a bedroom she uses as her atelier. I’d like you to take a look at them to see if her skills have trade value enough for her to consider a full-time dedication.”
“Well, you both know how hard it is to make a living with art in this country” she says, following Rafa to my atelier, “but…”
She gets in and comes across that painting Rafa had placed over the easel, but now facing the door.
Hellen suddenly stops talking and walks towards the painting, watching it in silence. With my whole body trembling, I feel a lump in my throat that won’t let me breath. I leave the room in pursuit of a cigarette and some water.
After drinking a whole glass of water in one gulp, I move to the balcony, where I light my cigarette and lean on the grid to look at the view. I’m not ready to hear someone saying my paintings are bad. Not at all.
I stay there for some time until Rafa joins me at balcony and holds my hand.
“Put out that cigarette and come with me.”
“No… you can tell me later whatever she said.”
“I can’t decide your exhibition details for you” he says. Suddenly I’m taken over by a choking cough episode. “I’m so tired of asking you to go easy on the cigarettes.”
While he stubs my cigarette out in the closest ashtray, I look at him jaw-dropped in complete disbelief.
“Holy fuck, Rafa, maybe the smoke’s clouded my brain. I could swear I heard you say ‘my exhibition’.” I say, air quoting and laughing, completely skeptical. He can’t be serious.
“Shhh! I’ll have to do something about this foul mouth of yours. That would probably scare all you potential clients” he says, popping my eyes out of my head. “She’s totally charmed in there with everything you’ve already done. But that painting you wouldn’t let anybody see is the one that Hellen is in love with. Come, she’s waiting.”
We walk towards the atelier to find that Hellen has a notebook now and she’s making an inventory of everything there.
“Oh, my dear! Such a talent! This one is my favorite. Have you named it?”
“No regrets” I reply, making her smile with sparkling eyes.
“Oh, that’s perfect! I’ve called in my assistant Jacques. He’s on his way and we’re going to make a full inventory of all these pieces for the exhibition. July 6th is our opening. We’re going to call it ‘Just Malu’ and, obviously, No regrets is going to be our main piece. We’re also going to have a cocktail with the press and other important guests. I believe you have enough for an exhibition! What’s the name of that one, with the surfer?” she asks, without a single breath between sentences. I can’t help but feel dizzy with everything that’s happening.
“Name? Drop” I reply, making her smile again. “It’s a surf slang, meaning going down the wave from crest to base” I explain, to which she smiles even more. Hellen takes her phone, still making notes and, suddenly, she’s talking to someone.
“Nuno, my dear! Hellen here! I’ve just found what you were looking for.” She listens for a while and speaks again. “You’re not going to believe this. I’ve found a new artist. She’s exhibiting in July, but one of her paintings is exactly what you had asked me before. You know I usually don’t choose favorites, but, in this case, I thought I better call you first. Check your email.”
She waits for a couple of minutes, and, suddenly, she’s speaking again.
“Isn’t it? It’s even more wonderful in person. Do you want to make an offer? How much? Oh, Nuno. Well, let’s wait for the exhibition then. No, my dear, this is definitely one of the names of the new generation of visual artists we’re talking about. What you’re offering me is dirt-cheap. We can start talking on twelve. But you know that in the exhibition, that would be at least eighteen.
Hellen proceeds to an intense discussion until, finally, the man gives in and she hangs up looking satisfied.
“Well, first sold painting.”
“Already?” Rafa and I ask at the same time.
“Sure, pumpkins. I’m not here to play!” She smiles and gives gentle pats on my cheek. “My commission is twenty percent. We’ve sold Drop for sixteen thousand and five hundred. Nuno is a regular client, and, by the end of the day, the money will be at the gallery’s bank account and I’ll transfer you share.
She keeps talking and I feel dizzy.
“You said sixteen thousand?”
“That’s right. Jacques must be almost here, he’ll bring a contract and take your information, including your bank data. It’s a good thing your lawyer is here” she says with a smile and goes back to her inventory.
I leave the room and go back to the balcony, reaching for a cigarette pack in my pocket. I’m about to light it when Rafa comes closer, takes the cigarette out of my lips and throw it away.
“Are you okay?”
“Sixteen thousand?” I ask, to which he nods smiling.
“Yes. You do have a bank account, right?”
“Just a joint account with the Judge” I reply, still dizzy.
“Well, after I check that contract and they’re done here, I’m taking you to a bank to get you one. This amount of money will be enough to rent an apartment and pay your bills for some time. With an exhibition in the horizon, I don’t see any reason to be worried, for now.”
I’m sitting down, facing the view from the balcony, looking ahead without actually seeing anything.
“Sixteen thousand?” I ask again, making Rafa laugh.
“Congrats, miss Artist. I’m proud of you” he says, taking me to sit on his lap, holding my body in a tight hug.
Here, with my body next to his, I come to the conclusion that, even when it seems that it’s better to just give up, moving forward might be the best option.
