Ellen Datlow - Off Limits

Estela stood and undressed. She climbed into the bath and slid down between Cledilce’s legs, leaning back against her breasts. She felt wet kisses on her shoulders and neck, and hard flesh prodding against her back. She turned round, kneeling in the water and took Cledilce’s cock in her mouth. In her mind she was already dreaming of Berlin.

Deborah came by to help them prepare for the parade. They sat drinking bottles of Pará beer as they made alterations to their gowns of feathers and silk. Tonight, bedecked in these extravagant costumes, Estela and Cledilce would lead the Salgueiro school down to the asphalt at the Sambódromo.

Cledilce said, “Estela’s worried ’bout the operation.”

“It’ll be okay,” Deborah said. “They’re investing a lot of money in you both.”

“Will I be able to feel anything when I’m fucking?” Estela said.

“You should ask Thessinger.”

“Would you do this, if you had the choice?” Estela asked her.

“She don’t have that choice,” Cledilce said, bluntly.

“Cledilce is right,” Deborah said, draining her bottle. “I could never be a Bird like you.”

Estela gave her a puzzled stare. She sensed a muted hostility and wondered if Deborah regretted sleeping with her. “I didn’t mean—”

Cledilce cut her off. “You spent all this time fucking with your mouth; now you gonna have a chance to try the real thing.”

“Well, I gotta go,” Deborah said. “I told Griffiths I’d pick Thessinger up and get him something to eat before the parade.” She stood up. “Now, lemme have a look at you.” She draped the scarlet gown over Estela. Tall, black feathers sprouted from the back and shoulders, creating a panoply of star-flecked night. She helped Cledilce into a black gown adorned with scarlet feathers, then stood back, staring at them. “You’re like two creatures from a dream.”

Estela leaned forward self-consciously and embraced her. “I’ll be watching for your face in the crowd, Sugar,” she said.

“Sure,” Deborah said, then she nodded to Cledilce and left.

Ninety thousand people had crowded into the seventeen-hundred-meter-long Sambódromo to watch the competition. The Beija Flor had already completed their routine, as had the pink and black of the Mangueira school. Now it was the turn of the Salgueiro; fueled by Aktives and amyl nitrate, they had worked themselves up into a state of feverish excitement and could hardly wait. When the signal came, the baterias began pounding out a relentless beat. Estela and Cledilce, leading a dozen or so magnificently arrayed performers, began to move slowly from the assembly area into the cauldron of the stadium itself. They were assaulted by a deafening roar and by waves of clammy heat; fireworks exploded in the sky overhead like a portent of some imagined apocalypse. Estela felt the blood begin to boil in her veins as the routines she had been practicing for the best part of a year took hold of her limbs and set her cutting a sinuous swath through the rainbowed night. Around her, Cledilce and the others flowed with liquid speed, intoxicated by complex rhythms as if they had freed themselves from invisible bonds. She, too, was aware of the sense of release, and as she danced she found it impossible to stick to the set routine. Alien maneuvers were imposed on her body and brain as she instinctively moved ahead of her companions and abandoned herself to a display of raucous sexuality, a primitive, vital, and threatening explosion of angry desire that exposed the sham hypocrisy of what Carnaval had become. Aktives exploded in her skull as heat consumed and transformed her into a creature of the air.

For an eternity there was only the music and the choreographed chaos of the dance as she lost all sense of place, time, and identity. She felt herself raised up above the noise and light that comprised her universe, and she understood for once what it was to fly.

Coming down in the Sambódromo, cradled in Cledilce’s arms, Estela felt no elation when she learned that her school had been awarded first prize; she felt only a sense of loss. Despite the desire to escape, this was still her home, and those who had danced beside her were those she had called friends. It was also, she realized, her last dance at Carnaval.

It was eight-thirty in the morning by the time they had managed to fight their way from the stadium out into the crowded, steaming Centro streets. A thunderstorm broke overhead and cool but torrential rain battered their costumes and washed the heat from their limbs. A taxi slid to a halt beside them and Thessinger jumped out, opened the rear door, and ushered them in. “Cafe Tudo Ben,” he told the driver as he slid into the front seat.

Despite her exhaustion, Estela watched Thessinger’s face in the mirror, wondering what he had thought of her performance. She told herself she would fuck him when she became a proper Bird.

Griffiths was already high when they reached the café. He hastily filled glasses of champagne, then raised a glass toward them. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said. “I seen you both on the TV; you were fantastic.”

Estela said, “Where’s Deborah?”

“Who cares?” Griffiths said. “Maybe she was fucked again, huh, Estela?”

“You asshole,” Estela said. She caught hold of Thessinger’s arm. “She was with you?”

“Earlier, yes,” Thessinger explained. “She left before the end, said she would meet me here.”

“Honey,” Cledilce said, “don’t worry ’bout it. Maybe she—”

“For Chrissakes,” Griffiths snapped. “She knows where we’re at. If she wants to come, then she will, right, Rudy?”

“Juan is right,” Thessinger said. “She’ll turn up.”

But an hour passed without her showing. Fatigue and a sense of anticlimax conspired to depress Estela. She rose and told the others she was returning to the apartment to get some sleep.

“C’mon, Estel,” Cledilce said. “Don’t go yet.”

Estela forced a weak smile. “I’m gone, Sugar.”

“What the fuck’s wrong with you, you stupid bitch?” Griffiths said, grabbing her arm. “What’ll Rudy think?”

Estela pulled free of his grip and glared at Thessinger. “When the contract’s done, you know where to find me.”

“You faggot,” Griffiths sneered.

Estela spit in his face and before Griffiths could respond, Thessinger restrained him with an arm across his chest. “Enough, Juan,” he said. “My people don’t want damaged merchandise.”

Griffiths slumped back into his seat. “Fuck her,” he said, “She needs a lesson to be taught.”

“Jesus, Estela!” Cledilce said. “What the hell’s up with you?”

Thessinger stood up. “I’ll take her home.”

He followed Estela out into the hot, morning light, where traffic moved slowly north toward Copacabana. He walked beside her and she felt her anger ebb. He seemed to understand her need to be treated with respect. She knew it was a game, of course; he was just another pimp. “I appreciate that,” she said.

He shrugged and stopped a taxi. In the back, he said, “You don’t like the señor.” It wasn’t a question.

“It was never part of the deal,” Estela said, bitterly.

Thessinger wiped sweat from his forehead and nodded. “I have to see Ms. Hernandez before I take you home.”

“What for?” Estela just wanted to sleep.

“About the deal.” Thessinger watched her carefully before continuing. “What do you know about her?”

“She told me she set this up, not Juan.”

“That’s why I need to see her.”

Estela felt relief that Deborah wasn’t going to be cheated out of her cut. When the traffic slowed to a halt she grabbed Thessinger and pointed to a crazed old man stumbling in the middle of the road. In one hand he carried the skinned, decapitated corpse of a monkey.