Rubem Fonseca - Winning the Game and Other Stories

“A romantic socialist!” she laughed disdainfully.

That was the blonde who was in my apartment when Medeiros, the lawyer, called.

J.J. Santos, the banker from Minas Gerais, was arguing with his wife that same Saturday about whether they should go to the wedding of the daughter of one of his partners.

“I’m not going,” J.J. Santos’s wife said. “You go.” She preferred to stay home and watch television and eat cookies. Married for ten years, they were at that point where you either resign yourself and die imprisoned or send your wife packing and live free.

J.J. Santos put on a dark suit, white shirt, silver tie.

I grabbed the blonde princess and said, “Come with me.” It was Valentine’s Day.

“Did you ever read a book of poetry?” she asked me.

“Look,” I replied, “I’ve never read any kind of book, except law books.”

She laughed.

“Do you have all your teeth?” I asked.

She did have all her teeth. She opened her mouth, and I saw the two rows, upper and lower. That’s the rich for you.

We got to my apartment. I said, “What’s going to happen here, between the two of us, will be different from anything that ever happened to you before, princess.”

“Roll the preview,” she said.

When I was born they called me Paulo, my father’s name, but I became Mandrake, a person who doesn’t pray and speaks little but makes the necessary gestures. “Prepare yourself, princess, for something never before seen.”

Then the phone rang. It was Medeiros, the lawyer.

The altar was covered with flowers. The bride, escorted by her father, came slowly down the aisle of the church, to the sound of choir voices singing in harmony. The groom, as always, wore a foolish expression as he waited for the bride at the altar.

At eight o’clock J.J. Santos left the church, got into his Mercedes, and went to the home of the bride’s parents in Ipanema. The apartment was packed. J.J. Santos exchanged greetings with people, joked with the bride and groom, and left unnoticed half an hour later. He didn’t know for sure what he wanted to do. He certainly had no desire to go home and watch old dubbed movies on the color TV. He got his car and drove along Ipanema beach, in the direction of the Barra da Tijuca. He had only been living in Rio for half a year and found the city fascinating. About five hundred yards ahead, J.J. Santos saw the girl, standing on the sidewalk. Stereo music poured from his car’s speakers, and J.J. Santos was emotionally predisposed. He had never seen such a pretty girl. He had the impression that she had looked at him, but he must be mistaken; she wasn’t the type for a street hooker, like those who pick up customers in passing cars. He was to the end of Leblon when he decided to go back. Maybe the girl was still there; he wanted to see her again. The girl was there, leaning over the door of a Volkswagen—haggling over price? J.J. Santos stopped some twenty yards behind, blinking his high beams. The girl looked, saw the big Mercedes, and left the guy in the Volks talking to himself. She approached slowly, with perfect balance, knowing how to put one foot on the ground and distribute her weight along the muscles of her body as she moved.

She stuck her head in the door and said, “Hello.” Her face was very young, but there was greater maturity in her voice.

“Hello,” J.J. Santos replied, looking around in fear someone had seen him stopping there. “Get in.”

The girl got in and J.J. Santos put the car in motion.

“How old are you?” asked J.J. Santos.

“Sixteen,” replied the girl.

“Sixteen!” said J.J. Santos.

“What of it, you fool? If I don’t go with you, I’ll go with somebody else.”

“What’s your name?” asked J.J. Santos, his conscience relieved.

“Viveca.”

In another part of the city, where I was:

“My name is Maria Amelia. Don’t call me princess. How ridiculous!” the blonde complained.

“Bullshit,” I answered.

“You’re vulgar, gross, and ignorant.”

“Right. Want out?”

“What does that mean?”

“You want to beat it? Beat it.”

“Can’t you even talk?”

“Right again.”

“You’re an idiot!” the blonde laughed noisily, amused, all her teeth shining.

I laughed too. We were both interested in each other. I go crazy over rich women.

“Just what is your name anyway? Paulo, Mandrake, Picasso?”

“That’s not the question,” I replied. “You have to ask me, just who are you anyway?”

“Just who are you anyway?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Paranoia has filtered down to Class C,” the blonde said.

J.J. Santos knew the Barra was full of hotels. He had never been to any of them but had heard the stories. He headed for the most famous one.

He chose the Presidential Suite.

The Presidential Suite had its own pool, color television, radio, and dining room, and the bedroom abounded with chandeliers and was lined with mirrors.

J.J. Santos was excited.

“Do you want anything?” he asked the girl.

“A soft drink,” she answered modestly.

The waiter brought a soft drink and Chivas Regal.

J.J. Santos took a sip, removed his coat, and said, “I’m going to the bathroom, make yourself comfortable.”

When he came out of the bathroom, the girl was naked, lying on the bed, on her stomach. J.J. Santos took off his clothes and lay down beside her, caressing her as he watched himself in the mirrors. Then the girl rolled over on her back, a smile on her lips.

It wasn’t a girl. It was a man, his penis reflected, menacingly rigid, in the countless mirrors.

J.J. Santos leaped from the bed.

Viveca returned to her prone position. Turning her head, she stared at J.J. and asked sweetly, “Don’t you want me?”

“You goddam pe—pervert,” said J.J. He grabbed his clothes and ran to the bathroom, where he quickly dressed.

“You don’t want me?” said Viveca, still in the same position, when J.J. Santos returned to the room. Distressed, J.J. Santos put on his coat and took out his wallet. He always carried a lot of money in his wallet. That day he had two thousand in bills of five hundred. People from Minas are like that. His papers were in the wallet. The money was gone.

“On top of everything else you stole my money!”

“What? What? Are you calling me a thief? I’m no thief!” Viveca screamed, getting up from the bed. Suddenly a razor blade appeared in her hand. “Calling me a thief!” With a rapid gesture Viveca made the first cut in her arm and a thread of blood welled on her skin.

J.J., dismayed, made a gesture of disgust and fear.

“Yes, I’m a faggot, I’m a FAAAAG-GOT!” Viveca’s scream seemed capable of shattering every chandelier and mirror.

“Don’t do that,” J.J. begged, terrified.

“You knew what I was, you brought me here knowing everything, and now you scorn me as if I were trash,” Viveca sobbed, as she gave her arm another cut with the razor.

“I didn’t know anything; you look like a girl, with that makeup and wearing that wig.”

“This isn’t a wig, it’s my own hair. See how you treat me?” Another slash on the arm, by now covered with blood.

“Stop that!” J.J. requested.

“I won’t stop! I won’t stop! I won’t stop! You called me a thief, thief, thief! I may be poor but I’m honest. You have money and think everybody else is trash! I always wanted to die and destroy a big shot, like in the film Black Widow. Did you see Black Widow ?” Viveca asked, resting the razor blade against her throat, over the carotid, which was standing out from the force of her screams.

“Forgive me,” J.J. asked.

“It’s too late now,” said Viveca.