Francis Levy - Seven Days in Rio

I found myself watching the sunset from the Copa, wondering if China played with herself after a long day of seeing patients. I could only imagine what a woman who thought nothing of exposing herself to her patients would do when left to her own devices. I suddenly felt jealous of her fingers for being able to climb their way into the orifices I longed to fondle. Seeing that she was part of the army of therapists who devote their lives to fighting the repression of human instinct, I could only wonder about the extent of the liberties she took with her own body. I imagined her throwing off her little skirt, turning up the volume on her television, and wildly finger-fucking herself while she watched the Brazilian team slam home another penalty kick. She reminded me of Pussy Galore and Lotta Vagina and the rest of the great cinematic heroines named for their phenomenal private parts. I stared out at the sea, whose surface was as calm as glass, noticing a few stray Tiffanys emerging from the surf in their string bikinis. The lazy Rio afternoon would give way to a torrid night of sex for hire, and all I could think about was bursting into China’s room to demand emergency therapy.

I would tell her that I loved her and would be willing to pay twice her usual rate if she would only consent to breaking down the barrier of therapeutic discretion and turning our suggestive talk into action. I felt that she held a power and knowledge that would be unleashed in me if only I could stick my penis into her. It was like siphoning fuel from a car.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I was caught off guard when an elegantly attired gentleman, who, with his thin moustache, bore an uncanny resemblance to Salvador Dali, came up to me and asked if I was staying at the hotel. After I informed him that I was indeed a guest, adding that I had obtained observer status at the analytic conference and had even begun my own analysis, he discretely pointed out that I might want to consider slipping into a pair of trousers. I explained to him that I would return to my room as soon as I recovered from the separation anxiety I was feeling from having to part with China for the night. The gentleman, not conversant in the language of psychoanalysis, probably thought I was upset at being separated from a set of expensive dishes. When he looked at me like I was crazy, I reassured him by saying, “That’s just an American joke. My pants are being pressed. I’m sure house services must have returned them to my room by now.”

I did an about-face and headed to the elevator bank. I figured I might as well go back to my room, but I was suddenly troubled by the thought that my analysis was preventing both China and me from attending the conference. This was as good a reason as any to knock on the door of her room, especially since we had both just missed the lecture on erotomania.

I firmly expected China to be surprised, if not annoyed, to find me standing at her door. But I had rationalized my behavior in such a way that I felt perfectly comfortable telling her that it was a life-or-death matter, even though it was obvious to anyone that missing a lecture was no justification for arriving pant-less and unannounced at your analyst’s office-cum-hotel room.

In my overwrought state, I became distracted by one of the many Tiffanys who roamed freely in the hotel corridors. Her microskirt and lizard-skin platform high heels gave me a momentary case of vertigo, so when I knocked on the door of room 1169, I was sure it was room 1269. After knocking once with no answer, I tried again with a little more insistence. Finally I heard footsteps, and before I knew it a Tiffany, buck-naked except for her high heels, appeared at the door and asked nonchalantly in heavily accented English, “Are you here for the orgy?”

In the background, I could see a Tiffany who reminded me of Eurydice in Black Orpheus , sitting on the face of an older man. Even though I couldn’t see much of him, I made a quick guess that he was an American Midwesterner. He looked like a beached whale, with his hairy stomach flopping off to one side as he lay on his back.

For a moment I thought that I might have interrupted one of China’s group sessions. Most analysts don’t conduct group therapy, but China wasn’t exactly orthodox. Any analyst who shows her vagina to a patient doesn’t fall into the classic mode. I asked if anyone had seen China. The black Eurydice must have thought I said “vagina” since she replied, “There’s plenty of that here, honey. Why don’t you just go into the green room and take off your clothes?”

It was only after I entered the suite that I noticed the video equipment and realized that I had walked onto the set of an S&M film, in this case a remake of Lubitsch’s The Blue Angel , replete with a masochistic professor and nightclub vamps. The professor was being played by the guy with the hairy stomach. In this version, the Marlene Dietrich character sat on his face. I had never aspired to be an actor, and while I was attracted to the bevy of young Tiffanys, I didn’t entertain the possibility that I could successfully audition for a role. In addition, my reality was beginning to burn a hole in my pocket. After all my abortive attempts at consummation, I needed to pay someone for sex or therapy, or both. The lure of any fame or fortune I might have inadvertently experienced as a porn star paled in comparison with the pleasure I derived from paying for sex.

With a sigh of regret I closed the Pandora’s box of untold perversions and headed one flight up to seek my China. I was under the illusion that I was on an important mission that would affect the nature of what analysts call the compromise formation, which develops as a patient comes to terms with his inner conflicts. In one sense, I was cutting off my nose to spite my face, since by informing her of the fact that we were missing the convention, I was potentially curtailing the amount of time she would have to spend with me.

I walked down the hallway of the twelfth floor with trepidation. I had heard rumors among the analysts at the conference that China’s grandmother was one of the first Chinese psychoanalysts in Peking, and that her career was cut short by Mao’s Cultural Revolution. Being a strong woman, China’s grandmother would not be stopped by the infamous Band of Four, and the type of Lacanian analysis that China herself practiced had its roots, the rumor went, in her mother’s need to conclude her sessions abruptly when Communist cadres appeared at her door and forced her to get back to rooting potatoes.

My knees were shaking as I knocked on China’s door. Undoubtedly, she would interpret my appearance as having a significance that went deeper than a mere scheduling conflict. That is one of the problems with analysis — nothing is ever accepted as having a mundane meaning. I knocked very softly, somehow thinking that China was sitting on tenterhooks awaiting my arrival. (My tendency to believe that the world revolves around me is one of the subjects we had discussed in a memorable one-minute session.) When there was no answer, I realized that I was being unrealistic. I decided that if I was going to knock on her door, I had to really knock. With the edge of my fist I pounded once more. The doors in the hotel were quite thick, in all likelihood purpose-built to muffle the constant ululations of the guests. But when I put my ear right up against China’s door, I could hear the murmurings of CNN. For a moment, I thought that she might very well be seeing another patient. Of course, she could also have simply been relaxing and watching television, though I had a sneaking suspicion that China was a workaholic who only allowed herself to watch TV when she was doing something else. Like many analysts I had encountered, she undoubtedly was very committed to her work — writing papers, attending conferences and teaching, in addition to seeing patients.