Francis Levy - Seven Days in Rio

As I walked past the grand ballroom, I noticed that the farewell address of the convention was entitled, “Eros and Agape,” and I felt another burst of jealousy and remorse when I saw that the presenter was Herbert Schmucker.

It might defuse the considerable emotional charge left over from our final, dramatic session to come back to her room under the lame pretext of giving her my billing address. But my whole life has been a series of anti-climaxes. Once again, I was making a fool of myself, even if it was for a good cause.

I could just imagine the contempt on China’s face when I came slinking back to her room, stammering my tired excuses. If my actions revealed ambivalence about terminating the analysis, they were totally unambiguous in killing any shred of desire she might have had left for me. The elevator was packed with beautiful Tiffanys, all curiously indifferent to me. I would undoubtedly have to deal with this in my next analysis, though at this point I couldn’t begin to imagine who I would undertake it with, particularly since I now realized nothing was going to stop me from heading back to her room.

When I finally got my courage up and knocked on China’s door, there was no answer. I ran down the corridor, thinking I might find her at the convention. By the time I got to the grand ballroom, there was only a smattering of analysts milling around, and no sign of China, who I assumed had already retired to Schmucker’s suite, where no doubt they were passionately embracing in a final lovemaking session before flying home. Beyond the fact that she practiced in Vancouver, I knew almost nothing about China. But Schmucker was a well-known New York psychoanalyst who practiced in Yorkville and had a wife and family. I’d even heard that his children attended Dalton, one of Manhattan’s most elite private schools. Any impulse I had to rush up to Schmucker’s room to make a final gallant attempt to inform China of my billing address was curbed by a dawning sense of the futility of it all. Perhaps this was what China was trying to demonstrate to me all along, as she watched soccer matches and spread her legs while I poured my heart out to her. My issues with my mother, prostitutes, and tight-fitting jeans were important, but they couldn’t compare to the problems that people less fortunate than myself face every day in cities all over the world. Maybe China was trying to give me a little perspective.

I felt a cleansing sadness as I once again walked through the lobby. I’d come across a number of Tiffanys during my stay in Rio, not to mention a Brittany and a China that I was still very attached to. My mind was spinning. I was trying to come to grips with my singular condition, yet I found myself in the middle of a crowded hotel lobby five thousand miles from home trying to inventory my latest tawdry conquests.

I decided to make my way back to the concierge desk where I’d begun my journey. If China had provided me with psychoanalytic insights, the concierges I had dealt with had provided me with therapy of a more practical kind. I had to get back to basics. I’d come to Rio to have sex with Tiffanys, and perhaps what I needed was a Tiffany who was just a good old-fashioned call girl, one who came to my room, did her business, and left. My real problem was the desire to find the perfect whore to settle down with. I didn’t need a Tiffany who was the next Anna Freud.

Sometimes the simple pleasures are the best. I hadn’t thought about it for a long time, but many men went to prostitutes because they wanted to have sex without the emotional entanglements of a relationship. Perhaps I was complicating matters by looking to have a relationship with someone I just wanted to fuck, especially since my intent was simply to enjoy an innocent sex vacation in Rio.

I immediately recognized the attractive woman at the concierge desk. I didn’t need to be reminded by the silver nameplate on her protuberant chest that it was Suzanne, and I immediately remembered the pledge I had made to myself about asking her if I could purchase the pleasure of her company. Big breasts often create the illusion that they’re coming out at you even when they’re completely stationary. But everything is a matter of perception, and if you choose the quantum view of the universe, which holds that all things are in flux, the Newtonian applecart is easily overturned. As it happened, Suzanne’s apples strained the laws of physics, Newtonian or otherwise. Having such enormous breasts was probably a handicap, since most men look at breasts before they notice a face, and I could tell that Suzanne was starved for eye contact.

Roused from the enchantment of her mammaries, I noted the urgency in her voice when she asked if she could be of assistance. I started to hum the words of a Leonard Cohen song: “Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river, you can hear the boats go by, you can spend the night beside her.” Suzanne seemed to appreciate my singing because she broke into a smile.

“That’s your Leonard Cohen,” she said.

“Actually he’s Canadian, and I’m American, and I wish your name was Tiffany.” I was surprised how quickly I had gotten to the point. Perhaps my lack of inhibition was the result of my analysis with China.

“To be honest, Tiffany is my nickname.” Was she hinting at something, or was her nickname really Tiffany? “Well with a name like that you probably need some reality .”

“I can come to your room in about six hours, when I take my lunch break.” That would have been close to dinnertime, but I didn’t want to argue with her, considering that Brazilians generally eat lunch when we eat dinner, and dinner when someone like me is having a wet dream.

I agreed to the tryst because of the extraordinary nature of her physical accoutrements, though I realized I still hadn’t solved my immediate pleasure problem, and would have to delay gratification unless Suzanne was selfless enough to suggest another Tiffany I could spend time with in the interim. Even though I was very attracted to Suzanne, I’d promised myself that for the rest of my stay in Rio I was going to avoid exclusive attachments. For all of my memorable experiences — my relationship with China, my aristocratic Tiffany, Brittany and her glorious behind, and even the old crone who outfitted me with my first pair of tight jeans — my adventures were beginning to take a toll on me emotionally.

At that moment, I saw Schmucker and China walking out of the elevators that faced the concierge’s desk. I quickly finalized my plans to meet Suzanne on her lunch break and snuck away to find a perch where I could observe their interaction.

I was soon disabused of the illusion that I would be able to drown the pain of my separation from China in a series of flings with Suzanne and other beautiful Tiffanys. When Schmucker took China’s hand and bent down to kiss her before they walked across the lobby, my heart nearly stopped. I had to contain an urge to confront the two of them about the ethical impropriety of their relationship, but I quickly realized there wasn’t anything unethical about two psychoanalysts having a love affair. It may have been painful for me to see them together, but I could hardly say it was improper for the two to have consensual relations. On the other hand, China’s dalliances with me were pretty objectionable by even the most lax standards. But, as angry as I was with China, I didn’t want to ruin her career. Besides, she could easily have described me as a patient who was ridden with Oedipal feelings of such intensity that they had reached a delusional level.

As the bellboys brought them their luggage, the two analysts looked like colleagues who had simply formed a professional relationship and were now taking leave of each other — knowing they would meet again at a future conference. Perhaps my transference was so powerful that I had made up the intensity of her sexual feelings for Schmucker. Perhaps it was like the scandals involving patients who experience repressed memory syndrome. Perhaps it was just my imagination.