Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

She put on some jeans, a blouse she chose less for its elegance that for the opacity of the material, then rummaged round in the jumble in the drawer until she found the little teargas spray her father forced on her. She put it in one of her pockets and hurried out of the building.

It took her almost an hour on the bus to get back to Pirambú. When she reached Nelson’s shack, she knocked several times without reply then went in to wait for him to come back. The soap and towel lying in the hammock, the tattered photos, the sand covered in furrows as if a boa had been writhing all over the room seemed unhealthy, though the only effect of that was to increase her feverishness. The first five minutes seemed interminable and her irritation did the rest. Hardly bothered by the idea that Nelson might catch her doing it, she dug at the spot he himself had shown her and unearthed the plastic bag. She was surprised to find the gun in it but she left it there, just taking the wad of notes she was desperate to have, then filled in the hole, quickly smoothed out the sand and cleared off.

She’d pay him back as soon as she’d cashed her father’s check. Until then there was little chance of Nelson discovering she’d borrowed it. It was a loan, OK? Not a theft. It had to be done. Anyway, he wouldn’t need the money since she’d decided to give him the wheelchair.

Despite all these excuses her guilty conscience made up, Moéma didn’t calm down until she was out of Pirambú. If Nelson had been telling the truth, she was carrying a hundred and fifty thousand cruzeiros, enough to finance a fitting end to her old life and she could come off drugs once and for all. After the Feast of Yemanjá she wouldn’t touch them again, whatever happened. If her father insisted, she’d even agree to a course of treatment for addicts. But that wouldn’t be necessary, she felt strong, in control of her future and of her willpower. She would go as far as coke would take her, to the very limits, to show that she’d hit rock bottom, then she’d resurface, fresh, new, cleansed of a lapse that would remain forever buried in the dark night of her youth.

On the way back she called in on Paco to place her order. One hour later a first injection was finally sealing up the widest fissures of her ill-being.

After dark she heard a knock at the door. “ Carinha! It’s us.” It was Thaïs. “Open up, we know you’re there.”

Moéma felt she was caught in a trap. Don’t move, play dead. One word and that was it, she’d end up letting them in.

“Open up, please,” Roetgen said in reasonable-sounding tones. “We saw your light. We have to talk, the three of us, it’s stupid to leave things like this …”

The light. She should have realized they’d see it. Them or someone else. She didn’t want to hear about it, not anymore. It was her night, her solitary vigil before her forthcoming wedding with life. Was it not enough for them to have betrayed her, to have abandoned her to the filth of the embankments?

“Moéma,” Thaïs went on again, “what’s up with you? We were pissed, surely you can understand that. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. Don’t be silly, open up, come and have a drink with us at the beira-mar …”

A whirlwind had started inside her head, sucking up everything as it went. Thaïs’s voice, Thaïs’s smile, Thaïs’s body … She was her sister, her lover, the only friend who had shared her hopes, her fears. Shouldn’t she forgive her, not make intransigence the foundation stone of her new life?

“Come on, open up,” Roetgen begged. “We’ve been worried about you.”

What a creep! If he hadn’t been there she would at least have opened the door a crack, just to assess the truth in Thaïs’s look. The guy made her want to puke! He’d taken advantage of them like the filthy swine he was. Tell him that! Tell him that men were all selfish bastards who could think of nothing but screwing while the world went to pieces around them … Yes, open the door, tell him to fuck off and let Thaïs in.

She took two or three deep breaths, checked that she was presentable and opened the door, resolved to carry out the plan she’d made. No one. The cretins had gotten fed up with waiting. Fine. To hell with them, she said out loud as she felt the tears well up, to bloody hell with them!

ON THE MORNING of the Feast of Yemanjá thousands of people started to converge on the Future Beach in honor of the goddess of the sea. Riding in trucks or carts, the terreiros of Fortaleza moved en masse, bringing all the faithful behind their spiritual leaders. Once a year this ceremony combines the fervor of all the houses of the Umbanda and Candomblé religions. To get to the appointed place, Moéma had to go in the opposite direction to the stream of traffic filling the seafront. People in their finery were already crowding the pavements, a veritable exodus — mostly faveleros — in their long walk to the festival.

The terreiro of Dadá Cotinha was like a ship of fools. People in fancy dress, drummers trying out their drums at full pitch, mulattos in sky-blue gowns, boxes of cachaça , bouquets of roses and carnations, cries, tears, gesticulations … from top to bottom the whole building was bubbling over with party spirit. Dressed up as Prince Roland in a plumed helmet and red cloak, Uncle Zé was shouting out instructions for the loading of his truck.

“Ah, there you are, Princess,” he said when he saw Moéma. He seemed agreeably surprised, like someone whose worst fears have turned out to be unfounded. “How’s things today? I hope you slept well, it’s going to be a tough day.”

Moéma had spent a sleepless night entirely devoted to the pitiful miracles coke can produce. She was wearing dark glasses but was brimming over with nervous, almost painful energy.

“Come on, come on, I’ll introduce you. It’s Dadá herself who’s going to get you ready.”

They threaded their way into a small room where some old women were laughing as they fussed around little girls they were dolling up. Dadá Cotinha, a cheerful, buxom dame with the air of a nanny to the child of a Southern general, praised Zé’s choice then gently shooed him out. Time was running short, the girl had to be dressed.

Surrendering to the flock of hands fluttering round her, Moéma allowed herself to be put into costume without flinching. She squeezed into a flesh-colored swimsuit that molded her curves perfectly. Sewn in at the right place, two rubber teats emphasized the tips of her breasts. She blushed bright red when the old women went into raptures about her ample bosom. Then there were the trousers in silver lamé that imitated scales. When her legs were pushed tight together, two triangles of the same materials made a fish-tail at her ankles.

“You must have lovely hair,” Dadá Cotinha said in a reproachful tone, “What a pity you had it cut. If I could get my hands on the bungling idiot who gave you that pineapple head …”

“I wanted to have a bit of a change,” Moéma said, making a face, “but I obviously didn’t go to the right person. Is it really that awful?”

“Don’t worry, girl, we can sort that out, you’ll see.” Out of the cardboard box, from which she had fished out every element of her outfit, Dadá took a wig with very long black hair which she fitted on Moéma’s head. “It’s real hair … Fatinha’s, it came down to her heels. Quite a sacrifice she made there …”

Pins, mascara, face powder, blusher, lipstick, when it was all done and she appeared in the great hall, escorted by her old fairies, Moéma set off a chorus of exclamations and drums:

Yayá, Yemanjá! Odó Iyá!

Saia do mar ,

Monha sereia!