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

“Goodness!” Moéma said, just as fascinated by this sudden abundance. “Where did you find that amazing stuff?”

“I’ve just got it. When it’s like that, in little crystals, it means it’s not been cut. It’s the purest of the pure, ladies.”

Closely watched by the two girls, Pablo started by crumbling up the lumps with a razor blade. Once the cocaine had been reduced to powder, he divided it up into four equal parts, which he then deftly drew out into a number of parallel lines.

“Leave me out,” Virgilio said suddenly, standing up. “Sorry but I have to go.”

“See you this evening, at the Casa de Cultura Alemã? ”

“Yes — if you’re still in a fit state to go anywhere by then.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

“Good. See you, then. But be careful, that stuff’s shit.”

He hadn’t even left before Pablo had shifted his share of the powder to the other three lines. “Your little journalist doesn’t know what he’s missing. Is he afraid or what?”

“Leave it, Pablo,” Moéma said icily, “he’s OK.”

“Fine, fine, I didn’t say anything. Off you go, you lead the way.”

He handed her the clip-frame and the 100-cruzeiro note he had just rolled up into a tube. Leaning over the picture of Saint Sebastian, Moéma put the improvised straw up one of her nostrils, blocking the other with her forefinger. She snorted half the line steadily and confidently, then repeated the process. After having sniffed it all back, she tapped the glass to pick up the last crystals on the tip of her finger and rub them vigorously on her gums.

“ Que bom! ” she said, closing her eyes. The heat came in stronger and stronger waves; an odd taste, slightly bitter, was making her mouth numb.

“Well then?” Pablo asked, while Thaïs hurried to go through the same ritual.

“You’re right, it’s good stuff, very good stuff.”

“If you want some, tell me now. It’s going to disappear very quickly.”

“How much?”

“For you, the price is the same as the last time: ten thousand a gram.”

Cooled down by a burst of guilty conscience, Moéma almost refused the offer, but the idea exasperated her. The feeling it gave her of being under surveillance, judged in advance by the paternal tribunal. When was she going to make up her mind to accept the choices she’d made? With the money she’d exchanged she’d enough cash to renew her supply of coke — she’d almost none left since the other night — and to pay the first expenses for setting up the bar. She calculated that two grams would be sufficient to see her through to the end of the month. And she suddenly felt so good, so much mistress of herself and her destiny …

“Share mine with me, I already snorted a bit too much for today,” Pablo said with a smile.

Thaïs quickly took her share, as if to stop him changing his mind.

“Three grams, can you do that?” Moéma said, as if it was nothing.

“Can do,” Pablo replied with a knowing wink. “Four o’clock at your place, OK?”

“OK.”

“I’ll get it done right away. Just as long as it takes to go around to the safe and then back to my place to weigh it.”

“To the safe?” Moéma asked, surprised.

“You don’t think I keep my stock in my parents’ house, do you? With a safe deposit box at the bank I’m not running any risks. Even if I get nicked with some stuff on me, they can’t accuse me of dealing. You’ve got to look after number one, sweetheart, it’s the only way of surviving.”

Moéma waited until he’d gone before snorting the coke Thaïs had left. Shifted around by the various operations on the glass, most of the powder had accumulated in the middle of Saint Sebastian. She spent a long time over that part, revealing little by little the flesh of his thighs, the bulge of his groin, as if removing the linen concealing his nakedness thread by thread.

AFTER THE TRANSACTION with Pablo the two girls had “tested” the new coke and gone to bed. They only got up toward seven, to have a shower and go out to eat — extravagantly, Moéma invited Thaïs to the Trapiche, the best restaurant in town. Exhilarated at the idea of shocking the strait-laced clientele of the establishment, they spent more than an hour making up and choosing their dresses. Thaïs painted her fingers with mauve varnish, tending to black, and put on bright red lipstick and her favorite dress: a loose-fitting smock in almost transparent pink muslin, pulled in at the waist and dotted with little stars of metallic blue plastic. Moéma just put on a man’s suit with a tie and a white shirt, but she slicked back her hair in a very tight bun, before drawing on a thin mustache à la Errol Flynn with a stick of greasepaint.

One last pinch of coke, “to pep them up,” and they were braving the Beira-mar and the crowds of young people who frequented the sea front once night had fallen. Thronging the terraces of the bars or drinks stands, which stretched out for miles along the shore, clustering around parked cars with their doors open and music going full blast, they moved about, danced on the spot, laughed, shouted abuse at each other sometimes, clutching a glass or a bottle, a constantly milling, gaily colored mass. Street peddlers were selling all kinds of craft items, necklaces, “handmade” jewelry, leather and lace from the Nordeste , as well as half-open sharks’ jaws, shells bristling with spines, crab fritters, acarajé , in a heady smell of fried coconut oil. Thaïs and Moéma plunged unhesitatingly into this dark, heaving mass. Despite their familiarity with carnival dressing-up, or perhaps because of it, people turned around as they passed with amused expressions, wolf whistles or even off-the-cuff compliments. Feigning total indifference, the two of them strolled along slowly, determined to behave naturally and forcing themselves to stop from time to time on the pretext of examining a stall or to kiss each other tenderly on the neck.

When they entered the restaurant like two schooners with the wind behind them, the maître d’hôtel, who came to greet them, had a brief moment of hesitation. Holding his gaze with composure, Moéma asked for a table for two and inquired with a polished turn of phrase about the freshness of their spiny lobsters. Doubtless influenced by her confident tone, the maître d’ led them to one of the last free tables deep in the rich, air-conditioned half-light that is the hallmark of a great establishment. Thaïs was intimidated by it. Struck dumb by a formality she was encountering for the first time, terrorized by the unrelenting attentiveness of the waiters, she was only her old self again after her second aperitif. The effect of the alcohol combining with that of the cocaine, she quickly forgot her provincial unease and, following Moéma’s example, concentrated on the restaurant’s customers. The two girls thought up lots of scabrous stories behind their conventional appearance, mocking one person’s face or mimicking another’s mannered gestures with an inventiveness that sent them into uncontrollable giggling fits. The waiters for the most part colluded in their high spirits, giving them big smiles, taking care not to be seen by the maître d’hôtel; his black looks showed how much he was annoyed with himself for having let these overexcited customers in.

Exasperated by remarks of which he was the target, one diner with heavy jowls and a pot belly cut short his meal; trailing his wife and children behind him, he left in high dudgeon. Highly amused, Thaïs and Moéma saw him take the maître d’hôtel to one side and rail against their behavior, with much wagging of his finger and spluttering. The maître d’ threw up his arms, clasped his hands and made one low bow after another, but his profuse apologies could not stop the customer from venting his rich man’s anger on him before stalking off.