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

They were then served spiny lobster tails au gratin in half a pineapple brimming with a creamy sauce flavored with ginger and cardamom. And since Thaîs was worried about having to use her fish knife and fork, Moéma led the way by starting to eat with her fingers. Under the now disapproving glances of the waiters, who were very unhappy with this insult to the speciality of the restaurant, they persisted in the affront, smearing their glasses and serviettes with their greasy fingers and mixing long draughts of beer — Moéma had ordered some just to see the look on the sommelier’s face — with the excellent chablis he had recommended.

They had reached the dessert when Thaïs, completely tipsy, decided she had to write a poem on the tablecloth. After a long rummage around in her handbag, she took out a large fountain pen, which she showed off to her friend. The first word she wrote on the cloth remaining invisible, she swore at the recalcitrant implement, unscrewed it and squeezed the cartridge so hard that a jet of ink spurted out onto her dress, over her thighs. She shot to her feet and saw that the damage was done: a huge black stain was spreading through the fine muslin, beyond repair. They both burst out laughing at the same time, then ordered a bottle of champagne in an effort, they claimed, to ward off ill fortune.

“And a pair of scissors, please,” Thaïs said to the waiter as he was going off. He made her repeat her request, assuring her, with a weary look, that he would do his best.

When he came back he had the scissors she’d asked for. As he was undoing the wire around the champagne cork, Thaïs suddenly climbed up onto her chair. “Off you go,” she said, handing Moéma the scissors.

Moéma got up and, walking around her friend, cut off the dress above the ink stain, making it into a mini skirt. Out of the corner of their eyes, or openly looking at them, the other customers observed the operation in a profound silence broken by the clatter of forks and whispers. Mesmerized by the agreeable view of Thaïs’ panties that his position gave him, the waiter had watched the scene without moving, his hand rigidly clasping the neck of the bottle he was preparing to open. It was the sudden explosion of the cork that broke the spell.

Delighted with the exploit and having decided that the shortened dress was much more becoming than previously, Thaïs and Moéma sat down again and drank the champagne right down to the last drop.

When the moment came to present them with the little box containing the bill, the maître d’hôtel did so with the satisfied expression of a man finally giving his worst enemy a bomb that was bound to have a devastating effect: the bill reflected their extravagance and he was hoping, with all his flunkey’s soul, that it would be beyond the means of these dykes. After a quick glance, Moéma counted out the sum on her lap, so that Thaïs couldn’t see how much it was, then put it in the box without batting an eyelid.

“I presume you’re going to give us a cigar,” she said with a haughty smile, casually dropping a large tip on the table.

The maître d’hôtel swallowed his ill humor and gave the order. Puffing their Havanas aggressively, they got up from their table, walked across the restaurant like a royal couple, responding to the forced thanks and farewells of the staff with a slight nod, and left the restaurant.

The bar project would have to be put off a little longer, then, Moéma thought as she counted what was left. But the evening with Thaïs was well worth the sacrifice. They had passed through the darkness of the Trapiche like two nameless comets heading for outer space, leaving a scattering of little blue metal stars behind them in evidence of their passing.

“What would you say to spending a few days at Canoa?” she suddenly asked Thaïs. “I’ve still got enough money to pay for you as well.”

“Great! You’re fantastic, really,” said Thaïs enthusiastically. “I’ve been dying to go back there for ages.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“No problem, count me in. Oh, what a great idea.”

Once more caught up in the lively crowd along the shore and laughing at their inability to walk straight, they somehow managed to reach the Avenida Tibúrcio Cavalcante . It was only while searching for her keys that Moéma remembered the meeting at the German Cultural Institute. It was eleven o’clock.

“Shit, shit and double shit. I completely forgot about that.”

“Me too,” said Thaïs, bursting out laughing.

“I have to go. I promised Virgilio.”

“Forget it. Anyway, it’s too late and I can’t take one more step, the state I’m in.”

“You wait for me here, then. I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to be left all alone,” Thaïs simpered.

“Rest assured, I won’t be long. I promised, Thaïs, I have to go.”

Thaïs embraced her and gave her a long kiss on the lips; balancing on one leg, she rubbed herself up against Moéma’s thigh. “Look, she’s already crying because you’re going away,” she said, guiding Moéma’s hand toward her groin.

“Don’t worry, my love, I’ll console her when I get back. There, take the keys, I’ll be back in no time at all.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure as sure can be. I don’t want you snorting all my coke.”

Blue and red against the setting sun, Zé’s truck suddenly appeared on the swelling dunes of the horizon. Driven at full speed and distorted by the heat haze, it looked like a knight in armor in his final charge against the dragon. Its dazzling chrome shot off more flames than the sun itself and, like the shield of St. George, gave rise to indescribable hope.

It came to a halt right in the middle of the shanty town, not far from Nelson’s shack, after one last whinny and a couple of shudders that sent up a cloud of sand and dust.

Zé Pinto got down from the cab nimbly, but Nelson realized there was bad news coming when he started to walk toward him with tentative steps. His shoulders more hunched than usual, his smile with a hint of sadness, he couldn’t say exactly what it was, but he was so accustomed to reading the anguish in other people’s expressions that something told him the day would not finish without some new blemish. Despite his truck driver’s tan, Zé looked gray; dark rings under eyes glassy with fatigue said more than his speedometer about the number of miles he’d driven in the last three days.

“Hi, son,” he said with feigned cheerfulness. “How’s tricks?”

“ Tudo bom , the Lord be praised,” Nelson replied, holding out his hand.

Zé slapped the boy’s palm, then their thumbs engaged, the other fingers wrapping themselves around their wrists. After a double rotation, allowing each in turn to clasp a clenched fist, the strange ritual gesture finished with the four hands intertwined, a Gordian knot that sealed their friendship.

They went into the hut. Bending his head so as not to hit the corrugated iron ceiling, Zé strung up a second hammock beside Nelson’s then started to empty the plastic bag he’d brought. “Just a few bits and pieces … I don’t know what to do with them myself.”

He put a tin of olive oil on the floor, three loaves of rapadura , the raw cane sugar the aleijadinho was fond of, an enormous mango and some eggs. Zé had bought all this for him but Nelson merely muttered his thanks in order to keep up the pretense. They both appreciated this basic restraint, a kind of lightning conductor for any effusiveness.

“Where’ve you been?” Nelson asked, filling the glasses with cachaça .

Zé shook his head in disapproval. God knows how much they made him pay for that bottle, he thought. “You shouldn’t have,” he said. “You know it’s bad for you.”