Ma copine

“Oi, vocês fazem capoeira?” I was stopped by a female voice. Her Portuguese, however, sounded more like Portuñol.

I replied in Spanish and her eyes opened up: “Where are you from?” she asked.

She wasn’t the first person who had stopped us; in fact, this was the third or fourth person who had asked the same question. And it was obvious why. Four men, all wearing white pants, all still sweating from class. My friend Nelly lagged behind, looking a bit out of place.

In each case I gave the person the necessary information: classes are at 7pm, Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays at Ilha Grande’s cultural center, which is located after the port, next to the police station.

But this time it was different. We had both noticed something strange in each other’s accents. And when I told her “I’m from Puerto Rico” she told me she was Colombian -Laura her name- and proceeded to surprise me with a warm hug. “I’m dying to dance some salsa,” she said. Meanwhile I thought of how awful of a dancer I am. I would have to learn. Fast.

“Are you a traveler?” I asked her, and she explained that she lives in Rio de Janeiro, where she studies dance: ballet, modern dance and Brazilian folk dances. This time it was my eyes that opened wide.

“I’m staying in Copacabana with some friends and I’m going back Friday,” I told her.

She was quick to reply. “I’m in Santa Teresa, going back Saturday.”

The conversation continued, and we talked about Rio, capoeira and Ilha Grande. “Come by the pier later tonight. I’ll be doing fire juggling,” she said. Once again, my eyes showed joy. I opened my backpack and pulled out my three juggling balls. I threw them at her, one by one, and she gave a short demo.

“Pretty colors,” Laura said as she juggled. And then she added: “but it’s he who knows more about this.” She stopped juggling and pointed at a tall guy, sitting on a nearby bench, apparently waiting for us. And I remembered my own group – Nelly was waiting patiently, but the others had vanished.

I gave Laura my phone number in Rio. “We can go dancing in Lapa”. I didn’t know if it would be hard to find her among the throngs of tourists later on in the evening.

“Is this a two or a seven?” she asked when she received the piece of paper. And it was understandable; my handwriting has been, since the moment my hard learned to hold a pencil, horrendous. “A two,” I replied.

She smiled and put away the paper. She gave me a kiss and a hug, and walked away. I caught up to Nelly and we walked back to the hostel, while telling her about the situation. I explained to her the joy of finally meeting another traveler from the Caribbean, after meeting innumerable Europeans, Argentineans and North Americans. When we arrived I took a quick shower and we walked back to town.

But I didn’t see Laura again that night. I was a bit jealous of her tall friend, who I assumed was still with her. It was Nelly who gave me hope: “If you’re jealous of her friend, maybe she’s jealous of me.”

***

Drops of sweat dropped from my forehead, and I saw her walk in. When she came in she stayed close by the door, talking to Nelly. When the capoeira roda began she came closer, along with the other tourists that were watching. Everyone joined in the circle. I quickly approached her and gave her a hug and a kiss. “It’s nice to see you,” I said.

She watched our roda, but she didn’t join us. When it was over she praised my skills and I, propelled by humility (or something like it), paid no attention to her compliment. We began to walk, she and I, and our two companions, just like the day before.

“I didn’t see you last night,” I said, trying to hide my disenchantment. “Did you do your juggling?”

“No,” she replied. “I didn’t find kerosene. I’m gonna go find some now and hopefully perform tonight.” Her friend went into a cafeteria and made her a signal: food. “Maybe by juggling I’ll gather up some money,” she added, “so I can return to Rio.”

Confused, I didn’t know what to reply. So I decided to ignore that last comment.

A quick goodbye and I caught up to Nelly again, telling her the plans for the evening. “Ah, ta copine,” she said with a smile on her face. My French, though weak, was solid enough to understand her comment.

“You’re gonna jinx me,” I said.

”Copine can mean ‘friend’.”

“But you are my friend and you’re not ‘ma copine’. You didn’t mean it that way.”

“True,” she said. I thought the topic was over, but Nelly had other plans. “You should invite her, especially if she had no money.”

“Invite her? To Palmas?”

“Oui.”

Nelly was right: my reservation in the nearby town of Palmas, where I would spend the next two nights, was paid per room and not per person. And I was alone.

***

Nelly yawned. “I’m tired of waiting. I’m going to find her. Are you coming with me?”

“No,” I answered, and joined a group of European backpackers who were also staying at the youth hostel.

Midnight had passed by now and there was still no sign of Laura by the port. Nelly left alone, seeking the missing juggler and quickly returned with news. Her summary was swift, vague and patchy, just as all our conversations had been, in a mixture of English, French and Portuguese.

Laura, Nelly explained, was not too far from the port. She found her with a bag of ice of her head, trying to soothe a headache which came about due to a beating she had received from some Argentinean fascists.

My brain was unable to process all that information and all I could say was “Argentinean fascists?”

“That’s what he said,” answered Nelly, and she shrugged.

But what shocked me the most was Nelly’s honesty, almost like a big sister. “I noticed she was acting strange.”  She paused and looked at me, a bit of disappointment in her gaze. “I think you should forget about her.” A few minutes later Nelly decided to go to sleep, and I rejoined some other travelers.

It didn’t take long for Laura to wander towards the port.  She was with another girl, who was busy dancing in front of the small stage that housed the trio of guitar, percussion and singer.

“Your eyes seem tired. Are you alright?,” I asked, trying to avoid revealing the information Nelly had given me.

“I have a horrible headache,” she said while removing her hat to show me the bag of ice. And she then proceeded to narrate the same story she had shared with Nelly.

“When did your headache begin?”

“A few hours ago. I smoked some pot to see if I would feel better and I ended up feeling worse.”

“Did you have a headache before smoking?”

“No.”

I laughed in silence, inside my head; my face, however, remained somber. I didn’t know what else to say, and silence invaded our space. I noticed her friend circling the area, like a famished vulture. I made my decision.

“I’m leaving. It’s getting late,” I said. “I hope you feel better.” And at that exact moment the band began to play a song we both knew, and Laura had a brilliant idea. “Let’s dance!”

When the song ended I invited her to have a drink with me before I left, but she refused my proposal: “There’s too much Babylon here, too much commercialism.”

I was speechless. I looked around. I didn’t see a single sign advertising a multinational corporation. No cars. No McDonald’s. Not even a damned Coca-Cola sign. We were surrounded by small businesses, whose owners were the same families that lived in the small island. So, once again, I made my (same) decision.

I said goodbye for the second time. But Laura decided to juggle, in spite of the lack of kerosene. I didn’t know if she was trying to postpone my departure, or if I was delaying my escape. I decided to photograph her; she became nervous and embarrassed. And she was right to: she wasn’t very good. “Perhaps,” I thought, “it’s due to the headache.”

When she was done juggling, she approached me. “Are you leaving tomorrow?” she asked. I remembered Nelly’s advice and briefly considered extending a discreet invitation for Laura to join me in Palmas. But I didn’t, and –for the third time– I said goodbye.

“A person who says goodbye twice does not want to leave.” And, though her counting was incorrect, she was right: I didn’t want to leave on this, my final evening in Abraão. But I didn’t know if I wanted to stay, specifically, with her. I looked around and didn’t see anyone else from the youth hostel. It seemed everyone had already left.

“If something happens to you, look for me in Palmas, ok?” I told her. In spite of everything, I still had this unexplainable instinct to act kindly. I turned around to walk away and she stopped me.

“Hey, give me your phone again. I lost the pants I was wearing yesterday.”

A million thoughts ran through my head again, the most prominent one being “how did she manage to lose her pants?” But, still, I pulled out a piece of paper and my pen. And this time I made sure that every number was legible. I wrote slowly. Carefully. Each line, each curve, each corner. Precise and exact. So that there was no doubt that the two had turned into a seven.

Intentionally.