Read Online Carioca Fletch by Gregory McDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: Gregory McDonald
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began humming the song offered this year by
Imperio da Tijuca
.
“Orlando! Toninho!”
In the mountains, they had driven down a deeply shaded drive and pulled into the sunlight-filled parking area in frontof an old run-down plantation house.
Immediately there appeared on the front porch of the house an enormous woman, a good three hundred pounds, her arms out in either greeting or sufferance, in the identical posture of Christ the Redeemer.
“Good Lord,” Fletch said when he saw her through the car window.
Orlando and Toninho had gotten out of the front seat and opened the back doors.
The other side of the car, clearly Norival did not care whether he moved.
Fletch got out his side of the car. The mountain air was cooler on his skin; but, still, the sun was biting.
Around the corner of the house appeared a skinny young teenage girl dressed only in shorts. Her eyes seemed as sunken as in a skeleton’s skull.
“Tito?” the woman shouted.
Tito got out of the car, grinning.
The other side of the car, Norival lumbered out, went quickly to the bushes not far away, and relieved himself.
Then behind the enormous woman imitating a statue there appeared a real statue, a
mulata
, a girl six foot four easily, perfectly proportioned, an amazing example of humanity. Her shoulders were broad, her waist narrow, her legs long. Each of her breasts was as large and as full as an interior Brazilian mountain seen from the air. Each of her eyes was bigger than a fist and darker than a moonless night. Her black hair was long and flowing. Her skin was the color and texture of flowing copper. Dressed only in slit shorts and high-heeled shoes, she moved like a goddess in no great hurry to go out and sow the seeds of humanity upon a field. This amazing creature, this animate statue, smiled at them.
Fletch gulped.
“You brought me someone new!” the fat older woman yelled in English. “Is he North American? He is so beautiful!”
“He has special problems, Dona Jurema,” Toninho laughed. “He has special needs!”
“My God,” Fletch said. “Where am I?”
Tito punched Fletch’s bicep. “At a different height in heaven.”
Twelve
“Tricked,” Fletch said. “A little place we know in the mountains. You guys have brought me to a brothel.”
Towels wrapped around their waists, he and Toninho were sitting in long chairs in the shade near the swimming pool. The back of the plantation house was even more dilapidated than the front. Paint was thin and chipped. The back door was lopsided on its hinges. The flower borders had gone years untended. Lilies grew in the swimming pool.
“Very relaxing,” Toninho said. “I did say it was very relaxing.”
“So why do the well-loved Tap Dancers need a brothel?”
“Everyone needs a few uncomplicated relationships, no? To relax.”
They had entered the plantation house, each being fondled by the massive Dona Jurema as he passed her, her laugh volcanic, her fat layered like lava. The younger woman, Eva, smiling happily, stood aside, looking even more Amazonian inside the house. They had crossed the scarred foyer, gone through a large, vomit-smelling dark ballroom turned into a tavern, and out the back door.
Coming again into the sunlight, each of the Tap Dancers dropped his shorts and plunged into the swimming pool. With the encouragement of Dona Jurema and the smiles of Eva, Fletch had followed suit.
There were five white towels waiting for them when they came out of the pool. Their shorts had been piled neatly on a table near the back door.
The skinny young teenage girl brought them a tray with five glasses of
cachaça
and a sugar bowl.
Norival downed his
cachaça
in a gulp, asked for another, and collapsed on a long chair on the long side of the pool.
Tito was doing disciplined laps in the pool, stroking through the lily pads.
Orlando went into the house.
“What is that new North American verb?” Toninho asked. “Interact. It is tiresome having always to interact,
Imperio da Tijuca
.
“Orlando! Toninho!”
In the mountains, they had driven down a deeply shaded drive and pulled into the sunlight-filled parking area in frontof an old run-down plantation house.
Immediately there appeared on the front porch of the house an enormous woman, a good three hundred pounds, her arms out in either greeting or sufferance, in the identical posture of Christ the Redeemer.
“Good Lord,” Fletch said when he saw her through the car window.
Orlando and Toninho had gotten out of the front seat and opened the back doors.
The other side of the car, clearly Norival did not care whether he moved.
Fletch got out his side of the car. The mountain air was cooler on his skin; but, still, the sun was biting.
Around the corner of the house appeared a skinny young teenage girl dressed only in shorts. Her eyes seemed as sunken as in a skeleton’s skull.
“Tito?” the woman shouted.
Tito got out of the car, grinning.
The other side of the car, Norival lumbered out, went quickly to the bushes not far away, and relieved himself.
Then behind the enormous woman imitating a statue there appeared a real statue, a
mulata
, a girl six foot four easily, perfectly proportioned, an amazing example of humanity. Her shoulders were broad, her waist narrow, her legs long. Each of her breasts was as large and as full as an interior Brazilian mountain seen from the air. Each of her eyes was bigger than a fist and darker than a moonless night. Her black hair was long and flowing. Her skin was the color and texture of flowing copper. Dressed only in slit shorts and high-heeled shoes, she moved like a goddess in no great hurry to go out and sow the seeds of humanity upon a field. This amazing creature, this animate statue, smiled at them.
Fletch gulped.
“You brought me someone new!” the fat older woman yelled in English. “Is he North American? He is so beautiful!”
“He has special problems, Dona Jurema,” Toninho laughed. “He has special needs!”
“My God,” Fletch said. “Where am I?”
Tito punched Fletch’s bicep. “At a different height in heaven.”
Twelve
“Tricked,” Fletch said. “A little place we know in the mountains. You guys have brought me to a brothel.”
Towels wrapped around their waists, he and Toninho were sitting in long chairs in the shade near the swimming pool. The back of the plantation house was even more dilapidated than the front. Paint was thin and chipped. The back door was lopsided on its hinges. The flower borders had gone years untended. Lilies grew in the swimming pool.
“Very relaxing,” Toninho said. “I did say it was very relaxing.”
“So why do the well-loved Tap Dancers need a brothel?”
“Everyone needs a few uncomplicated relationships, no? To relax.”
They had entered the plantation house, each being fondled by the massive Dona Jurema as he passed her, her laugh volcanic, her fat layered like lava. The younger woman, Eva, smiling happily, stood aside, looking even more Amazonian inside the house. They had crossed the scarred foyer, gone through a large, vomit-smelling dark ballroom turned into a tavern, and out the back door.
Coming again into the sunlight, each of the Tap Dancers dropped his shorts and plunged into the swimming pool. With the encouragement of Dona Jurema and the smiles of Eva, Fletch had followed suit.
There were five white towels waiting for them when they came out of the pool. Their shorts had been piled neatly on a table near the back door.
The skinny young teenage girl brought them a tray with five glasses of
cachaça
and a sugar bowl.
Norival downed his
cachaça
in a gulp, asked for another, and collapsed on a long chair on the long side of the pool.
Tito was doing disciplined laps in the pool, stroking through the lily pads.
Orlando went into the house.
“What is that new North American verb?” Toninho asked. “Interact. It is tiresome having always to interact,
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