Seven Days in Rio (18 page)

“That’s your Leonard Cohen,” she said.

“Actually he’s Canadian, and I’m American, and I wish your name was Tiffany.” I was surprised how quickly I had gotten to the point. Perhaps my lack of inhibition was the result of my analysis with China.

“To be honest, Tiffany is my nickname.” Was she hinting at something, or was her nickname really Tiffany? “Well with a name like that you probably need some
reality
.”

“I can come to your room in about six hours, when I take my lunch break.” That would have been close to dinnertime, but I didn’t want to argue with her, considering that Brazilians generally eat lunch when we eat dinner, and dinner when someone like me is having a wet dream.

I agreed to the tryst because of the extraordinary nature of her physical accoutrements, though I realized I still hadn’t solved my immediate pleasure problem, and would have to delay gratification unless Suzanne was selfless enough to suggest another Tiffany I could spend time with in the interim. Even though I was very attracted to Suzanne, I’d promised myself that for the rest of my stay in Rio I was going to avoid exclusive attachments. For all of my memorable experiences — my relationship with China, my aristocratic Tiffany, Brittany and her glorious behind, and even the old crone who outfitted me with my first pair of tight jeans — my adventures were beginning to take a toll on me emotionally.

At that moment, I saw Schmucker and China walking out of the elevators that faced the concierge’s desk. I quickly finalized my plans to meet Suzanne on her lunch break and snuck away to find a perch where I could observe their interaction.

I was soon disabused of the illusion that I would be able to drown the pain of my separation from China in a series of flings with Suzanne and other beautiful Tiffanys. When Schmucker took China’s hand and bent down to kiss her before they walked across the lobby, my heart nearly stopped. I had to contain an urge to confront the two of them about the ethical impropriety of their relationship, but I quickly realized there wasn’t anything unethical about two psychoanalysts having a love affair. It may have been painful for me to see them together, but I could hardly say it was improper for the two to have consensual relations. On the other hand, China’s dalliances with me were pretty objectionable by even the most lax standards. But, as angry as I was with China, I didn’t want to ruin her career. Besides, she could easily have described me as a patient who was ridden with Oedipal feelings of such intensity that they had reached a delusional level.

As the bellboys brought them their luggage, the two analysts looked like colleagues who had simply formed a professional relationship and were now taking leave of each other — knowing they would meet again at a future conference. Perhaps my transference was so powerful that I had made up the intensity of her sexual feelings for Schmucker. Perhaps it was like the scandals involving patients who experience repressed memory syndrome. Perhaps it was just my imagination.

I was faced with a paradox that I think many people in analysis have to contend with. Though my problems seemed small and insignificant compared to those faced by 99 % of humanity, they seemed to get more complicated during the course of the treatment. I’d started my work with China feeling mildly confused about the kind of prostitute I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, but by the end of the analysis I had regressed so much that I had murderous Oedipal fantasies about China and her paramour, Schmucker. I suppose this represented progress of sorts. I suppose China might have argued that I was exorcizing the devils that lurked within my psyche. But now, having made the unconscious conscious, where was I?

For starters, I was standing about 100 yards from the electric eye that made the automatic doors of the hotel open and shut. To me, those doors were like the jaws of fate, for beyond them lay the specter of Schmucker and China enacting a parting scene that rivaled that of Lara and Dr. Zhivago. If nothing else, the whole scenario epitomized the disparity between a patient’s imagined sense of importance to the analyst and the reality that the analyst has a life of her own.

I knew that I had to turn away from my surrogate parents, China and Schmucker, and find some other whores to play with while I was waiting for Suzanne. The concierge’s desk was like a hive for Tiffanys who were working the lobby, but I was feeling hesitant with Suzanne there, despite her distinctly business-like attitude.

I will never underplay the importance of the hotel staff in improving my relations with the Tiffanys of Rio, and I will be forever grateful to the concierge who made sure I was outfitted in trousers that were appropriate for Rio nightlife. Wearing tight crotch-revealing pants is as important in Rio as wearing loose-fitting Brooks Brothers suits if you want to rise in the New York business world. In both cases you have to dress for success. My business attire was as much of an impediment in attracting Tiffanys as tight pants would be if I were looking to build a corporate accountancy clientele in Midtown Manhattan.

I caught the eye of a beautiful and rare Japanese Tiffany. I offered to take her to the hotel’s famous sushi bar, but she told me in surprisingly elegant fashion that she already had something nice and fishy I could taste if I wanted to put it in my mouth. Normally I would have been elated, but her suggestion immediately made me think of China, and for a moment I was overcome with a debilitating feeling of grief. However, when she glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was looking and then picked up her short skirt to show me the goods, I was instantly transported to the fictional hotel room where Holden Caulfield has his first experience with a hooker in
Catcher in the Rye
. This was the only inspiration I needed. After quickly agreeing on a fee, we headed back to my room. She turned out to have a copy of Haruki Murakami’s
Kafka on the Shore
in her purse, and was writing her own novel about prostitution called
The Life of a Japanese Geisha in Rio.
She told me the novel was not autobiographical, and reassured me that the notes she was going to take before and after we had sex had nothing to do with me, but were merely renderings of her imaginative life. I noticed that she took notes in English, and when I asked her why she wrote and read in English instead of Japanese, I was stunned by her thoughtful, articulate response.

“That’s a good question, Ken. I really think it has to do with the vicissitudes of the publishing industry, particularly in my home country. It is still very hard for a female writer to break into the male-dominated publishing establishment in Japan. It’s a little like Lee Krasner playing second fiddle to Jackson Pollock. I’m also practicing my English so I can get more American customers who don’t skimp on
reality
. I’m saving up so that I can come to the States. My great dream is to be a whore and writer in New York. You know,
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
was really a novel about prostitution. I bet you didn’t know that Audrey Hepburn was actually a well-known streetwalker before she became an actress. Lots of prominent women were once hookers: Eleanor Roosevelt, Marie Curie, even Martha Washington. At least that’s what they taught us when I was growing up in Japan.”

Were it not for the lack of underwear and the leather micro-skirt that failed to hide her wisp of jet-black pubic hair, Tiffany would have looked like one of the geishas she was writing about, with her doll-like features, her demure composure, and the heavy white pancake makeup she wore on her face. She had the look of one of the actresses in a traditional theater performance I attended on a trip to Japan during my junior year in college. I was more than ready for this kind of exotica, but for a Tiffany to provide me with the attentions administered by a typical geisha could take longer than a staging of a classic Noh drama. Ironically, Tiffany turned out to be more interested in sex than I was, particularly since I was hoping to save some of my vital fluids for my assignation with Suzanne. Alas, since her primary motivation was to make money as quickly as possible to finance her immigration to the United States, this Noh-drama Tiffany showed little interest in any drawn-out sexual theatrics. I couldn’t bear the sadness that came over her face when she realized that she was going to have to spend more time on preliminaries than she had reckoned on. I finally caved and let her take her clothes off and give me a quick blowjob, if only to make her feel like a productive member of Rio’s sex-worker community — with the proviso that I didn’t want her to be offended if I refused to come.

I ended up with a case of blue balls that was only palliated by the taste left in my mouth after sampling her delicacies, which eclipsed the finest sashimi served at New York’s famed Nobu. I gave her a good dose of
reality
before sending her off to pursue her publishing dreams, but I still had some time to kill. I turned on the television to one of the local educational channels, which featured a program with English subtitles about whether or not the Virgin Mary was a virgin, using some stains on a burial shroud to argue its point.

Having enjoyed a late-afternoon snack, I fell into a comfortable snooze. By the time I woke up, it was almost time to see Suzanne. I had given her my room number, so all I really had to do was wait in bed for her, but I realized it might be best to hop in the shower to wash away any residual smells. After rinsing off, I decided to wander down to the lobby, which was beginning to resonate with all kinds of nostalgic associations, even though I’d only been staying in Rio for the better part of a week. I felt a little like the aging professor in Bergman’s
Wild Strawberries
, who reminisces about his past life and loves. I walked through the lobby and out onto the Copacabana, enjoying the spectacle of a beautiful beach packed with whores. As I sauntered back into the lobby, I noticed that Suzanne was no longer behind the concierge’s desk and understood that the moment had come for me to savor the pleasures of what I imagined to be one of the finest whores Rio had to offer. Life was becoming almost poetic in its simplicity. All it would take was a good dose of
reality
and I would be on my way. After that, I would fly back to New York, to another kind of reality — the reality of my life.

Perhaps I had been lulled into complacency. I thought I would simply return to my room to find Suzanne the sex kitten waiting for me under the sheets, but that didn’t exactly happen. I did go back to my room, and even rang the bell on the off chance she had let herself in and was in the process of douching in preparation for my arrival. But she wasn’t there. I started to worry that perhaps she’d already come and gone. She might even put a charge on my hotel bill for missing an appointment without prior notice. I had seen my share of Tiffanys during my stay in Rio, but I was disconsolate to miss out on Suzanne’s services. I felt a little like an alpinist who’s spent months preparing for an ascent, only to have the expedition called off due to bad weather. Suzanne possessed the only mountain range I really wanted to climb, and I was so frustrated that I was on the verge of going into the bathroom to jerk off when all of a sudden there was a ring at the door.

In astronomy, there is a phenomenon called syzygy, which occurs when the sun, moon, and earth are all in alignment. As Suzanne walked through the threshold of my suite, throwing her shoulder bag down on one of the plush loveseats, her nameplate popping spontaneously off her chest, I knew some kind of cosmic synchronicity had taken hold. She didn’t even ask for a dose of
reality
, so intent was she on her transformation into Tiffany. She unbuttoned the blouse of her uniform to reveal perhaps the sexiest bra I had ever seen on a whore. To describe it as a mere black French bra with delicate lace fringe does not do it proper justice. It was a bra for a woman whose breasts have long since declared their independence from support of any kind, as India did in 1948. That is to say, it was a bra in name only. Rather, it was a monumental allusion to that point in the history of feminine attire when breasts were accorded a new kind of opening curtain — one that came off rather than going up at the beginning of an act.

Like a hypnotist snapping her fingers to bring me out of my trance, Suzanne told me to unhook her peerless brassiere. My hands trembled as I circled her nervously, as transfixed by the dorsal view of her nakedness, the arch and small of her back, as I was by the prospect of laying my eyes on her breasts, which were now just a glimmer, albeit a colossal one, in my imagination, a vision beyond the grasp of my engorged senses.

Adam and Eve covered themselves for a reason. It was not simply the temptation of sin that brought shame. It was the recognition that the advent of consciousness necessitated an added bit of showmanship in the sexual act. The hoopla accorded to the covering of the genitals, especially for women, was in fact naturally selective. It was what gave sexuality its mystery and encouraged procreation. Only the conceit of a great metaphysical love poem, like Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress,” could capture the mind-body chasm that was bridged as I feasted my eyes on Suzanne’s perfection.

I was willing to pay anything to have sex with Suzanne. The fact that I could blow caution to the wind and max out my credit card was part of the thrill. When I am in the presence of a delicious, half-undressed Tiffany like Suzanne, I am like a gambler at the high stakes table in Las Vegas. I was ready to throw in my chips and go all-or-nothing.

Suzanne quickly wriggled out of her skirt and panties. In all my years of visiting whores, I had never seen secondary sex characteristics like the ones I now witnessed. Her areolae were soft and golden brown and her nipples stood at attention like they were singing the Marseillaise. The breasts themselves recalled the words of another metaphysical poet, John Donne, who had said about one woman’s body, “Oh my America, my new found land.” Suzanne’s tits had cosmological significance. They were like the most beautiful celestial body, like Venus spied through a telescope as it orbits in space. But this was no comparison to what lay below. Looking between Suzanne’s legs reminded me of visiting the famous garden created by Vita Sackville-West at Sissinghurst. I had seen some dramatic landscaping the last time I was in England, but nothing compared to the resplendent nature, the shooting tangle of dark growth, the topiary, the great looming hedge that festooned the smoldering estate that lurked between Suzanne’s thighs.