Later, during gym class, Marisa and Valentina exiled themselves in the restroom to escape the torments of a volleyball competition. Marisa finally had a chance to talk to the friend and show the print that Marco had given to her. It was an essay including the phrase attributed to Sartre that Marisa had used in the message to the teacher. While she handled the text with reverence, as if it were a sacred talisman, Valentina simply snatched it and began to read.

If Valentina possessed an undeniable quality, it was objectivity. Her parent's divorce, when she was still a girl, embedded in her a visceral skepticism, only surpassed by her sympathy toward all minorities. At the time of the separation, it came to light that her father had another woman. More than that: he had another family. Valentina never forgave him. She often said you couldn't count on anyone and uncertainty was the only certain thing in life.

To illustrate her point of view, the friend mentioned the case of English suffragette Emily Davison, who, at the 1913 Derby, in defense of women's right to vote, leaped onto the middle of the racetrack and was trampled by King George V's horse. The next day, the big sensation reported by the press was not the accident that claimed her life, but the outsider horse winner of the race.

From her father who she so passionately rejected, Valentina had inherited the prominent nose with a Catalan profile, the exuberant mouth and intense eyes, brown like the hair that hung down to her waist. From him, she had also inherited assertiveness and obstinacy. Being one of the few students immune to the literature master's allure, Valentina could deliver an unbiased analysis of the case at hand. Or so Marisa hoped.

In the deserted lavatory, the only witnesses were the white ceramic sinks aligned on a gray granite top, along with the mirror where some girl had drawn with pink lipstick a mysterious letter D framed by a heart. The air carried a light pine smell, and from time to time the cries of students in the patio broke like a wave, rising, falling and curveting through the window. Under it, as they sat on the white-ceramic floor, Marisa and Valentina confabulated:

"He's sending me a message in between the lines, Val..."

"There you go again," Valentina reproached her. "Marco advised you the same way he would advise any other student. You can't keep imagining hidden motives in everything people do. You need facts, concrete evidence." Seeing that Marisa was going to protest, the friend silenced her by raising an index finger: "A print about existentialism does not qualify."

At each of Valentina's words, Marisa would grow impatient and disagree by shaking her head.

"You don't understand, Val. The text includes the quote I sent to him, now complete. And what does it say following the phrase I used? Desire is expressed by the caress as thought is by language. Can't you see? First it was the smile, now it's the caress..."

The friend scratched her head, sighed and raised both hands flat, as if to physically prevent Marisa from committing a terrible, terrible mistake. Valentina stared at her and, to reinforce her words, held Marisa's shoulders:

"You're gonna drive yourself crazy if you keep trying to find encrypted messages in this text. You're gonna drive me crazy. Please, don't do that to me. I almost miss Palamedes and the war..."

"What about when he asked me to have a cup of coffee with him, huh?" insisted Marisa. "The way we clicked was... amazing. You weren't there to see how he looked at me. He repeated my name several times and leaned towards me while we talked..."

"So what?"

"Those are signs, Val."

"Says who?"

"Why, behavior experts. Did you know 93% of communication is nonverbal? There's the body language, tone of voice and other clues to suggest interest, like for instance touching..."

Hey, hey. Marco had actually touched her? Valentina's curiosity rose above the icy waters of skepticism: now she wanted all the details. Marisa then clarified that the teacher had laid one hand on her shoulder when arriving at the library-and, lost in the memory of the conversation that ensued, started braiding a lock of her hair. To which Valentina rolled her eyes and, in a silent exclamation, formed a big O with her mouth to express a mix of humor and exasperation.

"Will you stop it already, Ma? The problem is, when a person falls in love, everything becomes a sign that requires interpreting. Oh, he looked at me. He loves me. Oh, why didn't he talk to me? He loves me not. Oh, he had a cup of coffee. Blah-blah-blah. Then you try to decipher every tiny gesture, as if the most banal things had a hidden meaning. Let's be practical and objective. The teacher felt like having a cup of coffee and invited you to join him out of politeness. He lives by himself, right? He probably wanted company for a chat. End of story."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yeah. Besides, getting involved with a teacher is a recipe for trouble. Let's assume (and note that this is only an assumption) that something happens between the two of you. Then someone finds out. First, there will be big time complications at school, meetings of the board of directors, memorandums, drastic measures. Then your mom will be summoned for a "talk". Can you imagine Ms. Adelia's reaction when she learns that you got involved with a teacher? She'll go berserk and chain you to the foot of your bed."

"Thanks a lot for predicting my future." Marisa grimaced. "I didn't know you had a degree in psychic abilities."

"I don't need to be a psychic to foretell your mom's reaction."

Marisa reached into her purse and produced a couple of bonbons, offering one to the friend. Sugar always helped to keep spirits high. The chocolate melted in her mouth in a comforting way, and Marisa stared philosophically at its pink cellophane wrap.

She had known Valentina for four years now, since her friend had been expelled from another school for challenging the history teacher, in protest against a grade she deemed unfair. Valentina solemnly approached his desk during class and placed a box before him as she said: This is what I think of your evaluation. The teacher opened the box to find inside a pile of dog poop.

Valentina was transferred to Marisa's school and, since then, they'd spent countless hours talking about everything, from the meaning of life to the best waterproof mascara to wear on the beach. In spite of a certain inclination to eccentricity, the friend was precise in her judgments about life and cosmetics.

"Okay, maybe you're right," Marisa admitted, quite cross.

"Elementary, my dear. I'm always right. Now what we have to do is find you a guy to help you forget that teacher once and for all." Valentina paused to savor her chocolate. "By the way, how do you like the book?"

"The one about paraphilias?

"Yeah."

Well... with the cover black like the abyss of human sexuality, the title red like sin, and a certain flair for Greek, the encyclopedia held words as unprecedented as bizarre. Right under the letter A, the bulky adstringopenispetraphilia combined in its syllables the male organ, a medium-size string and a bunch of pebbles for geological pleasure. Its distant relative agalmatophilia promoted romance with statues and found a correlate in pygmalionism (p. 305). Beetles, desert islands, ghosts, all had a guaranteed spot in the encyclopedia, and not even the Milky Way had escaped the wandering hand of sexual deviation.

Clinical cases abounded too. The teenage girl diagnosed with titillagnia, who had suffered the embarrassment of climaxing in public during an innocent tickle session at school. The retired sergeant who obtained pleasure only when he wore his wife's panties. The incompatible couple of balloon fetishists-in the throes of passion, he wanted to pamper the balloons whereas she enjoyed popping them with her stiletto heel.

In Marisa's opinion, the most curious example was the normophilic patient who casually found out he was a pervert after reading a medical journal. A civil servant and religious man respectful of laws and moral principles, he had to treat his excessive normality: a paraphilia too that was. In order to cure him, a colossal dose of pornographic magazines and videos was prescribed. The treatment, however, inadvertently degenerated into pictophilia.

"What about the couple with the statue?!" exclaimed Valentina with an air of irresistible disgust.

"Which statue?"

"Oh, you haven't reached that part yet, so I won't deliver any spoilers. Suffice to say during a train ride they do all this crazy stuff with a statue and an avocado."

Marisa listened attentively and began folding the cellophane wrap with methodical gestures.

"Hmmm... It's a typical case of pygmalionist siderodromophilia with dendrophilic tendencies," she diagnosed while carefully spelling out each word. Then she dropped the cellophane paper with a naughty expression. "Do you know there's a sex shop near the library? We could stop by when I return the books."

"Oh, don't tell me it's the Lost Paradise."

Yep, confirmed Marisa. Valentina then told her it was the hottest sex shop in town. The store carried exclusive products, and its owner, a retired anthropologist, travelled the world collecting tribal mating artifacts. Marisa was prompted to imagine what those devices were like. Valentina, with an ironic chuckle, told her the store sold inflatable serpents covered in gold dust. Inspired by the creatures of the Amazon forest, they were such a hit in orgies that people kept comparing their snakes and even forgot to put them to good use.

Marisa wanted to see the mating artifacts in person. Valentina preferred the erotic snakes. Amid laughter and lots of talking, they planned a visit to the shop. Their enthusiasm was well justified: the Lost Paradise, indeed, held many surprises in store. More than they would have imagined.

___________________________________________________________

Sex shops are interesting. There's something excitingly cheap about them (Good Vibrations being an exception to the rule).

On the other hand, you may stumble across some really weird or gross stuff. I remember a few but won't mention them, so I won't spoil your dinner. Argh.

Now read on, as the sex shop here has a little surprise in store for you.