Valentina was the only one who knew. Marisa had told her everything on the day following her involvement with Marco, when the two were walking home after classes. The friend almost tripped upon hearing the story. Then Valentina poured a bucket of questions, advised caution, and eventually reacted to the news with enthusiasm. She even suggested that Marisa use the paraphilia encyclopedia in future erotic games.

On weekends, Marisa would make arrangements with Valentina and tell her mother she was sleeping over at her friend's to study. Then she spent time with Marco. The problem was it had become increasingly difficult to dribble her mother, and the arguments were multiplying. One Sunday morning, Marisa woke up late and went home apprehensive. She decided to use the kitchen entrance for precaution; if she was lucky enough, that would give her a chance to reach her bedroom without being caught. And if she was really lucky, her mother could even be in the bathroom getting ready for church.

Marisa turned the key in the doorknob a fraction of an inch at a time, so not to make noise, then gently pushed the door and went inside. She tiptoed, but half-way into the kitchen she could already hear the TV blabbering. Marisa surrendered. When she entered the living room, the Louis XIV-style décor unfolded its expanses of savonnerie rugs abloom. There were more paintings than walls in the place, and the excesses were disorienting like a stereogram. From that entanglement of sideboards covered in embroidered mats and china, cabinets pregnant with relics, and small tables eclipsed by a constellation of Czech crystal miniatures, the question was which unexpected image would emerge.

Perhaps a monster with two Sevres cups for eyes.

In the bookcase, a collection of framed pictures competed for real estate with the television set. Opposite the bookcase there was the blue sofa, and on the blue sofa there was the mother. Stiff as a rock, she watched a romantic comedy on the cable channel. Her hair bun, so tight it almost called for self-punishment, compensated for the folds of the beige robe that lately had become too loose. Her eyes resembled her daughter's, their light-brown hue highlighted by thick eyelashes. The difference was in the irises, which darkened visibly along with her mood.

At that very moment, the mother fixed on Marisa a pair of very dark eyes.

"You are late."

"I had to stay a little longer at Valentina's to review math equations. You know I have a hard time with trigonometry."

The mother did not tolerate well points of view that diverged from her own. And, in her point of view, the equation at hand had nothing to do with trigonometry. She didn't need to open her mouth for Marisa to sense the bad weather coming. But naturally open her mouth she did, as storms needed thunder.

As the star couple reconciled amid tears on TV, her mother's voice rose above the saccharine sound track:

"This is becoming unbearable. You're hardly home these days and never answer my calls. Do you think I was born yesterday? I know you and that weirdo are up to something."

"Will you stop referring to my friend like that?" Marisa forgot about smoothing things over. She could barely restrain her irritation. "We've had this conversation a million times. Is it so hard to understand that I need to study if I ever want to get to college? I'd love to spend the whole day watching TV like you do!"

"Show me some respect, girl. If your father were alive-"

Onscreen, the movie couple now exchanged a passionate look and declared: I love you.

"I know, know." Marisa rolled her eyes and assumed a sarcastic tone. "But dad is not alive, is he? And you didn't even allow me to attend the funeral. How could you do that to me? Do you know what your problem is? You just don't get me."

At those words, the mother's eyes sparked and her nostrils flared. She punched a cushion.

"I've had it up to here with your taunts, do you hear me? After all I've done for you... Well, let me tell you: if you can't, or won't understand what happened, just pack up and leave. I wash my hands of this!"

"Yeah, wash your hands of everything, as usual!"

The music soared to a climax of violins, and the TV couple walked hand in hand on a beautiful Tuscany plain.

Marisa darted to the bedroom. It was her temple there, all white, with the view of a lavender trumpet tree from the window. Next to the Jim Morrison poster above the bed, lingered the inscription that Marisa had recently made after watching a Werner Herzog's film. The big letters, scribbled with a thick black marker, leaped out from the wall.

Every man for himself and God against them all.

Her face burned, her eyes burned. Trembling, Marisa grabbed the cell phone from her purse and called Marco. As soon as he answered, she emptied her heart. When her dad was alive, he acted as a point of balance in the family with his easy-going smile. If there was a quarrel between Marisa and the mother, he soon made them laugh with a joke or took the two out for ice cream, which could cure any hurt. He possessed the serenity of a man who didn't need to prove anything to anyone. For years Marisa's relationship with her mother oscillated between harmony and friction, but now her mom was like a stranger. Even worse, she seemed hostile. What kind of mother told her own daughter to pack and leave?

"Your mom didn't mean it, Mari," said Marco. "She must be feeling lonely and insecure. She wishes you well and worries about you, but doesn't know how to communicate that. If you step into her shoes, it's easier to understand. She's very unhappy. And when people are like that, they dry out because they feel deprived: they can't even be generous toward themselves, let alone toward others. Your mom will eventually get over her grief and this will pass."

"Do you really think so? I wonder... when I see Valentina's mom, always so affectionate..."

"I'm sure. For the first time, both of you are learning to live with each other without your father. Look at the situation as an opportunity to get closer to your mom. Everything is going to be fine and one day you won't even remember all this. But now you need to calm down. Want to go for a walk?"

She agreed with relief. While changing to go out, Marisa turned the MP3 on and chose a selection by the band Air. Once upon a time. She raised the volume until drowning the sound of the TV in the living room.

Marco took her to a distant park that sheltered centennial trees and native Atlantic Forest. They went around the lake and sat under a palm tree, watching the herons, swans and teals in the water. Marco pointed to the grove on a hill in the distance, and explained it was cherry trees. They blossomed for two weeks in the beginning of springtime. So Marco and Marisa planned a picnic there for next year, under the blooming cherry trees. They dreamt of a poem with rosy branches on the blue page of the sky, of wine and fruit, artisan breads and chocolate... And got hungry. They decided to have lunch at a Japanese restaurant he knew.

"Thanks, Marco," said Marisa when they reached the parking lot in the park entrance. "I'm feeling better already."

"Family quarrels are normal. In the end, you and your mom will be okay, believe me."

"I don't know. After her explosion she kept a long face and wouldn't even ask where I was heading." She sighed. "Maybe she was calmer."

The restaurant was set in a house surrounded by residences and other restaurants in the Liberdade Asian district bordering Downtown. A white sign with black ideograms identified the place. Marisa proceeded first, walking along a stone path in the garden ornate by a fountain. The murmur of the water merged into the low voices of clients when she entered the compact room on the ground level. There, lights were dim and a golden fish aquarium stood out near the front door. Following Marco's instructions, Marisa climbed the stairs in the back and chose a private room on the upper floor. He joined her a few minutes later. The two had left their shoes outside by the rice paper panel and, sitting on the tatami, savored a sushi special with cold sake.

The alcohol turned Marisa's heart into a merry song and her hands into butter. In the competition that ensued between Marisa and the chopsticks, there were three rounds. In the first the chopsticks, agile gymnasts forged in Eastern soil, executed an acrobatic turn and flew from her hands. Chopsticks scored one point. In the second, she tried using them again and gave a demonstration of clumsiness. Chopsticks scored another point. In the third round, a sauce stain the size of Australia covered Marisa's white dress. Chopsticks came off victorious, clap, clap, clap, clap.

She headed for the restroom to clean herself. It took her a while and another while. Marisa returned with her dress white again and her face flushed with excitement, two shades above sake-pink.

"Marco, guess who's in the room next door."

"Who?"

"The Siamutt. And here comes the best part..." She made a pause to add to the suspense. "He's got company."

A Siamutt would be the cross between a Siamese and a stray cat. That's how the school director, Breno Belvedere, carried himself with his expensive suits and aristocratic pretension. He bore watery blue eyes, a stature that remained indecisive between tall and short, and scarcing brown hair. The difference between a Siamutt and Belvedere was that the Siamutt looked cute.

Marco didn't seem too impressed with the news.

"Let me guess. You saw Belvedere with the new librarian, right? Pale, black hair, old-fashioned clothes and thick glasses."

"That's right, Celeste. How did you know?" Marisa was disappointed with his lukewarm reaction.

"I'm not blind."

The principal was married to a shrew, the mother of two sons who were Marco's students. On one occasion Marco had seen her at school: a Pit Bull with bulging eyes and long canines. As soon as she turned her back to him, Belvedere morphed into the leading man from a soap opera and discreetly proceeded to perform a romantic scene in the library.

"Do you know what I feel like doing? Saying hi to Belvedere. Just to test his reaction."

"Marco Aurélio! You can't do that."

"I know. But I'd love to. He deserves a lesson. Do you see his hypocrisy? Preaching the virtue at school and intervening even in the female students' clothes. Who does he thinks he is? The Pope? Christian Dior?"

Marisa laughed and almost spilled more soy sauce on her clothes. She described the scene she had witnessed upon her return from the restroom-the director rubbing his foot on the librarian's ankle underneath the table, while she adjusted her glasses and tried to fish a clam in her missoshiro bowl. Marco found it quite funny, but Marisa's face clouded over: they'd better leave, she was afraid of being recognized in spite of the wig. The check was requested, settled and returned to a Brazilian lady in a geisha disguise, owner of smooth hands and swift feet.

When they were about to exit, however, Marco detained Marisa. He put the index finger to his mouth, asking for silence, and whispered:

"Let's give him a fright."

"What?"

"Let's hide his shoes," said Marco, and pointed to a pair of black moccasins lying on the hall.

They exchanged a look of complicity. Then smiled. Marisa returned to their private room. Marco glided over the floor with the stealth of a ninja and snatched the shoes. They split their prize. Marisa searched for a place to hide the left shoe assigned to her. She slid it under a pile of cushions in the corner, but the pile tipped off like a ridiculous Leaning Tower of Pisa and denounced the shoe's toe box.

Marisa retrieved the moccasin and turned back precisely as Marco flung his load out of the window. There was a muffled noise when the trajectory of the footwear was interrupted by an awning. Marisa stared at Marco jaw-dropped. He snatched the other shoe from her hands and, before she had a chance to close her mouth, threw it over the neighbor's roof. Another thud, sharp this time, consummated the crime.

The two of them tiptoed across the hall, accelerated down the stairs and said goodbye to the geisha in the reception without pausing. They darted onto the street and only came to a halt on the corner, panting and laughing. Then they exchanged a cinematographic kiss.

The school director, on the other hand, found himself in a very tight corner while trying to explain to his wife where he had lost his shoes.

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Moreover, you will learn a bit about Sao Paulo, the Brazilian city where this story is set.