When we got to the bookstore where the poetry readings are held, it was like waking up in another dimension. Suddenly we’re in the fancy, pretentious,  upscale neighborhood of Leblon, with all its hoity-toity Americanized expensive bars and eateries.
 The bookstore is right in the middle of it, tucked away in a corner of that exclusive watering hole of elitist culture and high society.
  Narcisa vaulted off the back of the bike before I pulled to a stop in front, eliciting the usual shocked and curious stares of a small crowd of fancy looking new-age egghead types standing out front.. I didn’t blink. I’m getting used to it all by now… life with Narcisa.
   I looked around. No sign of Tonico. We walked inside, Narcisa talking loud, vibrating fast and frantic as a walking electrical jolt, drawing more stares like dogshit drawing flies from the people inside.
  There was a whole bunch of people gathered. I didn’t know any of them. And no Tonico.
  Shit. Now what?
 ”Let’s got the fuck outa here, Cigano! Hungry hungry, pizza pizza! FOOD!”
 More stares.
 ”Just lemme try and find Tonico, baby,” I reasoned. “We came all this way to be here…”
 ”This is shit, Cigano! Shit place, shit peoples. FOOD! FOOD, go go!”
  I stubbornly stumbled through the gathered crowd of gawking poets, fans and hangers-on, looking for Tonico, Narcisa following disjointedly in my wake. An irate pirate’s shadow, chattering away incoherantly like a stumbling drunken monkey.
 No Tonico.
 We went upstairs to the little cafe. It was packed there too, nowhere to sit.
 Narcisa brushed past me as I scanned the room looking for a familiar face. Nobody. She made a bee line for the bar.
 ”Chocolate cake, the biggest piece for me.” I heard her say to the astonished lady behind the counter, pointing at a big bolo de chocolate on a tray.
 ”Come here, Cigano, pay for these shit,” she yelled as all heads turned in comical unison. I cringed in embarrassment.
  “Don’ need it,” she said to the woman behind the counter as she handed Narcisa a fork, as she grabbed the slice of cake right off the plate with her filthy, grubby claws. She brushed right past me again and walked out onto the street, leaving me standing there to pay the bill. Of course. There ya have it, kids… Narcisa!

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008.

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos, foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. As várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.