“You are correct, Professor Schlemmer!” praises Ana, whom Harvey appears to know from previous visits to the Amazon. “Tell us why?”
“Because the rivers are materially different in speed and temperature. The Amazon flows between 2-4 miles per hour at a temperature of approximately 72 degrees, while the Negro flows at a rate of 1 mile per hour at a temperature about ten degrees warmer. It takes them a while to integrate.”
“Correct again!” she chirps, smiling at the professor in a way that makes me wonder if Marnie ever gets jealous of the younger, more attractive students in his classes.
But Harvey puts his arm around his wife’s shoulder and pulls her closer against him, assuaging my concerns. He is careful of her feelings, and careful to make his own clear. I like and admire him all the more for it.
“The café-au-lait-colored water is the Amazon, or, as we say in Brazil, the Rio Solimões,” continues Ana. “The black tea-colored water is the Rio Negro. After three- or four-miles flowing side by side, the Negro loses its autonomy. The meeting becomes a joining and the two become one.”
Gutter-minded me, I slide my eyes back to Rio, wishing for things that seemed impossible before our kiss yesterday. Planting my elbow on my knee, I cup my chin in my hand, deep in thought as we turn around and glide back toward our cruise ship. I came here to connect with my father’s homeland and bid him farewell, but now I find myself more and more distracted by my handsome Brazilian tour guide.Are the two mutually exclusive?I wonder, quickly deciding that they’re not. Saying goodbye to my father doesn’t preclude saying hello to Rio. Hello and Goodbye are, after all, two sides of the same coin, aren’t they?
But what do you want from Rio?
The question repeats itself in my head and my eyes narrow on the heels of a deep sigh.
The truth is that I have no idea. I’m fiercely drawn to him, far beyond attraction. I can’t stop thinking about him. I want to trace the contours of his body with my fingers, with my tongue, all while learning the peaks and valleys of his mind. I want to know how he saw me so clearly after a handful of minutes; how he could give me insight into who I am when our acquaintance had been so brief. He is brutally intuitive in ways I am not, which heightens my longing for him.
I want to fuck him.
Then I want to stay up all night talking to him.
My first wish is easy enough to take care of—a physical transaction certain to give us both immense relief.
The second is not so simple, however. To talk to him—to know him and to allow him to know me—that could lead tofeelings, which could lead to complications. Brazil is surely no part of my future; only an absent part of my past and a fleeting part of my present. I’ve carved out no room for this wild country in my well-ordered life.
I think you never left New York. Your body might be in Brazil, but your head is stuck back there.
I realize with consternation that I’m doing it again; I’m not living in the present, in the now. I’m worrying about the future and missing everything going on around me... which is a shame considering the bright blue of the sky and the sunlight that shimmers on the water; the dulcet tones of Ana’s voice and the ripples in Rio’s back every time he paddles.
Instead of thinking anymore about the future, I sit back, leaning into my comfortable seat, determined tobein thenow.
***
Back at my cabin, Iopen my laptop and find an email from my mother re-introducing me to Don Spiegel, the Interim Director of my father’s foundation, CMM.
I’ve met Don several times at corporate retreats and board meetings, of course, but never paid him much attention aside from a polite hello. He’s in his sixties, I’d guess—short, gray-haired and serious; about the most innocuous person you can imagine. My mother introduces us in her email, then goes on to say that she believes my father would have wanted me involved in the operations of CMM,Coração de Minha Mãe.
I stare at the word “coração,” wondering what it means in this context, and slightly ashamed that I have no idea. I pull up a new Google window and paste the name of the foundation into the translation window.
Heart of My Mother.
My Mother’s Heart.
My father lost his mother to a heart defect at an early age; and the foundation he started, which my mother said was near and dear to his own heart, was dedicated to her. A shiver slides down my arms as I realize that the foundation I’d always dismissed as a pet project or tax write-off may bear far more emotional significance than I ever knew. It might, in fact, hold the answers to the many questions about my father that won’t leave me alone.
I hit reply.
Dear Don,
I’m pleased to renew our acquaintance.
I’d like to learn more about CCM. Do you know when it was started? What is its mission and whom does it benefit? Can you send me the last two annual reports via email? I’d like to play a larger role in the foundation’s objectives, as per my father’s wishes.
Thank you.
Yara Marino
I have no idea when Don will receive my email and prepare a response, so I close my laptop, freshen up in the bathroom, then lay back on my bed to relax. No doubt this is the reason my mother was encouraging me to get involved in the foundation yesterday. Where she lacks answers to my questions, the foundation, and its beginnings, may provide the information I seek.