Waking Beauty Read Free Page A

cousin Paulo is getting married,” she’d say, smiling sympathetically. When I first moved onto the street, the sympathy smile annoyed me. I got it every time I walked by her. But soon she started throwing in a “Hot enough for you?” or “Have a nice evening,” and then one afternoon she was at my door with a plastic bag fat with zucchinis from her family’s vegetable garden. Nice. The following day, I countered with a bouquet of snapdragons scrounged from a neglected planter at the side of the 7-Eleven. The day after that, Isadora responded with an armload of dazzling, homegrown tomatoes. I lobbed back a bundle of fresh rosemary, purchased, then passed off as something I’d cultivated and had more than enough of. Isadora one-upped me with a plate of sardines that had been barbecued in a brick structure at the back of her yard. A day later, as I scanned my apartment for some sort of reciprocal goody, I had a disquieting vision of neighborly escalation, and saw myself in a week’s time dragging my sofa or television set down to the DeSouzas’.
    A friendship of sorts had begun. One that was given shape and purpose when Virginie, on her way to the subway, casually flicked a cigarette butt onto the damp, freshly sanitized DeSouza lawn as Isadora stood watching/rewinding her hose. Thereafter, Isadora was hungry for stories of my roommate’s treachery, and I was happy to oblige.
The enemies of my enemies are my friends
. Suddenly we had something to talk about. One thing in common.
    Isadora wasn’t very bright, but she was extremely cordial. She lived with her extended family in a semi-detached house at the end of the street next to the alley. Back in Lisbon, Isadora’s father was a well-paid hydro technician. Here he was a janitor. Even though he spoke nothing but Portuguese, he managed to secure a contract to clean a small office building downtown. Every weekday at six-thirty, the DeSouza clan piled into a van and headed to 505 Richmond Street to fight grime and restore order. And for ten months I went withthem—after Isadora’s sister got laid up with multiple sclerosis. The DeSouzas needed an extra body, and since my unemployment insurance was about to run out, I needed some semblance of an income. It would take at least twelve years before Isadora’s children were of broom-wielding age, so Mr. DeSouza reluctantly agreed to hire a non-relation (after concerted campaigning by Isadora on my behalf). I was grateful for the job and I did my best to keep up, but the DeSouzas were the most energetic and thoroughly clean family I had ever encountered. What the Wallendas were to flying, the DeSouzas were to scouring. And while I found them inspiring on a certain level, it was often difficult to marshal adequate enthusiasm for my eight-dollar-an-hour scrub gig. Mind you, I found it difficult to get up for just about anything back then.
    By the time I got to the subway , I was sticky with sweat. After a leisurely seven-minute waddle to the corner, my freshly laundered blouse was damp and clinging, and my crotch was broiling in my blue jeans. It was a relief to go underground and get into an air-conditioned car. I fanned myself with both hands and tried not to gawk at all the people in their summer clothes—tank tops, shorts, tiny sundresses with spaghetti straps. This was the part of spring that I detested: the doffing of the duds. The Annual Molt. All that exposed flesh, all those beautiful bodies on display. How I envied women who could wear sleeveless tops. How impossibly breezy and fine would it feel to be out in public, wearing a top without sleeves? I just couldn’t imagine it. With my arms, even T-shirts were out of the question. So I went with long-sleeved blouses rolled to the elbow, and either full-length jeans—the shit smear on my shin precluding the cooler Capri pant option—or a skirt that went down to the ankles. Spring was tolerable. Summer was a five-alarm hellfire.
    Okay, here’s a question: When