	RodMer Short Story Package II Taking Charge
by Rod Anderson	for on-line reading now in your browser

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Here is Short Story Package II -- a short story by Rod Anderson.

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This short story, written in 1983, was one of the first I wrote after leaving the business world to take up writing. I had over the years spent a lot of time in Rio on business. The Carioca accent there is distinctive. Terminal d's and t's get palatalized so that 'cigarette' does indeed come out sounding like 'seega-hetchy' and my name comes out sounding like 'Hod-gee'. A 'boite' is a bar (as in French) but pronounced 'bwa-tchee'. However, I can guarantee that no bar has been called the Boite Urubú (which would mean the Buzzard Bar). The buzzards are a common sight around the outskirts of Rio, always on the lookout for scraps of dead meat to demolish -- a great sanitation department. The CN Tower is a Toronto landmark. "Wie du warst! Wie du bist!" is the opening line of Richard Strauss's wonderful opera Der Rosenkavalier.

TAKING CHARGE

Approximately 3,600 words

"You got seega-hetchy?"

I barely hear the words over the barrage of staccato rhythms ricocheting off the drums, tambourines, and cuicas of the exuberant Brazilian band. I look up. the hand tousling my hair is connected to a brown arm. Rich brown. The colour of Santos #1 coffee beans with the light export roast. The arm too has a sort of coffee small. It takes all tastes, I always say, to make a world. Maybe I'll switch to cafèzinhos in a minute. I twist around in my chair. She's standing behind it. But she's short! Mulatas are supposed to be tall and leggy -- like the ones in the samba show an hour ago.

"Hey. You got seega-hetchy?"

Now, I know the Portuguese word for cigarette is cigarro. But this girl's trying to say it in English. And in case I don't understand, an obscenely long orange-painted nail snakes suggestively in and out of her pursed, orange lips.

"No. I'm busy." I wave her away with my hand. My best cross-court backhand. That's how you have to treat these people. Look like an easy mark and you'll have three of them crawling all over you. And next morning - no money, no wallet, no credit cards, no passport.

"Sure are aggressive in here," I joke, looking across at Charlie and Fred, with whom I've spent the last three days analyzing trade figures at the Canadian consulate. I've brought them to the boisterous Boite Urubú just down the Avenida Atlantica from our hotel for a little relaxation. You have to accept the social needs of your employees as legitimate. That's what my MBA prof used to say in his Human Resources lectures. Well, this is my bit for team togetherness and the greater glory of Toronto's Elgin Bank. And it's a good team, if I say so myself. Charlie and Fred are coming on strong in my international economics department. Even Ruth Black, our division vice-president, who's never satisfied with anything, has started to take notice. But right now Charlie and Fred are both looking at me wide-eyed.

"Jim, are you felling all right?" asks Fred. "That's Maria - your wife!"

Long pause.

The girl bends down and whispers so only I can hear. "You're supposed to say, 'You know I don't smoke, honey'"

Well I don't know about you, but I for one don't drink a lot. I mean I've had only three or four batidas de coco since the show. I run my tongue along the side of my mouth where the sweet smooth taste of coconut milk still clings, masking the harshness of the cachaça beneath. I swallow, feeling this last suspicion of sweetness go down the back of my throat. Three or four certainly isn't much. I'm feeling fine. And I intend to stay in charge of this whole operation, believe me. The samba band is making such a racket out of this last number you can't hear yourself think. I thought Fred said 'wife' but he obviously didn't. And why am I supposed to know the name 'Maria'? Never seen her before. But damned if she too doesn't seem to think I know her. And what the hell are all the other tables looking at me like that for? The band stops. So what? Silence. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do next. But the executive gets used to making quick decisions in the presence of uncertainty. I decide to adopt a world-weary pose.

"Beat it, kid," I toss off, the jaded young businessman, an astonishing wealth of experience belying his youthful, clean-cut looks - weary of all the same old banter. Yes, old Jim, age thirty, has heard it all. I feel a few drops of sweat beading at my temples.

But the hand continues tousling.

I look across at Fred and Charlie to wink - but their places are empty. Must have gone after two other girls. Probably on the dance floor, waiting for the racket to start up again. Good for them. They have the inclination. Not me. The hell with that stuff. Worrying about penicillin shots the next day. That's why I never have - at least, not in a place like this. But, of course, I'm not going to let on any of that to Fred and Charlie. A good leader knows his team needs to look up to him, right?

"Jim, it's, 'You know I don't smoke, honey'; are you forgetting?" the girl connected to the tousling hand whispers more loudly, her accent now a little strange, I would say almost Canadian. I can feel the long fingernails. Obviously artificial. I'm not sure what she's driving at. But I keep cool.

Some drunk tourist at the next table shouts, "'You know I don't smoke, honey' - asshole!" Loud laughter around the room.

I laugh too. I can take a joke as well as the next guy. Laugh along with the gang. That's me. OK. OK. I laugh again and go along with the gag. "You know I don't smoke."

The tousling hand stops. Fred and Charlie are in their places again - as if nothing had happened. Maybe they were always there and I just didn't notice. I smile at them.

"Here, I've got a cigarette, Maria," says Fred, reaching across the table. The girl takes it; then walks around and sits down beside him.

"Nice to have friends," she says (there's that Canadian accent again), glaring across the table at me. "Fine husband you make!"

What is all this husband and wife bit? I've never seen this girl before. I've never been in the Urubú before - just though it would be fun for Fred and Charlie. I know who my wife is. That's for sure. It's Mary and she's blonde and she's six thousand miles from here - maybe further if she's taken one of those lightning trips to Europe which recently she's been doing so often. Feet never got back on the ground after they made her vice-president at Lytton Blythe. And we have a two-year old kid called Peter, bit of a disaster actually, whom Mrs. Johnson looks after most of the time - which Mary pays for, because I think it's the mother's responsibility, don't you? And besides she earns more than I do. Though it's easy money those stockbrokers make. Not like slugging it out for a salary like me. And we live in a small house on Merton. But it'll be bigger in a few years because I'm on the inside track at our Toronto head office. International economics is where it's at. Only two weeks ago at our conference in Montreal I delivered a paper on this very point and all the analysts told me afterwards that I was just great. See, I remember all this very clearly. And I tell you, Mary doesn't look at all like this girl. Well, maybe a similar height, but everything else completely different!

The room is silent again. Maria seems to be waiting for me to say something. Now that I see her face full on I realize I do know her. For God's sake, we went to school together! Only it was a boys' school. His name was Marty. He went into External Affairs, I think. Well, either he's had a sex-change operation or he's jointed the local group of bonecas in drag.

"Come on, Marty. Cut it out. What the hell are you doing down here anyway?" I mean I can take a joke but you can't fool old Jim for long.

"Where are you getting those lines?" Marty asks. Maybe it isn't Marty. There's another long pause. Again all the tables are looking at me. Waiting for something? Why can't they just carry on? Got to stay in charge. Appear nonchalant! Look, I'm just an observer here. You guys keep going.

"Look, I'm just an observer here. You guys keep going. Don't mind me. I'll just watch for a while." Until I get the hang of it. Until I know the rules. I smile knowingly at Fred and Charlie. Good to have my own team with me.

Marty, or whoever it is, stands up. Pulls at his hair. The dark brunette curls come off in his hand. Ha ha - it's a wig! And from underneath comes tumbling out long blonde hair. I see that after all it is Mary. Well, I guess I'd known that all along, really. Accent gave her away. Mary. Yes. Maria - Mary. Very funny. Ha ha. Jim knows how to take a joke. "Carry on, carry on," I laugh.

"Christ, Jim, let's start this all over again from the beginning!"

Now that line I do remember. Mary said it to me six years ago. We never acted on it, but she said it. You see, my memory's fine. Got to be - in my business - thousands of details. Lots of faces - you can't remember them all but they know you. Smile anyway. Shake hands.

I feel a hand tousling my hair again. But it's not Mary; she's still sitting across the table. I wonder when she flew down. And why?

"You got seega-hetchy?"

I look up - another short mulata. Large breasts, large hips, Sort of the shape of a violin case.

"Go away - I'm starting the lines over again with Mary." I look across at Mary and shrug. Want her to know I can handle this. Mary looks annoyed.

"Jim," she complains, "that's Maria - your wife!"

OK. OK. Everyone knows I'm married to some Maria except me. What now? Damn it, what do they want? Look I just got here. Sometimes the proper management style is to be open with a frank and disarming modesty.

"Look, I just got here. I don't entirely understand the game. In fact, I've never been much good at games. Who the hell is this Maria I'm supposed to be married to?"

All the tables burst out in applause. A waiter comes up to me. Maybe I'll order another batida and a round for Fred and Charlie and Mary and this new girl, whoever she is. But before I can speak the waiter grabs both my shoulders, squinting with a funny smile. "Jim, that line's not at all bad. Really it isn't. Maybe we'll even use it. But," and the corners of his smile tense a little, "you've got to stop this ad libbing." And then a second waiter and a third and a fourth come up and they all stand there, like trained seals on display, writing notes furiously on their little pads - occasionally discussing a point in loud whispers. The rest of the room is silent.

Charlie and Fred have disappeared again. Mary sits sprawled over all three chairs, smoking. One tanned leg up on the table. As if it ought to have a black garter around the thigh with a gypsy knife stuck into it. I've never seen her like this. The fingers of her left hand idly play with her blonde hair. Which suddenly comes completely off! And I see now she's really a redhead - though it looks dyed to me. Anyway, it's not Mary; that's for sure. And then, damned if the red hair doesn't come too, revealing a black afro. OK. OK. Clever trick. I get the point. Don't need to overdo it. Jim gets the point. Ha ha! Ha ha ha!

.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.

Turning over I see Mary coming out of the bathroom, an orange towel draped over one hand and the stockmarket pages of the Wall Street Journal in the other, somehow managing a cigarette at the same time. Zap! The puzzle snaps into place.

"You wouldn't believe the crazy dream I've just had." I rub the sleep out of my eyes. "I went on dreaming about that crazy Urubú last night." Mary looks at me a little blankly. But I continue. "Sort of a nightmare. You were in it, and (you won't believe this) very sexy too. Say, I hope Fred and Charlie are OK. They were still going strong when we left. Of course, they're new at all this. And it is their first time in Rio." I reach for the phone. "Let's see if the Copacabana can get us some decent coffee, without lumps in the hot milk this time."

Mary looks at me, a little coldly for my liking. Puts down her cigarette. I'm not always sure I like being married to a vice-president. Her voice is quiet and measured. "This is the Savoy . . . London. You OK?"

"Oh! Ha ha! Of course. Damn it. Dream, I guess." Sure, out the window I catch a glimpse of Waterloo Bridge. And at its far end the National Theatre. Where Mary made me see some godawful modern play last fall. "Yeah, that dream really got to me. Some dream! Must be still waking up from it, Mary."

"My name's Sharon. And you're stoned."

Back paddle quickly. "Sharon, of course. Sharon. Yes it's always been Sharon, hasn't it?" So may faces you meet and they all know you because you're important because international economics is the big new thing and we're on the fast track. And of course you can't recognize them all. But it's important to smile and be friendly. Serious disagreements don't happen if day-to-day communications are effective. No sir. And I like to think I give as much attention to communications as anyone. And a friendly environment encourages productivity. Same thing is true on the home front. Of course, Sharon. It's always been Sharon. But at least I'm right about the house on Merton. Or maybe that was the first one. Yeah, that's right. We're on Heath now. Thousands of details to keep in your head. But stoned I'm not. No way. Not Jim. Just one hell of a lot of details to keep straight.

The phone rings. Sharon picks it up, grabbing for her cigarette first. I hear the muffled peal of Big Ben a few blocks up-river - nine, I think. "Well, hello, Ruth. You must have got up early to make this call. I didn't know you bankers got up so early. I know one who doesn't."

Very funny, Sharon.

". . . What's that? . . . No, I wouldn't touch those options right now if I were you. Premium's too high. If you want that exposure, buy the warrants - three years to run. But why are you asking me? Don't you trust your own discount people? . . .Oh, I see. . . . Yes. Well, some men will always screw things up."

She winks at me. I don't like her wink.

"Ruth, why don't you give your account to me if you're worried about your own traders? . . . Fine. I'll have my secretary get the papers over to you and confirm those warrant purchases later today. But I don't suppose you're calling overseas just to chat about the market. . . . . Yeah, Jack's here, a little under the weather, but here. . . . Just a minute. Jack, it's Ruth from Toronto."

Funny, funny Sharon! God you're funny! Just because I fumbled your name as I was waking up. And thanks a lot for the build-up. But to business. I'll deal with you later. Bloody early for a vice-president to be calling. I pick up the phone noncommittally. "Hello, Ruth."

"Jack, is that you? Fred and Charlie have been waiting for you in Stockholm for two days. Where the hell have you been?"

Both of them name-twisting! Well God damn it! Sometimes anger is the appropriate management technique, though it's a little risky on superiors. But I decide it's time to roll the dice. "Look, Ruth," I say, "you may be the boss of this goddamned division but I'm tired of jokes. My name is Jim. It's always been Jim. Good old James P. Adams. I don't know what the hell this Jack business is you and Sharon have cooked up but I'm working my butt off for you guys here and I'd really appreciate being spared head office humour right now." Well, that might lose me my job. But you never know. They like guys with spunk. Good for Ruth Black to know she's got one executive here who's not just a yes-man.

I look up to see if my outburst has had the proper sobering effect on Sharon. I mean some jokes can go too far. But she is backing slowly out of the room, now suddenly in her gown - her eyes wide with fear - as if she's seen a ghost or a lunatic or something.

As she reaches the door, it opens abruptly and Fred and Charlie, both on a forward tilt, come charging through the doorway out of breath. Makes me think of one of those old silent movies. They nod quickly to Sharon and then Fred turns to me. "Sure glad you're here, Jack. Ruth told us you'd be a few days late arriving from London. I hope you're finding the Birger Jarl is OK. It's all we could get."

I try to interrupt but the meaningless words won't stop. Keep coming at me.

"Not on the lake, I'm afraid. Stockholm's packed solid. We've been having one hell of a time with Sven. You'll have to help. Can you come right now? I've got a taxi waiting. His office is a couple of dozen blocks away. In the Old Town. Just west of the Palace. I know he'll listen to you, Jack."

Charlie opens and closes his mouth several times in sympathy with Fred, but can't seem to figure out how to make sound come out. Only an intricate series of interlocking smoke rings.

At this point I lose my patience. "OK, you guys, I get it - finally. Old Jim is sometimes a little slow, but he's not stupid. No sir. Wouldn't have got where I am if I were. And I know what's going on here. Which is - that I'm still dreaming. and you three are nothing but parts of my dream. So guess who's in charge? I've got it figured out. I'm going to wake up. And all three of you are about to be snuffed out of my dream forever. Ready? So long! Creeps!

.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.

And with that I open my eyes.

Her hand is slowly stroking my chest and her eyes are looking at me, smiling and slightly mocking, as if to say, 'You sure took a long time waking up.'

I've never seen this woman before in my life but it seems that right time to take charge of this merry-go-round. It's OK. I'm here now. I'll take over. I reach for her shoulders and pull her lips against mine. Her eyes close. I see the CN Tower, like a tall upright cigarette, through my apartment window. Well, maybe it's not the CN Tower, but it's some sort of tall steeple anyway. Her lips are moist.

"It's good to be home," I say, cleverly avoiding the use of any names. Old Jim, or whoever I am, is catching on.

Her eyes open in surprise and she whispers urgently, "Nein, nein, Franz: 'Wie du warst! Wie du bist!'"

To my right, over the footlights, I hear the audience fidgeting.

.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.

The hell with this. I jump from the white-frilled bed and sprint out of the room. A sweaty stagehand comes at me, big front limbs hanging forward loosely, like a drunken chimpanzee. But I neatly straight-arm him, the dazzling varsity quarterback of '74. At least, I think I was. No, it was basketball. Some members of the audience titter nervously. I dribble into the wings. Feint to the right. then lunge left - through a door into blackness. I find an empty seat. I was never up there, believe me. In fact, no-one's up there. I mean, what the hell, they're still in the middle of the overture.

The curtain rises. Across the lights a sea of blank faces stare at us. They know who they are, yes sir. But who the hell are you?

From behind comes a husky voice you've never heard.

"Une cigarette, mon chou?"

The faces keep staring. Waiting. You look around to see how to adapt. We all look around.

First published in
Dandelion
Issue #13/2
Fall/Winter 1986

Rod Anderson
'SwallowHill', 1940 Hill 60 Rd., R.R.5
Cobourg, ON, K9A 4J8
Canada
rod@rodmer.com