Rushed(113)

"I got it, I got it. Shit, I thought spending some time with the Americans would have mellowed you out. Come on."

I rode in Vincente's truck back to our family home in Tres Figuerias, one of the neighborhoods of Porto Alegre. It's the family city-based home, with our larger home out in the countryside nearby. It was convenient for use when we were inside the city and had been in the family since the late nineteen sixties. Vincente pulled up to the house and parked, getting out and walking off, probably to go play video games or something. "Father's inside."

I watched him go and sighed. Vincente always had been the laziest of all of us. All he wanted to be was a gangster, and not in the good way, having watched far too many movies for his own good.

I got out of the truck and walked inside. “Father, I'm home," I greeted after knocking.

"My darling, so good to have you back!" he said, getting out of his seat and coming over, kissing me on both cheeks. "I missed having you around."

It was perhaps the only reason I didn't join my mother in Rio, the need my father had for me. He may not have ever seen me as the man to take his place, but he did value my work and my input, even with his machismo.

"Thank you, Father. But I see the city hasn't burned without me, and nobody seems to be in jail. You must be trying to flatter me."

He laughed and shook his head. "Hardly. But you look tired. I’m sure you must be exhausted."

"I am a bit worn out," I said, not admitting that I'd slept most of the way from Seattle to Sao Paulo, where I'd gotten on the Avianca flight for the last leg of my journey home. I just didn't want to be home, that was all. “But I'm sure you have many questions."

"Oh, they can wait," he said dismissively. “We can talk about it tomorrow over lunch. I’d like to hear more about these Bertolis that we now call our friends."

“Yes, father,” I said, knowing that what he really wanted was all the little gossip and dirt I could spew. The sad part was, I had more than plenty, but that could cut both ways. “For now, I think I'll just rest in my room."

"Of course. Do you need anything?”

"No, Father. I ate on the plane, and my stomach is a little . . . queasy still," I said. "Thank you, though."

"All right, then. Well, good night, Luisa. It's good to have you home. I’ll be going out later. There is some business I need to attend to in the Centro district," he said, going back to his chair and sitting down. The Mendosas controlled all of the vice in the Centro district of Porto Alegre, which was the nighttime hub of the city. Of course, for my father, business could have also been sampling the wares of the ladies who worked in the Centro, or actually doing real business—it was never quite clear.

Up in my room, I turned on my computer, waiting the interminable time it took for it to connect to the Internet. I’d gotten spoiled by American standards, where fast Wi-Fi was available at nearly every street corner coffee shop with nearly instant connections. In Porto Alegre, that wasn't the case, and even the expensive line my father paid for paled in comparison to what I'd gotten used to in Seattle.

Finally, I opened my email, hoping to see a message from Tomasso. I waited while my system checked for new messages and smiled when I saw an unread message.

Dear Luisa,

You've only been in the air a few hours, but my day feels so different knowing I won't be seeing your dark eyes or the golden shine of your hair. I actually fell asleep in the car coming home from SeaTac, so I can't say much other than my sleep was restless, and I woke up wishing that I had you in my arms.

I'm sure that your flight was better than how you came up, and I hope you were able to rest some. I checked the time difference between us, and it's not all that bad. When you can, I'd like to set up a video call, even if it's just to talk and share stories. I want to know what Porto Alegre's like, how your days have been, everything. Most of all, I want to see your beautiful face and to talk about how we can make the impossible possible.

In any case, when you can, send me a message, just telling me that you made it safe, and that I wasn't hallucinating this morning with what was said between us.

Tell me that I did tell you I love you. Talk later.

Tomasso





I read the letter twice and smiled as I hit the button to reply.

Dear Tomasso,

The first thing I did when I got to my room was check my email, and I had to hold back tears when I saw your letter. To say it was the highlight of my evening is an understatement.

No, you weren't hallucinating. My only regret of the past few weeks has been that I waited so long to tell you how I felt—like it was some sort of bad luck to give voice to how we felt.

Making the impossible possible? If anyone can do it, I think it is you. And if I get the chance to be there with you while you do it, that would make me the luckiest woman in the world.

As soon as I know what father has in store for me, we’ll set up a time to talk. I know he’s going to be difficult, but we’ll deal with it.

I love you too.

Luisa





For the next month, life fell back into a boring, if comfortable, routine. Tomasso and I would exchange emails on a daily basis unless our schedules had us going out of contact for some reason or another. My father, after picking my brain as best he could for insight on his new business partner—he came away with a warier respect for Carlo Bertoli than he had before—had sent me back to the legitimate side of the family business, which often involved me spending large amounts of time at our home outside Porto Alegre.