The Ambassador to Brazil. Peter Hornbostel
by the Little Theater of Rio de Janeiro. At the last rehearsal (he missed most of the earlier ones), the idea came to him. “I think the part calls for a mustache,” he told the stage manager. And because he was the ambassador, they hustled off and got him one.
That mustache had come in handy more than once. After a night working late at the embassy, he would sometimes drive out to one of the bars at the end of Copacabana Beach, and have a caipirinha by himself, unrecognized by anyone, far from the embassy and all the bureaucratic folderol. His favorite was the Bar Atlantico with its large outside terrace facing the sea, near where Avenida Atlantica turned the corner and headed toward Ipanema. The chess tables along the beach opposite were abandoned by the time he arrived. Pulled up on the beach next to them were several small fishing boats, all painted different colors. Carter was always surprised to see them there, in the middle of the second largest city in Brazil.
And now he sat at the back of the terrace outside of the Bar Atlantico behind Posto 6 on Copacabana Beach, enjoying his ice cold chopp, as the Brazilians called their tap beer. The mustache was firmly stuck on with theatrical gum. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses in lieu of his usual contacts. And his hair was stuck onto his head with too much Brylcreem. He was afraid it looked a bit ridiculous, but there was no way anyone could recognize him. He hadn’t taken that course in makeup in college for nothing.
“Hello, Mr. Ambassador,” said a soft voice from behind him. “What are you doing here?”
He almost didn’t recognize her. In place of the demure black cocktail dress she had worn at the Romanian embassy, she was now wearing a short pair of hot pants. Her platform shoes had heels higher than he had ever seen before. On top, she wore a black see-through blouse, cut low to accentuate her cleavage. Her mascara and lipstick were perfect. She was gorgeous.
“Mind if I sit down?” she said in Portuguese, as she sat down next to him and lit a cigarette. “Paulinho,” she called out to the waiter, “Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks, please.” She put her hand over his. “So, like I asked you, Tony, what are you doing here?” It was the first time that any woman other than Priscilla had addressed him by his first name since he arrived in Brazil.
He stared at her. “How did you know who I am?” he asked.
She laughed. “Men are my profession,” she said. “It would be one big mess if I couldn’t tell them apart. Besides,” she added, “I don’t run into many of them as handsome as you.”
He knew it was just business flattery, but he liked it nonetheless.
“And your mustache is on crooked, too.”
He reached up quickly but the gum had hardened it on. She laughed again, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Oh, I’m only kidding. I like to make things up,” she said. “Not just my face.”
The whiskey came; he ordered another chopp. “What were you doing at the Romanian embassy?” he asked.
“Oh, she said, “I was sleeping with Lamenski then. He’s the Romanian ambassador … but I’m sure you know that. His secretary quit—the sex was terrible, he said, so I helped out a little, passing out the ‘great leader’s’ book, and doing some other things.” She stopped for a moment. “He was a nice man, Lamenski, I taught him a few things. He taught me a few things. But he ran out of money, at least that’s what he said.”
“You left him?”
“Sure,” she said. “Love is nice, but I can’t live on just love. The factory would go under.”
“Factory?”
“Oh, I’m sure I could live on what I can make on the street,” she continued. “I’m young and I’m beautiful, but that won’t last forever. And then what?”
Carter was incredulous. “So you built yourself a factory for the day when you—”
She interrupted him. “Oh, it’s just a little building near the favela in Bangu, with four sewing machines and four girls who sew for me. And there’s a cutting table, too, and a guy who cuts for me. That’s a lot of mouths to feed, to say nothing of the fabric we buy. And the ribbons. It’s expensive, and the best terms I can get from my suppliers is thirty days. I don’t get paid by my customers for ninety days. So I need working capital. Now, how many banks do you know who will lend to a girl with four sewing machines out in Bangu? Of course they won’t. So I get my working capital on the street, which isn’t so bad really.”
How could prostitution be “not so bad,” Carter thought. His public health people thought it was terrible, for both the community and for the prostitutes themselves. He was sure they were right. But he had heard that the Dutch and also the French didn’t agree. Prostitution was legal there. He decided not to say anything.
“There are always a few assholes,” she continued, “and a few pricks—figure of speech—but most of the clients are OK. A few of them actually wind up buying a sewing machine for me—in installments. I name the machine after them if they would like that.”
She stopped. “Oh, I haven’t even told you what we produce,” she said. “We make children’s clothes. Toddlers, really. It’s a good business in Brazil. Lots of toddlers.”
She paused again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must be boring you. It’s just I get so excited about my little factory.”
Carter was amazed. A streetwalker with her own factory? Making clothes for toddlers? That couldn’t happen in the United States. And if it did, no one would believe it. “No,” he said. “It’s fascinating.”
“You mean it’s fascinating that a streetwalker can have a factory as well?”
He didn’t reply.
“Most of us are like that,” she said. “I’m lucky. I’ve got my own business. A lot of the girls just have day jobs. They’re bank tellers, secretaries, salespeople, waitresses, but you’ll never get a life that way. So we find a way to make a little money on the side, or on the back, that will make life worth living.”
“Most people get married,” he said. Like Priscilla and me, he thought.
“Oh, lots of us have been married,” she said. “But so many married men are such shits. They’re not faithful, so why should we be? It’s better to be on the street. At least as long as you’re young and pretty.
“Enough of all of that,” she said. “Come on, Mr. Ambassador, let’s go somewhere.” Under the table, she ran her hand up his leg and stopped at his crotch. He could feel himself getting hard, his breath coming a little bit faster. But he couldn’t do this. He was a married man. American married men didn’t sleep with streetwalkers.
“I can’t do that, I’m a married man,” he stammered.
She laughed. “Most of my clients are married. The single guys are young and sexy; they don’t need us. But the married guys, sure they’re getting it at home, but often it’s not very good, or maybe they’re not getting it at all. Regardless, I can tell you this: They’re not happy. That’s why they come to see me… . What about you, Mr. Ambassador? How’s your sex life?”
Suddenly it was really urgent that he get away. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “My wife is waiting … .Waiter,” he called out. “Waiter, the check. Right away, please.”
The check came out the equivalent of $39.60. The whiskeys were US$16 each, plus $2 each for the chopp, plus the mandatory ten percent tip.
“Paulinho, take off the whiskey,” she said. The waiter hustled away and came back with a check for a total of $6.60. She smiled at Carter. “It wasn’t really whiskey, you know. Just strong tea. We get a cut on what they sell.”
She took her hand out from under the table and ran it through his hair. “You can leave off the hair tonic next time,” she said, “and the mustache, I’ll know you anyway.”
He got up. “What’s your name?”
“Marina,”