Malandro

The morning light invaded the room suddenly and without warning, arriving at the window like a luminous blanket of warm air, gently prodding at the residual dreams of the previous night and urging the waking and beginning of a new day. As the sun stretched out over the arch of the bed, a gentle stirring of the sheets betrayed the presence of its waking occupant who, turning her head in playful defiance at the merging of night into day, nevertheless stretched out her long and weary limbs.

But before she would give in to the inevitability of waking, she allowed her fingers to scan the bed with a playful urgency, allowing her mind to drift and cling however temporarily to the fading impressions of her dreams; to her dark and mysterious stranger, the elegant cut of his suit, the jaunty angle of his hat, the soft silk of his neck scarf, blood red against the smooth and muscular cords of his brown neck, of music, and laughter, and dancing, and other things. A wide open smile began to form on her glowing face, but was soon replaced by a confused and desperate frown as her fingertips failed to register anything next to her in the bed besides the rustle of empty sheets. Alarmed, she sprang to an upright position, her eyes wide open and trembling, fixed on the empty space next to her. And then, a sigh of relief, like a short blast of steam whistling in the still air.

With the smile returning to her face she gathered up the objects resting against the pillow that had so effectively allayed her concerns; a single red rose, delicate and gleaming, and an envelope with an x written over the centre in long and elegant strokes.

Still smiling, she got up out of bed and carried the gifts over to her dresser, placing the rose down gently on the table before taking a seat and studying herself in the mirror. She thumbed the envelope curiously, before sliding her fingers across the top and pulling on the card inside. She opened it up and read the inscription out loud, 'meu amor, a lesson in love and malandragem', stumbling over the exotic sounding words and wondering what they could possibly mean as she placed the card slowly down next to the rose. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a pair of diamond earrings that she had worn the night before discarded carelessly on the side and, picking them up, went to put them back inside the jewellery drawer. Still perplexed as to the possible meaning of such a strange and cryptic message, the foreign words teasing her in the same accent as his mysterious voice had done the previous night, she fumbled casually about the drawer before something seemed to catch her attention, causing her to stop suddenly and look down. Forgetting all about the card now and with the frown returning to her face, she bent over the open drawer and began to search it frantically, her agitated fingers scraping and knocking along the empty wooden sides.

And somewhere a mysterious looking man tilts his panama hat at a group of washer women and flashes them a mischievous smile before folding a few notes inside the pocket of a blind man playing the guitar at the side of the street. And as he leaves, striding confidently down the road, the women laugh conspiratorially and whisper to each other in low tones, about how odd it is, such a man strolling down the street, and with such a fine woman's watch tied so delicately round his wrist.