The Mermaid Variations
a miniature trilogy
by
Rhys Hughes
Published By Gloomy Seahorse Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Rhys Hughes
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The cover of this ebook depicts a miniature painting of a mermaid on a seashell
by the artist Adele Whittle
Dedicated to
The real Caroline Moreira
of Curitiba, Brazil
The joys of Brazil pressed on the traveller as he wandered into the historic quarter of the city. It was almost carnival time and people were preparing themselves for the experience. They were rehearsing by dancing and drinking and dressing in costumes. As he entered the Largo da Ordem, he was amazed by the variety of disguises that the revellers had adopted. Here was colour and imagination in excess. Yet it all blended rather than clashed and carried him along on a single wave of shared indulgence.
He felt pale and feeble in comparison with these alluring people. He wanted to simply stand and watch, but it was impossible to remain aloof. Wherever he went he found himself in the middle of a dance. Groups of pretend gypsies whirled around him, the girls swaying their hips in so seductive a fashion he was suffused with a sensation that was both agreeable and hopeless. He felt an intense yearning, a desire that was painful, because there was too much beauty and he was no longer young.
At last he reached a tranquil corner in the shadow of the Nossa Senhora do Rosário. This church was only a reconstruction of the original, which had decayed to a ruin, but it still held the breath of the past in the bones of its stones. He uttered a sigh of disappointment that also worked as one of relief, for he wished to lose himself in the festivities but he was tired and could not forget the misery of his former life. Everything here refuted his belief in the world as a tasteless joke. It was almost beyond his endurance.
He relaxed slowly. There was a stall selling drinks and he ordered a caipirinha, rum mixed with lime, sugar and crushed ice. It cooled and warmed him at the same time. His individuality began to melt. Far from home in this tropical land he believed that acceptance waited for him. Rarely had he beheld such lack of suspicion, such openness of heart. The revellers were often frantic and even the lilting melodies of the guitars were driven by a powerful beat, but everyone was welcome to be equally wild. There were no barriers.
Beyond the songs he heard a gentle splash. He assumed there was a fountain in the square and he went to search for it. He crossed the Largo da Ordem, heading in the direction of the Praça Tiradentes, weaving between dancers adorned with feathers who swooped on him and each other like carnivorous parrots, veering away at the last moment and giggling. When he was safely through, his own face carrying a smile he had not placed there himself, his heart light against his will, he found the source of the water.
It was not a fountain. It was a glass tank full to the brim. A girl swam in it, making ornate patterns that threw up a fine spray. He relished the moisture on his cheeks and lips as he approached her. Then she stopped and grasped one side of the tank with her fingers and waited for him to step even closer. In the light of lanterns that hung from brackets on nearby buildings, her skin sparkled, each droplet a costume jewel. Her eyes laughed at him or with him, he could not say which. It did not matter.
He bowed. “Boa tarde, sereia bonita.”
She replied in his own language, her tone warm and yet haunting, like so many songs of the south, sensual and humorous. “Yes, I am a mermaid.”
“Very convincing,” he replied quietly.
She flicked her tail. “I try my best. But what are you?”
“I have come as a traveller.”
She winked, her long lashes dark gold and moist. “Ah, I thought you had dressed up as a lonely man!”
He accepted the jest with a little shrug. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets, unaccountably nervous in front of her, his weary feet shuffling as he wondered what to say. He realised he was the only person near the tank. A space had opened around them, a rare opportunity to stretch and breathe clean air instead of the scent of sweat of drunken dancers, not that the flavour of those exuberant secretions was unpleasant. But he was happy to be alone with her, to stand in her presence and exchange inquisitive glances.
“What is your name?” he asked at last.
She offered him a hand. “Caroline.”
He held it timidly and then on impulse kissed it. She laughed again and he felt an incredible energy surge inside him. This was a perfect moment, one of those precious instants when it is both desirable and possible to exist only in the present without former or future cares betraying or troubling the senses. He inhaled her perfume. It was smooth but fiery, like honey and pepper, and he imagined submerged volcanoes erupting in shallow, sugary seas. Then he shook his head and returned to reality and spoke again.
“I have a new name for you.”
“Oh yes?” she answered.
“A menina com cabelos ondulados.”
She clapped her hands. “That is cute. I am the girl with wavy hair. And why is that, do you suppose? Is it because I live in the waves? There are many different kinds of wave. And what must I call you, little traveller?”
He leaned forward and whispered his name. He thought he tasted the spray of the ocean as he pressed his lips to her ear. She listened with a frown and seemed to disagree with what he told her.
“No,” she said, “you are not what you claim to be.”
“Then who am I? Who?”
She lifted a finger to her lips and turned her head partly away. A line of dancers was approaching, snaking closer, each man and woman apparently joined at the pelvis, so that they resembled a giant millipede with thorns in its feet, for no heel touched the ground without instantly springing up again. And the dancers were followed by drummers, striking a bewildering selection of percussive instruments, giant surdo and tantan drums, and the smaller pandeiro and timbal, held high or strapped to their waists, some playing with hands, others with sticks. The traveller stepped back and they undulated between him and the mermaid.
A few of the drummers were locked in a trance, eyes open but not seeing, willing slaves to the music, which was so powerful it vibrated every part of their bodies, but not their faces, which remained masks. But there was nothing to conceal. They had no inner feelings or identities left. It was all projected outward in the rhythms, the movements and spells. These were not masks of intrigue but faces empty of language, for meanings had burst out through the arms and into the drums, whose skins bounced and boomed them further out again into the dusky heat of the city.