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I walk between the tents avoiding getting too close or touching things. I don't want to give someone hope that I'm going to buy something, since I don't even have a coin in my pocket. Rafa has already bought a stuffed loaf of bread and forced me to accept half of it, but I have no intention of allowing her to spend any more of her money on me, no matter how insistent my friend can be.
We walk past a tent with a huge mirror positioned next to it, and the image reflected in it catches my attention. I stop in my tracks, blinking and approaching the shiny surface when the woman on the other side stares at me with almost as much curiosity as I stare at her.
There are mirrors in my room, but long before I crossed the ocean, I had mastered the skill of ignoring them, of looking at them without actually seeing my reflection in the glass. This afternoon, however, I don't know if it was the shock caused bythe reflection or the surprise of finding the object in the middle of the street, but something ripped off the veil that I've been keeping perfectly positioned in place for years.
My hair is loose and falling down my back, it has grown since the last time I remember noticing it. The waves descend from the height of my ears to just above my tailbone in a curtain of dark locks. My skin is even lighter than it used to be, exposing the freckles on my nose and cheeks. Without constant exposure to the sun in recent weeks, the tan was lost, leaving only the paleness with which I came into the world.
My curves are fuller, the almost skeletal appearance I've been cultivating over the years seems like a distant past. I always knew that lack of food was one of the main culprits for my almost sickly appearance, but it's scary to see it so clearly now. The color in my cheeks leaves no doubt about that.
And there's the dress, the high-waisted piece supports my small breasts so delicately that it would be impossible not to find it strange on my body. I didn't have a dress before. There are the uniforms I wear here, of course, but, in my daily life, I don't remember the last time I wore a dress. They're not practical to work with unless you're a model on a runway, and I needed to always be ready for work.
Rafaella stops next to me and wraps a single arm around my waist before leaving a kiss on my cheek. We're practically the same height, but she manages to be even whiter than me. Her hair reaches just below her shoulders and has dark blonde roots while the ends are lighter. Our side-by-side image puts a smile on my face.
“You're beautiful,” she praises, and I blush, stupidly.
“Let's go.” I take her hand and drag her to continue our wanderings through the endless corridors of tents.
We walked and walked and walked until we got tired, then we sat on some chairs and talked about everything and nothing. Talking to Rafaella is easy.
She made it comfortable for me when I didn't know more than half a dozen words in Italian, and now, more than a month into our classes and using all my free time during the evenings and Sundays I spend alone to reading my notes and, recently, a dictionary to increase my vocabulary, everything becomes much simpler.
I often change words or make completely wrong deductions, but it's nothing that gets in the way of our conversations. Most of the time it just gives us a good laugh.
With aching legs, we commented on the strangeness that surrounds us and even talked about some women's clothes, saying that we would drag them to the nearest bathroom to rip them off their bodies, because we wanted them. We ate, because no matter how many no's I say, Rafaella doesn't care.
Then we got up and walked further. I barely realize that the hours have passed before I see the familiar colors paint the sky, announcing the arrival of night. They are prettier out here. I blink, feeling my eyes burn, but with a deep breath I push away the urge to cry.
“You need to go, right?” Rafa asks with a bag of popcorn in her hand.
“Yes,” I agree, looking at a clock in one of the stalls and seeing that it’s just before seven. My time to be in the room is at seven thirty.
“So, let's go.”
“You don't have to go with me, Rafa. It's not like I can get lost,” I joke, but not that much. I really can't get lost. “And the dancing will begin.” I wave to the bonfire crackling a few meters after the tents, men and women are already starting to gather around it. Rafaella looks at the fire before biting her lip.
“Are you sure you're going to be okay?” she asks, torn between accompanying me or joining what she said was the best part of the party.
“Positive.” I grab her hand and pull her into a hug. “Thank you, Rafa. For everything!” I whisper in her ear.
“You're welcome,” she says in Portuguese, and I quickly move away, looking for her eyes. She has a huge smile on her face as she says, “I'm learning too.” Still in my mother tongue, and I hug her, laughing.
“But you have nothing to be thankful for, Gabriella,” She speaks again in Italian and steps back, putting enough space between us so that we can look into each other's faces.
“Yes, I do,” I say and shake my head up and down, agreeing with myself. “I have a lot to be grateful for.” She rolls her eyes and gives me one last quick hug.
“Don't get into trouble.” She winks at me. “See you tomorrow.”
I lift my index and middle fingers, crossed in front of my face, and kiss them.
“I promise.” It's my turn to wink. “See you tomorrow,” I say goodbye before turning in the opposite direction and starting to walk to the main house.
***
My feet hurt as I walk toward the mansion, and I look at them. Simple strappy sandals are definitely not ideal for moving around all day.
I should have worn sneakers, the only other pair of shoes in my closet. I wrinkle my nose, regretful, but what can I do? The sky is already dark, and I quicken my pace on the deserted path, despite the discomfort, looking forward to the hot tub.
“Well, well, well. If it isn't the Brazilian whore.” The phrase said in Italian sends shivers down my spine and I increase my stride, without looking up from the ground.
