The Last Supper

I understood the culture. Behavior that formerly might have seemed cruel to me became an accepted part of daily reality. I understood and took great pleasure in the spirited and mischievous Bahian sense of humor. I knew how to behave on the streets: I had totally nailed the one-finger wave, paired with an avoidance of eye contact, which would instantly stop street beggars and prevent them from following me down the street. I understood that my personal safety lay in a state of constant vigilance. I understood the familial dynamics in the household where my friend and I were staying. I understood nuances, I understood moods, and I knew where Sonia, the lady of the house, hid her pitiful little coin purse in the kitchen.

The day I was to return to the U.S. was a day full of mixed emotions. I very much wanted to see my children, my partner, my family, and my friends, but I found myself crying as I walked along the beach for the last time. It was time to go, but I just wasn’t ready. My friend Jen, who was staying on another month, accompanied me back to the house, where I would pack my things and say my goodbyes.

Back at the house, Sonia was ready to begin preparing food for Jen and me. “One last meal for you,” she said. As I slowly began to gather my things, I heard a man on the street calling out something for sale. I couldn’t understand what he was selling, but I was certain I understood the words “for sale.” I knew it wasn’t the fruit guy who yelled out the names of his fruit as if he were angry with them (especially the bananas). And it wasn’t the bread guy whose call was as soft as the fresh rolls he sold. This guy was different. I had never heard this call before. I popped my head outside the window shutters, but I couldn’t see him. Then I heard the man’s shuffling footsteps as he ascended the steep and uneven stairs. (Better watch out for that fifth stair, I thought, the one that is so much higher than the rest, it trips you every time. I guess that was one thing I still hadn’t mastered.). But he seemed to find his way gracefully up the stairs; I didn’t hear any slipping or tripping.

There was a soft knock at the door, but I certainly wasn’t going to answer it. I didn’t know this vendor. All the other vendors just waited down in the street for customers to come out and make their purchases. “Sonia!” I yelled, “The door.” Sonia came out of the kitchen, muttering something like, “Yes, yes. Don’t answer the door. I’ll get the door.”

Like a small child, I stood slightly behind Sonia as she opened the door. I really wanted to see what this guy was selling. Sonia opened the door slightly. I couldn’t see! I started to step around her, when I saw Sonia’s eyes light up. She swung the door wide. Then my eyes lit up. “Holy Shit!” I said in English.

The vendor didn’t understand my words, but he chuckled nonetheless, taking great pleasure in my shock. For there, hanging on the man’s arm like a giant bracelet, was a ray! Not a ray of hope, or a ray of sunshine, or Ray-Bans—but a ray! A stingray! No wonder I hadn’t understood the word raia (“ray”) when the vendor had called it in the street. Who sells rays door to door?! The “face” of the ray had been cut out, and the vendor’s arm was thrust through the hole. Sonia was delighted at her fortune—an opportunity to make my last dish of Moqueca with ray. I was not so delighted.

Jen and I sat down at the kitchen table—the table where we had shared instant coffee sweetened with too much sugar; coconut water sipped out of green coconuts; fresh, sweet, golden mangos; rolls toasted over the gas stove and spread with real butter; neighborhood gossip; and family gripes. At this same table we had witnessed grandfatherly head slapping (for using too much butter). We’d listened to Sonia yell out the window to her sister-in-law downstairs about her novellas (soap operas).