Sitting on one of the stones benches in the waterfront, a young man with a velvety voice plucks at his guitar, his eyes closed as he allows his voice to shape up a quiet but beautiful bossa nova ballad. Forget about Paris – there’s nothing quite like the subtle and down-to-earth loving ways of Brazil.
“Wait,” I tell Arsen, holding him by his arm as I fish for the wallet inside my purse. Grabbing it, I take a one-hundred-dollar bill and lay it inside the guitar case laying at the feet of the young guitarist. I know that one hundred dollars is a lot to give for a few seconds of good music, but sometimes it’s worth it – besides, it helps that me and Arsen have more than few million sitting idly in our bank accounts.
“Obrigado, senhora,” the young man breathes out, thanking me in his singing voice, and I can’t tell if he’s still singing or just speaking. Brazilians talk in such a way that they always seem like they’re singing.
“De nada,” I manage to reply, narrowing my eyes as I try to remember the little Portuguese I know. I’m placing my wallet back inside my purse when the loud roar of an engine drowns out the bossa nova chords coming from the guitar. I spin around, trying to see where that loud sound comes from, and I do it just in time to see a motorbike jumping onto the sidewalk, two men riding on it. They’re just a few feet away from me now, and the guy riding on the back reaches for me with one hand.
I’m so stunned I don’t even move.
Grabbing my purse as they ride past me, the man gives it a tug and I feel the strap from the purse burning down my arm. I fall onto the floor as the purse is yanked from me, and I let out a cry of pain as my knees grazes the floor.
“Fuck!” Arsen cries out, looking from the guys in the bike to me. Going down on one knee, he then grabs me by the hand and picks me up from the floor. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah… I am… But… My purse! It’s a Lana Marks purse!” I tell him, running one hand through my hair. If there’s something thing that I hate, is when something comes between me, my shoes, and my purses. And if there’s something Arsen hates, is when something between me and whatever I want.
“I got this,” Arsen merely whispers with a smirk and, before I can grab him and stop him, he starts running down the waterfront. The muggers steer the bike back onto the road (and straight into oncoming traffic), but Arsen has already anticipated their movements.
By the time they start swerving between the cars, Arsen’s already dashing between a row of cars lining up behind a red light. He’s running fast and, for a moment, I almost believe he isn’t Arsen but some super athlete out of the Olympics or the Super Bowl. Even though he’s wearing flip-flops, that doesn’t stop him from closing the distance between the bike as it swerves right and left between cars; extending his right arm, he grabs the guy riding in the back of the bike just as they try to speed up.
It happens in a fraction of a second.
Arsen hooks his fingers on the man’s shirt and yanks on it as the bikes jumps forward. Unable to resist Arsen’s hold, the mugger falls back while still clutching the guy riding in the front. Both men crash onto the road like bricks while, at the same time, the bikes keep riding itself for a few seconds before finally being stopped by an unsuspecting trash can.
“Arsen!” I cry out as I run toward him, afraid of what might happen, but he doesn’t seem to be listening to me. His smart eyes are narrowed into slits, and I can tell that he’s appraising the muggers as they go up to their feet. They’re both wiry and tanned, their eyes holding the promise of violence. Faithful to that promise, one of the men reaches for the pocket on his shorts and brings out a switchblade knife. “Arsen!” I call after him once more, completely forgetting about my stolen purse. All I care about right now is Arsen.
“Stay back,” he says as I finally reach him, holding his arm to the side and blocking me. He says it so casually that he almost seems to be commenting on the weather. There are a few moments of silence, and then the man holding the knife lurches forward, the blade aiming straight toward Arsen’s chest. Sidestepping him easily, Arsen then brings his fist up in an arch, connecting it with the man’s nose. I hear the sound of bones breaking, and then the man simply falls back, the knife forgotten as he takes both hands to his face and wails, covering his broken nose. His accomplice simply stares at the scene with wide eyes, almost as if he didn’t believe that a foreigner could have balls that big (oh, he has no idea); when he finally comes back to himself, he rushes toward the other man and, after pulling him to his feet, they both scramble toward their bike. Turning the engine on, they disappear into the road as fast as they’ve appeared, scared for their lives.