"The Germans are here!"

That was precisely the sentence to shake off the rust from the wheel of fortune and bump it into motion in that unstable August of 2012, triggering the events until the paths of Marisa and Marco crossed. In order to understand what the line had to do with them, first it is necessary to meet its author: Aecio Palamedes, the school's former literature teacher. A ruin of flabbiness, he was almost ninety and had become a local folk character. Despite being retired, he insisted on teaching. The old man just lingered in the high school, the years went by and no one ever questioned his permanence there.

It should be noted that in his youth-a long, long, long time ago, before he even discovered his inclination for teaching-Palamedes had fought the Germans in Italy during the Second World War. That fact scarred him for life, and lately brought back memories that were more vivid than the cloudy present tense. During class, with a trembling hand and one pointy finger, he would get lost in digression that inexplicably circumnavigated the Parnassian poetic to land, with a pyrotechnical grenade explosion, amid the Battle of Monte Castello.

So one morning earlier that year, in the end of August, a couple of cars collided in front of the school. Hearing the loud crash, Aecio brayed:

"The Germans are here!" And entrenched himself under his desk, until two janitors managed to extract him one hour later.

The school administration finally released him from his duties for an indefinite period. Hired to replace him, Marco Aurélio stepped into the scene three weeks later. It was a dry Thursday-the students wrote one another little notes, yawned, dreamed of the weekend-and it didn't take long for the buzz to spread throughout the corridors like a shot (to use his predecessor's favorite terminology).

"Did you see the new literature teacher, Val?" Marisa asked her friend Valentina during intermission.

"Not yet. But I'm sure I'm gonna love him. I couldn't take another word about the Battle of Monte Castello."

"Well, I just saw him going inside the teachers' office. The school did the full upgrade: he's hot!" Marisa said.

"As long as he doesn't talk about the war nor show me grenade injuries on his foot, I'll find him hot too," was her friend's reply.

Marco certainly brought a breath of fresh air to the school's strict environment. The institution's physical space alone spoke volumes. Built like a prison surrounded by tall walls, it was pure cement. For the circulation between the three floors in the main building, there were two stairways: in the past, one was used by the girls and the other by the boys. Decades and decades of traditionalism were ingrained in the walls and floors of the institution.

The progressive aura of the new literature teacher, paired with his privileged intellect, irradiated an irresistible brilliance there. During his very first class, nine out of ten high school girls began lusting for him. Marco was exactly twenty-nine years old and had a disconcertingly charming dimple on his square chin. Tall and well-proportioned, with charismatic eyes rimmed by black eyelashes, he was the deus ex machina appearing onstage with his educational methods (and other extracurricular endowments) to save the girls from endless boredom.

There he was on the podium, a Clark Kent with long legs and emphatic hands opening his shirt to reveal the Man of Steel with a dab of the Dark Knight's tormented sensuality, the God of Thunder's Olympian majesty and... (here, each student would sigh and fill the blank with their own preferences, which could encompass from Johnny Depp's smirk to a juicy bowl of strawberry with cream.) In his first class, literature was reborn from the ashes of the Second World War and Marco guided the students on a journey through different periods-starting in Homer's ancient times, when words were strung together in manuscripts and set apart only by capitalized initials, until reaching the digital era, characterized by the atomization of language in unimaginable contractions.

"Think about how far we've come, from words strung together to text messaging," Marco concluded. "How does that affect our brain and our behavior? Today everything is not only ephemeral but changes too fast. Nobody can predict what the world will be like in five years and how future technologies will affect people's lives. Now the challenge is producing literature capable of defining our time."

Marisa listened in fascination, soaking in his words. Her passion for books had bravely survived the massacre promoted by Palamedes and now grew stronger in that class. She gazed at Marco with gratitude. More than gratitude: she looked at him with enchantment. While the class fell into silence, Marisa raised her hand and spoke:

"Then, according to your reasoning, wouldn't indefiniteness be the very definition of our time? Literature today, as a reflex of those accelerated changes, already defines our time precisely in its difficulty to define it." Her voice trembled imperceptibly, as she felt suddenly shy before the teacher. She cleared her throat and continued: "That would be the same as omission, for example. Just like action, it also brings consequences and therefore can be considered a form of action... right?"

Marco smiled and thought for a second before answering. Then the bell rang announcing the end of class and several students surrounded him to ask questions. Marisa stood up in an impulse, but gave up approaching the teacher and sat down again.

"Val, I think I'm in love," Marisa joked, indicating Marco, and for an instant she couldn't tell if that was really a joke or if it was serious.

"Then go talk to him," Valentina encouraged her, not without a note of amusement. "The girls look like demented groupies around him. Next thing you know, they're gonna be asking for autographs."

"I'd rather wait till the next time. Too many people there... It's pathetic. Look how Camila leaps forward... There she goes... pushing past Andrea, in between Julio and Helena... Bingo, she throws herself at the teacher."

"Typical."

"Typical," agreed Marisa with a sting of jealousy.

The following class, Marco mentioned The Lord of the Rings and piqued her interest in the books. Such a classic work deserved to be read in print, accompanied by authentic English tea served in Royal Worcester porcelain. So during intermission she rushed to the school library to get the trilogy and found the first two volumes. She savored them for exact thirteen days along with a half gallon of Earl Grey. Sunday ended with the last chapter.

To her despair, when Marisa went back for the third tome on Monday, she was informed it hadn't been returned yet. She rushed to the city library as soon as the last afternoon class was over. There, the much sought tome was happily found. She was about to ask for it at the counter when she remembered a compendium of sexual perversions Valentina had mentioned.

Marisa requested both copies from the librarian on duty, a thin old man with thick glasses who looked at her gravely and, without a word, disappeared into a maze of bookcases. He returned with the second volume of J. R. R. Tolkien's trilogy, and then vanished again.

Avidly, Marisa leafed through the book and was so absorbed she didn't hear someone calling her name. They touched her shoulder. Long legs, narrow hips, broad shoulders, a gleam of onyx in the eyes. With a startle, she looked up to find Marco leaning against the counter. He seemed different. In his jeans and black leather jacket, off the teacher pedestal, he was more accessible yet more intimidating now that he stood so close.

Her voice faltered and her heart pounded. Everything happened too quickly. He showed the rare edition of lyric poetry that he was returning, a blue cover book with yellowed pages that Marisa barely registered amid her surprise. Before the teacher's inquisitive stare, she quickly indicated The Lord of the Rings. Marco beamed with a broad smile and asked if she was enjoying the book.

Marisa didn't have time to answer, for the librarian emerged from the dusty shadows carrying the compendium of erotic eccentricities (a heavy black cover copy with the title in bright red) and placed it on the counter with a dry thump!

Marco's gaze fell on the huge letters of the title: Sexual Paraphilias from A to Z. He frowned and stared at Marisa, who blushed and immediately hid the compendium under The Lord of the Rings, while clumsily filling the forms for both books. The teacher pretended not to notice her embarrassment and resumed talking about fairies and elves. Marisa shoved the books into her handbag and they left the library. As the two were heading in the same direction, they walked together on the busy street, and she noticed he made a point of staying on the outer part of the sidewalk, with a protective attitude. The teacher was a gentleman, concluded Marisa with a secretive smile.

They turned the corner and zigzagged along pedestrian streets overflowing with people and booths stuffed with colorful clothes. Under old lampposts covered in ads for jobs, sat men in vests that read "I buy gold". At certain spots, clearings would open up, where street artists performed surrounded by a curious crowd. The soundtrack kept changing, along with the artists and food smells from snack bars and restaurants. Here the aroma of cheese bread and the loud funk beat from the female dancer in shorts, there a vapor of Greek barbecue and the chant of three Hare Krishnas, further down Kung Pao chicken, Andean music, pizza, samba, Portuguese pastries, African percussion...

In a given moment, Marco retained Marisa. They stood in the middle of the pedestrian whirlpool.

"Have you noticed that in Downtown there are two superimposed cities? Look," he said, pointing up.

On the street level, sprouted the chaotic Sao Paulo of contradictions: siren song, well-oiled machine, pit of dirt, stage for beauty, box of surprises. In the upper floors, however, a different city came to view in a landscape of historical buildings that sheltered the heaving stores below. It was like emerging from a tank packed with fish to reach the quiet azure. Up above, the sounds silenced and time took a step back in a realm of sober balconies with iron railings, arched windows, neoclassical capitals and imposing towers. Against the sky, a centennial tree top evoked the days when Sao Paulo was greener.

"That's the Peace Building from 1913, which used to host the Viennese Pastry Shop. It was the spot for the high society and the intellectuals involved in the Art Week of 1922." Marco indicated a four-story neoclassical building with a light-brown façade and ornate balconies. He then pointed to a modernist-style edifice opposite to it, which exhibited large V columns and a white façade of perforated blocks. "And there's California Gallery, an Oscar Niemeyer's project from the fifties. Inside, there's a mural by painter Candido Portinari."

"It's incredible how we can walk in such a hurry and never look up..." commented Marisa as she admired the gallery. "It's as if Sao Paulo were a lady from the waist up and a slut from the waist down. Can you imagine if The Lord of the Rings was set here?"

"That's impossible. The plot would take a thousand years to advance."

"Why?"

"Because of traffic."

Both laughed and kept walking. They resumed the conversation about Tolkien's trilogy and, when passing by a bar, Marco invited her for a cup of coffee. The two went inside a tiny, old-fashioned place like so many downtown, with dark wooden paneling and a U-shaped counter. Behind it, shelves heavy with bottles containing beverages of extravagant colors and obscure provenance. The bar also offered a true Italian espresso machine, which dispatched white cups exhaling arabesques of fragrant vapor.

Marisa noticed all those things without really noticing them. Her attention focused on what Marco was saying and, at each word, her admiration for the teacher's intellect grew (now he was telling that the Middle Earth had actually been created to serve as a cradle for all the languages invented by Tolkien.) His company gave her... contentment. Yes, it was what she felt in that moment, all the while wondering: what did that invitation for coffee mean?

Marisa couldn't deny she was a bit nervous, but the conversation flowed with such ease that soon her nervousness was gone. They sat at a small table on the sidewalk and Marco ordered lemon pie with the coffee. The two of them pushed the meringue aside at the same time (too sweet) and, as they ate, talked about the upcoming college admission exams.

Playing with the end of her braid, Marisa complained about the pressure to choose a profession. She didn't have a clue: she liked literature, dance and psychology; her mom insisted that she studied law.

"Sometimes I think of Pierre Anthon, the character from Nothing who climbed a plum tree and refused to come down, stating that nothing mattered. He did the math: if we live to the age of eighty and deduct all the time spent sleeping, studying, working, cleaning and taking care of our children, we only have left about nine years to enjoy. Then why worry so much?"

"The secret is to enjoy everything, Marisa, even the most ordinary moments. Neither the greatest joys nor the greatest sorrows last, so it's no use getting attached to them. All things pass, right? What remains is ourselves. So balance and motivation should come from within us."

As Marco spoke, she nodded slowly, absorbing his words. She liked what he said.

"True." Marisa paused and emptied her cup. "Life is constantly oscillating and we oscillate with it. Like puppets. The string of an event lifts us up and we are merry, then another string pulls us down and we fall into depression. We have no control over life. The only thing we can control is our own selves."

"See? There you go. You've already answered your own question. Cultivate your inner balance so you no longer oscillate. And, if everything else fails, remember the first law of the galaxy: don't panic."

"Oh, it's that line from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy! I love that book, Marco."

"Me too. In that case, we both know the answer to the meaning of life and everything else, eh?" he said with a solemn expression that was contradicted by the humorous note in his voice. "But seriously, don't fall for the temptation of choosing a profession just to please your family. As Sartre once said, hell is other people. You could take a vocational test for some guidance. The main thing is finding what motivates you. What's your passion?"

You, Marisa thought, looking deep into his eyes. The thought just clicked but did not surprise her. It filled instead each empty corner of her mind and of her heart. You. And overflowed. She left his eyes and began observing him from that new perspective, which was not so different from the perspective a few minutes ago, just more complete. Complex.

She observed how Marco laid his elbows on the table, projecting the strong arms towards her. Marisa got distracted at the sight of the dark hands with long fingers-while they moved his hands showed accuracy and in a resting position, like now, they were comforting. She imagined what their touch would be like, the warmth of those hands on her body. Maybe in a dance, slowly sliding on Marisa's waist and back, welcoming her with a stroke from top to bottom... from top... to bottom... to top... until crowning her queen with the diadem of a caress on the hair.

Marco smiled encouragingly, instigating her imagination further-what it would be like to feel his mouth, his kiss... Maybe in the bedroom, tracking every inch of her, the dress asleep on the rug while the male awakened the female against the wall. The world spinning and spinning out of control...

Marisa bit her lip and tried to concentrate on the conversation. Marco offered to send her a list of professionals who would be able to help her define a vocation. He asked for her email, which she spelled out as he typed in his cell phone.

And little by little the world went back to normal.

"Be cool," he said, dropping the phone on the table. "Once you are on the right path, the Universe will make things happen and all pieces of the puzzle will fall into place."

There was a pause. Be cool? Marisa no longer knew what that meant. The twinges of disquiet created small scars that kept merging and spreading and covering all of her. Then she smiled in a reflex, for the world to smile back and convince her that everything was okay. It failed to convince her.

"You're quite mature for a seventeen-year old, you know?" Marco said, breaking the silence.

"I just turned eighteen last month," Marisa rectified quickly, and blushed at his intent gaze.

"September." He thought for an instant. " So you're a Virgo?"

"Libra. Now I only need to be balanced. What about you?"

"Scorpio. Maybe I could use a little balance too."

They exchanged a smile.

"Anyway, I probably look older because I'm an only child raised among adults and books. My dad was a bookworm. He used to read stories for me as far as I can remember," she added.

"And you live with your parents, Marisa?"

"No, it's just me and mom. My dad is deceased."

Marco nodded and said nothing. Marisa looked at him with gratitude for sparing her of the embarrassment. She hadn't even attended the funeral. It had been six months since her father passed away, and the last time she saw him, he was perfectly well. He even joked about mosquitoes: if one bites you, my dear, don't kill it or else ten more will show up for the burial.

The day Marisa received the news, it was a shock. The empty hours went by like in a surreal dream. Her mother wouldn't say it, but she clung to the details evoking his presence. The blue robe and the toothbrush in the bathroom. The unfinished crosswords on the desk, next to a half-empty cup with cold coffee. None of that could be touched: the objects came to a standstill, as if they were waiting for him to return. Then Marisa, unknowing, washed the cup and put it away, causing her mother to have a nervous breakdown...

"Hey, would you like another cup of coffee?"

It took her a few seconds to understand what Marco was saying. She forced herself to smile.

"Yes, please. Now tell me about yourself."

He signaled to the passing waiter and ordered more coffee. Then he lit up a cigarette before answering. He was the third son in a family of mixed Italian and Lebanese roots, quite Brazilian at that point after three generations. His mother possessed Calabrese blood and a big personality that rivaled his father's stubbornness. That triggered huge, sometimes even comic quarrels, but in the end they would always work things out. Marco had many aunts and uncles. His favorite, uncle Jamil, owned three farms, where Marco and his brothers spent their vacations when they were boys. Marco had been raised in the countryside, catching blind cave fish, riding horses and eating jabuticaba berries from the tree until he almost burst. He moved to the capital on his own at eighteen to study Letters: he loved literature.

"Oh, they're playing your song," said Marisa, as she listened to the delicate chords coming from inside the bar.

"Which song?"

"Bebel Gilberto's Jabuticaba."

If you were a fruit, it would be jabuticaba...