Frozen Brazilian Delight (The Frozen Brazilian Series Book 1) - CeCe Rubin

Frozen Brazilian Delight (The Frozen Brazilian Series Book 1) by CeCe Rubin

Book excerpt

Growing up in the sweltering heat in my home in Brazil, I dreamt of the snowy mountains depicted in one of my favorite movies, The Sound of Music. I would run and twirl with my arms outstretched, my head facing the sky as I belted my version of the "The hills are alive" song, rolling my tongue in what I believe to be English.

I would twirl and sing for two minutes under the hot January sun before collapsing on the grass breathless, looking for any vestige of water molecules leftover from the morning dew.

My face rested on the cool grass, giving me some relief as the sweat poured down my face. As I lay in the grass, I would summon the image of the snow-capped mountains in the Swiss Alps, seen in the background where Maria, the lucky nun, got to run and play.

My mother would see me on the grass through the open windows of our first-floor apartment; she would yell for me to get up "this instant" in her exasperated tone of voice, mostly used when she addressed her youngest and "wildest" child.

I would then get up and slowly make my way up to our first-floor apartment, using the elevator to avoid any more physical strain. I would imagine myself as a nun, even though I wasn't sure of Jewish nuns living in convents, certainly not in Brazil, where the heat would have made wearing a full habit very uncomfortable.

My parents, who had immigrated from Poland to Israel and later Brazil, never thought of installing air conditioning; they enjoyed "the warmth," as they used to call it. The heat relieved them from the memories of the relentless cold in Poland as they tried to survive The Second World War and the concentration camps. They would smile in delight at my reddened sweaty face, and, in their childhood dialect, they would say to me, "Ah Mehaie," what a delightful life.

Seeing their smiling faces through my sweaty bangs, I would try to match their joy. I would say, "Yes, absolutely," while gulping huge quantities of Hawaiian Punch. I was determined to deliver hydration to my brain to plot my escape from the humid tropical heat the moment I turned 18.

"If I make it," I would grumble, lying down by the opened window, waiting for the "cool breeze" my parents swore they felt in the constant 90-degree weather.

My parents worked together all day long; my siblings, much older than me, busied themselves all day with their studies and romantic pursuits.

That left me with hours of solitude with the opportunity to explore the world around me; Geralda, the live-in maid, was my constant companion. My exploits frazzled her nerves. She would reluctantly agree to sit on the sofa and watch my latest theater performance, which was preferable to her than having to look for me as I disappeared into the building complex, looking for adventures, tired of watching cartoons and Zorro. Geralda would invariably fall asleep, her mouth open, apparently unmoved by my carefully choreographed versions of the American musicals I would watch on tv.

Geralda's naps during my "shows" ended one day after she found herself with a mouth filled with the peanuts that I had carefully placed in her open mouth, thinking that she most likely was falling asleep due to lacking enough nutrition.

Geralda gasped, spitting out the peanuts and her set of dentures that landed on the sofa next to her. I looked at Geralda's teeth, horrified by my first experience of seeing false teeth. Geralda quickly retrieved her teeth and left me alone as she walked into the bathroom, closing her door.

Seeing the scattered peanuts led me to check my teeth, fully expecting to be able to remove them, gums and all. I found my teeth to be entirely secure to my gums. For several days after that experience, I would slowly chew my food while intermittently checking that my teeth were still in place until my mother told me to "cut it out."

Food was abundant in my childhood home due to my parents’ trauma of hunger and starvation during their time spent in the concentration camps in Poland and Germany. My parents kept themselves trim and fit. They ate without excess, offering their children, Geralda, and anyone who crossed the threshold of our home beautifully arranged platters of food. My parents would eat a small amount while

encouraging others to eat, their eyes slanting as they smiled, happy with their ability to feed others.

Geralda's loyalty toward me kept her silent about my latest exploits.

I was lonely, bored, and curious. I would walk around the apartment checking my mother's trinkets. I soon became fascinated by the clocks of all sizes we had all over our house. I had no idea of the clock's utility at that age. Despite my young age, I would feel a twinge of guilt as I plotted to take the table clock apart. Still, my intense curiosity had me sneaking kitchen utensils to my room, where I would dismantle the clocks, piece by piece, looking for the source of the ticking sound and watching the moving parts, fascinated by the mechanical magic.

Once the sound and movement ceased, and the pile of gears and screws lay on my bed, I would start the reassembling attempt; inexplicably, there were always some leftover pieces that would not fit. I would tell myself that such tiny pieces couldn't possibly cause the clock's mechanism to fail. But they all did, falling silent, the hands immobile as it showed the exact moment I had initiated my exploration.