The Giraffe of Ipanema

"Jesus Murphy," Lisa muttered plunging her fork into her fruit bowl, "He's doing it again."

I didn't need to look. The hairs on the back of my neck had stiffened the second I heard the neighbor's sliding door. The routine had become familiar: the rustle of curtains, the flapping of flip-flops on concrete, and then – the inevitable slow, but deliberate swiveling of an atavistic head.

The balcony divider between our units was a thin slab of concrete, but our so-called neighbor treated it like an Iron Curtain border. He didn't lean casually, didn't pretend to water a plant, or gaze out toward the ocean. Nope, he stood still as a flamingo awaiting a fishy meal, then would pivot his upper body toward our rented living room with an almost machine-like precision. His neck stretched until his face hovered perpendicular to our living room, his eyes staring without blinking into our private lives.

We started referring to him as "Le Giraffe du Basket"- an inside joke between my wife and I during a previous trip to Paris. It wasn't just the height – though at six-foot-five, he certainly appeared to loom – but the way his neck seemed to extend, like some odious devolution honed for nosiness. His closely shaved, elongated skull added to the effect, casting a stretched shadow across our coffee table. I'd tried smiling, waving even, but nothing. He just watched. He stood oak-like, until he got bored...or satisfied – and then withdrew slowly back into his unit.

Rio had warnings – don't flash cash, jewelry or even smart phones; watch for scammers – but nothing about balcony voyeurs. That night, we kept the lights off. We ate in the dark, while the traffic hummed outside. No TV, no phones, just us whispering like a couple of prowlers trespassing.

"Maybe he's some kind of pervert?" Lisa declared.

We went to bed, uncomfortable, still undecided about how to spend the following day. I was agreeable to everything Lisa had suggested, replying in the affirmative to each of her ideas without hesitation or consideration, too preoccupied and feeling like having endured a 24-hour cavity search.

At 3AM, a loud thump next door jerked me conscious. I tip-toed to our sliding door, and parted the curtain about an inch; though my temporary neighbors' balcony was empty, their living room glowed. I could only discern silhouettes casting shadows on their balcony's concrete platform. Several silhouettes within could be seen pacing. I could count at least six figures, but likely more, as various shadows kept exiting and reemerging in the frame. A shrill laughter cut through, startling me – it was that of an older woman. The Giraffe's silhouette passed, his neck bent unnaturally as he spoke using his finger to point toward a shorter shadow in front of him. I could not make out any words, Portuguese or otherwise, and was certain he whispered.

The next afternoon, making our return from the beach, we spied up our hi-rise, counting the storeys until finding our two side-by-side balconies. We experienced something akin to relief. His balcony was still, silent...empty. At last. No lanky, looming silhouette, no smoke plumes...nothing. Just a nondescript vacant balcony like every other on that long strip of hi-rise apartments curling along the Ipanema shoreline.

"Maybe they locked him up?" my wife joked, squeezing my hand as we rode the elevator up, our skin still sticky with sea-salt. For the first time in days, I didn't feel the need to scout our unit before entering.

Following our quick showers to clean-off the salt, we collapsed exhausted upon the sofa, turning the television onto whatever happened to be playing on Brazilian TV. Our skin was slightly tender from the powerful Equatorial sunlight. I paused my channel-surfing on some highlights of historical soccer matches of the 1994 national team which had been victorious in the World Cup, the one where Baggio missed the penalty. It was during the replay of that infamous missed penalty, describing to Lisa the importance of that sporting mishap, that a familiar sound disturbed the peace; perhaps the first genuine moment of feeling we were finally on a vacation. Of course, it was that now too familiar metal scraping of the sliding door. My wife seated to the right of me on the futon sofa widened her eyes; she half whispered, half-mimed, 'don't look right now,'.

But yes, I looked. There he was – exhaling, as a long comic-bookish plume of smoke drifted to eventually trespass into our portion of the balcony. I suddenly pictured that long head, soon blowing smoke-halos purely out of spite. He hadn't even bothered with pretense; his head was already twisted toward us, his torso stiff as a construction crane. The cigarette dangling from unnaturally long fingers.

The smoke thickened, and I could feel it on my eyes. I wanted to hurl something at that long head, to bark...do something. I counted, then attempted something truly novel under the circumstances. I nodded, smiling a greeting, like we were long time neighbors, friends even. He did not bat an eye. His lip slightly curled, and I thought 'yes, progress!'.

I even anticipated his waving back or at least nodding in return. Then his lips slightly puckered as he blew yet another plume of smoke up over his chin but directly into our direction. Our unit began to smell like the interior of those old sports bars, when smoking was still permitted indoors.

A woman's voice then abruptly split the silence, uttering something in Portuguese – unconcerned, but the sound of annoyance, and perhaps even irritation or disgust was palpable. He turned away. His balcony door clicked shut slowly, deliberately...far worse than if he'd instead simply slammed it.

That night, I tossed and turned, rolling onto alternating shoulders at least twenty times. My wife's steady breathing simultaneously soothing and disturbing. The digital clock etched 3:10 AM into my retinas. Next door, the front door slammed...again. Laughter followed. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cool tile with a quiet patter, and carefully crept into the living room like some thief in the night.

The dark was relieving initially. No Giraffe...no cigarette stink – just the hum of the air-conditioner. I slowly took a seat on the sofa and rolled my head back, examining the apartment's ceiling, attempting to make-out patterns in the plaster, when again the unmistakable metallic rattling of a balcony door broke my concentration. It vibrated on its slider's tracks, similar to a subway's while turning a subterranean corner. Slowly his silhouette emerged. The Giraffe didn't bother with the full pivot this time around. Only his head swiveled on that long thick-cabled neck, like some bird of prey. The eerily bright red ember of his cigarette pulsed while he inhaled, casting a menacing glow upon his chin. He held the smoke, then slowly exhaled through his nostrils; again the smoke slowly migrating onto our balcony and soon-after into our living quarters.

I didn't even blink. My heart pulsed, reverberating enough that I imagined that even he would hear. The ridiculousness of it struck me then. What could possibly be so fascinating? The obscure silhouette of some guy in boxer shorts reclining on a couch? He moved then, but only to flick the trunk of his cigarette over his balcony's safety rail, letting the ash fall below. The ember briefly cast a dull reddish light over his hand. That's when I was able to see he was holding what appeared to be a small bundle of passports, approximately four. I could make out those green Brazilian passport covers and the logo, which I had seen several times in the hands of other passengers at the airport. Was he planning to take a vacation of his own in the morning? Was that why he was up so early, not unlike Lisa and I had been the morning of our flight? If only; I'd begun to hope, realizing we still had close to a full week of being his neighbors otherwise. It was most likely the last time I would rent accommodation in any sort of residential building. The premium of even a three-star hotel, or even motel was preferable to this.

The Giraffe again tapped his smoke over the railing, while I steadied both my thoughts and breathing. I inhaled and exhaled in slow intervals, deciding to await his finishing of his smoke, before slithering back into my own bedroom. His fingers toyed with the cigarette, next passing it to the clasp of his thumb and fore-finger. He took yet another long drag. If I were to move, if only to shift my weight, the motion of my shadow would certainly betray me. His head remained cocked at that odd, presumably uncomfortable angle.

Minutes took seemingly forever to pass. Somewhere below, a drunk was arguing in Portuguese. Finally, The neighbor's cigarette dwindled to his finger tips, flaring the final time, before he tossed it lazily from the balcony. I felt myself relax, and suddenly struggled to keep my eyes open. I anticipated this time easily falling into slumber, the bed seemingly more welcome than previously...until his hand dipped into his pocket and emerged with a fresh pack. The slight tearing sound of plastic wrap seemed loud within such silence. He slowly lit a new cigarette with what seemed to be deliberate emphasis, malice even. His lighter's flame cast his elongated face into an almost villainous, if not sadistic leer. To hell with this, I thought.

I sprang up, and my knees rattled the coffee table. Let him watch, I did not care.

The bedroom door seemed to squeeze shut behind me. My wife stirred as I collapsed next to her.

"Still?" she muttered semi-conscious, through her bed-sheet.

At breakfast, I pushed my mango around the plate. "We should leave."

My wife's fork paused.

"Huh – when...today?" I nodded toward the balcony where The Giraffe's shadow already loomed against the divider.

"This isn't a vacation. It's a bloody experiment," I declared. She was not laughing.

By noon, we'd drafted an angry message to the Airbnb host—"Property falsely advertised! Hostile, possibly dangerous...poor review to follow, unless refund received within 24 hours!"; though truthfully, I choked-down on the deposit as if a particularly nasty dose of castor oil.

As the Taxi pulled away, I turned my own head but straight upward, and for one final look at that damn 14th floor. I could still see the sonofabitch...at least his outline, blurred due to sun-glare; but that figure was unmistakable, still looming, staring. His head this time was not swiveling, nor was it craned, but instead was pointing directly downward, as if able to meet my gaze. As the taxi sped off, his long, lanky figure slowly diminished with each dozen or so yards of progress. I sensed Lisa studying me as she clutched my forearm; patiently awaiting me to turn my head from that bloody hi-rise. That last I saw of that place – that balcony – was of large a beady, egg like shape, closely trimmed and floating distinct among the countless identical balconies. I thought he might wave. He did not. When his long, oval head became a blur I turned to my wife, and then gazed forward over the driver's shoulder. I wondered if he was still trailing our taxi with a perhaps an uncanny hawk's vision. I felt repulsed at the thought, then fingered the Reals in my pocket, wondering how much I would have to pay the cabbie. I should have called an Uber.

Obrigado!