The Fruitless Deeds of Darkness – Nicholas Spitzman

June 10, 2026

I was minding my own business, working on my laptop in the lobby of the JW Marriott in Copacabana. Every time I had business in Rio I stayed there because in these big American chains there was less craziness, or at least, less craziness than what was usual in Rio.
        Across the lobby, a middle aged man sat in a booth by himself, quietly sipping from a glass of whiskey. The man appeared to be European, pale and blond, dressed too nicely for Rio, in a nice blazer and dress shoes. Around seven-thirty two young women in tight dresses and lots of makeup came in through the front door and went to the man’s table. By young women I mean sixteen or seventeen years old, in my unscientific observation. They appeared to be local. The man got up to greet them and kissed each on the cheek, then they sat down.
        I didn’t think much about it. You see all sorts of crazy shit in Rio.
        At the table next to me was an older American woman, in a long plain dress like she was going to church in 1928. She leaned over to me.
        “Sorry to bother you,” she said in a deep southern accent. “Are you American?”
        “Guilty,” I replied.
        “Those girls with that man there, they seem a little too young.”
        I looked again.
        “They are young,” I concurred. As far as “too” young, I thought, this is none of my business, or hers, for that matter.
        “I have to say something,” the lady said.
        I scrunched my mouth in acknowledgement but didn’t say anything and went back to my work.
        “You don’t think I should say something?” the lady asked.
        “I don’t know. Rio is a different kind of place.”
        The lady looked at me now like I was in cahoots with whatever evil was going on at the other table. She started scooching over to the edge of her booth to get out.
        Just then a third young woman came out of the elevator bay and walked toward the other table. She appeared to be the same age as the other girls, but dressed even more skimpily, though she seemed much more awkward in those clothes. That, together with her lighter skin and hair, made me realize maybe she wasn’t Brazilian like the others.
        The other two girls noticed her and waved warmly. The man turned around, and upon seeing the third girl approach the table, his eyes went steely. He barked something harsh at the girl, loud enough for me to hear, but in a language I could not understand. The girl shouted back angrily. The man repeated the same phrase again, more coldly this time. The girl turned around and stormed back toward the elevators. The other two girls at the table looked awkwardly away from the man.
        The lady leaned over to me again.
        “Rio may be a different kind of place but I have to assume that this is not allowed here.”
        “What is not allowed?”
        “You know exactly what I mean.”
        I, again, tried to look like it was none of my business. International Karen wasn’t having it.
        “So you agree with this? You think it’s OK?”
        “What exactly?”
        She leaned closer, conspiratorially.
        “Prostitution. Worse, prostitution of minors!”
        “I’m sorry… what was your name?”
        “Karen,” the old lady said. I giggled inside.
        “Karen, we don’t know if these girls are prostitutes.”
        “You saw what the last one was wearing. It was so bad the man told her to go change!”
        “Maybe he told her it wasn’t sexy enough,” I said. I couldn’t help myself.
        “Mmph!” Karen said, and scooched away from me again. I went back to my laptop.
        Next to me Karen seemed to be looking up something on her phone. I had to peek. Sure enough, it was prostitution laws in Brazil.
        A few minutes later, the third girl came back into the lobby. She was dressed more conservatively now, in jeans and a blouse. She sat down next to him and the man seemed to nod approvingly.
        The four continued their conversation. The man kept looking at his watch. Karen watched them closely. If any more young women were to appear, she was going to have a conniption.
        The man checked his watch again. Looking annoyed, he got up and walked to the bar. With him gone, the three girls talked giddily at the table. They seemed very intimate and comfortable, and I now felt myself grow suspicious like Karen. How did these people all possibly know each other?
        The man came back to the table, and a few moments later, a waiter arrived with a tray of drinks. The man had a whiskey and the girls had what appeared to be caipirinhas.
        “He is giving them alcohol!” Karen said.
        “You don’t know what’s in the glass,” I said. “It could be lime juice.”
        “Those are caipirinhas,” Karen said. “I’ve been to Brazil many times.”
        “They could be… virgins,” I said, grinning.
        At the mention of the word virgin, and the double entendre, Karen gave me another “mmph!” and scooched away from me again.
        “Also,” I said smugly, “the drinking age here is eighteen.”
        “And do those girls look like they’re eighteen?” she said.
        She was right. But again, it was none of our business. Now Karen was getting on my nerves, calling me out like that.
        “Karen, what are you doing in Brazil?” I asked.
        “My church back home donates money to an evangelical church in Cidade de Deus. I come once a year to visit them.”
        “Interesting. Why that church? Why Rio?”
        “Our pastor saw City of God a while back and was really moved.”
        “City of God? The movie?”
        “Yes. So he looked up whether it was a real place. It was. Some of us came down to visit churches there, to find a way to help spread the gospel in that kind of place. We found one we liked and we support them every year with a collection.”
        “So you’re here with your church group?”
        “No, it’s just me. No one else wants to come anymore. It’s not easy to see a favela, you know. Or Rio in general. But I’ve been coming since 2012.”
        “So, let me make sure I understand. You’ve been coming here every year for over a decade, and you go deep into a slum in one of the poorest, most violent parts of Rio. But seeing a man with young girls bothers you?”
        “Does it not bother you?”
        “If I saw this in the US I guess it would. But here things are different.”
        “Are they? Why should we only be Christians in America? Evil is everywhere.”
        “‘Evil’ is a big word.”
        “A man travels to a foreign country and hires three teenage prostitutes. Is this not evil?”
        “OK. Maybe,” I granted.
        “It’s not any less evil just because it happens in Brazil.”
        Karen had a point. She saw it register in my eyes.
        “Be alert and of sober mind,” she said. “Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”
        “I suppose that’s from the Bible?”
        “1 Peter 5:8,” she said.
        A waiter arrived at the devil’s table. The man handed the waiter his phone and turned around in his chair to take a photo. The four of them smiled big smiles and the waiter took several pictures.
        This was too much for Karen. She got up and went to the front desk. I went back to my work, defaulting to my earlier “Blame it on Rio” views. But Karen’s words had wormed their way into my brain. I kept looking up, monitoring the man and the girls as they sipped their drinks.
        Karen came back.
        “The hotel won’t do anything,” she said. “It’s up to us.”
        “Us?”
        “I thought you agreed that this was evil.”
        “Well, again we don’t know what this is,” I said, “and we have to allow for some relativism in how different cultures interpret…”
        “Look,” Karen said, cutting me off and pointing.
        The man had put his arm around the third girl and was holding her close to him. He then leaned over and kissed her on the side of the head. He looked happy and completely at ease.
        “Search your heart,” Karen said. “Is this OK? Even in Brazil?”
        “Alright. I get it.”
        “Good,” Karen said. She scooched around the table and stood up, looking at me. She waited. Reluctantly I stood up too. She marched to the other table and I followed behind her.
        “Do you speak English?” she asked the man.
        “Yes,” he said. The angry look on the old American lady’s face clearly made him tense. Then he noticed me and my bewildered expression, and him trying to figure out what this bizarre duo wanted with him and the girls probably made it all worse.
        “Where are you from?” Karen asked the man.
        “I am from Norway,” he said.
        “And in Norway, is it OK to do this?”
        “To do what?” the man asked, confused.
        “This,” Karen said, sweeping her arm over the table and the girls.
        The man stood up.
        “Madam, I don’t know what you want, but please do not bother us.”
        “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather, expose them!” Karen shouted, loud enough for the whole lobby to hear.
        Everyone turned. I grabbed Karen by the arm but she shook me off. The girls looked afraid. I wanted to disappear. I saw two waiters talking and gesturing toward us. The front desk clerk was speaking into a phone while keeping her eyes focused on us.
        “You do not have the right to talk to us,” the man said. “Please leave us alone.”
        “I will not!” Karen said. “As Jesus is my witness, I will not abide evil such as this!”
        Just then, by a miracle, a nicely dressed middle aged Brazilian woman stepped in between us and the man.
        “Honey, what is happening? Who is this?” the woman asked him, in English.
        “I don’t know,” the man said, indignant. “Everyone, let’s go,” he said to his table. The girls gathered their things and sidestepped us. Karen stood there with her mouth open. The five of them left together quickly through the front door of the hotel. The whole lobby stared at us.
        “I think that’s his family,” I said to Karen. “That’s probably his wife and his daughter and two of her friends, or maybe cousins.”
        “Don’t you make excuses for him,” Karen said.
        “Excuses?”
        “He gave those girls alcohol!”
        She turned around and walked fiercely toward the elevators.