I dressed, then took the lift downstairs and walked out of the hotel, crossed the road and found myself on Ipanema Beach. It was deserted because of the early hour and as I walked towards the waves crashing against the soft sand beneath my feet, I turned back and looked at Rio from the sea’s perspective.
A mass of buildings – all different heights and sizes – jostled for position along the seafront, with the tops of the hills behind just visible above the city skyline. To my right, the long sweep of the sandy bay ended in a rocky headland, while to the left, there was a stunning view of the twin peaks of Morro Dois Irmãos.
And there, standing completely alone, I felt an energy passing through my veins, and a sudden sense of lightness and release.
This is part of me, and I am part of it . . .
Instinctively, I began to run along the beach, my toes clenching to take hold of the slippery sand and support me as I threw my arms out to either side in a moment of sheer exhilaration. I came to a halt, panting and doubled over, laughing at my uncharacteristic behaviour.
I left the beach, crossed the road and began to walk deep into the city, noting the mixture of colonial and modern buildings forced to become stablemates along the streets due to changing architectural fashions.
I rounded a corner and found myself in a square where vendors were already setting up an early morning fruit and vegetable market. Stopping at a stall, I picked up a peach and the young man behind it smiled at me.
‘Please, take it, senhorita.’
‘Obrigada,’ I said, and walked away, my teeth piercing the tender, succulent flesh of the fruit, my footsteps halting as I looked up suddenly and saw the white figure of the Cristo yet again hovering above me.
‘That’s what I’m going to do today,’ I announced to myself.
Suddenly realising I had no idea where I was or how far I’d strayed from the hotel, I simply followed the sound of the waves, and, like a homing pigeon which already had a map of the area imprinted upon it, I eventually found my way back.
I ate breakfast upstairs on the terrace, and, for the first time since Pa had died, found myself with an appetite. Arriving back in my room, I saw there were a number of messages on my mobile. I took the decision to ignore them, not wanting any form of reality to spoil the exhilaration I’d felt so far this morning. However, I did see an email in my inbox, the sender of which attracted my attention. It was from Floriano Quintelas.
My dear Senhorita D’Aplièse,
My publisher has told me the surprise that you are here in Rio. It would be my pleasure to meet with you in person and perhaps to take you to dinner or lunch to say thank you for your translation work on my book. My French publishers have high hopes that it will sell very well. Or perhaps you simply wish to see my beautiful city through a true carioca’s eyes. My mobile phone number is at the bottom of this email. And if I am honest, I would be most offended if you did not contact me during your stay.
I am at your disposal.
With kind regards,
Floriano Quintelas
The email made me chuckle; due to our various communications over the past year about The Silent Waterfall, I had already gleaned he did not like to waste words unnecessarily.
So, I thought, would he contact me if he was in Geneva, and I’d offered to show him the city?
And would I be offended if he did not?
The answer to both questions was yes.
I decided the best and most passive way to contact him was by text. I’m not sure how many minutes I spent composing it, then editing and rewriting, but finally I was happy with it and pressed ‘send’.
The moment it had gone, I of course reread it.
Dear Floriano, I am delighted to be here in Rio and it would be nice – I’d deleted ‘a pleasure’ – to meet up at some point. I’m going up to Corcovado now to play the tourist, but you can contact me on this number. With best wishes, Maia D’Aplièse.
Satisfied that I had managed to convey warmth and distance at the same time – I was a writer too, after all – I went to visit the concierge in the hotel lobby to discover how I could travel up to see Christ the Redeemer.
‘Senhorita, we can offer you either the luxury or the real experience, the latter being the one I would personally advocate,’ the concierge told me. ‘Take a street taxi to Cosme Velho – tell them you’re going to visit the Cristo – and then take the train up Corcovado Mountain.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
Ten minutes later, I was in a taxi on my way to Cosme Velho and the Cristo. My mobile rang in my bag and I answered, seeing it was Floriano Quintelas.
‘Hello?’
‘Senhorita D’Aplièse?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Floriano here. Where are you?’
‘In a taxi on my way to see the Cristo. I’m just near the train station now.’
‘May I join you?’
I hesitated and he heard it.
‘If you prefer to visit alone, I understand.’
‘No, of course. I’d be glad of a local’s guidance.’
‘Well, why don’t you take the train up the mountain and I’ll meet you by the stairs at the top?’
‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘But how will you recognise me? There are bound to be many people there.’
‘I’ll recognise you, Senhorita D’Aplièse. I’ve seen your photograph on the internet. Adeus.’
I paid the driver and stepped out in front of the Estação do Corcovado, the tiny station at the foot of the mountain, wondering what Floriano Quintelas would be like in person. After all, I’d never met him, only fallen in love with the way he wrote.
After buying my ticket, I climbed aboard the two-carriaged train, which reminded me of the fragile Alpine railways that snaked up the mountains in Switzerland. I sat down and heard a cacophony of different languages – notably, none of them Portuguese. Eventually, the train began moving upwards and I looked out at the densely forested hillside, in awe that a jungle such as this could lie so close to a big city. It would never be allowed in Geneva.
I felt my head tilting backwards as we ascended, amazed at man’s ability to create a vehicle that could take me and my fellow passengers up what seemed like a near-vertical mountainside. The views became more and more spectacular, until finally we came to a halt at a tiny station and everyone alighted from the train.
I looked up and saw the heels of Christ the Redeemer, mounted on a high plinth. The sculpture soared so far above me I could barely take in the rest of it. Watching my fellow passengers begin to mount the stairs, I wondered whether Floriano had meant that we should meet at the top or the bottom of them. But not wanting to waste any further time, I began to climb. And climb. Hundreds of steps later, I caught my breath, panting in the warmth of the day after my exertion.
‘Olá, Senhorita D’Aplièse. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance in the flesh.’
A pair of warm brown eyes smiled into mine, a hint of amusement in them at my obvious surprise.
‘You’re Floriano Quintelas?’
‘Yes! Don’t you recognise me from my author photograph?’
My gaze swept briefly over the handsome, tanned face, the full lips parted in a broad grin revealing very white, even teeth. ‘I do, but . . .’ – I gestured towards the steps beneath me – ‘how on earth did you arrive faster than I did?’
‘Because, senhorita, I was already up here.’ Floriano grinned.
‘How? Why?’ I asked him, confused.
‘Obviously, you have not read my author biography in detail. If you had, you would know that I am an historian by profession. And that I can also be occasionally employed as a guide, by anyone of distinction who wishes to share my superior knowledge of Rio.’
‘I see.’
‘Actually, the truth is that my book is not yet earning me enough money to live on, so this is how I supplement my writing,’ he admitted. ‘But it isn’t a hardship at all, showing and telling vi
sitors about my wonderful city. This morning, I had a group of wealthy Americans who wanted to be up here before the crowds. You can see that now it is already very busy.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, Senhorita D’Aplièse, I’m at your disposal.’ Floriano gave a mock bow.
‘Thank you,’ I said, still feeling flustered at his immediate and unexpected appearance.
‘Are you ready for the history of Brazil’s most iconic landmark? I promise you, you don’t need to tip me at the end,’ he quipped, as he led me through the crowds and we stood on the terrace, facing the statue. ‘This is the best view of Him. Isn’t He incredible?’
My eyes soared upwards to the Cristo’s gentle face, as Floriano talked to me of how the statue had been constructed. My brain was so full of the visual image, I hardly took in the spoken details he was relating.
‘The miracle is that no one was killed during the construction . . . Another interesting fact is that the project manager began work on the Cristo as a Jew, but then converted to Christianity by the end of it. Senhor Levy wrote down all his family’s names and secured them in the heart of the Cristo before it was sealed into the statue with concrete.’
‘What a lovely story.’
‘There are many moving stories such as that. For example’ – he beckoned me forward and we walked right up to the statue – ‘the whole of the outside of the Cristo is made up of a mosaic of triangular pieces of soapstone. Society women spent many months sticking them on to mesh netting to make large panels, which meant the outer coating was flexible and therefore the statue would not be prone to wholescale cracking. An old lady who was present during the process told me that many of the women used to write the names of their loved ones and a message or a prayer on the back of the tiles. And there they are, sealed forever onto the Cristo.’
My heart missed a beat, and I stared at him in amazement.
‘Senhorita Maia, are you okay? Was it something I said?’
‘It’s a very long story,’ I managed, eventually finding my voice.
‘Well, you can imagine that those are my favourite type,’ he said with a mischievous smile, before searching my face for one in return. On doing so, his expression changed to a look of concern. ‘You are suddenly pale, senhorita. Perhaps it’s too much sun. We will take a photograph – of course you must stand in front of the Cristo with your arms open wide in imitation – and then we will go downstairs to the café and get you some water.’
So, like many hundreds of thousands of tourists before me, I posed as Floriano requested, feeling very stupid standing there, arms spread and trying to force a smile onto my features.
That accomplished, he led me back down the steps and into a shady café, instructing me to take a seat at one of the tables. He returned shortly and sat down opposite me, placing a bottle of water in front of us then pouring some into two glasses. ‘So, tell me . . . what is your story?’
‘Floriano, it really is very complex,’ I sighed, unable to say any more.
‘And I am a stranger to you and you are uncomfortable sharing this with me. I understand,’ he said, nodding phlegmatically. ‘I would feel the same. So, may I ask you just two questions?’
‘Of course.’
‘Firstly, is your “very complex story” the reason you are here in Rio?’
‘Yes.’
‘And secondly, what was it I said that has shaken you?’
I pondered his question for a few seconds as I sipped my water. The problem was that if I told him, I’d end up having to explain everything. But as he was probably one of the few people who could tell me if the smooth, triangular tile with the faded writing on the back of it had once been destined for the Cristo, it seemed I didn’t have much choice.
‘I have something I’d like you to see,’ I said eventually.
‘Then show me,’ he encouraged.
‘Actually, it’s back at the hotel in my safe.’
‘It is valuable?’ Floriano raised an eyebrow.
‘No, not financially anyway. Just to me.’
‘Well, given I have been at the Cristo for three long hours already, I suggest I drive you to your hotel and you collect whatever the object is and show it to me.’
‘Really, Floriano, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘Senhorita Maia,’ he said, rising from the table, ‘I too have to get down the mountain, so you might as well accompany me. Come, we go.’
‘Okay, thank you.’
Surprisingly, he didn’t head for the train, but instead to a small minibus parked near the café. Climbing aboard, he greeted the driver and clapped him on the back. There were other passengers already aboard it and within minutes, we’d settled ourselves in our seats and the bus took off down a winding road, bordered by thick jungle. A few minutes later, we arrived in a car park and Floriano marched towards a little red Fiat and unlocked the door.
‘Sometimes my clients don’t wish to take the scenic route on the train, so I bring them directly to here,’ he explained. ‘So, Senhorita Maia, where are we headed?’ he asked me.
‘The Caesar Park Hotel in Ipanema.’
‘Perfect, because my favourite restaurant is just around the corner and my stomach is telling me it’s lunchtime. I like to eat,’ he stated as we set off fast down the next section of the steeply curving jungle road. ‘I must admit I’m fascinated to discover what it is you wish to show me,’ he said as we emerged from Corcovado and joined the ceaseless flow of traffic heading through Cosme Velho into the centre of the city.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ I said.
‘Then you have lost nothing by showing me,’ he answered equably.
As we drove, I glanced surreptitiously at my new friend. I always found it an odd moment when I met someone in the flesh, having only ever corresponded with them previously. And, in fact, Floriano was almost exactly as I’d imagined him to be from his novels and emails.
He was extraordinarily good-looking – far more attractive in person than in his author photograph, because of his easy charm and energy. Everything about him – from his abundant black hair and sun-kissed skin, to a body that was muscular and strong – spoke to me of his South American heritage.
But ironically, he wasn’t my type. I’d always found myself drawn to the polar opposite – Western males, with their fair colouring and pale skin. Perhaps, I thought, given my own dark looks, the polar opposite to me too.
‘So,’ he said as he pulled up on the forecourt of the hotel, ‘you run upstairs and retrieve whatever it is, and I’ll wait here for you.’
In my suite, I combed my hair and added a dab of lipstick, then took the triangular tile from my safe, stowing it in my handbag.
‘Now we go for lunch,’ announced Floriano as I climbed back into his car and we sped off. ‘It’s only round the block, but it could take me time to find somewhere to park.’ A couple of minutes later, he pointed to a white, colonial-style house with tables laid out on its pretty terrace. ‘That is where we are going. You get out and secure us a table. I will join you shortly.’
I did as he’d asked and was led by a waitress to a shady spot. I sat people-watching and taking a moment to retrieve my messages on my mobile. My heart pounded again as I heard the sound of Zed’s voice, saying he’d called Atlantis and the housekeeper had said I was abroad. He was sorry to miss me, he said, as he was leaving for Zurich tomorrow.
Which meant it was now safe to return home . . .
‘Meu Deus! I leave you alone for a few minutes and again you turn a strange colour,’ exclaimed Floriano, appearing at the table and looking at me quizzically as he sat down opposite me. ‘What is it now?’
I was amazed he’d noticed my tension for a second time. And I realised it would be difficult to hide anything from this man, who seemed to have a natural, laser-like intuition.
‘Nothing, really,’ I said, tucking my mobile into my handbag. ‘In fact, I feel very relieved.’
‘Good. Now I’m having a Bohem
ia beer. Will you join me?’
‘I’m not really a fan of beer, to be honest.’
‘But Maia, you’re in Rio! You must drink a beer. It’s that, or a caipirinha cocktail, which I can assure you is far stronger,’ he added.
I agreed to the beer, and when the waitress came over, we both ordered the steak sandwich Floriano recommended.
‘The beef is Argentinean, and although we hate them for beating us at football all too often, we love eating their cows,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now I don’t think I’m able to wait any longer until you show me this precious object of yours.’
‘Okay.’ I brought the tile out of my bag and placed it carefully on the rough trestle table between us.
‘May I?’ he asked as his hands reached towards it.
‘Of course.’
I watched him as he picked it up with care and studied it. He then turned it over and glanced at the faded words on the back.
‘So,’ he breathed, and I sensed his surprise. ‘Only now can I understand what it was that shocked you. And yes, before you even ask, it looks to me as if this was once destined to adorn the body of the Cristo. Well, well,’ he commented, the presence of the triangular tile cowing him into silence. Eventually he said, ‘Can you tell me how you came by it?’
So, as our beers arrived and then our steak sandwiches, I told Floriano the whole story. He listened patiently, only interrupting occasionally if he needed a fact explained. By the time I’d finished talking, Floriano’s plate was empty and mine was barely touched.
‘So, now we swap. You will eat while I talk.’ He indicated my plate and I did as I was bid. ‘I can certainly help you on one point, and that is with the name of the family who live in A Casa das Orquídeas. The Aires Cabrals are a very well-known Rio family – aristocratic, in fact. Descended from the old and now redundant Portuguese royal family themselves. Various Aires Cabrals have featured throughout the past two hundred years of Rio’s history.’
The Seven Sisters Page 10