You couldn’t see through the window what was inside because it was draped in richly coloured cloths. All that Alana could make out was a strange glow, that didn’t seem quite like a normal electric light. She just had to have a closer look!
Alana pushed open the shop door nervously, the hinges creaking. As soon as she stepped inside, she was overwhelmed by a tall lady wearing a sparkly shawl, very high heels and a great deal of make-up.
‘Welcome, ma petite!’ cried the lady, giving Alana a huge hug. Alana didn’t know what to think. This sort of thing didn’t usually happen when she went into the local shops!
‘I am Madame Coco!’ the lady continued. ‘And you are …?’
‘Er … Alana,’ Alana replied.
‘And I see you are a dancer!’ Madame Coco continued.
‘How did you know?’ asked Alana in surprise.
‘Ah, you just have that look about you, ma petite. I can always tell. I have dressed all the best dancers, you know. Ooh-la-la the stories I could tell you! Why, there was the case of the famous prima ballerina’s tutu … Oh but I am talking too much, ma chérie, and you haven’t even had a chance to look round my shop.’
Alana’s eyes grew wide as she gazed around her. In front of her were rail after rail of the most incredible dance costumes. There were tutus, glittering ballgowns, character costumes and salsa dresses. Stretching up to the ceiling were shelf after shelf crammed with feather boas, rolls of ribbon, bags of sequins and rhinestones, fans and masks, and every type of dance shoe you could think of. Alana wandered around gently touching the gorgeous fabrics and imagining what it would be like to wear the costumes.
‘Now, ma petite,’ said Madame Coco. ‘Come and talk to me. I sense that something is troubling you. Just wait one moment and I make you a warm drink.’ She sat Alana down in a pink velvet armchair and bustled off, returning with some hot, sweet mint tea in a flowery china tea cup.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘Tell Madame Coco what is the matter.’ Alana looked at Madame Coco’s sympathetic face, and suddenly she felt like telling her everything. Her words pouring out in a torrent, she told her all about her mum working so hard and how she had to look after her sister; about how she couldn’t get the samba steps right and maybe she’d have to give up dancing. ‘AND,’ she continued, talking faster and faster, ‘Mum was meant to make me a dress for the Latin Spectacular and she forgot and we can’t afford a new one and I’m going to have to dance in an old skirt and leotard and Verity’s dress is orange and gold and it’s not fair and and … and …’
Madame Coco put up her hand for silence. ‘You don’t have a costume for the show, you say? Now that, ma petite, can be easily fixed!’ She swept across the shop, flicked expertly between the dresses on one of the rails, and brought out the most amazing samba dress Alana had ever seen. It was a deep crimson, and covered with sequins and real diamonds!’
‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ Alana exclaimed. ‘But I could never, ever afford it.’
‘Well, ma petite, sometimes the right dress is just meant to be,’ replied Madame Coco. ‘Why don’t you try it on?’ She pointed to a corner of the room that was curtained off to make a fitting room. Alana went inside, and found the room was much bigger than it had looked on the outside. It was lined with mirrors, each one surrounded by light bulbs, just like in a theatre dressing room.
Alana slipped the dress over her head and the skirts swirled around her hips and legs. It felt like it had been made just for her. Then she went back into the main part of the shop to show it to Madame Coco.
‘Hmmm, very nice,’ said Madame Coco, looking at her approvingly. ‘And these would go perfectly with it, I think,’ she added, taking a pair of dance shoes off the shelf. They were made of black patent leather with low heels and sparkling diamanté buckles across the front. To Alana’s surprise, they fitted beautifully. How could Madame Coco have known my shoe size? she wondered.
‘Why don’t you try out your samba routine?’ asked Madame Coco. ‘What, right here?’ asked Alana shyly. ‘Why not?’ Madame Coco replied.
‘Wait one moment and I do your hair.’ In seconds, she had scraped back Alana’s hair into a high ponytail, and pinned into it a spray of crimson feathers. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘let me see you dance.’ Hesitantly, Alana began to do the steps she’d been practising all week. As she danced, she felt a strange tingling sensation on her skin, and her feet felt lighter and began to move faster. Then the ground seemed to disappear underneath her. What was going on? Trying not to panic, Alana closed her eyes, but still her feet kept dancing. In the distance, she could still hear Madame Coco’s voice. It was saying, ‘Remember, ma petite, when your good deed is done, the call of home will beckon. You will return home! You will return home!’
The voice faded away and all she could hear was a rushing sound like the wind. Then her feet touched the ground again, but this time it felt warm beneath her. There was hot sunshine, a breeze on her face, and the beat of drums and samba music filling the air. When she opened her eyes, she was still dancing the samba, but she was on a road next to a golden beach, with thousands of other people who were dancing too!
As Alana looked around her in amazement, she saw a large banner stuck into the sand, saying Carnaval do Rio. Was it possible? Was she really in Brazil, at the Rio Carnival? It had been early evening when she went into the shop, but now the sun was high in the sky.
Before she had time to wonder any more, a boy of about twelve with black curly hair and big dark eyes grabbed her by the hand. ‘Come on!’ he said, and he led her in the samba down the wide road, expertly avoiding the other dancers. It was as though she’d been doing the dance all her life. The steps came easily, and as she moved, her worries seemed to fly away.
The band finished playing and the boy led her across to a beach café where he bought her some mango juice and a chocolate ice cream. ‘I am Carlos!’ he said, smiling. ‘I saw that you were dancing alone, and I just had to dance with you.’ Carlos was speaking a foreign language – Portuguese it must be, Alana thought, remembering when they’d learned about Brazil at school. And yet, strangely, she was able to understand him perfectly. It was bizarre.
She blushed, but she didn’t know what to say so she just drank her juice. Luckily, Carlos talked enough for both of them. He told her that he was a member of a local samba school and that the Carnival was his favourite time of year. That afternoon he was going to be performing with his samba school in the parade.
Dancing was Carlos’s life and he wanted to do it professionally. But his papa had told him that he would have to leave his samba school after this year’s Carnival, because he needed to spend more time studying. Papa wanted Carlos to become a doctor; dancing was all very well for fun, he thought, but it was not a career to be proud of.
Alana nodded and smiled as Carlos talked. When occasionally she made a comment, she found that she was speaking his language. She thought the words in English, but they came out in Portuguese! Was this magic?
Just then, a middle-aged man with a black moustache and a cross expression came hurrying up, gesturing angrily. ‘There you are, Carlos!’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you doing your homework? Come home at once!’
‘Papa, this is my new friend from England,’ interrupted Carlos. His father looked a bit less stern as he turned and saw Alana. ‘Can we invite her for lunch, Papa, please?’
‘Yes, you may,’ said Papa. ‘But right now you must come home and study, you understand?’
‘But, Papa,’ said Carlos, ‘I have to go to samba school for the final rehearsal before the parade, remember?’
‘Ah, this samba, it is a waste of your time,’ said Papa. ‘But go! After today, you will be concentrating on more important matters.’ Waving his hands, he shooed Carlos and Alana away.
Carlos took Alana’s hand again. ‘Never mind Papa,’ he said. ‘I am going to enjoy my last Carnival parade. Why don’t you come with me to the samba school and watch our rehearsal?’
‘I’d love to,�
�� said Alana.
The school was only a short walk away, just off the beach. Once they’d stepped inside, Alana looked around in awe. The space was like Step Out Studio, but much, much bigger – and it was completely packed with dancers in the most fantastically elaborate and colourful costumes Alana had ever seen.
Carlos disappeared to change, leaving her sitting at the side of the room. As she began to get used to her surroundings, she realised there was only a small number of different costumes, with large numbers of dancers wearing each style. After a few minutes, Carlos came to join her wearing his costume, which was made of bright orange silk, with a pattern of flames licking all over it. On his head was an enormous headdress, with flame-like feathers standing out from it in vibrant red, orange and yellow. ‘Every samba school must have a theme,’ he explained. ‘And this year, our theme is “fire”.’
As he spoke, a tall woman in shorts and a T-shirt blew a whistle, and said something into a microphone. Alana couldn’t hear what it was. ‘I must go,’ said Carlos. ‘It is my group’s turn to rehearse.’
He went to join around a hundred other dancers, all wearing orange fire costumes identical to his. They got into position, as though in the parade, and as soon as the fast-paced samba music began, they were off – their feet moving exactly in time with each other. Alana tapped her foot and moved her hips, longing to join in.
As soon as Carlos’s group had finished rehearsing, a different set of dancers began and Carlos joined Alana again. ‘I’ll go and change my clothes,’ he said. ‘Then it will be time to go home for lunch. After that, the real parade will begin!’
They walked through bustling streets to Carlos’s house. The Carnival atmosphere was in the air and there was a feeling of excitement everywhere.
When they entered the house, Carlos’s mother was busy in the kitchen, stirring something in a huge cooking pot. Delicious smells drifted through the house. Carlos’s mother was plump and welcoming; she gave Alana a big hug before carrying on with her cooking.
‘Follow me! I’ll show you round,’ said Carlos. His house was messy and chaotic like Alana’s own, but it was filled with vibrant colours. In particular, Alana noticed a wall-hanging covered in intricate patterns. Looking more closely, she realised that it was actually a large flag, attached to a long pole.
‘Ah yes,’ said Carlos’s papa when he saw her looking at it. ‘That wall-hanging is very special to our family. It is a banner made from the family emblems of all our ancestors. I think of it as a badge of our family pride. We are a very proud family indeed!’
Lunch at Carlos’s house was incredible. They sat down with his three little brothers and sisters, his mother and father and grandmother, uncle, auntie and two cousins. Alana had never eaten food like this. There were tiny pastries stuffed with cheese and others filled with spicy meat; there were crisp corn cakes, and, for pudding, fried bananas and delicious chocolate truffles, which Carlos said were called brigadeiro. Everyone talked and talked and ate and ate. Alana felt so comfortable and welcome that she chatted away, too.
Most of the talk was about the Carnival, of course. Everyone was so excited about the procession that afternoon. Alana kept glancing across at Carlos, and saw that his eyes were sad, because this was the last time he would be allowed to take part. He talked and ate with everyone else, but you could see his mind was elsewhere.
After lunch he disappeared upstairs to change back into his fire costume. As Alana was helping to clear the table, her eye kept being drawn to the family banner, that represented all the achievements of Carlos’s ancestors. Poor Carlos, she thought. It’s not fair that he isn’t allowed to follow his dream. If he loves to dance, surely his success would be the best way to make his family proud of him. I wish there was something I could do to help – but there isn’t, is there?
As she was thinking, Carlos came back down. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is time for the parade.’ The sounds of samba bands were starting to drift through the open window and Carlos’s little brothers and sisters dashed off to get a good position to watch the approaching spectacle.
Suddenly Alana had a brilliant idea. Checking that Papa was not in the room, she pulled the family banner down from the wall.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Carlos in horror. ‘Papa will go crazy!’
‘Shhh – come on. Trust me!’ said Alana, and taking him by the hand, she dragged him outside into the back streets of Rio, grasping the flag tightly.
But Carlos’s father had noticed them leave, and with a cry of rage, he started to chase after them. With Carlos in his giant fiery headdress, it was not hard to spot them!
‘Run!’ cried Alana to Carlos.
‘You’re insane!’ Carlos shouted, but he started running after her anyway. They slipped down a side alley, and when Alana glanced behind her, Papa was no longer there.
It was easy to find the parade – they just had to follow the beat of the music and the noise of singing and clapping from the crowd. Still, nothing could have prepared Alana for the scene that met her eyes as they entered the main boulevard. The broad avenue was packed from side to side with hundreds and hundreds of dancers and musicians. Each set of dancers wore matching outfits, and each seemed to be dressed more extravagantly than the last. There were sequins and glitter, jewels and feathers, enormous headdresses and killer heels. And the dancers moved in one rhythmic mass, with swinging hips and outstretched arms. Banked up on either side of the boulevard were rows of seats crammed with cheering onlookers.
They spotted the dancers from Carlos’s samba school, waiting to take their place in the procession. Alana thrust the banner into Carlos’s hands. ‘You must wave this as you dance,’ she shouted above the music.
Their dance began, and Carlos pulled Alana into the procession with him. He waved the banner high in the air, and as it flew in the breeze, different emblems shone brightly in the dazzling sunlight. Alana and Carlos turned to one side, and there was Papa at the front of the stands, shouting and shaking his fist.
‘Look, Papa!’ shouted Carlos, straining to be heard above the noise of the samba drums. He waved the banner frantically. ‘I’m dancing for the family, Papa! I’m dancing to make you proud of me!’
Carlos’s voice was completely lost in all the background noise. But as Papa watched him dancing, waving the banner in the sunlight, he realised what Carlos was trying to do. His eyes that had been flashing with rage grew gentle, and he began to smile with pride.
As Alana and Carlos drew level with Papa, Carlos broke away from the dance for a moment to speak to him.
‘Do you see, Papa?’ said Carlos. ‘Do you see that if you let me dance I can make my family proud?’
‘Yes, I do see, my son,’ said Papa, embracing him.
‘So I will dance at the Carnival again? You will let me stay at samba school?’
‘Yes,’ said Papa. ‘Yes, I will.’
Carlos pulled Alana back into the dance, his face alight with joy. The samba beat was growing faster and faster and Alana managed every move. Not only could she do the steps from the routine she’d learned for the Latin Spectacular, but she found she could dance all sorts of more complicated steps like the corta jaca and batucada as well. Her flame-coloured dress blended in beautifully, so she didn’t look out of place at all.
As she spun around, she felt Carlos slip something into the hem at the back of her dress. He whispered in her ear, ‘Thank you, Alana. You have made us all so happy. Thank you.’
Then as if from far away, Alana could hear Madame Coco’s voice. ‘Remember, ma petite, when your good deed is done, the call of home will beckon. You will return home! You will return home!’
Alana closed her eyes but kept dancing. The sounds of the samba music gradually began to fade away. Again the ground seemed to disappear beneath her and she felt the rushing of a warm wind. When her feet touched the ground again, the floor felt hard and her steps echoed as though she were in a room instead of outside in the street.
Alana ope
ned her eyes, and there she was back in Madame Coco’s Costume Emporium. Madame Coco was sitting there just as she had been before, smiling pleasantly at Alana as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Alana found it hard to believe that the last few hours had been real. Apart from the fact that she was rather out of breath, nothing seemed to have changed. And when she looked over at the tall, dusty grandfather clock standing in the corner of the shop, she grew even more certain that she’d imagined it all. When she’d come into the shop it was five o’clock, and now the clock read a quarter past. She’d only got there fifteen minutes ago!
‘I have to leave straight away,’ said Alana. ‘My mother will be waiting for me. Thank you for letting me try on the dress, though. It’s absolutely beautiful.’
‘Why don’t you keep it, ma petite?’ replied Madame Coco. ‘I think you have earned it today.’
‘Oh but I couldn’t,’ said Alana, stroking the sparkling material longingly. ‘It’s far too expensive.’
‘Take it, ma chérie,’ said Madame Coco, zipping it carefully inside a dress cover. ‘It is meant for you.’
Alana threw her arms round Madame Coco, whooping with joy. ‘Thank you thank you!’ she said. ‘If I could borrow it for a day or two, that is all I want.’
‘It is nothing,’ said Madame Coco, looking a bit embarrassed. ‘And wait – you must take this as well.’ Madame Coco handed Alana a beautiful album covered in purple brocade interwoven with gold threads. It had thick, cream-coloured paper inside, and lots of empty pockets to put things in.
Alana thanked Madame Coco again, then she left the shop and ran down the street to her front door, the dress hidden under her coat.
Samba Spectacular Page 2