But Theo would be respectful. In his mind, only the old, outdated men of Brazil still considered themselves macho men.
They finally made their way into the line to collect their winnings. Theo took his few dollars; River had made quite a sum from his long-shot bets.
Stepping away from the line, he placed his winnings in the slot of his backpack.
“Forget him,” Theo muttered suddenly. “Forget him? The creep is following us.”
River looked up; the swarthy man was leaning against the wall by the windows, watching them.
“Don’t worry; he’ll leave you alone,” River said and slipped an arm around Theo. They walked away from the windows together and out onto the streets. Theo looked back; the man wasn’t behind them.
“You’re a good friend,” Theo told River.
River shrugged and started to say something but Theo was already moving on. He cried out, reaching down to the sidewalk to pick something up. It was a cigarette.
“Look! Just lit! Someone lit this up and … maybe got into a cab or something!” Theo’s expression was one of pure delight.
“Theo—I just did well. I’ll buy you a pack of cigarettes. Well, I’d rather not. You shouldn’t smoke, you know?”
Theo grinned. “I don’t need cigarettes. I just smoke them when I find them. And this one—it’s good. And, say, I imagine the lips that touched them. They belonged to a beautiful and mysterious woman with big breasts, big lips—and Brazilian buns, ha-ha!”
“What if it was a big fat lousy man with sweat streaking down his face?” River asked. But he found himself thinking of the mysterious and beautiful Natal.
“My imagination is far superior to yours!” Theo said indignantly. “No, the lips that touched this cigarette were full and moist. And the woman had dark eyes that whispered of a bedroom in the night, hot passion … all good things!”
“Fine. You imagine those lips as you like.”
“Yes, I will imagine such a woman for you too, my friend. One filled with fire and life—someone crazy enough to bet on a horse because of its name as well!”
“Hey—my horses came in,” River reminded him.
“Yes. When will I learn?” Theo teased. “So, no cigarettes. But, we’ll go to the café and you’ll buy me lunch, eh?”
River laughed. “Yes, we’ll go to the café, and I’ll buy you lunch.”
Theo’s favorite café in the area was about three blocks from the track. It was situated in a side alley, off one of the major streets where today, men and women in business suits carrying briefcases hurried about—in between stilt walkers and beautiful women in colorful festival shirts and studded, scanty bra-tops advertising menus for Carnaval. On a corner, a group of children from a samba school performed—causing even some of the harried businesspeople to stop, watch, and applaud.
It was business as usual—in Carnaval season.
The restaurant they chose was local and modern—the tables were veneered pine, the kitchen was gleaming chrome, and sheet-glass windows afforded the same view as the race track from the back. They found a table toward the rear with a clear line of vision to Corcovado. The waiters were dressed in suits here, the waitresses in full skirts and tuxedo shirts. Theo ordered a churrasco, choosing batatas, or potatoes, over rice and beans. River asked for the local peixe, or fish and a chope, or draft beer. When their waiter left them, Theo shrugged and took a deep breath. “Ah, a friend buying you lunch—because he likes a horse’s name! That is life. So, what is that you’re holding as if it was so precious? Looks like a paper to me.”
River realized he’d been carrying the paper he’d taken that morning tightly between his arm and his chest, and he showed it—along with the thumbnail picture of Natal—to Theo. “Speaking of Brazilian beauties—do you know this woman?”
Theo studied the picture. “No, I have never seen her. I have never heard of her. But, I do not read tourist papers, you know?”
“No, I guess you don’t.”
“You have that drawing pad of yours in there?” Theo asked.
River nodded, and Theo said, “Draw me a picture while we wait. Draw me anything that comes into your mind.”
River shrugged and took out the sketchpad and his pencil. Looking through the giant, plate-glass windows and beyond, he thought for a moment and then began to draw. He could still see the race track in his mind. He drew the track and as he did so, he saw the background and the horses and he began to sketch a race. Their garçom, or waiter, brought their food and he thanked the man but kept sketching.
“Hey, your food is here—fish is no good cold,” Theo said.
“Sushi can be great cold,” River murmured.
“We’re not having sushi,” Theo pointed out.
“But fish can be fine cold.”
“Better hot,” Theo argued.
River didn’t respond.
Theo savored a bit of his meat, but then tapped on the paper. “You’ve drawn one horse in the race. Symbolic, you think? One horse—your horse, which wins so often! But the jockey isn’t so happy.”
River looked at his sketch. It was true. He had drawn a jockey that wasn’t looking where he was going; he was looking back, as if he was running away from something rather than trying to run a race.
He set the sketchpad down. “So … hey, it’s a sketch,” he said.
“A good one,” Theo told him. “You should be an artist. A real artist.”
River laughed. “Well, if I draw and it’s decent, I’m an artist. Doesn’t the act of drawing make me an artist?”
Theo waved his fork in the air and shook his head. “No, no. I know many men who think they can draw. They cannot. Well, I know of men who throw paint on a canvas—and they do become great artists—because some idiot thinks all the splashes are artistic and they see everything about the human soul. But you—you can draw. You should have a great gallery with all your work.”
“Eat your meat, Theo. I don’t want a gallery. I want to roam Brazil, steal dogs, drive Beluga crazy, and go to the races with you.”
“One day…” Theo said.
River shrugged. “One day. I have many sights to see before that day. I like my days right now.”
Theo nodded, chewing the last of his meat, sipping his water, and then savoring the last of his potatoes.
He leaned forward. “You really don’t mind buying my lunch?” he asked River.
“You know that I don’t.”
“When I have fortune at the track, I will buy you anything!” Theo said.
River grinned. “I don’t want anything, my friend,” he said softly.
“Then I will buy you lunch!”
“That’s a deal,” River agreed.
Setting his napkin down, Theo rose. “I must rudely leave you now. I have some work this afternoon. They are filming a commercial down by the Convento de Santo Antônio. I have been hired to hold microphones, you know? I will make more money for the track.”
“I will see you—when I see you,” River told him.
“Thank you.” Theo left. River paused, thinking that he wanted to keep sketching. Here, they would never rush him. They would never tell him that it was busy and that his table was needed. There was no hurry in a Brazilian café. You weren’t urged to leave if you weren’t ready to leave.
But River knew that they were busy and he paid the check and left. Out on the streets, he felt the life of the city. It seemed that there was always a palpable pulse to be felt in Rio, but never so much as at Carnaval. Now, a float was going by in the midst of the busy car traffic. The revelers atop were in samba dress, bright yellow puffy shirts and dresses. They sang to the crowd and invited them to the Genovese party the next night—at a very reasonable cost, of course!
River loved the throng of people in Rio but at the moment he still felt the burning need to draw. He made his way through the colors and the sounds and the scents until he wasn’t sure exactly where he was. The streets were not so well paved; alleys were not paved at
all.
But there was a charming little hut with a sign that advised, in Portuguese and English, that the finest coffee in the world could be found there.
It was at the side of a little alley with windows that looked over an overgrown garden that separated it from the next street.
It seemed perfect.
River was greeted warmly by a pudgy proprietor.
He was led to a table, where he ordered a café, and then pulled his sketchpad back out and studied what he’d been doing. He didn’t like the picture he’d been sketching of the track; he started over again.
As he did so, he heard children laughing and he looked up. Through an open window he could see through the garden area and foliage to the little street beyond. It was definitely a working-class neighborhood. Mothers were bringing their wash to a Laundromat. The children were playing, kicking a plastic bottle across the stone path.
He watched them for a moment, then smiled and began to sketch them. He looked at the street scene and then at his page as he sketched, then at the street again.
His pencil paused midstroke and he felt that thump in his chest again—his heart double-timing, stopping … and then beating again.
There she was.
Natal.
He knew her name now. It was a beautiful name.
She walked with a sway of her hips as she carried her basket of clothing. She wore jeans that hugged her lithe and perfect form, and her hair waved down her back and around her shoulders. She paused to tease one of the children, laughing. She looked up at the sky as if she drank in the sun.
He watched her enter the Laundromat.
For a moment, he sat there. He heard the clink of forks and knives against dishes, the musical quality of the Portuguese language spoken around him.
He saw the children and the doorway.
“Senhor?”
The garçom stood before him, questioningly. “Um, nothing, thank you, I’m done. A conta, por favor,” he said.
The waiter nodded and walked away to get his check.
River stood, stuffing his pad into his backpack.
He couldn’t wait for the waiter. He drew out his money, estimated the total, and dropped a generous tip on the table.
Then he crossed the tiled back patio of the restaurant and moved slowly through the trees and foliage to the little stone road before the Laundromat.
What the hell would he say to her?
What did it matter?
He had to meet her.
He made his way through the children and into the Laundromat. At first, the room seemed like a misty parlor after the brightness of the sun. He heard the washers swishing and the dryers humming. He looked around.
An old woman was sorting clothes. A man was leaning back, half asleep in a chair as he waited for his laundry. At another table, two old men played cards and puffed on cigarillos.
And then he saw her.
Natal.
She seemed like beauty in motion. She made the room come to light with her every twist and turn as she transferred clothing from her basket into a washer.
She turned and looked at him and he saw her face. She seemed like a goddess, her features so stunning, her eyes so large and dark, her lips so full, and her cheekbones so elegantly sculpted.
The moment seemed perfect.
Then someone smacked him on the arm.
“Hey, estúpido, jerk, americano!”
It was the old woman. “You—you are standing where I need to work. Idiot—move! Move! I have work to do here.”
Natal smiled slowly.
He moved quickly for the old woman.
And he walked toward Natal, his beautiful Brazilian mystery woman.
CHAPTER 5
River felt his heart as if it pounded in his throat. She was smiling at him. Natal was smiling at him.
Natal.
He loved the sound of her name.
His own smile was awkward. He felt like a high school kid, trying to flirt for the first time.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.”
“You speak English?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course.” She smiled a little.
He didn’t know what to say next.
“I see you’re having a bit of trouble,” she told him, a nod of her chin indicating the older woman who had spoken so roughly to him.
He shrugged. “I didn’t mean to offend her.”
“Hmph!” Natal said. “She was being offensive to you.” She moved closer to him, mischief dancing in her eyes. “I say we snatch her coins and run away. Teach her to be rude!”
Stealing wasn’t something River did—but he glanced at the coins. They didn’t equal one American dollar.
It didn’t matter. Natal didn’t give him time to protest. “Get them!” she urged.
“But—that’s stealing!”
“Less than an American dollar!” she said.
River couldn’t help it. He set down a dollar—but then snatched up the coins as she had commanded. She was lightning out the door.
He followed her and looked back—the old woman hadn’t noticed.
Natal was gone.
He pushed onward, throwing his backpack over his shoulder, suddenly much more worried about losing Natal than he was about the morality of taking the coins.
He caught up with her in the street; she was laughing as she waited for him.
“So,” he said. “We have coins—what about your clothes?”
She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Ah, well, they were old. Maybe the old woman will find them and take them—a fine trade for her coins, don’t you think?”
River laughed. “Yes, I imagine she’ll have the better deal with that.”
“And you left her more.” Natal started forward, leaving River to scramble after her. “So now we have coins,” she said. “What will we do with them?”
“Not much; they’d hardly buy a few cups of coffee.”
A ball bounced toward them, and a boy ran up to retrieve it, thanking River when he tossed the ball back.
“Poor thing,” Natal said, some of the light leaving her eyes. “The children here … they have so much promise.”
She cared about the children on the streets, he thought. Little urchins, most of them shoeless as they played.
Dirt poor.
Her face was filled with expression, her movements full of grace. He thought that the sculpted lines of her profile could rival the finest Greek or Roman face ever sculpted in marble. Her eyes were dark with a streak of wickedly beautiful mischief—and compassion.
And yet …
For a moment, even as he watched her, the street scene seemed to fade before his eyes. He didn’t see the children here.
Instead he saw a little girl with a cherubic face and great blue eyes. She stood before him in a pinafore dress, white socks, and black patent leather shoes. She held a bottle of bubbles, and she blew one, laughing delightedly as they drifted off into the sky.
The little girl turned and smiled at him with glee, then—
“Mister! Senhor! Mister!”
The vision of the little girl faded, and his memory returned. He was on the street on the outskirts of Rio; children played and shoppers moved about, buying fresh meat and vegetables for their dinners. A pair of lovers walked by; a man with a guitar hurried on, probably to join up with his group for a Carnaval celebration.
A little boy tugged at his shirt.
“You have change, senhor? Any change?”
He smiled at the child and dug in his pocket, producing a coin. The child smiled at him.
He trembled inwardly, and then shook off the feeling.
Natal was observing him silently.
They were in an older, poorer section of the city. Shops were worn and needed paint. The people also appeared to be worn—and in need of paint as well.
Ahead, there was a rustic arcade, filled with old machines.
He touched Natal’s shoulder. “I know wha
t to do with the coins we have,” he said. “Come on!”
Catching her hand, he ran ahead for the arcade. There were a number of children gathered, looking longingly at the machines.
“Here.” River looked at Natal and gestured to the coins. When she saw his intent, her eyes lit up.
She handed out all the coins they had taken. River reached into his own pockets, drawing out what coins he had. Within a matter of minutes, the kids were laughing and chatting with one another, careful as they determined the merits of each game they might play.
“Worth leaving the old crone my old clothing, don’t you think?” Natal asked quietly. She studied him for another moment. “Tell me your name.”
“River.”
“River,” she repeated, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “In English, you are water!”
“My parents liked the name,” he said with a shrug.
“I like it too,” she assured him, seeming to reach a decision. “I’m Natal.”
“I know. I know your name. I know that you write.”
She drew her arms across her chest. “How do you know my name? And that I like to write?”
He flushed. “I’ve seen you. In a picture. It was with an article you wrote for the tourist magazine.” Her eyebrows shot up. “It was wonderful—and so true,” he continued. “The article I read. You wrote so well about America.”
The small smile returned. “I was not insulting your country. It is a melting pot—but sometimes, they don’t seem to want the contents to melt, right? But here,” she said, lifting her arms to encompass her surroundings, “we enslaved people, yes. The New World was all about sugar and, in your country, tobacco and cotton. But here, when the wars for independence began, all fought, and all were free. Oh, I’m not saying there aren’t people here who are still prejudiced—against the native populations, against this one or that one for a color or religion or sex or sexual choice—but not our society at large. Everyone is here—gay, straight, black, white, Indian—and we tend to just love one another in the streets. We’re happy!” She laughed. “We dance—we samba. We live for music and … life!”
American Drifter Page 5