American Drifter

by Heather Graham

  The prices, River could see, were ridiculously cheap.

  The waiter spoke little to no English but that didn’t matter; Natal gave him her order and River grinned and pointed to the menu; the waiter laughed with them both, shaking his head at the American tourist, but doing so good-naturedly. River and Natal had a delicious local red wine and empadinhas.

  River actually knew what he was ordering. Bars where busy Brazilians picked up a few empadinhas to eat while walking on their way filled many of the streets. Botecos—or street-side restaurants with just a few stools—also served them. They were pastries stuffed with beef, fish, chicken, or cheese, and maybe even vegetables. But Natal told him that these were the best he would ever have.

  And they were.

  As was the wine.

  It had no name. It was from the owner’s own little vineyard—and his basement winery.

  As they ate, Natal teased him and taught him words in Portuguese, laughing at his pronunciation. He teased her back for her accent.

  The little restaurant only seated perhaps twenty, and still it was loud, with the waiter calling his orders, the cook calling out what was ready—and a single entertainer, a guitar in his hands, walking from table to table to croon out a number. Natal told River that he was singing old Brazilian favorites. One song was by Chico Buarque, and it was called “Roda Viva.” Natal explained to River that it had been written in 1968 and protested the dictatorship that had existed in the country in the 1960s and ’70s. The protest was subtle—but if you knew the language and the words, you knew that it was a protest. Chico Buarque had been one of the most exceptional musicians to come out of Brazil.

  “We try—but as you know,” Natal said, “politics can be very ugly. We were, of course, colonized as a Portuguese holding. We were all colonies—all in the New World.”

  “Yes,” River agreed. “Moneymaking stepchildren of great European powers.”

  Natal grinned. “And not that we don’t want to be friends with all those European powers. The United States claimed independence and went to war in 1776, yes? Here, we were much the same. Simón Bolívar’s determination and leadership gained independence for Venezuela, Columbia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and Panama—he was probably the greatest general South America has ever known, and he tends to be the general people know of in other countries. He had pretty much defeated the Spanish and made most of the Spanish holdings independent by 1822, and that was when Prince Pedro de Alcântara, who was the son of King John the Sixth of Portugal, proclaimed independence—by popular demand of the people. Our people fought for independence and won. Of course, we all know that just winning independence does not necessarily make a perfect place for all.”

  “I don’t think there will ever be a perfect place,” River said.

  But being here with you—that might be as perfect as it can get.

  He refrained from saying the words—he didn’t want to scare her away.

  “No,” Natal agreed solemnly. “In 1889, Marshal Deodoro da Fonseca carried out a coup d’état and declared we were a republic. The power was in the hands of the rich, yes—as it was in most places.”

  River smiled at her—glad he’d loved her country enough to read up on it in plenty of history books. “A ‘bloodless’ coup happened in 1930,” he said. “Getúlio Vargas came to power. Then, during the late thirties and early forties, the Estado Novo were up in the driver’s seat—with some ties to fascism, right?”

  She cocked her head, grinning. “So, you really do read. And study.”

  “Of course. I love Brazil.”

  “We still have problems.”

  “Every country out there does.”

  She laughed. “The Swiss? Not so much, I think. We struggled along. We had a mess of wavering and instability between 1946 and 1964, and, of course, tons of European immigrants, including those who were running from rightful persecution—those who did horrible things in World War Two. Still, in 1945, the modern constitution was passed, and we had what they called the ‘populist years.’” She made a face. “Not so good, really. And sadly, we then had the bad years that Buarque sang about—the military dictatorship from 1964 to 1985.” She looked at him oddly. “I believe that documents have shown that the United States might have been involved in some choices there.”

  “I love my country too,” River told her. “But loving it doesn’t mean that I believe we have always been right. After all, we massacred much of our native population.”

  “Conquerors conquer,” she said. “Anyway, the dictatorship was defeated by a vote in 1985. Then we had terrible economic times, but since then, we’ve had a few good men and now, today, we try very hard for a stable government and to be a part of the world that is equal and humane and growing and we … we are a good people, really, living in a beautiful land! We’re different, very different. We were colonized by the Portuguese—not the Spanish, English, or Dutch. Our men were, hmm, I think the term is ‘hard up,’ but it led to good things—a real mix of people! We celebrate our European heritage, our native heritage, and our African heritage all at once.”

  He laughed. “You don’t have to sell me—I’ve told you. I love Brazil very much.”

  Toward the end of the meal she grew somber. “So. Will you just wander forever?”

  “Maybe. Maybe I’ll live here.”

  “Why do you hate your own country?”

  “I don’t hate my own country,” he told her. “I—I told you, I love my country.”

  She sat back straight in her chair as if she were a stuffy doctor. “Yet you have … issues.”

  “Everyone has issues,” he told her.

  “You don’t talk about war.”

  Had he mentioned his occupation as a soldier? “No one should talk about war,” he said.

  The air seemed to be filled with smoke.

  There was no smoke in the place. None at all.

  River tried to sit still; he tried not to duck, not to appear a fool. But he could hear the whistling again—the whistling that meant a bomb was coming.

  And through it all that weird scent, not of fire now—but of pancakes.

  She set her hand on his. “I’m sorry. We’ll not talk of war. We’ll talk of the goodness of man.”

  He forced a small smile and wagged a stern finger at her. “When we’re good, we don’t steal coins.”

  She pouted. “I left her all my clothes.”

  He shrugged. “What if she didn’t want clothes?”

  “She did—my clothes were much better than hers.”

  “Okay, but we pay from now on.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t think … I didn’t think you had much money. I wanted to do things with you—it seemed best.”

  “I have money,” he told her.

  She tossed her hair back with a lazy hand. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I like this word—okay. Easy. Nice.”

  “It became popular in America when Van Buren was running for president,” he told her. “He was nicknamed ‘Old Kinderhook’ and his supporters formed the OK Club. But some say it’s from the Scots—och aye—and some say it’s from the French—Aux Cayes—which was a port in Haiti with excellent rum. I don’t know—but it is a good word.”

  She stared at him, her surprise obvious.

  “Hey, I read.” He grinned. “I like obrigado.”

  “Thank you,” she translated. “And you just like that word because you use it often. You’re nice.” Her gaze flickered to his mouth. “Too nice, really.” She traced River’s hand with her own, sending a shiver down his spine.

  The wandering musician appeared suddenly at their table. Natal leaned closer to River. “Robert Carlos—a song from the early 1970s. Very beautiful. ‘Detalhes.’ It is a love song,” she added, her eyes twinkling.

  The strumming musician sang a little off-key. But what he lacked in vocal grace he made up for with enthusiasm and drama. He seemed a little old and a little worn, just like the restaurant, and yet he was perfect.

&nbs
p; When he was done, he stood there grinning at them—waiting. River tipped him handsomely, and the man moved on.

  Natal squeezed River’s hands. “Let’s get our bill—we haven’t taken the cog train yet and you said that we would do that.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, let’s do that.”

  They did, enjoying every minute on the cog train that took them up to the Christ the Redeemer statue.

  When they were close, the statue was even more immense than he remembered. Getting off the train, Natal wanted to take the 220 steps that led to the base of the statue rather than the escalators. He tried to keep up with her—she was fast, but he caught her as they reached the base. She laughed. “It’s one of the new Seven Wonders of the World, you know,” she told him. “It’s damaged—and it’s fixed. Now, it means Rio!”

  “It’s immense, it’s majestic, it’s wonderful—and I’ve never seen it as I’m seeing it now, because of you,” River told her. “My friend.”

  They were close, so close he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her. She would have fallen into them, held him in return, kissed him back.

  And yet, suddenly, she backed away, looking at the ground. “We—we are friends. I tease too much.”

  “No.”

  “I am a free spirit. You are a free spirit.”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s just … have fun. Have fun with me. Let’s enjoy our time.”

  He’d pushed too hard. River took a step back, though he wanted nothing more than to draw her to him and demand to know what was going on with her life, what caused these sudden moments of gravity.

  He knew that he couldn’t. If she walked away …

  “Just fun,” he said, though it pained him to do so.

  She grinned and seemed easier. “I will write about this,” she told him. “I will write about that little girl—the one craning her neck. I will write about the wonder in her eyes. I will write about the statue—how beautiful it is, and how it has become the icon of Rio.”

  “Will you write about the government too?” he asked.

  “The government has always seen to it that the statue is cared for.”

  He nodded. “But the government doesn’t always see laws as being the same for all men.”

  “In any government there are those who serve—and those who wish to be served.”

  “And there are corrupt police who are blind to the antics of some men.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Here—and everywhere.”

  “But we can’t let them get away with what they do,” he pressed.

  “What are you getting at?” she asked sharply, crossing her arms tightly.

  “You’ve heard of Tio Amato?”

  Something flashed in her eyes, gone before River could interpret it. “I don’t want to write about people like him. I prefer to write about the people.” Her voice changed. “The farmers. The men with their fields and their trucks and the women who raise their children and bake and create families. I like to know how they think and feel. They are real—not those who posture and … never mind. Let’s not think of anything bad or evil now. We are almost in the arms of the Redeemer.”

  For a moment, he was tempted to argue back, to make her understand that evil couldn’t be so easily dismissed. Yet, wasn’t that exactly what he’d been doing? Using Natal to distract him from his darker thoughts?

  What sort of man did that make him?

  “Well, technically, we’re nowhere near the arms,” he said at last, not ready to reveal himself as a hypocrite. “They’re way above the ground!”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like technicality. Feel the arms—so good. So kind. Welcoming all—welcoming all to Rio.” She grinned, and suddenly backed into the crowd that had formed behind them. “Hide and seek!” she mouthed.

  She disappeared. River tried to smile—to enjoy the game.

  But she’d disappeared so easily.

  What if he couldn’t find her?

  He began to mill through the crowd, seeking her out. He walked the entire circumference of the base. He didn’t see her.

  And then, as he rounded a corner one more time …

  She was there.

  Grinning, laughing, delighted that she had eluded him for so long.

  “Now you,” she insisted.

  “No, really,” he said.

  “But it’s your turn.”

  “I’m afraid that you won’t want to find me.”

  “But I will, of course. I will always find you,” she told him. “We’re both free—but I’ll always find you.”

  He nodded, watching her. “Freedom is good. As long as it’s not used to hurt other people.”

  She cast her head at an angle, studying him. “I live to please myself—but never to hurt others,” she told him.

  “Let’s get in line for the cog train,” he said. “There is someone I have to pick up—someone we need to be with.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t—I don’t wish to meet others. What we have together should just be together.”

  “You won’t mind this friend—I know you won’t. It’s my dog, Convict.”

  “Dog? And you named him Convict?”

  He shrugged sheepishly. “I stole him. But he was being mistreated.”

  She smiled and touched his arm. “I would love to see your dog.”

  “And I would love for you to meet him.”

  She seemed a little tired as they made their way back, quiet, content just to hold his hand or lean against him. When they reached the city, no one seemed to pay any attention as they hopped on the bus to take them to the outskirts and Beluga’s place.

  She stopped on the road, pulling back. “You stay here?” she asked him.

  “Often.”

  She smiled. “I’ll wait for you here. Don’t stay long,” she added softly.

  “Beluga is the nicest man and Maria, who tends the place, is lovely too.”

  “I believe you.”

  “So come with me.”

  “No, I’m a little tired. Not my best. I’m happy to meet a dog tonight. Dogs don’t judge. I will meet people at another time,” she assured him.

  “As you wish.”

  He didn’t understand why she was loath to go with him, but he didn’t push. He believed that if he gave her room, he’d come to know her better.

  He saw Beluga—the big man was speaking to a young couple beneath one of the beautiful old trees by the main building. But tonight, River didn’t want to wind up in conversation with his friend, so he slipped by, anxious to avoid him. He found Maria in the kitchen; she greeted him warmly and told him there was room for him that night. He smiled, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and told her that he had an adventure planned that night but promised that he’d see her later—without defining what later might mean. Convict was delighted to see him, and yet, a little hesitant about whether or not he should leave Maria.

  “Your master is here!” she told the dog. “Go with River.”

  Convict barked happily. He wagged his tail. He was ready to go. River thanked Maria and she told him, “It’s okay. Convict is a good dog. Even Beluga likes Convict. He likes to call him, ‘mangy dog,’ but then he sits with him with his big old hand on his head and they’re both happy, like two old men!”

  Convict raced ahead of River and out to the road, pausing and looking back now and then to make sure that River was with him. The dog greeted Natal as if they were long-lost friends, as if they had known one another forever.

  Natal laughed and petted the dog and made a fuss over him—delighting the dog.

  “He’s a good friend, right?” River asked.

  “A very good friend,” Natal agreed.

  “And now?”

  “Now we wander. We find food. We find a place on a hill where we can look up and see the statue and the stars. But first, let’s picnic somewhere special.”

  “And where is that?”

  “I will show you. We’ll buy some food first—even if
we’re not hungry right away, we now have a good friend to feed,” she said, patting Convict.

  He was all for that.

  And since they were just heading into evening, there were many vendors on the road. River stopped a truck carrying produce; they went to a local shack of a store and bought meat and bread and a bottle of wine.

  Natal led the way.

  “We’re going to need another blanket,” he told her.

  She grinned. “So we will. But it’s not a bad thing, is it? You pay for the blanket—and you give it away to someone who needs it. That’s a good thing.”

  He touched her face and smoothed her hair back. “Yes. Why not? A good thing. Well—do we hitch a ride? Take a bus?”

  “We walk. Down an old path.”

  River purchased a blanket from a vendor, and then he and Natal took the road to a drive that was barely discernible in the grass and brush that was encroaching on it.

  And halfway to their destination, River saw the house.

  He paused and whistled softly.

  It belonged in the pages of a book for those touring “haunted” places; it also belonged in a book where a digital company could wipe away time and the elements to show one of the most beautiful old Victorian houses ever.

  “Abandoned? That’s abandoned?” he asked.

  Natal was silent for a moment and then said, “The owner couldn’t pay his mortgage; I believe he angered the lender. He’s not been gone that long—this is Brazil. Greenery grows quickly; rains take their toll.”

  “You mean that it went into foreclosure?” he asked.

  “You could say that.”

  “And no one did anything with a place this beautiful?” River asked.

  “Oh, the lender is doing something with it—he’s leaving it as a warning to those who do not pay their bills. Who do not pay homage to those in power. Come—you must see it inside.”

  She headed quickly down the path; he followed. Dusk was just beginning to fall; the house with its balconies and beautiful gingerbread porch was cast in mixed tones of violet and gold and orange.

  She was up the steps and through the door before River could catch up with her. When he passed through to the foyer and the grand parlor, he paused again. The house had been beautiful. Now, leaves cluttered the floor; there was a broken window right in front. And yet, the grace of the curving stairway, the charm of the fireplace and hearth, remained.