There were sheep in the bed. They didn’t smell at all well and they baaed loudly in protest of his joining them.
He didn’t care. He dreamed about coming closer and closer to Rio.
After some time, the driver stopped and indicated that he was turning off. River thanked him, patted the most obnoxious baa-er in the group, and hopped out. The truck drove off.
He wasn’t far now at all. There was a lot of traffic on the road. He caught another truck—this one with chicken crates. The chickens, at least, were penned.
He watched the sky. It had grown dark. He wouldn’t find Natal that day.
But he could dream of seeing her the next day. And if he didn’t …
He’d wait. He’d wait forever.
He had to hop out and hitchhike a fourth time to reach the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro. When he popped out of the last truck—goats that time—he was ready to do some walking. And he was hungry. They hadn’t stopped to eat all day—and he hadn’t had breakfast with Guillermo and his family.
The day had been easy, he reminded himself. He’d driven most of it. He’d been concealed by animals the rest.
He had to remember to be careful now that he was in the city.
He found a café he hadn’t been to before and bought himself a sandwich and coffee. He tried not to wolf his food down—people were watching.
With his hunger appeased, he began to wonder what he would do while waiting for daylight.
Maybe he would head to Beluga’s place.
Maybe the men in blue suits would look for him there.
But it might also be interesting to find out if Beluga had heard anything.
Actually, on the one hand, he wouldn’t have to wait. He went to the counter and asked about a newspaper. They had them.
They were in Portuguese, of course. But River picked one up and paid for it and returned to his table. He didn’t speak the language anywhere as well as he should have by then, but his reading skills were decent.
He quickly found what he was looking for—as he flipped the paper to read the bottom half of the first page, he came across a picture of Reed Amato.
There he was—in his Armani suit and white panama hat, his eyes narrowed and glittering with rage. A photographer had snapped a picture of him in the backseat of a patrol car. A man who should have been handsome—but who ruined his looks with his expression.
River tried to understand what the article said. He could definitely garner that Reed Amato had been arrested. A “large quantity” of drugs had been confiscated from his house—despite the fire that had destroyed half of it. Two other men, Aldo Mariachi and Miquel Hernandez, originally from Colombia, had been arrested with him. The men were being detained pending arraignment and trial. An anonymous tip had alerted the police to a murder that might have been committed: they should search the river near the bridge by his house for possible remains. Police were investigating.
“Yes.” River said the word aloud and then quickly looked around. He’d drawn the attention of one pretty girl and an old man. Both looked at him. The girl smiled; the old man snorted.
“Desculpe,” he murmured.
The girl nodded; the old man snorted again.
River left the paper and rose and wandered toward the city. He doubted that anyone could find him that night.
Tomorrow was Fat Tuesday. The last day of Carnaval. The city thronged with people—celebrations were wild. With each step closer into the northernmost neighborhood, the crowds were denser, the entertainment more frenetic.
He dared to hop on a crowded bus.
He didn’t want to celebrate—not tonight. Tomorrow, when Natal was in his arms, he’d do his celebrating. For the moment, it was enough to bask in the pleasure of Reed Amato’s downfall.
He had no fear going from bus to bus until he had come to the area where he could walk to Beluga’s. He wasn’t sure what he would do once he reached the hostel. If he saw Beluga outside, he might call to him. If he didn’t …
He realized that he hoped he’d catch a glimpse of Convict. He just wanted to see that the dog was all right.
His ankle didn’t hurt at all, he realized as he walked. He was on the mend, Amato was in jail, he was back in Rio, and tomorrow he’d find Natal. All seemed good.
He came to the roadside that led to Beluga’s property. He waited there, peering through the darkness to see if Beluga was out on one of his chairs, smoking one of his Cuban cigars.
At first, he saw no one. Then Beluga was there. He was talking to a backpacking American boy, showing him where he could sleep in the overflow space in the barn.
At Beluga’s side was Convict.
Every few steps, Beluga stopped to pat the dog on the head.
They were both happy. Convict looked well fed, and quite content to be with Beluga.
The backpacker went on into the barn, and Beluga and Convict headed over to the few chairs in front. Beluga sat and pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it.
River started to move toward the house.
Then he froze. There was a car coming down the road and it was turning into Beluga’s drive.
Beluga’s deep baritone carried across space. “Who’s this now, Convict, eh?” he muttered. “People who stay in hostels don’t usually arrive in limousines!”
River ducked low, watching.
He froze as he did so. The limo, a dark sedan, parked in the drive; a man got out.
A man in a blue suit.
He spoke in low tones—tones so low that River couldn’t hear him. But he did hear Beluga’s reply.
“No, no—the man you speak of is gone. Long gone! He headed off to explore. That’s why he’s here—to see Brazil. He comes and he goes. As he chooses.”
The man in the blue suit—the first man he’d seen, the one who had witnessed him leave the bathroom after he’d stabbed his attacker—was joined by a second man. It was the man with the bald head. He said something quietly.
“How do I know if he’ll come back?” Beluga bellowed. “Maybe he will—maybe he won’t. Maybe he will come in a month. He goes where he pleases; he comes when he pleases. That’s all that I can tell you.”
But the men in the suits continued to talk; Beluga listened gravely.
Were they telling Beluga that River was a murderer? No, the man he’d stabbed hadn’t died. At least, River hadn’t read that the man in the hospital had died.
He saw Beluga nod, then shrug, then listen again.
Maria came out onto the porch, drying her hands on a dish towel. She frowned and hurried over to where Beluga stood.
Beluga spoke quickly in Portuguese to her; Maria’s frown deepened.
She looked at the men and spoke quickly in Portuguese—River couldn’t tell what the men could understand. Did they speak the native language? He could only follow a bit of her long string of words himself, but he got the gist of it and it made him smile. She was telling the men that River was a good person; he was kind to everyone around him. They should leave him alone; he had chosen his life of adventure. And when he chose, he would be back and not before.
“He is not here—feel free to search. I’m telling you that he’s not here,” Beluga said in English, his tone harsh.
The man with the hat spoke again; he seemed to be in earnest.
And Beluga listened. He kept shaking his head.
Good for you, my friend, River thought. Beluga would not give him away.
The men headed back for the car. River decided that it wasn’t at all safe to head in to try to speak with his friend—not that night.
And he’d seen that Convict was doing fine.
As the men got back into the car, River saw that Beluga set an arm around Maria’s shoulders. The act made him smile. They weren’t in love, but they did love one another. Like sister and brother. It wasn’t what he had with Natal. But it was good. They had each other and that was something everyone in the world needed—friends who cared.
River blinked and turned his att
ention to the men in the blue suits. He quickly ducked down and moved into the trees across the street from Beluga’s hostel. He kept low and watched as the men drove down the drive.
At the foot of it, they parked.
They were going to wait there, River thought. They were going to wait there all night.
Good for them; he wouldn’t be there.
Sticking to trees and thick underbrush, River started back toward the city. He walked a long while before he saw a truck and hitched a ride.
This time, there was a group heading into the city to party in the back of the truck—a long flatbed.
There was plenty of room for River. The truck was, in fact, the perfect conveyance. The partiers offered him a swig of rum; he accepted and played the role of being part of them. Half were in full costumes; half simply wore Carnaval masks.
Someone offered him a mask. It had been cheaply executed out of something like papier-mâché but it was a fun mask—that of a demon of some kind. River realized that it was a perfect disguise for the night.
He laughed, accepted the mask, and said, “Obrigado,” over and over again. The partiers waved away his thanks. This was Carnaval—it was time to have fun.
When they reached the street where they were headed to party some more, River jumped out with them. He quickly got his bearings. He danced in the streets with some crazy-happy men for a few minutes and watched a samba dancer with them. They all laughed together over the antics of a stiltwalker.
Fireworks exploded over the city.
River eased away from the group and headed into another crowd.
He made his way to the club where he had found Natal dancing. It had been a few nights ago; it felt like forever. When he looked in and searched through the patrons, he didn’t see Natal. That didn’t bother him; it made him smile. She was waiting for him. She wouldn’t expect him at the club; she would expect him at the Statue of Christ the Redeemer.
He walked out of the club. For a few moments, he stood there, in his mask, unnoticed by the busy crowds sweeping around him, all laughing and chattering in a variety of languages. He smelled the food on the street—so many vendors were out. He heard music everywhere; the sidewalk beneath his feet seemed to tremble with it.
Rio was alive that night; he felt that life.
And the city itself seemed alive with anticipation—tomorrow was the day.
Just as it was the day for him.
He looked around again at where he was and judged his distance from the cog train station; he would take the first train up in the morning. When he drew close to the station, he looked for one of the smaller inns. He probably couldn’t get a room; the city was bursting at the seams.
At a small, out-of-the-way pensione with peeling paint and a broken window, he decided to take a chance.
River saw a broken, blinking red light. He had to stare at it for a minute to realize that it offered up the information that there was a vacancy. A shower would be good that night, if he was to greet Natal in the morning.
Inside he found a fat man in a dirty white shirt at the register. He was unabashedly drinking from an open bottle of whiskey.
“Fala inglȇs?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I speak the English,” the man said. He didn’t even notice River’s grotesque mask. Well, it was Carnaval. Everyone was wearing a mask. “You want a room?”
“You have one?”
“Little one. No elevator. Fourth floor,” the man told him.
“There’s a shower?”
“Sim.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Cash only.”
“That will work.”
The price of the room was way higher than it should have been. River didn’t care. He paid the man and made his way up the creaking stairs. He checked out his bare-bones room first—it had a bed and a chair. It appeared, at least, to be clean.
With his backpack in hand he found the door to the hallway bathroom. There was no one there—whatever other guests shared the floor, they were out partying still.
He allowed himself the luxury of a long shower. He realized he still bore the scratches and bruises from his leap from the train.
That didn’t matter. His ankle didn’t hurt—and he could barely feel the scratches.
He donned clean clothing. His ripped things were back at Guillermo’s house. He realized that he’d been wearing the man’s oversize clothes all day.
He hoped that Guillermo didn’t miss his own clothing or that at least River had left behind more than enough money to pay for it.
After he showered, he felt better. He set his mask on top of the outfit he had taken from Guillermo’s house. Tomorrow, he would just leave the pile in the room.
He headed to bed; he wanted to try to sleep. He warned himself that Natal might not have made it back yet.
But she would have made it back; she would have just taken the train south again.
The drapes on his window were thin. He could see that fireworks were still painting the sky when he lay down. The noise thrummed in his ears.
He didn’t care.
He slept.
And that night, for the first time in as long as he could remember, anticipating his reunion, he didn’t dream at all.
CHAPTER 20
The city of Rio de Janeiro was in full swing.
Usually, mornings were a quiet time. Rio was a late-night place—a haven for night owls.
But this was it—the last day of “sinning” and feasting on carne, or meat, had come to an end; tomorrow the period of Lent would begin, and while the world was changing and there were different beliefs worldwide, Rio remained a city where the population was heavily Catholic. Tomorrow, many would begin to abstain. They would give up meat—and perhaps alcohol or smoking or some other enjoyed vice—for Lent.
That would be tomorrow. This morning …
The city was already awake; there was a lot of partying to be done on the final day.
From his window he saw that street entertainers were out; a troop of comic “dolls” was performing for those sitting at a coffee shop; a giant “bird” on stilts was walking down the street. A lone violinist played on a sidewalk, and a dancer was entertaining children where they sat about a block away, waiting for a parade.
He thought he’d be the true early bird; he had underestimated the ability of many to get in their last flings.
He smiled as he watched. Somewhere out there, of course, would be those taking advantage of those just in love with the day—with life. Pickpockets would abound. There would be trouble. People would drink too much and pick fights. Bad things would happen.
He hadn’t dreamed during the night, nor, did he think, he daydreamed then. But he heard the sound of explosions again; in his mind’s eye, he could see the world collapsing. He could see hatred in the eyes of those he fought when the combat became hand to hand.
But he could also see both the fear and the compassion in the eyes of those who had pulled American soldiers to safe havens when they’d been outnumbered.
He could see the eyes of the children who were allowed to play with the American soldiers. He had killed people he didn’t know—because it was war. And he knew that men had killed men throughout history over doctrines they didn’t fully understand.
But, even in war, the goodness in people could win out. He smiled at himself, an inner voice mocking him. What? Are you a philosopher now?
No. He had to believe. And it was easy to believe when he thought he would find Natal again today.
He was quickly out of the poor place he had found for his night’s lodging. It was too early for the first cog train to head up to the Christ the Redeemer Statue—he would love a good cup of coffee.
He wandered toward the cog train station, looking for a convenient café as he went. He saw one just down a side street and slipped in. There was a back courtyard to the place—a little quieter, as drums and music had already begun to pound from other venues.
He found him
self a wrought-iron table and chair with an umbrella overhead and took a seat. When the waiter came, he ordered coffee and a “Continental Breakfast”—written in English on the menu for all the tourists who thronged to the city.
He hadn’t thought to ask if the café sold newspapers; he noticed that a woman sitting at the next table from him was reading one; it was a Brazilian paper written in English.
She must have felt him watching her—or her paper. She looked up. She was a middle-aged woman with a nicely sculpted face and light hair and eyes—and a nice smile.
“Good morning,” she said. “You’re American?”
He nodded. “Yes. Good morning.”
“Ex-serviceman?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Ex-military?”
“Uh—yes. How did you know?”
“A handsome young man looking a little scruffy,” she said, smiling. “How rude. Forgive me. I’ve just seen it before. Men need time to shake out—well, men and women these days. My daughter served in the military. She joined the National Guard and wound up in Afghanistan driving a truck. She came home, thank God. She’s in Peru right now—climbing mountains. I guess I’m talking too much; forgive me.”
“Not at all,” he told her. “Where is home for you?”
The older woman smiled. “Nebraska—Lincoln, Nebraska. It’s still home and I love it, but I love to travel too. My daughter will meet my husband and me here next week, when Carnaval is over. She likes things a little quieter.”
“She certainly has the right,” River said.
“Me—I love the costumes and dancing and the spectacular floats.”
“Me too,” River said.
He added, “I didn’t mean to stare at you. I’m sorry. I was just thinking I should get a paper.”
“Oh, you can have mine—I just wanted to finish this article. It will just take me a minute.…” She flashed him another smile. “My husband and I are spending about three months a year down here. We’ve become involved with the schools and the severe drug problem they’re having in some areas. I hope that what I’m reading is going to prove to be a very good thing for us—especially Brazilian children. They’ve arrested one of the city’s richest men—Reed Amato—and I’m praying that they really get the bastard. But…”