She seemed to have grown a little tense as they reached the road again. She didn’t wear a watch so she looked at the sky.
He wanted to hold her; he wanted to tell her not to worry. He would be there, he would protect her …
He would be that lover, from any tribe, any nation, who would fight and die for her. Preferably not die, of course, since that would mean he wouldn’t be with her anymore.
And yet, how foolish a thought. He would protect her.
From what?
He didn’t know that she needed protecting from anything or anyone.
River was careful to remain easy. He desperately wanted to see her again. He had the feeling that if he tried to hold on to her—to the magic of the day—he never would.
He learned that people in this part of the world on the outskirts of the massive city of Rio de Janeiro were just nice—and accustomed to helping one another. They easily got a ride all the way back into the center of town. They didn’t have to slip onto a bus and slip off unnoticed; the appeal of more adventure seemed to be gone for Natal.
But when they stood in the square together, looking at one another, the noise of the shoeless children running around them seemed to disappear; the horns and laughter and music faded. Everything seemed to go to a distant place as he stared at her.
“I can see you home,” he said.
She shook her head. “No … free spirit, remember?” Her words were light, but there was an edge to her voice.
“A free spirit, and your perception, what you see … it becomes your writing?”
She shrugged.
“Can I see you again?”
She opened her arms, mimicking the open gesture of the Christ the Redeemer statue. “Of course. We are in Rio. We welcome you with open arms. I will see you again.”
“Where?”
“Where?” she repeated. “So many places, and all beneath that welcoming embrace!”
“So, somewhere, perhaps, to see the statue?”
“There are many places to view the statue. You can see it from almost everywhere.” She came to him and he felt the sweetness of her breath on his cheek. “I do love the Christ the Redeemer statue. You love the statue. But, tomorrow, you will find me at the beach.”
He smiled at that. Rio was all coast and lagoons and beautiful beaches. The coastline seemed to stretch forever.
“Which beach?” he asked her.
“Ipanema,” she said. “You know—I will be the girl from Ipanema!”
“Okay, Ipanema it is,” he told her.
“No! Wait, while I promise that I can find you anywhere, I will make this easy for both of us. The Copacabana,” she said. She set her hands on her hips in a charming gesture as she explained her plan. “If we head to Copacabana, you can find me easily. Just look for me in front of the Copacabana Palace. You know where that is, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Bring a suit or some trunks. Okay? We’ll soak in the sun and lie on the sand—like real tourists. And natives,” she added with a laugh.
“Anywhere,” he told her softly.
She seemed a little troubled by that; maybe he was coming on too strongly.
But her smile quickly returned.
“The beach is good,” she said. And then she waved, and she was gone.
River watched her go.
CHAPTER 6
He was in the center of town, by one of the plush hotels. He watched her for so long as she left that he was barely aware of the people in rich costumes going by him, dressed in high Renaissance apparel. English, German, Portuguese, and more languages could be heard in constant and heady murmurs; a grand ball was being held somewhere nearby that night.
And yet, even as the lavishly costumed group moved by him, he heard a drumbeat; a parade float was approaching. A handsome man and women in a colorful tribute to colonial native wear were dancing atop the float. They called out to the crowd. Music poured from a boom box on the float; it was good and it was catchy and people in the street danced and laughed with them. Even those who were so richly garbed, heading into their posh ball.
River smiled. The beauty of Rio was in the people, in the beat, in the fact that the rainforest encroached on the city, just as the native pulse of freedom forever touched upon all that might be rigid and structured.
A middle-aged woman grabbed hold of his hand; he was suddenly jumping to the beat of the samba himself in the middle of the road. Partners swirled and turned and traded—he danced with a teenage girl, and then a youth in drag. He didn’t care; the youth didn’t either. They both laughed. Breathless, River broke away at last. He was happy—exhilarated.
It was Rio.
And he had found Natal.
He would see her the next day. And that sent his heart soaring. He would be careful; he wouldn’t cling to her. He would force himself to remember that they were both free spirits—and that meant that he couldn’t pin her down or make demands.
But just thinking of her …
He realized he was standing dead still while others danced around him, a stupid smile on his face.
He gave himself a mental shake and began the walk back to Beluga’s hostel.
CHAPTER 7
“You’re whistling,” Beluga told him the next morning.
“I am.”
“So, let’s see. There’s only one reason a man whistles like that. A woman,” Beluga said sagely.
“You told me to find a woman. Beluga—you need to find a woman.”
Beluga laughed. “Maybe. But I’m a happy man. I’m at peace with who I was—and who I have become. I like people and people come to me. I make them happy; that makes me happy.”
“There must be something in the air here, in Rio. It’s Brazil, city of joy, right?” River said lightly. “Our friend Thiago—he’s happy too. He never has money—except for the track—and he’s always happy.”
“Thiago learned to survive on the streets. He doesn’t hate money; he just knows that he can survive without it. If he had it—he’d give most of it away.”
“Best thing to do with money,” River assured him. “Except for what you need, of course.” He wasn’t a big believer in money—but he did want enough to keep Convict fed now, and to buy coffee or vinho and bread and cheese when he was with Natal.
“Ah, well—the burden of life. Yes, we need so much. But I learned years ago, my friend, that the more you have, the more you spend. The more you spend, the greater your debt. Then, suddenly, you’re a slave to money. So, Thiago is smart. He will never be a slave to money. If he ever has it, he will be good with it—he will give it away. But … he’s not so good at the track!” Beluga broke off, laughing. “He will probably never have it. And still, he’ll be a happy man. And you are happy today. So tell me—where are you off to? The track again? Will you see Theo?”
“I’m going to the beach,” River replied.
“A good thing to do in Brazil. But leave me the dog again. People can get picky and nasty sometimes. Convict, he does well with me. Though maybe he loves Maria more. She has better scraps of food!”
River laughed. “Today, okay, if that’s what you wish. But, you know—”
“You owe me nothing. I can feed a dog.”
“I’m not sure if I’m coming back tonight,” River warned.
“Of course you’re coming back. This is more or less your home right now—even if you’re wandering and seeing the sights. But,” Beluga wagged a finger at River. “When I don’t know for sure, I can’t save you a bed.”
River grinned. “Beds are kind of like money, Beluga. If you’re accustomed to not having a bed, you don’t have to have one.”
Beluga didn’t return the smile. Instead he studied River, concern in his eyes. “You’re really going to the beach?”
“Yes. Why?”
His friend hesitated for a moment before replying, “I worry about you—because of what you feel about Tio Amato.”
“Oh.” River felt his face burn and quickly lower
ed his head. Something did need to be done about Tio Amato. He had forgotten about the man, forgotten everything but Natal.
And the thought of being with her again.
What if he did go to the police? Even if they were honest and honorable, what did he say to them? I think I saw Reed Amato have a body thrown off the bridge?
There was no way to prove anything.
Maybe, with Natal, he would think of something.
“I’m not going near Tio Amato today—I promise you. I’m going to the beach. And when I make my way back, I’m going to dance in the streets with all the Brazilians who love the samba music so much.”
“Then go with God, my boy. I will trust Him to watch out for you—because He knows that it must be Him to take care of you, because you are so reckless.” Beluga rolled his eyes.
River sipped his coffee, too anxious to eat the food that Maria offered him. He thanked her with a kiss on the cheek, and she flushed, happy.
Convict intercepted him on the way out, head up, tail wagging. Gone was the frightened, abused creature that River had rescued only two days ago. River knelt before him, taking the dog’s head in his hands and touching it to his forehead. “Hey buddy,” he murmured. “Stay put today, okay?” Convict licked his nose, and River laughed, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears before leaving the dog to his new home.
* * *
Rio—beneath the benign blessing of the Christ the Redeemer statue and the mountains—was mostly coastline, and beaches abounded. He was glad that Natal had chosen the beautiful Copacabana Palace. The hotel had opened its doors in 1923; before that, the beach had pretty much been deserted except for locals who might come and bathe and swim at times. But the hotel had been an immediate hit—as planned by Octávio Guinle when he hired a French architect to design the place. Guinle had wanted a grand hotel—similar to the likes of those to be found in Paris and Nice and Cannes. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers had put the hotel on the map—and increased the fame of Rio itself—in the movie Flying Down to Rio.
Looking up at the magnificent façade, River smiled. He’d studied Brazil and Rio, and he knew that Astaire and Rogers had never danced at the Copacabana Palace at all—the movie had been filmed miles and miles away—and that only the magic of the movie industry had placed them at the Palace. That didn’t matter; the movie had made the place famous, and Rio had suddenly been known here, there, and everywhere. If Fred and Ginger had danced there, it was a fabulous place, filled with sun and fun and wonders.
And, of course, in River’s mind, it was.
And Natal was one of its wonders.
Except, as he idly cruised the sidewalk in front of the Copacabana Palace, he didn’t see her.
Time meant little here, he knew. Especially to Natal. They hadn’t set a time; she had just said that he could find her there.
There were wonderful restaurants in the hotel, and he considered waiting in one. She probably loved little cafés and charming little shops. But what if she missed him? No, better to wait until he found her.
He walked and looked into shops idly, pausing to examine an English-language book that covered the breadth of the country of Brazil and its history.
Then he walked back and began to pace in front of the Copacabana Palace again. A few little street urchins found him there; they were begging. He smiled at them and found a few bills to give them from his backpack.
The kids were delighted and disbelieving as they ran off with the money. River’s knowledge of the language was enough to buy food and find the men’s room—or an appropriate clearing in the rainforest. But he thought that he understood what they were saying and was angry with himself—even as he felt badly for the three little boys.
They were the forgotten children—little scamps, just as Theo had once been. But Thiago had not hurt others; he had learned that people were wasteful, and he had learned that another’s man leftovers were treasures to him.
Did River have a right to judge?
These kids had gone in a different direction. They weren’t begging for themselves; they brought their money back to someone who offered them minimal care—and possibly abused them—for whatever they could bring in.
He should have followed them; he should have risked arrest to pound some sense into whoever could be so cruel.
He would never catch them.
There was nowhere in the world where such men didn’t exist, he told himself.
But the incident made him think of Tio Amato again. At least the children hadn’t looked abused or beaten; they had even appeared to be happy.
Tio Amato hurt people.
Killed them.
He gave himself a mental shake. He could not solve the evil that existed everywhere. He was only one man—a drifter, no less. There were also people out there—law enforcers—who were decent. It was their problem.
And he was waiting for Natal.
He looked up and down the street. As he did so, he caught sight of a man just slipping into the front of the hotel.
Tio Amato?
Maybe he just had the man on his mind; there was no reason to believe that Tio Amato and he were following all the same paths in Brazil.
But, as he peered closer at the entrance, he thought he saw someone else—the other man who had been at the race track. Amato’s henchman, his enforcer—or so River believed.
No. It couldn’t be—or it was extremely unlikely.
He almost went in to look. But what then? Stare at Tio Amato and his big henchman and then walk away? He couldn’t just start a brawl in the hotel.
And he might have imagined that Tio Amato and part of his posse were there. Tio Amato was way too big in his world to have a workforce of begging children.
Maybe he was an overseer, taking money from the man who used the children.
And maybe, River thought, I am making all this up in my head because I despise Tio Amato—and despise the fact that it seems I can do nothing about the man being a killer.
He walked on, telling himself to shake it off; he was waiting for Natal. She was everything bright and beautiful in the world while Tio Amato was everything dark and evil.
But still she didn’t come.
As the afternoon dragged on, he began to fear that something had stopped her. They should have arranged a time. She wasn’t going to come.
The sun beat down with a fervor that demanded reprieve. When at last the heat and sweat had become too much, River yielded and made for the water. Only for a little while, he promised himself. A few minutes to cool off and come back—and pace some more.
He’d pace until it was late, until the sun began to wane, and probably beyond that.
Heading to the sand, he stopped to purchase a canga—or towel-like, almost-sarong—to bring with him. The nearly toothless vendor tried to strike up a conversation, but River found it difficult to concentrate on anything the man was saying. A feeling of hopelessness had begun to overwhelm him. He couldn’t stop Tio Amato. He couldn’t find the woman who intrigued him so. What was he good for anymore?
A flash of violence in his mind. Guns and bombs and shouting and death.
No. River was more than a killer. He had to be.
The vendor looked at him strangely, and River wondered if he’d spoken without realizing it. He thanked the old man and slung the canga over his shoulder.
Dark images still stalked the edges of his mind, but he forced himself to focus instead on the sight of the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing down. The sight of bikinis and swimming trunks and unbridled joy. He thought about Theo, who could find comfort in anything. He’d come to this beach with Theo before; he’d taken his friend to Cipriani—one of the nice restaurants in the Copacabana Palace. Theo had been in awe. Since River was with Theo, he’d easily been able to say, “It’s just money, Theo. If we don’t spend it for a nice night, what is it for?”
“Lucky dog!” Theo had told him.
He wasn’t feeling lucky. He was feeling lonely.
He spread his newly purchased canga and set his backpack on it, half covering it with sand.
He sat for a minute, watching children play and build sand castles. Sandcastles were a common art form here and the children were often very good at it.
Boats were out in large numbers, close to the shore, many with music blaring and passengers dancing away before they jumped into the water or jumped out.
River remembered that he had come to the beach because he was hot. He pulled his shirt over his head and went running into the surf. It felt good. The water was cooling. He couldn’t really swim; there were too many people splashing and playing around him.
It was while he was in the water, though, that he remembered the children he had given bills to—and how he had heard them talking about the “prize” they had gotten from the silly American and how pleased “Uncle Juan” would be.
He stood, dripping, and walked from the water, thinking he shouldn’t leave his backpack—even if he wanted to be a free spirit like Natal. It was good to give; it wasn’t good to have what he had stolen.
He rose from the water, sweeping back his hair, water dripping from his physique. At that moment, his mind on his backpack.
But there she was. Natal.
She was wearing a full skirt, sandals, a white peasant blouse, and a huge sun hat. She took off the hat and waved it when she spotted him.
As she stood there, dazzling beneath golden rays, he thought that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
And she had come to meet him; she had somehow known to come down to the sand and the water when she hadn’t seen him in front of the Copacabana Palace.
He forced himself not to run at breakneck speed toward her; he smiled and waved in return and trotted out of the water.
As he neared her, he saw the little scamps he’d seen earlier—heading for his backpack. He veered off his path.
Natal followed his gaze and saw what was about to happen. She turned quickly and raced toward River’s little canga station on the beach. He could hear her telling them that they were little robbers and would wind up in jail.
He shouted loudly—emphasizing that Natal was not alone, and that he was on his way back.