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 attention 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-maché 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 ingl?s?” 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?”