This morning Addy awoke before sunup to the shrill cavatina of a kingfisher perched on his windowsill. He was tempted to slip back into sleep, for in his dream he was home in Radom, and his family was just as he’d left them. His father sat at the dining room table reading the weekend edition of Radomer Leben, his mother opposite, humming as she sewed a leather patch onto the elbow of a sweater. In the living room, Genek and Jakob played a game of cards, Felicia toddled about gripping a ragdoll by the ankles, and Mila and Halina shared the bench at the baby grand, taking turns at the keys, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata spread out on the music rack before them. The only person missing from the dream was him. He didn’t mind, though; he could have watched the scene for hours, content just to hover above it, basking in its warmth, in the simple knowledge that all was well. But the kingfisher was persistent, and eventually Addy’s dream faded and he rose, sighing as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, dressed, and set off for his walk.
On the trail, he plucks flowers, each with a name that has become familiar to him over the past three weeks: amaryllis, hibiscus, azalea, and his favorite, the bird of paradise, which, with its fanlike crown of foliage and Technicolor red and blue petals, resembles a bird in flight. There is one species of lily on the island to which he seems to be allergic. When he stumbles upon it he sneezes for the next fifteen minutes into his mother’s handkerchief, which he carries with him always, like a talisman.
Back at the cafeteria, Addy props his bouquet into a water glass, setting it at the table where he and the Lowbeers typically meet for breakfast. A staff worker appears, and Addy greets him with a smile and a “buon dia, tudo bem?”—the first Portuguese words he’d learned upon arrival.
“Estou bem, si, senhor,” the staffer offers, handing Addy a cup of yerba mate tea.
Addy carries his tea to the porch, where he turns his chair to face west, toward Rio’s coastline. Since their ship arrived in South America, the bitter taste of yerba has grown on him. As he brings the cup to his lips, he takes in the peaceful morning, the smell of the tropics, the ubiquitous birdsong. Under normal circumstances, he might close his eyes and bask in the beauty of it all. But the circumstances, of course, are nowhere near normal. There is far too much at stake for him to truly unwind. And so, instead, he stares at the coastline, reflecting on the past several months—on what had been required of him to get to this island off the coast of Brazil.
As it turns out, the fisherman he’d chosen in Tangier was able, despite his shoddy skiff, to deliver Addy and the Lowbeers safely to Tarifa. From there, they rode north by bus to the port of Cádiz, where they were told a Spanish ship called the Cabo do Hornos would depart in a week for Rio. “I’ll sell you tickets,” the agent in Cádiz said, “but I cannot guarantee they will let you off the boat with expired visas.” This was not what they wanted to hear, but as far as they knew, the Hornos was their only hope—a speculation that was confirmed when they began recognizing the faces of other Alsina passengers at the port, passengers who had also been lucky enough to make their way across the strait to Cádiz. Addy and the Lowbeers didn’t waste time in purchasing one-way tickets aboard the Hornos, assuring themselves that if they made it as far as South America, they would not be turned away.
When they finally boarded the ship, Addy was forced to acknowledge that he had but a handful of francs left to his name. He would be starting over in Brazil with next to nothing—a truth he grappled with as the Hornos steamed southwest toward Rio. The trip took ten days. None of the refugees on board slept much, as they had been warned when they embarked that at least half a dozen ships before them had been sent back to Spain—the thought of which prompted some to threaten suicide. “I’ll jump, I swear it,” one Spaniard told Addy, “I’ll kill myself before I let Franco do the deed.”
Addy, Eliska, and Madame Lowbeer clung to their expired visas, and to the steadfast hope that the captain of the Alsina had been able to send a wire as he’d promised to the Brazilian embassy in Vichy. Perhaps if the petition had reached Souza Dantas, the ambassador would help. Even if it hadn’t, there was always the chance that Brazil’s president, Getúlio Vargas, would understand their circumstances and extend their papers upon arrival. It wasn’t their fault, after all, that the journey had taken so long.
It was the seventeenth of July when the Cabo do Hornos finally docked in Rio and, by some stroke of luck, her passengers were allowed to disembark. Addy was overjoyed. The freedom was short-lived, however. Three days later, Addy, the Lowbeers, and the thirty-seven other Alsina passengers who’d arrived on the Hornos with expired visas were greeted at their doorsteps by Brazilian police and escorted back to the port, where they were loaded onto a freight boat and shipped seven kilometers offshore to Ilha das Flores, where they were now detained.
“We’re being held hostage,” Madame Lowbeer seethed after their first day on the island. “C’est absurde.” They were given no explanation for why they were being held. They could only assume it was due to their expired visas, a hunch that was verified when one of the passengers, fluent in Portuguese, caught a glimpse of a written notice indicating Vargas’s intent to send the refugees back to Spain.
Addy takes another sip of tea. He refuses to believe that, after six months, he’ll end up where he began, in war-torn Europe. The Alsina passengers have come this far. Someone will surely persuade the president to let them stay. Eliska’s uncle, perhaps—he’d hosted them those first few days in Rio. He seemed like a good person. He had money. But then again, what access did a civilian have to the president? They will need someone with influence. As Madame Lowbeer often says, “When the right palms are greased, we’ll get our visas.” The Lowbeers have the means to offer a bribe, but to whom those “right” palms belong, Addy has no clue. He is certain that with no contacts in Brazil, no grasp of the language, and no savings, he will be of little help. He’s done everything he can to get them this far—the rest, as hard as it is to admit, is beyond his control.
According to the Lowbeers, their hope at the moment lies with Haganauer, an Alsina passenger whose grandfather in Rio has a tenuous connection to Brazil’s minister of foreign relations. A week ago, Haganauer had bribed a guard on the island to pass along a letter to his grandfather explaining the circumstances, in hopes that his grandfather would then deliver a plea to the minister on the hostages’ behalf. The plan, everyone agreed, seemed promising. Until it came to fruition, though, there was nothing to do but wait.
Addy finishes his tea and cradles the ceramic cup in his palms, his mind drifting to Eliska, to the spot at the base of his neck she’d kissed the night before as she excused herself to “get her beauty rest.” They’d decided in Dakar that they were destined to marry—an idea Madame Lowbeer resented vehemently. But Addy isn’t fazed by her disapproval. In time, he assures himself, he’ll convince la Grande Dame he’s worthy of her daughter’s hand.