“Can’t imagine who else it would be for.”
Addy and Eliska spin endless scenarios of where the ship might take them. Would it deliver them to Rio, the “Arrival Destination” stamped on their Alsina tickets, beside a date of early February—six months past? Or was the ship simply a means to deliver them to a larger passenger vessel, bound for Europe? If it were the latter, would they be returned to Marseille? Or dropped somewhere else? Would they be able to apply for new visas? And if they did, were there still passenger ships allowed to sail across the Atlantic from Europe?
At noon, the Alsina detainees are called to the cafeteria, and Addy and Eliska’s questions are finally answered.
“Today is your lucky day,” an officer in white announces, although it’s hard to know from his tone whether or not he’s joking. Haganauer translates.
“President Vargas,” the officer continues, “has granted you permission to extend your visas.”
The refugees exhale collectively. Someone whoops.
“Pack your belongings,” the officer orders. “You leave in an hour.”
Addy grins. He wraps his arms around Eliska, lifts her from her feet.
“Of course, just to be clear,” the officer adds, holding up a palm as if to dampen whatever kind of revelry was about to unfold, “the president can, at any time and for any reason, revoke the privilege.”
“There is always a clause,” Madame Lowbeer hisses. But the refugees don’t care. They’ve been allowed to stay. The cafeteria is filled with the emphatic slap of hands meeting backs and the sound of cheeks being kissed as men and women embrace, laughing, crying.
Two hours later, Addy and the Lowbeers stand in a serpentine line winding down the length of the island’s dock. Rumors—about who finally persuaded Vargas to allow the group of vagabond, visaless refugees into the country—pass surreptitiously from ear to ear, although no one is brave enough to come out and ask. Best not to bring it up.
Once on board, Addy and Eliska stow their valises, help Madame Lowbeer to find a seat inside, and make their way to the front of the craft. There, gripping a metal bow rail, they watch as one of the crew unloops a rope from a cleat on the dock. An engine purrs to life, and as they push off, Addy takes a last look at the tiny island that’s been his home for the past twenty-seven days. A piece of him will miss it, he realizes, as the vessel moves slowly in reverse, churning the water beneath it from indigo to white. The island, with its fragrant wildflowers and endless symphony of birdsong, had brought along with it a sense of ease. On Ilha das Flores, there was nothing for Addy to do but walk, sip yerba tea, and wait. The moment he arrives a free man in Rio, his destiny will once again lie in his own hands. He’ll need to learn the language, apply for a work permit, find a place to live, a job, a way to support himself. It won’t be easy.
The boat completes its half turn and fixes its bow westward, toward the continent. Addy and Eliska breathe in the salt air and lean their torsos over the shimmering sea, squinting at the granite domes of the P?o de A?úcar standing guard over Guanabara Bay. The ride is short—fifteen minutes at most—but the seconds pass slowly.
“This is really happening,” Eliska declares in awe as the vessel docks. “All the waiting, the anticipation . . . this is where the journey ends. I can’t believe it’s been seven months since we left Marseille.”
“It’s really happening,” Addy echoes, pulling Eliska to him and leaning in for a kiss. Her lips are warm, and when she looks up at him her eyes are a bright, crystalline blue.
As they disembark, the refugees are ushered to a white brick customs building and ordered to wait—a nearly impossible task. Three hours later, when their paperwork is finally complete, Addy, Eliska, and Madame Lowbeer step hastily from the customs building onto Via Elvada da Perimetral. Addy flags a taxi, and before they know it they are speeding south, toward Eliska’s uncle’s apartment in Ipanema.
—
The following morning, Addy awakens, stiff from sleeping on the floor, to a tap on his shoulder. “Let’s explore!” Eliska whispers, leaping to her feet to prepare some coffee.
Addy dresses and peers through a window down at the cobblestones of Rua Redentor and then up at the morning sky, jingling a few coins in his pocket. He’s nearly broke, and refuses to live off of the Lowbeers’ dime. But the day is sunny and they are months overdue for a celebration.
“Vamos,” he says.
Eliska writes her mother a note, promising to return by sundown. “Where to?” she asks as they leave her uncle’s building. Addy can tell from the way she bounces beside him how elated she is to learn about her new home.
“How about Copacabana?” he suggests, telling himself it’s okay to take part in Eliska’s excitement, to share her enthusiasm about what it means to start over. Go ahead, embrace it. For her, at least. Tomorrow, he can worry about a job, an apartment, about his family, and how he will go about trying to track them down now that he has made it, finally, to a city with a post office. A city where he hopes he will be allowed to stay, indefinitely.
“Copacabana. Parfait!”
They walk south to the waterfront and then east along Ipanema’s scalloped coastline, arriving after a few minutes at a massive, helm-shaped rock and at the realization that neither of them knows where Copacabana is. Eliska suggests that they buy a map, but Addy points to a woman on the beach wearing what appears to be a typical Rio outfit: bathing suit, cotton tunic, and leather sandals. “Let’s ask her,” he says.
The woman smiles at their question and then holds up two fingers, pointing at her index finger.
“Aqui estamos en Ipanema,” she explains. “A próxima praia é Copacabana,” she says, pointing toward a huge rock at the end of the beach.
“Obrigado,” Addy says, nodding to indicate he understands. “Muito bonita,” he adds, sweeping an upturned palm along the coastline, and the woman smiles.
Addy and Eliska skirt the rock called Arpoador, and within minutes they arrive at the south end of a long, half-moon cove—a perfect confluence of golden sand and cobalt surf.
“I think we’ve arrived,” Addy says quietly.
“Ces montagnes!” Eliska whispers.
They pause for a moment, taking in a skyline dominated by peak after peak of rolling green crests.
“Look—you can catch a lift up that one,” Addy says, pointing to the tallest of the domes, where a cable car crawls its way toward the summit.
As they walk on, the promenade, a mosaic of stones in black and white, undulates underfoot in a pattern that resembles a giant wave. Addy stares at the mosaic for a while, amazed at the work that must have gone into laying so many stones which, up close, are suprisingly irregular in shape and orientation. It is the places where the black meets the white, the perfect edges, that evoke a sense of harmony. We are walking on art, Addy muses, glancing up at the coastline and imagining how the scene would look through the eyes of his mother, his father, his siblings. They would love it here, he thinks, and just as quickly as this occurs to him he is flooded with a rush of guilt. How is it that he is here—in paradise!—while his family is being subjected to who-knows-what unfathomable horror? A shadow of melancholy passes over his face, but before it can take over, Eliska points to the beach.
“Apparently we need to work on our suntans,” she says, laughing about how their complexions, bronze by their European standards, are pallid in comparison with those of the brown figures juggling soccer balls in the sand.
Addy swallows, taking in the spectacle and savoring the joy in Eliska’s voice. “Copacabana,” he whispers.
“Copacabana,” Eliska croons, looking up at him, folding his cheeks into her palms and kissing him.
Addy softens. Her kisses have a way of stopping time. When her lips brush his, his thinking mind melts away.
“Thirsty?” Eliska asks.
“Always,” Addy nods.