American Drifter
Heather Graham
For Chynna Skye Pozzessere and Steven Christie, who conceived and instigated the concept of Chad and I working together.
For Michel Marrache, who was kindly willing to share so much about Brazil.
And for Mauricio Ferrer, who also taught me so much about his homeland.
To my wife, Sarah, you are, without a doubt, the definition of grace. Without you I’d be nothing more than a caveman. For my two children G and A, Dada loves you more than you’ll ever know. You inspire me with each breath, moment, and memory. Finally, thank you to Heather for guiding me through this adventure. Your thoughtfulness, teachings, and honest approach to all that life encompasses will never be forgotten.
P.S. GO BUFFALO!
PROLOGUE
Maybe he was a crazy man.
The old woman watched him watch the fountain, staring as if entranced, entirely unaware of the busy flow of humanity moving through the crowded streets of Rio de Janeiro.
Dressed in khakis and a T-shirt, he carried a backpack, as did so many of the americanos who came to travel the rain forests and small towns of Brazil. Their American dollars could still buy much; they could drink and play easily in the cities surrounded and secreted by the jungle-like growth of the countryside.
This one seemed to be different; there was something about him. He was shaggy like the others; his hair was too long and his face was scraggly with an untrimmed beard. Beneath that untrimmed beard, though, was a beautiful face, well formed, and eyes that were a gentle blue, nice against the tawny gold color of his hair.
Something about him touched her. He didn’t come to the fountain to pop open a beer, inhale it and toss down the can. He didn’t light up a cigarillo or pull out a bag of marijuana—as some did here, heedless of the foot traffic. He stared at the fountain with awe and appreciation, as if it were an oasis in the desert.
The fountain … yes, it was special. Tio Amato had built it years ago, but had now forgotten it, other than to see that the water kept flowing and once a year it was cleaned. While fairly new in the old city, the fountain and the sculpted cherubs and elegant goddess statuary that surrounded its center hinted of Greek artisans, and the water flowed pure and free. In the center there was a giant obelisk. It seemed phallic, but then Tio Amato was a man much impressed with his own sex, so that did not matter. Or maybe it did; maybe to Tio Amato it was like the pride and youth and sex he thought he would keep forever. Maybe, in his mind, it was like the heat of Brazil and the beat that could stir so much of the country.
The water was a gift to the people, and the children of the neighborhood came there to play. They were young and innocent, free from the cares of money and hard work. They didn’t care about class distinction; they didn’t mind that they shared the fountain’s waters with one another. Not unless their mommas or nannies pulled them away.
Yes, Tio Amato kept the fountain flowing; it was his contribution to the neighborhood where he had been born, where his “enterprises” had made him rich, where his massive casa sat, and where he could reign as the king. But no matter why Tio Amato had built it, the fountain was good. It was a strange picture of wild beauty in the rush and hubbub of the city. It was bordered by a little patch of scraggly trees and a bench where she could sit and feel the breeze without the heat of the sun.
As she watched, she felt a kinship with the young man. She had seen many such a man in the city, many that looked like him, some speaking to themselves, others sitting with vacant eyes, cups before them. Sometimes they begged; sometimes they did not. They were weary and their eyes were dead while their bodies still lived.
For several moments, this man stared at the fountain with the same dead eyes. Then he dropped his backpack and began to shed his clothing. She thought that she should speak then, and tell him that she was there and that the rush hour of humanity that thronged the mornings of Rio was about, but she held silent.
Carnaval was coming to Rio de Janeiro; the city was insane with visitors of all nationalities, rich and poor, black and white, native and other—and yet, among them, she thought that there was something special about this man.
He hadn’t come to Rio to use the city.
He had come to be a part of it.
He was ragged and dirty and possibly one of the craziest men here. Something in him had broken, she could see that. But he also made her think of something pure. His love for the fountain had a touch of the fantasy seen in a child’s eyes. So she sat silently. Naked, he stepped into the fountain. He lifted the water and sent it high, sparking as it lit into the air. He laughed and began to move, dancing, as if offering up homage to a god on high.
She smiled. He was much more beautiful than any other man she had seen come to the fountain. She was glad that she hadn’t spoken; for an old woman, it was a strange moment of joy to watch the movement of his supple young body. He played in the water, savored the feeling of it, and delighted as he frolicked there beneath the sun.
But soon, she noticed a certain car winding through one of the side streets to the square. She rose from her seat in the shade and moved forward. “Senhor, Senhor, come out now, you must come now. He is coming. Tio Amato is coming!” she said. She spoke English, but not well.
He paused and turned to look at her, frowning as if he couldn’t comprehend her words.
“Senhor, Senhor, come out now; if it is Tio Amato he will hurt you, or see that you are hurt. If it is only his men … they will hurt you worse. They will force you out, they will be cruel. Please, come out.”
She hurried toward him with her shawl, heedless that the precious piece of clothing might be ruined, and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Come … come.”
He stepped out of the fountain, looking at her. She wished that she were young and beautiful, but he smiled, and he seemed to like the many wrinkles that crisscrossed her face.
“Thank you, senhora; gracias.” He carefully returned her shawl and reached for his clothing.
“This is the city. It is Tio Amato’s neighborhood. The law here is different. The law is what the rich men say the law should be.”
“But it’s beautiful,” he told her, reaching for his backpack and throwing it over his shoulder. “The fountain is beautiful. And you are beautiful. Thank you.”
“I am old,” she said, flushing as she straightened his shirt, as she would have done for one of her ni?os, her grandsons. “You must be careful. You should be back in your country. What are you doing here?”
“Senhora, I’m stronger than I look,” he told her. “And I’m here because … I must be.” A look of pain crossed his face, quickly replaced by a smile. “I have done my duty, and now I’m here.”
She saw something in his eyes, and she felt as if his soul was damaged, though she didn’t understand at all.