River didn’t respond.
Theo savored a bit of his meat, but then tapped on the paper. “You’ve drawn one horse in the race. Symbolic, you think? One horse—your horse, which wins so often! But the jockey isn’t so happy.”
River looked at his sketch. It was true. He had drawn a jockey that wasn’t looking where he was going; he was looking back, as if he was running away from something rather than trying to run a race.
He set the sketchpad down. “So … hey, it’s a sketch,” he said.
“A good one,” Theo told him. “You should be an artist. A real artist.”
River laughed. “Well, if I draw and it’s decent, I’m an artist. Doesn’t the act of drawing make me an artist?”
Theo waved his fork in the air and shook his head. “No, no. I know many men who think they can draw. They cannot. Well, I know of men who throw paint on a canvas—and they do become great artists—because some idiot thinks all the splashes are artistic and they see everything about the human soul. But you—you can draw. You should have a great gallery with all your work.”
“Eat your meat, Theo. I don’t want a gallery. I want to roam Brazil, steal dogs, drive Beluga crazy, and go to the races with you.”
“One day…” Theo said.
River shrugged. “One day. I have many sights to see before that day. I like my days right now.”
Theo nodded, chewing the last of his meat, sipping his water, and then savoring the last of his potatoes.
He leaned forward. “You really don’t mind buying my lunch?” he asked River.
“You know that I don’t.”
“When I have fortune at the track, I will buy you anything!” Theo said.
River grinned. “I don’t want anything, my friend,” he said softly.
“Then I will buy you lunch!”
“That’s a deal,” River agreed.
Setting his napkin down, Theo rose. “I must rudely leave you now. I have some work this afternoon. They are filming a commercial down by the Convento de Santo Ant?nio. I have been hired to hold microphones, you know? I will make more money for the track.”
“I will see you—when I see you,” River told him.
“Thank you.” Theo left. River paused, thinking that he wanted to keep sketching. Here, they would never rush him. They would never tell him that it was busy and that his table was needed. There was no hurry in a Brazilian café. You weren’t urged to leave if you weren’t ready to leave.
But River knew that they were busy and he paid the check and left. Out on the streets, he felt the life of the city. It seemed that there was always a palpable pulse to be felt in Rio, but never so much as at Carnaval. Now, a float was going by in the midst of the busy car traffic. The revelers atop were in samba dress, bright yellow puffy shirts and dresses. They sang to the crowd and invited them to the Genovese party the next night—at a very reasonable cost, of course!
River loved the throng of people in Rio but at the moment he still felt the burning need to draw. He made his way through the colors and the sounds and the scents until he wasn’t sure exactly where he was. The streets were not so well paved; alleys were not paved at all.
But there was a charming little hut with a sign that advised, in Portuguese and English, that the finest coffee in the world could be found there.
It was at the side of a little alley with windows that looked over an overgrown garden that separated it from the next street.
It seemed perfect.
River was greeted warmly by a pudgy proprietor.
He was led to a table, where he ordered a café, and then pulled his sketchpad back out and studied what he’d been doing. He didn’t like the picture he’d been sketching of the track; he started over again.
As he did so, he heard children laughing and he looked up. Through an open window he could see through the garden area and foliage to the little street beyond. It was definitely a working-class neighborhood. Mothers were bringing their wash to a Laundromat. The children were playing, kicking a plastic bottle across the stone path.
He watched them for a moment, then smiled and began to sketch them. He looked at the street scene and then at his page as he sketched, then at the street again.
His pencil paused midstroke and he felt that thump in his chest again—his heart double-timing, stopping … and then beating again.
There she was.
Natal.
He knew her name now. It was a beautiful name.
She walked with a sway of her hips as she carried her basket of clothing. She wore jeans that hugged her lithe and perfect form, and her hair waved down her back and around her shoulders. She paused to tease one of the children, laughing. She looked up at the sky as if she drank in the sun.
He watched her enter the Laundromat.
For a moment, he sat there. He heard the clink of forks and knives against dishes, the musical quality of the Portuguese language spoken around him.
He saw the children and the doorway.
“Senhor?”
The gar?om stood before him, questioningly. “Um, nothing, thank you, I’m done. A conta, por favor,” he said.
The waiter nodded and walked away to get his check.
River stood, stuffing his pad into his backpack.
He couldn’t wait for the waiter. He drew out his money, estimated the total, and dropped a generous tip on the table.
Then he crossed the tiled back patio of the restaurant and moved slowly through the trees and foliage to the little stone road before the Laundromat.
What the hell would he say to her?
What did it matter?
He had to meet her.
He made his way through the children and into the Laundromat. At first, the room seemed like a misty parlor after the brightness of the sun. He heard the washers swishing and the dryers humming. He looked around.
An old woman was sorting clothes. A man was leaning back, half asleep in a chair as he waited for his laundry. At another table, two old men played cards and puffed on cigarillos.
And then he saw her.
Natal.
She seemed like beauty in motion. She made the room come to light with her every twist and turn as she transferred clothing from her basket into a washer.
She turned and looked at him and he saw her face. She seemed like a goddess, her features so stunning, her eyes so large and dark, her lips so full, and her cheekbones so elegantly sculpted.
The moment seemed perfect.
Then someone smacked him on the arm.
“Hey, estúpido, jerk, americano!”
It was the old woman. “You—you are standing where I need to work. Idiot—move! Move! I have work to do here.”
Natal smiled slowly.
He moved quickly for the old woman.
And he walked toward Natal, his beautiful Brazilian mystery woman.
CHAPTER 5
River felt his heart as if it pounded in his throat. She was smiling at him. Natal was smiling at him.
Natal.
He loved the sound of her name.
His own smile was awkward. He felt like a high school kid, trying to flirt for the first time.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.”
“You speak English?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course.” She smiled a little.