“Take care of yourself,” the man said.
River nodded, disturbed. The air seemed to be filled with the scent of pancakes and syrup once again.
But Natal turned to look at him then, and he was back in the moment.
The cable car made a stop at a higher level. They went on to ascend the peak of Sugarloaf Mountain to see Copacabana Beach, the Santa Cruz fortress, and the beaches of Niterói.
Everyone oohed and aahed again. The teenaged American girls pestered their parents and grandparents to take them to the beach as soon as possible. The mother reminded them that they were due to see the National Museum of Fine Arts that afternoon.
The grandfather said, “Perhaps the museum will wait for tomorrow. A beach will be pleasant today, don’t you think?”
The girls kissed and hugged their grandfather; the mother shook her head but smiled and gave in.
Natal nudged River. “When we have our children, we will be strict. With our grandchildren, we will just delight in them at every step.”
He smiled at her as she curled into his arms. So he wasn’t the only one dreaming of a future. Her hair was silk and her perfume was exotic. It almost cleared the day of that strange hint of pancakes and maple syrup.
“We’ll be doting grandparents,” he promised her.
When they alighted from the cable car, it seemed that they had become friends with everyone who had been with them. It was nice.
Natal knew a little out-of-the-way restaurant where they could go to eat—where his attire and backpack would be readily accepted, she told him.
It was down an alley in a residential section of the city where children played barefoot in the street, where the smell of spices and broiling meats was heavy in the air and music played badly from ancient sound systems.
The restaurant walls looked like old adobe. Windows opened to the street, and a little brook trickled by just behind the restaurant. The kitchen was in full view of the restaurant, behind a counter where the one waiter moved about, shouting orders to the cook, collecting plates as they were prepared. Huge copper pots hung from the ceiling.
The prices, River could see, were ridiculously cheap.
The waiter spoke little to no English but that didn’t matter; Natal gave him her order and River grinned and pointed to the menu; the waiter laughed with them both, shaking his head at the American tourist, but doing so good-naturedly. River and Natal had a delicious local red wine and empadinhas.
River actually knew what he was ordering. Bars where busy Brazilians picked up a few empadinhas to eat while walking on their way filled many of the streets. Botecos—or street-side restaurants with just a few stools—also served them. They were pastries stuffed with beef, fish, chicken, or cheese, and maybe even vegetables. But Natal told him that these were the best he would ever have.
And they were.
As was the wine.
It had no name. It was from the owner’s own little vineyard—and his basement winery.
As they ate, Natal teased him and taught him words in Portuguese, laughing at his pronunciation. He teased her back for her accent.
The little restaurant only seated perhaps twenty, and still it was loud, with the waiter calling his orders, the cook calling out what was ready—and a single entertainer, a guitar in his hands, walking from table to table to croon out a number. Natal told River that he was singing old Brazilian favorites. One song was by Chico Buarque, and it was called “Roda Viva.” Natal explained to River that it had been written in 1968 and protested the dictatorship that had existed in the country in the 1960s and ’70s. The protest was subtle—but if you knew the language and the words, you knew that it was a protest. Chico Buarque had been one of the most exceptional musicians to come out of Brazil.
“We try—but as you know,” Natal said, “politics can be very ugly. We were, of course, colonized as a Portuguese holding. We were all colonies—all in the New World.”
“Yes,” River agreed. “Moneymaking stepchildren of great European powers.”
Natal grinned. “And not that we don’t want to be friends with all those European powers. The United States claimed independence and went to war in 1776, yes? Here, we were much the same. Simón Bolívar’s determination and leadership gained independence for Venezuela, Columbia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and Panama—he was probably the greatest general South America has ever known, and he tends to be the general people know of in other countries. He had pretty much defeated the Spanish and made most of the Spanish holdings independent by 1822, and that was when Prince Pedro de Alcantara, who was the son of King John the Sixth of Portugal, proclaimed independence—by popular demand of the people. Our people fought for independence and won. Of course, we all know that just winning independence does not necessarily make a perfect place for all.”
“I don’t think there will ever be a perfect place,” River said.
But being here with you—that might be as perfect as it can get.
He refrained from saying the words—he didn’t want to scare her away.
“No,” Natal agreed solemnly. “In 1889, Marshal Deodoro da Fonseca carried out a coup d’état and declared we were a republic. The power was in the hands of the rich, yes—as it was in most places.”
River smiled at her—glad he’d loved her country enough to read up on it in plenty of history books. “A ‘bloodless’ coup happened in 1930,” he said. “Getúlio Vargas came to power. Then, during the late thirties and early forties, the Estado Novo were up in the driver’s seat—with some ties to fascism, right?”
She cocked her head, grinning. “So, you really do read. And study.”
“Of course. I love Brazil.”
“We still have problems.”
“Every country out there does.”
She laughed. “The Swiss? Not so much, I think. We struggled along. We had a mess of wavering and instability between 1946 and 1964, and, of course, tons of European immigrants, including those who were running from rightful persecution—those who did horrible things in World War Two. Still, in 1945, the modern constitution was passed, and we had what they called the ‘populist years.’” She made a face. “Not so good, really. And sadly, we then had the bad years that Buarque sang about—the military dictatorship from 1964 to 1985.” She looked at him oddly. “I believe that documents have shown that the United States might have been involved in some choices there.”