As River debated, a middle-aged woman with a few children at her side, carrying a straw bag of market purchases, walked by him on the bridge. He smiled at her. Somehow, she set his mind at ease.
Mouthwatering aromas filled the air; River had reached the market. Fresh-fruit vendors were the first he saw, and then stands where all kinds of meat sizzled on grills or skewers. He bought a mango first, pulled out his Swiss army knife to peel away the skin, and bit right into it, enjoying the sweet, succulent taste and fibrous texture. Brazil offered a wide variety of cultures and their cuisines—the natives had made good use of fish and the abundance of the land, while Africans brought as slaves had contributed with various spices and the Portuguese had brought in their love for meat and cheese.
At his next stop, he bought a bundle of chouri?o, seasoned sausages, and at another stand, salgadinhos, delicious little cheese buns. Though River was capable of surviving on very little, he happened to be fairly flush at the moment. For some reason, he had good luck at the track. He knew how to pick a horse, even though he didn’t know how he knew how to pick a horse. He just could, and it paid off. He could buy himself an expensive suit or designer jeans—he just didn’t want to. He liked his appearance; it allowed him to get to know the country and the people. He preferred the countryside and the rainforest and the outskirts of the massive city to the concrete jungle and civilization. Rio was cosmopolitan, but, somehow, it also had a way of holding on to what was old and natural and good.
With plenty to eat, River wandered the market; a lot more than food was sold at the many stands placed haphazardly, as if by a child, on the clearing that bordered the city streets.
Even here, Carnaval was in the air. Music competed from a number of boom boxes and iPads with speakers. Samba competed with the American top forty and ballads and even the Brazilian national anthem, “Hino Nacional Brasileiro.” Children kicked soccer balls through the aisles; busy vendors either admonished them sharply or just shook their heads in dismay.
Tourists were abundant—they’d found the market.
Handsome men flirted with young women—and old. Flirting, River had learned, was complimentary here. He smiled as he saw a charming young man tease a middle-aged woman. She laughed, enjoying his words.
He passed a stand of leather goods and negotiated the price of a new belt, the vendor pretending he spoke no English and River pretending that he believed him and using his broken Portuguese. It was while he was trying on this new belt—with comments of approval from the vendor and his wife—that he heard the whining.
Along the same jagged aisle, busy with locals, tourists, and children, there was a stand where a man sold trinkets and jewelry. His display of goods was covered by a glass dome; obviously, he thought that his goods were precious. Maybe they were.
The goods didn’t draw River’s attention; the dog did.
He saw the creature that had made the pitiful noise; a large, bone-thin hound of some kind, with German shepherd thrown in. The man was busy extolling the virtues of a necklace to a customer. River bent down to pet the dog.
He was starved, but a beautiful creature, the best of genetics combined. He had massive brown eyes, a long shaggy coat that couldn’t quite hide his bones and, in the midst of it, a beautiful shepherd-shaped face that might have graced the best of the AKC competitions. The dog seemed friendly, despite the fact that he was starved and had probably been abused.
River crouched low, close to the dog, and reached into his bag for one of the chouri?o sticks he had purchased. The dog lapped it up eagerly, wagged his tail, and bathed River’s face with a slew of sloppy kisses. River laughed, then started as the owner screamed at him.
He rose; the man was speaking so quickly that he couldn’t follow his Portuguese.
“It’s all right,” River said in English. “I just gave him a chouri?o … just a bit of food.”
The man continued to rant at him.
Then he kicked the dog.
The creature yelped in pain.
River stared at the man, feeling his temper start to burn. He’d gone to war; he’d met the enemy in hand-to-hand combat and he had killed because he’d had no choice. He’d never purposely lifted his hand against another to do harm of his own accord.
He was ready to change that mantra. This guy deserved the vicious kick he’d given the dog.
With significant effort, River controlled the impulse to step forward with his fists flying. Hitting the man wouldn’t help the dog—and he might wind up in a Brazilian jail.
But neither could he leave the abused animal.
In a flash, he pulled his Swiss army knife from his pocket and slit the piece of rawhide tying the dog to the stand. The owner lurched forward, but River grabbed the makeshift leash first and fled.
In seconds, he was flying through the crowded pathways that led through the market, the dog excitedly running at his side. People jumped out of his way as he ran, but still he almost plowed into a woman who sold brightly colored blouses in a kiosk near a jewelry stand.
He could hear the man screaming behind him. Cursing, raging about River being a thief, urging others to stop him.
But no one did. People made way for him.
He thought that the man would keep coming after him, but he stayed with his stand. His jewelry was more important to him than his beaten dog.
River kept running anyway, until he cleared the market, turning onto the dirt road that led to Beluga’s hostel. There was a copse of trees there just before another bridge that crossed the river.
He ran with the dog until he reached it, then paused at last, breathless.
He looked at the dog. The dog looked at him and wagged his tail. It was a big tail.
“Well, I’m glad you’re happy. Now I’m a thief!” River muttered, though he kept his voice light. His back against a tree, he sank to the ground, trying to catch his breath. The dog began to slather his face with his tongue again.
“Okay, okay! Let me get into the bag—I have more food. You poor thing; you are just a beautiful pile of bones.”
He fed the dog slowly, afraid that after starving for so long, the dog would choke and vomit if he ate too fast. When the chouri?os ran out, he went for the salgadhinos until those were gone too.
“What do I do with you?” River mused, petting the dog. “I guess you’d be a good-enough companion, huh? You need a name.” He paused. “I’ll call you Convict, since I may have just become one, if that bastard really cares about you. So, Convict, what do you think? Do you like that name?”
He didn’t know if the dog understood him—especially since he was speaking English and the dog had probably learned any commands in Portuguese. But Convict barked happily, his fan of a tail flying again.
“We’ll head to Beluga’s. What do you say?”
Convict barked.
River removed the biting chain from around the dog’s neck and walked a few paces experimentally.