He heard a beep. Maria was ready to drive him into town. She was in the driver’s seat, watching, waiting for him.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to make you wait,” he told her as he climbed into the truck; she spoke to him sternly—but in a motherly fashion—and he was sure he was being chastised for his lifestyle.
“Ah, Maria, you know you can never stay angry with me,” he teased.
He smiled at her—she smiled back. Begrudgingly.
CHAPTER 4
As they drove, he read the article in the paper. It was beautifully written, he thought, and humorous as well. The article focused on the census taken in the U.S.—how people were asked about their color, religion, and ethnicity. Yet, the article stated, there should be only one answer that anyone should have to give, whether they were born in the country or naturalized: American. Because, obviously, being born there made you American. But if you swore an oath, you were also an American. On top of all else. And being American should mean that none of the rest mattered. “Until the government and the people stop discerning between color, faith, and original ethnicity, not all Americans will truly be free to chase their dream. Still, as a foreigner, I applaud the country for the ideal of equality so many hold true—and speak to its citizens, for somewhere in there, that dream does still exist.”
He thought he was in love already, just reading what she had written.
Maria dropped him off in the Gávea district near the Hipódromo de Gávea. In Rio, the track was known as a jockey club, and deserved the name. The track was beautiful and offered spectacular views. Corcovado, the mountain where the beautiful and giant Christ the Redeemer statue stood, could be seen from the track, along with other mountains and stunning geographical features. It was near the Jardim Botanico, or botanical gardens, and the area swarmed with locals and tourists alike. Gávea had taken its name from the Pedra da Gávea, a gigantic rock formation that towered above its surroundings. In Portuguese, gávea meant “topsail,” and the rock formation could certainly resemble the topsail of a mighty sea vessel. Much of the area was affluent, but still, beer and roasted-peanut vendors were here and there on the streets, along with the restaurants and cafés. Students abounded as well—Pontifical Catholic University, one of the most important universities in the Rio de Janeiro state, was not far from the Hipódromo. Baixo Gávea, an artsty, bohemian area, was also close by.
Not only were the locals intriguing, but also the people who came from miles around, their numbers swelling with the approach of Carnaval. No one in the world—not even the Italians in Venice or those at Mardi Gras in New Orleans—celebrated the time before the coming of Lent as they did in Rio. But then, nowhere else in the world was like Rio, where joy and dance and music were the pursuit of life and happiness.
The track was impressive—handsomely set and well maintained.
The races had started, but with his paper in hand, River stopped first at a coffee bar, ordered his espresso, and sat, fascinated. He stared at the picture of Natal. Then, he reread the article. She was smart—and philosophical. Natal reminded people that material desires could get in the way of living. She wrote about the wonderful things in Rio that cost nothing: the sights to see, the things to do and, how, just taking a walk at night could be the greatest freedom.
He rose at last, thinking that now he’d have a way to find her. Of course, she might not be interested in him at all, but he had to at least meet her.
Feeling exceptionally cheerful, he walked the short distance to the track.
He found Theo easily enough; his friend liked to stand down by the rail. Theo was actually Thiago Norway, a Brazilian local with long hair, a scruffy chin, and scruffier clothing, thin as a reed and always smiling. His background had to have contained a mixture of almost all the people who had ever come to Brazil—Indian, Portuguese, maybe German, and probably some African. Somehow, all those genetics had combined to give Thiago a strangely compelling face. His eyes were almost golden against his brown skin, his hair dark and curly. His cheekbones were high like those of a classic Greek bust, but also broad—as if he carried the blood of ancient indigenous princes. In sum, he never had two cents to rub together and he was still the happiest, most generous man River had ever met.
They’d met at the track when River had placed a bet on a horse. Theo had been behind him—extolling the virtues of another horse and jockey. But River’s horse had won the race, and Theo had been convinced that River knew something special about horse racing, horses, or jockeys. River had never been able to convince him that he didn’t—but Theo had a tendency to bet on the wrong horse anyway. He liked to buy lottery tickets as well.
Most often, not a single number that he picked came in.
He didn’t have a problem in the world with picking up a half-smoked cigarette someone had discarded and puffing on it as if it were one of the wonders of the world. River was pretty sure that he actually did all right working all kinds of odd jobs, but he was ever on the lookout for easy money and dreamed that one day he’d hit it big at the track or win a lottery.
Thiago had told him once that he barely remembered his parents; he’d grown up on the streets of Rio and had often survived by eating what the rich and the tourists left behind. Just as he had no problem picking up cigarette butts, he had no difficulty finishing another man’s beer or the three ounces of steak a man left on a plate.
“So many men think that they must order the biggest steak on the menu!” Thiago had told him once. “I have worked as a busboy many times, and I have fared very well on the meat left over.” He’d laughed. “To be a man, they must order the most meat, yes? And yet, especially as they grow older, they can’t eat it all! It’s the challenge, my friend, it’s the challenge. I keep the world from wasting what should not be wasted!” He’d grown serious. “And I teach the new breed of street urchins to survive. It’s not so bad, really. I am immune to all things—I have so many of those … what do they call them—”
“Antibodies,” River supplied.
“Yes, yes, those!” Thiago had told him happily. “I have tons of those! And it’s good, you know? They say that Americans can’t even drink water in Central and South America. Me, I can eat anything, drink anything, anywhere.” He shrugged. “Well, at least, I think. I haven’t been that many places. One day, maybe. I wouldn’t mind traveling. Maybe one day, if I’m a rich man, I will travel and then…” He paused to grin. “Then, I will see what Americans are like in America!”
“Would you ever want to be one of the rich men, Thiago?” River had asked him.
“Sure! Why do you think I play the ponies? But money is not life, my friend. If I have it, I will share it. If I don’t have it—I will still feast and dream on.”